Do teachers still send home a “reading list” with students over their summer break? I seem to remember a few lists coming home in the boys’ backpacks over the years, but never one as intimidating as this. Mom was an incoming freshman at Saint Joseph College the fall of 1948. As an English major, she was expected to read a lot. She wrote to her future husband (she and Dad had dated since they met at age 14 and were…
This year, Thanksgiving falls on the third anniversary of Mom’s passing. Anyone who’s grieved a loved one’s death knows the sadness is unpredictable. Sometimes it sneaks in with a sigh; other times it clobbers you like a mallet and takes your breath away. But you learn, bit by bit, to “carry on” and do your best. And so I dug around this week for a Thanksgiving poem, knowing how Mom loved the holiday and the gathering of family and friends….
For more than a year, I’ve wanted to post these photos. They’re a series of 8×10″ glossies, with Dad the only fellow among 14 women: Thing is, I found them after Dad passed away, so I couldn’t ask him what they were all about. The only information on the back of the photos is the photographer’s name and number. When trained as a journalist and after spending a career in public relations, one prefers not to speculate. But it’s tempting….
I have a feeling this is going to bug me every November for the rest of my days. I can’t find the recipe card Mom sent me with the simple instructions for pie crust. Forty years ago as a young bride, I asked Mom to send me some of her favorite family recipes. We talked on the phone at great length and built our list: Meatloaf, Potato Salad, Surprise Pie, Mayonnaise Cake, Banana Bread, Three-Bean Salad, and … pie crust….
Another sweet surprise. This time, I’ve come across a poem written by Dad. In 1943, when his family moved from Lowell, Massachusetts, to New Haven, Connecticut, Dad was placed in Mom‘s eighth-grade class at Saint Francis School. As told in greater detail in this earlier “Angels and angles” story, Dad was kicked up to ninth grade in a different school after inadvertently correcting a nun during math class. But before the transfer, Dad wrote a poem. It was included in…
A horrifying fact is that pianos aren’t worth much anymore. Used pianos, that is. If you look on any “Buy/Sell/Trade” pages these days, there’s nearly always a lovely piano or two: Free. Pick-up only. Electronic keyboards are excellent. I remember my brother Dave getting one when we were in high school. Apparently they were invented primarily for apartment-dwellers, so that pianists could play (using headphones) without disturbing the neighbors. They’re also less expensive and easier to move around. Still, it’s…
Since retirement three years ago, it’s been fun to dabble in genealogy on Ancestry.com. Our family tree, at this point, looks much wider than tall. Geez, there were some huge families just a few generations back! The DNA tests that Farmer Gary and I took some years ago involved spitting into small tubes and mailing them off to Ancestry. My saliva was bubbly while Gary’s was flat. (I still wonder what that means.) Every so often, Ancestry emails with the…
Mom absolutely loved being a grandma. Over the years, she and Dad were blessed with seven grandchildren. Many summers ago, they enjoyed hosting five of those little varmints while vacationing in Ogunquit, Maine. (James and Lucy weren’t born yet.) Here’s a story Mom wrote 30 years ago, remembering that special time. Half a Hot Dog with Johnny It is October and three of our grandchildren are in school and thriving. I think of last August and the various times the…
My middle brother, Dave, wove together this remembrance of family and friends returning to Madison a few months ago to honor Dad’s memory in a heartfelt Celebration of Life: On June 11, about 40 family members and friends gathered at my parents’ spiritual home, St. Margaret’s Catholic Church in Madison, Connecticut. Dad had passed away in April of the previous year, before the risks COVID posed had diminished significantly, and this had limited the number of people who attended his…
“Gary Werne! Not again!” My husband got a nervous look on his face, but quickly replied: “Those boxes aren’t for me. They’re for Mr. Wense.” Several boxes had arrived that day from multiple mail-order book clubs. Another batch of books we had not ordered, from book clubs of which Gary was already a member. Gary, who never before nor since has shown the least sign of sneakiness, was simply the victim of a mailing-list typo. Flash back to 41 years…