When I first read Mom’s poem titled “Litany for a Cold Church Made Warm,” I wasn’t sure what to think. It just didn’t seem like the style of poetry she’d written as a teen and young mom. As time has passed and I’ve dug through more archives, I’ve learned her “Litany” was used in a celebration Mass on Thanksgiving 1977 at St. Thomas Aquinas Church in Indianapolis. Sadly, she wasn’t able to attend, as our family had recently moved back…
For more than a year, I’ve wanted to post these photos. They’re a series of 8×10″ glossies, with Dad the only fellow among 14 women: Thing is, I found them after Dad passed away, so I couldn’t ask him what they were all about. The only information on the back of the photos is the photographer’s name and number. When trained as a journalist and after spending a career in public relations, one prefers not to speculate. But it’s tempting….
I have a feeling this is going to bug me every November for the rest of my days. I can’t find the recipe card Mom sent me with the simple instructions for pie crust. Forty years ago as a young bride, I asked Mom to send me some of her favorite family recipes. We talked on the phone at great length and built our list: Meatloaf, Potato Salad, Surprise Pie, Mayonnaise Cake, Banana Bread, Three-Bean Salad, and … pie crust….
Another sweet surprise. This time, I’ve come across a poem written by Dad. In 1943, when his family moved from Lowell, Massachusetts, to New Haven, Connecticut, Dad was placed in Mom‘s eighth-grade class at Saint Francis School. As told in greater detail in this earlier “Angels and angles” story, Dad was kicked up to ninth grade in a different school after inadvertently correcting a nun during math class. But before the transfer, Dad wrote a poem. It was included in…
As I continue to dig through Mom’s archives, I’m finding messages from her. Hints from the past. First of all, Mom was definitely not into being called a “poetess”: This news clip is from 1976, which was smack dab in the middle of the Women’s Liberation Movement. I think, though, Mom probably claimed the title “poet” over “poetess” decades before, as far back as 1938, when she wrote her first poem. In one folder, I found a program from the…
This is a story that took 46 years to tell. The year was 1976 and our family lived in Carmel, Indiana. This was a tough time in my mom’s life, what with living in the Midwest (so very far from New England) since 1973, two of her four children off to college (I was to follow that fall), and the confusion of the burgeoning women’s movement. One bright light was the writers’ conferences she attended and the friendships she cultivated…
My middle brother, Dave, wove together this remembrance of family and friends returning to Madison a few months ago to honor Dad’s memory in a heartfelt Celebration of Life: On June 11, about 40 family members and friends gathered at my parents’ spiritual home, St. Margaret’s Catholic Church in Madison, Connecticut. Dad had passed away in April of the previous year, before the risks COVID posed had diminished significantly, and this had limited the number of people who attended his…
“Cold soup? Ewww!” Poor Dad had just arrived home from a business trip to the Phoenix area and was excited to tell us about the new foods he’d enjoyed. I, for one, was not the least bit tempted by the thought of cold tomato soup full of chopped fresh vegetables. But for Dad, this was a heavenly combination. He loved vegetables. Especially fresh, home-grown veggies. From the date of Mom‘s poem, below, I can guess she took a train and…
It’s an utter disgrace to be the wife of a farmer and not have a green thumb. (If I’d written this a decade ago, when moo cows were still a-plenty around here, that would have been an “udder disgrace.” I may stink at gardening, but I can pluck a pun from miles away.) Nevertheless, we keep trying. Last year, we planted three Black-Eyed Susan plants. One survived. “That’s one in three,” Farmer Gary remarked recently. He’s too nice a guy…
It’s “Take Your Poet to School Week,” which seems like the perfect time to share this letter of recommendation from 46 years ago that recently resurfaced. We lived in Indiana at the time and Mom was stretching her wings as a poet now that her four chicks were all in school fulltime. Mom attended workshops and seminars for writers. She learned, she shared, she made lasting friendships. Eventually, she hosted poetry readings and workshops of her own. One friend from…