Look! It’s a fingernail moon! Little Thomas was barely more than a toddler when he pointed to the night sky and proclaimed the waxing (or maybe it was waning) moon looked like a fingernail. We were driving at the time (pre-cell-phone days), and I couldn’t wait to get home to call Mom. Her first grandchild had a poet’s heart. Mom absolutely loved the moon. She was fascinated by the changing sizes, shapes, and colors of the moon. Harvest moon, crescent…
Does anyone else feel conflicted about blueberries? They’ve rolled in and out of my life over the years, with mixed reviews. Let’s start with 1961. Apparently I just loved a bowl of fresh blueberries and cream. Mom even wrote a poem about it: For Paula, Who Is Three Tomorrow (I won’t be able to do it then) Who likes blueberries, blueberries, blueberries …all of the children in our house. For we have small and padded bearswho sit on small and…
Growing up, we all knew better than to ask Mom who her favorite was, as the answer was always the same. With three sons and a daughter to choose from, it was just impossible. “You’re all my favorites,” she’d say. Well. Apparently when it came to her hundreds of poems, Mom did have an extra warm feeling for a select few. In this recording, her college friend Mary Fleming interviews Mom and poses that age-old question: As mentioned in the…
For the past decade or so, I made a point of not deleting voicemails from my mom. Knowing she wouldn’t be around forever, I wanted to have a way to still hear her voice. But last spring as I prepared to retire, I “wiped” my work phone without saving the messages. Darn it! If only I’d thought to ask any one of my sons for help, surely we could have preserved those precious files. Happily, something even better has turned…
Mom wrote this poem, called simply Cherries, when her granddaughter Lucy was just a few months old. It may be that this cute little outfit inspired her. Cherries Lucy’s little yellow dress is cherried Take her to the hammock under cherry treesand in the early evening wrap herin the childhood cherry spreadremembering another eveningwhen we rode a ferris wheelafter a day of cherry picking Grandchildren and sister loved the cherriessent for summer birthdaysand from a country marketwe wooed each otherwith…
This poem’s a tough one. Mom wrote it 19 years ago, still in mourning for the loss of her brother. Ray. Sweet baby Ray. This sounds ridiculous as I type it, but we only use that brand of barbecue sauce in our home, in honor of Uncle Ray. Mom was delighted when we served it to her on pulled pork those last years before we lost her, too. Both lost to Parkinson’s Disease. Today is World Parkinson’s Day. If you’ve…
Earlier this year, while sifting through the 240 gallons of books Dad shipped our way, this one caught my eye: Petals is a work of poetry and verse compiled long ago by the Sisters of Mercy in Connecticut for their Reverend Mother. Mom’s collection of poetry books included this copy, signed by her aunt Margaret, Sister Amabilis. As I flipped through the pages, the first several poems credited to Sister Amabilis were already familiar. But toward the end of the…
Last fall’s post about Sister Amabilis is by far the most-read story on this family blog. Hundreds of her first-grade students – now grown with children and even grandchildren of their own – fondly remember that tiny nun with the huge heart. Thank you to all who shared memories here or on Facebook. As we continue to sort through a mountain of family archives, delightful surprises about my mom’s aunt keep popping up. Easter eggs, if you will. Let’s start…
No, not that Jack Cassidy. But yes, Mom had an uncle named Jack whose gregarious personality both flattered and flustered. As girls, Mom and her sister, Bunny, would scurry into the pantry to hide from that big personality. I did the same years later. As a child, I cowered from my uncle John Cull’s Eugene Levy-esque eyebrows. We shy lasses eventually grew up to appreciate these fine gentlemen. Mom wrote this poem about her uncle Jack Cassidy, a steamfitter, 13…
Today is Grandma Cassidy‘s birthday. And it’s Poetry Day. Born in 1903, Grandma wouldn’t have permitted us to calculate her age, had the luck of the Irish kept her with us all these years. Saints preserve us! Me sainted Grandmother has made her home in heaven since 1991. I was “great with child” at the time, with middle-son John on the way and couldn’t travel to attend her funeral in New Haven. I’ve always believed her blithe spirit lives on…