There’s nothing quite as gross as baby food. You know, the greenish glop in a jar that just doesn’t smell right. It did my heart good to read in this poem that Mom believed in babies eating real food, too, even sixtysomething years ago. The Roast Beef Baby We moved to Pennsylvaniawhen you were one, about.We slept three nights in a moteland ate our dinners out. Now other babies at your agewere eating out of jars:mushed and mashed and lumpy…
A number of years ago, Gary and I were in Amish Country in Daviess County, Indiana. We strolled over to a nearby flea market (more to walk off the good meal we’d just enjoyed, frankly, than any desire to shop). We wandered by several rows of tables in the open-air market. After a few minutes, I noticed Gary was no longer by my side. He motioned me over, back to a table I’d hurried past. Gary pointed sadly toward several…
On New Years Day, I read a blurb about CNN’s Anderson Cooper, who revealed he had offered, years ago, to host the annual countdown to midnight so that he could avoid the sadness of the anniversary of the loss of his father. Wyatt Emory Cooper died on January 5, 1978. Anderson was just 10 years old. Losing a parent when you’re just a kid must be awful. Indescribably so. Anderson is also mourning his mom, who passed away in June…
Back in the 1960s, Mom started a tradition in the family. It was during Advent, those long weeks of preparation for Christmas. She set out the family creche as part of our Christmas decorations. The stable, the shepherds, the three wise men, Mary and Joseph. The tiny manger was there, too, but no Baby Jesus. Baby Jesus was hidden away until Christmas morn. Meanwhile, during those pre-holiday weeks when we children would get “itchy” (one of Mom’s great words describing…
Setting #1: Ferdinand, Indiana The phone call came late Sunday night. It was the call I’d dreaded, but knew I had to answer. “Mom died peacefully about a half hour ago, with Dad holding her hand.” Bill, my baby brother, the Marine, the caregiver, was gentle but straightforward as always. We spent the next few days making travel plans for her funeral and scanning countless photos of Mom from her 89 years. Bill’s wife, Barbara – a graphic artist –…
You know what, Mom? You’ve got grit. The silence over the phone led me to quickly guess that no one had ever said this to her before. All her life she’d been the sweet, kind poet. Generous, quick with a smile and a hug. Gentle voiced. All her life, she’d also battled depression, anxiety, and an unhealthy dose of Irish-Catholic guilt. Yet somehow she prevailed. You never give up, Mom. No matter what the situation, you dig down within yourself…
Mom and Dad are both 89 years old. And today is their 67th wedding anniversary. They still hold hands. They still laugh together. And they still say, “I love you.” Mom and Dad met when they were 13 years old. Dad’s family moved in across the street from Mom’s house in New Haven, Connecticut. Just a year later, they promised to always be together. They kept that promise. But their education came first. Dad headed to Rhode Island and Providence…
Have you seen those videos on social media showing animals (both in zoos and in the wild) wolfing down pumpkins? Living on a farm, I can’t help but chuckle. The great pumpkins-are-edible discovery is akin to children realizing milk doesn’t “come from” grocery stores, but moo cows. Pumpkins, it turns out, don’t just magically transform into pies, over-salted packages of seeds, and Starbucks coffee flavorings. Livestock and wildlife figured this out long ago: Pumpkins – raw pumpkins – are delicious!…
Today is the 25th of the month. It’s Christmas in October, did you catch it? Here’s a poem (a song, actually) that Mom wrote in April of 1957. Harry was nearly two and Dave just a month old. How Mom had time to think, much less create such a sweet lullaby, is truly beyond me! The Wonderful World of Downstairs The wonderful world of downstairshas ice cream every day;The wonderful world of downstairs is where my animals play. I will…
My mom loves Halloween. Pumpkins, gourds, cider, witches, black cats, and the occasional ghost, of course. She loves it all! Mom also loves children’s books. She wrote this Halloween story – featuring a witch called Grantie Grackle – back in the mid-1960s. My oldest brother, Harry, collaborated as her illustrator back when he was just 10 years old. Three decades later, Mom made copies of “The Whitewashed Ghost” and shared them with her increasing number of grandchildren. With her permission…