這裡描寫法蘭克的父母和親人。





他的父親狂野好酒而特立獨行﹐年輕是被通緝而搭貨船從 Galway 到紐約。晚年回


到 Belfast﹐不再喝酒和吸煙﹐最後死在醫院。





他的母親安琪拉跟她的母親﹐兩個哥哥 Thomas 和 Patrick 以及姐姐 Agnes 成長


在 Limerick 的貧民區。 她沒見過她的父親。在她出生前幾個星期﹐她的父親離家出


走到了澳大利亞﹐因為他醉酒回來﹐將一歲的 Patrick 拋擲嬉耍時﹐不慎將小孩摔


傷了。





安琪拉身懷六甲的母親心疼的抱起奄奄一息的小孩﹐氣憤的趕她的丈夫出門。





作者將這幾段文章寫得生動又幽默。





(2007-02-14)                        














【附錄原文】





My father, Malachy McCourt, was born on a farm in Toome, County Antrim. Like his 


father before, he grew up wild, in trouble with the English, or the Irish, or both. He 


fought with the Old IRA and for some desperate act he wound up a fugitive with a 


price on his head.





When I was a child I would look at my father, the thinning hair, the collapsing teeth, 


and wonder why anyone would give money for a head like that. When I was thirteen 


my father’s mother told me a secret: as a weed lad your poor father was dropped 


on his head. It was an accident, he was never the same after, and you must 


remember that people dropped on their heads can be a bit peculiar.





Because of the price on the head he had been dropped on, he had to be spirited 


out of Ireland via cargo ship from Galway. In New York, with Prohibition in full 


swing, he thought he had died and gone to hell for his sins. Then he discovered 


speakeasies and he rejoiced.





After wandering and drinking in America and England he yearned for peace in his 


declining years. He returned to Belfast, which erupted all around him. He said, 


A pox on all their houses, and chatted with the ladies of Andersontown. They 


tempted him with delicacies but he waved them away and drank his tea. He no 


longer smoked or touched alcohol, so what was the use? It was time to go and 


he died in the Royal Victoria Hospital.





My mother, the former Angela Sheehan, grew up in a Limerick slum with her 


mother, two brothers, Thomas and Patrick, and a sister, Agnes. She never saw 


her father, who had run off to Australia weeks before her birth.





After a night of drinking porter in the pubs of Limerick he staggers down the 


lane singing his favorite song.





	Who threw the overalls in Mrs. Murphy’s chowder?


	Nobody spoke so he said it all the louder


             It’s a dirty Irish trick and I can lick the Mick


             Who threw the overalls in Murphy’s chowder





He’s in great form altogether and he thinks he’ll play a while with little Patrick, 


one year old. Lovely little fella. Loves his daddy. Laughs when Daddy throws 


him up in the air. Upsy daisy, little Paddy, upsy daisy, up in the air in the dark, 


so dark, oh, Jasus, you miss the child on the way down and poor little Patrick 


lands on his head, gurgles a bit, whimpers, goes quiet. Grandma heaves herself 


from the bed, heavy with the child in her belly, my mother. She’s barely able to 


lift little Patrick from the floor. She moans a long moan over the child and turns 


on Grandpa. Get out of it. Out. If you stay here a minute longer I’ll take the 


hatchet to you, you drunken lunatic. By Jesus, I’ll swing at the end of a rope 


for you. Get out.