Beautiful People: My Family and Other Glamorous Varmints by Simon Doonan

No wonder Betty had run off to join the Air Force and married a bloke who rubbed her feet and listened to opera.
    In D.C.’s world, men had a full monopoly on recreational activities. While the women scrubbed and toiled and baked without so much as an ass pinch or a thank-you, their menfolkseemed unable to function without a steady flow of time-honored pleasures and rewards. They were hardworking, but only in sporadic bursts. The rest of the time they gambled on the horses and drank Guinness and cultivated audaciously high expectations of their womenfolk. They were completely and utterly heterosexual.
    I have a great snapshot of D.C. sitting proudly in a horse-drawn cart with his name emblazoned across the front. This image recalls Charlton Heston’s chariot-racing scene in Ben-Hur. At the time of the snap, D.C. was the proprietor of a thriving milk delivery business. This enterprise—the apotheosis of his career—eventually failed. According to Betty, the reasons were twofold: first, and commendably, good-hearted D.C. had a hard time collecting money from the poor and gave away much of the milk. Second, and less fabulously, what little profits were made went straight to the betting shop or the cash register at the Woodman’s Arms.
    The life of a Northern Irish boulevardier was not without its challenges. On one occasion, while sauntering home from the aforementioned Woodman’s Arms after an evening of conviviality, a sixty-five-year-old D.C. plunged into a construction hole, breaking a leg and losing a great deal of dignity. He was carted off to hospital, where the fractured limb was encased in plaster. Painkillers were ostentatiously declined. D.C. was then told that he must rest for two months. The phrase “never walk again” was used.
    Poo-pooing these warnings, D.C. discharged himself and staggered home. Heading directly to the toolshed, he set about removing the massive cast with a hacksaw. It wasthirsty work. Free of the cast, he hobbled back to the Wood-man’s Arms. Propping himself up at the bar, he regaled his cohorts with his adventure. The Guinness flowed. Everybody, Betty included, marveled at his unmedicated bravery.
    Within his community, D.C., the handsome widower, was considered to be not only gutsy but eligible. Various local ladies had their eyes on him. Coiffed and perfumed, they would drop by to flirt and partake of tea. His favorite way to discourage this kind of behavior was to lie on the floor with the lights out. My sister and I enjoyed this charade. We had read Anne Frank’s newly published Diary of a Young Girl. We knew what to do.
    If the widows caught us all in the front yard, D.C. would switch to Plan B. This entailed making tea and feeding the unwanted visitors ancient slices of bread from his chicken feed bin. My sister and I took great delight in watching this ritual.
    “Davey, is this bread no’ a wee bit moldy?” his coquettish lady friends would ask as they stared anxiously at the small, furry, gray-green blotches.
    “Notatall! Sure, it’s fresh the daaay!” he would reply, daring them, with his handsome dark brown eyes, not to partake.
    These moments of hilarity were few and far between. Most of the time D.C. was a grunty and remote vacation host.
    This is probably a good moment to reflect on the tour de force that was Betty Doonan née Gordon. Most of her year was spent toiling, mothering, cutting up blind Aunt Phyllis’s food, and contending with Narg and Ken, our schizophrenic live-in relatives. The only respite from this routine was our annual vacation, out of the frying pan and into Northern Ireland. Whilewe frolicked in the icy, oily waters of Belfast Lough, Betty cooked and scrubbed and attempted to alleviate the squalor of her eccentric and demanding parent. Well-coiffed, maquillaged, and uncomplaining, she confronted these familial challenges head-on.
    My mum had long since reconciled herself to the fact that relatives were nothing but trouble. For Betty they were