The Orchard

August 8, 2011
The use of heavy pesticides over decades on Midwestern farms forms the dark, moody leitmotiv of this affecting memoir set largely around a 1970s orchard by thriller writer Weir (aka Anne Frasier). As a 21-year-old from a divorced home who grew up in Miami and Albuquerque, with a talent for art but little prospects to educate herself, Weir gravitated toward the Midwest, where she worked as a waitress in her uncle’s bar in Henderson County, Ill., just off the Iowa border; farmers dropped in for beer and a secret stash of porn her uncle kept in the back, their arms dusted with the herbicide they used in the fields. Smitten with young, handsome Adrian Curtis, the scion of a large apple orchard that seemed to be under a curse of bad luck, Weir soon married the serious, reticent young farmer and lived with him in a small cabin on his parents’ farm, although she hadn’t a clue about being a farm wife; moreover, her in-laws despised her as an outsider (“white trash”) and nobody expected her to last long. Nonetheless, the marriage endured happily, two healthy children were born, and Weir improbably managed to start a career as a writer. But then both Adrian and his father were diagnosed with and died from cancer. Afraid of further contaminating themselves, Weir and her two children eventually moved out of the county. Weir, now living in Minneapolis, narrates a truly disquieting tale of familial dislocation and rupture.

August 1, 2011

A foreboding memoir of the author's early marriage into an agricultural family, and her emotional navigation between rootlessness and heritage.

In a key passage, novelist Weir (as Anne Frasier: Garden of Darkness, 2007, etc.) writes that "in that moment I understood that I'd stepped into a world I could never be a part of." How could a citified woman, whose mother struggled with revolving-door relationships and an itinerant lifestyle, forge an enduring bond with a man whose apple-farming family was governed by appearances? The author dances around questions of belonging and trust as she compresses her outsider beginnings on her husband's land with the years preceding his death, all while alternating between memories of a 1960s childhood. Threaded with abandonments and "[v]ery bad things that I will never talk about," the jagged pastiche reveals a woman whose impetuous decision to marry a man she barely knew led to love, children and the tough realization that generations of pesticide-spraying would destroy her newly reconciled peace. Weir ably captures the stasis of rural life and the pain of difference with acuity, though the impact is diluted when in-laws and other characters emerge as archetypal rather than fully fleshed figures. The author frankly admits to deeply subjective interpretation, however, acknowledging that "[s]ometimes there are people you must forget because of the damage they cause—blood ties or not." Recurrent hints of environmentally dangerous activity never quite develop into a parallel theme, remaining instead as touchstones for a narrative that reaches a crescendo with cancer diagnosis.

The strongest feature of the book is the determined loyalty that allows Weir to discover beauty amid strife, as well as the touching conclusion. 

(COPYRIGHT (2011) KIRKUS REVIEWS/NIELSEN BUSINESS MEDIA, INC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.)

September 1, 2011
Everyone told her that marrying Adrian Curtis was a bad idea. Not only was there the legendary family curse of multiple, mysterious deaths going back generations, there was also the whole idea of life as a farmer's wife, living in a rundown shack, constantly under the scrutiny of in-laws who made no secret of their dislike. As Weir observes her young husband's inexplicably erratic behavior, she also becomes aware of the insidious nature of large-scale apple growing, with its demand for perfection that relies disturbingly on the escalating use of increasingly lethal pesticides. No mere accounting of life on the farm, Weir's captivating memoir reveals dark undercurrents: environmental destruction due to wanton use of pesticides, emotional devastation due to calculated intimidation, economic degradation due to the inherent poverty of the farming life. Best known for her acclaimed suspense novels written as Anne Frasier, Weir's own story is as harrowing as they come, yet filled with an uncanny self-awareness that leads, ultimately, to redemption.(Reprinted with permission of Booklist, copyright 2011, American Library Association.)