I'm not at all surprised to read in today's obituary on Frank McCourt that his Angela's Ashes reached a hardcover printing of 4 million copies. That's a lot of books. Certainly one found its way into our home.
I don't know if it was gift to my wife, or she was talked into buying it, but we did have a copy. My wife's Irish-American, Catholic, so the book would seem right up her alley. However, she doesn't read many books, but does pore over sale circulars like an environmental lawyer trying to preserve the Rain Forest. Nothing gets past her, which of course fills our pantry and cabinets with some useful, if not strange items.
She's right there with Frank in the suffering department. We're here (or at least she is) on earth to suffer just enough to deserve a decent funeral. According to her calculations, she's in for a doozie.
The point is, I don't think she finished the book. She might have had other suffering in mind and the book was taking away from her fun. I don't know. The book did then make its way onto my daughter's desk several years ago. I don't even remember if she read it, but it was there on the desk in her bedroom when the two young fellows came from P.C. Richard's to install the bedroom air conditioner.
One of the fellows spotted to book and told my wife that Frank had been his teacher in high school. I had gone to the same high school, but went through there many years before Frank arrived. The young man related nice things about Frank, mentioning one thing that stuck out in his mind.
It seems one day Frank came to school with a faded, but still visible shiner. The story emerged that Frank had gotten into a fist fight with his girlfriend's ex-boyfriend. Or husband. Someone connected to his current female companion.
By all accounts, Frank was a good teacher. Even if he wasn't saying anything, his face was giving a lesson.
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