Friday's Forgotten Books: Ironweed by William Kennedy

I don't know if Ironweed is considered a forgotten book, but it was forgotten by me until I saw it at the library. When I was a kid, I used to see the ironweed blooming along the creeks and edges of fields. Many years later, I saw a novel by the same name had won the Pulitzer Prize. Now I finally got around to reading it, and I am glad I did. Francis "Fran" Phelan is an ex-ballplayer (a third baseman for the Washington Senators, my favorite team). Francis dropped his baby boy Gerald on his head and killed him twenty-two years ago, and left home in great sorrow and regret. Francis calls himself a bum, though I expect he is more of an introspective, brooding hobo knocking around 1930s Albany, New York. He picks up odd jobs as a gravedigger and rag man's assistant. All of his money goes to booze. While not the happiest novel to read, Ironweed's prose has a blue-collar lyricism to it I liked. Plus, Francis seems to be a good-hearted soul, and I rooted for him to overcome his grief. Ironweed is a short, often humorous book that clips right along.