Golden Years - Hardcover

Greeley, Andrew M.

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0765303388 ISBN 13: 9780765303387

Publisher: Forge Books, 2004

Synopsis

Father Andrew M. Greeley, one of America's most popular and trusted storytellers, has long charmed readers with his continuing chronicles of the crazy O'Malleys, an irrepressible and resilient Irish American family caught up in the rush of modern American history. The previous novels in the O'Malley saga, including A Midwinter's Tale and Second Spring, have taken the longtime Chicago residents from the early postwar era through the turmoil and malaise of the 1970s. Now, in Golden Years, Chucky O'Malley and his ever-growing clan enter the Reagan years---even as a series of painful shocks tests the family's strength as never before.

The death of Chucky's elderly father brings the entire brood together to mourn, but what should be a time of unity is disrupted by the increasingly erratic behavior of Chucky's unhappy and emotionally unstable older sister, igniting a family crisis that ultimately threatens the lives of both young and old O'Malleys. Furthermore, as if their own struggles are not enough to cope with, Chucky and his wife, Rosemarie, also find themselves called upon to help an old high school friend whose beloved wife and daughter have disappeared inexplicably. To find Brigid "Bride" O'Brien and her innocent child, Chucky and Rosemarie must untangle a shadowy mystery that stretches from the bogs of Old Erin to the darkest chapters of the cold war. . . .

There will hard days ahead but, with love and more than a bit of faith, the O'Malleys will bury their dead, dry their tears, and try to make the best of their . . . Golden Years.

About this title

About the Author:

Priest, sociologist, author and journalist, Father Andrew M. Greeley built an international assemblage of devout fans over a career spanning five decades. His books include the Bishop Blackie Ryan novels, including The Archbishop in Andalusia, the Nuala Anne McGrail novels, including Irish Tweed, and The Cardinal Virtues. He was the author of over 50 best-selling novels and more than 100 works of non-fiction, and his writing has been translated into 12 languages.

Father Greeley was a Professor of Sociology at the University of Arizona and a Research Associate with the National Opinion Research Center (NORC) at the University of Chicago. In addition to scholarly studies and popular fiction, for many years he penned a weekly column appearing in the Chicago Sun-Times and other newspapers. He was also a frequent contributor to The New York Times, the National Catholic Reporter, America and Commonweal, and was interviewed regularly on national radio and television. He authored hundreds of articles on sociological topics, ranging from school desegregation to elder sex to politics and the environment.

Throughout his priesthood, Father Greeley unflinchingly urged his beloved Church to become more responsive to evolving concerns of Catholics everywhere. His clear writing style, consistent themes and celebrity stature made him a leading spokesperson for generations of Catholics. He chronicled his service to the Church in two autobiographies, Confessions of a Parish Priest and Furthermore!

In 1986, Father Greeley established a $1 million Catholic Inner-City School Fund, providing scholarships and financial support to schools in the Chicago Archdiocese with a minority student body of more than 50 percent. In 1984, he contributed a $1 million endowment to establish a chair in Roman Catholic Studies at the University of Chicago. He also funded an annual lecture series, “The Church in Society,” at St. Mary of the Lake Seminary, Mundelein, Illinois, from which he received his S.T.L. in 1954.

Father Greeley received many honors and awards, including honorary degrees from the National University of Ireland at Galway, the University of Arizona and Bard College. A Chicago native, he earned his M.A. in 1961 and his Ph.D. in 1962 from the University of Chicago.

Father Greeley was a penetrating student of popular culture, deeply engaged with the world around him, and a lifelong Chicago sports fan, cheering for the Bulls, Bears and the Cubs. Born in 1928, he died in May 2013 at the age of 85.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Golden Years
CHAPTER ONERosemarie"This country," the ambassador said in his most ambassadorial tone, "will implode in ten years.""On what grounds do you make that prediction, sir?"The lean, hungry man with thin black hair who had been introduced to us as the second secretary of the US embassy in Moscow was obviously the CIA resident.At that very moment we would soon learn, back home in Chicago where we should have been, tragedy was stalking our family."It should be obvious to all of you," Ambassador O'Malley said, with serene confidence. "It's falling apart. When it does collapse, most--probably all--of the constituent republics will depart quickly. The satellite countries--which our presently gloriously reigning president has deigned to characterize as an 'evil empire' will also leave. After six decades the Bolshevik revolution will reside in the ash can of history."My husband is a man of many different personae. He can slide back and forth among them with considerable ease, not to say delight. Usually he is Chucky Ducky, my adorable and funny little redhead lover, about whom I write an occasional story for The New Yorker. However, tonight at the formal embassy dinner (myself the only woman present), he had become Charles Cronin O'Malley, ambassador of the United States of America with all the rights, privileges, and solemnity pertaining thereto. In fact, his term as ambassador to the Federal Republicof Germany had ended in 1964, seventeen years ago. Yet, as he explained to me, "once an ambassador, always an ambassador, just like being West Side Irish."He was also known as one of the "wise men" who had advised a hapless Lyndon Johnson to withdraw from Vietnam in 1968. In the world of the Foreign Service he was therefore by definition wise, even if he doesn't look like it. He was treated with enormous respect, the kind of which the family never accorded him. So when a young member of the embassy staff encountered us on the Moscow subway the day after we returned from Siberia, it became mandatory that the embassy invite us to dinner.They were disappointed and a little miffed that we had not announced our arrival at the beginning of the trip. They could have given us some warnings. Surely the KGB knew who we were and would shadow us during our month of wandering the Soviet outback. They did not trust people with cameras. They were not eager to have the impoverishment of the Soviet Union revealed to the media of the world.Chucky replied with ambassadorial aplomb that the secret police agents who were our guides had been very friendly and offered no objections to the pictures of ordinary Soviet people that he had snapped. "Snapped" was his word. My husband's persona as a photographer required that he create the image of a little kid with a Kodak box camera, such as the one he had used to take my picture when I was ten years old, a photograph which still shocks me. He saw too much."The Russians," he said, "are a friendly, gregarious people. They love to have their pictures taken."This was much less than the truth. However, the Russians were as likely as anyone else to succumb to West Side Irish charm. Our guides could see no harm to the Soviet image in what we were doing. All we did was "snap" pictures of families, and kids, and elderly people. We put the camera away when we were near factories or military installations. Only if the secret police had a chance to see all our pictures or to read the notes I had taken would they realize what an indictment of Soviet society our work really was.We arrived at the embassy with all my notebooks andnearly a hundred rolls of film Chucky had used, the latter in three X-ray-proof bags. The ambassador, a handsome WASP with silver hair and a red face, was only too willing to agree to put them in the diplomatic pouch."You may have trouble at the airport," he said. "They'll want to know where all your photos are.""I'll tell them that they went home in the diplomatic pouch."He nodded."They won't like it but that's just too bad."Everyone around the dinner table seemed hostile to the Soviet Union. The Cold War was still on. They didn't quite call it the "evil empire," yet their attitude was that the struggle with the Kremlin could go on for decades. Then my dear husband dropped his bomb. He was telling them in effect that all the intelligence on Russia the State Department and the CIA had labored so diligently to assemble was dead wrong."I don't quite see it that way, Mr. Ambassador," the DCM (Deputy Chief of Mission) replied after a couple of moments of awkward silence. "I admit that nothing is very efficient here, but I can't imagine people turning out in the streets as they did in 1917.""They won't have to, Tony." Chuck smiled serenely. "The revolution will come from within the party, some of the middle-level apparatchiks will come into power in the next ten years and replace such senile Neanderthals as Brezhnev, Chernenko, and Andropov. They'll try to change the system to solve some immediate problems, and it will all fall apart.""The party won't let that happen," the resident said dismissively."The party has made the same mistake that the Catholic Church made. It educated its technicians and middle management. They have begun to think for themselves. Such people become revolutionaries.""I have never met any revolutionaries in the nomenklatura," the DCM said sternly. "They don't promote men with any tendency to think for themselves.""How much of their gold reserve do they spend each year to buy foreign grain?" Chuck fired back."Billions.""In a country which has some of the best farmland in the world?""They keep trying," a younger staff member observed. "When they succeed in making their agriculture work, they'll become a forbidding adversary.""We've been threatening ourselves with that possibility for a couple of decades ... And when they run out of gold reserves?"More silence around the table."Socialism doesn't work," my husband continued. "Never has. Never will. The workers have no motivation to work. Stalin is no longer around to put a gun to their heads. So they don't work. The regime is both incompetent and corrupt. Male life expectancy is down to fifty-seven years, less than many third world countries. A quarter of the men are chronic alcoholics. Highway deaths are higher than in the United States, and they have a tenth of the cars. They make the best ice cream in the world, however.""Many countries are both corrupt and incompetent," the ambassador, all diplomatic charm, said. "All of Africa, for example.""The African countries have not promised their people a dream of the good life for seven decades and they are not industrial giants with an educated population. The evidence is all around: one of the great industrial powers in the world is grinding to a halt, good ice cream or not.""We don't quite see it that way, sir," the resident said. "And our experience is much longer and has more depth than your month of wandering about with a camera.""The lens of a camera has no ideological filters," Chuck replied. "It sees the results of a collapsing social structure which you don't see."That was an insult. My husband was arguing that he was more of an expert on the Soviet Union than men who had spent much of their lives studying it, precisely because he was free of their Cold War ideological blinders.I had warned him as the embassy limousine had delivered us to the door that he should not start a fight and insult our hosts."We both agree about what we saw, Chuck," I said. "But welook at this country from the perspective of the West Side of Chicago. The people we saw out there in Sverdlovsk might see it differently.""They all call it Yekaterinburg," he replied and kissed me gently. "They know that this regime is only temporary, even if it has lasted seventy years."I knew then we were in for a fight.The ambassador deftly intervened to change the subject. Chuck, knowing that he had made his point, just as deftly backed off."Well, you creamed them," I said as the limo took us back to the Cosmos Hotel."Yeah, I won't say the same thing to the president when I take his picture next week.""The heck you won't!"There is a tradition dating back to Ike that my husband "take a picture" as he calls his work of every president. He was not looking forward to the trip to the White House to "snap" a man he called "a washed-up actor.""Idiots who try to build a Hilton and end up with a dump like this," he said as we climbed out of the limo, "can't stay in power much longer."The tile was peeling off the tub in our bathroom, the curtains hung at half-mast, the TV worked intermittently. The staff were indifferent, but not unfriendly, especially when Chuck tipped them with Yankee dollars.He had slept most of the way to the hotel. My husband travels very badly. I was astonished that he had survived the Trans-Siberian Railway, the endless rides on very bad roads, and the crazy pilots on Aeroflot's domestic routes who seem to feel that they had to prove they were totally unafraid of death. Indeed he kept muttering that we were pushing our respective guardian angels too far. It would take him a-couple of weeks to recoup once we were home. My role on these trips, besides that of a film provider and an occasional lover, was to take care of him. This time I was worn-out too. We were a long way from home.It is probably clear already that I love him deeply, passionately, permanently. He is not much to look at, unless you happento like pint-size altar boys with red hair like a wire brush, gentle blue eyes, and a grin that would melt your heart. His exact height is c...

About this edition

• Publisher: Forge Books
• Publication date: 2004
• ISBN 10: 0765303388
• ISBN 13: 9780765303387
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 304