My first and last reads in August were each a deep dive into an important female pioneer. Both books are well worth the effort. Book 1: Rememberings by Sinéad O’Connor When Sinéad O’Connor passed away suddenly in late July, I wondered if she’d written a memoir. All I knew of her was she often appeared with a shaved head and that she tore up a photo of the Pope on Saturday Night Live in 1992. Now that I’ve read Rememberings,…
A few weeks ago, one of Farmer Gary‘s cousins sent us some photos from a century ago, hoping my husband could identify the relatives. The cousin, Becky, is one of the daughters of Gary’s uncle/godfather Jim. She said the photos were from a huge Schum-family reunion some 40 years ago. There was a table piled high with photos. Copies of old black-and-whites were available to order, but they did not come with any identifying information. Here’s one of them: Gary…
Keeping up with my retirement pledge to read at least four books each month, July included a childhood re-read, two “overdue” books, plus the discovery of the Detection Club. Book 1: Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder Mom introduced me to the “Little House” books in the 1960s and I was soon hooked. They’ve been on my list to re-read as an adult, just to see what – if anything – might strike me differently. Then…
“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…
Back when Farmer Gary and I announced our engagement (just-in-time-for-Christmas, 1981), so many of my relatives and college friends chimed in, “My grandparents were farmers!” or “My great-uncle grew up on a farm!” Suddenly, the world was one big farm. I’m experiencing the same with Gary’s family tree. Every ten years, the census report announces this ancestor or that was a farmer. Their children were “farm laborers.” Farmers everywhere! It took a half-second longer than it should have for me…
Not that I don’t know the difference between a huge bird and a fluffy-fluffy cat. It’s just this photo reminded me of Mom’s poem called “That Book” from 23 years ago: That Book That book she wanted more than any otherwas exiled to the highest shelfher gold eyes recognized its redbut reaching it meant mountain climbingfar too far Next day she hired a huge birdone with a strong beak and balanceand when he laid it in her lapshe seized it…
Book 1: A Midwife’s Story by Penny Armstrong Farmer Gary‘s fascination with all things Amish made this an easy choice at the bookstore years ago. This memoir traces Penny Armstrong’s initial interest in midwifery to her studies in multiple countries. She eventually settles in among the Amish. Lots of interesting stories, most of joyous survival but a few with heart-wrenching outcomes. She had every reason to criticize those-in-power who assumed she was inept, yet her harsh words for hospital deliveries…
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…
In a file folder containing Dad‘s retirement documents from 1988, I came across a five-page typewritten document. Titled: Autobiography A handwritten note at the top of yellowing paper indicates it was completed on July 21, 1954. Was it written by request of a potential employer? We may never know. Here it is, in its entirety: Autobiography by Harold E. Vayo, Jr. My birth occurred, I have been informed, at St. Luke’s Hospital, Utica, New York, about four-thirty on the morning…