Cooking, cleaning, decorating, and wrapping presents took up much of Mom‘s time leading up to Christmas each year. Oh, and writing notes in 200 or more Christmas cards. One tradition that Mom practiced annually often happened after the rest of us were asleep on Christmas Eve. In 1983, she took the time to write about it: The Call to Christmas 12:30 a.m., the early end of Christmas Eve. We have trimmed the tree and adorned the house and the snow…
There’s a basket full of school papers to go through, and it’s hard to make much headway. That’s because they’re Mom‘s papers, presumably from high school and college. Some are easy to figure out, as they retell a current event, or show the results of comparing two writers’ styles. There are news clips, too. Other papers, though, will remain a mystery. No date, no teacher’s name. But as long as Mom’s name is there – Joan Cassidy – I know…
This selection of Mom’s prose from 40 years ago captures memories of the Quinnipiac River, located just down the hill from her childhood home in New Haven, Connecticut. Here’s a photo of her dad, Frank Cassidy from around that time, heading home on Chatham Street after one of his brisk walks. That’s the Quinnipiac in the background. The river has had good years and bad. My memories of it are from the 1960s, when it was befouled by industrial waste….
As we finish up the first week of December, the sudden appearance of Christmas trees is pleasantly common. Some folks put theirs up over Thanksgiving weekend – or even before. Others wait till closer to the big day. Mom loved everything about Christmas, but waited until the night before for the tree. Although Dad usually picked out their live Christmas trees over the years – and placed the lights, she was in charge of the decorating of each season’s beauty….
Back we go to the 1960s for this story. Back to Pittsfield, Massachusetts. … and Mom‘s dear friend Lorraine Lauzon. Mrs. Lauzon was a remarkable artist. She was just the right match for Mom, as the friends shared similar interests. Similar souls. They loved books, art, music, museums, and theater. Plus, both had children in Sacred Heart Elementary School. Mark Lauzon was really good friends with my oldest brother, Harry. Stephen Lauzon was in my class. Here’s a painting Mrs….
Mom absolutely loved being a grandma. Over the years, she and Dad were blessed with seven grandchildren. Many summers ago, they enjoyed hosting five of those little varmints while vacationing in Ogunquit, Maine. (James and Lucy weren’t born yet.) Here’s a story Mom wrote 30 years ago, remembering that special time. Half a Hot Dog with Johnny It is October and three of our grandchildren are in school and thriving. I think of last August and the various times the…
Mom‘s fable about two soldiers and an old bear is best read aloud, to a child or a child at heart. Or anyone who questions war. Bear, Who Would Not Be a Soldier There was once a bear who lived in shabby comfort in the heart of an old forest. He had been a woodcutter, other times a guide, but never had he worn a uniform or joined a society. Now he was old and heavy like a grandfather tree,…
Growing up on Chatham Street in New Haven, Connecticut, Mom loved her “little room.” Nowadays, we might call it a walk-in closet. Back in the 1940s, it was a room with a window and a desk. For writing, for studying, for dreaming. Even more special was the view. The window looked out into the front yard, where there was a spruce tree. And as Mom grew up, so did that tree. A year ago, I asked Dad if Mom had…
Farmer Gary and I have a tradition. Each evening, he asks me to look up how many readers visited this blog over the past day. It ranges greatly, depending on whether I’ve added a new post that day. Then comes the really good part. “Where are they from?” Blog analytics are fascinating. I haven’t splurged on a deep-dive system (yet), but the one I use lists readers by their nation. Gary never tires of it. Of course, the majority of…
Pages held together by a rusted paper clip. Paper not exactly crumbling, but after seven decades, it’s discolored and brittle. A short story, written so long ago. Long hidden in a mountain of college papers, here’s a six-page class assignment. A short story, neatly typed, with a few pencil scratches. Probably a “final draft,” as there’s no grade or notes from the professor. I can only imagine Dad’s reaction if he were still here to reminisce. He loved it when…