One of my favorite childhood stories was Mom‘s tale of her violin lessons as a teen. She’d make us giggle when she told us her practice time would set their dog to howling. But when she shared that her violin teacher scolded, “Please! I have ears!” it made me sad. Now that I’ve come upon this autobiographical poem she wrote decades later, I’m sadder still to know more details about her violin lessons. After All In the beginning I knew…
“What do you think this is? A candy dish or an ashtray?” My younger brother was looking at a small copper tray that was among mementos our late mom had tucked away long ago. Measuring not quite 4.5 inches by 5.5 inches, it was certainly intriguing. When held at a certain angle, Dad noticed, it looked like there was etching on the surface. Words, certainly, in a delicate font. He slipped it into my hands, “Take it home. You’ll figure…
Exactly two years ago, almost to the minute, Farmer Gary and I were in the process of clearing out Mom and Dad’s house in Madison, Connecticut. It’s a long story, but suffice it to say the challenge of dividing up belongings among the siblings, the grandchildren, and friends was just the beginning. Some items were donated, others given to friends of friends. But the house still wasn’t empty. And we were running out of time. My cousin Suzanne lives not…
“Did you know about the chair that went to college?” Dad and I were talking on the phone a few years back about how he filled his days after Mom passed. He spent hours each afternoon going through her poems and prose, much as I do now. Something he’d seen that day reminded him of that chair. Uh …what chair, Dad? Ah, yes. There was a comfy armchair we’d had since, I think, the 1960s in Pittsfield … … it…
Mom wrote this poem just days after the last of her uncles passed away. She greatly appreciated their place in her life growing up in New Haven. Uncles We never owned a carso uncles drove us placesto picnics weddingssometimes a collegebuses and legs were everywherefor shopping movies doctorsdates and family visitswe never took taxis and rarely trainswe needed uncles to drive a distanceand teach us how to ride a horseplay pinochle or tell a storytake us for ice cream across…
Oh, Mom. The paper clips you used to hold your school stories and essays together are now rusty and leave a jagged stain on the notebook paper. But they still hold strong. Even so, I’ve replaced them with shiny new paper clips. For the next 70 years. A story titled “Hoss Feathers” caught my eye. Mom wrote it while a high-school student at St. Mary’s Academy in New Haven, Connecticut. I’m pretty sure the uncle character she quotes is based…
Sometimes the ugly headlines are enough. Too much, really. Defunding libraries? How can this even be an idea, much less an attempt in the Missouri legislature? I can’t help but wonder what Mom would think about this. Libraries were her lifeline as we moved from state to state in the 1960s and ’70s. I have a feeling she and Dad checked out schools, churches, parks – and libraries – while househunting each time. The library I remember most was in…
Mom had a really good friend named Mary. Two friends named Mary, come to think of it. Mary Donahue and Mary Fleming. Turns out they were the same person. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit this is a recent discovery on my part. When they met in college, Mom was Joan Cassidy and Mary’s last name was Donahue. They were thick as thieves, those two, along with Gloria Dowaliby. Here’s Mary’s yearbook page from 1952, graduation year: Their final year…
When your mother is a prolific poet, it may be best not to try and figure out too much about each individual poem. Mom loved words, the sound of words. And weaving them together into poems was one of her life’s great delights. Perhaps unfortunately, there’s something in me that is so literal, I have to spend at least a little bit of time to try and “figure out” each verse. As if it’s a riddle. Which I know it…
Grandpa Cassidy was a policeman in New Haven, Connecticut, nearly a century ago. Although he was trained to be a plumber, specializing as a steamfitter, he joined the police force when signs of the Great Depression started to loom. That way, he knew he’d always have a job. If only we had more stories to share about his years as a “cop on the beat.” Grandpa was the son of Irish immigrants and came by his storytelling talents naturally. While…