I didn’t sleep last night. Not a wink. Not sure why, other than one of the challenges (and great pleasures) of retirement is not having a schedule set by anyone but yourself. James is back at college, so there wasn’t a school-aged son to stand at the darkened window and ask repeatedly, “Do you think we’ll get a snow day tomorrow? Just in case – can I stay up late?” It was always such a temptation to let the boys…
Shakespeare. Near the top of the list of topics I wanted to talk to Dad about for this family blog was his – and Mom’s – love of Shakespeare. Over the months following Mom‘s passing in 2019, I found it best to introduce a potential story topic to Dad during one of our nightly calls, with the intent to bring it back up three or four times. As Dad reminisced, I scribbled notes madly. Alas, we only talked about Shakespeare…
On this rainy New Year’s Day, let’s dust off this poem of Mom’s from the start of another year, long ago. The year 1973 was one of great change for our family. Oldest brother Harry graduated high school and headed to college. Dad was offered a job transfer to Indianapolis. We packed up the house and moved nearly a thousand miles away. We buried a beloved cat. But that was all months later. On January 1, 1973, Mom looked lovingly…
On this day in the year 1993, our paternal grandfather, Harold E. Vayo Sr., was laid to rest in Saint Mary Cemetery in Tewksbury, Massachusetts. Grandpa had lived to be 94 years old. With her permission, here’s the Memorial Tribute my cousin Jean Marie (known to friends and family as “Muff”) presented during Grandpa’s funeral Mass at St. Joseph’s Lithuanian Roman Catholic Church on Rogers Street in Lowell: As we prepared for Christmas this year, God was busy preparing a…
As miserable a job as it was to clear out Mom and Dad’s house back in June, sweet treasures from the past continue to surface. Among them, a cassette tape labeled “Dad playing at Ellen’s Christmas party.” Who’s Ellen? She was Dad’s sister Jean’s husband John’s sister (got that?). Ellen Cull, a teacher, lived in Lowell, Massachusetts. “Dad,” in this case, was Grandpa Vayo. It took me until Thanksgiving to have the courage to listen to the tape, fearing it…
Back in his college days, Dad was an editor of The Alembic student literary magazine at Providence College. In his senior year, as editor-in-chief, he wrote the occasional opinion piece. It’s been so interesting to read what he and the other editors thought about back then, 70 years ago. The following is from January 1951, a big year for the fledgling television industry. Along with advances in technology, shows such as the Hallmark Hall of Fame, Dragnet, and I Love…
Another mystery. This time, contained in a letter. As I’ve shuffled through hundreds of letters saved from the late 1940s and early ’50s, I’ve noticed Dad calls Grandma Cassidy (his mother-in-law) “Joe.” Thing is, her name wasn’t Josephine. It was Cecelia. Cecelia Margaret Regan Cassidy. And when she wrote to Dad, she signed the letters “Joe.” I wonder why … … maybe she worried that the other soldiers stationed in Korea might take a peek at one of the letters…
The year 1953 was a tough one for Mom. She was a newlywed, but her dear Hap was overseas, serving in the Army during the Korean Conflict. In one of her daily letters to Dad, she proclaimed, “After you get home, I don’t ever want to see a stamp again!” Of course, anyone who knew her is chuckling right now; Mom was a true and faithful letter-writer. She stayed in touch. So imagine her heartbreak when one of her favorite…
Growing up as a Catholic kid, it was confusing. Probably exacerbated by the sugar hangover from Halloween. The Sisters at Sacred Heart School would test us: What. Comes. Next? Well, there was All Saints Day and All Souls Day, but in what order? (I got crafty one year and noticed they were alphabetical.) Good heavens, no wonder we were confused. Here’s what Wikipedia says: All Saints’ Day, also known as All Hallows’ Day, the Feast of All Saints, the Feast of All Hallows, the Solemnity of All…
The prayer card handed out at Rose Anna Gilbert Plante’s funeral was in French. Even though she lived all but 14 years of her long life in Lewiston, Maine, Rose Anna still listed French as her spoken language on the census form every ten years. “A la douce memoire de …” means “To the sweet memory of …” Rose Anna lived to be 87. She outlived her “epouse,” Jean Vincent Plante by 29 years. (Jean was a brother to my…