While fluffing out Dad‘s side of the family tree this week, I came across an interesting fellow by the name of Harry Melbourn Nightingale. He was born in New Brunswick, Canada, on August 21, 1883. One of 11 children to Enoch and Martha. The family immigrated to Maine in 1890 and settled in Aroostook County. Harry went to school, grew up, labored sometimes as a farmer and sometimes “in the woods.” He worked at several shoe shops and the Turner…
My brothers and I grew up watching Captain Kangaroo. Good morning, Captain! The Captain was a smiling fellow, with big pouchy pockets in his coat (hence the moniker). Every once in a while, he still shows up in social media: When I saw the “Who Wore It Better?” meme a year or so ago, I emailed my brothers to see what they recalled about The Captain. Something we all remembered was that Mom once met him. But not one of…
Another discovery! First it was the Bangor High School yearbook from 1917, the year leading up to Grandpa Vayo’s graduation. Here’s his senior photo along with a memorable blurb: We’ve already seen Grandpa’s high school artwork in an earlier version of The Oracle (apparently, there were monthly editions to highlight the students’ talents). In that edition, Dad’s father displayed his comic chops. In this edition, though, Grandpa appears to be tip-toeing into the water a half century before a future…
Ever since I saw this woman’s name and added her to our family tree, that song from Hamilton has haunted my brain. Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton sing this duet as a lullabye to their newborns, Theodosia and Philip: But who was our Theodocia? She was born in Brookfield, Massachusetts, just eight years after the end of the Revolutionary War. She was one of ten children born to Jacob and Lois. Her siblings carried such names as Ebenezer, Sewell, and…
Now that I’m buckling down and finally watching the tutorial videos Ancestry.com provides, I’ve learned the fancy genealogical terms “brick wall” and “breakthrough.” And so, with a bit of a blush and definite tongue-in-cheek, I must proclaim: We’ve scaled the brick wall and experienced a breakthrough! Let’s go back a week, when the luck of the Irish arrived via an email. It was Adrian (who, it turns out, is my third cousin), who had wandered across this blog post from…
After a loved one dies, it’s a great relief to dream about them. I seem to dream about Mom and Dad just a few times a year. It always feels current, yet back in time. That way about dreams that’s only confusing after you awaken. In the dream, I proclaim joyfully that Mom is able to walk steadily again, as in her pre-Parkinson’s days. I hug her repeatedly. We prepare a meal together; it’s always a family gathering. I wake…
This is a tough one. Yes, it happened a long time ago, but it still warrants a trigger warning. This story involves Dad’s side of the family. His grandfather was George Vayo, whose mother was Olive Lambert Vayo. Olive was born in Orono, Maine, in March of 1854. Five years later, her sister Ada was born. This is Ada’s story. Adelaide Lambert was only six years old when her mother passed away at the age of 36. By the time…
Have you ever seen a flowering Angel’s Trumpet plant? Simply gorgeous: When she was a teen, Mom wrote about the plant, creating a story about how it came to be. Her high-school newspaper printed this work of prose in 1946. Here’s the full piece: The Herald of Heaven In a gladed forest shaded by dense foliage grows a lowly plant, lowly, that is, in stature. Botanists have christened it “Angel’s trumpet” due to its peculiar shape. No one seemed to…
With Mom’s love of nature expressed in her poetry, I have to wonder … Who is this woman in red? A cardinal? Red squirrel? Red-winged blackbird? Or maybe, just maybe, a red fox. Here’s Mom‘s poem: The Curve / The Cave I will always wonderwhere the woman in red wentshe was my musicI knew her loved herwrote her on the pageand in my hearta lover came out of the Eastwith voice and eyes and hands so tendershe became his flowerdon’t…
One of these days, I need to pull out Mom’s “rejection folder” for a blog post. Yes, she kept the rejection letters she received from magazine editors over the years. Rejection. Who needs that?! But Mom never gave up. She kept mailing out those hand-typed poems, knowing her work was good. Once in a while, there’d be hand-written feedback in the margins of those letters, written by kind editors who no doubt understood the pain of rejection. Back in the…