Reading... reading...

I've been busy reading "Angela's Ashes," by Frank McCourt.  This is my third attempt at reading this Pulitzer-prize winning book.... not because of the story, but because I couldn't at first look beyond the writing style. Once I did that, I immediately became saturated with the story, and I'm holding myself back from reading it too fast because I want to read every syllable, every word, every nuance.

When I was growing up, there was an Irish family living in the house next door to my grandparents. In a neighborhood filled with Italian and German families, those neighbors with their three little boys were a welcome surprise to all the kids. Finally! Someone different! We were all excited to meet them.

The three Irish boys just loved my grandmother.... each time Grandma looked at those boys, she would tell them "You boys too thin! Too thin!"  (She pronounced thin as "tin" with her Italian accent.)  When my grandmother cooked, those three boys would sit in her driveway, right outside the kitchen window. The boys told us kids that they loved all the 'strange smells' coming from the window.

My grandmother had no idea the boys were sitting out there till one of my cousins happened to mention it. The look on Grandma's face was one of disbelief........ she got up from her chair, looked out the window, and there were the three Irish boys, just sitting there quietly listening to our family as we talked and ate. Grandma went to the stove and dished out three bowls of macaroni and meat.... called the boys to the back door and gave them the food. "Be careful with my dishes. Go home and eat and bring the dishes back when you're done."

The three Irish boys ate well for all the years they lived next door to my grandparents. Grandma seemed pleased that the boys weren't "too thin" anymore, and they never so much as chipped one of my grandmother's delicate plates.  My grandmother would whisper.... "Those Irish mothers... they don't know how to cook."  Grandma once offered to teach the boys' mother to make sauce and macaroni and meatballs, but their mother didn't want to learn. She told my grandmother "I have three boys--- who has time to cook?" My grandmother didn't mention that she herself had 12 children, and there was always time to cook.

I have an old photo tucked away into a childhood album... the picture is of myself and my cousin R, along with the three Irish boys. I've long since forgotten the names of the boys, but my cousins still talk about that family. Before they moved away, the three boys came to my grandmother's back door to thank her for all of the food and they cried in my grandmother's arms before they said good-bye.

As I read "Angela's Ashes," I can't help but think about growing up in the 1950s, and those three Irish boys who loved everything that came out of my grandmother's kitchen.  This is a wonderful book... a heart-warming and heart-wrenching story that will have you shaking your head with pity on some pages and laughing out loud on others.