I have mixed feelings about this book which tells the story of a branch of the Astor family and how they've declined financially but still try to maintain the family home on the Hudson River in New York. On the one hand, I love visiting old homes, examining their architecture, gardens, furnishings, art, and more, so I expected to enjoy reading about the Astor home, Rokeby, and what has become of it. On the other hand, this is such a squalid and sordid account of life in the home during the author's childhood in the 1980s that I felt repelled by it. She reported nothing positive about growing up there; everything was dirty, cluttered, falling apart, damaged, unloved. No one did their share except her father who tried to maintain the grounds. They let an assortment of artists and vagabonds live in the house and on the property. They described themselves as "bohemians," and no one tried to improve their own lot by, for example, getting a job. Every year, they try to scrape together enough money to pay the taxes, but no one makes any effort to strategically sell the art or other valuable objects gathering dust in the house, or sell off any of the land. This is such a negative, one-sided report by the author, that I can't believe that it shows a true picture of what life was like there.
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