Interesting idea: Think back on your life and then list things you only did once. Mom came up with her list two days after she turned 78. I remember hearing about a few of these, but there are definitely some mysteries. Some Things I Only Did Once Some things I only did oncetook a balloon ridemade baklavapainted our daughter’s roomtraveled to the top of a mountainand the bottom of the seaice skated in my grandmother’s drivewaychewed tobacco on the back…
Admittedly, my approach to genealogy is scattershot. Whether it’s an interesting photo, one of Mom’s poems, or a geographic location, when something interesting catches my eye, that’s the rabbit hole we scamper down for hours and sometimes days. And then there are the overriding questions about our ancestors’ origins. Case in point: How far back on Dad‘s side of the family must we go to find ourselves in France? We know they came to Maine by way of Canada several…
The year was 1987. It was late December, just a few days before Christmas. I was in a smallish airplane, circling over Louisville, Kentucky, on a return flight from Pittsburgh. Not sure I remember why we were circling, but it must have been a matter of scheduling a safe landing. It was spitting ice and snow. Shrug and wait, right? No. Some businessmen on the plane were downright put out by this. The grumbling turned to growling as their complaints…
I’m so glad Mom saved this. It’s an article her sister, Bunny, wrote for Family Seasons, a supplement to the monthly newspaper (now magazine) provided to members of the Hartford archdiocese in Connecticut. The November 1991 feature story was about Bunny’s experience with “anticipatory grief” as Grandma completed her last few years here on earth. Letting Go Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rage at close of day,Rage, rage against the dying of the…
Quite an array of topics this month. And a guest blogger: Grandson Cam writes his thoughts about The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, which he read aloud to me this summer, complete with an entertainingly dramatic voice for each character. Book 1: The Fire of Liberty This may well have been my favorite book this month. Esmond Wright compiled letters and other writings primarily from 1775 and 1776 to let the soldiers and townspersons tell the story of America’s Revolutionary War….
For weeks now, I’ve had a hunch that there was at least one more letter from Granda Willie to Grandma Cassidy in the great stacks of letters that still await me in boxes and baskets. Sure enough, Grandma‘s distinctive penmanship caught my eye. She had tucked several letters into an envelope and then written a “Keep This!” command to the future on the envelope itself. The envelope contained one letter from her father, one from her mother, and one-and-a-half letters…
I’m not sure any one piece of paper ever made me as sad as this. It’s the receipt from my Uncle Robert’s grave: The receipt’s date is June 3, 1929. The amount of $2.00 would cover the care of the infant’s grave. Another $10 was paid the next day to Edward McCarthy, who dug the tiny grave. If that’s not sad enough, there was a note from one of Dad’s sisters in his wooden keepsake box. It explained that Grandpa…
This is the story of Thomas Edward Regan. Sadly, I don’t know much about him, but I’ll share everything I’ve been able to piece together. We’ll start at the beginning: Thomas Edward Regan was born in New Haven, Connecticut, on June 27, 1946. He was his parents’ only child. He was born two months and a day after his namesake and grandfather died. Thomas Edward Regan was only 44 and had suffered from tuberculosis for years. Sadly, the grandson wasn’t…
“Oh Mom, he looks like you! Your great-grandson has your smile.” I couldn’t wait to tell Mom that baby Cameron had the same sweet smile as the one in her baby picture. I knew that portrait well. It hung in her parents’ living room for decades. It now hung in Mom and Dad’s bedroom. Today, I came across this poem Mom wrote in 1996. She was just a year younger than I am now. ‘The Good Child’ She is the…
While fluffing out Dad‘s side of the family tree this week, I came across an interesting fellow by the name of Harry Melbourn Nightingale. He was born in New Brunswick, Canada, on August 21, 1883. One of 11 children to Enoch and Martha. The family immigrated to Maine in 1890 and settled in Aroostook County. Harry went to school, grew up, labored sometimes as a farmer and sometimes “in the woods.” He worked at several shoe shops and the Turner…