Rebellious Daughters Read Online Free Page A
Author: Maria Katsonis And Lee Kofman
hospital. I went up whenever I could, but I had a job, and so did Brenda, but Rosie brought her children down and lived with our mother and helped her through this difficult time.
When we all lived at home together we fought and had arguments and got into terrible furies with one another, (though I donât think I was as bad as sometimes claimed, for instance I donât think I ever ripped rollers out of anybodyâs hair), but once we all left home, for Canberra, Wagga, Brisbane, we got on very well and developed the most powerful love for one another. We spent hours a week on the phone, visited whenever we could. After she left UQP and became a freelance editor, Rosie worked on my books. She was the most wonderful editor. We had terrific arguments about commas (itâs my job Marion to tell you these things, but youâre the writer, you can ignore me if you want) but more drastic things were no problem. She trembled when she felt obliged to tell me that she thought I should lose the first chapter of The Apricot Colonel , but I looked at it and said mildly, yes, youâre right. After my fierceness over punctuation she couldnât believe it was so simple.
And now Iâve lost Rosie too. She died in 2012, after some months of illness. She was 65. All the people shehad ever edited sent her loving and supportive messages, and her daughters made a fat scrapbook out of them. I cannot believe I have lost both my sisters. Both, and both younger than me, my little sisters, who were supposed to be there for my ever. It makes the world a cold and dreary place, sometimes. So many deaths, including my husband 17 years ago; the day before this anniversary I got a letter addressed to him, of which the first words were: Do you want to live another 15 to 25 years? It was an advertisement for krill-oil capsules. It helps to have a black sense of humour at these moments. And lucky I have now got my dear companion, who is a poet, as well as my son and my beautiful granddaughter. Judging by her stroppiness she is going to be a rebellious daughter; at seven she shows every sign of it. She thinks that I am a bit of a dill, she is very fond of me but I do need straightening out from time to time. Oh granny, she says, no, thatâs not right. It usually is, but I have trouble convincing her. She is a golden mini-goddess of a child, with a great quantity of completely blond hair, where on earth did that come from? Blue eyes, too, large and candid, when all the people around including her mother are dark-haired and brown-eyed. Her grandfather, my husband who died in 1998, had golden red hair and blue eyes, perhaps that is the inheritance.
Yesterday (a Tuesday late in November 2015) we went after school to a new café-bar-bookshop calledMuse that has lots of literary events. Iâd heard that it has a large portrait of me hanging on a blank wall. Youâre so famous, granny, said Bianca. She thought the picture was beautiful, and so it is, wonderful washes of colour, though I see myself looking a bit anguished. Itâs by Leeanne Crisp. Bianca had a robust afternoon tea of cake, strawberries and ice-cream, with lemonade. Lot of sugar, remarked her father. She engaged in lengthy conversation with the bookshop man about the book she wants, called I think The Day the Crayons Came Home ; sheâs told me a lot about this book. I love the way she engages in serious discussions with people without any self-doubt. She is proud of the fact that she reads books with chapters. She never walks anywhere, she always runs, which doubtless explains how she stays slim despite cake.
On the way home in the car she said to me, very firmly: Granny, this is true. (You know this means that it is very unlikely to be so.) If you put up Christmas decorations before December 1 then an elf kills a baby dolphin. Really? I said. I donât think elves kill baby dolphins. Yes, yes they do.
Afterwards I googled this, received wisdom is that it
When we all lived at home together we fought and had arguments and got into terrible furies with one another, (though I donât think I was as bad as sometimes claimed, for instance I donât think I ever ripped rollers out of anybodyâs hair), but once we all left home, for Canberra, Wagga, Brisbane, we got on very well and developed the most powerful love for one another. We spent hours a week on the phone, visited whenever we could. After she left UQP and became a freelance editor, Rosie worked on my books. She was the most wonderful editor. We had terrific arguments about commas (itâs my job Marion to tell you these things, but youâre the writer, you can ignore me if you want) but more drastic things were no problem. She trembled when she felt obliged to tell me that she thought I should lose the first chapter of The Apricot Colonel , but I looked at it and said mildly, yes, youâre right. After my fierceness over punctuation she couldnât believe it was so simple.
And now Iâve lost Rosie too. She died in 2012, after some months of illness. She was 65. All the people shehad ever edited sent her loving and supportive messages, and her daughters made a fat scrapbook out of them. I cannot believe I have lost both my sisters. Both, and both younger than me, my little sisters, who were supposed to be there for my ever. It makes the world a cold and dreary place, sometimes. So many deaths, including my husband 17 years ago; the day before this anniversary I got a letter addressed to him, of which the first words were: Do you want to live another 15 to 25 years? It was an advertisement for krill-oil capsules. It helps to have a black sense of humour at these moments. And lucky I have now got my dear companion, who is a poet, as well as my son and my beautiful granddaughter. Judging by her stroppiness she is going to be a rebellious daughter; at seven she shows every sign of it. She thinks that I am a bit of a dill, she is very fond of me but I do need straightening out from time to time. Oh granny, she says, no, thatâs not right. It usually is, but I have trouble convincing her. She is a golden mini-goddess of a child, with a great quantity of completely blond hair, where on earth did that come from? Blue eyes, too, large and candid, when all the people around including her mother are dark-haired and brown-eyed. Her grandfather, my husband who died in 1998, had golden red hair and blue eyes, perhaps that is the inheritance.
Yesterday (a Tuesday late in November 2015) we went after school to a new café-bar-bookshop calledMuse that has lots of literary events. Iâd heard that it has a large portrait of me hanging on a blank wall. Youâre so famous, granny, said Bianca. She thought the picture was beautiful, and so it is, wonderful washes of colour, though I see myself looking a bit anguished. Itâs by Leeanne Crisp. Bianca had a robust afternoon tea of cake, strawberries and ice-cream, with lemonade. Lot of sugar, remarked her father. She engaged in lengthy conversation with the bookshop man about the book she wants, called I think The Day the Crayons Came Home ; sheâs told me a lot about this book. I love the way she engages in serious discussions with people without any self-doubt. She is proud of the fact that she reads books with chapters. She never walks anywhere, she always runs, which doubtless explains how she stays slim despite cake.
On the way home in the car she said to me, very firmly: Granny, this is true. (You know this means that it is very unlikely to be so.) If you put up Christmas decorations before December 1 then an elf kills a baby dolphin. Really? I said. I donât think elves kill baby dolphins. Yes, yes they do.
Afterwards I googled this, received wisdom is that it
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