DESTROY THIS HOUSE

An affecting portrait of a definitively dysfunctional family.

Uhle’s mother isn’t quite dead when Uhle walks into a florist’s and begins to make arrangements for a wreath, something that appalls the flower people. But, writes Uhle, executive director of the publishing company McSweeney’s, “mourning my mother and father was an endeavor that started so long ago that I couldn’t properly recall it.” What she was really mourning, she adds, was “reality and sanity, the facts as they appeared to everyone on Earth except my parents.” The insanity comes in many forms, some developing over many years. Mom, raised in modest circumstances, was a hoarder who even saved the morphine that Uhle’s father, dying of cancer, was supposed to take but didn’t: “Mom’s interest in the morphine was as nonsensical as her interest in accumulating anything else.” Mom piled up fabric, clothing, and especially food that frequently went to waste—and this in a household perpetually in financial straits, so much so that at one point the parents sneak the family out of their West Virginia apartment in the middle of the night to skip out on rent owed, making a new home across the line in Pennsylvania for a time, always trying to stay a step ahead of the creditors and collection agencies. Dad turns out to be a great dreamer and schemer, always feckless—and, in the end, criminal. Uhle’s memoir is a car-wreck sort of book in which we crane our necks to see what awful thing is going to happen next to disrupt her and her siblings’ lives. The memoir is well written, if at times distractingly repetitive, perhaps because her parents’ behavioral problems play out in much the same way incident after incident. Still, it has virtue in showing that no matter how odd one’s own family, there’s always someone, more often than not, who has an odder family still.

Although a little goes a long way, Uhle’s book will hit home with many readers.