I came across this poem in quite a roundabout way. A few days ago, it occurred to me that I don’t have stress dreams anymore. Really, that “I’ve got a final to take but didn’t even attend any of the classes and can’t find the classroom” sort of dream. Or, “it’s time to go on stage, and I really meant to memorize my lines, but hung around backstage playing cards instead.” Gone. All gone. Seven years ago. What a coincidence;…
In a search for Irish ancestors on Dad’s side of the family … … I got sidetracked. After a career of staying on course, working with a focus on specific results, it’s kind of fun to skip around on the various ancestry sites, in search of family stories. Even, that is, if they are stories from other families. Here’s where we are: We have a story from Le Nouvelliste newspaper in Trois-Rivières, Quebec. Dated 30 May 1964, this article is…
Ever since I first laid eyes on this wedding photo from 1926, I’ve wondered: Who is that second couple? A newspaper article detailing my paternal grandparents’ wedding revealed the happy couple’s attendants were Mr. & Mrs. Haag. But who were the Haags? They’re not part of our family tree, but they were there for Grandma and Grandpa on a very important day. It may well be that a newspaper ad Grandpa designed for his workplace provides an important first clue….
One hundred years ago, Grandpa Vayo was counting down the days until he married. He’d already moved to Paducah, Kentucky, and started his new job in advertising. He even authored a daily poetry column, Songs of Life, in The Paducah Sun newspaper. I wonder if he warned Grandma (his betrothed, Lucie Plante) how often her new surname would be misspelled and mispronounced. After all, “Vayo” rhymes with “mayo.” Sometimes, the condiment won out: This poem of Grandpa’s caught my eye…
When my sister-in-law told me she had a boyfriend, I was taken aback. Linda quickly assured me, though, that her admirer was a hard-headed, well … rock. My brother Harry good-naturedly explained further: A few years ago I wrote a story inspired by Linda’s dalliances. She passed on your request for the story, & I’m happy to oblige. Although it’s fiction, the rock itself & the conflict between whimsical hikers & the humorless land trust is real. As you can…
Thanks to my second-cousin Mark, I just came upon a dozen or more poems Grandpa Vayo wrote shortly after he relocated to Paducah in 1926. He was the new Advertising Manager at the J.A. Rudy & Sons department store. Grandpa must have been so lonely! Paducah, Kentucky, is far away from Brewer, Maine. And this was a century ago. It was months before Grandma traveled all those miles to marry him on Thanksgiving Day. A poet, musician, and artist, Grandpa…
Right now, our “Feels Like” temperature is just two degrees short of triple digits. And it’s September! I’ve always been an indoor cat, so there’s really nothing for me to complain about, as long as the air conditioning holds out longer than this heat wave. Here’s a poem Grandpa Vayo wrote a century ago. It was published in the Paducah Sun on August 27, 1926. To me, it feels as miserable as the weather. Pessimism The still-born day breaks in…
Mom and Dad had distinctly different sleep patterns. Dad was the early-to-bed, early-to-rise type. I wondered what type of feathered friend an official Early Bird might be. Judging from the above picture, maybe a goose? Mom, on the other hand, loved to stay up late. She was the ultimate Night Owl: Reading, chatting with her adult children when they visited, even writing poetry: Warm Where You Were The early riser leaves meto a later hour You crest in morningwhile I…
This is a tough one. Remember Galen Veayo? He was a Purple Heart recipient in World War II for injuries suffered in the Battle of the Bulge. Galen and Dad were second cousins. Galen had a twin sister, Oleavia. They were born in Ontario in 1920 and grew up in Bangor, Maine. Oleavia graduated from high school in 1939. Although she did not have a senior picture (nor did Galen), this yearbook blurb gives us some insight: Oleavia Veayo is…
It was always a treat to visit Grandma and Grandpa Cassidy when we were growing up in the 1960s. The drive to New Haven, Connecticut, took about 2.5 hours. Sometimes we’d stop at a breakfast diner and Dad would cough up a few nickels for the booth’s jukebox so we could play a song or two. Most often it would be On Top of Spaghetti, that old classic. It was always a thrill when Dad started pointing, “There it is…