A few months ago, I went through a big pile of Mom’s poems. Little by little, I’m reading them and trying to sort them into decades and themes. I set this one aside. The carriage Mom mentions in this love poem to Dad wasn’t the type of carriage you read about in a fairy tale. Something as Bright What did you know of mewalking our children under the leavesand over the bridges of towns too smallfor memory. Shoes from the…
It’s been a weekend of sneezing and itching, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Treasures from the past are stored in attics. And attics get dusty. One document in particular is from 1952 and speaks for itself. Dad kept it preserved all these years in a small cedar box. A letter from his father. Mom and Dad met in 1943. Within a year, they promised to marry someday. They were just 14 at the time. Nine years later,…
Dad and Mom grew up listening to the radio. They loved it. My brothers and I grew up hearing them reminisce: “the Shadow knows” and “a pickle in the middle with the mustard on top … hoo, hoo, hoo, HOO!” From Jack Benny to Burns & Allen to a laughter-choked explanation of Fibber McGee’s closet, we were well-schooled in our parents’ favorite radio shows. When satellite radio launched a Radio Classics channel 20 or so years ago, I got the…
As August’s reading comes to an end, I managed to squeeze in a fifth book. Kinda wish I hadn’t, though. Week 1: The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene If memory serves, this title provided my introduction to Graham Greene back in high school. It was summer and Mom handed me a book from her vast collection. High school was a very long time ago, so this re-read was a comfortable one. I didn’t remember a thing, other than…
My maiden name is Vayo. Growing up, it was nearly always mispronounced as VIE-oh. We’d quickly respond, “Rhymes with mayo” and hope for the best. It’s an Americanized version of the French name Veilleux (pronounced vay-YEUX; that second syllable rhymes with deux, the French word for two). Vayo is not a common name. When we see it in use, my brothers and I pay attention and always wonder if we’re related. Yesterday, brother Bill sent us a link. He texted:…
So many questions pop up as I slowly make my way through the boxes and trunks from my parents’ house. Mom kept a wooden keepsake box on her dresser. It now sits in our library, on top of a table that graced the entryway of her childhood home in New Haven. It took me weeks to summon up the emotional strength to take a peek inside. Among the assorted notes from the past, prayer cards, a handwritten poem from fourth…
We heard it every Sunday whenever there was a chill in the air: “Who wants a fie-oo in the fie-oo-place?” Dad loved to build a good fire, hear the crackling sound of properly dried kindling, poking the coals together in the late evening, and maybe even taking a snooze in a nearby comfy chair. It was only this week that I realized his obsession with building fires traced back to his youth. Way back Ever since posting about Dad’s college…
Most of July and a third of August are considered the “dog days” of summer. Although none of this month’s books could be called dogs, Betrayal has an unforgettable bite, while Cranford gets those Victorians’ tongues to wagging. Week 1: Betrayal by the Investigative Team of The Boston Globe This is an easy book to put off reading. But that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? After watching the movie Spotlight several times, I knew it was important to read…
“He is most blessed who loves the most, the freest who is most enslaved by love.”― Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote The night before Dad passed away, I slid his copy of Don Quixote off the shelf and read a bit. It was hard to concentrate, but I knew it was one of his favorites and hoped we could still connect, even though he appeared to be in a deep sleep. Around midnight, Gary shooed me off to bed. As I walked…
Now that three steamer trunks have arrived packed with papers from Mom and Dad’s attic, it’s more obvious to me than ever that Mom was a prolific writer. This question has been on my mind recently … what was her final verse? It may take years to sort through her decades of letters, poems, and prose, but since most are dated, surely the answer will appear eventually. She used to laugh about her first verse. Little Joan Cassidy was in…