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Jim the Boy is a refreshingly simple story about a 10-year-old boy, Jim, navigating the Depression-laced waters of Aliceville, North Carolina. Jim’s lost his father, but what he lacks from his absence he arguably makes up with the love and care from his three uncles. And I should say that the simplicity of the story comes with the prose, making it a fast read (though I’d imagine this book could, and perhaps should, be sipped and savored), but the heart of this book should satisfy even the most erudite (and sentimental) of readers.

My favorite parts of this story are Earley’s descriptions and treatment of specific moments: how the town became known as Aliceville (a story that we get the impression is told over and over by one of Jim’s uncles), how Ty Cobb, the Georgia Peach, may or may not have watched a game of catch with Jim and his pal, Carson Penn, that became more than either child ever expected, Jim’s vantage point in watching how electricity first came to Aliceville, and of course the final journey and images from up on Lynn’s Mountain. For me, these moments take a heartfelt, captivating story and make it exceptional.

I read this book almost entirely while sitting in sight of the Atlantic from a coastal town in South Carolina. While my situation on a beach vacation with my brother's family was certainly different than Jim's, I still feel equally as awed by the majesty of the ocean as Jim and his uncle Al. What's on the other side? What's lurking under the surface? And who can't relate to Jim concession on the final page on the book? Sometimes a young boy says it best.

How will Jim handle a burgeoning consciousness of the world? I’m told that Earley picks up that thread in The Blue Star, the continuation about Jim’s later teenage years. With a loving family and a well-meaning soul, I suspect Jim will come out okay, but I’m eagerly waiting to find out for myself.

One of the quotes I wrote down while reading:
“He had heard every story his mother and uncles had to tell about his father so many times that over the years his father had become less vivid. It was as if each story was a favorite shirt that had been worn and washed and hung in the sun so often that its fabric, while soft and smooth and comfortable, was faded to where its color was only a shadow of what it had once been.� –p. 103-4