It’s been a weekend of sneezing and itching, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Treasures from the past are stored in attics. And attics get dusty. One document in particular is from 1952 and speaks for itself. Dad kept it preserved all these years in a small cedar box. A letter from his father. Mom and Dad met in 1943. Within a year, they promised to marry someday. They were just 14 at the time. Nine years later,…
My maiden name is Vayo. Growing up, it was nearly always mispronounced as VIE-oh. We’d quickly respond, “Rhymes with mayo” and hope for the best. It’s an Americanized version of the French name Veilleux (pronounced vay-YEUX; that second syllable rhymes with deux, the French word for two). Vayo is not a common name. When we see it in use, my brothers and I pay attention and always wonder if we’re related. Yesterday, brother Bill sent us a link. He texted:…
“Are you saying my grandfather was an arsonist?” No, Dad, I can’t image that’s the case. But this Boston Herald article from 1896 sure seems to stir the pot … “Oh, boy! Ever since I was I kid, I’d hoped there was a criminal somewhere in our family tree! Not a murderer, of course. But maybe a stage-coach robber.” Gosh, you think you know somebody. I’d purposely held off telling Dad about the article in the Boston Herald‘s archives that…
Growing up, our family had a Christmas tradition of going around the dinner table and each naming our favorite gift. Not the gift of family, faith, talent, or brains. This was about what had awaited us under the tree that morning. A toy, a doll, a game. Looking back over the decades, I’d have to say my favorite unwrap-it gift involved multi-generational family members, plus talent. It was this painting: In short, this is a painting that Grandpa Vayo (Dad’s…
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…
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…
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…
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…
There’s so much to know about my paternal grandfather. Grandpa Vayo was a humble guy, though, so it’s taken a lot of research to piece together the story of his life. Lots of conversations with Dad, emails to my brothers, and searches on Newspapers.com. And here we are. Harold Edward Vayo was born on this day in 1899 in Brewer, Maine. His parents, George and Alice, had already lost a child to cholera. Little Gladys Alice was only 15 months…
My paternal grandfather played piano by ear. He also played guitar. Incredibly, he had a Martin guitar from the 1870s. My brother Bill “found” the guitar in a coat closet the last time he visited our grandparents in Lowell. (Grandpa Vayo passed away in 1993; Grandma two years later.) Bill’s daughter, Lucy, wrote a school paper about the guitar a few years ago, when she was a junior in high school. She’s a freshman at the Fashion Institute of Technology…