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….
It’s been exactly 155 years since a wee fellow named Joseph Malachy Regan was born in Belfast, in what is now Northern Ireland. Although I’ve blogged about him several times already, it seems only right to let his youngest daughter, Cecelia, have her say. Grandma was crazy about her father. She was the only one of the Regan girls to marry, and he gave her away in full regalia: Thanks to my middle brother, Dave, who was working on a…
Back we go to the 1960s for this story. Back to Pittsfield, Massachusetts. … and Mom‘s dear friend Lorraine Lauzon. Mrs. Lauzon was a remarkable artist. She was just the right match for Mom, as the friends shared similar interests. Similar souls. They loved books, art, music, museums, and theater. Plus, both had children in Sacred Heart Elementary School. Mark Lauzon was really good friends with my oldest brother, Harry. Stephen Lauzon was in my class. Here’s a painting Mrs….
When I first read Mom’s poem titled “Litany for a Cold Church Made Warm,” I wasn’t sure what to think. It just didn’t seem like the style of poetry she’d written as a teen and young mom. As time has passed and I’ve dug through more archives, I’ve learned her “Litany” was used in a celebration Mass on Thanksgiving 1977 at St. Thomas Aquinas Church in Indianapolis. Sadly, she wasn’t able to attend, as our family had recently moved back…
For more than a year, I’ve wanted to post these photos. They’re a series of 8×10″ glossies, with Dad the only fellow among 14 women: Thing is, I found them after Dad passed away, so I couldn’t ask him what they were all about. The only information on the back of the photos is the photographer’s name and number. When trained as a journalist and after spending a career in public relations, one prefers not to speculate. But it’s tempting….