Sunday, December 27, 2015

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.


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

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

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.

Image result for willow grove bible church coffee house

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? 

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