Have you ever seen a flowering Angel’s Trumpet plant? Simply gorgeous: When she was a teen, Mom wrote about the plant, creating a story about how it came to be. Her high-school newspaper printed this work of prose in 1946. Here’s the full piece: The Herald of Heaven In a gladed forest shaded by dense foliage grows a lowly plant, lowly, that is, in stature. Botanists have christened it “Angel’s trumpet” due to its peculiar shape. No one seemed to…
With Mom’s love of nature expressed in her poetry, I have to wonder … Who is this woman in red? A cardinal? Red squirrel? Red-winged blackbird? Or maybe, just maybe, a red fox. Here’s Mom‘s poem: The Curve / The Cave I will always wonderwhere the woman in red wentshe was my musicI knew her loved herwrote her on the pageand in my hearta lover came out of the Eastwith voice and eyes and hands so tendershe became his flowerdon’t…
The anxieties and worries of the past few months bring me to wonder about another time of national crisis. In the early 1970s, there was war to worry about. And a draft. With three sons, two of them approaching the age to be called up, Mom and Dad must have been concerned beyond belief. We’d just moved to Fairfield, Connecticut. Richard Nixon was president. And Vietnam was on fire. Here are some of Mom’s raw war poems from that time:…
“The Hundred Acre Wood got floodier and floodier.” How lucky am I to have married a man who can quote Winnie the Pooh?! Farmer Gary and I were driving home after a wonderful weekend with James. Our youngest son lives exactly 250 miles from us, so it’s a bit of a haul, but always worthwhile. James cooked for us several times and took us to our first cat cafe. My favorite moment was just as we walked into the special…
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…
We’ve had some wild weather lately here in Indiana. Howling winds, pounding rain, flashing lightning, nearly endless thunder. And so I looked among Mom’s poetry to see if … yes, of course: Storm The day she dieda rage of weather in the nighthard rain thunder lightningthings she loved and fearedexplodedas her life hadthe daily disagreementsroared to violence of wordsthen wars of silencethe arms on both sidesthat had hugged and held each otherstopped in mid-airstopped before they struck each other ~…
It feels like the world’s gone mad, doesn’t it? In a state of anxiety, I still turn to my mother. She’s been gone for more than five years, but she left us her grace, her prayers, her poems … state of grace Spring comeswith her curriculum of clouds we walk in wind this morningto the high gate in our home garden nowthe ten red tulips rise to rally loveappropriate both sun and cloudsthe stalking starthose cisterns of the sky ~…
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…
“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…
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…