Right now, our “Feels Like” temperature is just two degrees short of triple digits. And it’s September! I’ve always been an indoor cat, so there’s really nothing for me to complain about, as long as the air conditioning holds out longer than this heat wave. Here’s a poem Dad wrote during his senior year of college. To me, it feels as miserable as the weather. Dad’s verse was published in the school’s literary periodical 75 years ago. And it seems…
Farmer Gary has exactly one story to tell about his maternal great-grandmother Catherina Schum. She was born Catherina (also spelled Katharina) Jent here in northern Spencer County, Indiana, on February 15, 1856. Census records tell us she could read and write – but only in German. She married widower Henry Schum on February 13, 1877. What a lovely couple! We don’t know much about Katharina, except that she told the 1910 and 1920 census takers her occupation was Farmer. Most…
Mom and Dad had distinctly different sleep patterns. Dad was the early-to-bed, early-to-rise type. I wondered what type of feathered friend an official Early Bird might be. Judging from the above picture, maybe a goose? Mom, on the other hand, loved to stay up late. She was the ultimate Night Owl: Reading, chatting with her adult children when they visited, even writing poetry: Warm Where You Were The early riser leaves meto a later hour You crest in morningwhile I…
Well, look at that – this month we have books from Ireland, England, the U.S., France, and Denmark! Book #1 Land by Maggie O’Farrell After reading Hamnet earlier this year, I knew Maggie O’Farrell’s work to be irresistible. Yes, Land is a novel, but it’s based on a mapmaker ancestor from her family tree. Generations of loss and love unfold over the chapters. And there’s a villain I’ll never forgive! While reading Land, I missed my red-haired mom so much….
This is a tough one. Remember Galen Veayo? He was a Purple Heart recipient in World War II for injuries suffered in the Battle of the Bulge. Galen and Dad were second cousins. Galen had a twin sister, Oleavia. They were born in Ontario in 1920 and grew up in Bangor, Maine. Oleavia graduated from high school in 1939. Although she did not have a senior picture (nor did Galen), this yearbook blurb gives us some insight: Oleavia Veayo is…
Farmer Gary has always been crazy about his dad’s uncle Rob Wigger. Rob was a lovable character. He’d grown up on a farm near where we live today, so his visits were always full of questions for Gary. To me, it felt like a pop quiz. Gary passed with flying colors each time. We’ve been digging around all week looking for a photo or two of Rob, and what we have is a beautiful family portrait, probably taken in 1918….
It was always a treat to visit Grandma and Grandpa Cassidy when we were growing up in the 1960s. The drive to New Haven, Connecticut, took about 2.5 hours. Sometimes we’d stop at a breakfast diner and Dad would cough up a few nickels for the booth’s jukebox so we could play a song or two. Most often it would be On Top of Spaghetti, that old classic. It was always a thrill when Dad started pointing, “There it is…
Last night, Gary and I pulled out a box of photos. They came from his godmother’s house. Stella’s been gone three years, and her husband, Arch, even longer. Arch took family genealogy seriously. We’ve got a pile of his pre-computer research; he traced every line in both sides of their family carefully. This photo caught my attention: This is Mollie Johnston, Arch’s great-aunt. From everything I can find, Mollie was not a scandalous woman. She was born in 1878 in…
This one hurts. My first view of Dolly Parton was on a TV commercial in the 1960s. She and Porter Wagoner were pitching Breeze detergent. Free towels – collect ’em all – especially the one that was huckleberry blue. Living in New England, I’d never heard an accent like that before. It made me laugh. Huckleberry blue. And just to prove that everything is available online, here’s Miss Dolly: Much will be said in the coming days about Dolly Parton….
My brother Dave continues to delve into his storage box of childhood memories. Some are delightful, others bring a tear. This one makes me cringe. It’s a poem from the literary annual our high school produced each spring. Either I didn’t give it a title or there wasn’t room for one … so let’s call it “The Terrible Teens.” This is from 1975, my junior year. P.S. I really couldn’t care less about “our team” winning or losing. But it…