There is only one problem with Catherine Gildiner’s memoir Too Close to the Falls: it is far too short, even at 350 pages.

When Gildiner, a Toronto psychologist and Chatelaine columnist, was four years old and full of pent-up energy, the town doctor prescribed a dose of what would be considered child labour today – full-time work at her father’s pharmacy in western New York state. Roy, her friend and co-worker (a man of wonderful compassion and raw intellect), drove the delivery van and Cathy read (she had learned to do so very early on) the road maps that led them to each new adventure.

Readers will want to follow Cathy on her bizarre trips around Lewiston, New York, as she and Roy deliver sleeping pills to Marilyn Monroe, sedatives to the violent Tuscarora Chief, Mad Bear, and fungus cream for Warty, the dump operator, to apply on the horrific lumps that cover her entire body. They will want to live with Cathy’s family, with a mother who doesn’t cook or clean, but instead writes papers about emerging African nations, drops to the floor to hide whenever neighbours come calling, and tells Cathy “never to learn to cook or type” because she’ll be requested to do both against her will “forever.” They might even want to be a member of The Bloods, a courageous gang who pop Pez candy and sled down icy escarpments straight towards the Niagara Falls whirlpools visible from Lewiston.

This is a life so full it’s bursting. Gildiner beautifully portrays her outrageous youth through the innocent, yet sometimes frighteningly worldly, eyes of a child. Her writing is sparse and clean, often laugh-out-loud hilarious. There are no typical memoirish moments of spitefulness. Each experience is a lesson. Too Close to the Falls is a clear picture of a young life well worth writing about.