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The Great Husband Hunt

The Great Husband Hunt

3.5 7
by Laurie Graham

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From the author of The Future Homemakers of America comes the hilarious and moving story of one unstoppable woman's unforgettable ride through an ever-changing century.... What hope is there for Poppy Minkel? She has kinky hair, big ears, skin that's too sallow, and an appetite for fun. Poppy's mother, Dora, despairs of ever finding her a husband, despite the lure of


From the author of The Future Homemakers of America comes the hilarious and moving story of one unstoppable woman's unforgettable ride through an ever-changing century.... What hope is there for Poppy Minkel? She has kinky hair, big ears, skin that's too sallow, and an appetite for fun. Poppy's mother, Dora, despairs of ever finding her a husband, despite the lure of the family fortune offered by Minkel's Mighty Fine Mustard. Correctness, duty, and Dora Minkel Ear Correcting Bandages are the weapons in this husband hunt-and they serve as torture to a girl who has her own hazy ideas about beauty, love, and marriage. After the sudden death of her father, Poppy's rebelliousness bursts into full bloom. From one World War to the next, from New York to Paris, she'll invent her own extraordinary life with never a moment of self-doubt...as acclaimed author Laurie Graham treats us to a rollicking, exhilarating celebration of passion over prudence.

Editorial Reviews

The New York Times
Graham's greatest achievement here is the creation of a complex, believable character who, even when displaying an emotional tone-deafness and a distressing lack of empathy (''I have often observed how tiresomely obsessed paupers are with hoarding money''), remains stubbornly likable. — Sarah Ferguson
Publishers Weekly
Graham's humorous fictional autobiography of Poppy Minkel, the tart-tongued heiress ("Jewish, to just the right degree") of Minkel's Mighty Fine Mustard, is a Zelig-like romp through the 20th century. Poppy's irrepressible voice recreates her world with a disarming bluntness that often abandons propriety for a good laugh ("education is a greatly overrated thing") while never sidestepping the essential truths of any well-lived life (e.g., "No one can be expected to look at difficult art without a glass in one's hand"). Graham's enjoyable The Future Homemakers of America toasted the delights of long-term friendship between women and exhibited the author's flair for nostalgic historical fiction. Her new novel views history through Poppy's wide, self-obsessed eyes, painting a lyrically linear portrait of a flawed, believable character who never abandons her quest to be a "heroine." Poppy's "memoir" begins with her grief over losing her father on the Titanic, barrels along at a great pace through WWI, the 1920s, the 1930s, WWII, the 1960s and ends with a sanguine widow's observations in the late 1970s. Poppy's evolution through heiress/shop girl, fashion "originator"/wife, aviatrix/seductress, mother/art gallery owner/widow proceeds at a dizzying clip. Married first to a rake she meets while selling ties at Macy's, Poppy divorces him after their first child is born and takes up with a Brit distantly related to the Royals. Their affair results in a surprise pregnancy and leads to a second, happier marriage. Poppy weathers many losses, but her friendship with her stepbrother Murray-most beloved of her family members-teaches her a great lesson: "In life you have to look ahead and not behind." (Oct. 1) Forecast: Graham's protagonist is much less conventional than the book's title leads readers to expect; those looking for ordinary historical romance will get more than they bargained for. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A frivolously obtuse protagonist, determined to live as she pleases, romps through the 20th century. Mustard heiress Poppy Minkel is willfully ignorant, bent on pleasure, and insensitive-to her children, her help, even her religion (Judaism). Not very promising heroine material, though Poppy is also an original in everything from her clothes to her hobbies (she learns to fly), with liberated ideas about sex and a career. She narrates her own story, which moves from her native New York to Paris and the English countryside, then back to NYC as she charges through life with dizzying speed and little thought. Poppy begins as the news comes that her wealthy father has gone down with the Titanic. His grieving widow immediately abandons the search for a husband for their adolescent offspring, and Poppy remains reluctantly housebound until WWI, when mother and daughter head out to do voluntary work. Next, while working for fun at Macy's, Poppy meets impoverished writer Gilbert Catchings. They marry and have a daughter, Sapphire, who gets left home with Poppy's sister Honey when the couple move to Paris. The Depression affects relatives, but not Poppy, still fabulously wealthy, who ditches Gilbert for Reggie, an Englishman with tenuous ties to the royal family, an English manor, and a daughter. Soon widowed, Poppy returns to Paris, blissfully unaware of the advancing Germans, from whom she barely escapes. Back in New York, she continues to shock her conservative kin by opening an avant-garde art gallery, dressing flamboyantly, and behaving unsuitably. Deaths in the family rarely set her back as her artists flourish, discreet nips and tucks keep her looking good, as do great clothes. Old age makesPoppy more reflective but not by much: mostly diverting mind candy.

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Grand Central Publishing
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Read an Excerpt

The Great Husband Hunt

By Laurie Graham

Warner Books

Copyright © 2002 Laurie Graham
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-446-69132-1

Chapter One

It was just as well I had ripped off my Ear Correcting Bandages. Had I been bound up in my usual bedtime torture-wear, I would never have heard my mother's screams.

The bandages were part of my preparation for the great husband hunt. I was only fifteen years old, but my mother recognized a difficult case when she saw one. She had taken up the challenge the day after my twelfth birthday and never spared herself since. "The early bird, Poppy," she always said, when I complained. "The early bird."

And so, assisted by my aunt, she began an all-fronts campaign to catch me a worm.

I was forbidden candy and other waist-thickening substances. I was enrolled for classes in piano, singing and cotillion dancing, and spent an hour every day in a backboard, during which I practiced French pronunciation whilst a series of Irish maids tried to straighten my hair, or at least, defeat its natural wiriness into the kind of soft loose curls preferred by husbands.

On alternate days my neck was painted with Gomper's Patent Skin Whitener, to coax out of it a certain oriental tinge. The label advised using the paste no oftener than once a week. But as my mother said, what did they know? They hadn't seen my neck. As to my nose, she knew the limits of home improvements. I was to go to a beauty doctor in Cincinnati, as soon as I was sixteen, and have a little cartilage shaved off.

Meanwhile she applied herself to the correction of my protruding ears. She designed an adjustable bandeau to hold them flat against my skull while I slept and had the Irish girl make them up for me in a selection of nightwear colors.

"So you can choose, you see?" Ma explained. "According to your frame of mind."

And, gauging my frame of mind all too well, my aunt informed me that some day, when I had grown in wisdom, I would be grateful for their efforts.

The alternative to all this was that I would be left an old maid. I knew what an old maid was. My cousin Addie was being one up in Duluth, Minnesota, riding around all day with her dogs and not wearing corsets. And I knew what marriage was too. My sister Honey had recently married Harry Glaser and as soon as the marrying was done she had to leave home and put up her hair. As far as I could see she wasn't allowed to play with her dolls anymore, and she had hardly any time for cutting out pretty things for her scrapbook. She had to go to tea parties all the time, but never appear too eager about cake, and whenever she came to call Ma would make mysterious inquiries. "Honey," she'd whisper, "how are Things? Are you still using the Lysol?"

To avoid the fate that had befallen Honey, I decided on stealthy sabotage rather than outright rebellion. As long as things appeared to be satisfactory my mother took them to be satisfactory. Surface was her preferred level. Hidden depths were unattractive to her, therefore she behaved as though they did not exist. So, every night, I took off my ear correctors, but only after the house had fallen dark and silent.

Then, that night, someone came to the front door and rang the bell with great persistence. I thought it had to be a stranger. Anyone who knew us knew the hours we kept. They knew our disapproval of nightlife and lobster suppers and men who rolled home incapable of putting a key neatly in a keyhole.

I heard the Irish slide back the bolt, eventually, and voices. And then, leaning up on my elbow, holding my breath so as not to miss anything, I heard my ma scream. This signaled excitement. The late visitors were Aunt Fish and Uncle Israel Fish, come straight from the opera, still in their finery, because they had seen newsboys selling a late extra edition with reports of a tragedy at sea. "At sea" was where my pa was, sailing home from Europe.

Aunt Fish was my mother's sister and she always seemed as at home in our parlor as she did in her own. By the time I had pulled on my wrapper and run downstairs she had already arranged Ma on a couch and was administering sal volatile.

"Are you sure he sailed, Dora?" she kept asking, but my mother wasn't sure of anything. "Maybe he didn't sail. Maybe business kept him in London."

My father had been in Berlin and London, inspecting his subsidiaries. "Israel will go to the shipping offices," Aunt Fish said. "Israel, go to the shipping offices."

Uncle Israel was stretched out with a cigarette. "Nothing to be done at this hour," he said. Aunt Fish turned and looked at him.

He left immediately. And my mother, released from the constraints of being seen by her brother-in-law dressed only in her nightgown, collapsed anew.

"Poppy," said Aunt Fish, "don't just stand there. Be a comfort to your mother." And so while she plagued the Irish for a facecloth soaked in vinegar, and more pillows, and a jug of hot chocolate, I stood by my mother's side and wondered what kind of comforting to do. I tried stroking her arm, but this appeared to irritate her. I looked at her, with my head set at a compassionate angle, but that didn't please her either. I was altogether relieved when Aunt Fish returned from harassing our help and resumed her post as couch-side comforter.

I said, "Aunt Fish, is Pa lost at sea?" and Ma resumed her wailing. "Poppy!" said Aunt Fish. "Don't you have even an ounce of sense? Your poor mother has received a terrible shock. If you can't be quiet and sensible, then please return to your bed."

I'm sure it wasn't me that had rung the doorbell in the middle of the night with news of shipwrecks.

"And send the Irish in, to build up the fire," she shouted after me.

We had stopped bothering with names for our Irish maids. They never stayed long enough to make it worth learning a new one. "And Poppy," my mother called weakly, from her couch, "don't forget to strap down your ears."

I lay awake, waiting to hear Uncle Israel's return, but eventually I must have dozed, and then it was morning. But it was not like any other morning. Our family was suddenly part of a great drama.

The first edition of the Herald reported that though Pa's ship had been in a collision, all hands were saved and she was now being towed into Halifax, Nova Scotia.

Aunt Fish returned, having changed into a morning gown, and then Uncle Israel, with news that the White Star Line was chartering a train to take relatives up to Halifax to be reunited with their loved ones.

I said, "I'll go. Let me go." This provided my aunt with further reasons to despair of me. "For heaven's sakes, child!" she sighed, and Uncle Israel winked at me.

"Out of the question, Pops," she said. "Too young, you see. But why not write a little note? I'll see he gets it as soon he sets foot on land."

"There's no need for you to go, Israel," my mother said. The morning's brighter news had restored her appetite and she was eating a pile of toast and jam. "I can always send Harry, if it isn't convenient to you."

"Of course it's convenient," said Aunt Fish. "It's Israel's place to go."

I went to the escritoire and started composing my letter to Pa, but I was still more haunted by the idea that he might have drowned than I was uplifted by the prospect that he was safe. I had no sooner written the words "Please, never go away again" than I burst into inappropriate and inconsiderate tears and was sent to my room. Soon after, my sister arrived with her husband. Honey came up to my room and lay on my bed beside me.

"Don't cry, Pops," she said. "Pa's safe. And you don't want to get swollen eyes."

I said, "Why did he have to go across an ocean, anyhow?" "Why, because that's what men do," she said. I said, "Would you allow Harry?"

"Allow?" she said. "It isn't my place to allow. Besides, I know everything Harry does is for the very best." I had often suspected that marrying had caused a softening of Honey's brain.

Uncle Israel left that afternoon on the special train to Halifax. And Harry went downtown, first to his broker with instructions to buy stock in the Marconi wireless company whose wonderful shipboard radio had helped save so many lives and bring comforting news to the waiting families. Then he went to the White Star offices to inquire when the passengers might be expected back in New York.

Honey and I were pasting scraps, just like old times, when Harry walked in, looking smaller and flatter and grayer than usual. He scratched his head.

"It's gone," he said. "The Titanic has sunk, with heavy losses. A boat called the Carpathia is bringing the survivors home." It was eight o'clock. Up in Massachusetts Uncle Israel's train was stopped, directed into a siding and reversed. There had been, he was told, a change of plan.

My cheeks were hot from the fire, but something deathly cold touched me. My mother fainted onto a couch. My sister uttered a terrible little cry. And Harry studied the pattern on the parlor rug.

"Marconi stock closed up one hundred and twenty points," he said, to no one in particular.


Excerpted from The Great Husband Hunt by Laurie Graham Copyright © 2002 by Laurie Graham . Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Great Husband Hunt 3.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 7 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Reading between the hilarious lines, the character of Poppy is a little bit deeper than many of you think- whether she means to be or not. Given her childhood, a light hearted approach to life isn't such a bad thing. This is one of my favorite books and Laurie Graham is a literary force of nature.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Poppy had her bad points; considering her mother and awful aunt who badgered and lied to her to suit themselves and their agendas. But she started and ran two successful businesses on her own, learned to drive a car and pilot a plane. Not too shabby for the daughter who was not 'the pretty one.'
Guest More than 1 year ago
The first chapter was great....very witty, but, from there it just kind of falls apart. A good idea that never goes anywhere.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book was entertaining. I actually picked the book because of the wonderful cover and thought the title was deserving of my attention! Poppy was incredibly egocentric but deliciously so. Read this if you don't want a lot of substance. It was fun, silly, and at times exasperating!
Guest More than 1 year ago
This was my first try at Laurie Graham's writing through my Public Library's book club. I thought it was great fun! I enjoyed following the life of Poppy, watching her transformation, seeing how choices (good and bad) can affect the people around us as well as our own circumstances. I would gladly recommend, despite the earlier reviews. It's a quick read. If you don't like it, you've hardly wasted too much time.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I really hated this book. Some of the one-liners were pretty clever but I could not warm up to the main character, Poppy, at all. I found her ridiculously naive (whether it was feigned or real) even putting in perspective the decade she was a teenager. I found the book, on the whole, pretty annoying.
harstan More than 1 year ago
Jewish fine mustard heiress Poppy Minkel tells her twentieth century autobiography starting when her father dies while sailing on the Titanic. She grieves her loss, but continues her myopic observations of the world's great events over the next five decades.

During that time she married a womanizer she met in a department store. She gave birth to their child. However, his philandering led to her divorcing him, an unheard of event back in the early twentieth century. Later she does another social shocker when she lives out of wedlock with an ultra-extended member of the British royals. When she becomes pregnant, she marries for the second time into a happier situation. By the 1970s, Poppy is an aging widow who reflects back on her life influenced by her stepbrother (with an assist by Satchel Paige) that 'you have to look ahead and not behind.'

Though amusing in an acerbic way, this autobiographical fiction uses an individual to present the 'People's Century'. The story line is clever, but it is difficult to accept Poppy's caustic personality through six plus decades. Title aside (not a romance by any stretch) this is a solid often funny look back at the twentieth century, but those who really want something in depth should try the People's Century videos.

Harriet Klausner