Saturday, March 12, 2016

Part Two - Writers meet at B's Comfy Condo - My poem: Love That Moon and short story Hot Stuff!

Two parts b/c I don't wanna lose anything I've written. Blogspot has a nasty habit of doing this.

Told Scott I wouldn't be over tonite, but changed my mind. This is his night to sleep. But I'll watch the film The Danish Girl. This is something he is definitely not interested in.

Image result for the danish girl    The great Eddie Redmayne from PBS fame plays a man who wishes to be a woman.

Doesn't it sound great?

Mom just called. Bad news, she said. Donny Garber is in hospice in Long Island and his wife Liz has dementia.

Two absolutely brilliant people. Rozzy called my mom. I'd wrin about Cousin Rozzy recently, but had to call Mom cuz I couldn't remember her sister's name. Iris.

Life! Honest to God, how can anyone believe there's a God?

Was so happy Donna typed up her brother Bob's continuing story. This chapter is called "Devon's Dilemma." Brett won a football scholarship and will move away from home. His dear friend Devon will miss him.

The two of em will stay at a camp, sleeping in a bunk together.

Will they or will they not get it on?

Can't wait to read the next chapter.

Bob said the words simply flew from his pen. He writes on Monday afternoons, mails the handwrin copy to Donna, who types it up.

That man has honed his craft with us.

I'm a big believer that no matter how old we are, our writing gets better and better.

If you wish, read my story Tommy on the Ladder of Life - about the molestation of a would-be priest - and my two poems.

Click here.

When I got out of bed this morning - it seems like a year ago - I had no idea what to write about.

What's on your mind, I asked myself.

My grandson, Max, who will be 3 in August, and his sighting of the crescent moon last night when I was over.

I gave a copy to Mom and Ellen when I was there. Ellen said she doesn't like poetry and Mom said she didn't understand it. 


One:  Jefferson

We sat on the front porch, the whole
lot of us, the Washington family, knowing
that yes our folk of all different hues of
brown, were born of the first father of our
country, our country too.

Granny, born of a young slave girl, had
nearly died today, fell down once again,
not good for much, she was one-hundred-something
but who was counting? “Take me Lord” she would
pray with her toothless mouth that still
loved to sing “Let My People Go” and to
sip homemade hooch.

We done a right good load of hay baling, said
brother Jim, pointing toward yonder fields.
Oughta fetch a pretty penny and we can buy
our ladies some right pretty material for dresses
and bonnets and what not. Easter Sunday’s
on its way, praise the Lord.

Long as you gots enough wood to repair these
rickety steps that leads up to the cabin, says I.
Oh, don’t you worry, Little Miss, we’ve got
plenty including those wrinkled up bills we save
for when’s we need em.

Plus, says I, my boy Jefferson is going away to
college some day. We all watched Jefferson as
he played with his little plastic trucks in the dirt
zoom zoom – as he crashed them together
head first.

We laughed as one, a church-like chorus where
our own Pap was preacher, he done left us long

Jefferson looked our way and smiled that big ole
Mississippi smile of his. He pointed over the
newly greening fields and stood up.

“Mama,” he cried. “There’s my crescent moon.”
My crescent moon, he shouted over and over,
jumping up and down and raising the dust.

“You are right, boy!” I said, coming off the porch
and swooping him up in a hug. “That moon
sure do love you, boy, and so do I!”



No fair, I cried, you’re so tall we don’t have a
chance in hell of scoring against you.
That’s just a damn excuse, he cried as he dribbled
toward the basket, you just don’t know how to play.

There were six of us, Bobby, David, Ronnie, Max,
Danny and Tall Rose. He was a new guy. Me,
I wanted to punch him and say Get the hell
outa here and don’t come back.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, his
blackness the color of a worn leather belt.
“Who’s this new guy that’s taking over your

“S’right,” shouted Tall Rose. “It’s our court
and we want you OUT.”

“Tell you what,” he said. “If you give me a
chance, I’ll show you how to play.”

Mumble mumble mumble.

“Deal!” we shouted.

The kid was good. “You’re so good, Billy,”
I said as we rested on the bench, wiping
ourselves with towels, “you could be a
pro someday.”

”That’s what I’m hoping,” he said. “That’s
why I’m here every day, shooting hoops
while the rain sullies my beautiful black

“What’s your last name, anyway,” asked Dan.

“Russell,” he said. “Billy Russell. Remember that!”   
Tall Rose pointed to the sky.

“Crescent moon right here in the day,” she cried.

“They been seeing that ole moon since forever. Guided
Captain Ahab in Moby Dick. As for me, Call me Billy.



A moonless night, but of course she saw all.
Floating, like a wayward seashell, in the
year of our Lord, 1912. Twas April, when daffodils
bloom, but not on moon.

She watches it all. The chaos, the disbelief, the
orchestra playing on deck, the lifeboats lowered
down down down.

No way could she melt that iceberg, huge as
a floating city, which is what they called the

Moon loved the cold. Her ancient cheeks – she
was already over 4 billion years, but who’s
counting, she laughed – sniffing the freezing
cold air.

Below, many were in the water. She
watched them struggle in clothes
that puffed up like balloons. Babies,
too. They’d go quickly, like the buzzing
bee who dies after the first bite.

She cast her glance at Father Sun.
Who was bronzing on beaches
far away? She views the moon-colored
sands in Florida, unseen sharks miles
and miles away.   


I wrote a true short story about a pal of mine - thanks, guys, for the term "pal." 

Here's the beginning


Was just reading the book The Geography of Genius by Eric Weiner when I came across the phrase “hot stuff.” My late friend Vincenzo Cardinale used that term. We were great friends during our three-year relationship which began with a phone call.
I was eating a peanut butter sandwich on my homemade rye bread when the phone rang.
“Mrs. Deming, I hope you don’t mind my calling,” said the self-assured voice on the other end. The Caller ID said he was calling from somewhere in Jersey.
“What’s up?” I said, attempting to mask the food in my mouth.
I’ve always wondered about eating etiquette on the phone. Perhaps I should simply spit out the food before the mandatory rings stop. Yes, that’s what I’ll do next time, I lie.
As a mental health advocate, I follow the news of what’s happening in the world of mental illness. I read that the FDA had denied use of the “vagus nerve stimulator,” in helping depression, despite recommendations of dozens of psychiatrists and neurologists who claimed it worked well. 
             I wrote a Letter to the Editor to various national papers, including the Wall Street Journal.

         Will continue the story and present it next week. Beatriz is having mucho company from Argentina and other places. So guess where the group will meet?

Hot stuff!

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