As promised in this earlier story about Grandpa Cassidy’s sister Ethel, here is the story of Anna. Not their mother, Anna Reilly Cassidy, but a generation later. Anna, a helper and friend who would become a treasured family member. Ethel’s younger daughter, Jean Hungerford Sutherland, wrote down a series of memories a few years before her own passing in 2016. And here is the story of her third parent: She was always there, a member of the family before either…
When I came across this story in Mom’s archives, I thought of Dad, and wondered if there were any photos of him that might be appropriate to use for illustrations. Then I saw the dedication, and knew it was meant to be. To Hapaffectionately and accuratelyknown in the family as“The Midnight Mouse” And here’s that mouse’s tale: The Pie Sitter There was a man once hired to be a pie sitter. This man was a poor choice because he had…
It’s been sitting on a shelf in our house’s only walk-in closet. Ah, priorities. Family archives are far more important than clothes and shoes. When Gary and I packed up Mom and Dad’s kitchen in 2021, most of the cookbooks went to Becky, Dave’s culinary daughter supreme. But one cookbook I remembered well from childhood. It was in a large ziploc bag, as the cover was no longer attached. That one, I took home. Dad had filled me in that…
Have you been following the rediscovery of our Kelly family roots in County Antrim, Northern Ireland? It started with a visit Mom‘s cousin Betsy made to their grandmother’s Irish homestead in 1958. She kept good notes, some of which I used in this story about the Kelly clan. The twist to the tale was Dad’s father painted a portrait of the cottage in 1972. He used a photo from that trip. I always loved that painting, knowing it married Dad’s…
She started at midnight one night 50 years ago. A twig poem. Two days later, Mom finished her series of twigs: Is “twig” a type of poem, just three or four lines long? I’ve looked online (deliberately ignoring that pesky AI) but haven’t found a twig genre. Sonnets and limericks and haiku, but not a mention of twigs. If anyone knows, please post a comment to educate me. Oh, and include which of Mom’s twigs is your favorite and I’ll…
Couldn’t resist using the archaic spelling of demon. My copy of Frankenstein used “daemon” and so shall I. October’s books were purposefully chosen with spookiness in mind. Book 1: Endless Night by Agatha Christie There’s definitely a monster in this murder mystery. Published in 1967, Endless Night took Dame Agatha only six weeks to write (usually it was twice that time or more). She was, in this case, a speed daemon. Book 2: Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë This classic…
What an enchanting name: Marie Antoinette Dansereau. Dad’s great-uncle Franklin Paul Vayo married her on June 4, 1904. Now before anyone gets all silly with a “let them eat wedding cake” meme, let me point out the phrase was first quoted long before the future bride of Louis XVI had even set her dainty foot on French soil. But as long as we’re talking about eating, it feels like poetic justice that Franklin (henceforth referred to as Frank) made a…
A Hallowe’en treat from Mom, dated 1999. Best read out loud, I think: The Man Who Kept Watch Over Pumpkins He dubbed them Tweedledum and Tweedledeeand dreamed them huge as harvest moonsone he would carve into a castlethe other would be laughing Jack O’Lantern Extravaganza! he would cryinciting them to growhe knew their seed and soil were paramountwith sun and rainthey nursed inside the earthand bloomed above it Protecting them from thieves and varmintsthe old man guarded them in day…
Philip Cassidy didn’t start out as a member of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers. When he volunteered to serve in The Great War, he was a member of the 16th Division Army Cyclist Corps. Surely Philip wore this badge on his uniform cap with pride: Philip Markey Cassidy was born in Dublin, Ireland, on October 12, 1895. He was the fourth of seven children born to Daniel and Mary Jane. “Markey” was Mary Jane’s maiden name. Philip’s father, Daniel, was the…
There’s something very odd about pulling up stakes and moving away. Mom had never experienced this until she and Dad married. In 1973, we moved from Fairfield, Connecticut, to Carmel, Indiana. We’d only lived in Fairfield for three years and had spent many hours tending to gardens and other landscaping, as this was a brand-new house and yard. It was so nice of our Connecticut neighbor to stay in touch, especially with the news that those stubborn blueberry plants had…