Wawa in the morning

My friend Teresa Forstater, known as "Tree," mailed me a Gift Card from the Wawa for fifty dollars. I felt like a rich woman, and why not?

On the way to the Hatboro Wawa, I stopped at our post office box in Hatboro and found donations to New Directions. Haven't opened em yet, but one was from the Horsham Clinic. I invited the second in command to my 70th bday party in January.

 I felt so free as I was driving. The Wawa closest to me - the Willow Grove one - often doesn't have hot coffee. They've never corrected this situation since they opened.

 Tree had given me anudder gift card and I discovered cream-cheese pretzels !!!!!!!

Despite my always humongous appetite, I only ate one-third of my eggs. Just got off my exercise bike since I ate all this delicious challah toast.

Will drive over to Kim Ruby's house later today to give her and her entire family the challah. Can't eat it due to my diabetes.

Will edit the below poem as I read it now.

WAWA IN THE MORNING

A fifty dollar Wawa gift card I

slipped in my pocket

I looked out the window at my moist

street, the fog had lifted before

dawn

The night before I watched the blurred

visions of the manger scene

across the street and the denuded

fanlike tree, where once when I

was manic, 

looked to me like a

huge little girl, like Alice.

Roads bore few cars. WXPN

played quiet music that lifted

my spirits even higher. I was

going to buy breakfast at the Wa !

Breakfast, my favorite meal of

the day. Best to eat out and

let the cares of your home be

forgotten. Bring a book if

you wish to Daddypops or
the ill-named

T and T Diner, as I parked

on the street outside Wawa.

Fishing in my pocket I clutched

the red gift card in hand and

asked young Al how to order

breakfast at his flatline computer

you touch like the face of a newborn.

A quick tap will do it, like on that

dreadful iPhone I stopped using
and giving it up to God.

A bowl of scrambled eggs popped

up. The choices were untenable…

no, I would not have bacon nor

a sausage patty, as my mouth watered

without control. 

Coffee I would choose at the

coffee island, could pretend if

I wish I was back in Barbados

with the thick syrupy French

roast, as I squeezed the lever

for Hazelnut. The smell was

divine as steam clouded the

eyeglasses I wasn’t wearing.

The black plastic bowl of

eggs was gently put in my

hand by Venice. Perhaps her

parents had been to Venice Beach

in California or the real one and

kissed while the gondolier stoked

the sea and a titanic ice berg was

no where near.

At home I prepared for the best

breakfast I’d had all year. Best,

because I didn’t make it. The

coffee was still hot. I sipped

and smelled as I quaffed.

Eggs I burnished with ground

pepper. The yellow and black

a beauty all its own.

My challah with poppyseed

I toasted in the oven. When

all was ready, I sat down to

table. Alone, reoutfitted in

my polka pajamas, singing a

song of grace and praise, I
dipped fork into the eggs,

a strident yellow, barely

hot.

Looking straight ahead at

nothing, I closed my eyes

and pronounced it, Good,

very good. And ate a piece

of buttered toast. Life is

good, very good, and I’m

only newly seventy. Many

more years to figure out

what to do with myself.

 


I had to get rid of my challah since it's no good for a person with diabetes.

Who could I give it to?

Kim Ruby from my church said she would take it.



Scott and I hiked up the hill to drop it off. He left before we got there since he's nursing a bad back.

I easily found the house - again - wrapped on the front door but no one was home.

I posted this all on FB, wanted also to post a song whose lyrics include "oh, baby, you're not home" but couldn't find it on the Net.

I thought perhaps The Eagles. Ah! Just now remembered Don Henley's name. Hold on while I check.

Yes, that's it. Click here.  Great song.... those were my manic years.

So, I leave the bread on a ledge outside their house, then see all this trash on their lawn. They're a corner house and people apparently walk or drive by and dump it.

I collected it and put it in a conveniently placed green trash can, filled with other trash and water.

Then I walked back home.

I passed Fern Avenue. When I was looking for a house my mom, who was the payee, lobbied for a house on Fern.

Cute house, wedged between the other houses. Nice kitchenette with built-in red benches. Not for me. But I'd love to see it today. And prepared a little spiel in case anyone came outa the house.

Fern Ave is a hilly street so I rolled all the way down the street on my side - wheeee! - until I got to Davisville Road.

Surely, kids, you know I gest.

Walked home thru Keystone Screw - littered with trash - and sweating, got to me own back yard, then walked next door to Scott's to tell him I was home.

That was fast, he said.

Simmering in my slo cooker is an Indian dish given to me by Renu's BF Sai.

Lentils, dried red tomatoes, onions, shrooms, cinnamon stick, black pepper and chunks of yellow squash I had in the fridge.

Mad Swirl just wrote. They didn't want my Red Nail Polish poem so I said, Mayhap I'll write one for the New Year.

Those boys sure have good personalities. 

Should I?