Saw this on Amazon today . . .




Brother Broken

Foreword Clarion Review 

https://www.brotherbroken.com/

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   Brother Broken Photo taken at John's funeral May 1990:  Front row l to r, Pauline (Pauly), Mom, Dad, me (Céc) , with John's photo between Mom and Dad. Back row l to r, Mitch, Gerard (Gus), Roger (Rod), Denis Good morning Sunshine. I think it's time for you to meet the family. Dad was a WWII vet. He had served in the Royal Canadian Navy. After the war, he pedalled a bicycle four hundred miles north of his parents’ home in Gravelbourg, Saskatchewan. He bought land and started a farm. Dad caught the eye of my mom with his drop-dead good looks. She was the cute little farm girl whose family lived nearby. She stole his heart, and they married in 1949. Marguerite and Jean were their names, but most people called them Margaret and John, the Anglicized version of their French names. They were French-Canadian Catholics, expected to populate with more French Catholics, so they started une famille . Their first-born was my sister, Pauly. After Pauly came Rod, Denis, John, m...
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  Brother Broken Meet the protagonists: Denis, John and Mitch.  Their stories begin in the 1950s and 60s, in a village, in Saskatchewan, somewhere north of normal. It's not one that's dark or depressing, it's a story of hope and gratitude, with a touch of ridiculous. Some parts are complicated, because there is nothing straightforward pertaining to broken. I remember my brothers with words, I share the story of their lives. l tell of what decent boys they were, what they meant to me, how their lives were ordinary and sound before all the trouble started happening. I write, so people will learn the goodness of my parents, the wholesomeness of my extended family, that my kin weren't lowbrow hicks, who screwed-up raising kids. Brother Broken Foreword  Clarion Review   https://www.brotherbroken.com/ Follow on:    
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  Brother Broken About being a big sister... Mud was a good medium for me to practise my craft at being the older sibling. It was easy to find and free to use, so I lured my two-year-old brother to a proper mudhole. It was shallow, so as to not pose a drowning risk, yet wide enough to provide adequate working space. It was also located in a spot not obvious to snooping eyes. I sank my hands deep into the muck. I didn’t need to prod Mitch to do the same. I told him, “We’re makin’ cakes.” I pulled out a handful of gunk and mixed in some dry dirt. I showed Mitch how to mould a cake and smooth it round to make it look like the buns Mom formed from bread dough. I busied myself with crafting a row of them. Mitch used his own technique. I grew frustrated, antsy at his attempts. He wouldn’t pay attention to my method. I couldn’t seem to explain to him how to get the consistency right. He squeezed the muck through his little fingers, having fun instead of working at it. His creations ...
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