Amazon.com Review
In an Author's Note at the end of his book
The Widow of the South, Robert Hicks tells us that "when Oscar Wilde made his infamous tour of America in 1882, he told his hosts that his itinerary should include a visit to 'sunny Tennessee to meet the Widow McGavock, the high priestess of the temple of dead boys.'" Carrie McGavock, The Widow of the South, did indeed take it upon herself to grieve the loss of so many young men in the battle of Franklin, Tennessee, which took place on November 30, 1864. Nine thousand men lost their lives that day. She and her husband John eventually re-buried on their own land 1,481 Confederate soldiers killed at Franklin, when the family that owned the land on which the original shallow graves had been dug decided to plow it under and put it into cultivation.
Before the battle begins, Carrie's house is commandeered for a field hospital and all normal life is suspended. Carrie is anything but normal, however. She has buried three children, has two living children she pays little attention to, has turned the running of the house over to her slave, Mariah, and spends her time dressed in black walking around in the dark or lying down lamenting her loss. She is a morbid figure from the outset but becomes less so as the novel progresses. The death going on all around her shakes her out of her torpor, but death is definitely her comfort zone.
One of the soldiers who is treated at the house is Zachariah Cashwell, who loses his leg when Carrie sends him to surgery rather than watch him die. They are inextricably bound in some kind of a spiritual dance from then on. Their reasons for being drawn to each other are inexplicable, apparently, because they remain unexplained, and when Cashwell tells Carrie he loves her, she beats him nearly to death because she loves him too. At least, that is the reason Hicks gives. He violates that first caveat given to all writers: "show us, don't tell us." There is doubtless something deeply flawed in Carrie and screamingly symbolic about her behavior; it is surely elusive. Too bad, because Carrie was a real person whom Hicks lauds for her compassion and ability to grieve without end. Then, he throws in this gratuitous "love story" and confuses the issue. Carrie's relationship with her husband and children remains unexamined. Hicks is better at describing death and "the stink of war" than he is at life. If you read War and Peace and loved all the war parts and were bored senseless by the peace parts, this is your cup of tea. --Valerie Ryan
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From Publishers Weekly
The grand scale of drama in this Civil War novel that recreates the life of Carrie McGavock, whose Tennessee home became a Confederate hospital and who later tended a massive cemetery in her backyard, feels ready-made for the movies and hearing it read aloud makes that feeling even stronger. The music that swells up under the tense and emotional parts is sometimes a little overblown or sentimental, but it captures the mood and enhances the listening experience. The readers (including Becky Ann Baker, Tom Wopat, David Chandler and Jonathan Davis) use Southern accents strong enough to be authentic but not too thick to be comical. Characters are not read exclusively by one person, and the men are less successful at getting the right tone for the female parts than Baker is when she reads men's parts. Her smart Southern belle voice for Carrie changes wonderfully into a gruff, bitter one to embody Zachariah Cashwell, a Confederate soldier Carrie falls in love with as she nurses him back to health. Extra tracks on the final disc includes an interview with Hicks on his inspiration and writing process; a computer program containing photos, artwork and archival material Hicks used; and an author's note that fills out more of the actual history. Even without accessing these enhancements, though, one quickly gets caught up listening to this sweeping novel.
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--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
