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Elsewhere: A memoir
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Elsewhere: A memoir

3.6 26
by Richard Russo

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A Washington Post Notable Work of Nonfiction
An NPR Best Book of 2012

Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Richard Russo turns to memoir in this hilarious and bittersweet account of his lifelong bond with his high-strung, spirited mother—and the small town she spent her life trying to escape. Anyone familiar with


A Washington Post Notable Work of Nonfiction
An NPR Best Book of 2012

Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Richard Russo turns to memoir in this hilarious and bittersweet account of his lifelong bond with his high-strung, spirited mother—and the small town she spent her life trying to escape. Anyone familiar with Russo’s novels will recognize Gloversville—once famous for producing nine out of ten dress gloves in the United States. By the time Rick was born, ladies had stopped wearing gloves and Gloversville was on its way out. Jean Russo instilled in her son her dream of a better life elsewhere, a dream that prompted her to follow him across the country when he went to college. Their adventures and tribulations on that road trip were a preview of the hold his mother would continue to have on him as she kept trying desperately to change her life. Recounted with a clear-eyed mix of regret, nostalgia, and love, Elsewhere is a stirring tribute to the tenacious grip of the past.

Editorial Reviews

As the author of The Bridge of Sighs, the Pulitzer Prize-winning Empire Falls, and other novels, Richard Russo is known for the unblinking honesty of his portrayals and the clarity of his writing. Those attributes figure decisively in his memoir about growing up in economically vulnerable upstate New York. Russo's nostalgic recreations of his parents, especially his mother, are leavened by comic stories and generous swaths of local color. A candid look back by a talented writer; easy to recommend.

Library Journal
One can imagine the pleasures of reading a memoir by the Pulitzer Prize—winning author of Empire Falls, here recounts his upbringing in fading 1950s Gloversville, NY, much like the locales that make his fiction so memorable. But what should make this work truly arresting is his account of his mother, who wanted something better for herself and her son.

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Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
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Random House
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A few years ago, passing the sign on the New York State Thruway for the Central Leatherstocking Region, a friend of mine misread it as saying laughingstock and thought, That must be where Russo’s from. She was right. I’m from Gloversville, just a few miles north in the foothills of the Adirondacks, a place that’s easy to joke about unless you live there, as some of my family still do.

   The town wasn’t always a joke. In its heyday, nine out of ten dress gloves in the United States were manufactured there. By the end of the nineteenth century, craftsmen from all over Europe had flocked in, for decades producing gloves on a par with the finest made anywhere in the world. Back then glove-cutting was governed by a guild, and you typically apprenticed, as my maternal grandfather did, for two or three years. The primary tools of a trained glove-cutter’s trade were his eye, his experience of animal skins, and his imagination. It was my grandfather who gave me my first lessons in art—though I doubt he would’ve worded it like that—when he explained the challenge of making something truly fine and beautiful from an imperfect hide. After they’re tanned but before they go to the cutter, skins are rolled and brushed and finished to ensure smooth uniformity, but inevitably they retain some of nature’s imperfections. The true craftsman, he gave me to understand, works around these flaws or figures out how to incorporate them into the glove’s natural folds or stitching. Each skin posed problems whose resolution required creativity. The glove-cutter’s job wasn’t just to get as many gloves as possible out of a hide but to do so while minimizing its flaws.

   Leather had been tanned in Fulton County, using the bark of hemlock trees, since before the American Revolution. Gloversville and neighboring Johnstown were home not only to gloves but to all things leather: shoes and coats and handbags and upholstery. My paternal grandfather, from Salerno, Italy, having heard about this place where so many artisans had gathered, journeyed to upstate New York in hopes of making a living there as a shoemaker. From New York City he took the train north to Albany, then west as far as the Barge Canal hamlet of Fonda, where he followed the freight tracks north up to Johnstown, where I was born decades later. Did he have any real idea of where he was headed, or what his new life would be like? You tell me. Among the few material possessions he brought with him from the old country was an opera cape.

   Both men had wretched timing. My father’s father soon learned that Fulton County wasn’t Manhattan or even Salerno, and that few men in his new home would buy expensive custom-made shoes instead of cheaper machine-made ones, so he had little choice but to become a shoe repairman. And by the time my mother’s father arrived in Gloversville from Vermont, the real craft of glove-cutting was already under assault. By the end of World War I, many gloves were being “pattern cut.” (For a size 6 glove, a size 6 pattern was affixed to the skin and cut around with shears.) Once he returned from World War II, the process was largely mechanized by “clicker-cutting” machines that quickly stamped out presized gloves, requiring the operator only to position the tanned skin under the machine’s lethal blades and pull down on its mechanical arm. I was born in 1949, by which time there wasn’t much demand for handmade gloves or shoes, but both my grandfathers had long since made their big moves to Fulton County and staked their dubious claims. By then they had families, and so there they remained. It was also during the fi rst half of the twentieth century that chrome tanning, a chemical procedure that made leather more supple and water resistant, and dramatically sped up the whole process, became the industry standard, replacing traditional vegetable tanning and making tanneries even more hazardous, not just for workers but also for those who lived nearby and, especially, downstream. Speed, efficiency, and technology had trumped art and craft, not to mention public safety.

   That said, between 1890 and 1950 people in Gloversville made good money, some of them a lot of it. Drive along Kingsboro Avenue, which parallels Main Street, and have a gander at the fine old houses set back from the street and well apart from one another, and you’ll get a sense of the prosperity that at least the fortunate ones enjoyed until World War II. Even downtown Gloversville, which by the 1970s had become a Dresdenlike ruin, still shows signs of that wealth. The Andrew Carnegie Gloversville Free Library is as lovely as can be, and the old high school, which sits atop a gentle hill, bespeaks a community that believed both in itself and that good times would not be fleeting. On its sloping lawn stands a statue of Lucius Nathan Littauer, one of the richest men in the county, whose extended arm appears to point at the grand marble edifice of the nearby Eccentric Club, which refused him membership because he was a Jew. Down the street is the recently restored Glove Theatre, where I spent just about every Saturday afternoon of my adolescence. There was also a charming old hotel, the Kingsboro, in whose elegant dining room Monsignor Kreugler, whom I’d served as an altar boy at Sacred Heart Church, held weekly court after his last Sunday Mass. Once it was razed, visitors had to stay in nearby Johnstown, out on the arterial highway that was supposed to breathe new life into Gloversville but instead, all too predictably, allowed people to race by, without stopping or even slowing down, en route to Saratoga, Lake George, or Montreal.

   How quickly it all happened. In the Fifties, on a Saturday afternoon, the streets downtown would be gridlocked with cars honking hellos at pedestrians. The sidewalks were so jammed with shoppers that, as a boy trapped among taller adults, I had to depend on my mother, herself no giant, to navigate us from one store to the next or, more harrowingly, across Main Street. Often, when we finished what we called our weekly “errands,” my mother and I would stop in at Pedrick’s. Located next to city hall, it was a dark, cool place, the only establishment of my youth that was air-conditioned, with a long, thin wall whose service window allowed sodas and cocktails to be passed from the often raucous bar into the more respectable restaurant. Back then Pedrick’s was always mobbed, even in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. Mounted on the wall of each booth was a minijukebox whose movable mechanical pages were full of song listings. Selections made here—five for a quarter, if memory serves—were played on the real jukebox on the far wall. We always played a whole quarter’s worth while nursing sodas served so cold they made my teeth hurt. Sometimes, though, the music was drowned out by rowdy male laughter from the bar, where the wall-mounted television was tuned to a Yankees ball game, and if anybody hit a home run everyone in the restaurant knew it immediately. I remember listening intently to all the men’s voices, trying to pick out my father’s. He and my mother had separated when I was little, but he was still around town, and I always imagined him on the other side of that wall in Pedrick’s.

   I also suspected that my mother, if she hadn’t been saddled with me, would have preferred to be over there herself. She liked men, liked being among them, and on the restaurant side it was mostly women and kids and older people. Though I couldn’t have put it into words, I had the distinct impression that the wall separating respectability from fun was very thin indeed. There was another jukebox in the bar, and sometimes it got cranked up loud enough to compete with whatever was playing on ours, and then my mother would say it was time to go, as if she feared the wall itself might come crashing down. To her, music getting pumped up like that could only mean one thing: that people were dancing, middle of the afternoon or not, and if she’d been over there, she would’ve been as well. A good decade after the end of World War II, Gloversville was still in a party mode, and regular Saturday
festivities routinely continued right up to last call and often beyond, the town’s prosperous citizens dancing and drinking at the Eccentric Club, the more middle-class folk in the blue-collar taverns along upper Main Street or, in summer, at the pavilion at nearby Caroga Lake, the poor (often the most recent immigrants with the lowest-paying tannery jobs) in the gin mills bordering South Main in the section of town referred to as “the Gut,” where arrests for drunkenness or indecency or belligerence were much more likely to be recorded in the local newspaper on Monday than comparable exploits at the Eccentric Club.

   By the time I graduated from high school in 1967, you could have strafed Main Street with an automatic weapon without endangering a soul. On Saturday afternoons the sidewalks were deserted, people in newly reduced circumstances shopping for bargains at the cheap, off-brand stores that had sprung up along the arterial. The marquee at the Glove Theatre bore the title of the last film to play there, though enough of the letters were missing that you couldn’t guess what it was. Jobless men emerged from the pool hall or one of the seedy gin mills that sold cheap draft beer and rotgut rye, blinking into the afternoon light and fl exing at the knees. Lighting up a smoke, they’d peer up Main Street in one direction, then down the other, as if wondering where the hell everybody went. By then the restaurant side of Pedrick’s had closed, but since I turned eighteen that summer, now of legal drinking age, the other side was no longer off-limits. Now, though, it was quiet as a library. The Yankees were still playing on the television, but Mantle and Maris and Yogi and Whitey Ford had all retired, and their glory days, like Gloversville’s, were over. The half-dozen grizzled, solitary drinkers rotated on their stools when the door opened, like the past might saunter in out of the bright glare trailing ten-dollar bills in its wake. Every now and then that summer of ’67, I’d poke my head into Pedrick’s to see if my father was among those drinking Utica Club drafts at the bar. But, like time itself, he, too, had moved on.

What happened? Lots of things. After World War II, about when men stopped wearing hats, women stopped wearing gloves. Jackie Kennedy did wear a pair at her husband’s inauguration, and that turned the clock back for a while, but the trend proved irreversible. More important, glove making started going overseas where labor was cheap. Gloversville went bust the way Mike Campbell declares his bankruptcy in Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, “gradually and then suddenly.” The “giant sucking sound” of globalism arrived decades early and with a vengeance. My maternal grandfather, who, despite being a veteran of two world wars, had been branded a Communist from the pulpit of Sacred Heart Church for being a union man, saw it coming even before crappy Asian-made gloves showed up in the shops, where a few buttons could be sewn on and the gloves stamped MADE IN GLOVERSVILLE. Around Thanksgiving, the trade’s off-season, workers in the skin mills got laid off, and every year it took a little longer for them to be called back. Worse, they weren’t all rehired at once, which practice allowed the shop owners to remind their employees that things were different now. What mattered was moving inventory down the line, not quality. After all, Asians and Indians were doing what the local stiffs did for a quarter of the cost.

   My grandfather, who came home from the Pacific with malaria and soon afterward developed emphysema, was by then too sick to fight. He continued to work as always, refusing to cut corners and, as a result, making considerably less money than men for whom slapdash was good enough. The bosses could exploit him, give him the most flawed skins, and treat him like a robot instead of the craftsman he was, but he claimed the one thing they couldn’t order him to do was a bad job. But of course they didn’t need to. You only had to look at how his narrow, concave chest heaved as he struggled to draw oxygen into his failing lungs to know he wouldn’t be anybody’s problem much longer. His wife, who’d also survived the Depression, foresaw a diminished future. She began stocking the pantry with cans of wax beans and tuna fish earlier every year, aware that the layoffs would run even longer, and her husband, growing sicker by the day, would be among the last called back. Jesus on his best day could do no more with loaves and fishes than my grandmother did with a pound of bacon. Still, it was just a matter of time.

   None of which had much effect on me. As a boy I was happy as a clam in Gloversville. My mother and I shared a modest two-family house on Helwig Street with her parents. They lived in the two-bedroom, single-bath downstairs flat, my mother and I in the identically configured one above. My grandfather, who’d never before purchased anything he couldn’t pay for with cash out of his wallet, bought the house, I suspect, because he knew his daughter’s marriage was on the rocks and that she and I would need a place to live. Our block of Helwig Street was neighborly, with a corner grocery store situated diagonally across the street. My mother’s sister and her family lived around the corner on Sixth Avenue, which meant I grew up surrounded by cousins. In kindergarten and first grade, my grandmother walked me to school in the morning and was there to meet me in the afternoon, and in the summer we took walks to a lovely little park a few blocks away. On weekends it was often my grandfather who’d take my hand, and together we’d head downtown for a bag of “peatles,” his peculiar word for red-skinned peanuts, stopping on the way back to visit with friends sitting out on their porches. By the time I was old enough to get my first bike and explore beyond Helwig Street, I’d discovered the magic of baseball, and so, wooden bat over my shoulder, mitt dangling from my handle-bars, I disappeared with friends for whole mornings or afternoons or both. At my aunt’s there was a hoop over the garage, and during the long winters my cousin Greg and I kept the driveway shoveled meticulously so we could shoot baskets, even when it was so cold the net froze and you couldn’t dribble the ball. Come autumn I raked leaves, stealing this job from my grandfather, who loved to do it, though he didn’t always have sufficient breath. Sometimes he’d start the job, and I’d finish while he snuck a cigarette around back of the house where my grandmother couldn’t see him. Summers I mowed lawns, and winters I shoveled sidewalks. An American childhood, as lived in the Fifties by a lower-middle class that seems barely to exist anymore, in a town that seemed unexceptional then, and not, as it seems to me now, the canary in the mine shaft.

What follows in this memoir—I don’t know what else to call it—is a story of intersections: of place and time, of private and public, of linked destinies and flawed devotion. It’s more my mother’s story than mine, but it’s mine, too, because until just a few years ago she was seldom absent from my life. It’s about her character but also about where she grew up, fled from, and returned to again and again, about contradictions she couldn’t resolve and so passed on to me, knowing full well I’d worry them much like a dog worries a bone, gnawing, burying, unearthing, gnawing again, until there’s nothing left but sharp splinters and bleeding gums.

   I keep returning to that wall in Pedrick’s, the one separating the restaurant from the bar. How close she was to where she wanted to be. How flimsy that wall must’ve seemed, the music and laughter leaking through so easily. But then my mother was forever misjudging—not just distance and direction but the sturdiness of the barriers erected between her and what she so desperately desired. I should know. I was one of them.

Meet the Author

Richard Russo lives with his wife in Camden, Maine, and Boston. In 2002 he was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Empire Falls.

Brief Biography

Gloversville, New York
Date of Birth:
July 15, 1949
Place of Birth:
Johnstown, New York
B.A., University of Arizona, 1967; Ph.D., University of Arizona, 1979; M.F.A., University of Arizona, 1980

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Elsewhere 3.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 26 reviews.
blocher9 More than 1 year ago
This combination biography/autobiography of Russo's growing up with and eventually becoming the long-term caretaker of his dysfunctional mother is troublesome in its exposition of details that make the reader uncomfortable at best. Russo gives his mother a multitude of passes on things she did that affected his life --- e.g. their lack of money because she felt that her job at General Electric required her to dress stylishly (read expensively)even as they lived with her parents in a two-flat. Also, Russo's wife receives very little coverage but the woman should be nominated for sainthood for sticking through all the years. She must really love him. I recall my own mother, who suffered from a tyrannical German mother-in-law for whom nothing was ever good enough. My father bought his mother a house down the block from ours and went up every night for dinner with her. I recall my mother telling me one time that if "GG" ever moved in, that would be her final straw. Eventually she did and it wasn't but I cannot believe that Russo's wife didn't, at some point, give him the ultimatum: "your mother or me!" I love Russo's other stuff so much that I guess I can forgive him for this one. Baldacci did a horrible romance novel last year... it happens.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I love Russo--however, that being said, I found this book became a bit tiresome, a bit too long, as its only true subject seems to be Russo's relationship with his mentally-impaired mother. One becomes a bit impatient as he allows his mother continually to dictate the details of his life--where he (and she) should live; his work and even his marriage, to his VERY long-suffering wife. One is almost relieved when his mother passes away, which is a terrible thing to feel; and since it's the end of the book, I cannot help but wonder how he has recovered from a life spent exclusively, it seems, at the beck and call of others--mostly his mother, but he seems to put the well-being of everyone in his family ahead of his own. I don't think I would recommend this book, unless it was to someone in a similar predicament; go back and read somme of his marvelous fiction, such as "Empire Falls" or "Bridge of Sighs".
JustMyTwoCents More than 1 year ago
A Difficult Memoir--more about the mother than the man-- I read this memoir with great interest, devouring it quickly--hence the three  stars--but, much as I would have liked to, I could not give it more as I was left feeling frustrated  that Russo's memoir was more about his mother than anything else. Obviously, his mother's mental illness and subsequent demands on his life dictated that the story would need to center on her, but I would have liked to get a better picture about how this impacted his own personal relationships, most especially with his wife, but his children too, and, really any friendships or other relationships that he may have established or wished to establish that might take up his time. Perhaps Mrs. Russo did not want to be highlighted in the story, but surely this had to take a huge toll on their relationship. He mentioned the fact that his work as a novelist required he travel to promote his books on tours. It is hard not to believe that such trips would not create tremendous problems with his mother, but his travels for work only get a footnote. This was a good story, a moving one, and one that gives a lot of insight into obsessive compulsive disorder left unchecked, but it barely touched on the collateral damage such illnesses have on their extended families. Still, reading it DID make me go back to the library to pick up a few of Russo's other works. 
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
If you want to read about a Bipolar woman, this is probably a good book for you. Honestly, I've enjoyed many of Russo's other books, but not this one.
booksnoopks More than 1 year ago
I don't believe I've ever read about such an interesting character. Truth, of course, is always stranger than fiction. Mr. Russo's mother defies description.
BillJackson49 More than 1 year ago
This memoir by my favorite living novelist is actually more a memoir of his dysfunctional mother than himself. He waits a long time into the book to reveal some of himself, but this only because in life he must never have had therapy, thus he discovered late how truly disturbed his mother was. I suspect that all of his novels were therapy of a kind for him, and for that I am thankful to him, as his novels are just wonderful. He is a great observer of characters, and he is an author who seems to find something likable in each and every character. Yet I suspect that the flip side of this power of observation of others is that he has done less really deep observation of himself. Much like reading books, and then writing books, became and escape for him, observing his mother pulled him away from attending to his own inner voice more. In the beginning of this book I was very bothered by how blind Richard seemed to be to his mother’s disturbance, and how he was used by her to try to cover and avoid more self-examination into her child-like self. When an adult daughter of the author shows OCD symptoms, he can finally make the connection to his mother’s bizarre behavior over a lifetime, but he apparently does not know that OCD was only one of her issues. Her main problem was a personality disorder that kept her childlike and able to avoid most adult responsibilities, either by blaming her problems on her “nerves,” or by blaming everyone else in her life. Much like my more disturbed mother! However, the following revealing paragraph toward the end of the book shows how Richard had it worse than I did, in that I, at least, had a father and a brother to buffer the insanity. Richard did not. “One of the sadder truths of childhood is that children, lacking the necessary experience by which to gauge, are unlikely to know if something is abnormal or unnatural unless an adult tells them. Worse, once anything of the sort has been established as normal, it will likely be perceived as such well into adulthood, and this is particularly true for the only child, who has no one to compare notes with.” Richard realizes in very late age that he had “enabled” his mother’s childlike behavior his whole life, whereas I started to realize consciously, around age 5, that everyone who enabled my mother would be used up by her and then tossed away not needed. Therefore I was eventually able to completely stop all enabling behavior by about age 14. For much of this book I felt agitated by Richard not seeing all the ways his mother used him for her own needs, but by the end of the book I was again grateful to him for capturing, for describing so well a milder version of the dysfunction that was much worse in my own household. Even reading Richard’s novels, I always feel like he and I would have been fast friends, had we met during any part of our lives; from childhood through later age. I will never meet him, never have beer with him, and oddly I feel a bit sad about that every time I finish one of his books.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I liked this book very much. Richard Russo is one of my favorite writers, maybe my favorite. Certainly the movie made from his book Nobody's Fool is my favorite movie, with no competition. Elsewhere gives much insight into his character and made is even clearer what an honest and compassionate writer and person he is. I recommend this book to anyone who has enjoyed Russo's novels, anyone interested in biography and anyone interested in contemporary literature.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Redundant, could have been said in 20 pages.
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I loved this book. I love the author's writing style (and plan to get more of the books he's written), and I just wanted to keep reading it. It just drew you in. And the end result of finding out what may have truly been his Mom's illness was very eye-opening.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It was interesting to read about the relationship between his mother and himself, but than sadly he had to add his political views into the story. In light of today's problems with the NSA spying, IRS targeting, the Libya murders, the Fast and Furious mess, take over of American health care system, and the poor international relations plans and weak organization about Syria - it was creepy reading political thoughts coming from an unsable woman and it not being questioned. I will continue to read Russo but I wish I could give this book 5 stars instead of 4.