Clarence Day (1874–1935)

I had read chapters of Life With Father when they were included in my reading curriculum back in seventh grade or something. My reader had included only the best chapters, so my high expectations were slightly dashed when I read the full book. The stories center on the character of Father and the family's life in the 1880s in busy New York, as told by the oldest son, Clarence. I have to admit I really disliked Father in the first six or seven chapters. I don't care how funny his bullheaded show more antics and loud yelling are to read about — I've been that poor person in retail being yelled at and walked all over by some imperious, ego-driven man. I would never have chosen to marry a man like that, and I rather wondered at Mrs. Day for it.

But when we started seeing more about the family, I didn't mind Father so much. The best parts are the bits about family life, not just the portraits of Father. Seen by himself out the context of family life, Father is almost a caricature of himself, and positively insufferable. He yells all the time and is pretty much incapable of seeing anyone else's point of view. But when this is portrayed in a family setting, with Mother practicing her little stratagems to evade his bluster and the sons observing their parents' often humorous interactions, I softened up a bit until finally I consented to laugh. Father has his good points too.

The story itself is a string of vignettes and little snapshots of family life. I couldn't stop giggling over this little gem of a paragraph:

Whenever Harold got hurt, which was perhaps rather often, the important thing to do was to choke him. If we had tried to comfort him first, his wails would have brought Mother up on the run. We also had found out by experience that it was a great mistake to choke him in silence, because the silence itself would make Mother suspect that something dreadful had happened. Consequently, while choking our indignant little brother, we had to make joyful sounds. This must often have given us the appearance of peculiarly hard-hearted fiends.

Anyone who has younger siblings can testify to the truth of these words.

These stories remind me excessively of Cheaper by the Dozen and Belles on Their Toes (charismatic, larger-than-life father and intelligent, fun mother — and a crop of redheaded kids). But I think I prefer the Gilbreths to the Days. Mr. Gilbreth is just easier to imagine living with, and the stories are much funnier. But they are enough alike that fans of one would enjoy the other. Overall, this is a fairly well-written book with some very memorable moments and fun characters. show less

Having long been a fan of the 1947 movie of the same name, reading this book was long, long overdue for me. While reading along I couldn’t help but imagine the cherished William Powell and Irene Dunne having at each other. It does make me wonder how the story would have struck me without the pretext of the movie to look back on with such strong visuals.

The Clarence Sr. of the movie is tempestuous and cantankerous of nature but fundamentally one is left with a positive impression. The show more viewer never really doubts that he is a good man at heart but one cannot avoid the conclusion that he would be a royal pain to live with. Perhaps in part this is Powell shining through in the role but no matter how many times Father storms about the house at the end of it all you do still rather like him.

Father of the book is just as blustery and just as much of a tempest in a teacup but it costs one quite a bit more effort to like him. The author himself (Clarence Jr) goes to small and periodic effort to endear the reader to his father but the attempts ring rather hollow like a man whose protagonist is watching over his shoulder as he writes. There seems just an edge of boyhood resentment that is very carefully scraped off in the movie’s portrayal of Father.

It is also of note that while the cinematic version is relatively connected and sequential the book takes no such formalities. It seems to jump rather randomly from episode to episode and one is left asking periodically in what decade the particular tidbit is taking place. As such it makes for a very light read but one that requires the reader to throw away any notion of cause and effect.

The thread that I came away with most solidly from this bit of literature was less about the book and more about the movie which came after. Powell’s Clarence is eerily like the Clarence of the text almost as if the role was made for him specifically. The romantic and nostalgic side of me wants to believe that this is because movies in the 40s were a craft and that viewers would notice and object strongly if their beloved characters of fiction are tinkered with even in the slightest. The fact that the plot itself, if you call a disconnected episodic assortment of remembrances a plot, was only remotely similar seems of little import. In these not-entirely-to-be-believed halcyon days of yore it was character that was important to the viewing public. Today all we want is more and bloodier gun battles between larger and more foul-mouthed devotees of thuggery.

If I allow myself to wax realistic for a moment I admit that doubtless my palate has been so repeatedly whitewashed by the movie version of Clarence that I’m not longer intellectually capable of seeing a Clarence Day Sr without seeing William Powell. Psychology of repetition and ordinality aside, Day’s 1920 novel is high on my recommended reading list. show less

Having long been a fan of the 1947 movie of the same name, reading this book was long, long overdue for me. While reading along I couldn’t help but imagine the cherished William Powell and Irene Dunne having at each other. It does make me wonder how the story would have struck me without the pretext of the movie to look back on with such strong visuals.

The Clarence Sr. of the movie is tempestuous and cantankerous of nature but fundamentally one is left with a positive impression. The show more viewer never really doubts that he is a good man at heart but one cannot avoid the conclusion that he would be a royal pain to live with. Perhaps in part this is Powell shining through in the role but no matter how many times Father storms about the house at the end of it all you do still rather like him.

Father of the book is just as blustery and just as much of a tempest in a teacup but it costs one quite a bit more effort to like him. The author himself (Clarence Jr) goes to small and periodic effort to endear the reader to his father but the attempts ring rather hollow like a man whose protagonist is watching over his shoulder as he writes. There seems just an edge of boyhood resentment that is very carefully scraped off in the movie’s portrayal of Father.

It is also of note that while the cinematic version is relatively connected and sequential the book takes no such formalities. It seems to jump rather randomly from episode to episode and one is left asking periodically in what decade the particular tidbit is taking place. As such it makes for a very light read but one that requires the reader to throw away any notion of cause and effect.

The thread that I came away with most solidly from this bit of literature was less about the book and more about the movie which came after. Powell’s Clarence is eerily like the Clarence of the text almost as if the role was made for him specifically. The romantic and nostalgic side of me wants to believe that this is because movies in the 40s were a craft and that viewers would notice and object strongly if their beloved characters of fiction are tinkered with even in the slightest. The fact that the plot itself, if you call a disconnected episodic assortment of remembrances a plot, was only remotely similar seems of little import. In these not-entirely-to-be-believed halcyon days of yore it was character that was important to the viewing public. Today all we want is more and bloodier gun battles between larger and more foul-mouthed devotees of thuggery.

If I allow myself to wax realistic for a moment I admit that doubtless my palate has been so repeatedly whitewashed by the movie version of Clarence that I’m not longer intellectually capable of seeing a Clarence Day Sr without seeing William Powell. Psychology of repetition and ordinality aside, Day’s 1920 novel is high on my recommended reading list. show less

Humour, no matter how understated, often has a tendency to age poorly. Life with Father is a good case in point, in that the stubborn but lovable central character no longer seems quite so lovable 75 years later, and the humorous anecdotes now seem more like living under the tyrannical decrees of a spoiled and petulant man-child.

There were still flashes of humour and it remains an (albeit exaggerated) window into a bygone age, no doubt, but even the normally sublime and sedated New Yorker show more style can not stop the march of time and changing mores. show less