By David Plante
Celebrated novelist David Plante grew up in an remoted, French-speaking group in windfall, Rhode Island, the place nuns preserved the ideals of le grand Canada amidst the profound presence in their deep, darkish God. stuck among his silent, part-Blackfoot father and his vivacious yet trapped mom, Plante flees this small global, wasting his trust in any god and discovering the heart of his existence in love and in writing. nonetheless, the ghosts of his prior hang-out Plante and force him to embark on a gorgeous non secular and actual trip.
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Additional resources for American Ghosts: A Memoir
She had given up her country when she married my father. But she had one Yankee Protestant friend, a woman named Eliza Tanner, whom she had met when, before their marriages, they were telephone operators. ” After she married, Eliza moved to Maine with her husband but visited her relatives in Providence, and on these visits she came to our house in the parish to see my mother. She came for a cup of tea in the afternoon, while my father was at work in the factory. I’d sit with Eliza and my mother at the kitchen table and wonder at the vivacity and clarity with which Eliza spoke.
After Mass, we went to visit Matante Cora. She had been to the six o’clock Mass, but since then she had said the prayers a nun would say. At the large, round wooden table in the middle of the kitchen, she gave us bowls of tea and crullers from the bakery, and, as if in return for her hospitality, she expected to be listened to—not by my father, who she knew wouldn’t listen, but by my mother and me. She talked about her prayers, which were all prayers for cures—especially a prayer (which she herself had thought up) for curing the cataracts in both her eyes, though the cataracts had become worse.
My grandmother as I remembered her was a gaunt woman, her cheekbones high and sharp edged, and her jaw square. She appeared to have permanent bruising about her eyes, as from the bony edges of the eye sockets of her skull. Her eyes were small and set close to her large nose. She wore her white hair in a long braid rolled up with hairpins at the nape of her neck. She lived on the top ﬂoor of the tenement, and my father said she had once carried a washing machine up the stairs by herself, grasping the two front legs and lifting the whole thing, wringer and all, and simply climbing.
American Ghosts: A Memoir by David Plante