My latest “Your famous ancestor” listing on the Ancestry.com app nearly made me cry. Why? Because I wanted to call Dad and hear his reaction. As you may recall from The Maine man (sadly, the final story Dad and I worked on together), he reacted unexpectedly when I shared with him that his grandfather George was once accused of arson: “Oh, boy! Ever since I was I kid, I’d hoped there was a criminal somewhere in our family tree! Not…
Before beginning this story, I must confess to adding an “i” to the word ordnance the first several times I came upon it at my first job. Maybe no one else at the tiny rural radio statio noticed it. The news gal liked to correct typos, after all. For the record, according to Grammarly.com: An ordinance is an authoritative order or decree, often a rule established by a governmental authority or church. It typically involves legislation or regulation and has a civic…
In an email to my brothers a few days ago, I mentioned September 13 as a trifecta in our family: Before anyone accuses me of being some sort of family-history savant, I must confess the reminders come from the Ancestry app. Something else the app provides? A feature called “Your famous ancestor.” Of course, if you go back enough generations, we’re all related in one way or another. So, no big deal, right? However, this relative in particular is like…
Thank you for your concern about my getting a new heart. I really am eager for them to call me up and tell me to get to the hospital right away. At the same time I am full of fear and anxiety. It is a hell of a way to live for an extended period of time. I find that the best way is to get busy reading, going to movies, or even coming down here to the fisheries and…
Maybe they were on their way to share a coffee and muffin and watch the waves and gulls at Meigs Point. Or perhaps they were on their way to Mass. With Dad driving, Mom could pay attention to what else was happening along the way. On this June morning in 2005, she spied an artist: Lines for the Boy in the School Bus Drawing His pad was braced against the seat before himthe pencil in his handraced to recapturethe picture…
Admittedly, my approach to genealogy is scattershot. Whether it’s an interesting photo, one of Mom’s poems, or a geographic location, when something interesting catches my eye, that’s the rabbit hole we scamper down for hours and sometimes days. And then there are the overriding questions about our ancestors’ origins. Case in point: How far back on Dad‘s side of the family must we go to find ourselves in France? We know they came to Maine by way of Canada several…
“Oh Mom, he looks like you! Your great-grandson has your smile.” I couldn’t wait to tell Mom that baby Cameron had the same sweet smile as the one in her baby picture. I knew that portrait well. It hung in her parents’ living room for decades. It now hung in Mom and Dad’s bedroom. Today, I came across this poem Mom wrote in 1996. She was just a year younger than I am now. ‘The Good Child’ She is the…
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…
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…
One of these days, I need to pull out Mom’s “rejection folder” for a blog post. Yes, she kept the rejection letters she received from magazine editors over the years. Rejection. Who needs that?! But Mom never gave up. She kept mailing out those hand-typed poems, knowing her work was good. Once in a while, there’d be hand-written feedback in the margins of those letters, written by kind editors who no doubt understood the pain of rejection. Back in the…