I didn’t sleep last night. Not a wink. Not sure why, other than one of the challenges (and great pleasures) of retirement is not having a schedule set by anyone but yourself. James is back at college, so there wasn’t a school-aged son to stand at the darkened window and ask repeatedly, “Do you think we’ll get a snow day tomorrow? Just in case – can I stay up late?” It was always such a temptation to let the boys…
On this rainy New Year’s Day, let’s dust off this poem of Mom’s from the start of another year, long ago. The year 1973 was one of great change for our family. Oldest brother Harry graduated high school and headed to college. Dad was offered a job transfer to Indianapolis. We packed up the house and moved nearly a thousand miles away. We buried a beloved cat. But that was all months later. On January 1, 1973, Mom looked lovingly…
Does anyone really use a dictionary anymore? I mean a real dictionary. Hard-covered and hefty. With hundreds and hundreds of tissue-paper pages. Tiny type. Here’s Mom‘s copy, now in our home: I weighed it. Thirteen pounds. Measured it, too: 11.5″ x 9.5″ x 5″. Thousands of pages … … starting with Mr. Webster: Researching Mr. Webster a bit, my favorite quote is that he was instrumental in giving American English a dignity and vitality of its own. He served in…
A few weeks before Dad‘s 60th birthday, Mom wrote this playful poem about her handy husband: Handyman Hal If you need a window lowered at nightOr somebody strong to switch on the lightOr the tablecloth straightened from left to rightCall Handyman Hal! If you reach him the key he will open your doorGive him a jug he’ll be happy to pourAll of these projects and many things moreHandyman Hal. If you want Christmas presents placed under the treeA wise man…
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:…
“He is most blessed who loves the most, the freest who is most enslaved by love.”― Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote The night before Dad passed away, I slid his copy of Don Quixote off the shelf and read a bit. It was hard to concentrate, but I knew it was one of his favorites and hoped we could still connect, even though he appeared to be in a deep sleep. Around midnight, Gary shooed me off to bed. As I walked…
Mom sure loved living in Pittsfield. Known as “The Heart of the Berkshires,” Pittsfield was our childhood home from 1962 through 1970. Located in western Massachusetts, Pittsfield is surrounded by the scenic Berkshire Mountains. This poem from 1972 caught my eye the other day. Even though we’d moved to Fairfield, Conn., nearly two years prior, Mom was still thinking about Pittsfield: Song for a Berkshire House There, in the snow-and-autumn house,early November blue and white feelingof frost, and sky of…
One of the many goofy teases Dad used when we were kids was to never remember our ages. He knew them all, of course, but would increase or lower our age to support his ruling as a parent. “Stay up to watch Star Trek? But you’re only six years old – that’s way past your bedtime!” Uh, I was eight, nine, and ten at the time the original series ran. When I got caught peaking down the stairs, my true…
“We’ll be there in another week, Dad. We’ll have fresh fish every day – promise!” Oh, boy – can’t wait! Sadly, I wasn’t able to keep that promise. Gary and my long-awaited post-vaccine visit with Dad came to a tragic end. A misstep, surgery from a resulting broken hip, and a stroke ended in his death on April 13. Rest in peace, my darling Dad. Remembering Mom’s explanation of “holy laughter,” we’ll share some of the moments that made us…
A little red-haired boy was born in New Haven, Connecticut, in June of 1900. The turn of the century. His parents – Pat and Anna – were Irish immigrants. His father, a policeman. Little Frank Cassidy looked for ways to earn money and help out his parents. He sold lemons on street corners near his home on Lombard Street. He’d search for pieces of coal to bring home. One year, he found enough along the railroad tracks to heat their…