Working on a series of "Hornell Stories." I am trying to capture what I know about the many characters in my mother's family, all of whom lived in Hornell. Not sure about the order of things: whether Mary died before or after Meryll Wilcox, or exactly what year anything happened. So, I have some research to do, which will change the poems. Glad to say there are one or two of my mother's cousins surviving, and they will help. So, these are, for now, only sketches.

1918

Mary Monaghan

proud to be five (youngest of eight), 

was asked by neighbor Mrs. Savage

to pick up her brisket at the butcher shop. 

Mary, being five, was a big girl now— 

but still had to persuade her mother, Lizzie

to let her go. 

What was the harm? She was five! 

so much more than four, thought Mary

thought Lizzie…

Mary’s niece, Ruthie,

who lived next door

of course couldn’t go

(three is so much littler than five).

Mercedes and Russell, Mary’s best friends, also next door (other side)

they were away at their grandma’s, 

so they couldn’t go.

And Mary’s seven brothers and sisters -

who knew where they were?

It was up to Mary

and she was five, so …

“Now Mary,” said Lizzie,

“it’s around the corner on Canisteo Street.

You’ve been there before.

No need to cross,

just down, around and back, same way.”

“Yes, Mama.”

So how?

Why would she have crossed the street?

Mary lasted five days

at St. James Mercy hospital,

daddy James at her side throughout.

Not a mark on her,

but bleeding inside.

Five days, one for each year of her life.

The Canaseraga man who hit her 

with his “machine” (as described by the Evening Tribune)

said she stepped out of nowhere,

he couldn’t stop in time.

She was only five.

Where was her mother?

“We think there was a cat involved,”

was all anyone could figure.

1918

Five sisters

now only four.

The headstone had a lamb on it.

After primping the geraniums

the girls stood arm in arm

lost in thought.

“It’s sweet,” Bess murmured.

No one answered.

Helen pricked the silence.

“How will we live without her?”

“We have each other

and the boys,

Mommy and Daddy.

We’ll go on,” said Irene.

“We’ll go on.”

A lonely bird serenaded them,

five sisters minus the one, 

from a branch overhead.

“Georgie is the baby now,” said Margaret.

“Don’t let him hear you say that!” said Anna.

They laughed

as best they could.

1919

Margaret stared at the check

then placed it on the table

in front of Meryll’s chair

where he had lied so sweetly

about her first pot roast

a check. 

for Meryll.

taken from her,

now paid for.

the war, you know

she was all cried out

everybody was

the war

well, you know

one day

she would cash that check

that “survivor benefit”

apparently there could be some benefit

to surviving

nothing came to mind

1921

north on the road to Arkport,

I suppose

if it doesn’t stall out

this footwork is tricky

imagine

me, Margaret

driving an automobile

what would Meryll think—

oh! that one tooted at me

how funny!

once I get the hang of this

I’m going to drive all over Hornell

tooting at everyone I see

oh, wouldn’t Meryll have…

whoa, don’t run over the chickens

Arkport never changes

does it?

I’ll turn around here

yes, I’m ready

Broadway or bust!

but Canisteo Street

is so busy

let’s turn on Main.

shall I leave it running?

Oh Mary.

I am a beast and a traitor

I’ve gone and bought one of those machines

I know

but you would love it so, darling sister

the mohair seats!

we could gather up the girls

go to Stony Brook 

or even Bath

I miss you so

I lost Meryll, you know,

too

1930

gaunt

Abe Lincoln

sans the sadness

fun-loving,

lithe as vaudeville

every bit as ticklish

a toe-tappin’ Gene Kelly

apron and broom,

and too, 

a good man

our grandpa, Bill Long.

The Legend Lives On

lives on in a blanket chest my brother made

from cherry boards he found in our barn

Mom said they were payment 

said her father would take anything

at Long’s Grocery on East Ave.

homing pigeons, pair of pants

a pile of old boards

or nothing at all.

said folks were broken and broke

said nobody went home without.

he had food

fuck the depression

(I guess he never said fuck)

(Mom didn’t either)

after John made the blanket chest

Steve made a plant stand

occasional table

a sideboard

and whatnot, of high craft

until those cherry boards

every one 

expressed its higher purpose

in memory of that good guy

our Grandpa Long.

1931

“Monaghan!” he shouted.

“George Monaghan!”

“Sir. It’s Monahan now. My family—”

“Monahan, then. I don’t give a damn.

Get me another martini.”

“Right away, sir.”

insufferable prick

pants trussed up under his armpits

ridiculous 

the whole “gentlemen’s club.”

rich and ridiculous

George opened the locker

took a swig, mixed the drink.

another quick one, then

stood the bottles back inside

placed the drink there, too

all but closed the locker and

sped to the bathroom.

checking quickly

no feet in the stalls,

he rinsed his mouth,

popped in a mint.

a job is a job

working for jerks

had its perks

and that’s how the crazy began.

prohibition made a drunk

of George Monahan,

medical student,

Flower Hospital, NYC.