The Big Game
November 22, 2023 § 1 Comment
OK, Football fans, (though I retired my “watching” jersey years ago) I do have a football scene in Sketching with Renoir that I would like to share.
It’s the 1947 Army/Notre Dame Game and Cleo and her father are positioning the Woody for the Big Show.
That Sunday afternoon, Cleo, her father and Kip got into the Willy and drove down the field towards the woods and, after circling around, found the right spot to park. They had a bag lunch of baloney sandwiches and cookies, some milk for Cleo and two bottles of beer for her father. Her mother was taking a nap. Kip also had dog biscuits in the brown bag. Cleo was wearing her favorite clothes: her green corduroy pants, her yellow Roy Rodgers sweatshirt, and her cowboy hat with the string-tie and red button on its slide. She played with it while her father was circling the field. He had the radio on, the dial set for the station that would soon play the game. Every so often, he stopped the car to test the radio reception. When he found the exact spot where the announcer’s voice wasn’t crackly, he stopped, got out and made sure the antennae was up as high as it would go. They did this when the Notre Dame games came from Indiana. Her father always said, “It’s the damnedest thing. When the games come from South Bend, I can never get reception except in this field. Isn’t that something? Isn’t that something?” He would say this several times, laughing and shaking his head.
Cleo liked these times with her father. They were like the times in the morning when he would make toast and talk with her. It was different than being with her mother. He didn’t worry if Cleo’s hands were washed or not. She had never seen him cry or spend long times in the bathroom. But, he didn’t read her as many books as her mother or let her hang up laundry. It was just different.
“Oh, boy. They’re taking the field. The Fighting Irish.” This was also what her father said every time they had found the right spot and the game was beginning. Those words. “The Fighting Irish. The Fighting Irish!” He loved saying those words as he opened a beer. They picked up their sandwiches and took bites of baloney and her father gave Kip one of the biscuits.
“Notre Dame will receive.” The announcer’s deep voice filled the car. Cleo didn’t know what that meant but she nodded.
“And, there’s the kickoff.” The crowd’s roar could be heard in the radio and her father took a swallow of beer and another bite of sandwich. The announcer’s voice got higher, “Oh my! Reception! Reception! It’s Brennan. Brennan has the ball. There he goes! Oh my. He breaks loose from one. Now, two. He’s clear. He’s clear. Oh my, look it—he’s running it . . . scampering down the left-field line.”
Her father was yelling. “He’s got it! He’s got it! He’s running it back!” Her father was banging the steering wheel and a bit of sandwich flew out of his mouth. “He’s goin’ all the way,” the announcer’s voice filled the car.
“Czarobski just blocked one; Lujack got the other.” The man in the radio was yelling, “Touchdown! Touchdown! Brennan with a 97-yard kickoff return.”
Her father was pounding the wheel again. “The Fighting Irish, my foot. Ziggy Czarobski, Lujack, my foot. The Fighting Irish!” Her father kept pounding the steering wheel. Cleo had no idea what it all meant except in the end, Notre Dame won 27-7. Her father tooted the car’s horn all the way home.
Now, the Time Machine Report:
Watch Brennan, Go.
If you want to score another touchdown, here’s the link: https://indieauthorbooks.com/fiction/sketching-with-renoir
Learning French
January 22, 2014 § Leave a comment
In the Spring of 2009 before I began to write the short story that would turn into a book, I took a 5 week French Immersion course at the Université Sainte-Anne in Nova Scotia. The Université was the same one my Uncle Leo attended as a student between 1909-1911. I was conscious then, as I often have been in Nova Scotia, of following his footsteps. In the older section of the school where our classes were held, the wooden floors creaked under my footsteps as they must have in the years before my uncle went to the Great War.
I hadn’t gone to the Université because I wanted to write a book but because I wanted to understand where I came from in a deeper way and language has always been a portal into that understanding whether in English or French. The immersion program wasn’t the easiest 5 weeks I’ve ever spent in my life but it threw me into the language pool and I’m still paddling away in le français. It prepared me to talk with my relatives and to travel to France. My language gaffes have always been treated with good humor and that lack of malice has had the effect of provoking a kind of bravery as I attempt to get my ideas across to the bemused speaker before me. I write this to encourage anyone at any age to plunge into a foreign language. I rather doubt in my case that the book I wrote could have been written in English had I not studied French.
You can read tip #2 on Visiting Historical Sites from the interview in The Peaks Island Press here
The origin of “A Generation of Leaves”
January 15, 2014 § Leave a comment
Nicole d’Entremont was interviewed by The Peaks Island Press and talked about the origins of A Generation of Leaves, her latest novel. Read Part 1 of the interview here.
A Generation of Leaves 