Writers Remembering Mom and Dad

Writers have been writing about their families since forever.  But two fine new books—one by newcomer Rafe Bartholomew, the other by literary lion Richard Ford—suggest that maybe it’s time to carve out a niche for a new sub-genre on the long shelf of Family Lit.  Let’s call it Memoirs by Sons Who Grew Up to Become Writers and Wound Up Looking Back at Their Parents With a Fondness That Will Melt Your Heart.

Of the two, Bartholomew has the tougher selling job with me.  That’s because his memoir, , is spun around his experiences hanging around and then working alongside his bartender father, (known as ), in New York City’s oldest saloon.  opened the place in 1854, and his motto still hangs on the wall: .  I used to drop by in the 1970s and ’80s, long before the place became another New York theme park for tourists, and given the way the surly waiters were constantly urging customers to drink up and order a new round, I thought the. As Bartholomew admits, “Half of New York City seems to know us as the bar where they kick you out when you stop drinking.”  Also on offer were mediocre ale and bad food.  I never became a fan, let alone a regular.