When you’re a child of the Depression, you have a different outlook on personal finance. Mom used to tell the story of Dad, as a young child, going door to door trying to sell his toys. He wanted to help feed his family. When I asked him about it recently, Dad recalled that he sold his alphabet blocks for five cents a piece. He raised about 25 cents, and presented the pennies and nickels to his parents. As he hit…
To mask, or not to mask … Why is that even a question? I’m old enough to remember the national flap when seat belts were made mandatory. Even as a kid, I thought it was ridiculous to see adults rail about having a “constitutional right” to carry their baby on their lap while in a car. Or – gasp – not wear a seat belt so as not to wrinkle their clothes. The politicization of masks is a national disgrace….
For me, the right thing to do this past week was … to think. The world is in an uproar and we all have a place in the turmoil. Social media is a cesspool of snarling racists, preachy Karens, and nasty name-callers. How can our country still be so ugly? When we moved from Connecticut to Indiana, I was 15 years old and a sophomore in high school. It was the fall of 1973. A few weeks after we moved…
This week came the news that Covid-19 had taken its 100,000th victim. My heart aches for all those unfinished stories and all those heartbroken families. May they all somehow find peace. And so it is with utmost respect for the departed that I also mourn a tiny bit for the Copacabana. If you were around in the late 1970s, you’ll remember Barry Manilow’s “At the Copa” disco tune that endlessly told the story of Lola (she was a showgirl) and…
The usual meaning for the term “keyboard warriors” is those angry trolls who make sure social media is always stirred up with arguments and untruths. For our purposes, though – and during Teach Music Week – we’ll look at the keyboards that tie our family together. Piano keyboards. Dad remembers taking piano lessons when his family lived in Lowell in the early 1940s. He was ten or 11 and would walk just a few blocks to get to Mrs. Salmonson’s…
I kid you not: a big star once invited my Grandpa Cassidy to go on the road with him. And not as a security officer – as a tap dancer! Mom’s sister, Bunny, just shared this story with us last week, when Gary and I were visiting Dad in Connecticut. Poor thing, I think I asked her to repeat the story three times – I just couldn’t believe it! Grandpa was a “cop on the beat” in New Haven, Connecticut….
A week before Mom’s passing, I asked her about what is perhaps my favorite poem, “The King My Father.” At that point, her ability to speak had lessened greatly. Parkinson’s had cruelly robbed her of simple conversation. She regressed from struggling to remember a specific word to the point that she’d start a sentence but would stop after two or three words. And so when I asked her for the backstory about her poem “The King My Father,” my own…
A number of years ago, Gary and I were in Amish Country in Daviess County, Indiana. We strolled over to a nearby flea market (more to walk off the good meal we’d just enjoyed, frankly, than any desire to shop). We wandered by several rows of tables in the open-air market. After a few minutes, I noticed Gary was no longer by my side. He motioned me over, back to a table I’d hurried past. Gary pointed sadly toward several…