A busy month, with our trip to Connecticut to clear out Mom & Dad’s house, but books managed to wave their pages as me, seeking to soothe my sore muscles and aching heart with an escape to wonderland. A side note: Farmer Gary puts me to shame when it comes to level of voracious reading. While in Connecticut, he kept a pile of newspaper circulars to read when he had a few minutes. We’d canceled Dad‘s newspaper and magazine subscriptions,…
Collaborating with Dad on this blog’s stories has been a joy. He got such a charge when a photo or old news article tickled his memory. And he loved talking about Mom, his Joanie. Our final effort together was “The Maine Man,” with that surprise ending in which Dad suddenly remembered a car ride with his grandparents back in 1935 or so. In our daily phone chats, there was never a pen and pad out of reach. Jotted notes would…
The other day, it occurred to me that Mom lived through a lot of wars. As a child, she wrote poems about the soldiers in World War II. Her uncle Pip and other fellows from the neighborhood were called up to service. It clearly weighed heavy on her heart. She and Dad married while he was on a finally approved three-day leave. When he returned to his barracks, Dad found orders to ship out on his bunk. He was on…
We’re never at a loss for books to read in this house. Sticking to my retirement goal from nearly two years ago, I managed to find four books this month with light enough topics to not add to my sadness following Dad’s passing. Week 1: Bless Me, Father by Neil Boyd After enjoying A Father Before Christmas a number of months ago, I was pleased to download the first book in the Bless Me, Father series (free if you’re on…
“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…
There are times when reading-to-learn ultimately teaches you how little you actually know. I now wonder if an entire year should be dedicated to focusing solely on my Irish books, rather than just the month of March. While that would no doubt lead to much laughter, it might also point me toward “the drink,” which I’ve managed to avoid thus far. The Irish have not had an easy go of it, that’s for sure. Week 1: Are You Somebody? by…
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…
“Would you like to take this home? Mom kept it on her dresser.” It’s been more than a year since Dad showed me this souvenir: As I squinted to read the small print (the tiny dish measures four inches across), a familiar city name caught my eye. Pittsfield? “Her parents honeymooned there in 1929. They stayed at the Hotel Wendell. Mom was born nine months later.” And 32 years after Mom’s birth, our family moved to Pittsfield, Massachusetts. We lived…
My grandfather was a policeman in New Haven, Connecticut. And his father was a policeman, too. My mother never met her grandfather Patrick Cassidy. He died in 1917. He was only 54 years old. My grandpa was just 17 years old at the time; he dropped out of school to help support the family. He had six siblings. Little Ginny was only two years old and Walter was eight. Here’s a photo of Grandpa with his mother, Anna, and youngest…
Grandma Cassidy had five granddaughters. I’m the oldest, then there’s Bunny’s two girls: Suzanne and Beth, and Ray’s two daughters: Marie and Claire. And so it feels like Grandma has been at work behind the scenes and in cahoots with the angels to remind one granddaughter that she had a copy of this wonderful memoir written by another granddaughter many years ago. Suzanne emailed it to me the other day. With Marie’s permission, here is that essay, which she wrote…