Mom dearly loved her aunt Ginny. The youngest of Grandpa Cassidy‘s siblings, Ginny lived her entire life on Lombard Street in New Haven. Virginia Anne Cassidy came into this world on December 11, 1915. This was a full 22 years after her oldest brother, John, was born. Grandpa was 15 years older than Ginny. After all these years, it’s only now coming to me that Mom must have been named for her. Virginia was Mom‘s middle name. This is the…
This feels like a miracle. Or at the very least, an answer from Saint Anthony. The other morning, I woke up full of determination to look into the other side of Mom’s family. The Cassidy side. Surely there must be someone out there who was also a great-grandchild of Patrick and Annie who wants family stories preserved and shared. Right? I started with the youngest of their seven children, worked my way to Marcella, and put together a story about…
Now that I’m buckling down and finally watching the tutorial videos Ancestry.com provides, I’ve learned the fancy genealogical terms “brick wall” and “breakthrough.” And so, with a bit of a blush and definite tongue-in-cheek, I must proclaim: We’ve scaled the brick wall and experienced a breakthrough! Let’s go back a week, when the luck of the Irish arrived via an email. It was Adrian (who, it turns out, is my third cousin), who had wandered across this blog post from…
After a loved one dies, it’s a great relief to dream about them. I seem to dream about Mom and Dad just a few times a year. It always feels current, yet back in time. That way about dreams that’s only confusing after you awaken. In the dream, I proclaim joyfully that Mom is able to walk steadily again, as in her pre-Parkinson’s days. I hug her repeatedly. We prepare a meal together; it’s always a family gathering. I wake…
Here we are at the end of another March, with most of the month’s books provided by Irish scribes. Out like a lamb? It’s definitely calmer today than last night’s tornado-watch storms. Made for a noisy evening, but one custom-made for reading. Here are the books I read in March: Book 1: Singing My Him Song by Malachy McCourt Even though he was born in New York, Malachy McCourt grew up in Limerick, Ireland so we’ll count him as one…
Been thinking a lot about my ancestors this week. We are, after all, a nation of immigrants. Three generations ago, the elders were born in Ireland and Canada. Mom wrote this poem in 1972, presumably after seeing a tragic story in the news about a man without a home found frozen in the snow. The Immigrant He looked an immigrant, forever homelessin his makeshift clothes, dead in the snow for days before the photograph was taken.His life had passed to…
Five books consumed this month, along with turkey, stuffing, and son John’s yummy pot roast. Thanksgiving included book shopping and book reading. Book 1: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl Grandson Cam and I read aloud a chapter or three together whenever we could these past few months. When he jumped in providing distinctive character voices for Willy Wonka and Grandpa Joe, I wanted to shout: “Theater kid! He’s a theater kid!” Well done, Cam. His thoughts: Charlie…
These Irish eyes spent the month of March reading books by Irish authors. Book 1: Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt This is a memoir I very much wanted to reread, but since the great sadness descended on the family with first Mom’s death and then Dad’s, it has seemed wise to hold off until I felt sturdier emotionally. The story about that story is here in an earlier post. As with seemingly all rereads, there were many plot points I…
Books make wonderful presents. Books for birthdays. More books for Christmas. Mother’s Day. Father’s Day. Farmer Gary and I take it to the extreme, with books for Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter … you get the picture. Around our house, most books are one-and-done. Upon completion, the volume goes back on the shelf or, occasionally, into the donation basket. But once in a while, there’s something about a book that is almost haunting. A single reading is not enough….
We moved around a lot when I was a kid, so I never got attached to any particular home or community. Not attached enough, anyway, to consider any of the houses a homestead. In these past several years as I’ve sifted through generations of family photos, I’ve seen my maternal grandmother’s handwriting referring to her parents’ New Haven house as a homestead. That was technically correct, as the Lombard Street property included a house, a barn, and (if memory serves)…