The little red diary from my moving-away party in June 1970 is only two-thirds complete. Our family was getting ready to move from Pittsfield, Mass., to Fairfield, Conn., that summer. That diary gave me – a 12-year-old middle child – a place to be excited as well as miserable. Fifty-four years later (ack!), the diary is sitting on a shelf here in our home. I’ve been tempted to pitch it for years. Last night, I decided to take a look…
It was close to midnight the other evening when I heard it. A train whistle. In the far-off distance. I love the sound of a train, especially at night. It’s so comforting. I asked my musical brother Dave if he knew exactly what chord the whistle plays. Here’s his reply: I’ve heard a lot of different chords from train whistles, but my favorite (which I’ve heard quite a bit) is a major chord with an added 6th, like F-A-C-D. The add-6 chord…
It’s such a great feeling to think of Mom so enjoying a new (to her) author that she just had to pause her reading to write a poem in tribute to him. Paul Horgan was a Pulitzer Prize-winning author (twice; both times for history) who leaped from genre to genre. From poetry and drama to novels and historical fiction, from biographies to children’s literature. Often his work centered around southwest America. I read one of his books last month, from…
Through the numerous writers’ conferences she participated in during the 1970s, Mom not only grew as a writer but also reaped many lasting friendships. During those four years in Indiana (1973-77) she befriended Madeleine L’Engle; Will & Dorothy Kennedy – two writers Mom introduced and proudly “married off”; and Vesle Fenstermaker (fantastic name!); to name just a few. Bill McTaggart belongs on that list, too. Bill McTaggart was a poet, an author, a librarian, and a tireless volunteer. Just how…
“Meat! Don’t you have any meat? I need meat!” An Indiana University football player hollered across the counter at me 45 years ago today. The poor fellow, and his beefy friends, were looking nervous as they made their way through the dorm cafeteria line and slowly realized the dinner menu was not quite as protein-laden as usual. That’s because we were under a state-wide “snow emergency” as three days of blizzard conditions (on top of previous snowfall) had closed the…
When I first read Mom’s poem titled “Litany for a Cold Church Made Warm,” I wasn’t sure what to think. It just didn’t seem like the style of poetry she’d written as a teen and young mom. As time has passed and I’ve dug through more archives, I’ve learned her “Litany” was used in a celebration Mass on Thanksgiving 1977 at St. Thomas Aquinas Church in Indianapolis. Sadly, she wasn’t able to attend, as our family had recently moved back…
A horrifying fact is that pianos aren’t worth much anymore. Used pianos, that is. If you look on any “Buy/Sell/Trade” pages these days, there’s nearly always a lovely piano or two: Free. Pick-up only. Electronic keyboards are excellent. I remember my brother Dave getting one when we were in high school. Apparently they were invented primarily for apartment-dwellers, so that pianists could play (using headphones) without disturbing the neighbors. They’re also less expensive and easier to move around. Still, it’s…
As I continue to dig through Mom’s archives, I’m finding messages from her. Hints from the past. First of all, Mom was definitely not into being called a “poetess”: This news clip is from 1976, which was smack dab in the middle of the Women’s Liberation Movement. I think, though, Mom probably claimed the title “poet” over “poetess” decades before, as far back as 1938, when she wrote her first poem. In one folder, I found a program from the…
This is a story that took 46 years to tell. The year was 1976 and our family lived in Carmel, Indiana. This was a tough time in my mom’s life, what with living in the Midwest (so very far from New England) since 1973, two of her four children off to college (I was to follow that fall), and the confusion of the burgeoning women’s movement. One bright light was the writers’ conferences she attended and the friendships she cultivated…
“Cold soup? Ewww!” Poor Dad had just arrived home from a business trip to the Phoenix area and was excited to tell us about the new foods he’d enjoyed. I, for one, was not the least bit tempted by the thought of cold tomato soup full of chopped fresh vegetables. But for Dad, this was a heavenly combination. He loved vegetables. Especially fresh, home-grown veggies. From the date of Mom‘s poem, below, I can guess she took a train and…