Sometimes the ugly headlines are enough. Too much, really. Defunding libraries? How can this even be an idea, much less an attempt in the Missouri legislature? I can’t help but wonder what Mom would think about this. Libraries were her lifeline as we moved from state to state in the 1960s and ’70s. I have a feeling she and Dad checked out schools, churches, parks – and libraries – while househunting each time. The library I remember most was in…
Mom had a really good friend named Mary. Two friends named Mary, come to think of it. Mary Donahue and Mary Fleming. Turns out they were the same person. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit this is a recent discovery on my part. When they met in college, Mom was Joan Cassidy and Mary’s last name was Donahue. They were thick as thieves, those two, along with Gloria Dowaliby. Here’s Mary’s yearbook page from 1952, graduation year: Their final year…
When your mother is a prolific poet, it may be best not to try and figure out too much about each individual poem. Mom loved words, the sound of words. And weaving them together into poems was one of her life’s great delights. Perhaps unfortunately, there’s something in me that is so literal, I have to spend at least a little bit of time to try and “figure out” each verse. As if it’s a riddle. Which I know it…
Confession: Gary’s godmother, Stella, was married to a man named Arch. It shouldn’t be all that hard to keep those names – Arch and Stella – straight, but once I mistakenly called them Starch & Ella. And it stuck. Two more kind and decent people you’ll never meet. Stella was one of Gary‘s aunts who grew up here on the farm. The two of them were thick as thieves when they got together – sharing farm stories from long ago….
The paper has the look of parchment. But it’s not quite yet crisp with age. The story is two typed pages and is signed with Mom‘s married name, so that means she wrote it in the final weeks of 1952 or later. Reading it for the first time this evening, I’m reminded of an Irish folktale, and am grateful Mom’s lifetime of writing sometimes included prose. Maybe someday, as I finish sorting through her writings, I’ll find another copy bearing…
This year, Thanksgiving falls on the third anniversary of Mom’s passing. Anyone who’s grieved a loved one’s death knows the sadness is unpredictable. Sometimes it sneaks in with a sigh; other times it clobbers you like a mallet and takes your breath away. But you learn, bit by bit, to “carry on” and do your best. And so I dug around this week for a Thanksgiving poem, knowing how Mom loved the holiday and the gathering of family and friends….
For more than a year, I’ve wanted to post these photos. They’re a series of 8×10″ glossies, with Dad the only fellow among 14 women: Thing is, I found them after Dad passed away, so I couldn’t ask him what they were all about. The only information on the back of the photos is the photographer’s name and number. When trained as a journalist and after spending a career in public relations, one prefers not to speculate. But it’s tempting….
There’s something very gratifying about reading Oscar Wilde’s children’s stories with your grandchild. I agreed heartily when Cameron, 10, pronounced one of the characters (the Miller) to be a “schnook”! Although I didn’t take a photo of him with the book, here he is a few months ago during a visit to a wonderful Vincent van Gogh exhibit in Indianapolis: This month’s books included several novels with strong female protagonists from over the centuries. From Mother Courage to Miss Pym…
So many of Mom‘s lifelong friends were teachers. They were pals in college and never let go of that friendship, no matter where life took them. One such friend was Gloria Dowaliby. They were both 1952 graduates of Saint Joseph College. According to a newsletter sent out following their twenty-fifth college reunion in 1977, Gloria’s professional life was busy and international: Fulbright Scholar. An English teacher at Quirk Middle School (Hartford, Conn.). Has given special support to the American Lebanese…
Growing up on Chatham Street in New Haven, Connecticut, Mom loved her “little room.” Nowadays, we might call it a walk-in closet. Back in the 1940s, it was a room with a window and a desk. For writing, for studying, for dreaming. Even more special was the view. The window looked out into the front yard, where there was a spruce tree. And as Mom grew up, so did that tree. A year ago, I asked Dad if Mom had…