Second Spring : A Love Story

by Greeley, Andrew M.

• ISBN13: 9780765342386
• ISBN10: 0765342383
• Edition: Reprint
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2004-05-16
• Publisher: Forge Books

Summary

It's 1978 and the whole country, exhausted from the twin traumas of Vietnam and Watergate, seems to be suffering from a massive hangover. Chucky O'Malley knows how the country feels; approaching fifty, he finds himself in the grip of a debilitating mid-life crisis. He hasn't lost his faith, exactly, but he does feel disillusioned and depressed. As he travels the world, Chucky searches for a way to renew his weary spirit. Fortunately, he doesn't have to face this challenge alone. With the loving support of his family, and especially his irrepressible and adoring wife, Rosemarie, he just might rediscover his lost hope and optimism in time for a Second Spring. . . .

Author Biography

A native of Chicago, Reverend Andrew M. Greeley, is a priest, distinguished sociologist and bestselling author. He is professor of social sciences at the University of Chicago and the University of Arizona, as well as Research Associate at the National Opinion Research Center at the University of Chicago. His current sociological research focuses on current issues facing the Catholic Church-including celibacy of priests, ordination of women, religious imagination, and sexual behavior of Catholics.

Father Greeley received the S.T.L. in 1954 from St. Mary of Lake Seminary. His graduate work was done at the University of Chicago, where he received the M.A. Degree in 1961 and the Ph.D. in 1962.

Father Greeley has written scores of books and hundreds of popular and scholarly articles on a variety of issues in sociology, education and religion. His column on political, church and social issues is carried by the carried by the Chicago Sun Times and may other newspapers. He stimulates discussion of neglected issues and often anticipates sociological trends. He is the author of more than thirty bestselling novels and an autobiography, Furthermore!: Confessions of a Parish Priest.

Table of Contents

Chuck
 
1978
 
 
“You might,” the naked woman said to me, “make model airplanes.”
“Ah,” I said, as I caressed her firm, sweaty belly, an essential of afterplay as I had learned long ago.
“You always wanted to make them when you were a kid.”
The full moon illumined the dome of St. Peter's in the distance and bathed us in its glow, as though it were doing us a favor. Over there the cardinals were doubtless spending a restless night in the uncomfortable beds in their stuffy rooms. None of them had a bedmate like Rosemarie with whom to play, worse luck for them and for the Church.
“You said…Don't stop, Chucky Ducky, I like that…You said that you were too poor to buy the kits.”
“I did not!” I insisted, as I kissed her tenderly.
“You did.” She sighed. “You don't have to stop that either.”
My lips roamed her flesh, not demanding now, but reassuring, praising, celebrating.
“I did not!”
There had been a time, long years ago, when I would have tried a second romp of lovemaking in a situation like the present one.
“Or you could take up collecting sports cards. You told all of us that you couldn't afford that either.”
“I never said that!”
“You did too!” She giggled as I tickled her.
“I guess I'm in my midlife identity crisis,” I admitted.
“You can't be, Chucky Ducky darling.” She snuggled close to me. “You haven't got beyond your late adolescent identity crisis.”
One of the valiant Rosemarie's favorite themes was that I was still a charming little boy, like the little redhead in the stories she wrote.
“Mind you,” she whispered, “I like you as an adolescent boy.”
“Oh?”
“Only an adolescent boy would be so nicely obsessed with every part of a woman's anatomy.”
That would be a line in her next story. I wondered how the New Yorker would handle the spectacular lovemaking that preceded the line.
“A man could become impotent at the possibility that his bedtime amusements would become public knowledge.”
“Ha!…I don't know about you, Chucky Ducky, but I'm going to sleep now.”
She pillowed her head on my stomach.
“Chucky love,” she sighed, now well across the border into the land of Nod, “you're wonderful. We really defied death this time, didn't we?”
That would be in the story too. I had become a character in a series of New Yorker stories—a little red-haired punk as an occasional satyr.
Rosemarie Helen Clancy O'Malley had found her midlife identity as a writer. Her poor husband had found his identity as a character in fiction. On that happy note I reprised in my imagination some of the more pleasurable moments of our romp and sank into peace and satisfied sleep.
 
Copyright © 2003 by Andrew M. Greeley Enterprises, Inc.

Excerpts

Chuck
 
1978
 
 
“You might,” the naked woman said to me, “make model airplanes.”
“Ah,” I said, as I caressed her firm, sweaty belly, an essential of afterplay as I had learned long ago.
“You always wanted to make them when you were a kid.”
The full moon illumined the dome of St. Peter’s in the distance and bathed us in its glow, as though it were doing us a favor. Over there the cardinals were doubtless spending a restless night in the uncomfortable beds in their stuffy rooms. None of them had a bedmate like Rosemarie with whom to play, worse luck for them and for the Church.
“You said…Don’t stop, Chucky Ducky, I like that…You said that you were too poor to buy the kits.”
“I did not!” I insisted, as I kissed her tenderly.
“You did.” She sighed. “You don’t have to stop that either.”
My lips roamed her flesh, not demanding now, but reassuring, praising, celebrating.
“I did not!”
There had been a time, long years ago, when I would have tried a second romp of lovemaking in a situation like the present one.
“Or you could take up collecting sports cards. You told all of us that you couldn’t afford that either.”
“I never said that!”
“You did too!” She giggled as I tickled her.
“I guess I’m in my midlife identity crisis,” I admitted.
“You can’t be, Chucky Ducky darling.” She snuggled close to me. “You haven’t got beyond your late adolescent identity crisis.”
One of the valiant Rosemarie’s favorite themes was that I was still a charming little boy, like the little redhead in the stories she wrote.
“Mind you,” she whispered, “I like you as an adolescent boy.”
“Oh?”
“Only an adolescent boy would be so nicely obsessed with every part of a woman’s anatomy.”
That would be a line in her next story. I wondered how the New Yorker would handle the spectacular lovemaking that preceded the line.
“A man could become impotent at the possibility that his bedtime amusements would become public knowledge.”
“Ha!…I don’t know about you, Chucky Ducky, but I’m going to sleep now.”
She pillowed her head on my stomach.
“Chucky love,” she sighed, now well across the border into the land of Nod, “you’re wonderful. We really defied death this time, didn’t we?”
That would be in the story too. I had become a character in a series of New Yorker stories—a little red-haired punk as an occasional satyr.
Rosemarie Helen Clancy O’Malley had found her midlife identity as a writer. Her poor husband had found his identity as a character in fiction. On that happy note I reprised in my imagination some of the more pleasurable moments of our romp and sank into peace and satisfied sleep.
 
Copyright © 2003 by Andrew M. Greeley Enterprises, Inc.

---

Excerpted from Second Spring: A Love Story by Andrew M. Greeley
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.