Oh, how I miss talking politics with Dad! At least once a day, I’ll hear or read a news story and immediately think to call Dad – or at least text him the link for later discussion. Here’s an example: Did you hear about the Benedictine nuns in Erie, Pennsylvania, accused of voter fraud this week? They’re not taking it lying down. Dad would have gotten such a kick out of reading about their leader’s barely contained furor. When I…
This morning, between rowdy thunderstorms, I heard an odd sound. Gary and I were sitting together in our sunroom, gazing into our backyard, which – after all the recent rain – looks like a jungle. The noise was pitched high enough that Gary couldn’t hear it. Years of high-frequency milking machines will do that to you. It almost sounded like an alarm: two tones in fairly rapid succession and then silence. By late afternoon, I’d forgotten all about it. Then…
I can’t help but wonder what life would have been like if social media was in full force back in the 1960s. More specifically, if The Beatles could have used the internet as they released each new album. Just the thought gives me a bit of a shiver … But that was then and this is now. And every time I hear or see the name of Taylor Swift’s new album: The Tortured Poets Department, I think about my poet…
Once again I bring you a bit of undated prose from Mom’s collection. It’s handwritten on lined paper, with a teenager’s neat, round penmanship. Maybe it was a school assignment. Nowadays they’re called “prompts.” For example: Write, in first person, about a conflict involving at least three other family members. I wish I knew more about my great-grandmother’s personality. Maggie Kelly married Joseph Malachy Regan in Belfast in 1888 and then sailed for America. That tells us she was courageous….
In amongst a stack of college papers from Mom‘s years as an English major (1948 – 1952), I came across this four-page typed work of fiction. There’s no date on it, but surely it’s safe to say it’s about 75 years old. The Winter Wood Prologue On May 18 he thought he was dead and lying under the sea. His head rested flat like a pale rock against the bottom, and through his arms and legs gushed the gray water…
One of my favorite childhood stories was Mom‘s tale of her violin lessons as a teen. She’d make us giggle when she told us her practice time would set their dog to howling. But when she shared that her violin teacher scolded, “Please! I have ears!” it made me sad. Now that I’ve come upon this autobiographical poem she wrote decades later, I’m sadder still to know more details about her violin lessons. After All In the beginning I knew…
In a file folder containing Dad‘s retirement documents from 1988, I came across a five-page typewritten document. Titled: Autobiography A handwritten note at the top of yellowing paper indicates it was completed on July 21, 1954. Was it written by request of a potential employer? We may never know. Here it is, in its entirety: Autobiography by Harold E. Vayo, Jr. My birth occurred, I have been informed, at St. Luke’s Hospital, Utica, New York, about four-thirty on the morning…
Oh, Mom. The paper clips you used to hold your school stories and essays together are now rusty and leave a jagged stain on the notebook paper. But they still hold strong. Even so, I’ve replaced them with shiny new paper clips. For the next 70 years. A story titled “Hoss Feathers” caught my eye. Mom wrote it while a high-school student at St. Mary’s Academy in New Haven, Connecticut. I’m pretty sure the uncle character she quotes is based…
Mom had a really good friend named Mary. Two friends named Mary, come to think of it. Mary Donahue and Mary Fleming. Turns out they were the same person. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit this is a recent discovery on my part. When they met in college, Mom was Joan Cassidy and Mary’s last name was Donahue. They were thick as thieves, those two, along with Gloria Dowaliby. Here’s Mary’s yearbook page from 1952, graduation year: Their final year…
Grandpa Cassidy was a policeman in New Haven, Connecticut, nearly a century ago. Although he was trained to be a plumber, specializing as a steamfitter, he joined the police force when signs of the Great Depression started to loom. That way, he knew he’d always have a job. If only we had more stories to share about his years as a “cop on the beat.” Grandpa was the son of Irish immigrants and came by his storytelling talents naturally. While…