Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt6/28/2023 ![]() It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. ![]() Yes, the barn at right is about to fall down. Two years later Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt (1930-2009) won the Pulitzer Prize. It was 1994 and I thought I’d caught a glimpse of Ireland’s romantic past. We were archaeologists “roughing it” to dig for knowledge. I broke out in hives from the limited diet, so we borrowed a wobbly bike and took turns riding to town for supplies. Eggs could be had from the local post office and a nearby farmer brought us milk from his cows. We had to walk six miles to buy groceries, so dinner was usually an omelet. On the weekend, my housemate and I heated water in the tea kettle and washed our hair on the stoop, one lathering while the other poured. In the morning, I ate porridge left on the stove for days. ![]() ![]() ![]() I unrolled a sleeping bag on top.Īt night, I listened to rain and wind and things that skittered across the roof and hoped they were leaves or loose shingles. My bed frame had collapsed, but the mattress was firm enough for the floor. I spent one summer in a derelict farmhouse in Co. I refused to settle for a one-act existence. ![]()
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