Full of rich themes,
lyrical prose, and the complexity of family
I came across Beach Music (Pat Conroy) shortly after my mother’s death in the early 1990s. Independently, my father also stumbled upon it about the same time. While we were both enthusiastic readers—particularly my father—our tastes were very different. But, for some reason, we both found this book and were enchanted by it.
I suspect its darker themes resonated with us at the time. The main character Jack McCall is a pre-middle-aged father whose wife committed suicide, leaving him to raise his young daughter Leah alone. In the wake of their loss and a painful custody dispute, Jack takes a very young Leah from their southern US home and creates a quiet travel writer’s life in Italy. Despite Leah’s contentment in Europe, she becomes increasingly curious about her father’s (and mother’s) pasts and families, hungry to find her place amongst them. When Jack’s estranged mother falls ill with leukemia, he reluctantly returns to his hometown in South Carolina, first alone, then with his daughter.
In many ways the bones of this story are unremarkable. But woven throughout are layers of themes and sub-plots that add considerable flesh to those bones. Jack’s deceased wife Shyla is the child of Holocaust survivors. Her parents continue to carry the weight of this experience, and Shyla’s severe depression is related. The impact of her suicide pervades particularly the early parts of the book, yet interspersed throughout is also the lighter tale of Jack and Shyla’s courtship, marriage, and early years as parents to Leah.
One of Jack’s four brothers is also mentally ill: a paranoid schizophrenia, in and out of residential treatment. Their father, once a successful lawyer, now very publicly struggles with alcoholism. His ex-wife is Jack’s society-conscious (although also ecologically minded) mother who is re-married to a stable doctor. She suffers two bouts of leukemia throughout the book and ultimately dies from the disease. Then there’s the paternal grandmother, a regular escapee from her nursing home.
Jack’s (mostly male) friends also play significant roles in this story. Conroy’s love of the South shines through in the nostalgia they share for their younger more carefree years. One friend: a successful film producer, starts putting together a project to capture the essence of those heady days. Another friend, central to this group and the son of a buttoned-down military man, is a Vietnam draft dodger living abroad as priest. Like Jack, he is pulled back into the issues and strained relationships he has tried to escape. And, a potential new romance for Jack slowly emerges as the book unfolds, reflecting a rising theme of possibility in the midst of loss, hope in the midst of sorrow.
Although I have read many complex and wonderfully crafted stories, few have created such a lasting impression and kept me coming back for so many subsequent reads. So, what was it about this book that resonated so strongly with my father and I? I can’t speak for my father (sadly) but, for me, three aspects of this story are most powerful.
Its setting in the south is a big draw. My grandmother grew up in the south before moving to Canada, and there’s something about that area that continues to intrigue me. Beyond that, the author’s clear reverence for this region shines through. Even Jack, who tries valiantly to escape his southern roots, is slowly drawn back into its beauty, traditions, and his elemental identity as a southern man. Some might find this aspect too romanticized, but I appreciated the author’s obvious passion for place.
I was also thoroughly captivated by the prose, which has a comforting and melodic flow. This cadence continues throughout, even amidst the darker themes. I love it when a writer’s style catches my ear and reminds me of the beauty of language; Pat Conroy is one of those writers.
And finally, Beach Music reflects the messiness of families: families of origin, blended families, families we create, friends as family—the whole catastrophe. At a time when my family had lost its centre and I saw no acceptable way forward, this story was reassuring in its depiction of families and friends at their most vulnerable. They somehow moved through difficult times, often helped by a long-time affection for one another, as well as a little humour. While some losses stay with us for a lifetime, opportunity and hope can still sit alongside.
Whenever I re-read Beach Music, it’s like coming home to a challenging, multi-layered, life-affirming experience. And, when I immerse myself in the complexities and the imperfections of its families, I’m also reconnected to my own. My father and I were very different readers (and people), so I’m forever grateful we shared a deep appreciation for this sad and hopeful tale.
