Some dark reading this month – and I don’t mean we had a light bulb needing to be changed. The third book, though, is all sweetness and light. Book 1: The Great Escape by Paul Brickhill You’ve probably seen – or at least heard of – the movie. I can promise you: The book is better. Because the author was there. The intricate planning and excruciating work that went into digging tunnels (yes, plural) are described in fascinating detail. Wouldn’t…
In this 2004 poem, Mom remembers her youngest child’s return from the hospital as a newborn in 1964 and again from serving overseas in the Marines. Homecomings Soon after you were bornyour Father took your brothers sister berryingyour Grandmother steadied the housefor your homecoming and for the berry pickersthe two of us took off to bed after the admiration partyand the blueberries went into piesa succulent sleep in a hot ovenon a summer afternoon Years later on another summer afternoonwe…
What’s that out in the woods? Farmer Gary is so patient with my ignorance of all things nature. “Sumac,” he replied. “It’s a shrub.” The leaves were orange last week. Now they’re red. Mom had something to say about sumac back in 2005: What Red What red returns in Autumnin sumac dogwoods the sugar maples We follow itin hills and hollowsthe ponds reflecting The color calls in days alive and readyin this reign of red ~ joan vayo ~ 25…
As the calendar rolls into the tenth month of the year, the trees in our backyard are just beginning to turn golden and orange. And so, I went looking for a poem from Mom. She wrote this in 1950, early in her junior year at St. Joseph College in Hartford. Ever-Green Follow me, Sunberry,Mine is the rootThat steps into oceansWith one white foot. I hold a moonstone:A boon for the childWho sings in the jungleAnd never grows wild. Here is…
When my sister-in-law told me she had a boyfriend, I was taken aback. Linda quickly assured me, though, that her admirer was a hard-headed, well … rock. My brother Harry good-naturedly explained further: A few years ago I wrote a story inspired by Linda’s dalliances. She passed on your request for the story, & I’m happy to oblige. Although it’s fiction, the rock itself & the conflict between whimsical hikers & the humorless land trust is real. As you can…
Mom and Dad had distinctly different sleep patterns. Dad was the early-to-bed, early-to-rise type. I wondered what type of feathered friend an official Early Bird might be. Judging from the above picture, maybe a goose? Mom, on the other hand, loved to stay up late. She was the ultimate Night Owl: Reading, chatting with her adult children when they visited, even writing poetry: Warm Where You Were The early riser leaves meto a later hour You crest in morningwhile I…
Farmer Gary has always been crazy about his dad’s uncle Rob Wigger. Rob was a lovable character. He’d grown up on a farm near where we live today, so his visits were always full of questions for Gary. To me, it felt like a pop quiz. Gary passed with flying colors each time. We’ve been digging around all week looking for a photo or two of Rob, and what we have is a beautiful family portrait, probably taken in 1918….
It was always a treat to visit Grandma and Grandpa Cassidy when we were growing up in the 1960s. The drive to New Haven, Connecticut, took about 2.5 hours. Sometimes we’d stop at a breakfast diner and Dad would cough up a few nickels for the booth’s jukebox so we could play a song or two. Most often it would be On Top of Spaghetti, that old classic. It was always a thrill when Dad started pointing, “There it is…
Another letter from Mom to her aunt Sister Amabilis … Mom was 15 years old at the time. Sister Amabilis (aka Aunt Marguerite) was teaching first graders in the Hartford, Connecticut, area. Here’s the news (plus a poem) Mom sent on that July day in 1945: Dear Marguerite, We had a wonderful party on the Fourth of July. Joe was the real instigator and Grandma would do anything for him. There were hot dogs and cake, soda and watermelon. There…
This morning, while reading a book, I was reminded of buttercups. The young female protagonist was gifted a pin in the shape of a buttercup. As my cup of coffee kicked in, I started thinking back to my childhood. There was something about buttercups … It took a few minutes to piece it all together, but memories of Mom picking a tiny yellow flower and holding it under my chin gradually broke through the fog. “Let’s see … there it…