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A Class of His Own

Thanksgiving in the Farragher household is always a dicey affair, and nothing sparks spirited debate quite like the success of Frank McCourt.

“I wouldn’t piss up against the man for shelter,” snorts one churchgoing aunt. “He shamed our race with all that nonsense of Irish and drinking that you see in Hallmark cards around March 17; it’s the same thing.”

“I grew up in Limerick the same time he did, and the book is a pack of lies,” announced my mother proudly. “The way he spoke about his parents was shameful.”
 
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