Wreaths are a welcome part of our family’s Christmas decorations. Off the top of my head, I can count at least seven wreaths around our house, inside and out. Maybe more. I have a thing for wreaths. No doubt, I got it from Mom. Farmer Gary, however, is more than willing to take them down as we move into double digits during the twelve days of Christmas. Because, around here anyway, those wreaths make festive homes for birds. This afternoon,…
My dad’s parents were Mainers through and through. Grandpa was even known to say, “ay-YUH” upon occasion. (That’s Maine-speak for “yes.”) So imagine my surprise – as an adult – to learn that Grandma and Grandpa Vayo were married in Paducah, Kentucky. Ninety-four years ago. And today is their anniversary. Their nuptials were written up in the society column of The Paducah Sun-Democrat on the afternoon of their wedding. Need help to get your bearings? Paducah is located south of…
Farmer Gary sets an annual goal for himself: Complete the harvest before Thanksgiving. Yesterday, he finished combining ‘beans and today he’s planting the last of the winter crops. And all without a scarecrow. I can’t help but wonder if “city folk” would even know about scarecrows were it not for The Wizard of Oz. (As an aside, it still makes me laugh to remember Harry’s high school story about sitting in a quiet classroom, taking a final exam. The silence…
The year 2020 has given us a lot to complain about. A global pandemic. Unstable economy. A contentious election. Looking back 100 years, our ancestors didn’t have it any easier. They had their own pandemic, which claimed a member of Gary’s family. And just a few years later, another massive flu outbreak that took my father’s maternal grandfather. One hundred years ago, the presidential election was between Warren G. Harding and James. M. Cox. Harding’s campaign message was a call…
My dad likes ice cream. Back in the ’60s, he’d take us out for a family drive around Berkshire County on hot summer Sunday afternoons. Chances are, we’d end up at Dairy Queen. We’d each get a dipped cone. Back then, there were two choices: vanilla soft serve, dipped in chocolate or cherry. Chocolate for my brothers. Cherry for me. Dad always had a plan. He wouldn’t order anything for himself, but was at the ready to “help out” when…
What a surprise to learn that my paternal grandfather was not just a painter, but a poet. Dad recently passed some of his father’s verse along to me. The paper is yellowed and fragile. Some copies are faint, thanks to carbon paper. For the youngest among us, that’s what we used to make copies before home computers and printers made life so much easier. Grandpa would have taken two pieces of typing paper and slid a purply piece of wispy…
The year was 1944. Dad’s family had just moved to Chatham Street in New Haven, Connecticut. He was not quite 14, and already hungry to earn some money. Before long, he had a job as a paperboy. The Morning Journal and Courier had been around since 1848. As indicated by its name, it was the morning paper, so Dad had to roll out of bed early – about 5:30am – six days a week, no matter what the weather. With…
There comes a time in every mother’s life when she simply has to put her foot down. Dad recalls the first time Mom did this. It was in the mid-1960s, we were living in Pittsfield, and there was too much cussin’ going on in our house. “Mom got on my case,” he remembers. I asked Dad, “So what was it, mostly ‘hell’ and ‘damn’?” ” … bastard, too.” The response came much sooner than I would have expected. For those…
Dad – who is this? Do you recognize her? We were going through old black-and-white photos yet again. Dad‘s voice softened, “Oh yes, that’s my Aunt Alice. She was so soft and cuddly. A good hugger.” Alice Plante was one of my paternal grandma‘s younger sisters. Ten years younger, to be exact. As I ticked off the names of the nine Plante siblings from our Ancestry family tree, Dad did the math. What an accomplishment for his grandma; she kept…
Today is the last day of summer. The temperatures have already cooled and the fields are ready for harvest. My darling tomato-picker has been busy all summer: Cameron wasn’t sure he’d like the taste of a grape tomato, but sampled a few each time he visited us this summer. He’s still not sure. When Gary and I went to spend some time with Dad in Connecticut earlier this month (quarantining all the while, as per the Nutmeg State‘s Covid rules),…