Here are two of Mom’s poems to commemorate Ash Wednesday, the start of the Lenten Season. ash wednesday nails in the nesta night bird falling and in the housessomethingout of a dark holewet now on the courthouse stepsa dwarfthumbing his nose the bridein jewels before the frosted windowwaits the wind stirsa star under the ground the gold eggs gleam ~ joan vayo 24 February 1979 psalm what birdwaits here in darknessunder the death of the beloved by the lake the…
For as long as I can remember, our family’s lore about my great-grandparents’ emigration from Ireland includes the phrase “they missed the blizzard.” For some reason, I always assumed the blizzard was in Ireland and the newlyweds escaped it. Although blizzards are not entirely foreign to the Emerald Isle, neither are they a regular occurrence. It turns out, the “escape” was on the arrival side. The year was 1888 and in March, America’s northeast was paralyzed by ice, snow, wind,…
Back in the 1960s, Mom started a tradition in the family. It was during Advent, those long weeks of preparation for Christmas. She set out the family creche as part of our Christmas decorations. The stable, the shepherds, the three wise men, Mary and Joseph. The tiny manger was there, too, but no Baby Jesus. Baby Jesus was hidden away until Christmas morn. Meanwhile, during those pre-holiday weeks when we children would get “itchy” (one of Mom’s great words describing…
Setting #1: Ferdinand, Indiana The phone call came late Sunday night. It was the call I’d dreaded, but knew I had to answer. “Mom died peacefully about a half hour ago, with Dad holding her hand.” Bill, my baby brother, the Marine, the caregiver, was gentle but straightforward as always. We spent the next few days making travel plans for her funeral and scanning countless photos of Mom from her 89 years. Bill’s wife, Barbara – a graphic artist –…
You know what, Mom? You’ve got grit. The silence over the phone led me to quickly guess that no one had ever said this to her before. All her life she’d been the sweet, kind poet. Generous, quick with a smile and a hug. Gentle voiced. All her life, she’d also battled depression, anxiety, and an unhealthy dose of Irish-Catholic guilt. Yet somehow she prevailed. You never give up, Mom. No matter what the situation, you dig down within yourself…
Mom and Dad are both 89 years old. And today is their 67th wedding anniversary. They still hold hands. They still laugh together. And they still say, “I love you.” Mom and Dad met when they were 13 years old. Dad’s family moved in across the street from Mom’s house in New Haven, Connecticut. Just a year later, they promised to always be together. They kept that promise. But their education came first. Dad headed to Rhode Island and Providence…
“I had a bad dream last night. In my dream, I hugged Sister Amabilis too tightly. I broke her.” Poor Gary. He’d just met my great aunt the day before. He was stunned by how tiny she was. As newlyweds in 1982, we made the rounds in New England to visit relatives who couldn’t make it to our wedding. It was a treat to see Sister Amabilis, who was then 87 years old. Sister Mary Amabilis Regan was first-generation American,…
Remember the panic about the H1N1 flu a decade ago? There was good reason for that. The first time H1N1 struck was back in 1918. In the U.S., it was originally detected among military personnel, in the spring of that year. The Centers for Disease Control (CDC) estimates one-third of the world’s population was infected (about 500 million) by what was then called the Spanish Flu. There were at least 50 million deaths. The death toll included Private John Henry…
August is a long, hot month. Back to school starts too early, as do the Christmas ads. In keeping with my retirement goal to read a book each week, here are the late-summer titles. Week 1: Ladies Who Punch by Ramin Setoodeh This seemed like a good choice for “summer beach reading,” even though we didn’t go to the shore. Definitely an interesting read, but only made me less interested in watching The View than before. The egos and downright…
Nearly four decades ago – on August 7, 1982 – Gary and I got married. We’d met 18 months prior. I was a reporter, he was a local farmer fighting the federal government to save his land. My first words to my future husband: What the hell’s a watershed? Gary’s animated response won me over, and I’ve never tired of his stories in all these years. We met in February of 1981. Gary popped the question in December. We planned…