Why I Write

What I do know is that as I read the many poems and stories from so many talented writers within Vocal+ and outside, in genres so vast it boggles my mind; we have in common and we feel the need to say something, anything.

I think that we each have a distinct and personal story, often centered on memories or situations from myriad sources, from childhood, to present and from peaceful easy feelings to unbelievable horror.

Most of my writing, to date, has been inspired by my memories of childhood through high school. I’m not sure what type of writer I will be; after all, at 74, I’m a relative newcomer to this ancient, dare I say cathartic art. I continue to gather and piece together the many vignettes I’ve stored in my Facebook ramblings and as I reread and put them in relative chronological order, I drift away (often) to those long-ago moments. Each time, no matter the subject, leads to what I believe is my calling, to write my memories as a love story; no doubt being of Irish descent, Roman Catholic Church raised, softened by a mother who I loved and idolized.

For me, the people in my memories need to be remembered and by that be preserved forever. Many (siblings, school friends and relatives and acquaintances) are still with us; the older I’ve gotten, the fewer remain who can identify with the way life really was in the late 1950’s and 1960’s in the little town of West Bridgewater, Massachusetts.

By the time my parents, Dave and Willa Sheehan, decided on West Bridgewater and 361 Spring Street to be our permanent home, my dad (papa) was 3.6 miles from where he grew up at 29 Grove Avenue in Brockton.

My dad was the ninth and final child (number 10 didn’t survive) of Michael and Mary Sheehan, they being the first-generation children of Irish immigrants. As a kid and teen, going to their house was always fun. From earliest memories, gramma Sheehan would greet us (my brother Chris and I, before Pat Vicki and Andy) at the door and ask if we were being good and saying our prayers, and quite often hand us a bookmark sized piece of paper with the Blessed Virgin on it. Even into our teen years, she consistently stroked our backs and asked if we were going to become priests like our cousin Mark Sheehan, the oldest of the 65 or so grandchildren. After letting her know we hadn’t ruled out the priesthood, it would be on to the kitchen and the customary eating of whatever was given to us, which was always delicious. Gramma Sheehan made baked beans every Saturday for the entire time I knew her. She was consistent, like mama always doing the laundry on Monday and ironing on Tuesday. Friday’s she would shell the beans and let them sit in a giant pot of water to swell up or whatever beans do in water overnight. In my teens, I delivered groceries for Gilmore’s Market at the corner of Grove Street and Montello, and on Saturday’s, it was obligatory (under penalty of death) to stop for an hour at gramma’s house, to feast on hot dogs or hamburgers and her beans, baked with molasses, and always delicious. By that time, my grandfather, Mike, had already passed of leukemia at around age 75. Each visit always included a moment where gramma would say I can’t wait to be in heaven with Mike. She carried on for an amazing 20 years, and died on Valentine’s Day, which I only mention because my grandfather had passed on Good Friday. I was fourteen when grampa Sheehan passed and it was the first time I ever saw my father cry, a thought that then, like now, completely overwhelms me. Since Mike was the sole proprietor of Sheehan’s Ice Cream Parlor out on Main Street, he rarely attended mass at St. Margaret’s Catholic Church, but gramma Sheehan made up for it in spades. Always the example, she was consistent to the end on being close to God whenever she could and was not shy about suggesting the same for anyone and everyone. These lessons were never lost on my papa. For the entire time I had the honor of being his son, he never missed a day of work or a Sunday mass, he would sooner die than to miss either, it was his way, and speaks to how a child is raised up and as an adult not departing from it. I think he would enjoy my writings and be the best editor ever, finding spelling errors and run on sentences and the like, making suggestions toward a more solid and cohesive work; while I can almost hear mama from the kitchen saying, “Oh Dave leave him alone it’s perfect the way it is.”

I think back to those days as a teen and the world was in front of me, while my father’s dream was simply to live to the year 2000. Sadly, he left us in 1989, while this day, October 6, 2021, I dream to see great-great grandchildren, and a cure for my and everyone's COPD. Until I can no longer write, I pray to spread positive, constructive, pieces of this wonderful life, I’m blessed to be living, from boyhood to adulthood, and in between.

Most of all, I want you to continue writing or begin to write your story, whether lyric poetry or through the many headers available. I wish you success, and acknowledgement from the world of literature.

Lastly, I want to be sure to thank you, one and all, for wonderful sources of inspiration for me, and in a wider sense, to people everywhere who need to read your “stuff”, to hear they are not alone, not forgotten, and they are loved.