Word: aunt
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Matthews is as hollow as his fiction. In fact, both he and Austin seem more like sounding boards than characters capable of making their own music. Not so 17-year-old Larry and his delightfully blowsy Aunt Doris in Jealous, a finely tuned 58-page tale that immediately reminds us that Ford is the gifted novelist who wrote The Sportswriter and Independence...
Jealous is a coming-of-age story told by Larry, a Montana boy who leaves his father's house near the Teton River to live with his mother in Seattle. On the road with his flirty aunt in her pink Cadillac, Larry seems a bit like Huck Finn rafting to new adventures. But Doris is no runaway Jim. Free in body and spirit, she drinks while driving, talks to dangerous characters in strange bars and dispenses seasoned opinions that underscore the title of the book. On why Larry's mom and dad separated: "They know too much about each other...
...Connerly says flatly, adding that the charges came from estranged kin who resent his success and disagree with his stand on affirmative action. His aunt Bertha Louis agrees, telling TIME that when Connerly left her house and moved in with his grandmother, "it was very, very rough going. What he says is true. And if his grandmother could rise from the grave, she would tell you the same thing." Louis says she walked into her mother's house one day in 1959 to find Connerly, then a freshman at American River Junior College, "sitting down in the kitchen cutting...
...four-year-old child (Victoire Thivisol) compulsively sucking her thumb, the only part of her forearm not in a cast after a crash that killed her mother--the film rarely leaves the wracked, haunted face of its fearless heroine. Many relatives think they are helping the girl: her aunt (Claire Nebout), who fills her with stories of God's craving for mommies; her young cousins, who try alternately teasing and cheering her; a boy at school who says, "You killed your mom because you're mean." But Ponette is inconsolable. When told, "You shouldn't be so sad," she properly...
...still trying to figure out the logistics of the tight-rope walk between feminist and feminine. I spent much of my later childhood feeling guilty about playing with dolls (I still feel kind of bad about the Barbies). I stole the model car that my aunt gave my brother for Christmas (he eventually appropriated the jewelry box she gave me for his Grateful Dead paraphenalia). I enjoyed building the car, but I enjoyed playing with the dolls...