Frank McCourt's memoir is named for the memory of his mother, Angela, sitting at the fire when his dad, Malachy, didn't come home. McCourt grew up in poverty that almost seems unimaginable. His stories are vivid and full of color. His dad was often not there and his mother was left to take care of the children. When Malachy did make a little money, it was often spent at the local pub before the family got to eat. One interesting thing is that Malachy was a wonderful story teller when he was there, and Frank McCourt seems to have inherited the gift. I loved this book. It is sad, but McCourt has such a wonderful gift for telling the story through the eyes of a child who does not realize how bad things are. This is a great read, although it may be difficult for more sensitive readers.
The author recounts his childhood in Depression-era Brooklyn as the child of Irish immigrants who decide to return to worse poverty in Ireland when his infant sister dies