“Mom! Oh, no! Mom! Bird poop!” Growing up, Mom’s standing rule was for us to change out of our school uniforms just as soon as we got home. I don’t remember why I didn’t obey on this one day in the spring of 1967, but a big bird named Karma took care that I would never forget. We were in the backyard at our home in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. I remember standing near the large tree that shaded our picnic table,…
The brain – or more specifically, the memory – is a magnificent thing. A few weeks ago, I saw mention of singer Peggy “Is That All There Is?” Lee and it flashed me back to childhood and the 1960s. “There she is – there’s Peggy!” They pointed at the television excitedly. Mom and Dad were proud of their classmate, who had graduated from St. Mary’s High School in New Haven and went on to perform on stage and screen (large…
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….
Back we go to the 1960s for this story. Back to Pittsfield, Massachusetts. … and Mom‘s dear friend Lorraine Lauzon. Mrs. Lauzon was a remarkable artist. She was just the right match for Mom, as the friends shared similar interests. Similar souls. They loved books, art, music, museums, and theater. Plus, both had children in Sacred Heart Elementary School. Mark Lauzon was really good friends with my oldest brother, Harry. Stephen Lauzon was in my class. Here’s a painting Mrs….
Farmer Gary has been incredibly patient as this blog has explored mostly my ancestors, as we peer back over the decades. But now, it is (ahem!) time to explore the story of a special clock from long, long ago. Gary remembers that his mom really wanted to inherit that clock. She’d grown up with it, after all. Every Sunday evening, her father – Mike Mehling – would smoke his pipe. Then he would gently remove the clock from its shelf…
For the last three days, the haunting melody of the Beatles’ “She’s Leaving Home” has tormented my brain. Now that I read through the lyrics, though, I realize very little applies. Our youngest isn’t running away. James is heading into his new life. Adult life. About an hour ago, Gary and I waved from our front porch (a lovely tradition from Mom’s aunt and uncle May and Pip) as James pulled out of the driveway with the last load of…
What do you use to save your place in a book? A piece of scrap paper? An old photo or business card? A piece of toilet paper (we know where you’ve been reading!) or paper towel? Maybe a bonafide bookmark? As long as you don’t – gasp – fold, spindle or mutilate the page of your book, nearly anything will do. While cataloging the hundreds of inherited books from my parents’ collection, I’ve come across many bookmarks. Some stir a…
I didn’t sleep last night. Not a wink. Not sure why, other than one of the challenges (and great pleasures) of retirement is not having a schedule set by anyone but yourself. James is back at college, so there wasn’t a school-aged son to stand at the darkened window and ask repeatedly, “Do you think we’ll get a snow day tomorrow? Just in case – can I stay up late?” It was always such a temptation to let the boys…
As miserable a job as it was to clear out Mom and Dad’s house back in June, sweet treasures from the past continue to surface. Among them, a cassette tape labeled “Dad playing at Ellen’s Christmas party.” Who’s Ellen? She was Dad’s sister Jean’s husband John’s sister (got that?). Ellen Cull, a teacher, lived in Lowell, Massachusetts. “Dad,” in this case, was Grandpa Vayo. It took me until Thanksgiving to have the courage to listen to the tape, fearing it…
The prayer card handed out at Rose Anna Gilbert Plante’s funeral was in French. Even though she lived all but 14 years of her long life in Lewiston, Maine, Rose Anna still listed French as her spoken language on the census form every ten years. “A la douce memoire de …” means “To the sweet memory of …” Rose Anna lived to be 87. She outlived her “epouse,” Jean Vincent Plante by 29 years. (Jean was a brother to my…