John Grisham, of legal thriller fame, has attempted a pastoral memoir with his recent book, A Painted House. I read the book cover to cover, enjoying it well enough in spots, but wincing in others, where Grisham just didnt seem to have the skills to convincingly carry the story.  
 
I will apologize in advance if I make any errors in this review, as the book was a library loan that I have since returned. It is certainly not a book I need to own for my personal collection.  
 
Narrated by 7 year old Luke, A Painted House, is the tale of one cotton picking season for a family of Arkansas sharecroppers. Like the young boy in Grishams The Client, Luke seems much older than his years, and speaks quite unlike any 7 year old I have encountered. While Grisham constructs decent plots, Elmore Leonard neednt worry about his status as dialogue writer supreme. I was also perplexed by an early description in the book, which was used on the book jacket as well. The cotton had grown to the fathers waist, AND over Lukes head. I actually took my soon-to-be 5 year old daughter to see where she stood when placed beside me. Nearly to my waist. So, apparently Luke was pretty short or his dad was pretty tall. I know this is nit-picky, but if Grisham is going for memorable descriptions, using questionable details is an iffy way to start.  
 
Living with his mother and father on his grandparents farm, young Luke shares the annual routines related to the cotton harvest. Luke watches his grandfather Pappy recruit laborers for the harvest, beginning with a family of hill people (a nice way of saying hillbilly), the Spruills, and migrant Mexicans. The Spruills are a ragged bunch, straight out of Steinbeck, and the Mexicans are, well, Mexicans, I guess  according to Grisham, they pick cotton without complaint, enjoy a lively game of baseball, and help paint a house. A good-natured bunch of gringos, except for the switchblade brandishing one called Cowboy.  
 
Thus begins a summer full of adventure, the likes of which I have yet to see in all of my 38 years. Luke is required to keep so many secrets, he will undoubtedly be a therapists field day in the future. The Spruills have brought along a psychotic behemoth named Hank, who murders a young punk in a fight, during a Saturday night outing into town. Luke witnesses the violence, of course, and must not talk about it for fear that all the Spruills will leave before the cotton is harvested.  
 
Also in the Spruill clan is a hot hillbilly chick, Tally (does that rhyme with Sally or Paulie?), who Luke lusts after in a way that seems a bit unlike a 7 year old. He watches her bathing nude in the creek, and I half-expected him to have his first sexual encounter! This is all disconcerting to the reader  while a touch of romance might have been nice for the story, Grisham made Luke 7 instead of, say, 15.  
 
Fans of John Grisham will no doubt want to read this. A Painted House is supposedly based on some of Grishams childhood experiences. I found the book as entertaining but no better than the average movie shown on cables Lifetime channel.  
 
Here are some better titles for your summer reading list, in my humble opinion. John Grisham, consciously or unconsciously, borrowed a little flavoring from some of these better works to spice up his cotton tale.  
 
1) The Summer of 42, Herman Raucher. My all-time favorite book. Makes you laugh, cry, and yearn for those bittersweet days of adolescent angst.  
2) Tobacco Road, Erskine Caldwell. A grotesque, yet funny, look at Southern poverty.  
3) Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck. Need I say more?  
4) Tom Sawyer, Mark Twain. Magical boyhood adventures, without all the cotton-picking drudgery of Grisham.  
5) Dandelion Wine, Ray Bradbury. I read this one a long time ago, but there are scenes of an idyllic but unusual boyhood summer that I still recall.  
 
Publishing a novel is a brilliant thing, and something I dream of doing one day. But, as with any form of art, when you experience the masters (the above 5), it makes the Grishams of the world seem less spectacular. I get the feeling from Grisham, Clark, King and others, that quantity has become more important than quality. Ill take one Herman Raucher over ten John Grishams any day.  
