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Executive Times |
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2005 Book Reviews |
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Golden
Years by Andrew M. Greeley |
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Rating: •• (Mildly Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Transitions Father Andrew Greeley continues his
lively O’Malley family series with Golden
Years. Fans will surely read this installment and first-time readers
won’t suffer from missing the past, since the novel stands well on its own.
Protagonist Chucky O’Malley’s father, Vangie, dies in this episode, and in
the midst of grief, the family needs to address new crises. What Here’s
an excerpt from the beginning of
Chapter Seven, “Chuck,” pp. 107-111: We waited quietly in the
limo that would take us to Queen of Heaven Cemetery in “Almost
over,” I said. Not
really. There was still the ceremony at the cemetery and the lunch at Oak
Park Country Club (which is not in Oak Park), the place where my parents and
I had eaten supper after my honorable discharge from the Army of the United
States. “That
was a very nice little talk,” April said. “I’m glad everyone liked it. Dad always said our little
Chucky has a way with words.” “Thanks,”
I said. “I
really think it’s time that Ted do something about poor Jane. I’m sure she’s
stopped taking her pills.” “What
pills?” we all asked. “Oh,
I don’t know what they called them. Tranquilizers of some kind.” “What
did she say when she left the pew?” “I
really didn’t hear her very well.” “She
said,” Peg replied, her voice tight, “I don’t have to sit through this
shit.’” Ah,
I was now certainly another target. Perhaps Jane thought that as the oldest
she should have given the eulogy. Her outrage was perfectly understandable.
Yet the only one really hurt by it was Mom. “What did she say to you, Rosemarie?”
Peg asked. “You don’t belong here. You’re an
interloper in our family. You’re not one of the family. I belong with Mom. I
will walk with her.’” “The bitch!” Peg shouted. “I think she was probably jealous of
you,” Mom said calmly. “She certainly never had any reason for that.” Ah, but the thought that Rosemarie had
replaced her must have haunted her life. Whether there was reason for such
emotions was not to the point. Rather the point was that we had totally
missed her jealousy. “If we had paid closer attention to her
throughout the years, we might have noticed it,” I said. “I can’t remember her resenting Rosie
when we were kids. She never did like me very much. She didn’t mind Mom and
Dad bringing a boy home from the hospital. But a second daughter. Before I
was old enough to fight back, she’d slap me every chance she had.” “I don’t recall that,” I said. “But
little boys don’t see what’s going on before their eyes.” “When Rosie kind of moved in,” Peg went
on, “she was already a popular young woman at “I didn’t think so. Now I’m sure she
felt such emotions. I can understand what happened. I was an extension of you
and she was now outnumbered and, in her mind, outloved.” “She was always a little difficult,”
Mom said. “Very quick to take offense. We certainly tried to be nice.
However, Peg darling, no matter how we tried, she never really accepted you.
When I came home from St. Anne’s with you, she told us to take you back. She
said that many times in the next couple of years.” I had been clueless. “Nonetheless, she’s hurting,” I said.
“We should try to help her if we can.” “I’ll have to ask Maggie Ward whether
there’s anything we can do,” my wife said. “I think she’ll say its much too
late.” I shut up. This was not the time or the
place to reopen the Jane question. If I had known about it, I might have
suggested that she give the eulogy. That might have made matters worse.
However, the few remarks in the car on the way to Hillside— three layers of
suburbs west of No, that was not true. Because Vangie
had probably never been able to break through Jane’s rage did not mean he was
a failed father. It meant rather that in some situations there is nothing
even the wisest parent can do. Rosemarie and I had tormented ourselves for
years when April Rosemary had drifted away into the drug and commune
underground. She managed to pull herself out. Jane never did. That was too easy a comparison. I
shouldn’t be making any comparisons. What if this were my funeral and poor
Rosemarie was trying to cope with a child who had resented us. Maybe Sean
would be angry at us for the loss of his beloved Jewish sweetheart. It
wasn’t our fault. We had been kind and sympathetic to her. She seemed to have
bonded with Mary Margaret. Then she went off to So many things they can blame you for
if they want to. A faint drizzle descended upon us as we
neared the cemetery. My gut was twisted up in knots. The ancients believed
that the bowels were the place of emotion. Not a bad idea actually. Emotional
stress stirred them up. I’d had a stomachache since the call in Funeral corteges are intolerably slow.
A ride to a cemetery was like a sentence in purgatory. Would we ever get
there? Finally, we made the slow turn off “I don’t think so, dear. My husband
couldn’t stand those things.” We wound our way through the cemetery,
which, like all such, was designed to create the impression of a maze. We
were held up by another cortege that was slow in leaving. How dare they slow
us down? Charles Cronin O’Malley, you are
becoming more of a cranky, crabby curmudgeon every day. Finally, we pulled up to the spot—the burial
plot my parents had bought forty years ago because they knew they should have
one. Rather the Good April had insisted that they should buy one. How many
memories must be flowing back from those days? We waited in the car until the
mourners had been arranged around the tomb. I joined the other pallbearers in
front of the hearse. “Great talk,” Vince whispered to me. “I
could never have been that cool if someone walked out on me.” “Poor woman,” I said. Oddly enough, I was not angry at Jane
or even surprised. Death seems to curtail surprises. My sons, instrument cases in hand, were
arranging themselves at the head of the open grave. The rest of the clan
drifted in that direction. The small fry, under Mary Margaret’s and Erin’s
direction, pushed their way to the front. Please, God, grant that this crazy
move of the Crazy O’Malleys works. We carried Dad’s mortal remains to the
grave site and lowered it to the stand on which they would rest until we had
left and the coffin would be lowered into the ground. My brother Ed, perhaps
another member of the clan whom the rest of us had forgotten, was going to
preside over the services. In church he had not gone beyond the rhythms of
the liturgy. I had never really understood him, though Rosemarie surely did.
Mary Margaret had insisted repeatedly in the last couple of days that he was
a totally cool priest, even if he was not as noisy as the rest of us. The drizzle, which had become rain for
a few moments, stopped. The iron cope of clouds began to move. “We are at the end of the funeral
services,” he began, so softly that one could hardly hear
him, “though for the family of John Evangelist the mourning will go on, as
will life and love. My brother”—he nodded in my direction—”with
characteristic grace described him perfectly in his eulogy. I always thought
that Chuck should have been the priest.. . Sorry, Rosie. . . Now I’m glad we have laypeople like him
in the Church who understand what our faith is all about better than we
priests. Our dad was larger than life, though it took us a long time to
realize it. So is our mom. So too are at least some of us. We will miss Dad. . . Dear God in heaven, we will miss him. . . But we will continue to laugh and to
celebrate life the way he and Mom taught us to. Oh, yes, there’ll be a bite
of food to eat and maybe a touch of the creature to drink at Oak Park Country
Club when we’re finished.” Cool, Eddie, I thought. Like totally
cool. Then he began the beautiful graveside
prayers of the Church. At Mary Margaret’s instigation, the small fry answered
with loud and enthusiastic “Amen” to each of them. I glanced around the huge
crowd that had assembled. What would they think of this ultimate in Crazy
O’Malley capers? Finally, the closing prayers,
definitive and conclusive. My sons produced their instruments. The sun began
to break through the clouds. Nature and nature’s God were cooperating. “Eternal rest grant unto him, 0 Lord,
and may perpetual light shine upon him.” “AMEN!” “And may all the souls of the departed
rest in peace.” “AMEN!” Kevin Patrick raised his trumpet into
the air. “When the saint. . .“ he began, then reprised it on the horn. “Go marching in, go marching in, go
marching in!” Rosemarie and I began our vocalization as the trumpet and sax
joined us. After the first stanza, Kevin Patrick
spoke to the astonished crowd. “We’re going to march around the grave,
like the ancient Irish did, then go back to the cars as we celebrate the
victory of life over death.” Golden
Years is entertaining and uplifting, and reveals the many challenges of
transitions, especially coping with grief. Readers will be amused and
uplifted by Golden Years.
Steve Hopkins,
March 23, 2005 |
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ă 2005 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the April 2005
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Golden
Years.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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