I’m not sure any one piece of paper ever made me as sad as this. It’s the receipt from my Uncle Robert’s grave: The receipt’s date is June 3, 1929. The amount of $2.00 would cover the care of the infant’s grave. Another $10 was paid the next day to Edward McCarthy, who dug the tiny grave. If that’s not sad enough, there was a note from one of Dad’s sisters in his wooden keepsake box. It explained that Grandpa…
“Bunny, I wish you were my godmother.” I’ll never forget the look on Bunny’s face. We were standing at the bottom of the stairs in my parents’ home. It must have been around Christmas and I was home from college. Indiana to Connecticut didn’t happen too often; it was good to be around family. My Mom’s younger sister’s face brightened into a beautiful smile. She told me she’d have been glad to be my godmother. (For some reason, my parents…
Farmer Gary‘s great-grandmothers just can’t catch a break when it comes to obituaries. First it was Mary Wigger (she of the snuffly expiration) and now it’s Mary Werne’s turn. Excuse me, but did the local paper hire Dr. Seuss to write this headline? Mary Elisabeth Hedinger Werne passed away in her sleep on July 10, 1938. And according to the newspaper, it was a “gruesome sight” to confront. According to hand-typed notes Gary’s uncle Arch left us, although Mary was…
As I sat down to write this story, it seemed fitting to tune in to one of the Irish music channels on my satellite-radio app. The first song? Molly Malone. That was one of Dad‘s favorites. When I’d gingerly play it on the piano as a kid, he’d burst in from wherever he was in the house or yard, singing: In Dublin’s fair city … Pardon me while I wipe my eyes. What have we here? Another letter to Grandma…
Grandpa Cassidy had three sisters. Ethel Mary was two years older than he, born in 1898 in New Haven. Earlier that decade, the name Ethel was the seventh most popularly given name to baby girls. It means noble. The youngest of Ethel’s three children, Jean, wrote down the following memory: We sat on the porch on a sunny Thursday June afternoon, following the big surprise 40th Wedding Anniversary Party. It had been Anna’s idea. She said we should make hay…
Please don’t let the fancy title of this story make you nervous. Basically, epistolary apostolate means “the letter-writing apostle.” Brother Frank, I’m learning, loved to write letters. If you read The Mulligan Cousins a few weeks back, you’ve already “met” Brother Frank. He was Mom’s cousin by marriage (her aunt Marcella’s marriage, that is), as his birth mom, Mary, passed away when he was just five. Their home on Central Avenue in New Haven still looks great: Here is a…
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….
Now that I’m buckling down and finally watching the tutorial videos Ancestry.com provides, I’ve learned the fancy genealogical terms “brick wall” and “breakthrough.” And so, with a bit of a blush and definite tongue-in-cheek, I must proclaim: We’ve scaled the brick wall and experienced a breakthrough! Let’s go back a week, when the luck of the Irish arrived via an email. It was Adrian (who, it turns out, is my third cousin), who had wandered across this blog post from…
After a loved one dies, it’s a great relief to dream about them. I seem to dream about Mom and Dad just a few times a year. It always feels current, yet back in time. That way about dreams that’s only confusing after you awaken. In the dream, I proclaim joyfully that Mom is able to walk steadily again, as in her pre-Parkinson’s days. I hug her repeatedly. We prepare a meal together; it’s always a family gathering. I wake…
I’d like to share this poem Mom wrote in 1972. Usually, I try to find a family story to help introduce one of her poems, but not this time. Here’s what I know: Mom was 42 when she wrote this; we lived in Fairfield, Connecticut. Mom read like a fiend and never missed a chance to learn. Her reference to Erich Fromm is a mystery to me, but surely this poem was influenced by one of the psychoanalyst and philosopher’s…