Look! It’s a fingernail moon! Little Thomas was barely more than a toddler when he pointed to the night sky and proclaimed the waxing (or maybe it was waning) moon looked like a fingernail. We were driving at the time (pre-cell-phone days), and I couldn’t wait to get home to call Mom. Her first grandchild had a poet’s heart. Mom absolutely loved the moon. She was fascinated by the changing sizes, shapes, and colors of the moon. Harvest moon, crescent…
Although worthwhile, researching a family tree is overwhelming. Each generation of ancestors spreads those branches further, to Ireland, Germany, France, Canada. Which limb to explore next? Let’s look to the north and remember Achille and Jane Plante. Here they are on their wedding day in 1901. Both born in Canada, the shoemaker and his bride were 27 and 25 years old. They’d immigrated to the U.S. a few years earlier. Here’s the fancy Certificate of Marriage they received a month…
I wish I could remember who pointed this out years ago, but I think it was one of these ladies: This photo takes me back to the summer after my folks moved to Fairfield for the second time. It was following my sophomore year at IU, and I’d invited several high-school friends (from our first round in Fairfield) over for lunch. One of them noticed a certain lamp. “Isn’t that the lamp from the Dick Van Dyke Show?” What?! To…
Does anyone else feel conflicted about blueberries? They’ve rolled in and out of my life over the years, with mixed reviews. Let’s start with 1961. Apparently I just loved a bowl of fresh blueberries and cream. Mom even wrote a poem about it: For Paula, Who Is Three Tomorrow (I won’t be able to do it then) Who likes blueberries, blueberries, blueberries …all of the children in our house. For we have small and padded bearswho sit on small and…
Did you get hit with crazy cold temperatures this past week? Snow for some, overnight freezing temps for many more. Rita, my mother-in-law, would always say it’s “the Iceman” making mischief when there’s a cold snap in late April or early May. She warned not to plant crops (and flowers) too early in the spring. Tuesday afternoon, Farmer Gary dashed over to the home place to cover the geraniums his sister Sharon and her husband, Mike, planted a few weeks…
Growing up, we all knew better than to ask Mom who her favorite was, as the answer was always the same. With three sons and a daughter to choose from, it was just impossible. “You’re all my favorites,” she’d say. Well. Apparently when it came to her hundreds of poems, Mom did have an extra warm feeling for a select few. In this recording, her college friend Mary Fleming interviews Mom and poses that age-old question: As mentioned in the…
“Goose! You know BEE-thoven?!“ Cameron was stunned that I recognized the piano piece he’d just finished. Yes, Cam. In fact it was the wedding song played when Papaw and I got married. “Goose! You and Papaw are married?!” Clearly we need to talk about the fact that Gary and I haven’t just been shacking up all these years. Cameron is our constant delight. Our joy. Looking back even further than our 1982 nuptials, I realize Beethoven’s 9th Symphony has always…
For the past decade or so, I made a point of not deleting voicemails from my mom. Knowing she wouldn’t be around forever, I wanted to have a way to still hear her voice. But last spring as I prepared to retire, I “wiped” my work phone without saving the messages. Darn it! If only I’d thought to ask any one of my sons for help, surely we could have preserved those precious files. Happily, something even better has turned…
Mom wrote this poem, called simply Cherries, when her granddaughter Lucy was just a few months old. It may be that this cute little outfit inspired her. Cherries Lucy’s little yellow dress is cherried Take her to the hammock under cherry treesand in the early evening wrap herin the childhood cherry spreadremembering another eveningwhen we rode a ferris wheelafter a day of cherry picking Grandchildren and sister loved the cherriessent for summer birthdaysand from a country marketwe wooed each otherwith…
This poem’s a tough one. Mom wrote it 19 years ago, still in mourning for the loss of her brother. Ray. Sweet baby Ray. This sounds ridiculous as I type it, but we only use that brand of barbecue sauce in our home, in honor of Uncle Ray. Mom was delighted when we served it to her on pulled pork those last years before we lost her, too. Both lost to Parkinson’s Disease. Today is World Parkinson’s Day. If you’ve…