Mom‘s fable about two soldiers and an old bear is best read aloud, to a child or a child at heart. Or anyone who questions war. Bear, Who Would Not Be a Soldier There was once a bear who lived in shabby comfort in the heart of an old forest. He had been a woodcutter, other times a guide, but never had he worn a uniform or joined a society. Now he was old and heavy like a grandfather tree,…
So many of Mom‘s lifelong friends were teachers. They were pals in college and never let go of that friendship, no matter where life took them. One such friend was Gloria Dowaliby. They were both 1952 graduates of Saint Joseph College. According to a newsletter sent out following their twenty-fifth college reunion in 1977, Gloria’s professional life was busy and international: Fulbright Scholar. An English teacher at Quirk Middle School (Hartford, Conn.). Has given special support to the American Lebanese…
Growing up on Chatham Street in New Haven, Connecticut, Mom loved her “little room.” Nowadays, we might call it a walk-in closet. Back in the 1940s, it was a room with a window and a desk. For writing, for studying, for dreaming. Even more special was the view. The window looked out into the front yard, where there was a spruce tree. And as Mom grew up, so did that tree. A year ago, I asked Dad if Mom had…
Did you see the news story the other day involving the sudden wedding of two members of the Ukrainian Defense Forces? Lesya Ivashchenko and Valeriy Filimonov weren’t planning to hold their ceremony during war time, but decided to make their vows on Sunday at a checkpoint on the outskirts of Kyiv. This year would have been my parents’ 70th anniversary. They were married in New Haven on a Tuesday, while Dad was on leave from the Army. Dad had a…
The weather was so warm over the weekend. And then, around two o’clock this morning, a wild storm brought winter back. Ah, well. Guess we’ll just have to wait. Perhaps there were similarly fluid weather conditions when Mom wrote this sonnet, called “Waiting Is Winter,” in April of 1949, while a freshman at Saint Joseph College. (You remember sonnets, right? Traditionally, a sonnet is a 14-line poem written in iambic pentameter. It follows a specific rhyming pattern and focuses on…
Farmer Gary and I have a tradition. Each evening, he asks me to look up how many readers visited this blog over the past day. It ranges greatly, depending on whether I’ve added a new post that day. Then comes the really good part. “Where are they from?” Blog analytics are fascinating. I haven’t splurged on a deep-dive system (yet), but the one I use lists readers by their nation. Gary never tires of it. Of course, the majority of…
I’m not sure exactly when I realized my parents were born just a year after Anne Frank. History can be confusing that way. World War II and the Holocaust seemed so long ago and far away when we studied it in high school. In actuality, only three decades had passed. As saber rattling sets the world on edge once again, I came across a journal Mom kept from 1944 through 1948, her high school years. In total, 65 poems. Here…
Who writes a love poem from her hospital bed? My mom, apparently. The year was 1982, the month was January. The hospital was Yale – New Haven. (“This should fix her plumbing problems once and for all,” Dad explained with his usual delicate word choice.) The love poem was a Valentine to her youngest child. Valentine for Bill Our last son is the Red Fox.My pen becomes the glass blower’spipe as I sing of him withincandescent love beyond myunderstanding. Somewhere…
January was a good month for reading books. A very good month. Farmer Gary and I enjoyed a couple of overnights with grandson Cameron, who was delighted to write up the following after he and I finished reading Stuart Little together: Bonus Book: Stuart Little by E. B. White A mouse of adventures, Stuart Little is a brave mouse, always thinking of ideas, and has cool adventures. One weird thing is that he was born by a family of humans…
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…