Book Review - The Egg And I by Betty MacDonald

The Egg And I by Betty MacDonald: When I was in eighth grade and on the staff for the school newspaper, the librarian handed me a book called Anybody Can Do Anything by a local author named Betty MacDonald (1908-1958). She wanted me to review it for the paper, but as I recall we never even got an issue out that year. I did, however, read the book and love it. And for many years after I had an itching to read the other books by Betty MacDonald about living in the Northwest in the early part of the twentieth century. I've finally come back to it, and this book, The Egg And I, is her first.

Betty MacDonald is better known for a series of children's books starring "Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle". But four of her books are completely autobiographical. The Egg and I tells us of her childhood following her mining engineer father around North America, and ending up in Seattle where she married a 31-year-old man when she was eighteen. While her new husband was in the insurance business, he really wanted to be in the business of raising chickens, so right after the marriage he took her to live on the shoulders of the Olympic mountains in the most far out piece of nowhere land in Washington, maybe in the United States, and raise chickens on a dilapidated ranch.

This book is hilarious. While the author has some out-dated and non-PC comments on the local Indians, she writes so down-to-earth and matter-of-factly that you feel yourself in her place, groaning about the lack of windows, giggling about the antics of the neighbors, or feeling the weight of the mountains looking down on you. As a native the the area she is writing about, I also feel her distress at the weather, and wonder how she survived.

For your pleasure, here's an excerpt: It rained and rained and rained and rained. It drizzled-- misted-- drooled-- spat-- poured-- and just plain rained. Some mornings were black and wild, with a storm raging in and out and around the mountains. Rain was driven under the doors and down the chimney, and Bob went to the chicken house swathed in oilskins like a Newfoundland fisherman and I huddled by the stove and brooded about inside toilets. Other days were just gray and low hanging with a continual pit-pat-pit-pat-pitta-patta-pitta-patta which became as vexing as listening to baby talk. Alone about November I began to forget when it hadn't been raining and became as one with all the characters in all of the novels about rainy seasons, who rush around banging their heads against the walls, drinking water glasses of straight whiskey and moaning. "The rain! The rain! My God, the rain!

Even though it was first published in 1945 and covers events that happened in the 1920s, this is still a book worth reading and I can recommend it highly to anyone who wants a peek at life in the middle of nowhere.