By Rick Bragg
A brand new York instances outstanding booklet of the YearThis haunting, harrowing, gloriously relocating recollection of a lifestyles at the American margin is the tale of Rick Bragg, who grew up dirt-poor in northeastern Alabama, likely destined for both the cotton generators or the penal complex, and as a substitute turned a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter for the hot York instances. it's the tale of Bragg's father, a hard-drinking guy with a murderous mood and the behavior of working out at the those that wanted him most.But on the heart of this hovering memoir is Bragg's mom, who went eighteen years with out a new costume in order that her sons can have college outfits and picked different people's cotton in order that her young children do not have to continue to exist welfare by myself. Evoking those lives--and the rustic that formed and nourished them--with artistry, honesty, and compassion, Rick Bragg brings domestic the affection and ache that lie on the middle of each relations. the result's unforgettable.
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Additional resources for All over but the shouting
It might even be that, as he sat dying, he would have told me anything if it would have made me think better of him. Even a legacy of a lie is better than hate. I choose not to believe that. I believe instead that there, in that wretched place where the ground blows up under your feet and dead men motion to you from the sidelines of war, a boy with thin blood was rearranged. I believe it. I want to. I have to. asked Momma, not long ago, to tell me stories about my daddy’s “He did some killin’, but he only told me about one time,” my momma said.
In the nal few he said he could still see the angel on his footboard, just waiting. I could not tell if he was drunk or not, but that is the way drunk people talk. I told him it was just a dream. 3 3 Fake gold, other people’s houses, and the finest man I never knew rst memory I have is of a tall blond woman who drags a cotton sack along an undulating row of rust-colored Thecanvas ground, through a eld that seems to reach into the back forty of forever. I remember the sound it makes as it slides between the chest-high stalks that are so deeply, darkly green they look almost black, and the smell of kicked-up dust, and sweat.
Charlie Bundrum did not distill whiskey for just any trash, but sold it only to the doctor, the lawyer, the man who owned the drugstore and the man who the lawyer, the man who owned the drugstore and the man who ran the school board. It was known in the dry counties of northwestern Georgia and northeastern Alabama that a jar of Mr. Bundrum’s pale gold, almost clear likker was safe as buttermilk. It would not make you go blind or howl at the moon or shoot your wife. A cup or two—or a few long pulls on the jug—only put a nice little fuzz around the edges of the world, like a soft lens on a camera.