The Family Orchard begins with the linking of "what my father says" and "what I say", alternating perspectives as each new member of the family tree is introduced. As well, each succeeding chapter adds diagrams of the growing family.

The scene is Palestine in 1837, certainly a fascinating period of historical perspective. So I was disappointed as I read further into the book and lost any sense of connectedness. I was unable to continue: the relatives became more confusing, their chapters too short to retain in memory. When a writer brings history to life, flesh and blood with human failings, it becomes knowable and informative, almost visual. This book did not offer that reality to me.

I had very high expectations for this book. The jacket reviews were superlative. What's more, like the characters in the book, my own grandmother was the seventh generation of her family to be born in Palestine. My father grew up in Petach Tikvah, where much of the book is set.

I found the book to be boring and odd. The theme that suposedly bound the story together was the grafting of trees. Unfortunately, this thread was not as profound or as interesting as the author apparantly wanted it to be.

With a tone of magical wonder, the author told the story largely through the sexual history and other pecadillos of the members of the story's family. It wasn't enough to create a captivating novel. This book succeeded in making magical realism annoying by telling the reader how magical and wonderful things were instead of telling the story in such a way as to make the reader feel the magic and wonder themselves. The story was boring. If I hadn't brought it to savor on a long train ride, I don't think I would have finished it.

Like Myla Goldberg's Bee Season, and much worse, Pete Hamill's Snow in August, this book also delves into the Kabbalistic concept of the Golem, or conjured monster. Enough already! It's been done.

I do think that there is a good novel waiting to be written about the Jews who lived in Palestine before World War I, because they surely were unusual and certainly passionate about being there. Sadly, and to my great disappointment, this was not that book.

This delightful read begins with Esther and Yochanan, the author's great-great-great grandparents--people who "immigrated to Palestine and married in 1837 in Jerusalem." The story, loosely based on her own family history, is told with sensuality, downright sexiness, a magical lyrical grace and a substantial dose of humor. You may learn more about grafting fruit trees (the family business in Palestine) than you ever cared to know, nonetheless, the analogy works well as the author finds stories and writes stories, grafts them into the family tree, and watches them grow and develop.

Throughout this volume, you will find Eve's fiction--her "formed truth"--written alongside her father's shorter, historical account of the family. Eve's writing brings her father's facts to life as she reads between the lines of her father's text and creates flesh and blood people whose experiences connect with ours. In addition, there are over thirty black-and-white illustrations interspersed throughout the text that add a certain charm to the pages.

This is Nomi Eve's first novel. I hope it isn't her last.