We haven’t had a poem from Mom in far too long! Here’s one from 1999: Turning Pages What is the driver turning toparked with his back to the sea I have been singing and turning pagesof the Christmas carols our son played for the family Before we left to sing in Indianawe met a man on Meigs Point herea former soldier carrying his coffeetelling about his happy lifehis Christmas shopping during this vacationhe had turned a page Below Meigs Point…
Maybe they were on their way to share a coffee and muffin and watch the waves and gulls at Meigs Point. Or perhaps they were on their way to Mass. With Dad driving, Mom could pay attention to what else was happening along the way. On this June morning in 2005, she spied an artist: Lines for the Boy in the School Bus Drawing His pad was braced against the seat before himthe pencil in his handraced to recapturethe picture…
Today is April 1. Apparently there was a bit of snowfall on this day 22 years ago outside Mom’s window in Madison, Connecticut: One Flake Falling With one flake fallingthe snow begets a garden for the moon So April One once greenis slowly overlaid with whitethe pussy willows pausethe school bus hurries children home Some forty years ago I wroteof such a prank on such a dayI hear the same sky laughter nowand spot the sunshy preening for her bow…
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….
Two years ago, as Gary and I finished clearing out Mom and Dad’s house in Connecticut, we set aside all kinds of mementos from their lives that we hoped would fit in the U-Box containers we’d rented. One entire section of the garage was filled with gardening tools. Some I remembered clearly from 50-something years prior. Dad loved to garden. It relaxed him after a long day in the office. A hoe, a rake, or a trowel was a piece…
“Paula, can you find something for me on your computer? There’s something I want to give Dad.” My heart leapt. It was 2016, and Mom was deep into Parkinson’s. She hadn’t been able to go out shopping for years. By then, most of our daily phone conversations were fairly one-sided. I provided family updates, which she enjoyed and could later share with Dad. One update Mom would be sure to give me, though, was: “Dad played the piano this afternoon….
My middle brother, Dave, wove together this remembrance of family and friends returning to Madison a few months ago to honor Dad’s memory in a heartfelt Celebration of Life: On June 11, about 40 family members and friends gathered at my parents’ spiritual home, St. Margaret’s Catholic Church in Madison, Connecticut. Dad had passed away in April of the previous year, before the risks COVID posed had diminished significantly, and this had limited the number of people who attended his…
What do you use to save your place in a book? A piece of scrap paper? An old photo or business card? A piece of toilet paper (we know where you’ve been reading!) or paper towel? Maybe a bonafide bookmark? As long as you don’t – gasp – fold, spindle or mutilate the page of your book, nearly anything will do. While cataloging the hundreds of inherited books from my parents’ collection, I’ve come across many bookmarks. Some stir a…
Mom’s cousin Patty sent me a wonderful photo via email this week. The (unfortunately) undated photo shows their Aunt Marguerite (a nun my generation knew as Sister Amabilis) outside with a group of children, looking at a birdhouse. No doubt they were her students, as Sr. Amabilis taught first grade for 58 years. (That’s right – nearly six decades!) Mom adored her aunt, and wrote to her regularly. Sr. Amabilis saved the letters all those years and they were eventually…
Now that three steamer trunks have arrived packed with papers from Mom and Dad’s attic, it’s more obvious to me than ever that Mom was a prolific writer. This question has been on my mind recently … what was her final verse? It may take years to sort through her decades of letters, poems, and prose, but since most are dated, surely the answer will appear eventually. She used to laugh about her first verse. Little Joan Cassidy was in…