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Vinegar Hill

Vinegar Hill

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Vinegar Hill

3.5/5 (75 valutazioni)
295 pagine
4 ore
Oct 13, 2009


In a stark, troubling, yet ultimately triumphant celebration of self-determination, award-winning author A. Manette Ansay re-creates a stifling world of guilt and pain and the tormented souls who inhabit it. It is 1972 when circumstance carries Ellen Grier and her family back to Holly's Field, Wisconsin. Dutifully accompanying her newly unemployed husband, Ellen has brought her two children into the home of her in-laws on Vinegar Hill--a loveless house suffused with the settling dust of bitterness and routine--where calculated cruelty is a way of life preserved and perpetuated in the service of a rigid, exacting and angry God. Behind a facade of false piety, there are sins and secrets in this place that could crush a vibrant young woman's passionate spirit. And here Ellen must find the straight to endure, change, and grow in the all-pervading darkness that threatens to destroy everything she is and everyone she loves.

Oct 13, 2009

Informazioni sull'autore

A. Manette Ansay is the author of eight books, including Vinegar Hill, Midnight Champagne (a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award), and Blue Water. She has received the Pushcart Prize, two Great Lakes Book Awards, and a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. She teaches in the MFA writing program at the University of Miami.

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Vinegar Hill - A. Manette Ansay

Vinegar Hill

A. Manette Ansay

For Sylvia J. Ansay









The Way of the Cross




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About the Author


Other Books by A. Manette Ansay



About the Publisher

Pendant from her chain her cross swung as she leant out and the sun struck it. How could she weight herself down by that sleek symbol? How stamp herself so volatile, so vagrant, with that image?

—Virginia Woolf

Between the Acts

God isn’t like a star that can go out.

—Stewart O’Nan

In the Walled City



In the gray light of the kitchen, Ellen sets the table for supper, keeping the chipped plate back for herself before lowering the rest in turn. The plates are pink with yellow flowers twisting around the edges, and they glow between the pale frosted glasses, the stainless steel knives and forks, the plastic pitcher of milk. In the center of the table, the roast platter steams between the bowl of wrinkled peas, the loaf of sliced bread. Ellen wipes a water stain from the cupped palm of a spoon. Soon all the bright plates and glasses and flatware will be soiled, and she finds herself imagining how it must be to wait for that first hot splash of meat, the cold dribble of milk.

Time to eat, she calls down the narrow hallway to the living room, where the children and her husband and his parents are all watching TV. She gets the cloth napkins from the drawer and folds them into tall, peaked hats, something her mother always did when she wanted the table to look nice. The napkins are also pink, and they match the plates and the tablecloth, and come very close to matching the curtains, which are drawn tightly closed. The yard beyond stretches plain and white into the next yard and the next, the single scrawny pine along the lot line stiff with ice. When Ellen walks home from work late in the afternoon, that tree reminds her of an animal, the way it stands without the slightest movement, corralled by the neat rows of houses lining the block.

The children straggle in and sit twisting in their chairs, raising the cloth napkin hats to their heads, giggling at their game. James and his parents shake out the hats, and James smooths his across his lap, his shoulders firm against the back of his chair. Ellen sets a saucer of margarine beside him, and abruptly the color seems too bright, like cheddar cheese or sweet acorn squash. She fights a vague queasy feeling; when James’s father begins Grace, she closes her eyes, speaking each word clearly in her mind, trying to concentrate. It’s one of the first prayers she ever learned, chanting along with her mother and sisters in the cozy heat of their farmhouse kitchen, the family cats brushing their ankles like silk. She remembers the rich odors of mustripen and sausage and thick bread pudding, the eager edge of hunger a deepening crease that ran from her chest to her stomach.

Bless us O Lord. These thy gifts.

By the time she has finished praying, the serving bowls have already begun their slow start and stop around the table. The children look at her curiously; she quickly takes a piece of bread. James ladles peas onto his plate with a clatter that lets her know she has embarrassed him in front of his parents, in his parents’ home. They eat without speaking, and it’s hard to swallow without the gravy of conversation, the children’s playful bickering, James’s questions about her day, her own questions and his responses, the hollow overlappings of their words.

She watches his jaw as he chews his roast, the roast she has prepared for him, dry, the way he likes it. The motion of his jaw is steady and unconcerned; his lips are pinched tight over his teeth. She thinks, I have kissed those lips, I have pushed my tongue against those teeth, and this thought fascinates and repels her. Amy asks for milk and Ellen fills her glass. Herbert’s napkin slides to the floor and she tells him to pick it up. But her eyes are fixed to James’s jaw, and she thinks about how strange it is that one small thing like a jaw or a look or a brush of a hand can become so much larger than it actually is, so large that it closes itself around you and squeezes until it is hard to find air.

It is November, and she can hear the wind moving over the walls of the house, stroking the windows, trying to coax its way past the curtains to blow the flowers from the napkins and plates, to muss the perfect leaves of the plastic plants that hang side by side above the sink. The house is filled with knickknacks—china angels, statues of saints, small glass animals with beady eyes—and each of them has to be dusted and the surface beneath polished with lemon oil, and then each has to be set back down precisely as it was before, the beady eyes staring in the same direction, the dust settling about it in the same design. The copper duck and goose Jell-O molds have hung for so long above the stove that the paint behind them has kept its color, and when Ellen takes them down for polishing, a perfect bright shape of a duck or goose remains. A place for everything; everything in its place. The house is as rigid, as precise as a church, and there was nothing to disturb its ways until three months ago, when Ellen and James and the children moved in because they had no place and nowhere else to go.

James had been laid off just as the lilacs in the yard of their rented house bloomed, open-eyed and fragrant, trusting the Illinois winter had passed. The next day, an ice storm trapped the world in crystal. The school where Ellen taught closed for the day, and she spent the morning playing cards with Amy and Herbert—their school had closed as well—and mourning the lilacs, and the budding trees, and most of all the colorful heads of the tulips, which were frozen to the ground. James watched TV on the couch, bundled in a quilt, his body tucked close against itself as if he wanted to disappear. Talk to me, Ellen said, but he listened to her the way you’d listen to a faucet drip, not assigning any particular meaning to the sound.

He refused to look for work. He read the paper in the morning and napped in the afternoon. She came home with the children one evening to find him pawing through a shoe box of old photographs. Most were of his older brother, Mitch, who had died in 1957, fifteen years before.

If we lived closer to home, James said, I could tend to Mitchie’s grave. Pa doesn’t care about things like that, and Mother isn’t able to do it anymore.

Ellen could see Amy and Herbert tasting the word grave with their tongues. She tried not to notice that James was still in his bathrobe. Bits of egg were caught on one sleeve; dandruff lightened his eyebrows. "This is our home," she began, but James shook his head as if he were clearing away a brief spell of dizziness, shaking free of an unpleasant thought. Yet he had been the one to choose the house, just before Amy was born: a bungalow with two bedrooms, a porch, and a sunny, modern kitchen. The first night after they’d moved in, a thunderstorm startled them out of their sleep and it was James who raced through the rooms closing windows, already protective of the woodwork, the carpet, the neatly painted walls that cradled the beginning of their lives together. Since then, they had brought two children into this house, penciling lines on the kitchen wall to mark each year of their growth. James had repapered the bathroom; Ellen had sewn curtains for the living room windows. The furniture was arranged to cover the marks on the carpet from the time Amy broke open a pen. The ivy hanging in the kitchen window had woven itself into the blinds. The house had become a diary of their lives, and Ellen could not imagine leaving it.

But they couldn’t live on her salary alone, and when the bulk of their savings was gone it was the excuse that James was looking for. They would live with his parents, he said, to save money. They would get back on their feet. After all, where else could they go? And as each day passed and he did not look for work and the money dwindled and disappeared, Ellen could feel his excitement building until, at the end of the summer, they left Illinois, the rented house, the stunted lilacs. They moved back to Holly’s Field, Wisconsin, the town where they had both grown up and their parents had grown up too.

James’s parents are not old—Fritz is just sixty, Mary-Margaret is sixty-four—but the house is thick with the smell of old age, of pale gray skin and Ben-Gay and many dry roasts and silent suppers. My whole life I worked hard, Fritz likes to say, now all I want is some peace. Ellen watches him take yet another slice of bread; he sweeps it across his plate, and the bread picks up the juices and the colors and the shattered bits of food until he raises it, dripping, to his mouth. He chews ferociously, but without pleasure. Meals, like everything else in life, are just another task to complete. Everyone must wait quietly until his food is eaten and his plate wiped clean with bread. Children should be seen and not heard, he says, when Amy and Herbert complain. Then he leads after-dinner Grace, even the children staring briefly at their hands, even James’s restlessness steadied by the drone of his father’s voice.

Salt, Mary-Margaret says, peering around the table. Ellen finds it behind the milk jug and passes it down, but Mary-Margaret doesn’t want it for herself; she sets it in front of James and smiles, proud to have anticipated his needs. James is his mother’s boy again; under her care, he sleeps less, he has even managed to put on weight. In Illinois, he’d sit down to dinner, apologize, push his plate aside. Now his throat bulges as he swallows another chunk of meat, jaws grinding steadily.

The first time Ellen sat at this table she was twenty years old, bright-cheeked after a spring afternoon spent walking along the lakefront with James, planning their upcoming wedding. It was 1959, and she was eager to make a good impression. She didn’t know then that Mary-Margaret disliked her, that she was considered Jimmy’s mistake. They had dinner: dry pot roast, canned peas, and, for dessert, blue-frosted angel food cake, which Mary-Margaret pinched into cubes and ate with her fingers like bread. Mary-Margaret asked James, How long does she intend to go to school? Ain’t high school good enough? and Ellen said, I’m going to be a primary school teacher, and for that I need a college degree. Mary-Margaret asked James, Do her parents speak High or Low German? and Ellen said, My mother speaks Luxembourg and German. Low German, Mary-Margaret said, and her father, too. He’s dead but I remember him coming into the church in a stocking cap! Then she and Fritz spoke in German about Ellen’s father while Ellen chewed on a mouthful of that dry roast, trying to swallow it down. Thirteen years later the roast has not changed, but now Mary-Margaret won’t tolerate guests, family or otherwise. Even Ellen’s mother and sisters may not visit because of Mary-Margaret’s poor nerves.

And now Mary-Margaret dresses only in pink. Pink stretch pants and pink polyester blouses, pink hose, pink shoes. She puts on her long pink rayon nighties and pink chenille robes by four in the afternoon, because she has to be careful of her heart. Then she goes into the living room and plays the piano until supper. The big color television is in the living room also; Fritz turns the TV volume louder and she strikes the piano keys harder, pounding out hymns and singing along in a cracked, dry voice until Fritz says, What’s that? Did somebody bring in a cat? Then he shakes with the sort of laughter that is angry, bitter, taunting, not amused. A cat would’ve made me a better wife. Their arguments fill the house like an odor, clinging to the sofa and seeping between the bedsheets, lingering in Ellen’s hair.

Each night, before she goes to bed, Mary-Margaret calls Ellen into the bathroom to rub Ben-Gay on her shoulders and to watch her take her pills so she won’t forget and take the same ones twice. Biting her cheek, Ellen obeys; to refuse means James’s cold back stretched like a wall down the middle of the bed. She’s old, she’s unwell. You couldn’t do her that one favor? The bathroom is also pink; the shelves are lined with powders, oils, creams, perfumes. Some of the bottles are so old Ellen wonders if they are valuable. Certainly they are beautiful. Many are in the shape of the Virgin, but there are also birds and buildings and flowers, and high up on the top shelf is an empty bottle shaped like a ballerina, dressed in a full-skirted pink gauze dress. Beside it stands a tiny upright piano, still filled with perfume, which Amy particularly loves. Would you ask her if I could hold it? she asked Ellen once. You have to ask her that yourself, Ellen told her, although they both knew what the answer would be. Mary-Margaret doesn’t care for little girls; it is boys who mean the future, the family blood, the family name. Ellen rubs Mary-Margaret’s pale gray shoulders and her fingers sink into the softness past skin, past thin span of muscle, until they jar against bone. Taped to the mirror is a prayer card, a picture of Christ on the cross. His eyes are closed, His lips half-parted. The caption reads, Lord, Help Me to Accept What I Cannot Change, and Ellen finds herself reading these words, without meaning to, over and over.

Nights, she goes in to James smelling like his mother, like the house, like the dry pot roast from the kitchen. She strips down to her panties which are not pink but white; cotton panties, practical panties, with blood stains at the crotch, perhaps, or the elastic sagging at the waist. James wears boxer shorts with flies that are stained the pale yellow of daisies, and he watches the portable black-and-white television on the low table at the foot of the bed. Television, like prayer, is soothing to James, and he watches until he falls asleep. It is Ellen who jolts awake later on and gets up to turn it off, filled with a loneliness as dense as clay inside her. Some nights she doesn’t wake up until after the programming has ended. The shrill held note of the dead airtime is twisted through her dreams, which are of police sirens and fire alarms and running and climbing and seeking escape.

James finishes his roast, and Mary-Margaret is quick to pass the serving dish. You should have more, she says to him, pleased as if she has cooked it. But Ellen cooks the meals and cleans the house, as part of their payment for shelter, for warmth, for dry pot roast and peas. Mary-Margaret makes out the shopping list; on weekends Ellen shops and on weeknights after work she cooks the meals the way Mary-Margaret tells her to. And now Mary-Margaret offers to James what Ellen has made, the roast that she has prepared.

This is good, he says.

He does not say it to Ellen. He takes the center of the roast, his favorite part; the children beg for the round bone but Fritz tells them to be quiet. Three months ago James would have given them the bone, he might even have smiled and teased them; now he is at home with his parents and their rules, and himself and his rules, which have all become the same.

Here, Mary-Margaret says to Herbert. Here is a nice bone for you.

The bone is a long straight bone, not the kind of bone he wants.

Daddy, Herbert says. But James can’t look at a straight bone and see why it isn’t as good as a round one, why the marrow in a round bone will be sweeter because of the feel of its shape upon the tongue. In fact James does not eat his marrow; he has remembered over the last three months that bones are to be left on the plate in neat piles, and that chewing on them is disgusting. Herbert gets his love of marrow from Ellen, from her Low German blood, from her country ways.

If you had a bone, you would give it to me, Herbert says against Ellen’s ear, and abruptly he is happy. He drinks his milk and neatly wipes his face with the back of his hand.

Use your napkin, James says. His hair sticks up at the top of his head; crumbs are scattered on his chin. He has finally found a job, but it is at the same place he worked after high school, selling farm machinery for Travis Manufacturer. He travels out of state and is gone for weeks at a time. When he comes home his eyes move over Ellen and the children without stopping. She shows him ads for apartments, and though he makes deposits at the bank each month, he says Money, money in a way that she knows means there will never be enough.

Can I be excused? Herbert asks Ellen.

There’s Grace still, Mary-Margaret says.

Children should be seen and not heard, says Fritz.

Ellen says to Herbert, There’s Grace.

And she helps him to lay his knife, fork, and spoon at four o’clock on his plate. She helps him to fold his napkin neatly. But she is lost in her husband’s jaw, the dry meat churning behind his lips, that one small thing so much larger than it is and her own self getting smaller and more far away. She takes a deep breath, expels it, moves her food around on her plate. She feels the children watching, and she smiles at them until the anxious looks that have sharpened their faces fade.

You don’t eat your food? Mary-Margaret scolds. Fussy, fussy!

I’m just not hungry, Ellen says. The queasiness in her stomach spreads to her chest, a sudden dizzy warmth. But she spears the first lump of meat with her fork, places it in her mouth, tries not to think about its slow descent into her body.


After the dishes are washed and put away, Ellen bundles up in James’s coat, because it is warmer than her own, and goes into the living room, where he and Fritz and Mary-Margaret are watching TV. It’s a comfortable room with moss-colored carpet, Fritz’s La-Z-Boy, Mary-Margaret’s embroidered parlor chair, and a long rectangular picture of the Last Supper, done in somber golds and greens. Beside the TV, Mary-Margaret’s piano shines with lemon oil. Amy and Herbert are sitting on the floor, pretending to do their homework with their books spread out in front of them. But their eyes are wide and glassy. They are staring at the screen. They look down quickly when Ellen appears, shapeless as a boulder, the coat sleeves so long that just her fingertips show.

I’m going for a walk, she says.

Why? Herbert says.

I need the exercise, she says, although that is not the only reason. She kisses him, and then Amy. Their skin feels warm against her lips. If I’m not back by eight-thirty, put yourselves to bed.

But you’ll be back by eight-thirty, won’t you? Herbert says.

I’ll try. She leans over to kiss James good-bye and accidentally blocks the screen. He looks at her irritably, then controls himself.

Have a nice walk, he says, and he lets himself be kissed. Amy looks from Ellen to Mary-Margaret, then back at Ellen. She is built like her grandmother, tall and thin, with long willowy arms and legs she hasn’t grown into yet. Over the summer, she shot up three inches; her face lengthened; her freckles lightened to match the color of her skin. Now her braid reaches down to where her waist dips inward, the first suggestion of a woman’s graceful shape. Her eyes are James’s dark, worried eyes.

What? Ellen says. She is sweating in the heavy coat, edging toward the door.

Amy tosses her head

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Cosa pensano gli utenti di Vinegar Hill

75 valutazioni / 29 Recensioni
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Recensioni dei lettori

  • (5/5)
    Dark, cold and profound. I love books like this.
  • (4/5)
    The setting of this book was aptly named, Vinegar Hill. What a sour place it was! It tells the story of Ellen, who begins as a typical submissive Catholic wife. She goes with her husband and children to live with the husband's parents against her will. They are nasty and abusive and a trial to live with. Throughout the book I was hoping that Ellen would gather all her determination and courage and do something about her situation. The book shows how tradition can get in the way of common sense.
  • (5/5)
    This book was amazingly creepy in all the right ways. The writing was easy to read and the pages flew by. This is one book I wish would have never ended.
  • (2/5)
    Sorry, I really disliked this book. I had read "Blue Water" and enjoyed the author's style a great deal, even though the subject matter was melancholy. However, the characters in this book were so thoroughly dislikeable and the living situation was so intolerable, I just couldn't get past it.
  • (5/5)
    Moving. I don't know how else to put it. Makes my marriage seem like absolute heaven.
  • (4/5)
    A circular story where the characters continue in a tight and slow moving miasma. Ansay keeps the reader uncertain of the outcome and allows for some real frustration to build. Set in the 1960's and with patriarchal and religious sensibilities guiding thier decision making, it's hard for a modern reader to accept the slow pace of change and lack of action on the part of the various characters: there ends up being just enough history revealed to allow for some sympathy for most of them, but not all.
  • (4/5)
    It is interesting that I read this book so quickly because I didn't like any of the characters, there were numerous parts that made me feel quite depressed, and the overall emotion I had while reading it was one of bleak hopelessness. However, it is very well-written with a concise, spare style, which easily made it a page-turner for me.
  • (4/5)
    Good. I enjoyed it.
  • (4/5)
    This is the story of the oppressiveness of religion and traditon on family live, particularly (but not exclusively) on women. When Ellen's husband James loses his job, they and their two children move in with James's parents. The in-laws don't like Ellen; she is expected to do most of housework and they are not happy that she has a job rather then being a stay-home mother. James is not his father's favourite son, and was abused as a child. The cycle of dysfunction continues, as Ellen longs for a better life, James struggles with his emotions, and his parents argue or ignore each other. The book is so well written. Just when I thought I had a good understanding of James, the focus switches and he becomes a much more complex character. Set in the early 70s, the story takes place when Women were just beginning to expect more than a life of obeying their husbands and attending Sunday mass. Ellen's struggles are those many women faced.
  • (1/5)
    Horrible book. Not that well written and it just plods along aimlessly, finally reaching a climax in the final few pages. Seriously left me feeling completely empty and annoyed that I put in the effort to read it.
  • (4/5)
    Ellen is caught in a time of change--its the 1960's and the role of women is in flux. Her strong Roman Catholic faith is called into question by her failing marriage and her impossible in-laws with whom she is now living with her husband and children. She is expected to be the pillar of strength for everyone else and sacrifice her own needs, and yet she recognizes the desperation other generations of women have felt when she uncovers her mother-in-law's secret. At the novel's conclusion, she strikes out on her own in a way most modern women would applaud.
  • (2/5)
    i did not care much for the book . though i like dark and depressing plots if they are accompanied with enough punch in other ways ( twist in the story, some humor, clever development of personalities etc) this would have been good as a short story but to go through 272 pages about an unhappy marriage and waiting to be at least satisfied with the ending if not delighted, the predictable ending was just unforgivable.
  • (4/5)
    This is a quietly powerful book. It's about a wife and mother and her extended family and her husband's extended family, set in the early 1970s. It's a statement about how cruelty and abuse affect each generation, and perhaps how difficult it is to break that cycle. It's about those who live with victims and how it affects everyone. And it's about a woman breaking free of this repression and madness. It's also about how twisted religion can be and has been in many lives. This book borders on 5 stars for me, but I selected 4 because in just a few places, it seemed disconnected. When I finished the book, I wanted to read it again to get the details I missed or didn't understand in the early reading. Other than that, I thought the writing was brilliant.
  • (3/5)
    An enjoyable read. Written very well. You can feel the depression and desperation in the characters. A little odd and shocking at times, but what's a story if it doesn't surprise you? Worth the time to read.
  • (4/5)
    A bitter, tragic book of abuse both physical and mental in a small town. Behind a facade of god fearing people, Ellen marries an abusive man and doesn't see anything different to live by as she moves into her husband's home, a home with his equally abusive parents. Mary Margaret and Fitz are horrid characters whose son James can be seen to follow their footsteps. The abusive is so out there. Mary Margaret says horrible things to Ellen, her daughter in law and to the children too. Fitz physically beats them.We see that James and Ellen's two children soon will fall into the cycle. Or will Ellen figure it out?
  • (3/5)
    I live in the Vinegar Hill neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York, so the title is what originally drew me to this book. It's set not in Brooklyn, but in a conservative, predominantly Catholic area of the Midwest in the 1970s.
    If I wanted to be snide, I'd say this is a book about how being forced to move in with your in-laws will destroy your marriage, but that's obviously too glib. There are a few finely drawn characters and a real struggle to keep love alive in an atmosphere that seems determined to kill it.
    Worth a read, but be warned that I would have much preferred some additional denouement; the suddenness of the ending dampened my enthusiasm for the book, which I had enjoyed up to that point.
  • (5/5)
    A woman's struggle to survive as an individual while living with her in-laws and distant husband. An Oprah book.
  • (1/5)
    Boring and discombobulated. This is the type of book where you hope it gets interesting at some point. You read a chapter and think "What?!? I hope the next chapter explains that." And then there's something else that confounds you. Finally, there's a climax and the book is over. There are better things to be reading than this, I promise.
  • (2/5)
    Mediocre. I couldn't make it past the first three pages. I tried twice. It was just not my style - too boring.
  • (3/5)
    On Monday, March 29, 2004 I wrote:
    I have read about 60 pages and I do like the book so far. It looks like a book I will finish pretty soon.
    I will update this journal when I am done.

    Update 30 March 2004

    Well I have finished it already.
    Some of my thoughts.
    I was very surprised when Fritz hit his son James and more surprised that James left (well not for long)
    it is a dark book, but it was nice reading the thoughts of the different characters.
    First I felt sorry for Ellen but later I thought she needed a kick on her butt. Poor kids.

    I also agree with you guys about that they should marry only because they spent a night in the car. i think the author messed up there cause yes those things happened but not in 1972( well my opinion). It weren't people who I felt affected to, even the child Amy was weird :-)but I did think it was interesting
  • (3/5)
    + Well-written.- No likeable characters, made me feel uneasy pretty much the whole time.
  • (4/5)
    I wasn't sure about this at first, but the story improved steadily and tension built up. Hard not to sympathise with the main character, oarticularly given the circumstances of her marriage, though I tended to wonder why she didn't just leave. Some interesting moral dilemmas towards the end. Also I also thought the teacher friend was a good, likeable character, her lifestyle providing counterpoint to the main character's own circumstances
  • (1/5)
    I don't care what the description says, there is nothing "triumphant" about this.

    I felt obligated to try an "Oprah's book club" book. I'm a woman, so these books are supposed to speak to me, right? Books I feel "obligated" to read are funny things. They either turn out to be amazing or dreadful. Guess which one this was.

    I'm not sure what kind of audience this book was written for. It it bears any resemblance to your life, it's going to depress you further. If it doesn't, it's just going to depress you, end of story.

    The one-dimensional characters plodded through their lives, lifting their heads long enough for a crop of flashback sequences that made it clear that their lives had always been full of the kind of bleak everyday horrors that made them the bleak horrible people they became. The story limps on to a conclusion that is no real conclusion at all. It just kind of stops. There is this vague suggestion that things are going to be better now, but it's almost impossible to believe it after the rest of the novel.
  • (5/5)
    As a young girl, Ellen Grier had always believed that marriage was meant to be between two people who loved each other deeply. She and her husband James may have had a marriage of convenience, but that didn't necessarily mean that they couldn't come to love each other over time. Despite their initial differences, Ellen was determined to be a good wife for James - as dutiful and as proper a wife as either of their strict German Catholic families could possibly want.Thirteen years pass, and it is now 1972. Circumstance has carried Ellen Grier and her family back to her and James' hometown of Holly's Field, Wisconsin. Dutifully accompanying her recently unemployed husband, Ellen has brought their two children - their daughter Amy, and their son Herbert - into the home of her in-laws on Vinegar Hill. This family of four now lives with James' parents - his domineering and abusive father Fritz and smotheringly attentive mother Mary-Margaret - and Ellen has begun to find their new living situation increasingly intolerable.The house on Vinegar Hill is a loveless home - suffused with the settling dust of bitterness and mired in the harshness of routine. A home where calculated cruelty is a way of life, preserved and perpetuated in the service of an uncompromising, punitive and angry God. Behind this facade of false piety, there are sins and secrets in this place that have the strength to crush a vibrant young woman's passionate spirit. And it is here that Ellen must find the strength to endure, change, and grow in the pervasive darkness and bleakness of spirit that threatens to destroy everything she is and everyone she loves.First of all, let me say that despite this being such a tragically heart-wrenching story, I really enjoyed reading the book. So many characters really resonated with me, that I avidly wanted to know what would happen to them next. I would definitely give this book an A!
  • (3/5)
    A very somber, melancholy tale of cruelty, depression and deep emotional despair. The author did an admirable job of conveying the smothering and oppressed sensations the main character, Ellen, was feeling when forced to live in the house with her cruel in-laws. While the book was a good read overall, I tound some segments (specifically, the distant husband rushing back to give his wife a hug, the part where the family savings is taken, and the final walk with the daughter) awkward and somehow incomplete. This is the first book I've read by this author and I must say Ansay does "bleak" exceptionally well. I'll be very interested in seeing of her work as she matures and grows as a writer.
  • (4/5)
    Dark, but unable to put it down. It tells the life of a Catholic Family that lives on Vinegar Hill in the 1970s. Son Jimmy moves the family in with his parents, and wife Ellen works and is the servant to his parents in their stifling house. Everything is life perpetuated by a vengeful God, and false piety prevails
  • (4/5)
    Depressing, and yet so so real! What a family.
  • (2/5)

    It's the 1970s, and James Grier has lost his job; accordingly, he takes his family to live with his elderly parents in the small Wisconsin town of Holly's Field. For his wife Ellen and their two children this is a descent into a pit of misery, for James's father is -- and always has been -- viciously abusive, and this has the effect of poisoning all relationships between those around him. In the course of Vinegar Hill we learn this and a whole string of similar secrets, many of which seem to share the theme that mere acts of Fate, and foolishly considered responses to them, can determine so much of our lives -- as for example the revelation that James and Ellen are married only because years ago she accepted a lift from him, the car got stuck overnight in the snow, and, even though they hadn't so much as kissed, the only course left open to them by the prurient faux-"respectability" of others was to wed.

    In essence, then, Vinegar Hill is a sort of portrait of pain -- primarily Ellen's, but the rest of the cast are suffering too, mainly because of each other. There's some good writing, marred every now and then by something obnoxiously pretentious ("Sometimes he feels his mind swallow him whole, the way a snake swallows a plain, white egg" -- snakes presumably having quite different ways of swallowing eggs of other colours). While reading this book I certainly didn't feel I was wasting my time, but when I put it down I found myself a tad frustrated that I'd had to read an entire novel for the sake of what's really just a vignette.
  • (1/5)
    I remember reading this book years ago and it was terrible. Bad writing I didnt care one bit about the characters because the author sucks at making them believable.