Now that May’s books are all read, I’ve come to realize something: They are all mysteries. Some are classic detective novels, but others are the result of journalists digging in to uncover mysteries about stolen children and how sausage used to be made. Book 1: The Jungle by Upton Sinclair Did you read The Jungle by muckraker Upton Sinclair back in high school? It’s haunted my brain ever since, so I downloaded a free copy to take a second look,…
Lots of reading this month, with a mix of fiction and non-fiction. Although about half were also made into movies, I made a point to watch only three. The foolishly banned Maus came in two volumes, and left me especially grieving for the author’s loss of his mother and her journals. Lots of trigger warnings for this month’s batch of books, as Maus – along with any Holocaust story – is deeply disturbing. There’s also language in books written in…
“Ouchie post!” I can’t begin to tell you how many times that little voice popped up from the back seat of our car. But I knew what he meant. Our youngest had spied a new and unusual ouchie post and was wildly gesticulating, hoping I’d be just as excited to see it. It was only recently, though, as we reminisced, that I learned more about the obsession. Farmer Gary remembers that James wasn’t much more than a toddler at the…
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…
Now that I look back on the list, it’s clear that March was packed with an odd assortment of books. Not exactly “in like a lion, out like a lamb”; the month’s literary arc was not a smooth one. Week 1: Mrs. Astor Regrets by Meryl Gordon What an exhausting read! I vaguely remember this story from the news 15 years ago, when “elder abuse” was a developing term. Mrs. Astor was ridiculously rich. Admittedly, she wasn’t a great mother,…
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…
Growing up on Chatham Street in New Haven, Connecticut, Mom loved her “little room.” Nowadays, we might call it a walk-in closet. Back in the 1940s, it was a room with a window and a desk. For writing, for studying, for dreaming. Even more special was the view. The window looked out into the front yard, where there was a spruce tree. And as Mom grew up, so did that tree. A year ago, I asked Dad if Mom had…
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…
The weather was so warm over the weekend. And then, around two o’clock this morning, a wild storm brought winter back. Ah, well. Guess we’ll just have to wait. Perhaps there were similarly fluid weather conditions when Mom wrote this sonnet, called “Waiting Is Winter,” in April of 1949, while a freshman at Saint Joseph College. (You remember sonnets, right? Traditionally, a sonnet is a 14-line poem written in iambic pentameter. It follows a specific rhyming pattern and focuses on…