THE MOUSEHOUSE YEARS

In this debut graphic memoir, a woman looks back on growing up with five siblings, her often overwhelmed mother, and a mostly absent father who was both charming and pathological.

The “Mousehouse” of the title refers to the family’s tiny, 700-square-foot house that reminded Haney’s mother, Meg, of a children’s book. They lived there for seven years, but the memoir actually stretches from 1919 to 1966, interspersed with present-day sections in which Haney converses with her dying mother; for Haney, this book is her eulogy. Her line drawings are crude, similar to children’s work or to cartoonists like Lynda Barry—effective and appropriate given the child’s-eye view. Pleasingly scrapbooklike family photographs, newspaper articles, advertisements and letters help tell the story. The beginning sections that delve into family history are revealing, especially those about Haney’s father, Billy, and how he came to be such a selfish, charming, extravagant, risk-taking, sex-obsessed narcissist. As the family grows and Meg tries to find independence, the children are often left to fend for themselves, with their father swooping in now and then with presents and treats. Haney’s writing skillfully balances tone, employing wry humor and dry commentary to talk about darker happenings, including what might be seen today as child neglect, as when Meg charges 7-year-old Gus with being man of the house, having him go to the bank, mail letters and go grocery shopping. But there’s more: Billy gets Haney a subscription to Playboy—for her 11th birthday. And it gets worse. Haney doesn’t dwell on these incidents, feeling that people are tired of incest memoirs and not wanting “Dad’s slimy stuff to take over.” Haney is honest about conflicts with her mother and generous in imagining Meg’s point of view, derived from letters and journals as well as memory. Her five siblings are also given their dues. Hopefully, we’ll see more from this talented writer/cartoonist.

Engrossing, sensitive and humorous—a bighearted winner.