Coop
Michael Perry鈥檚 life, now the subject of a third memoir, is not an extraordinary one. In less talented hands, the stories he recounts in Coop would merely have been the subject of an unusually busy holiday letter. But in Perry鈥檚 engrossing narration, they take on the heft of history, dotted with rueful humor and stories that beg to be performed aloud.
Coop, subtitled 鈥淎 Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting,鈥� chronicles Perry鈥檚 move to a farmstead owned by his wife鈥檚 family, and their experiences acquiring livestock, awaiting a baby鈥檚 birth, parenting an older daughter, and facing unexpected deaths. It鈥檚 also the story of his own childhood on a farm: Perry was eldest in a large family that combined 鈥渁 sliding scale鈥� of birth and foster siblings.
The book鈥檚 beginning chapters jump among years and topics in the style of Perry鈥檚 past writings, and it鈥檚 a bumpy ride until readers settle into the rhythm of his memories. But as the parallels between past and present multiply, we see them more clearly as parts of the same timeless story of families and land.
Perry, a contributing editor to Men鈥檚 Health, is a professional writer but a gentleman farmer, confessing that he splits firewood to clear his mind as much as to heat the home, aware that 鈥渁 simple move to the country鈥� will not automatically equate to a simpler life. He is chronically 鈥渙verdreamed and underbudgeted鈥� as he juggles writing commitments with farm responsibilities such as a building a pig shelter and chicken coop.
His specific experiences are not universal, but the lessons he draws from them are, as with 鈥渢he 37th time鈥� he describes plans to save money by fencing the yard and acquiring sheep to serve as living lawnmowers and later sources of profit. His wife responds with her vision of the farmer on yet another speaking engagement, 鈥渢alking about writing and raising sheep 鈥� meanwhile, I鈥檓 running through the brush with a howling six-month-old under one arm and dragging a bawling seven-year-old behind me with the other arm while we try to get the sheep back inside a hole in the cobbled-up fence.
鈥淭his is very hard on my pride, and pretty much on the money.鈥�
Perry鈥檚 memories of childhood, as well, are painted with uncanny detail and with an adult鈥檚 comprehension. He spins a pages-long description of how his mother prepared popcorn for special Sunday suppers, rerunning crisp mental movies of how the popped kernels tumbled into the bowl 鈥渨ith a snowfall sound, an occasional old maid pinging the steel.鈥� Now, recalling such meals, the generic food in the family pantry, and his mother鈥檚 rush even to spoon spilled milk back into a cup so it would not go to waste, he understands how his parents managed to provide.
Likewise, with a self-awareness that sometimes borders on self-consciousness, he watches 鈥渁 scene composed by Andrew Wyeth and retouched by Edvard Munch鈥� 鈥� his daughter weeping in a hayfield when he won鈥檛 buy expensive store-bought timothy grass for her guinea pig when she could collect and dry her own. He knows he is imposing a lesson in thrift and self-reliance, yet he also realizes he pushed the issue because he so loved haying himself as a child. When he details those days, he leaves us loving them too.
The book is no tell-all. Perry suggests that a farm kid remembers his first time behind a tractor with the same clarity as a first kiss, then devotes a mere half-sentence to the smooch and several loving pages to the tractor. But he does give a mature, matter-of-fact account of being raised in 鈥渁n obscure fundamentalist 海角大神 sect鈥� that he remembers warmly but no longer follows, a sect through whose services he dozed not because he was bored, but 鈥渂ecause I was cozy.鈥�
Life cycles are the book鈥檚 unstated theme and Perry鈥檚 most powerful soliloquies are not births but his understated, gut-punching encounters with death. When tragedy hits him without warning, his perceptions guide us through feelings many will experience but few can articulate with such clarity: 鈥淭hink of a feed bag filled with lead shot and allowed to achieve terminal velocity before the dead thump, the impact so echoless and mundane that for one dumb moment we fail to recognize the devastation for what it is.鈥�
Rebekah Denn is a Seattle-based freelance writer.
