Although Barry is the New York Times
's "About New York" columnist, his memoir isn't the story of his award-winning journalism career. More like Pete Hamill or Frank McCourt, Barry wants to recount growing up Irish and Catholic on Long Island in the late 1950s and '60s. "Pull me up" was his mom's morphine-soaked plea as she lay dying of lung cancer on the living room sofa—and what a shock it was that his mother was the first to go, as his father had suffered through paralyzing cluster migraines for 20 years. Barry takes readers back to what he calls the Eisenhower years, when gas stations handed out "plaid stamps," women's perms had a distinct "chemical whiff" and delis made potato salad loaded with bacon. He lovingly details seasoning his baseball mitt, oiling, binding and hiding it under his mattress. He relives his Catholic school upbringing, complete with hazing from upperclassmen and pedophilic assaults from Brother Noel, but also those wonderful teachers who helped him realize his calling as a writer. After college came various jobs and romances, even marriage and adopting a baby, all of which is very entertaining, but is horribly interrupted six months after Barry's mother dies, when he finds himself diagnosed, at age 41, with cancer. Perhaps anyone's struggle to survive a deadly illness transforms their life; as Barry puts it, he knew "what it was like to nearly drown," and then felt the "sting of a saltwater blessing" on his face. This is a beautiful book. Agents, Todd Shuster and Lane Zachary. (May)
