Before I started reading the novel, “Where the Crawdads Sing,” I looked up exactly what crawdads were, only to find out that Crawdads are just another name for crayfish and having spent time in New Orleans, I knew all about crayfish. “Crayfish are freshwater crustaceans resembling small lobsters (to which they are related). They are also known as crawfish, crawdads, freshwater lobsters, mountain lobsters, mudbugs, or yabbies. Taxonomically, they are members of the superfamilies Astacoidea and Parastacoidea. They breathe through feather-like gills.” Perhaps more than you needed to know?
Next I wanted to know something about the author, Delia Owens, beyond what I’d learned from the CBS Sunday Morning piece about her, on March 17, 2019. She was the co-author, along with her then husband, Mark Owens, of three non-fiction books, “Cry of the Kalahari”, “The Eye of the Elephant: An Epic Adventure in the African Wilderness” and “Secrets of the Savanna: Twenty-three Years in the African Wilderness Unraveling the Mysteries of Elephants and People.”
The Owens lived as young wildlife scientists in Africa for over two decades. This experience of isolation and delving into the minute details of animals and their behaviors, would later be the germ that grew into her first novel, “Where the Crawdads Sing.”
Delia Owen’s early life was also influential in her later writing. She was born in Southern Georgia and her family spent some of every summer in the mountains of North Carolina (the novel takes place in rural North Carolina from1952 through early 1970’s). Owens says that her mother would often encourage her, “to explore far into the oak forests, telling her, Go way out yonder where the crawdads sing.”
She also taught her how to avoid stepping on snakes and to not be afraid of any critters. Along with the isolation, the oneness with all of nature surrounding her, would come to embody Owens’ protagonist, Kya, in “Where the Crawdads Sing.”
The first main element in the story is the descriptive Language, describing the natural surroundings of the pristine coastal marshland of North Carolina.
“Marsh is a space of light, where grass grows in water, and water flows into the sky.”
“Swamp water is still and dark, having swallowed the light in its muddy throat.”
“Life decays and reeks and returns to the rotted duff; a poignant wallow of death begetting life.”
“Light lingered after the sun, as it does, some of it pooling in the room, so that for a brief moment the lumpy beds and piles of old clothes took on more shape and color than the trees.”
“The darkness held an odor of sweetness, the earthy breath of frogs and salamanders who’d made it through one more stinky-hot day. The marsh snuggled in closer with a low fog, and she slept.”
“syrupy sand”
I could easily write this entire review by simply using the copious examples of the gorgeous, sumptuous and sensual language of he novel. For me, it is this ability of the author that makes the difference in rating it with three stars or four (occasionally five) stars. If I love the language, I generally love the book.
The novel offered not only stunning language, but also a pretty good mystery, that for me became increasingly more
intriguing as the book progressed nearer to the end. Some people, when they read mysteries are very good at solving them. I am not one of those people. Consequently, I was thrown for a loop. I am not a mystery reader in general, but I liked this one.
“Where the Crawdads Sing” is about a girl, Kya, who the small community living in Barkley Cove, not far from the marshland, like to besmirch by referring to her as “the marsh girl.” She lives with her family, consisting of Ma who is loving, but besieged by her often violent husband, Pa, brother Justin, two older brothers and two older sisters. Ma flees her abusive husband when Kya is only 5 and one by one, all the others also leave the rickety shack which is their home, leaving Kya all by herself at the age of 6. She slowly learns how to survive alone in the marshland wilderness and by so doing, she comes to understand and appreciate the marshland with all its creatures living and breathing within it.
I will summarize the story line through the use of quotes taken from it:
“Maybe it was mean country, but not an inch was lean. Layers of life—squiggly sand crabs, mud-waddling crayfish, waterfowl, fish, shrimp, oysters, fatted deer, and plump geese—were piled on the land or in the water. A man who didn’t mind scrabbling for supper would never starve.”
“When light from the quarter moon finally touched the shack, she crawled into her porch bed—a lumpy mattress on the floor with real sheets covered in little blue roses that Ma had got at a yard sale—alone at night for the first time in her life.”
“For the first time ever Kya walked alone toward the village of Barkley Cove to buy groceries—this little piggy went to market. She plodded through deep sand or black mud for four miles until the bay glistened ahead, the hamlet on its shore. Everglades surrounded the town, mixing their salty haze with that of the ocean, which swelled in high tide on the other side of Main Street. Together the marsh and sea separated the village from the rest of the world.”
“So the only intersection in town was Main, Broad, and the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Mostly, the village seemed tired of arguing with the elements, and simply sagged.”
“Barkley Cove was quite literally a backwater town, bits scattered here and there among the estuaries and reeds like an egret’s nest flung by the wind.”
“She’d never gone to Colored Town, but knew where it was and figured she could find Jumpin’ and Mabel’s place once she got there.”
“CHASE ANDREWS, you get back here! All three of you boys.” They pedaled a few more yards, then thought better of it and returned to the woman, Miss Pansy Price, saleslady in fabric and notions.”
“We’re sorry, Miss Pansy, we didn’t see ya ’cause that girl over yonder got in the way.” Chase, tanned with dark hair, pointed at Kya, who had stepped back and stood half inside a myrtle shrub. “Never mind her. You cain’t go blamin’ yo’ sins on somebody else, not even swamp trash.”
“It’s my birthday,” she told the bird.”
“But Jackson mostly ignored crimes committed in the swamp. Why interrupt rats killing rats?”
“Kya never went back to school a day in her life.”
“Months passed, winter easing gently into place, as southern winters do. The sun, warm as a blanket, wrapped Kya’s shoulders, coaxing her deeper into the marsh. Sometimes she heard night-sounds she didn’t know or jumped from lightning too close, but whenever she stumbled, it was the land that caught her. Until at last, at some unclaimed moment, the heart-pain seeped away like water into sand. Still there, but deep. Kya laid her hand upon the breathing, wet earth, and the marsh became her mother.”
“Sheriff Ed Jackson”
“Deputy Joe Purdue”
“Well, obviously, on the surface, it looks like an accident: he fell from the tower and was killed.”
“Saltwater marsh, some say, can eat a cement block for breakfast, and not even the sheriff’s bunker-style office could keep it at bay. Watermarks, outlined with salt crystals, waved across the lower walls, and black mildew spread like blood vessels toward the ceiling. Tiny dark mushrooms hunkered in the corners.”
“They sipped until the sun, as golden and syrupy as the bourbon, slipped into the sea.”
“Hey, Kya. Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. Had to help my dad, but we’ll get you reading in no time.” “Hey, Tate.” “Let’s sit here.” He pointed to an oak knee in deep shade of the lagoon. From the rucksack he pulled out a thin, faded book of the alphabet and a lined writing pad. With a careful slow hand, he formed the letters between the lines, a A, b B, asking her to do the same, patient with her tongue-between-lips effort. As she wrote, he said the letters out loud. Softly, slowly. She remembered some of the letters from Jodie and Ma but didn’t know much at all about putting them into proper words. After only minutes, he said, “See, you can already write a word.”
“Slowly, she unraveled each word of the sentence: “‘ There are some who can live without wild things, and some who cannot.’” “Oh,” she said. “Oh.” “You can read, Kya. There will never be a time again when you can’t read.” “It ain’t just that.” She spoke almost in a whisper. “I wadn’t aware that words could hold so much. I didn’t know a sentence could be so full.” He smiled. “That’s a very good sentence. Not all words hold that much.”
“Learning to read was the most fun she’d ever had.”
“Jumpin’ said the Social Services are lookin’ for me. I’m scared they’ll pull me in like a trout, put me in a foster home or sump’m.” “Well, we better hide way out there where the crawdads sing. I pity any foster parents who take you on.” Tate’s whole face smiled. “What d’ya mean, where the crawdads sing? Ma used to say that.” Kya remembered Ma always encouraging her to explore the marsh: “Go as far as you can—way out yonder where the crawdads sing.” “Just means far in the bush where critters are wild, still behaving like critters. Now, you got any ideas where we can meet?”
The story goes on. There is love. There is loss. There is what seems to most folks to be a crime. There are scenes from a compelling courtroom trial.
That’s all I’ll tell. You must read “Where the Crawdads Sing” for yourself to fill in the gaps and to temporarily live in a world of the marshland in rich poetry and language. Though the scenes in the courtroom take a marked turn from this rich detail of language and poetry, it makes up for it by putting you inside an interesting and ultimately surprising courtroom drama. Where the Crawdads Sing is one of those books that is so good, one wonders where Delia Owens can go from here?
Sonny N.
Britanie
Sherril S-K