Now that three steamer trunks have arrived packed with papers from Mom and Dad’s attic, it’s more obvious to me than ever that Mom was a prolific writer. This question has been on my mind recently … what was her final verse? It may take years to sort through her decades of letters, poems, and prose, but since most are dated, surely the answer will appear eventually. She used to laugh about her first verse. Little Joan Cassidy was in…
I’d never heard of Tollund Man until yesterday. Soul Man, yeah. Iceman, sure. Even Slender Man (thanks to Law & Order SVU). But Tollund Man? It took one of Mom’s poems to awaken my interest: Remarks upon reading a chapter on the Tollund Man, found preserved in a Danish bog in 1950 Only the head preserved in glass now, but the face tells all, or did, until the lump of peat fell from the neck, showing the rope there.Gentler than…
Mom sure loved living in Pittsfield. Known as “The Heart of the Berkshires,” Pittsfield was our childhood home from 1962 through 1970. Located in western Massachusetts, Pittsfield is surrounded by the scenic Berkshire Mountains. This poem from 1972 caught my eye the other day. Even though we’d moved to Fairfield, Conn., nearly two years prior, Mom was still thinking about Pittsfield: Song for a Berkshire House There, in the snow-and-autumn house,early November blue and white feelingof frost, and sky of…
A busy month, with our trip to Connecticut to clear out Mom & Dad’s house, but books managed to wave their pages as me, seeking to soothe my sore muscles and aching heart with an escape to wonderland. A side note: Farmer Gary puts me to shame when it comes to level of voracious reading. While in Connecticut, he kept a pile of newspaper circulars to read when he had a few minutes. We’d canceled Dad‘s newspaper and magazine subscriptions,…
Not long after Mom and Dad moved to Madison, Connecticut in 1995, they discovered a treasure. No, it wasn’t Hammonasset Beach State Park, just a few miles away. It wasn’t the many opportunities for fresh seafood in the charming oceanfront community. And it wasn’t even the discovery that there was a Girl Scout two doors down, who would keep them supplied with Thin Mints for years to come. It was the bookstore. And not just any bookstore. An independent bookseller….
Farmer Gary and I just returned from nine exhausting days in Madison, Connecticut. I’d volunteered us to sell Mom and Dad’s house, including clearing out the house of personal belongings. Spoiler Alert: Mission Accomplished. Gary and I felt comfortable taking on this task knowing that long-time friend Rus (a semi-retired realtor who grew up in Lowell, Mass., and is a roller-coaster enthusiast) would be at the ready with advice. Plus, my husband has a subscription to the Wall Street Journal,…
It’s amazing how the memory works. While putting together a post last week about my brother Dave’s high school valedictorian address, a vague memory surfaced that our dad was valedictorian of his college class. On a lark, I looked up the contact information for the alumni-relations department at Providence College. After pausing to appreciate their punny slogan, Ease on Down the Rhode, I sent an email asking if they might have information regarding Graduation 1951. My somewhat hazy recollection is…
It’s that time of year again, as graduation ceremonies commence at schools all across the country. Back in 1975, I was a junior in high school. My middle brother, Dave, a senior, was at the top of his class. He was destined to be valedictorian. But toward the end of his senior year, there was an unexpected complication. Since we’d started high school in Connecticut and were finishing it in Indiana, a few classes didn’t match up. To be more…
“Wherever life takes you, make sure you have good neighbors.” Mom preached that to me repeatedly over my childhood years. Luckily, it was in reaction to a kindness shown by a neighbor. We did okay over the years. More than okay, actually. Mom and Dad lived in Fairfield, Connecticut, twice – with four Indiana years in between. I lived in the first house as a junior-high schooler. By the time they moved back, though, there were only two summers left…
Collaborating with Dad on this blog’s stories has been a joy. He got such a charge when a photo or old news article tickled his memory. And he loved talking about Mom, his Joanie. Our final effort together was “The Maine Man,” with that surprise ending in which Dad suddenly remembered a car ride with his grandparents back in 1935 or so. In our daily phone chats, there was never a pen and pad out of reach. Jotted notes would…