“I married my mother, you realize that, don’t you?” That question always makes Farmer Gary chuckle. Just like Mom, he absolutely loves to get mail. Every morning – like clockwork – he checks the mailbox here at home and then the one over at the farm. … except on federal holidays, of which there are “too many” this time of year, apparently. Lately, Gary’s noticed the delivery rate speed has dropped, right in line with the cost of postage increasing….
“We’ll give you a call tomorrow as soon as the doctor is done fixing Mom’s plumbing.” Oh, Dad. He hid his nervousness about the surgery with goofy humor. Mom came through the operation and recovery with flying colors and never regretted taking the step. She wrote this during her wintertime recovery in early 1982: The Long Christmas Early February: I am home from the hospital – it is heaven! Days, I camp in the den with many quilts and pillows…
I’d like to share this poem Mom wrote in 1972. Usually, I try to find a family story to help introduce one of her poems, but not this time. Here’s what I know: Mom was 42 when she wrote this; we lived in Fairfield, Connecticut. Mom read like a fiend and never missed a chance to learn. Her reference to Erich Fromm is a mystery to me, but surely this poem was influenced by one of the psychoanalyst and philosopher’s…
“Cam – come here! You’ve got to see this!” Our grandson was here for an overnight and his Papaw couldn’t wait to show him the traffic jam on our road. First I must share that Farmer Gary is fascinated by the concept of gridlock. The idea that traffic could come to a complete halt because the network of roads was full absolutely blows that country boy’s mind. So when the few cars on our rural road slowed down to a…
A few of this month’s books came recommended in rather curious ways … Book 1: 84, Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff This wonderful book introduced itself via the Book Vs. Movie podcast: The two hosts – both named Margo – were so charmed by 84, Charing Cross Road, the postwar exchange of letters between a writer in New York and a bookseller in London, that I decided to give it a look-see. Checking our home inventory on the BookBuddy+…
Been thinking a lot about my ancestors this week. We are, after all, a nation of immigrants. Three generations ago, the elders were born in Ireland and Canada. Mom wrote this poem in 1972, presumably after seeing a tragic story in the news about a man without a home found frozen in the snow. The Immigrant He looked an immigrant, forever homelessin his makeshift clothes, dead in the snow for days before the photograph was taken.His life had passed to…
Winter hit hard in southern Indiana 10 days ago with that most horrifying of weather combinations: first rain – then snow – then freezing rain – followed by more snow and then a deep freeze. Although the snowfall was gorgeous, cozy, and long-awaited, the high winds and power loss were no fun. At the same time, Los Angeles was ablaze, so there was no complaining from us. (If you’ve been looking to make a donation, here’s a suggestion.) We hunkered…
We’ve all heard of snow angels. Children especially create them this time of year when at least a few inches of snowfall are available. Here’s grandson Cameron in 2022. We took the easy way out and just went out on the back deck. Those snazzy mittens were courtesy his paternal grandma, Goose (me): Such a sweet tradition. A snow angel. But look again. Is that the shape of an angel in the snow … or the face of something rather…
Given the multiple shelves of Christmas books I inherited from Mom and Dad, it felt like high time to read a full month’s worth in December. The Nutcracker was considerably darker than I’d realized. I noticed my smallish nutcracker collection eying me knowingly as I came to realize the great sacrifice the poor fellow made to rescue Marie (called Clara in the ballet). The Snow Goose was like a fairy tale, bringing both warmth and a chill to the room…
February 10, 1981: It was a dark and stormy night. George Stuteville and I were seated at the Press Table, half bored out of our skulls. He was the newspaper reporter; I was with the local radio station. We’d each been tasked with covering the regular school board meeting in Tell City, Indiana. There was nothing exciting on the agenda, just paying bills, accepting resignations, negotiating teacher contracts. As the meeting wound to a close, I whispered: “Hey George, are…