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This is Rick Bragg's paean to his grandfather, a man he never met, a man about whom no one ever spoke until Rick asked 40 years after his grandfather's death from alcoholism. Charlie Bundrum is portrayed as a larger-than-life hero: a consummate woodsman, clever bootlegger, loved, and adored by all. He also struggled to provide for his family, rejected stability, was uncompromising; he wished to live by his credo alone. I didn't read Bragg's book about his grandmother, All Over But the Shoutin'. Perhaps I'd have a better understanding of his grandmother if I had; in this book, she is not kindly described. Maybe I'm too far into the 21st century to look upon Charlie Bundrum with admiration or sympathy. A person has to drink a lot to kill himself with alcohol at the age of 50. Charlie could hunt, fish, make moonshine, drive a nail, work hard. But he couldn't clothe or house his family. Not so noble a man, in my eyes.
I also got tired of the author's constant rhapsodizing and adulatory tone. It was like hearing tales of Paul Bunyon or John Henry. In fact, Bragg evokes John Henry at one point. This was hagiography, not open-eyed storytelling. It just didn't work for me.