This is a real head-scratcher. Whose ring was this? The story starts back in the 1960s. I remember Mom coming into my bedroom and giving me a little white plastic box. She told me it was Grandpa Vayo‘s childhood ring and that he wanted me to have it. It was a beautiful ring. Although I treasured it, I don’t think I ever wore it. Fear of losing a family heirloom was high up on the list, plus the worry that…
Confession: If you’ve followed these blog posts through the years, you may remember that 14 months ago I started reading Charles Dickens’ Bleak House following the author’s original monthly-installment schedule from 1852-3. His novels didn’t get released as a complete volume until after his readers had endured many months of three- or four-chapter installments trickling to them in magazine form. As much as the concept of following the original schedule, and stretching out Bleak House over 20 months appealed to…
I can’t help but wonder what life would have been like if social media was in full force back in the 1960s. More specifically, if The Beatles could have used the internet as they released each new album. Just the thought gives me a bit of a shiver … But that was then and this is now. And every time I hear or see the name of Taylor Swift’s new album: The Tortured Poets Department, I think about my poet…
Once again I bring you a bit of undated prose from Mom’s collection. It’s handwritten on lined paper, with a teenager’s neat, round penmanship. Maybe it was a school assignment. Nowadays they’re called “prompts.” For example: Write, in first person, about a conflict involving at least three other family members. I wish I knew more about my great-grandmother’s personality. Maggie Kelly married Joseph Malachy Regan in Belfast in 1888 and then sailed for America. That tells us she was courageous….
In the last few days before today’s total solar eclipse, I couldn’t resist checking to see if Mom had ever written a poem about this all-too-rare occasion in nature. Sure enough, she had. But, as often as she wrote about the moon, that’s not what this poem from 1971 was about. Eclipse I saw two wagons passing by the sea:one full of letters from my love to me.The other held a cargo of such strange designthat I could only pray…
Today is Mom’s birthday. She was born 94 years ago, giving her mom bragging rights to winning the great competition. During her teens, Mom penned this poem. Writing in first person as an octogenarian, the lovely green-eyed redhead tried to imagine what life would be like so many years in the future: Passing Phase of an Octogenarian Today is my birthday. And when they think I do not hearThey whisper I am old. They say that I have had my…
Now that we have a sunroom, Farmer Gary and I notice daily we have several new patches of disturbed earth outside. It’s time to decide what to plant there. We brought up the topic while visiting with John, Aubrie, and Cameron last week. Aubrie loves to garden and is always great with gentle advice – be it regarding fruit, vegetables, or flowers. It’s always fun for John and me to observe our spouses dig in and discuss fertilizer, alkaline levels…
Mom was an apron wearer. She wasn’t a messy cook. Not at all. The wearing of the apron may have come to pass due to a combination of tradition and an attempt at preserving her clothes from showing wear as she leaned against the edges of kitchen counters and tables. I think she also liked finding interesting designs and patterns. Mom had a Christmas apron or two, plus at least one apron to represent each season of the year. Apparently,…
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….
In amongst a stack of college papers from Mom‘s years as an English major (1948 – 1952), I came across this four-page typed work of fiction. There’s no date on it, but surely it’s safe to say it’s about 75 years old. The Winter Wood Prologue On May 18 he thought he was dead and lying under the sea. His head rested flat like a pale rock against the bottom, and through his arms and legs gushed the gray water…