Holly Cusumano

This is the first post of a series of Story Cards that I will be creating for our three-year-old twin grandchildren. The stories will be written in two chapters and mailed a few weeks apart. I know that children enjoy stories featuring their own names, but I have decided to use given names selected from the family tree that I created for the twins when they were born. The stories will be "flash fiction," a storytelling genre in which the characters, storyline, and setting are captured in just a few words. They are very short stories. Given the economy of words, the stories will likely all begin in "medias res," that is, in the middle of the action. Each card will contain little inserts to be held while the stories are read to them and will feature a tree.  So, here is the January Story Card. Adrian and Russell Chapter One With the glow of the moon, the two boys saw the spiky seed pods strewn across the sidewalk. So many were on the ground! So many were still on

Several weeks ago, I went to Renningers Antique Extravaganza in Kutztown, Pennsylvania searching for vintage photographs. I already have a large collection, so I was looking to buy only what really struck me. Nothing did. But I came across these interesting advertising cardboard cutouts. At about eight inches tall, they look like someone has cut them out of a catalog's cover. On the reverse side of each one is the name of a department store and a year, for example, "Lord and Taylor 1960." The antiques vendor, who was selling lots of paper ephemera, had no idea where these fashionable ladies came from. At just one dollar each, I promptly scarfed up all 16 of them. I thought I'd try using one of these figures in a collage held together with clear encaustic wax. As an artist without formal training, I find the decision-making aspect of creating a new piece of art difficult. Just because I like the way something looks, doesn't make it the "correct&q

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