“Cold soup? Ewww!” Poor Dad had just arrived home from a business trip to the Phoenix area and was excited to tell us about the new foods he’d enjoyed. I, for one, was not the least bit tempted by the thought of cold tomato soup full of chopped fresh vegetables. But for Dad, this was a heavenly combination. He loved vegetables. Especially fresh, home-grown veggies. From the date of Mom‘s poem, below, I can guess she took a train and…
It’s an utter disgrace to be the wife of a farmer and not have a green thumb. (If I’d written this a decade ago, when moo cows were still a-plenty around here, that would have been an “udder disgrace.” I may stink at gardening, but I can pluck a pun from miles away.) Nevertheless, we keep trying. Last year, we planted three Black-Eyed Susan plants. One survived. “That’s one in three,” Farmer Gary remarked recently. He’s too nice a guy…
It’s “Take Your Poet to School Week,” which seems like the perfect time to share this letter of recommendation from 46 years ago that recently resurfaced. We lived in Indiana at the time and Mom was stretching her wings as a poet now that her four chicks were all in school fulltime. Mom attended workshops and seminars for writers. She learned, she shared, she made lasting friendships. Eventually, she hosted poetry readings and workshops of her own. One friend from…
Mom‘s fable about two soldiers and an old bear is best read aloud, to a child or a child at heart. Or anyone who questions war. Bear, Who Would Not Be a Soldier There was once a bear who lived in shabby comfort in the heart of an old forest. He had been a woodcutter, other times a guide, but never had he worn a uniform or joined a society. Now he was old and heavy like a grandfather tree,…
So many of Mom‘s lifelong friends were teachers. They were pals in college and never let go of that friendship, no matter where life took them. One such friend was Gloria Dowaliby. They were both 1952 graduates of Saint Joseph College. According to a newsletter sent out following their twenty-fifth college reunion in 1977, Gloria’s professional life was busy and international: Fulbright Scholar. An English teacher at Quirk Middle School (Hartford, Conn.). Has given special support to the American Lebanese…
Did you see the news story the other day involving the sudden wedding of two members of the Ukrainian Defense Forces? Lesya Ivashchenko and Valeriy Filimonov weren’t planning to hold their ceremony during war time, but decided to make their vows on Sunday at a checkpoint on the outskirts of Kyiv. This year would have been my parents’ 70th anniversary. They were married in New Haven on a Tuesday, while Dad was on leave from the Army. Dad had a…
I’ve been thinking a lot about Tevye lately. Tevye. The protagonist in the Tevye the Dairyman stories. The pious, irrepressible lead character in Fiddler on the Roof. When we moved from Pittsfield, Massachusetts, to Fairfield, Connecticut, in 1970, we were suddenly just a quick train ride from New York City. And Broadway. Dad took that commuter train into Manhattan every weekday. One Friday, he brought home six tickets to a hit musical called Fiddler on the Roof. I haven’t come…
Maybe I should have asked my oldest brother if he and his wife are sick of being called “maniacs.” You know – being long-time Maine residents and all. Harry and Linda are avid readers. They regale family and friends each December with a letter tucked into their Christmas card detailing their recommendations based on their favorite reads of that year. Here’s a compilation from the past several years: Harry: After rereading Bleak House, Harry still ranks it as Dickens’ best….
Farmer Gary and I have a tradition. Each evening, he asks me to look up how many readers visited this blog over the past day. It ranges greatly, depending on whether I’ve added a new post that day. Then comes the really good part. “Where are they from?” Blog analytics are fascinating. I haven’t splurged on a deep-dive system (yet), but the one I use lists readers by their nation. Gary never tires of it. Of course, the majority of…
Who writes a love poem from her hospital bed? My mom, apparently. The year was 1982, the month was January. The hospital was Yale – New Haven. (“This should fix her plumbing problems once and for all,” Dad explained with his usual delicate word choice.) The love poem was a Valentine to her youngest child. Valentine for Bill Our last son is the Red Fox.My pen becomes the glass blower’spipe as I sing of him withincandescent love beyond myunderstanding. Somewhere…