By Rick Bragg
A brand new York instances awesome booklet of the YearThis haunting, harrowing, gloriously relocating recollection of a lifestyles at the American margin is the tale of Rick Bragg, who grew up dirt-poor in northeastern Alabama, likely destined for both the cotton turbines or the reformatory, and as a substitute turned a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter for the hot York occasions. it's the tale of Bragg's father, a hard-drinking guy with a murderous mood and the behavior of working out at the those who wanted him most.But on the heart of this hovering memoir is Bragg's mom, who went eighteen years with no new costume in order that her sons may have university outfits and picked different people's cotton in order that her teenagers should not have to survive welfare on my own. Evoking those lives--and the rustic that formed and nourished them--with artistry, honesty, and compassion, Rick Bragg brings domestic the affection and anguish that lie on the middle of each family members. the result's unforgettable.
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Extra resources for All over but the shouting
He did not beat Jesus into his children, but believed in God. He drank but was prone to work hard and regular. He was fond of living, whereas most hard-drinking men hate life and only want to dull it. He got drunk, and sang. He had wit like a razor, and while he had never cracked a book he was a wizard with language, with stories. Like a lot of Southern men, he could tell a story and have you sitting dead quiet, waiting for the next word, said the people who knew him well. My momma inherited his love of stories but not his timing, so that when she talks about him the words come out in a jumbled rush, like puppies spilling out of a cardboard box, jumping all over each other.
I remember how the man’s yellow sport shirt had blood on it, how his pocket change spilled out into the gravel, and how the man’s children—I remember a little girl screaming—stood and watched, in terror. I distinctly remember that I was not afraid, because no matter how much red hatred clouded his eyes, how much Jim Beam or beer or homemade whiskey assaulted his brain, he never touched me. In some sick way I admired him. This was, remember, a world of pulpwooders and millworkers and farmers, of men who ripped all the skin o their knuckles working on junk cars and ignored the blood that ran down their arms.
I pictured him striding through wild owers and dead Yankees with a saber in one hand, a through wild owers and dead Yankees with a saber in one hand, a six-shot revolver in the other and a bayonet wound in his side, his horse shot out from under him. I pictured him that way much as I had sometimes pictured him as taking me places, doing things with me. One daydream was just as silly, as far from truth, as the other. I de nitely did not picture him hollow-eyed and shivering, huddled around a portable stove, in this war and country I could not even adequately imagine.