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Our house must be sold to help keep The Daily Chronicle afloat. What better place for Aunt Phil to make this announcement than in the graveyard, among relatives who, by the way she looked at their headstones, might have all died to keep the Chronicle afloat? to hear her talk, giving up the house was the least that we could do.
"Their only regret," said Uncle Reginald, "is that they have but one house to give for the Chronicle."
We had moved in with Aunt Phil three months ago, supposedly so that the house that we were renting from her, at what Uncle Reginald called "the family rate," could be repaired. The repairs were taking place, but we would not be moving back, not ever. Aunt Phil said that we could stay with her for as long as we liked. All of her children had moved out, so there was plenty of room, she said. The rest of us said nothing, and no wonder. When someone tells you that your house is being sold to help preserve the life work of your great-grandfather, at whose grave you just happen to be kneeling, there isn't much you can say. Except maybe "We who are about to lose our home salute you," which was what Uncle Reginald had said ten years ago upon being told that his house must be sold.
Lots of things had been sold to keep the Chronicle afloat. We had once owned a marbleworks and a pair of flower shops, but these had been sold. Other houses had been sold. Uncle Reginald swore that Reg Ryan Sr. had bought up all the houses on Fleming Street just so that in re-selling them he could pick and choose his neighbours. Fleming Street was what Reg Ryan had made it, Uncle Reginald said, a little empire, all of which had been left to Aunt Phil, and most of which was now gone. Uncle Reginald had taken his disinheritance better than anyone had expected. After the reading of Reg Ryan's will, he had turned to Father Seymour and said: "Well, at least he let me keep my name."
All that was left of the empire, except for Aunt Phil's house, was its four corners: the Chronicle and the funeral home, which we owned, and the orphanage and the convent, which we might as well have owned, given how long someone named Ryan had been running them. The Daily Chronicle, Reg Ryan's (as the funeral home was called), St. Martin's orphanage, and St. Mary's convent. The only money-maker in the lot was the funeral home, prompting Uncle Reginald to remark that, from now on, the family motto should be, "We make our living from the dead."
Because there were so many priests and nuns in the family, we were known throughout the city as the Divine Ryans. We had always been a church family, and had married into other church families, so that it sometimes seemed that all the priests and nuns in the world were related to us. Our last family reunion, Uncle Reginald said, was known to the world as Vatican II.
Aunt Phil's news was that much harder to take because our old house was next door to hers. I could see it from my bedroom window. In fact, because the curtains were down, I could see right into the rooms, all of which were empty. One night, I stood there for a long time, looking at our house, wondering who would move into it. Almost directly across from my new bedroom window was my old one, where I had often stood, looking out at Aunt Phil's backyard, hoping to catch a glimpse of Aunt Phil escorting Uncle Reginald to the hearse.
I looked away from the window. On the wall of my room was a picture of me which Uncle Reginald had blown up. The original had appeared in The Daily Chronicle about a year ago when I had been chosen minor hockey player of the week, an honour that would not have been bestowed upon me if, one the one hand, my father had not been editor-in-chief of the Chronicle, and on the other, if he had ever seen me play. In the picture, I was dressed in full goalie gear, face mask included. I looked like some sort of insect, magnified ten thousand times, preening for the microscope. At my skates, on the ice just in front of me, lay my nemesis, the puck. The word "puck," my father had once told me, originally meant "demon." For a time it had even been used interchangeably with "hobgoblin." I made a mental note of thanks to that anonymous inventor of hockey who had had the good sense to opt for "puck."
Revue de presse :
"Their only regret," said Uncle Reginald, "is that they have but one house to give for the Chronicle."
We had moved in with Aunt Phil three months ago, supposedly so that the house that we were renting from her, at what Uncle Reginald called "the family rate," could be repaired. The repairs were taking place, but we would not be moving back, not ever. Aunt Phil said that we could stay with her for as long as we liked. All of her children had moved out, so there was plenty of room, she said. The rest of us said nothing, and no wonder. When someone tells you that your house is being sold to help preserve the life work of your great-grandfather, at whose grave you just happen to be kneeling, there isn't much you can say. Except maybe "We who are about to lose our home salute you," which was what Uncle Reginald had said ten years ago upon being told that his house must be sold.
Lots of things had been sold to keep the Chronicle afloat. We had once owned a marbleworks and a pair of flower shops, but these had been sold. Other houses had been sold. Uncle Reginald swore that Reg Ryan Sr. had bought up all the houses on Fleming Street just so that in re-selling them he could pick and choose his neighbours. Fleming Street was what Reg Ryan had made it, Uncle Reginald said, a little empire, all of which had been left to Aunt Phil, and most of which was now gone. Uncle Reginald had taken his disinheritance better than anyone had expected. After the reading of Reg Ryan's will, he had turned to Father Seymour and said: "Well, at least he let me keep my name."
All that was left of the empire, except for Aunt Phil's house, was its four corners: the Chronicle and the funeral home, which we owned, and the orphanage and the convent, which we might as well have owned, given how long someone named Ryan had been running them. The Daily Chronicle, Reg Ryan's (as the funeral home was called), St. Martin's orphanage, and St. Mary's convent. The only money-maker in the lot was the funeral home, prompting Uncle Reginald to remark that, from now on, the family motto should be, "We make our living from the dead."
Because there were so many priests and nuns in the family, we were known throughout the city as the Divine Ryans. We had always been a church family, and had married into other church families, so that it sometimes seemed that all the priests and nuns in the world were related to us. Our last family reunion, Uncle Reginald said, was known to the world as Vatican II.
Aunt Phil's news was that much harder to take because our old house was next door to hers. I could see it from my bedroom window. In fact, because the curtains were down, I could see right into the rooms, all of which were empty. One night, I stood there for a long time, looking at our house, wondering who would move into it. Almost directly across from my new bedroom window was my old one, where I had often stood, looking out at Aunt Phil's backyard, hoping to catch a glimpse of Aunt Phil escorting Uncle Reginald to the hearse.
I looked away from the window. On the wall of my room was a picture of me which Uncle Reginald had blown up. The original had appeared in The Daily Chronicle about a year ago when I had been chosen minor hockey player of the week, an honour that would not have been bestowed upon me if, one the one hand, my father had not been editor-in-chief of the Chronicle, and on the other, if he had ever seen me play. In the picture, I was dressed in full goalie gear, face mask included. I looked like some sort of insect, magnified ten thousand times, preening for the microscope. At my skates, on the ice just in front of me, lay my nemesis, the puck. The word "puck," my father had once told me, originally meant "demon." For a time it had even been used interchangeably with "hobgoblin." I made a mental note of thanks to that anonymous inventor of hockey who had had the good sense to opt for "puck."
"Johnston is an authentic comic genius.... His timing and pacing are impeccable. He knows how to ... create laughter out of a wonderful mixture of emotions."
—The Montreal Gazette
"A very funny and fulfilling read."
—The Globe and Mail
"Divine reading indeed ... a work of art in its powerful handling of everyday humour and sublime tragedy."
—St. John's Sunday Express
"The Divine Ryans [has] heart, soul and brains.... An absolute stunner — achingly funny, needle sharp and packing an unexpected wallop."
—Time Out (UK)
—The Montreal Gazette
"A very funny and fulfilling read."
—The Globe and Mail
"Divine reading indeed ... a work of art in its powerful handling of everyday humour and sublime tragedy."
—St. John's Sunday Express
"The Divine Ryans [has] heart, soul and brains.... An absolute stunner — achingly funny, needle sharp and packing an unexpected wallop."
—Time Out (UK)
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- ÉditeurMcClelland & Stewart Inc.
- Date d'édition1991
- ISBN 10 077104447X
- ISBN 13 9780771044472
- ReliureRelié
- Nombre de pages233
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THE DIVINE RYANS
Edité par
McClelland & Stewart
(1990)
ISBN 10 : 077104447X
ISBN 13 : 9780771044472
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Image d'archives
The Divine Ryans
Edité par
McClelland & Stewart
(1990)
ISBN 10 : 077104447X
ISBN 13 : 9780771044472
Neuf
Couverture rigide
Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Etat : New. Book is in NEW condition. N° de réf. du vendeur 077104447X-2-1
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