Last night, Farmer Gary replaced the light bulbs in our ceiling fan. We have a vaulted ceiling in our bedroom, so he used a stepstool and replaced all four, even though only one was out. The other three would be saved for use closer to the ground. Practical as always, that man. As is typical in our house, that quick chore touched off a series of stories. In this case, stories about light bulbs. The first involved Grandpa Mehling. Gary…
Looking back, maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to swap vomit stories with James. Our youngest son was feeling lousy and recounting how rarely he’d regurgitated in his 26 years. Ah, but not me. I turned it into an unwinnable contest: “I threw up every day of my three pregnancies. That’s 27 months.” Sorry, James. In less than a week, he would be onstage at the University of Southern Indiana, playing guitar in the Lucas Washington band, opening for…
It feels like a carnival game – Spin the Lucky Wheel – when I drop a search word in among the vast collection of Mom’s poetry. Sure enough, it being Tax Day, there’s a poem including the word taxes. Written in 1972, “Pilgrimage” reflects Mom’s thoughts about living close to her hometown of New Haven again, where there were relatives a-plenty. She loved them all dearly, but sometimes in her childhood years, she felt crowded. Pilgrimage Myself, who couldn’t tolerate…
Gary has told me more than once that the saddest place in the world is the section of a graveyard set aside for babies. Thankfully, improvements in healthcare and the development of vaccines have helped tremendously over the years. Far fewer infants die at birth. But still, some of the most precious and fragile among us do not survive those early hours. Gary and I went to the St. Ferdinand Cemetery yesterday evening to pay our respects to a little…
This year, March was filled with reading books from Ireland, about Ireland, and by Irish authors. However, when the 15th of the month came along, I was able to squeeze in a bit of Shakespeare. Book 1: No Tears in Ireland by Sylvia Couturié This is the memoir of an aristocratic French girl who spent the war years away from her parents, safe in Ireland. But it was not an idyllic life, as her nanny was a tough old bird,…
The summer of 1975 was flying by. It was our second summer in Indiana and nearly time to pack middle-brother David off to college for his freshman year at I.U. Mom decided at the last minute to sign up for a relatively new program at Ball State University. The Midwest Writers Workshop was a summer conference for poets, novelists, and everything in between. Unfortunately, she received word that the poetry workshop was already at capacity. She was encouraged to sign…
Middle brother Dave recently came upon a poem our Grandma Cassidy mailed to him in 1975. Titled “To Joan,” she’d written this verse to our mother. Since this is World Poetry Day and Grandma’s birthday, we must share: Not that I would ever critique someone’s handwriting (sorry, Grandma), but in case you need a bit of help … “To Joan” Our Poet Your words of JoyThat your message bringsGives my heart a lift as it softly sings. Sadness and Strife…
Did your yearbook include a “class history”? I’ll have to go back and check mine from high school, but I don’t think we had one. Dad wrote the class history for his college yearbook when he was a Senior. Although the work is uncredited, he mentioned it in an autobiography he wrote in 1954. The Class History is an interesting compilation of facts and figures, sports and dances, from the earliest days until graduation. As you can see in this…
I thought of Matt the other day. We were great friends in college – both performers in the Singing Hoosiers (think Glee, but in college). I can hear his booming bass voice to this day. Just this past Saturday, there was a note online that it was actor Michael Caine’s 93rd birthday. There was a story about how he and Quincy Jones, working together on The Italian Job movie, suddenly realized they were born on the same day – making…
All of us who grew up in households headed by children of the Great Depression are no doubt familiar with the proverb waste not want not. It basically decrees that you should make do with what you have. And so it is with Amish names. Over these past 500 or so blog posts, I’ve mentioned more than once that Farmer Gary is enamored with the Amish. It was only today, though, while recording this story, that I tied together that…