She was just 13 years old. It must have felt like the world was exploding. Her uncles were in uniform. The radio blasted news of war. There was rationing of food and materials. Newspaper headlines were frightening. So Mom wrote poems. Some she included in letters to her aunt who lived an hour away. It wasn’t until after Sister Amabilis passed away that Mom discovered all her letters had been preserved. This poem about the USS Hornet was so long,…
This feels like a miracle. Or at the very least, an answer from Saint Anthony. The other morning, I woke up full of determination to look into the other side of Mom’s family. The Cassidy side. Surely there must be someone out there who was also a great-grandchild of Patrick and Annie who wants family stories preserved and shared. Right? I started with the youngest of their seven children, worked my way to Marcella, and put together a story about…
As today is the anniversary of D-Day, I went looking for a relative who served during World War II and came across Mom’s Mulligan cousins. Let’s start with John Joseph Mulligan, Jr. He was born in 1920 in New Haven, Connecticut. Here’s a photo from his high-school yearbook: Sadly, his mom – Bertha Prindle Mulligan – passed away when he was only ten. She was 31. Eighteen months later, John got a stepmom. Mom’s aunt Marcella Cassidy married John Sr….
Have you ever seen a flowering Angel’s Trumpet plant? Simply gorgeous: When she was a teen, Mom wrote about the plant, creating a story about how it came to be. Her high-school newspaper printed this work of prose in 1946. Here’s the full piece: The Herald of Heaven In a gladed forest shaded by dense foliage grows a lowly plant, lowly, that is, in stature. Botanists have christened it “Angel’s trumpet” due to its peculiar shape. No one seemed to…
One of these days, I need to pull out Mom’s “rejection folder” for a blog post. Yes, she kept the rejection letters she received from magazine editors over the years. Rejection. Who needs that?! But Mom never gave up. She kept mailing out those hand-typed poems, knowing her work was good. Once in a while, there’d be hand-written feedback in the margins of those letters, written by kind editors who no doubt understood the pain of rejection. Back in the…
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…
One of these days, I’m going to figure out the story behind my maiden name: Vayo. Stepping back three generations on Dad‘s side, one family spelled their surname in three ways: Veilleux, Vayo, and Veayo. Just now, I double-checked all of great-grandpa George Vayo’s siblings and parents and there is, frankly, no rhyme or reason that I can find. Several family members – including his parents – changed their surnames from Veilleux to Vayo, while a few of George’s siblings…
These days, social media is full of parents bemoaning the bittersweet moment of driving away from colleges and universities that just six months ago they were bragging about joyously. This time, though, they leave without their child. I remember that acute pain. Walking by a bedroom that no longer vibrates with electric guitar or bass riffs rattling the door knob. “Oh, how I’ll miss this,” I thought more than once. I still do. No one asking for a clean shirt….
Each month as I sit down to write about the books I’ve read, I look for a theme. It’s never planned out ahead of time, but sometimes a theme does emerge. This time, it’s stories about the post-war era. Not all of them, but five (if you count The Longest Day) out of six is a theme, right? Book 1: The Diary That Changed the World by Otto Frank Over the years, I’ve read plenty of good books about Anne…
I’ve been thinking a lot about Mom and Dad these past several days, knowing they were just 14 years old when D-Day occurred on June 6, 1944. The 80th anniversary of D-Day commemoration brought tears to my eyes, watching news coverage of the war veterans – some of whom had stormed the beaches of Normandy – honored and paying tribute to those who filled the cemeteries after the horrific battles. While reading The Longest Day by Cornelius Ryan over the…