Holly Cusumano

When I was a kid growing up in Royersford, Pennsylvania in the late 50's and early 60's, we always had a large console stereo in our kitchen. As soon as our father left for work, our mom cranked it up. We danced and sang like wild maniacs. Mom had an interesting assortment of records, Jonnie Ray, Puccini operas, and jitter bug. We'd stack the records up randomly and take turns being "the contestant." You never knew what your song would be until it played. But the crazier we acted, the more the crowd roared. Rick was known for his silly costumes, (think pointy, white cotton brassieres on his head) and Kit for her exuberant bossa nova.  But the song that I can't get out of my head this week is Gene Pitney's "Town Without Pity." I've been hearing it day and night for the past few days. I remember mom standing for long periods of time at the kitchen door gazing longingly through the glass. It scared me to the core. She was no longer

Among my earliest recollections of childhood is seeing the golden glow that peeked from under the door of my brother’s bedroom. It was predawn and that glimmer was the only source of light.  From my bed I could hear him rustling around in there, zipping up the sleeping bag he slept in every night on top of his bedspread and quietly dressing. His fishing, or sometimes trapping, gear waited on the back porch, having been carefully packed up the night before.  I recall a palpable anticipation about these early morning rituals, frequent as they were. I think the sleepy house itself could feel the excitement. You wouldn't think that a little girl like me would be included in trips like these, but once a year or so my brother allowed me to tag along. Believe me, I was a burden. Eight years younger than Rick, I was more suited to hand washing doll clothes in a soapy basin on Sherry’s back porch than cooking a “sunny” with a stick down its throat on an open fire. But that’

Perhaps 15 years ago or so, we created a Moon Garden at our Coventryville house and it turned out pretty cool. The structure of the garden was native black granite boulders surrounded by white gravel paths.   We planted it with annuals and perennials with gray, silver, or pale green foliage and fragrant white flowers. Here and there we allowed some purple. A Moon Garden is designed to be enjoyed in the evening and on moonlit nights. It was a labor of love. Over several years, our family had suffered much loss: our nephews Michael and Matt, Steve’s mother, my stepfather Will, and my Mom. Chairs at our holiday tables went from a bustling many to a quiet few.   The Moon Garden felt perfect for that time of our lives -- a quiet spot to reflect, heal heavy losses, and soothe jangled nerves. At night the garden glowed. But now doesn’t feel like a time of endings. Steve and I are settled in our retirement routines. It’s been three years since we left the corporate world. We love

For some reason, the theme music for the TV show, “ Who Do You Think You Are ?” makes me cry. I suppose I’m the Pavlov’s dog of genealogy. Every single time, hearing just a few musical notes elicits the same response -- tears! Sniff, sniff. There’s no denying that I am a sentimental slob for peoples’ family histories. Since the TV show isn't currently being broadcast on TLC, I've taken to watching the British version of the show which has been running since 2006. Many of the episodes are available for free on You Tube. You just search for “BBC Who Do You Think You Are?” And bingo, there are a ton of them. The British version features celebrities who might be well-known over there, but here in the U.S. we've never heard of most of them. So for me, they are “regular people” and I identify with them. Whether it’s a famous American or a Brit whose family tree is being researched, the reactions of the “star” resonate with me. They always say things like, “This in

Our son Sammy and daughter-in-law Katie gave me a handful of vintage photographs of unknown people for Christmas this year. They came with this note “We hope these snapshots prove inspiring for your work.” They are. Found photo of unidentified family I’ve been known to stand for hours at flea market stalls and silently flip through boxes and boxes of old photos. What am I looking for? I don’t know. Well, yes, I guess I do. It’s connection. When I was 10, our parents divorced. My brother, sister, and I called it “the war.”  Before the war, with three of us kids at home, our household was bustling. We lived on Summer Street in Royersford where our many friends were just next door. I can still hear the venetian blinds on the front door clang as it was opened and closed a hundred times a day. After the war, it was devastatingly quiet. I was alone much of the time. I can see now exactly what I did about it. I became exceedingly charming, ridiculously helpful, an

I’ve been hanging around with artists lately. This is not something new. I’ve always enjoyed the company of creative people -- writers, crafters, gardeners, painters ... They’re not exactly normal, which is how I like it. One thing an artist does is write an “artist statement.” It’s a proclamation, really, and it takes considerable thought. It’s kind of sickening to be so self-focused. But you know what? Without pausing to think through these questions, there is no clear artist behind the artwork. If I don’t know what I’m trying to express, who does? And so, I ponder... What’s my purpose? Why do I make my art? What does it represent? What is special about how I make it? What does it mean to me? Here’s my first-ever artist’s statement; see what you think. Artist Statement Creativity has always been very highly valued in our family. When it came to play, my brother, sister, and I were allowed to go anywhere and do whatever we wanted. So we danced outside in the pou