“Did you know about the chair that went to college?” Dad and I were talking on the phone a few years back about how he filled his days after Mom passed. He spent hours each afternoon going through her poems and prose, much as I do now. Something he’d seen that day reminded him of that chair. Uh …what chair, Dad? Ah, yes. There was a comfy armchair we’d had since, I think, the 1960s in Pittsfield … … it…
A month ago, while searching for archival newspaper articles about the original library in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, I tucked away a few extra Berkshire Eagle newsclips from the 1960s. Three specific opinion pieces caught my attention, not only because they were written by immediate family members, but because the topics shone such a light on their personalities and interests. Let’s start with Dad. First, let us point out that Dad‘s name was Harold, not Harvey. (Oh, how I wish I’d come…
“Oh, boy! Stinky cheese!” Dad sure knew how to clear a room. He was crazy about pungent cheese and all the drama his eating it entailed. Maybe it was the Frenchy-Frenchman side of him? We kids would run for cover while he all but inhaled chunks of Camembert, Munster, and Feta. Phew! As a child, I remember begging Mom to let me wait for her outside of a food shop in Pittsfield, a store that specialized (or so it seemed)…
Sometimes the ugly headlines are enough. Too much, really. Defunding libraries? How can this even be an idea, much less an attempt in the Missouri legislature? I can’t help but wonder what Mom would think about this. Libraries were her lifeline as we moved from state to state in the 1960s and ’70s. I have a feeling she and Dad checked out schools, churches, parks – and libraries – while househunting each time. The library I remember most was in…
Two years ago, as I was reading scores of old newspaper articles to learn more about my paternal great-grandfather, someone with the exact same name popped up. Dad’s grandfather’s name was George E. Vayo. This second person’s name was also George E. Vayo. They both spent a considerable amount of their lives in Maine. The story of this second George and his son stuck with me, and this week seemed a good time to dig a bit deeper to see…
Growing up in the 1960s, getting new clothes for Easter Sunday was a big deal. I don’t know where she found it, but one spring Mom came home with a “coat of many colors” for middle-brother Dave. It was … to use a dated word … snazzy. Nearly 40 years later, Mom remembered that jacket in a poem: David Growing upyou prized foil candy wrappersa bright heap on your bookcasemade merrier by the sun Your younger brother later your own…
No, I’m not referencing the situation here in America. There’s another former president from a far-away land who also says he didn’t do it. This year is the 25th anniversary of the Kosovo War. That country’s former president pleaded not guilty at The Hague today to war crimes and crimes against humanity. Mom had a way of deeply humanizing stories of political and ethnic conflict through her writing. From Paddy McCarthy’s part in Belfast’s Bloody Sunday in 1971 to the…
Mom had a really good friend named Mary. Two friends named Mary, come to think of it. Mary Donahue and Mary Fleming. Turns out they were the same person. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit this is a recent discovery on my part. When they met in college, Mom was Joan Cassidy and Mary’s last name was Donahue. They were thick as thieves, those two, along with Gloria Dowaliby. Here’s Mary’s yearbook page from 1952, graduation year: Their final year…
When your mother is a prolific poet, it may be best not to try and figure out too much about each individual poem. Mom loved words, the sound of words. And weaving them together into poems was one of her life’s great delights. Perhaps unfortunately, there’s something in me that is so literal, I have to spend at least a little bit of time to try and “figure out” each verse. As if it’s a riddle. Which I know it…
Dad was not one to hoard receipts and other paperwork from his nearly 91 years. But he did hold on to reminders that brought back good memories. “You were a cheap date,” he said to me out of the blue when I was still in my teens. He quickly explained that he’d run across the bill from my birth. “Our insurance didn’t cover everything,” he said with a sigh. “I had to shell out $14.75 when we brought you home.”…