Cecile Beaulieu's Blog, page 5

Brother BrokenGood morning.It's a going-to-church kind ...

 

 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 scrubbing and waxing floors to a shine. Pauly and I dusted furniture with polish that smelled like antiseptic lemon. Rhubarb pies, waiting to be served for dessert, sit on the counter.

Mitch and I follow Dad home from church while the rest of my siblings linger with friends in the churchyard. It’s a beautiful spring day, and we want to ride the tire swing.

With one free hand, Dad helps us gain elevation on a rubber doughnut. With the other, he raises a smoke to his lips. I have an image of him still—an almost-dandy, leaning casually near the base of the swing, cleanshaven, wearing pleated trousers and a dress shirt, with a fedora cocked on his head. I think I saw that figure once before, in a movie on TV where the star catches the leading lady’s eye.

Pauly walks across the yard toward the swing and joins Dad to keep us airborne. Mitch lets out a squeal and tightens his hold on the ropes. He relishes the thrill of flying. I hear Rod, Denis and John cavorting from down the street as they make their way home. Soon, they want a turn on the swing, too.

No one notices him arriving. There’s no sound to alert us, except perhaps the gentle rustle of his robe over the grass. I look up and squint my eyes to see a dark figure looming over me, blocking light from the sun. A dark, towering silhouette without a smile or emotion. I quit picking dandelions, the boys step away from the swing, Pauly holds the ball that Mitch wants to keep kicking, and Dad stubs a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. Play stops, and we are sombrely attentive when the priest shows up.

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Brother BrokenWelcome back again.It's the weekend and I ...

 

Brother Broken

Welcome back again.It's the weekend and I hope you have great plans to enjoy it.Here's more info about Brother Broken. I will let the book tell you a bit about the Canadian setting: 

At any given time, the population of our village never exceeded one hundred. It occupies a very small piece of ground in north western Saskatchewan. The community sits on the edge of northern boreal forest. Farming is the area's main industry. Our village borrows its name from the Cree language. The word is Makwa which translates as loon. Most would agree that the name Makwa holds a nicer flavour than its English counterpart, especially since the word loon holds two meanings. One signifies an aquatic bird that frequents the nearby lakes. The other alludes to a not-so-flattering term describing a state of mind. Strange things can happen in Makwa, so in either sense the name fits the village. For what it's worth, Makwa exists on the opposite side of bush-line from normal. Being normal is boring and Makwa was anything but boring.

Link to FriesenPress to learn more about where you can purchase the book. 

Come back soon.

Brother BrokenWelcome back to my blog. Today's highlight...

 Brother Broken

Welcome back to my blog. Today's highlight of Brother Broken is the Epigraph, which sets the theme of the book, and includes a little bit of trivia.
EPIGRAPH 




M.A.S.H. theme song:
“Suicide is Painless”
by Mike Altman and Johnny Mandel 
I wanted to use words from the song 'Suicide is Painless' in the title of the book, but it seemed absurd and inappropriate, considering the piece was meant to be the "stupidest song ever written" (Robert Altman).
As M.A.S.H.'s movie director, Robert Altman wanted it sung during the staged funeral of a medic who had faked suicide. The director's son, 14-year-old Mike Altman, wrote the lyrics in under an hour and it became a No. 1 hit in the UK. Music lovers obviously didn't consider it a stupid song.

The lyrics are brilliant, the tune is catchy and when it gets in your head, it won't leave. That's how it's been the whole time writing this book. There is something soothing about the piece and I wanted to mention its significance.

Link to FriesenPress to learn more about where you can purchase the book. 

Come back soon.

Welcome to the home of Brother Broken Blog. I'm not sure...

 

Welcome to the home of Brother Broken Blog.

 

I'm not sure how a blog is supposed to look, so here goes nothin'. Come back soon for more...

 

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 be further from the spotlight. It's a great place to store secrets. A great place to fly under the wire. An even better place to get away with indiscretions. But you won't find evidence of wrongdoing. It's been buried for years and no pickaxe is durable enough to dig up a clue. But rest assured, you may find a lesson worth learning¾one used to protect future generations.

Link to FriesenPress to learn more about where you can purchase the book.