Strawberry Hill Rd
From home to house

From home to house

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Farmer Gary and I just returned from nine exhausting days in Madison, Connecticut. I’d volunteered us to sell Mom and Dad’s house, including clearing out the house of personal belongings. Spoiler Alert: Mission Accomplished. Gary and I felt comfortable taking on this task knowing that long-time friend Rus (a semi-retired realtor who grew up in Lowell, Mass., and is a roller-coaster enthusiast) would be at the ready with advice. Plus, my husband has a subscription to the Wall Street Journal,…

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Harold E. Vayo, typing while an English major at Providence College.
Class oration 1951

Class oration 1951

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It’s amazing how the memory works. While putting together a post last week about my brother Dave’s high school valedictorian address, a vague memory surfaced that our dad was valedictorian of his college class. On a lark, I looked up the contact information for the alumni-relations department at Providence College. After pausing to appreciate their punny slogan, Ease on Down the Rhode, I sent an email asking if they might have information regarding Graduation 1951. My somewhat hazy recollection is…

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Library chair
The merry books of May

The merry books of May

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There’s something about May. Gentle breezes warm the air and all shades of green decorate trees, lawns, and fields. It’s no wonder Elizabethan dramatist Thomas Dekker wrote about “The Merry Month of May” in 1599. Side note: I learned from Farmer Gary the other day that the red dots in the field next to our house are Crimson Clover. From Capote to Coward, during May I tried to keep my book choices as merry as possible. Week 1: The Prime…

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1931 Harold E. Vayo Jr.
91 candles for Dad

91 candles for Dad

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One of the many goofy teases Dad used when we were kids was to never remember our ages. He knew them all, of course, but would increase or lower our age to support his ruling as a parent. “Stay up to watch Star Trek? But you’re only six years old – that’s way past your bedtime!” Uh, I was eight, nine, and ten at the time the original series ran. When I got caught peaking down the stairs, my true…

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1965 Dave and Harry play ball
The valedictorian

The valedictorian

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It’s that time of year again, as graduation ceremonies commence at schools all across the country. Back in 1975, I was a junior in high school. My middle brother, Dave, a senior, was at the top of his class. He was destined to be valedictorian. But toward the end of his senior year, there was an unexpected complication. Since we’d started high school in Connecticut and were finishing it in Indiana, a few classes didn’t match up. To be more…

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1971 Christmas in Fairfield
Neighbors

Neighbors

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“Wherever life takes you, make sure you have good neighbors.” Mom preached that to me repeatedly over my childhood years. Luckily, it was in reaction to a kindness shown by a neighbor. We did okay over the years. More than okay, actually. Mom and Dad lived in Fairfield, Connecticut, twice – with four Indiana years in between. I lived in the first house as a junior-high schooler. By the time they moved back, though, there were only two summers left…

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Sister Sylvia Gehlhausen
The Minister of Hospitality

The Minister of Hospitality

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To know her was to love her. Sister Sylvia reminded me so much of my dear great-aunt Sr. Amabilis. It was uncanny. Both teachers, deeply religious, tiny, and loads of fun. I met Sister Sylvia about 30 years ago at a tourism meeting. She was smart, kind, and sort of sassy. Her home was on the hill in Ferdinand, at the Monastery Immaculate Conception. She was their Minister of Hospitality. A few years later, we built a big new roller…

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Cardinal outside my window
The first date

The first date

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Collaborating with Dad on this blog’s stories has been a joy. He got such a charge when a photo or old news article tickled his memory. And he loved talking about Mom, his Joanie. Our final effort together was “The Maine Man,” with that surprise ending in which Dad suddenly remembered a car ride with his grandparents back in 1935 or so. In our daily phone chats, there was never a pen and pad out of reach. Jotted notes would…

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Paddy McCarthy with children
For Paddy McCarthy

For Paddy McCarthy

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The other day, it occurred to me that Mom lived through a lot of wars. As a child, she wrote poems about the soldiers in World War II. Her uncle Pip and other fellows from the neighborhood were called up to service. It clearly weighed heavy on her heart. She and Dad married while he was on a finally approved three-day leave. When he returned to his barracks, Dad found orders to ship out on his bunk. He was on…

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Pierre the cat and brother Bill
A tale of two kitties

A tale of two kitties

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Charles Dickens liked cats. In fact, the great Victorian novelist loved his cat Bob so much that when the kitty died, Dickens saved one of the paws, had it stuffed and then glued to an ivory blade, creating a memorable letter opener that is now on display in a museum. Really. In the 1960s, we weren’t a big pet family. Maybe it’s because we moved so often. Maybe it was so Mom could recover from birthing three babies in four…

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