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316 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1997
More than one in Thebes had observed that either by design or accident, I had gone and married my mother.The voice rang familiar in its careful measurement.
I, on the other hand, suspected that in Bridie I had done her one better. Rose McGarry was formidable, but she was set in her ways, absorbed in herself, a known and tested quantity. She was a mother, after all. When a boy grew into manhood he could by marriage or the clergy leave home-- and Andrew's concession spared me the latter escape. When that occurred an unforgiving mother's presence changed from being a permanent condition to, on obliged visits, a season one could prepare for in advance and look forward to the conclusion of. A mother's grip was like winter, inevitable but predictable. You never knew how deep the snow would fall, how hard the wind would blow, how long the freeze would last, but you could depend upon and plan against the appearance of all three, sooner or later. As the cold weather-- or a dinner at the house on Bald Hill-- approached, a man knew to close the shutters, to watch lest the fires go completely out, to don woolen clothing. And as the night drew on a faith could be permitted to arise. Six 'clock was darkest January, seven, February, and so forth, but by ten or so there was a clear promise of spring in the outside air. Jonquils stirred in their roots, ice began to melt in soggy patches, and the freedom of shirtsleeves beckoned just beyond the doorway.
With a bitter wife, however, there was no such respite, save work. If your beloved's eyes were full of expectation and surprise, anything was possible. If she possessed a summery soul, a man's life was one long gambol through green and grassy fields. Even if she were thoughtful and reserved, there was still the hearty comfort of color and the smoking fires of leaves.