Shakespeare. Near the top of the list of topics I wanted to talk to Dad about for this family blog was his – and Mom’s – love of Shakespeare. Over the months following Mom‘s passing in 2019, I found it best to introduce a potential story topic to Dad during one of our nightly calls, with the intent to bring it back up three or four times. As Dad reminisced, I scribbled notes madly. Alas, we only talked about Shakespeare…
On this rainy New Year’s Day, let’s dust off this poem of Mom’s from the start of another year, long ago. The year 1973 was one of great change for our family. Oldest brother Harry graduated high school and headed to college. Dad was offered a job transfer to Indianapolis. We packed up the house and moved nearly a thousand miles away. We buried a beloved cat. But that was all months later. On January 1, 1973, Mom looked lovingly…
The year 1953 was a tough one for Mom. She was a newlywed, but her dear Hap was overseas, serving in the Army during the Korean Conflict. In one of her daily letters to Dad, she proclaimed, “After you get home, I don’t ever want to see a stamp again!” Of course, anyone who knew her is chuckling right now; Mom was a true and faithful letter-writer. She stayed in touch. So imagine her heartbreak when one of her favorite…
Growing up as a Catholic kid, it was confusing. Probably exacerbated by the sugar hangover from Halloween. The Sisters at Sacred Heart School would test us: What. Comes. Next? Well, there was All Saints Day and All Souls Day, but in what order? (I got crafty one year and noticed they were alphabetical.) Good heavens, no wonder we were confused. Here’s what Wikipedia says: All Saints’ Day, also known as All Hallows’ Day, the Feast of All Saints, the Feast of All Hallows, the Solemnity of All…
Among the many trunks and boxes of Mom’s poetry, prose, and other papers, a Halloween story surfaced this week. The one-page spooky story looks to be a theme paper written for a high school class. Young Joan Cassidy typed it carefully; she was a student of New Haven’s St. Mary’s Academy. Associates in Magic My buck-toothed product of the harvest grinned maliciously in the kitchen window. His crooked nose and glaring eyes made him appear utterly ridiculous. I attempted futilely…
Back in June, as Gary and I cleared out my parents’ home for sale, I phoned my cousin Suzanne about one particular wooden chair. “The chair with the lions. That was from Grandma and Grandpa’s house, right Suzie?” You mean the Frankenchair? Up until that moment, I hadn’t realized the chair in my folks’ music room had a story behind it. Our grandpa was a policeman in New Haven, Connecticut, from 1926 through 1952. He loved to walk the beat…
There’ll never be a Halloween when my brothers and I don’t think of Mom. She loved everything about fall, especially getting spooky in late October. In addition to decorating the house and loading up on apple cider, Mom got a lot of use out of this witch hat: We liked that photo so much, it reappeared as a pillow, which Mom treasured: It’ll be years before I run out of Halloween poems from Mom. She wrote a bunch! All Hallows…
Mom would be pleased that her poems – even those from long ago – are causing her children to research and reminisce. This poem was written in August of 1977 following the death of someone named Madeline. A friend? A relative? I checked first about a certain writer friend, but she spelled her name Madeleine and lived for three more decades. A search on our massive family tree on ancestry.com brought me – at last – to Madeline. Madeline Sturmer….
Does anyone really use a dictionary anymore? I mean a real dictionary. Hard-covered and hefty. With hundreds and hundreds of tissue-paper pages. Tiny type. Here’s Mom‘s copy, now in our home: I weighed it. Thirteen pounds. Measured it, too: 11.5″ x 9.5″ x 5″. Thousands of pages … … starting with Mr. Webster: Researching Mr. Webster a bit, my favorite quote is that he was instrumental in giving American English a dignity and vitality of its own. He served in…
My Aunt Bunny (Mom’s younger sister) has told me this story more than once. Just this week, I found a poem Mom wrote about it. Although it was usually up to them to call on their grandmother, the Cassidy sisters of Fair Haven could always count on their Gram to pay them a visit during that time of the month, armed with a bottle of the cure. Gram’s backyard on Lombard Street connected with the Cassidys’ well-kept yard behind their…