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…
The news in the registered letter Dad opened on February 7, 1951, was something no college senior should have to receive. That same day, Dad wrote to his future wife: My Darling, I got an awful shock this morning. I got a registered mail letter from dad. He’s lost his job. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read it the first time. For a while I couldn’t move or think. Golly, you never realize the blessing of security until…
While digging around recently in our greeting-card drawer, I came across several colorful choices. I flipped them over to check the artist’s name and realized the cards must have been a long-ago gift from Mom and Dad, as the illustrator was their “neighbor” Jacques Pépin. They weren’t borrow-a-cup-of-sugar neighbors (although both parties would surely have been generous with their sucre); they lived about a mile apart. My parents were delighted to stop for a casual chat with Chef when they…