The economy has tanked, unemployment’s up and we’ve all got better things to do than read about the woes and ruminations of prep school-educated rich folks, right?

Not if Tad Friend has anything to say about it.

In Cheerful Money: Me, My Family, and the Last Days of Wasp Splendor, Friend, a staff writer at The New Yorker, writes a multi-generational portrait of his family, an impressive set of Wasps whose ancestors include a signer of the Declaration of Independence. Clearly an expert on the breed, Friend sprinkles hilarious aphorisms throughout the text: “Wasps name their dogs after liquor and their cars after dogs and their children after their ancestors”; “Wasps emerge from the womb wrinkly and cautious, already vice presidents, already fifty-two.”

Through it all, Friend falls in (and out) of love—multiple times—and deals with the knowledge that when his kids are grown, they won’t be Wasps . . . the family money will be gone. The memoir is most engaging when he keeps closest to home; the scenes with Friend’s parents are touching and poignant.

At the beginning of the book, Friend writes, “I am a Wasp because I harbored a feeling of disconnection from my parents, as they had from their parents, and their parents had from their parents.” Cheerful Money is Friend’s funny and enlightening way of piecing together that disconnect. 

Eliza Borné recently graduated from Wellesley (and is not a Wasp).

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An excerpt from Cheerful Money:

When I graduated from Shipley, a small prep school in Bryn Mawr, my father’s mother, Grandma Jess, wrote to congratulate me on my academic record: “A truly tremendous achievement — but then I could expect nothing less due to your marvelous background — Robinson, Pierson, Holton, Friend!” I remember scowling at her airy blue script, noting the point — after the first dash — where the compliment turned into a eugenic claim. As my grandparents happened to constitute a Wasp compass, the way ahead was marked in all directions: I could proceed as a Robinson like Grandma Tim’s family (loquacious, madcap, sometimes unhinged); a Pierson like Grandpa John’s family (bristling with brains); a Holton like Grandma Jess’s family (restless, haughty show ponies); or a Friend like Grandpa Ted’s family (moneyed, clubbable, and timid).

I believed, then, that my family was not my fate. I believed my character had been formed by charged moments and impressions — the drift of snow, the peal of church bells, the torrent of light cascading through the elms out front into our sunporch. Though my parents gave me love and learning and all the comforts, I believed I could go it alone. My grandparents were distant constellations, and as they wheeled across the sky I felt unshadowed by their marriages, their affairs, their remarriages, or their quarrels. On the question of how to pronounce “tomato,” for instance, the family was split. On my father’s side, the Friends and Holtons unselfconsciously said “tomayto.” On my mother’s, the Robinsons were staunchly in the Anglophile “tomahto” camp, while the Piersons, on the even more superior view that “tomahto” was pretentious, were ardently pro-“tomayto.” At the family beach house on Long Island, my great-uncle Wilson Pierson would rebuke my mother, a Robinson in such matters, if she asked for a “tomahto.” “Would you like some potahtoes with that?” he’d say.

Chapter 1 excerpt from CHEERFUL MONEY: Me, My Family, and the Last Days of Wasp Splendor by Tad Friend (Little, Brown and Company, hardcover, also available in e-book; pub date:  9/21/09).

Rhoda Janzen was having a really bad year. Following her recovery from a hysterectomy, Janzen’s handsome, charismatic, but mercurial husband of 15 years abruptly left her for “Bob the Guy from Gay.com,” leaving her with conflicted feelings—and an expensive lakefront home she couldn’t afford. Just days later, Janzen was involved in a crippling car accident. What was this sophisticated, confident woman in her early 40s to do? With a six-month sabbatical scheduled, Janzen made a most unexpected choice—to head back home, into the welcoming arms of the Mennonite family and community she thought she had nothing in common with.

Janzen’s period of healing—in both body and spirit—forms the backdrop of her memoir, as she utilizes her quasi-outsider perspective to reflect on her own story of growing up Mennonite (and the social ostracism that sometimes resulted), on her often troubled marriage and on her sometimes strained relationships with her siblings. Even as she affectionately pokes fun at such things as her father’s bold demands and her mother’s unflaggingly earnest optimism, Janzen reflects on how her Mennonite upbringing might have affected her own relationships and on how she’s managed to incorporate the cabbage- and starch-laden cuisine of her youth into her cosmopolitan, foodie lifestyle.

Readers will find themselves laughing out loud at Janzen’s wry commentary on themes that shouldn’t really be funny at all. The playful humor is balanced, however, with genuine thoughtfulness, especially as Janzen reconnects with childhood companions and reflects on how different her own life might have been, had she chosen to remain in the Mennonite community instead of embracing an intellectual life. Mennonite in a Little Black Dress will resonate with any reader who has ever thought about how such choices shape our futures, or with anyone who has struggled to recapture faith—in God, in other people or in oneself. 

Norah Piehl is a freelance writer and editor in the Boston area.

In the tight-lipped tradition of Greta Garbo, J.D. Salinger and Thomas Pynchon, bluegrass legend Ralph Stanley has been verbally parsimonious in disclosing details about his life and art—until now. Here he opens up, talking freely about his shadowy absentee father, his immensely gifted but hard-drinking older brother, Carter, and the heart-wrenching ordeal of trying to make a living playing a kind of music too few people wanted to hear.

Born in 1927 in southwestern Virginia, Stanley was steeped in ancient folksongs, hymns, parlor ballads and the sounds of a newer, jazzier string band music being perfected by the Kentuckian Bill Monroe, who dubbed this emerging genre “bluegrass.” The day he returned from military service in 1946, he and Carter formed the Stanley Brothers band with Carter as front man and chief songwriter. Over the next 20 years, the Stanley Brothers achieved a stature within the bluegrass community that rivaled Monroe’s.

Then, in 1966, Carter finally drank himself to death and in so doing thrust his younger brother into the spotlight. In that role, Stanley mentored such formidable young talents as Ricky Skaggs, Keith Whitley and Larry Sparks, even as he was carving out his own reputation as a stunningly emotional vocalist. Although long revered by bluegrass fans, Stanley didn’t become a superstar until he was featured on the soundtrack album for the Coen Brothers’ 2000 movie, O Brother, Where Art Thou?

His chilling a cappella rendition of “Oh Death” on that album won him a Grammy and sparked two successful arena tours.

As fascinating as Stanley’s personal revelations are, this book’s greatest value lies in his documentary-like descriptions of the hardships rural musicians faced in the 1940s and ’50s—crowded cars, band rivalries, long and dangerous roads and hand-to-mouth living. It’s little wonder then that Stanley can say at age 82, “I ain’t afraid to die, but I am scared of what would happen if my voice were to fail me . . . because singing is really all I’ve got to give anymore.”

Edward Morris writes from Nashville.

His very name brings to mind Squaresville—thanks to that pressed white collar worn over the ubiquitous sweater, his Midwestern, nice-guy demeanor and songs that are never going to burn down the house. But give Andy Williams credit: he’s worked long and hard to make things look, feel and sound so darn easy. 

The man with the mellow tenor tells how it was done—charting the good times and the bad—in the impressively detailed and introspective Moon River and Me.

It’s no milquetoast memoir. Anecdotes are candid: Sinatra’s cruelty; Lawrence Welk’s puritanism; those innocent young Osmonds; Judy Garland forgetting the lyrics to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”; Williams’ affair with the much older Kay Thompson. Owning up to his failings, Williams was such an absentee husband and father that one of their kids didn’t even notice when he and wife Claudine Longet divorced. Longet was later embroiled in a scandal involving the shooting death of her skier lover; Williams stood by throughout the ordeal. That’s the closest he’s come to negative press, though he’s been in the presence of tragedy: he was at the Ambassador Hotel the night close friend Bobby Kennedy was assassinated.

Now 81, he’s been performing since childhood, when his determined father created the Williams Brothers quartet. He was eight when the group segued from church socials and weddings, in their hometown of Wall Lake, Iowa, to a Des Moines radio show.

Williams and his brothers went from radio to movies (bit parts at MGM, in the heyday of musicals) to ritzy Manhattan club dates. Finally, Williams went solo, playing small clubs, the county fair circuit, gigs in Vegas and Tahoe, before moving to the recording studio (shrewdly, Williams even became a label owner), television, concerts, and on to Branson, Missouri, where today he entertains audiences at his own theater, named for his signature tune, “Moon River.” Now that’s a career. No wonder Williams suddenly seems very cool. Even when he’s wearing those sweaters.

Journalist-biographer Pat H. Broeske’s favorite Williams tune is “Dear Heart,” from the 1964 movie of the same name.

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An excerpt from Moon River and Me:

Our house in Wall Lake was always filled with music. Mom had the radio on from morning to night, tuned to a country music station, and she sang along as she did the washing, cooking, and ironing. I would often join in with her in my piping little treble voice. One of my earliest memories was of sitting on the kitchen floor, nibbling on a just-baked cookie, and clapping my hands as Mom sang a country tune and did a little dance just to make me laugh.

Dad was also very musical; he had learned to play half a dozen instruments at school and had a good singing voice. In those pre-television days our entertainment was homegrown: sitting around the piano in the evenings and singing together. When I was little, I’d stretch out on the worn, warm floorboards with my head under the piano stool and watch my father’s feet on the pedals; for some reason that fascinated me. Our standard repertory was hymns, because my parents and my two older brothers formed the Presbyterian church choir; it had not even had one until Dad volunteered himself and his family. They rehearsed at home, and when Dick saw his mom, dad, and older brothers singing, he wanted to join in.

I didn’t want to be left out, either, and tried to sing along with them as they practiced. At first I got black looks and demands to “hush up, Andy. We’re trying to practice here.” I’d let me shoulders sag and my head hang, stick out my bottom lip, and make my slow, mournful exit from the room, hoping that my dad would call me back and let me take part. It didn’t happen, but the next day I’d be back, singing along until I got kicked out again. I used to vary my tactics. Sometimes I’d join in from the start and keep going until I was told to hush up; other times I’d sit silent in a corner while they sang the first couple of hymns, and then I’d join in, singing as quietly as possible. If any of my brothers cast an eye in my direction, I’d snap my mouth shut tight as a clam and put on a look of injured innocence.

Reprinted by arrangement with Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., from MOON RIVER AND ME by Andy Williams. Copyright © Andy Williams, 2009.

The Kids Are All Right is a memoir in four-part harmony. It gives the feel of being a guest at a family reunion and eavesdropping on siblings, Amanda, Liz, Dan, and Diana. The Welch children, actually adults now—Diana, the youngest, is 32—share and compare childhood memories of the deaths of their parents and the difficult years that followed as they struggled not to lose track of each other.

Four distinct voices combine to make this memoir particularly poignant: bold, brash Amanda; considerate, responsible Liz; troubled, rebellious Dan; and shy, insecure Diana. The result is a comprehensive family tale—sad, but ultimately, triumphant.

The kids are "all right" until the fateful night in 1983 when their father dies in a car crash, leaving considerable debt, along with questions about his death—was it an accident or murder? Their mother, famed soap star Ann Williams, deep in grief, is forced to sell their home and move the children to a house that strains to hold the family of five.

Then Williams is diagnosed with cancer, and the children take care of their progressively ailing mother—cooking, cleaning, and shopping squeezed in during after-school hours. The weakened family foundation finally crumbles when Williams dies and the children, ranging in age from seven to 19, are dispersed to live with separate families, an arrangement planned by Williams before her death.

Being separated from each other was another loss that nearly destroyed the already eroded family. Clearly the children suffered, made bad choices, and engaged in activities their parents would have despaired of. But they also displayed a remarkable strength and resiliency, and unconditional love for each other. Despite the physical distance between them, blood ties remained tightly knotted, stretched but not snapped by distance. Of this their parents would rejoice.

The Welches were fortunate to have a trust fund untouched by family debt that provided for their education and paid for their living arrangements. Money can't buy happiness, true, but it eased their trials by providing a layer of financial security. The real security, however, was in the foundation of family love and loyalty they learned from their parents. This is the bond that saw them through.

This memoir pieces together the fragments of their lives and shares the good, the bad, and the ugly with the honesty and strength of survivors. Growing up is never easy. Growing up orphaned, harder still. But all four make it to productive adulthood. The kids are indeed all right. This is a book that's tough to put down, and tougher still to forget.

Ruth Douillette is an essayist and photographer.

Classic suspense and intricate plots are the usual domain of mega-best-selling writer Dean Koontz—a touching story about a beloved dog, not so much. But Koontz’s boundless love for his golden retriever Trixie shines through his latest book, A Big Little Life: A Memoir of a Joyful Dog. Koontz had always been good at capturing the canine spirit in print, and he did in-person research on guide dogs for one of his books at Canine Companions for Independence, an organization that trains assistance dogs. Koontz and his wife Gerda had spent nearly every moment of 24 years together, childless workaholics who thought they were too busy for a dog. But CCI kept asking if they were ready to adopt one of their course “failures.” Enter Trixie, the force that would change Koontz’s middle age forever.

It’s not every pooch that has the opportunity to rub its Kong toy on a pricey oil painting, or get a dish of Swedish meatballs at a favorite restaurant. Trixie’s down-to-earth joy and antics are the cheerful squeaky toy at the center of this moving story. Part sitcom, part prose portrait, spiritual quest and eulogy, A Big Little Life is a page-turner in its own right—even if every dog lover knows how the plot must play out. “Most of us will never be able to live with as much joy as a dog brings to every moment of his day,” Koontz writes. “But if we recognize that we share a tao, we then see that the dog lives more closely at that core than we do, and the way to achieving greater joy becomes clear. . . . Dogs know.” And so will readers and dog lovers everywhere who bask in the reflected glow of Koontz’s unwavering love for Trixie.