My sister-in-law Linda sent me this video from Sunday. It was the final song of the service at their church that morning in Waterville, Maine. That’s her husband, my oldest brother Harry, singing this painful song: The Streets of Minneapolis, music and lyrics by Bruce Springsteen Note: Click the “cc” at the top-right (on your phone) or bottom (on your desktop) of the video screen to see the lyrics. I asked Harry if he was okay with me sharing the…
Mom would call this Meatloaf Weather. Frigidly cold, snowy, with no end in sight. Here’s her recipe, which she sent to me shortly after Gary and I married. I don’t know the story behind the name – could it be her mother’s recipe? Or, more probably, it’s a combination of recipes from friends, relatives, Dad’s feedback, and the back of the oatmeal container. Momma’s Meatloaf 1 lb. (or more) ground beef3/4 to 1 cup quick oatsonion (optional)2 eggs, beaten2 Tablespoons…
A newspaper clip from 1896 caught my eye a while back: a grave robbery, it seems, might have taken a relative to parts unknown. So far, I haven’t found a direct connection on our family tree. But the surname is Pooler (Dad’s paternal grandmother’s maiden name) and the location is Waterville, Maine. We’ve got a lot of kin from that part of the Pine Tree State. Augustus was born in Waterville on January 15, 1849, the son of Ephraim and…
Who’s afraid of poetry? Good question! Mom asked this half a century ago. The answers may well be the same today: Four Tell Who’s afraid of poetry?Not I, said the football player.I don’t understand it, butthe words are kind of pretty. Who’s afraid of poetry?Not I, said the busy housewife.I even write some. It’s not goodbut it makes me feel good. Who’s afraid of poetry?Not I, said the dilettante.I never was. But I don’t like this sharing;it’s getting to be…
Yesterday morning, what may well have been a murmuration of starlings came racing through our back woods like a blinding blizzard. I just happened to be perched in my comfy chair in the sunroom, with a wide-eyed panoramic view of the squall. It was wild! Farmer Gary later explained to me the birds are rather frantic this time of year, looking for food and a bit of warmth. They flew in from the northwest and crowded in the tree branches…
Sometimes when searching for family information in newspaper archives, there’s a story that simply must be shared. Today’s search was in the Bangor Weekly Courier. The year: 1854. I was looking for Olympe Josephine Poulin Lambert, my great-great-great grandmother (her daughter Olive was George Vayo‘s mother). The poor woman only lived to be 35 or 36. I was hoping to at least discover her date of death and burial place. Using the unusual first name of Olympe, the search began….
The mercury hit 57 today and may make it even higher tomorrow. That is what you call a January Thaw! Thing is, there’s nothing to thaw. No snow since last month, and even then, not much to brag about here in southern Indiana. No doubt that will change in the coming weeks and I’ll eat my words, crunching on icicles all the while. Growing up in western Massachusetts, we had a January thaw each year. The best part (next to…
This poem didn’t appear until its subject matter reached 41 years old. Mom, God bless her and keep her, may well have taken till then to get a good night’s sleep! Solstice 1955 Our son slept in the circle of my armsthat winter afternoon we drovethrough little towns in Massachusettssnow fell on the streetsand in the toy storewhere the china stars were sold ~ joan vayo ~ August 13, 1996 Sorry, Harry – I guess Mom and I just gave…
On the sad anniversary of Sandy Hook and the day after the Brown University shooting, I’ll just leave this here: “AMERICAN GOTHIC – Nineteen-Sixties” ©1971 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved. Binoculars photo courtesy Alan Levine. Please subscribe here and we’ll send an email notice with each new story:
We all were prone to red cheeks in the wintertime. Even inside the house: One teacher in junior high loudly proclaimed I looked like one of the Campbell Kids when I arrived at school, winded, after bicycling to school. That last hill was long and steep. Had I not been still out of breath, I’d have sassed the bum. Mom loved the reds of winter, and wrote this poem a quarter century ago. Winter Red Clap for colorholly winterberrycome caps…