It’s such a great feeling to think of Mom so enjoying a new (to her) author that she just had to pause her reading to write a poem in tribute to him. Paul Horgan was a Pulitzer Prize-winning author (twice; both times for history) who leaped from genre to genre. From poetry and drama to novels and historical fiction, from biographies to children’s literature. Often his work centered around southwest America. I read one of his books last month, from…
Farmer Gary loves to read the newspaper. Always has. In fact, he’s declared Wednesday to be Newspaper Day each week, as that’s the day most of the weekly papers arrive in the mail. Each Wednesday, Gary dashes out to check the mailbox, then takes over our breakfast bar with his stack and works his way through the periodicals. Sadly, many of the dailies and almost-dailies he grew up reading are no longer … well, appealing. … but there are still…
How far back can you remember? My earliest memories (as told here) involve brother Dave dropping eggs on the floor, and the arrival of my first feather pillow. As of a few weeks ago, I can piece together a third: My first taste of maple sugar candy. This memory’s missing piece surfaced in December, as an early gift, when I found this: Oh, boy! Dad and Mom were planning a getaway to Vermont! Back in 1961, there were no websites…
The latest batch of memories from Mom and Dad‘s house includes an armful of folders with brochures from a series of vacations they took. Once-in-a-lifetime trips to Ireland, Nova Scotia, England, an Alaskan cruise … One destination, though, was a repeat. When youngest son Bill, a Marine, was stationed in Hawaii, they decided to visit him. For the next decade or so, they returned each winter – even after Bill had completed his time in the military. After many winters…
One of my favorite childhood stories was Mom‘s tale of her violin lessons as a teen. She’d make us giggle when she told us her practice time would set their dog to howling. But when she shared that her violin teacher scolded, “Please! I have ears!” it made me sad. Now that I’ve come upon this autobiographical poem she wrote decades later, I’m sadder still to know more details about her violin lessons. After All In the beginning I knew…
“Hot enough for ya?“ Har-dee-har-har. I used to force a smile back in my working days when a visiting reporter considered that a good conversation starter as we began our walking tour. Especially back in the summer of 1999, when I was pregnant with James all summer, it was a challenge. I tried not to complain much, though, as my communications position was mostly an office job. I’ve heard from several friends and family members this week, the hottest days…
Middle-son John recently texted me this snippet he took in one of those bouncy-climby-noisy places kids love: Grandson Cameron was having a ball, playing with new friends and, it seems, climbing. I asked Cam a week or so later what he thought of that challenge. “Well, Goose …” (he calls me Goose) “I discovered I still have acrophobia.” John says the discovery was made when Cameron was about three stories up, so that seems to me more like a healthy…
Isn’t it amazing how a sound, a smell, or a taste can spark a memory from long ago? Mom was 68 years old when she wrote this poem. Green olives, it seems, didn’t just awaken her taste buds, they ignited a spark that took her thoughts happily back many decades. Study Alone with olivesfour on a gold plateI think of sun and trees and comfortand my Aunt Maywho loved them They make me laughtouting their red tonguesfor teasing tastingour Harry…
Through the numerous writers’ conferences she participated in during the 1970s, Mom not only grew as a writer but also reaped many lasting friendships. During those four years in Indiana (1973-77) she befriended Madeleine L’Engle; Will & Dorothy Kennedy – two writers Mom introduced and proudly “married off”; and Vesle Fenstermaker (fantastic name!); to name just a few. Bill McTaggart belongs on that list, too. Bill McTaggart was a poet, an author, a librarian, and a tireless volunteer. Just how…
Two years ago, as Gary and I finished clearing out Mom and Dad’s house in Connecticut, we set aside all kinds of mementos from their lives that we hoped would fit in the U-Box containers we’d rented. One entire section of the garage was filled with gardening tools. Some I remembered clearly from 50-something years prior. Dad loved to garden. It relaxed him after a long day in the office. A hoe, a rake, or a trowel was a piece…