Brother Broken

Recently featured on Review Tales 'Brother Broken’  is not a tale of woe. It’s not a romance novel, a how-to handbook, a travel guide, a pot-boiler, a sci-fi sequel or a fantasy adventure. It’s a Saskatchewan true story. A slice of history that’s not dark or depressing. A memoir of hope and gratitude, with a touch of ridiculous―though some parts are complicated, because there is nothing straightforward pertaining to  ‘broken’ . Three of my brothers died. I wish I could say they died of natural causes, but there is nothing natural about suicide. It’s the kind of loss that isn’t easily explained. Even so, I keep trying. I remember my brothers by writing about them. 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 screw...

  Saw this on Amazon today . . . Brother Broken Foreword  Clarion Review   https://www.brotherbroken.com/ Follow on:    

  Welcome to the home of Brother Broken Blog.   Why I wrote the book:   A duck hunter, a professor and a biker walk into a bar . . . . . . well, not exactly a bar . . . more like a story. These aren't just three random guys, they are brothers . . . my brothers. Their story begins 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. Small town Saskatchewan couldn't ...

  Brother Broken Don't miss the hockey game: Out-of-town games were rare, so most of the hockey action happened during practice or while playing shinny. Road hockey was common—especially when ice at the rink was junk. Between siblings and cousins, we fired up a game of shinny on the street in front of our home. The road had gravel mixed in with packed snow, so the surface was coarse. We didn’t have protective gear like pads, helmets, or gloves. Winter boots encased our feet instead of skates. The goalposts were gunny sacks partially filled with straw, and it didn’t matter if a car drove over top of them. I was the only girl player, and they let me drop the puck at center ice to start the game. “You stand close to the goal and wait for me to pass you the puck.” My teammate was lining me up to score goals. Nobody played goalie, because no one was worried about players whose long shots were mostly off target. I felt like the Rocket, waiting to earn a hat trick. I stood near the ...

  Brother Broken How are you today?  Are you up to a lesson in languages? Most people that I knew spoke Saskatchewanese, which is particularly handy for anyone living in Saskatchewan. We used words like gibbled , Vi-Co , and chesterfield , and didn’t think the lingo caused confusion for anyone. I didn’t even know our dialect was distinct from the rest of the world. My family was also well versed in Saskatchewanese en français . Apparently, the word we used to refer to the toilet was actually borrowed from the Queen’s English. We called it the bécosse (bā∙kuss). The English referred to it as the “backhouse.” French people adopted the English word, added their own distinct flair, and it came out sounding like bécosse . In much the same way “cut the grass” became mowdelawn , and tro-up translated to vomit. The trick is to speak rapidly and merge the words using a French accent. Brother Broken Foreword  Clarion Review   https://www.brotherbroken.com/ Follow on:...

  Brother Broken Good morning, waky, waky. Here's a condensed description of our home... Ma famille lived on a farm until 1958, which was slightly before my time. Dad decided to move off the farm and into town for his kids to have more advantages. He kept on farming, though he had to commute an extra eight miles every day. The modified granary that served as my parents’ first home had become inadequate to meet the needs of a growing family. There were limitations on how much Dad could adapt a single-room dwelling to accommodate six individuals. It was a constant effort for Mom to keep babies and toddlers away from the woodstove used for heating and cooking. Our new home had been used as a rooming house. It was built during the first decade of the twentieth century. By the time my family acquired it, the house was run down—but still a marked improvement from the granary. The main floor had a lobby, an eating area, a kitchen, and living quarters. Guest rooms and primitive bathroom...

   Brother Broken Good morning. It's a going-to-church kind of day, so walk with me, that's where we're headed. Sunday, May 16, 1965, 9:45 a.m. When the church bell rings, it’s time to get to Mass. Sunday mornings are a ruckus of primping and fussing. Boys have their hair slicked smooth with Brylcreem, women cap their lids with pretty bonnets, little girls wear tiny white gloves, and Dads shine their shoes. My family walks from home to church, which is only half a block. We fill the third pew from the front on the left side, facing the altar. Mom and Dad sit at each end of the bench to keep us hemmed in. The rest of us cram in the middle, except for whichever brother’s turn it is to serve as altar boy. After Mass, Mom rushes home to make sure the chicken in the oven isn’t over- or undercooked. The priest is coming for dinner. She sets the table with nine plates, one more than the current number of family members. The house is clean and tidy. Mom spent the previous day scrub...