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…
“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…
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…
Isn’t it amazing how a sound, a smell, or a taste can spark a memory from long ago? Mom was 68 years old when she wrote this poem. Green olives, it seems, didn’t just awaken her taste buds, they ignited a spark that took her thoughts happily back many decades. Study Alone with olivesfour on a gold plateI think of sun and trees and comfortand my Aunt Maywho loved them They make me laughtouting their red tonguesfor teasing tastingour Harry…
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…
Two years ago, as Gary and I finished clearing out Mom and Dad’s house in Connecticut, we set aside all kinds of mementos from their lives that we hoped would fit in the U-Box containers we’d rented. One entire section of the garage was filled with gardening tools. Some I remembered clearly from 50-something years prior. Dad loved to garden. It relaxed him after a long day in the office. A hoe, a rake, or a trowel was a piece…
In a file folder containing Dad‘s retirement documents from 1988, I came across a five-page typewritten document. Titled: Autobiography A handwritten note at the top of yellowing paper indicates it was completed on July 21, 1954. Was it written by request of a potential employer? We may never know. Here it is, in its entirety: Autobiography by Harold E. Vayo, Jr. My birth occurred, I have been informed, at St. Luke’s Hospital, Utica, New York, about four-thirty on the morning…
This is the unofficial Year of the Groundhog. Poor Farmer Gary just had to re-plant the soybean field next to our house. Why? Not the usual reason of too much rain or not enough rain. Why, then? Our local groundhogs have apparently decided that Gary is their personal chef and the soybean field is their grand buffet. Deep down, though, surely they realize they’re in the wrong. After all, the rows closest to the woods are the first to be…
Exactly two years ago, almost to the minute, Farmer Gary and I were in the process of clearing out Mom and Dad’s house in Madison, Connecticut. It’s a long story, but suffice it to say the challenge of dividing up belongings among the siblings, the grandchildren, and friends was just the beginning. Some items were donated, others given to friends of friends. But the house still wasn’t empty. And we were running out of time. My cousin Suzanne lives not…