The paper has the look of parchment. But it’s not quite yet crisp with age.

The story is two typed pages and is signed with Mom‘s married name, so that means she wrote it in the final weeks of 1952 or later. Reading it for the first time this evening, I’m reminded of an Irish folktale, and am grateful Mom’s lifetime of writing sometimes included prose.

Maybe someday, as I finish sorting through her writings, I’ll find another copy bearing a date. But for now, I’ll picture her in the “little room” off her childhood bedroom in New Haven, her Irish eyes shining, typing “The Stone,” and waiting for Dad to come home from serving in the Korean Conflict.

“The Stone”

Now there was a stone as big as a barrel that ruled Bar Thyman’s life. It had been set before his door as a jibe when he was newly wed and bringing fair Anitia home to cook for him. A small man indeed, but his bride was a flick herself, and he determined to bear her over the threshold of their home. They were purring and puttering over the joy of their day when Bar saw the stone and the shame it would mete him. He pushed at it lightly, and drove at it savagely; then sheepishly suggested the side window because the house was still in the making and without the blessing of a rear entrance. His wedding night was stiff with hurt and anger; Anitia wept to be driven from his confidence. Bar was not ready to share this shame with her.

The next morning bristled with brightness: Bar thought perhaps his failing was merely some softness of his wedding day. There were kisses for Anitia then, and some of the warm words the night had left unsaid. A part of the frolic died when Bar climbed again through the side window to attack the foe; he called sharply to the carpenter and pointed to the back of the house. The man cried back aid to him, but Bar would let no other hand but his come near. For his second offensive he employed both pick and pike and a booming shovel to stir the stone. None could do it. It was well Bar did not spy Anitia at the window, crying tears into her drying cloth. The girl foresaw another night of mutterings.

One late afternoon Bar Thyman came through his back door to find his wife abed, a little girl-child bleating beside her. At that moment he was happy, though mostly for the sake of charity. For he had laid a plan, nearly a year ago, and on the third day of his marriage. One day he would have a son, and this lad would redeem his name. Indeed no foreign hand would touch this stone and mar his dignity. But a boy of his own! That was the difference. And thus his great faith fluttered when he saw the little maid. But this he never told Anitia; he had caused her too much sadness in their early days. Only the boy would he confide in, and only when he was wise enough to hold a secret.

Five daughters later saw the stone as staunch as ever. Bar had somewhat quieted his unkempt spirit, and set about to keep his girls in style. They were pretty children and lovely lasses, and the youngest was the fairest and the favorite of her father. He had sworn that she alone might ask him anything, and he would not deny her. That was his way with Belicy.

The year came when the lord of Aldermead would come to court his youngest maid, if Bar were willing. Because this was an honor, and more because he saw the pink break into Belicy’s cheeks, did Bar consent. There were high straddlings of garlands, and bluebells in the bowl on the night that he would call. The family sat and smiled before the back door; Belicy was radiant in rose and white. As they waited they imagined rumblings and a deep knock at the front of the house. They sat in horror. But when “Belicy!” rang out and the great oak door trembled and swung wide, poor Bar put down his head and cried with lost emotions. Here was a son to be a son!

His last of manners left him, and he ran through the front door, out of the house, hurling a bolt of justice after the stone.

~ Joan Cassidy Vayo circa 1953

Although there’s no stone in sight, here’s a family photo of Mom’s maternal grandmother’s home place. Maggie Kelly grew up here, on a farm by Belfast, Northern Ireland.

“The Stone” © 1953 Joan Cassidy Vayo. All rights reserved.

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