Joan Carris: When the Boys Ran the House

 My sister recently gave me this from her archives, the very copy that we enjoyed as children decades ago.  I had forgotten how much of our family lore came from this book, and how formative it was for me.  I related so deeply to the oldest child at the time I first read it, presumably because  our mother was similarly bedridden at the time.  I felt his frustration, and the burden of premature adulthood, so keenly, and some vestiges of that even came through on this reading 35 years later.  What was expected of him was so similar to what was expected of me, though for much longer and with much less understanding.  Even today, I find myself in the role of moderator for a chaotic, dramatic, and oblivious family.  They might rightly dispute this assessment, but the feelings that this book brought back, and the realization that little has changed for me since I first read it, are mine and I will wallow in them if I see fit.