Most of this month’s reads fall under the category of “books of Christmas past.” With snow swirling and wind howling, I settled into a comfy chair each evening and cracked open collection after collection of themed short stories. Have I mentioned I’m not crazy about short stories? Several dozen of the Folio Society books we inherited from Mom and Dad are collections of short stories. They’re just not as satisfying to me, but I’ll keep trying in 2023. Book 1:…
Cooking, cleaning, decorating, and wrapping presents took up much of Mom‘s time leading up to Christmas each year. Oh, and writing notes in 200 or more Christmas cards. One tradition that Mom practiced annually often happened after the rest of us were asleep on Christmas Eve. In 1983, she took the time to write about it: The Call to Christmas 12:30 a.m., the early end of Christmas Eve. We have trimmed the tree and adorned the house and the snow…
There’s a basket full of school papers to go through, and it’s hard to make much headway. That’s because they’re Mom‘s papers, presumably from high school and college. Some are easy to figure out, as they retell a current event, or show the results of comparing two writers’ styles. There are news clips, too. Other papers, though, will remain a mystery. No date, no teacher’s name. But as long as Mom’s name is there – Joan Cassidy – I know…
“Paula, can you find something for me on your computer? There’s something I want to give Dad.” My heart leapt. It was 2016, and Mom was deep into Parkinson’s. She hadn’t been able to go out shopping for years. By then, most of our daily phone conversations were fairly one-sided. I provided family updates, which she enjoyed and could later share with Dad. One update Mom would be sure to give me, though, was: “Dad played the piano this afternoon….
This selection of Mom’s prose from 40 years ago captures memories of the Quinnipiac River, located just down the hill from her childhood home in New Haven, Connecticut. Here’s a photo of her dad, Frank Cassidy from around that time, heading home on Chatham Street after one of his brisk walks. That’s the Quinnipiac in the background. The river has had good years and bad. My memories of it are from the 1960s, when it was befouled by industrial waste….
As we finish up the first week of December, the sudden appearance of Christmas trees is pleasantly common. Some folks put theirs up over Thanksgiving weekend – or even before. Others wait till closer to the big day. Mom loved everything about Christmas, but waited until the night before for the tree. Although Dad usually picked out their live Christmas trees over the years – and placed the lights, she was in charge of the decorating of each season’s beauty….
It’s only just now occurring to me that Dad‘s love of the song “Waltzing Matilda” might be because his mom’s middle name was Mathilda. He’d sing over and over: Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabongUnder the shade of a Coolibah treeAnd he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled“You’ll come a Waltzing Matilda with me” If you’re not familiar with Australia’s unofficial national anthem, here’s a 1962 recording by Dad’s favorite folk musician, Richard Dyer-Bennett:…
So, before the snickers begin, I’ll be clear: we’re talking about the 19th century novelist, Anthony Trollope. As part of the Folio Society collection of books we inherited from Dad and Mom, there are 49 volumes by Anthony Trollope waiting to be read (48 novels plus a collection of short stories). The Folio Fans group on Facebook came through for me when I asked for advice regarding where to start. Does each book stand on its own, or is there…
Do teachers still send home a “reading list” with students over their summer break? I seem to remember a few lists coming home in the boys’ backpacks over the years, but never one as intimidating as this. Mom was an incoming freshman at Saint Joseph College the fall of 1948. As an English major, she was expected to read a lot. She wrote to her future husband (she and Dad had dated since they met at age 14 and were…
This year, Thanksgiving falls on the third anniversary of Mom’s passing. Anyone who’s grieved a loved one’s death knows the sadness is unpredictable. Sometimes it sneaks in with a sigh; other times it clobbers you like a mallet and takes your breath away. But you learn, bit by bit, to “carry on” and do your best. And so I dug around this week for a Thanksgiving poem, knowing how Mom loved the holiday and the gathering of family and friends….