The little red diary from my moving-away party in June 1970 is only two-thirds complete. Our family was getting ready to move from Pittsfield, Mass., to Fairfield, Conn., that summer. That diary gave me – a 12-year-old middle child – a place to be excited as well as miserable. Fifty-four years later (ack!), the diary is sitting on a shelf here in our home. I’ve been tempted to pitch it for years. Last night, I decided to take a look…
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,…
Psst! Paula! Come here for a second, will ya? I was new to this job back in 1992 and still not over the fact that Santa Claus was a co-worker. As I stepped toward him, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Oh, boy!” I thought. “Santa secrets!” Not exactly. The jolly man in the white beard had a serious concern. Step a little closer, but don’t let anyone see what you’re doing. And tell me … do I stink?…
Dad was not one to hoard receipts and other paperwork from his nearly 91 years. But he did hold on to reminders that brought back good memories. “You were a cheap date,” he said to me out of the blue when I was still in my teens. He quickly explained that he’d run across the bill from my birth. “Our insurance didn’t cover everything,” he said with a sigh. “I had to shell out $14.75 when we brought you home.”…
“Meat! Don’t you have any meat? I need meat!” An Indiana University football player hollered across the counter at me 45 years ago today. The poor fellow, and his beefy friends, were looking nervous as they made their way through the dorm cafeteria line and slowly realized the dinner menu was not quite as protein-laden as usual. That’s because we were under a state-wide “snow emergency” as three days of blizzard conditions (on top of previous snowfall) had closed the…
This year, Thanksgiving falls on the third anniversary of Mom’s passing. Anyone who’s grieved a loved one’s death knows the sadness is unpredictable. Sometimes it sneaks in with a sigh; other times it clobbers you like a mallet and takes your breath away. But you learn, bit by bit, to “carry on” and do your best. And so I dug around this week for a Thanksgiving poem, knowing how Mom loved the holiday and the gathering of family and friends….
A few weeks before Dad‘s 60th birthday, Mom wrote this playful poem about her handy husband: Handyman Hal If you need a window lowered at nightOr somebody strong to switch on the lightOr the tablecloth straightened from left to rightCall Handyman Hal! If you reach him the key he will open your doorGive him a jug he’ll be happy to pourAll of these projects and many things moreHandyman Hal. If you want Christmas presents placed under the treeA wise man…
Mom sure loved living in Pittsfield. Known as “The Heart of the Berkshires,” Pittsfield was our childhood home from 1962 through 1970. Located in western Massachusetts, Pittsfield is surrounded by the scenic Berkshire Mountains. This poem from 1972 caught my eye the other day. Even though we’d moved to Fairfield, Conn., nearly two years prior, Mom was still thinking about Pittsfield: Song for a Berkshire House There, in the snow-and-autumn house,early November blue and white feelingof frost, and sky of…
One of the many goofy teases Dad used when we were kids was to never remember our ages. He knew them all, of course, but would increase or lower our age to support his ruling as a parent. “Stay up to watch Star Trek? But you’re only six years old – that’s way past your bedtime!” Uh, I was eight, nine, and ten at the time the original series ran. When I got caught peaking down the stairs, my true…
“We’ll be there in another week, Dad. We’ll have fresh fish every day – promise!” Oh, boy – can’t wait! Sadly, I wasn’t able to keep that promise. Gary and my long-awaited post-vaccine visit with Dad came to a tragic end. A misstep, surgery from a resulting broken hip, and a stroke ended in his death on April 13. Rest in peace, my darling Dad. Remembering Mom’s explanation of “holy laughter,” we’ll share some of the moments that made us…