As I finished up each book this month, I’d tell Farmer Gary: Time for a lighter book. But it wasn’t the weight of the volume that needed changing. With horrifying acts of terrorism around the world and crazed gunmen here in the U.S., it was time for an escape. Somehow, though, each new book was also filled with sorrow. Book 1: All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque The title was so familiar, but I’d never before…
Just when I’m about to declare how fast September flew by, I look at the list of books I read and that first book seems so long ago. Book 1: The Watchmaker’s Daughter by Larry Loftis Corrie ten Boom told of her part in the resistance in the Netherlands during World War II in her memoir The Hiding Place, which was assigned reading in my high school. Half a century later, Gary gave me this volume and I wondered how…
My first and last reads in August were each a deep dive into an important female pioneer. Both books are well worth the effort. Book 1: Rememberings by Sinéad O’Connor When Sinéad O’Connor passed away suddenly in late July, I wondered if she’d written a memoir. All I knew of her was she often appeared with a shaved head and that she tore up a photo of the Pope on Saturday Night Live in 1992. Now that I’ve read Rememberings,…
One of my favorite childhood stories was Mom‘s tale of her violin lessons as a teen. She’d make us giggle when she told us her practice time would set their dog to howling. But when she shared that her violin teacher scolded, “Please! I have ears!” it made me sad. Now that I’ve come upon this autobiographical poem she wrote decades later, I’m sadder still to know more details about her violin lessons. After All In the beginning I knew…
A few weeks ago, one of Farmer Gary‘s cousins sent us some photos from a century ago, hoping my husband could identify the relatives. The cousin, Becky, is one of the daughters of Gary’s uncle/godfather Jim. She said the photos were from a huge Schum-family reunion some 40 years ago. There was a table piled high with photos. Copies of old black-and-whites were available to order, but they did not come with any identifying information. Here’s one of them: Gary…
Keeping up with my retirement pledge to read at least four books each month, July included a childhood re-read, two “overdue” books, plus the discovery of the Detection Club. Book 1: Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder Mom introduced me to the “Little House” books in the 1960s and I was soon hooked. They’ve been on my list to re-read as an adult, just to see what – if anything – might strike me differently. Then…
“Hot enough for ya?“ Har-dee-har-har. I used to force a smile back in my working days when a visiting reporter considered that a good conversation starter as we began our walking tour. Especially back in the summer of 1999, when I was pregnant with James all summer, it was a challenge. I tried not to complain much, though, as my communications position was mostly an office job. I’ve heard from several friends and family members this week, the hottest days…
Middle-son John recently texted me this snippet he took in one of those bouncy-climby-noisy places kids love: Grandson Cameron was having a ball, playing with new friends and, it seems, climbing. I asked Cam a week or so later what he thought of that challenge. “Well, Goose …” (he calls me Goose) “I discovered I still have acrophobia.” John says the discovery was made when Cameron was about three stories up, so that seems to me more like a healthy…
Back when Farmer Gary and I announced our engagement (just-in-time-for-Christmas, 1981), so many of my relatives and college friends chimed in, “My grandparents were farmers!” or “My great-uncle grew up on a farm!” Suddenly, the world was one big farm. I’m experiencing the same with Gary’s family tree. Every ten years, the census report announces this ancestor or that was a farmer. Their children were “farm laborers.” Farmers everywhere! It took a half-second longer than it should have for me…
Not that I don’t know the difference between a huge bird and a fluffy-fluffy cat. It’s just this photo reminded me of Mom’s poem called “That Book” from 23 years ago: That Book That book she wanted more than any otherwas exiled to the highest shelfher gold eyes recognized its redbut reaching it meant mountain climbingfar too far Next day she hired a huge birdone with a strong beak and balanceand when he laid it in her lapshe seized it…