As the year 2023 comes to a close in a few hours, my goal of reading at least four books per month has been reached. In fact, the total this year came to 58 books. And in case you’re wondering, I’m right on schedule with the book-by-installment reading of Bleak House. Here’s the rundown: Book 1: When the Snow Is Blue by Marguerite Dorian Must begin with a sincere thank you to grandson Cameron, who read this children’s book along…
Back when Farmer Gary and I announced our engagement (just-in-time-for-Christmas, 1981), so many of my relatives and college friends chimed in, “My grandparents were farmers!” or “My great-uncle grew up on a farm!” Suddenly, the world was one big farm. I’m experiencing the same with Gary’s family tree. Every ten years, the census report announces this ancestor or that was a farmer. Their children were “farm laborers.” Farmers everywhere! It took a half-second longer than it should have for me…
“What do you think this is? A candy dish or an ashtray?” My younger brother was looking at a small copper tray that was among mementos our late mom had tucked away long ago. Measuring not quite 4.5 inches by 5.5 inches, it was certainly intriguing. When held at a certain angle, Dad noticed, it looked like there was etching on the surface. Words, certainly, in a delicate font. He slipped it into my hands, “Take it home. You’ll figure…
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…
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…
Let me admit up front to taking more than a few minutes to decide whether to name this post “The Sisters” or “The sisters.” Because this is the story of two sisters who chose to live their lives as Sisters. The past month or so, I’ve dug in on Farmer Gary‘s side of the family. Specifically, after his godmother Stella’s funeral, her sister Marie gave us a packet of information Stella’s late husband, Arch, had collected over the decades. Arch…
Growing up in the 1960s, getting new clothes for Easter Sunday was a big deal. I don’t know where she found it, but one spring Mom came home with a “coat of many colors” for middle-brother Dave. It was … to use a dated word … snazzy. Nearly 40 years later, Mom remembered that jacket in a poem: David Growing upyou prized foil candy wrappersa bright heap on your bookcasemade merrier by the sun Your younger brother later your own…
While looking into Farmer Gary‘s story about “The tuberculous house” last week, we climbed a little higher on the family tree to take a look. It was there we found a tiny branch, reaching out for sunlight. We found Peter. Born on May 2, 1848, Peter was one of nine children born to Lorenz and Catherina Dilger in what is now Baden-Württemberg, Germany. Peter’s sister Theresia, who was six years older than he, grew up to be the paternal grandmother…
Farmer Gary’s grandfather on his dad’s side was George Werne. A good name. The name George means “farmer.” The farmland we live on now – and on which Gary continues to grow crops – was once farmed by George. He bought the “home place,” which was 40 acres, from his parents and later added the “back 40,” where Gary and I built our home and raised our family. George added to the property over the years, bringing the total to…
Farmer Gary and I don’t usually make a big deal out of Valentine’s Day. After all, it’s just four days after February 10, the anniversary of the day we met. That’s our holiday. Still, I wanted to make something special to warm Gary’s innards, as he’d been outside shoveling soybeans yesterday. Something that says “I love you madly,” but in a bowl. Bean soup it was. As Lent approaches, Gary and I swap “giving up” stories from our youth. Although…