Under Magnolia: A Southern Memoir

Under Magnolia: A Southern Memoir

3.6 10
by Frances Mayes

View All Available Formats & Editions

A lyrical and evocative memoir from Frances Mayes, the Bard of Tuscany, about coming of age in the Deep South and the region’s powerful influence on her life.The author of three beloved books about her life in Italy, including Under the Tuscan Sun and Every Day in Tuscany, Frances Mayes revisits the turning points that defined her early

…  See more details below


A lyrical and evocative memoir from Frances Mayes, the Bard of Tuscany, about coming of age in the Deep South and the region’s powerful influence on her life.The author of three beloved books about her life in Italy, including Under the Tuscan Sun and Every Day in Tuscany, Frances Mayes revisits the turning points that defined her early years in Fitzgerald, Georgia. With her signature style and grace, Mayes explores the power of landscape, the idea of home, and the lasting force of a chaotic and loving family. From her years as a spirited, secretive child, through her university studies—a period of exquisite freedom that imbued her with a profound appreciation of friendship and a love of travel—to her escape to a new life in California, Mayes exuberantly recreates the intense relationships of her past, recounting the bitter and sweet stories of her complicated family: her beautiful yet fragile mother, Frankye; her unpredictable father, Garbert; Daddy Jack, whose life Garbert saved; grandmother Mother Mayes; and the family maid, Frances’s confidant Willie Bell.Under Magnolia is a searingly honest, humorous, and moving ode to family and place, and a thoughtful meditation on the ways they define us, or cause us to define ourselves. With acute sensory language, Mayes relishes the sweetness of the South, the smells and tastes at her family table, the fragrance of her hometown trees, and writes an unforgettable story of a girl whose perspicacity and dawning self-knowledge lead her out of the South and into the rest of the world, and then to a profound return home.

Read More

Editorial Reviews

With the publication of Under the Tuscan Sun in 1996, Frances Mayes established herself not only as a bestselling writer but as a corporate commodity. Mayes's popular memoir of the charming life she built while restoring a villa in provincial Italy spawned a cottage industry of related projects, including a movie, several literary sequels, and even a Frances Mayes furniture line.

That kind of branding can reduce an author to a franchise, a creature of formula rather than revelation. But in A Year in the World, Mayes's 2006 travelogue, she displayed a willingness to leave the almost uniformly pastel tone of her earlier books to touch on darker complexities. She recounted a disturbing visit from a delusional visitor to her San Francisco home, the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, and what these deeply disruptive tragedies taught her about the continuing need to seek wonder in the everyday.

Under Magnolia, Mayes's memoir of her southern youth, marks an even greater departure from her Tuscan books, although fans of her European sojourns will find much to like in her account of life in post–World War II small- town Georgia. She begins Under Magnolia by explaining how her southern heritage informs her love of Mediterranean culture:

The complex interconnections of family and friends, the real caring for one another, the incessant talk, emphasis on ancestors, the raucous humor, the appreciation of the bizarre, the storytelling, the fatalism, the visiting, the grand occasions — in both Tuscany and the South these traits offer an elaborate continuity for solitary individuals. Deeply fatalistic, Southerners, again like Tuscans, can be the most private people on the globe.
Beyond this analogy, Tuscany remains largely offstage in Under Magnolia. The abiding landscape of the book is the terrain of the former Confederacy — a place, writes Mayes, where nothing "stirs me as much as the narcotizing fragrance of the land, jasmine, ginger lilies, gardenia, and honeysuckle blending, fetid and sweet."

That passage, in which the scent of transcendence blithely mingles with a hint of death, underscores the complicated sensibility of Mayes's story. Nostalgia alternates in her memoir with the sharp stab of mortality, suggesting that Mayes not only recognizes the fatalism of her fellow southerners but often embraces it. Admiring the region's iconic flower, the magnolia, she asks, as if offering the perfect compliment, "What other flower is there to lie on the dark wood coffin of your father?"

Under Magnolia is full of constant reminders that its author has devoted part of her career to writing and studying poetry. Even when she crafts prose, Mayes's paragraphs prove as musical as verse. As with her other books, I began Under Magnolia by jotting down memorable passages — only to realize, after the first chapter, that I'd been reduced to a court stenographer, essentially copying the entire text.

Silver sentences gleam from every page. "Noon burns the whole town to stillness," she notes in recalling southern summers. She writes of church candles that "slowly give up to the heat and droop over like the necks of swans bending toward fish under water." Gazing into the eyes of a father ravaged by a fatal illness, Mayes recalls that "it's like looking into old campfires." Mayes writes of her past in both the past and present tense, which is sometimes confusing. There are also a few false notes in her account of a college romance, the imagery indulging the excess of a Harlequin paperback: "He lies on top of me and through our summer clothes I feel the entire velocity of his body on mine, feel our bright holy skin, a swarming fierce right."

But those are quibbles in a book that promises to satisfy Mayes's fans and attract some new ones. Her memoir of a southern childhood would be right at home in a Tennessee Williams play, and like Williams, she avoids easy resolution. She's discovered that "what one finds in the enterprise of writing is that there is no bottom. Only a contraction into the rhythmic, blood-pumping heart of the past and sometimes an expansion out of it."

Danny Heitman, a columnist for The Baton Rouge Advocate and a frequent essayist for national publications, is the author of A Summer of Birds: John James Audubon at Oakley House.

Reviewer: Danny Heitman

Read More

Product Details

Publication date:
Sold by:
Random House
Sales rank:
File size:
5 MB

Read an Excerpt

As I open a book that I once pulled from the ashes of my grandparents’ house, the dusty, mildewed scent catapults me to their back hallway.
Through the double door, made of tiny mullioned panes, I see the entrance hall waver, a quivering of claret and sunlight from the front door. Wafting from the kitchen, the smell of chicken smothered in cream and pepper until it’s falling off the bone. I’m playing an ancient wind-up record left over from when my father was a boy; “K-K-K-Katy” crackles in my ear. Through my grandmother’s open bedroom door, I glimpse chintz dust ruffles, hatboxes, the slender oval mirror over the dressing table, where she leans, and I see her dab the fluffy puff between her legs.
That’s it: brief cloud of bath powder, grinding consonant K-K-K-Katy (I’ ll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door), warped light throwing rainbows back through the door. And I wonder, always, why do such fragments remain forever engraved, when, surely, significant ones are lost? The kitchen fragrance, no mystery. For who, ever, could forget Fanny’s smothered chicken?
An early memory of my father: He opens his buff hunting coat, and in all the small interior pockets, doves’ heads droop. He and his friends Bascom and Royce break out the bourbon. From my room in the back of the house, right off the kitchen, I see through the keyhole (keyholes are a large part of childhood) the doves he’s killed piled on the counter, and someone’s hand cleaning a shotgun barrel with a dishrag. The terrible plop-ploop sound of feathers being plucked makes me bury my face under the pillow. When his friends go, my father stays at the table with his tumbler of bourbon. I’m reading with a flashlight under the covers. My specialty is orphans on islands where houses have trapdoors into secret passageways that lead to the sea. Rowboats, menace, treasure, and no parents in the story. As the water darkens and danger grows, I hear my father talking to himself. When I quietly crack the door, I see his head in his hands, his bloodstained coat hung on a hook. Very late, he hits the wall with his fist, and says over and over, “Beastly, Christly, beastly, Christly.” I put the palm of my hand over the spot where he is pounding with his fist and feel the vibration all the way up my arm. I press my nose to the window screen and look out at the still backyard.
A tea olive tree grows outside my bedroom window, its scent airy, spicy, and I prefer it to the dizzy perfume of the gardenias and magnolias that rule the neighborhood. Tough ovoid leaves scrape the screen; the tiny flower clusters are fit only for dollhouse bouquets. Then the back door slams and the car screeches out the driveway.
My father’s parents live two blocks away. I like to gaze into the silver globe under the giant oak in their backyard. My face looks distorted and moony, especially when I cross my eyes and stick out my tongue. In the mirrored sphere, the yard curves back, foregrounded with oak branches like enormous claws. On the latticed back porch, my grandmother Mayes washes a bowl of peaches with her maid, Fanny Brown. Mother Mayes’s hair is as silvery as the garden globe, and her crepey skin so white she’s almost blue. She looks as though she might dissolve or disappear—her pale eyes always seem fixed on somewhere just beyond me.
Late in the afternoon, she puts up her bare feet on an ottoman. With the lamp haloing her hair, she’s ethereal, but then I see crude, tough yellow corns on the last two toes of each foot. They’re translucent in the lamp’s glow, as she relaxes with The Upper Room, a church book of devotional reading, open on her lap.
Dove heads, tea olive, silver globe, bowl of peaches, church books. Images are the pegs holding down memory’s billowing tent. From them, I try to figure out who my people were and where we lived, what they did and what they could have done.
South Georgia, where I was born, may look to a stranger speeding down I-75 like lonesome country where you can drive for miles without seeing more than a canebrake rattlesnake cross the road. At the city limits of our town a sign said if you lived here you’d be home now. The logic is irrefutable. Thin roads shimmering in the heat lead into Fitzgerald from Ocilla, Mystic, Lulaville, Osierfield, Pinetta, Waterloo, Land’s Crossing, Bowen’s Mill, and Irwinville, where Jefferson Davis was captured by the Yankees. Then, no I-75 existed.
To those whose ribs were formed from red clay, the place is complex, exhilarating, charged, various: mighty brown rivers to float along, horizons drawn with an indigo pen, impossibly tall longleaf pines, virulent racism (then, and not all erased now), the heat that makes your heart beat thickly against your chest, the self-satisfaction of those of us who have always lived there, tornadoes twirling in a purple sky, the word “repent” nailed to trees. A place of continuous contradiction, a box with a false bottom. A black rag doll becomes a white doll when I turn her upside down. I jump onto soft green moss behind the cotton mill and sink into sewage. Daddy in his white suit fishes me out, shouting curses. I’m born knowing that the place itself runs through me like rain soaking into sand.

We are fabric people, as others are the Miwok people, circus people, lost people. In the cotton mill—my father’s business—the light is gray because lint catches in the screened windows. Oily black machines, gigantic strung looms as beautiful as harps, their shuttles pulled by lean women. Bins to climb and then dive from into piled raw cotton. In the tin cup of the scale over the bin I ride, the needle jerking between fifty and fifty-five pounds, then fly out, the landing not as gentle as I expect. Rayon is softer, and squeaks as I fall in. But to fly, actually, as in dreams. A natural act, as later I would swing out over the spring on vines at night, dropping into cold black water below, crawl up the slippery bank, grabbing roots, then swing out again and again for that moment of falling. Water moccasins, thick as my leg, thirty-pound rockfish with primitive snouts, even crocodiles lived in these deep streams I dove into, pushing my fist into the icy “boils,” that bubbling force at the bottom.
While my father ran the cotton mill and hunted birds, my mother gathered, and created perfect bridge luncheons, with the aid of our cook Willie Bell. The house pulsated with cleanliness. My two sisters were both in college by the time I was eight, but I stayed in my room at the back of the house instead of moving into theirs. Often I riffled through their scrapbooks and high school notebooks in their closet, and tried on their left-behind dresses that had more flounces than mine, and the flowery scent of White Shoulders lingering in the tucks and pleats.
I loved the square brick Carnegie library, the quiet that engulfs you as you gently close the door, the globe to spin and stop, with a finger on Brazil or China, the cold light in the high windows in winter, the way the bookcases jut out to make little rooms, my yellow card with due-date stamps, the brass return slot, the desk where presides the librarian, who looks like a large squirrel. Before
kindergarten, my sisters showed me the low bookcase
for my
age. I moved year by year to a different section of the back room.
So much later, I may cross the threshold into the main library
where I can check out only two, then four books.
Other literature was mail order. I never had seen a real book-
store. We had Book of the Month. We subscribed to Harper’s
Bazaar, for copying dresses, Reader’s Digest, required for school,
and, for some reason, Arizona Highways.
Fitzgerald, where I might have lived forever, was as rigidly hierarchical as England. We had our aristocracy, with dukes, bar sinisters, jokers, local duchesses in black Cadillacs, many earls, and, of course, ladies, ladies, ladies, many of them always in waiting. Everything and everyone had a place and everything and everyone was in it. It was a cloying, marvelous, mysterious, and obnoxious world, as I later came to know, but fate placed me there and, although the house was not lilting, I was happy as the grass was green.
We were not normal. We lived next door to normal people, so I knew what normal was. The father worked for the state agriculture department, the mother gave a perm called a “Toni” to her sisters and friends, and they laughed and had fun as they breathed in ammonia fumes. Their boy sang in the choir, and the daughter, Jeannie, with wild hair, was my playmate.
We found house-paint cans in the barn and brushed black and white enamel over each other. Our irate mothers scoured us with kerosene, and Jeannie seemed to be lifted in the jaws of her mother like a kitten and taken home. Her father built a swing set with a pair of rings that we learned to grip, push off into a somersault, vault up on our feet, and hang upside down. On the swings we could pump so high we’d almost flip over the top. He took us to farms in his truck and we sat in back eating raw peanuts we’d pulled from the ground. They tasted like dirt. Jeannie and I made hideouts in the vacant lot next to her house, elaborate setups of pallets and cardboard boxes, with tin doll dishes and stolen kitchen knives. We sat on a pile of sour grass weed poring over the Sears, Roebuck catalog. What would you choose if you could choose anything on this page? After pelting rains, our walls sagged. On Christmas mornings, she and I ran back and forth between our houses, looking at what Santa left, long before anyone awoke. We strung tin cans with string between our bedrooms, but never could hear a thing. Her mother, Matrel, had lively sisters named Pearl, Ruby, and Jewel. Her uncle always called us “Coosaster Jane,” which we thought was German he’d learned in the war. She called her daddy “Pappy.” He was strong, redheaded, and sweet. I wonder why I did not envy them. I think small children may have no imagination for a life that is not their own lot.
Other families were happy, too. “The Greeks” were happy even though their daughter Calliope had polio and had to walk with crutches and go to Warm Springs and lie in an iron lung, that awful water heater turned on its side. The Lanes were happy even though the father drove a potato chip truck for endless hours and the delicate mother had a problem so that their bathroom was stacked to the ceiling with sanitary napkin boxes. I was in awe over how they pampered Rose Ann. My best friend, Edna Lula, was the only child in the perfect family. She was doted on and prettily plump; their house had beds with warm dips in the middle like nests, and French doors that opened onto a long porch with a swing. Happy mother and daddy who called her by a nickname left over from baby talk. I could not be at her house enough. There, I fell under their bountiful love. They thought I was funny. They called me by my family nickname, Bud. There was no chink. Ribbon candy always filled the same dish on the sideboard. We licked peach ice cream off the wooden beater, loved pouring the rock salt slush out of the churn. They were admiring, told jokes, hugged; their garden fish pool had a statue of a naked boy, clean water coming out of his thing, landing on the old goldfish in the murk. There was a baby grand piano. My friend plunked out “Song of the Volga Boatman,” and “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.” Church not only Sunday morning but the evening service, too. (I drew the line at that.)

My mother and her friends laid swatches of fabric over sofas. They carried samples of peach, ivory, teal, and cream paint in their purses. They contemplated the recovered wing chair with the attention surgeons give to incisions. Pale peach is a good color, a lasting color; it never looks as if the chair has just been done. You never want the chair to appear just done. There are fine points: double welting, never tacks except on leather. The act of attention was intense and disciplined. The house must have a sense of itself. Greens and blues will fool you; you don’t remember shades as well as you think.
My mother wants color and polish and devotion. She wants the linens ironed and the windows clean. Fabric, stitching, tatting, piecing into designs, interfacing for durability and form. Her friend Grace can see a dress on someone in Atlanta, go home, and cut the pattern out of newspaper. The methods are sound: hem by picking up the stitch, doubling back for it then going forward, around a circle, as in writing—the piercing bright words, the tension of the thread.
The network of women existed in a world as private as purdah. Among themselves, my mother’s friends were brutally frank, raucous, and never oblivious to compromise. Talk was of should, of standards, local gossip, and, at least five times a day, of how each person looked. Judging every nuance of appearance was part of our chromosomal makeup. They went out as if disguised by veils. Appearance. And feigned innocence, the vise that keeps women “girls” well into their sixties.
A generality may have a use, as does a bludgeon, but it obliterates what is of particular use by oversimplifying. Nothing has been dealt this blow so much as the southern woman, black and white. The power behind the throne, iron hand in velvet glove, she endured (what else could she do?), belle of three counties, a little vixen, she’s like a member of the family, a great lady, ad infinitum, ad nauseam, and all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding.
Every mother I knew could cook like the devil. There’s their jouissance, that fine, forgotten-in-English word. Pressed chicken, brown sugar muffins, quail (smothered), Sally Lunn bread, grits with cheese, a spectrum of pies with lemon meringue as the lowest, and black bottom as the epitome. Lane Cake (which no Northerner could ever hope to emulate in this life or the next), and key lime when Mr. Bernhardt got in the Key West limes at his fruit stand. No matter what. Unconditionally, we will cook, from restorative broths to nutmeg custards to grand heroic meals.
The splendid matriarchs with power in the open were rare birds. And always endangered. More common is the third-rate power, manipulation. We learned it as we learned cartwheels and the multiplication table. I had my daddy wrapped around my little finger when I was five because I was “a pistol,” his “sweetheart and buddy.” We knew Scarlett could get Rhett back. “Blink your eyes slowly as you look up at a boy,” my mother instructs. “Don’t swim so much. You’ll get ugly muscles.” “Let him win the match.”

Read More

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network


Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >

Under Magnolia: A Southern Memoir 3.6 out of 5 based on 1 ratings. 10 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Frances quite a character, spunky, don't know when to keep quiet, headstrong, colorful, inquisitive, just being herself a true southerner right out of a book of yesteryear. I found myself wondering why this book caught my attention? Not right away, but it made me feel I should continue reading. Discoveries of memories bombarded her and her mind, her land of birth, her early history which was pushed aside for awhile. Her description of things I fell in love with like, Dug up stone path leading nowhere, Fallen spring house cools no buttermilk, Handmade Hangar holds no coat, Fanny swept up the curls of horny yellow clippings looks like curls of old wax or Buzzard talons. Sayings like, "How do you talk without saying anything? It's an art," or "The girls shared a streak of DNA, a litany of running off at the mouth," or "My English was only as far as a lisp of bad words, said to the mirror." I ran across humorous parts, Special award "For Learning to Eat the Crust of Bread." Praise for the wrong things, showered with immense (if inappropriate) possibilities, or her mother telling her when she gets angry, "Marry a Hungarian peasant. The blood's all shot in this line. Parents to busy to notice the things she did, like driving a car at the age of 9yrs. old or running away overnight no one notice. Her connection with people from friends, or Willie Bell who works for the family, or Tat cursing (which I thought was humorous) because what Frances had said, "My grandmother would croak if she knew what I heard. I did not even let my lips form the words-felt that if they passed into sound I would be ruined. So much intensity from suicides, getting whipped or as they call it "switched," or mentioned Blue and Gray Park (named for the uniforms of both side, Confederate and Union. I learned they had Hook worm test in school, "eat china berries-worm will be driven out!" I like her description of her mother's skin color, "White as Wonder bread, my mother has vanishing creams." I could go on and on but it would be of interest if you read it for yourself. I was totally enthralled, I cannot find the right word but "enthralled" come close. Excellent read, I won this book on Goodreads, First Read Giveaway. Thank you, Darlene Cruz
52chickadees More than 1 year ago
“Not All I Had Hoped It Would Be” With the exception of the preface, the first few and last chapters—this collection of memories was a disappointment. The Author has also written “Under the Tuscan Sun”, and with it being one of my favorite movies, I was more than a little excited to delve into “Under Magnolias--A Southern Memoir”. I was thoroughly enticed by the preface and first chapters –including her move to Hillsborough, North Carolina (and the pleasantries discovered within) from their former home in California, only to be let down with the snippets of ongoing sadness, angst, and lack of self-esteem. I would liked to have read more about “Chatwood” and its interesting former occupants and history. I could identify pressing a grape leaf taken from Author William Faulkner’s forgotten and slightly run-down “Rowan Oak” home and watching my facial features change while staring into the fragile garden globe—but that’s close to where the enjoyment ended. It has often been written that you can rid yourself of your demons by writing your inner most thoughts down on paper. Ms. Mayes has done that and more. From her dysfunctional family, complete with a carousing, surly, alcoholic/workaholic Father, and a forever debutante wanna-be Mother, who would rather drink to oblivion and shop to soothe her unhappy soul than encourage her youngest Daughter—the stories of life in Fitzgerald, Georgia and beyond just get darker and more morose. I very seldom have to push myself to finish reading a book—but I’m saddened to say, this was one of those rare occurrences. Perhaps others will enjoy her reminiscences, I did not. I wish Ms. Mayes happiness and success, not only in her writing, but in her life in warm, embracing Hillsborough. Nancy Narma
PierresFamily 8 months ago
Frances Mayes' memoir is beautifully written. In fact, throughout the book, we see evidence that she was a natural writer. From childhood on, she thought and processed things with the heart of a writer. Mayes does a good job of capturing a childhood in South Georgia, including the oppressive heat and humidity that reign five months a year and always has, even back in her childhood in the 1950s and early 1960s. Unless you have lived in the South and experienced the blistering climate, you have no idea how draining it is, and how it affects everyone and everything. It's a different world from the places where people get to experience more cool weather. She delves into relationships - the good, the bad and the ugly. She isn't bitter, but she doesn't gloss over unpleasantnesss, either - good balance. This book is for anyone who is a writer, wants to be a writer, or is simply a bilbiophile. I loved reading something by someone whose lifelong love of books permeates her story.
Anonymous 8 months ago
NorthSideFour More than 1 year ago
It seems that whenever I try to put together the stories from my childhood, those that pile one on another in the ongoing, and sometimes dull, tale of me, there is no cohesive matter to string them together. What I get rather is a random, although heartfelt, journey through the people who conspired to shape my life. Not even my children, who profess to love me deeply, would be interested in making sense of this jumble of tales. It seems I have been forgetting the main character, the very place that gave me roots and home and history, the place where I lived those wonderful childhood years. Thankfully Frances Mayes, a far more gifted and accomplished writer, did not. Under the Magnolia, Mayes' beautiful history of her formative years, gives proper credit to the place that shaped in many ways the person she is today. Her words, paced to a slow southern drawl, create vivid images that are still somewhat murky with the heat of Georgia summers. Racing through the humidity soaked pages I ached for a sweet tea, unheard of in my northern home. "Nothing about the South stirs me as much as the narcotizing fragrance of the land, jasmine, ginger lilies, gardenia, and honeysuckle blending, fetid and sweet", language that leaves no doubt as to what role Fitzgerald, Georgia played in her upbringing. And while the South is the binder that holds these stories together, it is the characters, shaped in every possible way by home, that create the lovely story that slowly churns out like a lazy summer day; nothing compelling us to read beyond a curiosity for what might happen the next day. Frances Mayes writes a beautiful story of a childhood that wasn't always happy, and in no way perfect, but was every day very real. The voice, so clear, must harbor a bit of drawl she thought she had packed away years ago. "In writing a life, you search for the white pebbles you didn't know your dropped to define your way." Through Blogging for Books I received a review copy of this book. Quotes from Frances Mayes, Under the Magnolia.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I wavered between giving this three stars or four stars.  The thing is, I like her writing, and I was interested in much of what she had to say.  But, and it's a big but, the greatest part of this book is a long whine/rant about her alcoholic mother and her abusive father.  After a while, I wanted to tell her, "Okay, I get it. Now let's move on to other things."  But she really didn't.  I did not care for "A Day in the World" either. Both books are slow-going. I know she can do better. She has writing talent, but it does not show up to  best effect here.
FrancisAvish More than 1 year ago
 I found the book tedious and similar to other books about growing up in a small, Southern town.  It sounded like the author was not enamored with her upbringing, so neither was I.  I did find her commentary on being at an all woman's college in the early 60s very informative.  PS - I had to read this for my book club.
Wildflowers More than 1 year ago
Under Magnolia: A Southern Memoir by Frances Mayes is a deep, thoughtful and intensely honest but at times strikingly humorous recollection of a youthful life, brimming with optimism and the vagaries of life. While some may be a tad confused by the metaphors used, she revels in painting the perfect imagery for anyone with the proclivity to see it. Under Magnolia is a memoir that is both gentle and rough, a memoir that is crafted the way memoirs should be written. What is stranger than memory, that selects a certain day to remain vivid, when thousands of others are totally lost? writes Mayes, which is an admission of the failings of the human mind to recollect memories of her childhood, in all its bits and pieces. What one can, it must go through the laborious process of sifting. What Mayes manages of her growing years in Fitzgerald, Georgia and how she fell in love with Tuscany is truly amazing. Her admiration and fascination for William Faulkner is evident by the quotes peppered all throughout the memoir. Visiting William Faulkner’s house, peeking through the window and conjuring up his life within its walls must have been of immense satisfaction for this young girl. In many ways, she has been genuinely influenced by the man who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1949 and the Pulitzer Prize for The Reivers just before his death in July 1962. Through this insightful memoir, Frances Mayes takes a leap back in time joining the dots of her life, giving in to the smells of magnolia as she once did, recalling the landscape of her youthful life, embracing the difficulties under which she grew up, fondly kissing the fragrances of the memories of all those dear people and all the places her feet trod, and in the process handing her readers a delightful and enjoyable memoir entitled Under Magnolia: A Southern Memoir.
Anonymous 9 months ago
Trying to elevate this to a wonderful childhood does not work we do not want the obvious in liife stories but the nice version without counting drinks buska
Delphimo More than 1 year ago
The audiobook reading was humdrum and uninspiring, even though the subject matter could be interesting. Mayes seems to be wearing rose colored glasses as she breezes through her past. Frances omits much of the information in her quest for depicting truly Southern characters. To listen to Frances, she grew up in an uncaring home with two older parents bored with children and with life so much that booze became the cure-all. Frances seems like the head strong Isabelle McAllister in Calling Me Home, both believe what they do is the Gospel and neither seems to honor their parents. At the ending of this story, my journey into Southern novels needs a rest.