I have a great idea for you. Take a break from the horror show going on in the world and savor a brilliant memoir-tribute by a son to his father.
This is a short read but every page is fascinating and enriching. It is time very well spent in a world that seems to have forgotten the core values which have sustained us for millennia, and form the fundamental fabric of communities and a nation.
I suspect — no, I’m quite sure — the many of the things about my own life growing up which I have in common with Bill Astore and his family, significantly contributed to why I found this book so riveting and poignant: Catholic family, poorly educated parents, we were poor working class, living lives of contented poverty too-often visited by hardship and tragedy, my parents’ world view and rules of life shaped by the trials of the Great Depression. Both of my parents died when I was 14 and I lived alone for several months in the family mobile home. My mother had severe problems with her heart all of her life, a vulnerability which took her at age 54. My father was a lifelong smoker and died of brain cancer at 56 after an operation left him gruesomely handicapped. A priest said Mass and presided over both of their funerals. My father had worked in factories much of his life. I myself worked my last three years of high school in a factory. We had little in the way of worldly comforts. But at least we had each other.
Frankly, I remember us being a happy family, always sufficiently fed, clothed and able to enjoy what good things we could afford. Back then, before everything became commodified and “success” was purely measured by the balances in a bank account and investment portfolio, there was a direct relationship between the love and special intimacy of a secure family, and a sense of self-worth and overall happiness.
This fine book offers a lot to digest and think about. I would hope that even readers who grew up under more fortunate circumstances will be able to fully appreciate and identify with both Bill’s own recollections and his father’s inspiring journal entries. His dad had a school-of-hard-knocks education but was gifted with the wisdom of a philosopher — he often quoted Schopenhauer. To the good fortune of the family, Bill’s father was generous with both his incredible insights, his humility and compassion, and his devotion to his wife and children.
So yes, folks . . . take a break from the nightmare unfolding in the world around us.
Savor this marvelously candid look at growing up poor but immersed in love.
Book Recommendation: My Father’s Journal by William Astore
I have a great idea for you. Take a break from the horror show going on in the world and savor a brilliant memoir-tribute by a son to his father.
This is a short read but every page is fascinating and enriching. It is time very well spent in a world that seems to have forgotten the core values which have sustained us for millennia, and form the fundamental fabric of communities and a nation.
I suspect — no, I’m quite sure — the many of the things about my own life growing up which I have in common with Bill Astore and his family, significantly contributed to why I found this book so riveting and poignant: Catholic family, poorly educated parents, we were poor working class, living lives of contented poverty too-often visited by hardship and tragedy, my parents’ world view and rules of life shaped by the trials of the Great Depression. Both of my parents died when I was 14 and I lived alone for several months in the family mobile home. My mother had severe problems with her heart all of her life, a vulnerability which took her at age 54. My father was a lifelong smoker and died of brain cancer at 56 after an operation left him gruesomely handicapped. A priest said Mass and presided over both of their funerals. My father had worked in factories much of his life. I myself worked my last three years of high school in a factory. We had little in the way of worldly comforts. But at least we had each other.
Frankly, I remember us being a happy family, always sufficiently fed, clothed and able to enjoy what good things we could afford. Back then, before everything became commodified and “success” was purely measured by the balances in a bank account and investment portfolio, there was a direct relationship between the love and special intimacy of a secure family, and a sense of self-worth and overall happiness.
This fine book offers a lot to digest and think about. I would hope that even readers who grew up under more fortunate circumstances will be able to fully appreciate and identify with both Bill’s own recollections and his father’s inspiring journal entries. His dad had a school-of-hard-knocks education but was gifted with the wisdom of a philosopher — he often quoted Schopenhauer. To the good fortune of the family, Bill’s father was generous with both his incredible insights, his humility and compassion, and his devotion to his wife and children.
So yes, folks . . . take a break from the nightmare unfolding in the world around us.
Savor this marvelously candid look at growing up poor but immersed in love.