There’s a basket full of school papers to go through, and it’s hard to make much headway.

That’s because they’re Mom‘s papers, presumably from high school and college. Some are easy to figure out, as they retell a current event, or show the results of comparing two writers’ styles.

There are news clips, too.

Other papers, though, will remain a mystery. No date, no teacher’s name. But as long as Mom’s name is there – Joan Cassidy – I know it’s before she married Dad.

… because her paper-writing didn’t stop with graduation, she continued to write profusely for the rest of her life.

Another hint could be her handwriting.

This particular multi-page story is written in nearly perfect cursive penmanship. There’s another paper with the farewell poem she wrote to high-school underclassmen that has that same look, so we’ll go with 17 or 18 for Mom’s age of penmanship perfection (it gained more personality in college and beyond).

That would have put the date at 1947 or ’48, as Mom finished up her final year at Saint Mary’s High School in New Haven, Connecticut.

Reading The Green Land, I can only guess that the assignment was to write a semi-autobiographical story. Mom changed her siblings’ names (Aunt Bunny is “Jill” and Uncle Ray is “Chuck”), but the age range matches.

“So we’ll call this a Mom-oire,” I told Farmer Gary, who nearly always appreciates my puns. The man is a saint.

The Green Land

She was conscious of the sharp, sweet tang of the pine branches as she watched her father coming down the street – arms swinging, the whisper of a smile upon his lips. She liked the way he walked; he had a certain air of capability that she knew well. The lazy afternoon sun fingered the thinning red hair. How young and strong he must have been, she thought. He was still strong, though; the rippling muscles chained his body yet.

She suddenly remembered how, when she was a baby, he had held her high and tossed her rigid little form into the air. Guess it didn’t do any harm, she reflected, and grinned. She felt for an imaginary knot on her head.

“Hi, Dad,” she called. “Guess what I’ve been doing all day?”

Her father glanced up to the bedroom window and squinted.

“I noticed it first thing, Christy. Haven’t lost your old touch one bit.”

She cupped her chin in the calloused palms.

“I tried to get the kids to help, but no use. Jill went to the store again for Mom and Chuck’s been knocking himself out with that basketball. For only ten years old, he has pretty big plans. Honestly, Pop, you should see him. He practically spurts fire when he misses – and he misses most of the time. But he won’t give up. Mom had to coax him in for dinner with an ice pop. Hey, wait a minute, Dad. I’ll be right down.”

Christy smiled to the mirror as she left her room.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she sighed. “Everything’s so green and sweet …”

She bounded past her mother who was frying pink slices of ham in the new skillet.

“Dad’s out admiring my work of genius. Never thought I could, did you. Well, neither did I.”

Her mother was heating water for the tea.

“All this fuss just because you mowed the lawn.”

Christy caught the hint of maternal admiration in her voice. She gazed longingly at the croquet set that huddled in a dark corner of the back hall. That would come later. Her father stood talking to her uncle Tim in the backyard.

“You’re pretty lucky to have Christy for your daughter,” she heard her uncle say between pipe puffs. “She’s been working like a beaver around here all day.”

“Looks pretty good. But sometimes I think she works too hard.”

Christy looked out over the clipped lawn. “Nature-mad,” Chuck had called her once. She knew that she loved the sun and the sky and she didn’t regret those hot hours in the sun. Jill would laugh and say she was crazy: Jill, who had spent most of her fifteen summers sleeping ’til noon; Jill, with her wild, wonderful ways; Jill, to whom she could confide. How the two of them loved to lie at night and listen to waltz music on the portable, not daring to breathe.

They would feel very close then, truly sisters.

Jill would always slip the shade up half-way so that the night sky made them feel buried and mysterious. She wondered how either one of them ever remembered to switch off the drifting strains.

I’ve been dreaming again, she thought, and pounced back into reality. Dad will think I fell down the stairs or did some darn fool thing … She pushed the screen door open.

“I’d just about given you up for lost, Christy.”

Then her uncle shot her a swift smile.

“Nice job you did here on the grass. Any time you care to come over to our place and pay your respects, you’ll be welcomed.”

Christy’s father slid an arm around her shoulder.

“I guess we’ll keep her here.”

Christy nodded, and grinned. She knew what he really meant.

* * * * * *

Christy and Chuck haunted the radio that evening.

They were both mystery fiends. The two of them crouched on the floor, straining for every macabre shriek and rifle blast. Christy liked being with her little brother, enjoyed knowing that he wanted her with him for all of her eighteen years. Even in his baby days, she liked taking him places. Those long walks over the bridge for ice cream cones must have tortured the chubby little legs. But he had been quiet then as he was now, and she had done the talking: “See the pretty seagulls! Isn’t it cool walking over the bridge, Chuckie? Don’t dribble.” The blue eyes hadn’t changed any; they were as still and bright as ever. Suspense never failed to intrigue him.

“I’m going out with Daddy.”

“Shh,” Chuck whispered. “I wanna hear this guy. I think he did it.”

“Okay, Sherlock, I’ll let you solve your crimes in peace.”

The night air was fresh and cool on her face. She went around to the front where her father was sitting and smoking and staring into the dark.

She sat down beside him without a word. What are you thinking, Dad, she wondered. Are you thinking about how we are; how sweet the summer is? Maybe you’re reminiscing about Mom. I bet you dated her on many a night like this.

“I’ve always said, Christy, if you’re good, God will take care of you.”

She nodded. It was good philosophy. Nothing elaborate. Dad was never elaborate. But he was fine and down to earth. This was Dad all over.

“I was thinking, Chris, would you like to go over to Judson’s after supper tomorrow? There’s one young filly I’ve got my eye on. Maybe we could fix up something.”

“Dad, you don’t mean – not my own – oh, hey, Pop – “

“You’ve been waiting for that graduation present long enough. Tim said we could keep it in his barn.”

Christy ejaculated once again, “Oh!”

Then it struck her.

“Oh, golly! Dad – I just remembered. I can’t go.”

“What happened?”

Christy knew what would come. This was a sore spot with her father. She gulped a couple of times, and, because it was dark, crossed her fingers. Then she plunged.

“Well, Dad, I’m supposed to go out with Dick tomorrow night – to the show. It’s a good western.”

She held her breath.

“Don’t you see enough of him? When he isn’t working, he’s haunting my doorstep. A man likes to be alone with his family once in a while.”

“But he doesn’t come over too often now. He’s really busy saving for college.”

“Well, never mind now. Come to think of it, that filly had a kind of wild look to her.”

He’s hurt, she thought. I’ve hurt him and I didn’t want to.

“I want to go, I do, but Dick asked me – “

“Don’t worry about it. We’d better go in, anyhow. It’s getting cold.”

Christy wondered if it were the same chill she felt. She clenched her fist when she heard him mumbling.

“Don’t know why she can’t get a good Irishman, anyhow.”

He’s part Irish, she silently conflicted. She hurried into the house. It was getting cold.

* * * * * *

Christy smiled at her reflection in the mirror. She knew that Dick would like the aqua chambray with the bertha collar. Her white ballet slippers gleamed new on her feet. The rainbow-straw purse was frivolous and tonight she needed to be lighthearted.

I mustn’t spoil the evening, she promised, clasping the rhinestone crescent in her hair.

Yet her father’s voice taunted her. I wish he’d understand, she thought; I don’t love him any less just because I love Dick. I don’t want –

“Hurry up, pokey, he’ll be ringing the bell any minute.” Jill’s voice floated up from downstairs.

“Coming,” Christy said as she prayed for courage.

Christy saw her father by the kitchen window reading the local newspaper. I wonder if he’ll bother speaking, she pondered.

“You look very pretty, dear,” her mother said.

“Pretty sharp,” Jill admitted. “Say, can I borrow your ballet slippers sometime?”

“Jill, for Pete’s sake, won’t you ever quit asking me for things? I’m not a millionaire.”

Jill calmly returned to Seventeenth Summer. Even though she was only fifteen.

Christy heard the sharp blast of the doorbell. She swallowed twice, straightened her collar, and proceeded into the hall. Her fingers trembled momentarily as she fumbled with the doorknob. At last it yielded. Dick’s smiling figure was before her. There was that certain look in his eyes.

“Is that a new one? Christy, you’re a honey.”

Christy flushed as always.

“I’m glad you think so, Dick. You’re pretty special yourself.”

He squeezed her hand.

“Where are the folks?”

“Out in the kitchen. Mom wants you to try some penuche.”

“Sounds horrible.”

“It isn’t though. You’ll like it.”

As they walked back into the kitchen, Christy blessed her ballet slippers. She felt close to earth in them and it gave her strength.

Jill had fled when they reached the kitchen. It was an unwritten law that no one except her immediate family would ever behold the horror of Jill Shannon in curlers. Christy’s mother stepped forward.

“Just the boy I wanted to see. Wait until you taste my penuche.”

“I can hardly wait.” Dick turned to Mr. Shannon.

“Hello, sir, how is everything?”

Here it comes, thought Christy. O, please let everything be all right!

“Pretty well, Dick. I guess they keep you busy at the fountain.”

“Busy isn’t the word. I have to work long hours to get money for school. College really costs.”

“It’s good you’re ambitious. If you keep it up, you’re all set.”

Christy’s mother came out of the pantry and offered the light-colored candy to Dick.

“Looks like fudge. Mmmm, this is good. Christy, why don’t you learn to cook like that?”

Christy wrinkled her nose at him. “Don’t you worry, it just takes time.”

“Better not take too long,” Dick grinned.

Christy was happy for a moment.

Dick remembered the time. “I think we ought to get going. We don’t want to miss Blood on the Moon. Hi-ho, Silver. There’s nothing like horses, is there, Mr. Shannon?”

“No, there isn’t Dick, nothing quite like them.”

Christy was at a loss.

“Goodbye, Mom, Dad,” she began. “We’ll be in about twelve or one.”

“All right, dear,” her mother said.

Her father put down his cigar.

“Don’t stay out too late, Christy. You don’t want to be bargaining with Judson if you’re half asleep.”

“Oh, Dad, Dad, I’m so glad” Christy flung her arms around him.

“Somebody’s birthday?” Dick wanted to know.

“Nothing as dull as all that,” Christy sang. She saw two hearts that rode with flying hoofs.

~ Joan Cassidy, 1948

I don’t remember hearing about Mom receiving a horse for a graduation present – her parents gave her a typewriter, which got lots of use in the decades to come.

Mom and Dad did love horseback riding, though, so perhaps this writing assignment was to create a different ending to a real-life story.

After all … uncle Tim said there was room in the barn:

Grandpa and Dad? Well, no one would ever be good enough for Grandpa to let go of his first-born. But he warmed up to Dad just fine.

And the penuche candy? That part is true. Oh, how Dad loved fudge, penuche included.

“The Green Land” © 1948 Joan Cassidy. All rights reserved.

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