With Canada in the news so much lately, I took a look in Mom’s writing archives and found an interesting piece she wrote about Canada geese: Work in Progress I saw them again yesterday, feeding in the field where corn had grown all summer: Canada geese, a dozen or so, those wild and mystical squires of the sky who call us to joy and freedom when they fly above our eyes. Finding them there the first time I was struck…
It did my heart good to see that the Great Books program is still going strong. When we lived in Pittsfield, Mass., in the 1960s, Mom got involved with Great Books, attending evening group discussions about the volumes that had helped shape the Western World. According to the Great Books Foundation website: The Foundation’s stated objective is to provide the means of a genuine liberal education for all adults. By the end of the year (1949), an estimated 50,000 people…
According to weather lore: If March comes in like a lion, it will go out like a lamb. Here in Indiana, the lion was roaring all day. Here’s a poem Mom wrote in 1976, with her promise to a lion: the lion’s house lionin the spring of the yearI am going to build a house for you when it is readythe rabbits will pour champagnethe squirrels will pass around the cakesyou may borrow my emerald ribbons for the dayand carry…
Mom had a good friend named Ruth. She was a teacher and a writer. Once they met, they were friends for life. I’m pretty sure that’s who this poem is about, as apparently Ruth was 11 years older than Mom and passed away in 1996. Tribute I remember us both Ruthputting on perfumegirding for grace in the restless classroom This morning I anoint myself for gritin emptying our kitchen cabinetsI think of you posting my poemslike royal proclamations on your…
“I married my mother, you realize that, don’t you?” That question always makes Farmer Gary chuckle. Just like Mom, he absolutely loves to get mail. Every morning – like clockwork – he checks the mailbox here at home and then the one over at the farm. … except on federal holidays, of which there are “too many” this time of year, apparently. Lately, Gary’s noticed the delivery rate speed has dropped, right in line with the cost of postage increasing….
“We’ll give you a call tomorrow as soon as the doctor is done fixing Mom’s plumbing.” Oh, Dad. He hid his nervousness about the surgery with goofy humor. Mom came through the operation and recovery with flying colors and never regretted taking the step. She wrote this during her wintertime recovery in early 1982: The Long Christmas Early February: I am home from the hospital – it is heaven! Days, I camp in the den with many quilts and pillows…
I’d like to share this poem Mom wrote in 1972. Usually, I try to find a family story to help introduce one of her poems, but not this time. Here’s what I know: Mom was 42 when she wrote this; we lived in Fairfield, Connecticut. Mom read like a fiend and never missed a chance to learn. Her reference to Erich Fromm is a mystery to me, but surely this poem was influenced by one of the psychoanalyst and philosopher’s…
“Cam – come here! You’ve got to see this!” Our grandson was here for an overnight and his Papaw couldn’t wait to show him the traffic jam on our road. First I must share that Farmer Gary is fascinated by the concept of gridlock. The idea that traffic could come to a complete halt because the network of roads was full absolutely blows that country boy’s mind. So when the few cars on our rural road slowed down to a…
A few of this month’s books came recommended in rather curious ways … Book 1: 84, Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff This wonderful book introduced itself via the Book Vs. Movie podcast: The two hosts – both named Margo – were so charmed by 84, Charing Cross Road, the postwar exchange of letters between a writer in New York and a bookseller in London, that I decided to give it a look-see. Checking our home inventory on the BookBuddy+…
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…