Back to four volumes this month, my minimal commitment for retirement-era book consumption. Three of the four came from our collection of Folio Society books (which has grown past 700 titles this month, thanks to eBay). But first, a just-released heart-wrenching memoir caught my eye. The title is so disturbing I can’t even bring myself to type the words. Book 1: a memoir by Jennette McCurdy I remember so well watching iCarly on TV with James. The character of Sam,…
Since retirement three years ago, it’s been fun to dabble in genealogy on Ancestry.com. Our family tree, at this point, looks much wider than tall. Geez, there were some huge families just a few generations back! The DNA tests that Farmer Gary and I took some years ago involved spitting into small tubes and mailing them off to Ancestry. My saliva was bubbly while Gary’s was flat. (I still wonder what that means.) Every so often, Ancestry emails with the…
Mom absolutely loved being a grandma. Over the years, she and Dad were blessed with seven grandchildren. Many summers ago, they enjoyed hosting five of those little varmints while vacationing in Ogunquit, Maine. (James and Lucy weren’t born yet.) Here’s a story Mom wrote 30 years ago, remembering that special time. Half a Hot Dog with Johnny It is October and three of our grandchildren are in school and thriving. I think of last August and the various times the…
“Kitty go yow-yow! Kitty go yow-yow!” One of our sons, as a toddler, used to delight in seeing the barn cats over at the farm. He would point a tiny finger and proclaim to us: “Kitty go yow-yow!” And so, when a particularly vocal kitty started hanging out with us back in March, Gary and I resurrected the phrase. Here’s a photo I sent to James, still at college: It was nice to see such a handsome fellow cross our…
“Gary Werne! Not again!” My husband got a nervous look on his face, but quickly replied: “Those boxes aren’t for me. They’re for Mr. Wense.” Several boxes had arrived that day from multiple mail-order book clubs. Another batch of books we had not ordered, from book clubs of which Gary was already a member. Gary, who never before nor since has shown the least sign of sneakiness, was simply the victim of a mailing-list typo. Flash back to 41 years…
Farmer Gary has been incredibly patient as this blog has explored mostly my ancestors, as we peer back over the decades. But now, it is (ahem!) time to explore the story of a special clock from long, long ago. Gary remembers that his mom really wanted to inherit that clock. She’d grown up with it, after all. Every Sunday evening, her father – Mike Mehling – would smoke his pipe. Then he would gently remove the clock from its shelf…
There’s something very gratifying about reading Oscar Wilde’s children’s stories with your grandchild. I agreed heartily when Cameron, 10, pronounced one of the characters (the Miller) to be a “schnook”! Although I didn’t take a photo of him with the book, here he is a few months ago during a visit to a wonderful Vincent van Gogh exhibit in Indianapolis: This month’s books included several novels with strong female protagonists from over the centuries. From Mother Courage to Miss Pym…
For the last three days, the haunting melody of the Beatles’ “She’s Leaving Home” has tormented my brain. Now that I read through the lyrics, though, I realize very little applies. Our youngest isn’t running away. James is heading into his new life. Adult life. About an hour ago, Gary and I waved from our front porch (a lovely tradition from Mom’s aunt and uncle May and Pip) as James pulled out of the driveway with the last load of…
“These perm rods I’m using on your hair? These are my Anne Bancroft rods.” That statement caught my attention even more than the smelly perm treatment Michael squirted on my hair. “Anne Bancroft? The Miracle Worker actress? The Graduate? Mel Brooks’s wife?” Yup. One and the same. And that’s how I first learned about Michael Rasor’s “other life.” His hair salon’s name – The Rasor’s Edge – was enough to hook me. He operated a little shop at the other…
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…