Monday, June 26, 2017

The Fleisher's 50th Anniversary Party - Biking on Pennypack Trail - The Duster is published

The party was planned months in advance by Aaron Fleisher and his wife Anissa. The downtown restaurant was selected by a friend of Aaron.

View Positano Coast here. 

Scott and I left in plenty of time but still had a tough time finding both the restaurant and a place to park.

There were a series of one-way streets so we circled the rest. about five times trying to find the entrance.

When we walked in we were greeted by loads of people AND Lou and Lois Fleischer. I had met them years ago at Aaron's wedding. Now they were unrecognizable.

Below are the pants I wore. My friend Marcy from CA was helping me find them, which I finally did. 



 Delicious food included bagel and lox.


 Rich and Ada were shocked when they walked in the room.
See the photo of the young Fleishers? Photos were scattered all over.


 Sandy, above, and her son Stuart, who lives in Lancaster, PA, with his physician wife Donna.

Exiting the rest. down the ramp.

 The Ritz Theater across the street. Since this is the historic area, cobblestones line the street.
 In 1853, the above gorgeous bldg used to be The Philadelphia Stock Market. Scott has a book of history Philly photos.
 I went down the steps, and photographed myself and hours in the meer.
Stock market. Hmm, lemme buy some more Amazon stock since they just bought out Whole Foods.

Our gift to the Fleishers was a gift card from Barnes and Noble for $50.

What would YOU buy if it were you?

*

Later on, Scott and I went biking at Pennypack Trail.



We chose 5:30 so it wouldn't be too crowded or too hot.

We went about two miles, the first time in months.

Then, we had another event. Every Sunday our township has music at Masons Mill Park.

Dave Deluca...
New for 2017, That’s Amore: A Century of Dean Martin. This one man band
imitates Martin’s relaxed, crooning voice as he performs songsE D
like Everybody Loves Somebody and Volare.

Deluca was very good. They may have had 200 people in lawn chairs on the grass. Scott brought our beach chairs.

I was soooo relaxed.

Read below poem about it.

Here's THE DUSTER.

PRESENTING DAVE DELUCA

He was good, very good,
a stout man who sang
Dean Martin favorites
to an overflow crowd
in Mason's Mill Park

We brought our lawn chairs,
colorful as Picassos. I
stared. A parade of
big-bellied men passed by.
Soft, like Strohman's bread.

The two-year-old passed
by with Mum several times,
holding his toy car in
the well of his hand.

My two-year-olds, Grace and
Max, had turned four and six.

A good-looking teen was the
only one dancing, reminded
me of my brother. In front of
me a young boy set up his
lawn chair, blocking my view.

Just you wait, I said to myself.
He toppled from his chair, three times,
then righted himself until
Dad came along and pulled him
back to the fold of the family.

Families!

The Muslims were picnicking over
by the pond, the smell of their
BBQ flowing like soft head scarves
through the air.

We nodded to them as we returned
to our cars.

Inside, buckled up, I said to my man
Scott, that was the most relaxing thing
I've done all week.





Saturday, June 24, 2017

Recently Published - Bella Online - The Parking Lot Attendant

Click here to read.

Summer of 2017.

Published by Lisa O'Shea.

Read My Favorite Job here. It's about working as a psychotherapist for the late Bristol-Bensalem Human Services.

Here's Uncle Benny's Stradivarius. Read it here

When I go visit Dan, I pass by an enormous house with front porch. That's the locale of the story. Mom has Uncle Benny's Strad, which, of course isn't real, but I did describe it. And off goes the family - called The Walkers - to Antiques Road Show in downtown Philly.

An awfully good story!

I wrote to Dai Shotter of the UK and asked if it's too soon for me to published anudder short story.

Send it in, she said.

Here's The Parking Lot Attendant from YourOnePhoneCall.

Hmmm. Too much empty space below.

Believe it or not, Scott has another week off.

This time, we're off to Cape May.

We'll lunch at the Lobster House. I could not get a picture.

And stay at The Cape Motel with its outdoor pool.




Writers' Group at B's House - Dinner at Dan's - My new short story Invitation to a Funeral

Chronic Renal Card arrives in mail. Was working here on Red Couch when I saw the mail truck drive past my house.

Mail! thinks I. I'd thought today was Sunday, which makes no sense, as I was gonna go upstairs and write a story for today's writing group.

We had a good crowd.

Linda Barrett wrote a poem about New Directions - no one understands about meds -  and also something about Getting bit by fleas, ants, tics, the inside of Princess's ear getting bit, very clever.

Rem said it reminded him of some of James Dickey's poetry. The Poetry Foundation describes him as "James Dickey is known for his sweeping historical vision and eccentric poetic style." Rem was right on the mark.

He's finally moving from his bug infested apartment.

Ken wrote a mostly true story called "What if he were an angel?" Well-written and absorbing, the narrator puts $18 worth of transportation fare into the box on the bus for a man who claims he's lost everything.

Not long afterward, he hears from Nathan, who sends him a ticket to a new play in NYC. Ken gets gold-star treatment.

Ken told us something SHOCKING.  Last night was the last night of the Coffeegrounds program at the Willow Grove Bible Church.

THE LAST?  And I wasn't there due to exhaustion. The band was excellent, said Ken. Will look em up on YouTube. 

Beatriz wrote one of her fascinating pollinator stories. Millions of years ago, pollinators such as wasps and bees did not have stingers. They evolved. I shared this news with Grace and Max who were overcome with ennui.

Earlier today, they had gone swimming at Penbryn Pool

Image result for penbryn pool

I used to take the late Anne Tucker there. She was so grateful, as was I, cuz I got to SWIM.

After much sleeping this morning, I finally began Invitation to a Funeral around 11 am. I thought it was pretty good.

First I had to think of the names of my characters and write em down. For the pastor, male chauvinist that I am, I first thought of a male pastor.

Then I thought of the name Alice. But every time I wrote that name the word ALICIA came up. So I changed the name to DIANA.

Now Diana's gotta get the idea to have a funeral while the person is still alive. What should I name the person who will die? I tried to think of a person I really admire and thought of

  Janet Gerhard at our Addictions Seminar.

Our dying woman in the story is called Janet Brickman. Long ago I wrote a short story about Brickman's Farm.

What disease should she die from?

How about Eisenmenger Syndrome, a rare and fatal genetic disease of the heart.

Beatriz told me to elaborate about the symptoms, which I did.

Still, the comments I received were less than good.  

If anyone wants to read it, lemme know and FedEx it to you.

I think this is all I had to say.

Hold on. I'll check the Times for something not too terrible.


Creating a Garden Oasis in New York City. Shhh! If they find out I've got it, my name is mud!

- Ruth Z Mudd




Thursday Writers Group Comes for Dinner - POEMS: The Extreme Heat in California - Whistle Through the Grass - It's Official: Your most important food

THE EXTREME HEAT IN CALIFORNIA

Dedicated to The Rain God

Few folk are from around here
We all move from what we call
Back East.

Moved out here to become
a movie star. My friends
back in Savannah said,
Maggie, we'll never forget
your performance as
the librarian in
Seventy-Six Trombones.

Go ahead and laugh, if you
want to. In California
our mouths are so dry
we can't even spit.

I'm doing my part
to summon the
storm clouds.

That's me with my
raggedy undyed hair
sitting in the
still chill
Lowe's Twenty Seven.

I'm up in the projection
booth with Sam, praying
my heart out to
Q'uq'umatz,
the Mayan god of the rain.

Lying down on the floor
littered with popcorn
and Ju-Ju-Bees
the Prophetess
at Adelphi
says it will work.

***
WHISTLE THROUGH THE GRASS

The furry bristledown moving object
in the back yard is a groundhog. It
goes by many names. Woodchuck has
a nice ringtone to it but my
favorite is the whistling pig.

Am sure the Lenape savored the
tender meat, maybe even preserved
them as little round coins over
our snow-covered winters.

Our groundhog travels alone.
A baby, she got separated
from mom, who may lie covered
with flies in the middle
of the road.

Would our baby survive
sans maMa? She did. She did.
She travels low to the ground
and like a hoover consumes
everything in her path.

Clover, dandelions, and
sleeping fireflies, which
going down her gullet
blink on and off, on and off. 

Newest pic of Sister Lynn, Nana to her daughter Jade's Kaia Rose.

 My pumpkin chili was simmering for hours. When it was done I went upstairs to work on Letter to My Dead Husband. They liked it very much but had a couple of good suggestions.
 Lori drove her red car here with Marlene, below, in the car.
 Linda Jones gave her insightful critiques to Lori and me while helped by Richard Parker and Pal.
Lori brought two poems. One was about a female cardinal who kept crashing into the living room window, assaulting her reflection.

Tonight I ate at Dan's. I brought the remainder of my chili to his house and left the damn remains there. They'll throw it all away.

As I drove over, minding the Edge Hill Road detour, I was feeling simply terrible in the car.

Why? My sugar was low. I had failed to do what my diabetes educators told me to do. KEEP my glucose tabs handy so I could easily reach them.

Just took c/o it. Put the tabs into an empty bottle of prednisone and tucked it into one of the many pockets in the car.

Which one! Which one! As I pass out on the side of the road.

These painted Styrofoam boxes need to be hung up dans le living.


IT'S OFFICIAL
YOUR MOST IMPORTANT FOOD

If you haven't read about this
you are probably in the memory unit
of an old age home or following
your bliss on the edge of town

Extra-virgin olive oil protects
against Alzheimer's disease. Too
late for Gramma Lily who lived,
without a mind, until 98.

According to Professor Pratico
olive oil reduces brain inflammation
and gobbles up debris and toxins
that result in those famous
atrocious plaques.

The town crier will be coming down
your street. I see him now at the
blue house on the hill right across
the street.

Not only have I heard the news, but
I have taken heed.
Although olive oil and I have been
pals for years, I have now added it
to my morning coffee, aleady spiked
with O J.

After doing so, I thought,
Oh no! What if it sucks?


It don't. Not at all.
I don't expect you to
try it. Just use the
olive oil. I use
Tunisian to help
small businesses grow.

SEE YOU NEXT TIME!