Moments stand out: a young Jimmy and his siblings cutting foil from their father’s cigarette packs into strips of tinsel; his awareness as a child of the disparity between his Christmas presents and those of his black friends; his first, anticlimactic experience of a New Year’s Eve midnight as a teenager; Christmas 1979, when a lonely First Family—Jimmy, Rosalynn, and Amy—issued a last-minute invitation to the executive mansion’s household staff and their families to spend the day with them at Camp David.
The problem is, Carter doesn’t do much with these moments. His prose, irreproachably clean but unexciting, makes few of them really resonate. Most hang there—as does the book—like a simple country wreath on a sturdy wooden door. If that’s your style, Carter’s your man.