Sunday, April 24, 2016
Great writer from Africa - Cleaning up the winter debris from my yard - Breakfast with Helene - Poem: Helene's Last Stop
She was writing books but no one would publish her. Okay, she told herself, if I can't sell this one, I'm through!
Fortunately, she got it published. She said she reads loads of books, spending more time reading than writing.
I just chanced upon this PBS show.
So at around two a.m. I lit up the back porch deck with a couple of indoor lights and raked and swept the back deck getting rid of all the dead leaves and new seedlings from the back yard maple.
Swept them all into a big sheet, then wrapped it up like a baby and sprinkled it to the side of my rusty shed. Then I kicked the debris all over so animals wouldn't build a nest inside.
Animals will do what they will. Scott laid traps and we caught four mice, using the best peanut butter available... from Whole Foods.
Jumped out of bed and called my friend Helene who lives at Rydal Park and hates every minute of it.
May I come over for breakfast? I asked.
I was there w/i fifteen minutes. The trick is to look for Wells Fargo on the left and then turn left.
Poem about her below.
most clever Aaron Ryesky, would call these dagwood trees.
We went to the Pennypack Trail by the Huntingdon Valley post office. It was mobbed. We wondered if Josh Shapiro, who's running for Atty Gen and his family would be out riding. He was instrumental in getting the Trail built.
Truthfully I was terrified when I got on the bike. I can ride fine but it's dodging the other bikers that's hard and I'm afraid I'll fall to my death down the cliff.
For tomro nite, I've gotta compose an Ode. Was thinking of writing it to Sue Klebold, mother of shooter Dylan of Columbine High School. Started composing it on my stationery bike. Nope, I thought. Too hard. Other ideas? Bike riding, Scott, Passover.
Bridge Mix was one of the desserts Natalie Sherman put out. Mon dieu was that delicious!
HELENE'S LAST STOP
Her early morning breakfast
was her favorite meal
at the home
Mini-shredded wheat soaked
in milk with coins of bananas
within. "I must tell you
about a book I'm reading,"
she said, after patting the
corners of her mouth.
"The Lost Landscape," by
Joyce Carol Oates. My eye-
brows raised. "It's the way she writes,"
she said. "A memoir."
I wrote it down. Meantime
the tables were filling up: David
and his robbing the cradle girl-
friend Rita, Joan who did nothing
all day, she told me, and a tall
Sir berobed and wearing
flannel pajamas. Why not?
This was his home now.
His last stop.
Talk centered around Pass-
over. We had hamtaschens
at ours, I said with a straight
face. There was nothing to
smile about at this memoir
of old age, wheelchairs -
Henry sat in one - and the
kindness of strangers. That
Terrence made me eggs over
easy on an English muffin
with a side of bacon.
Why not? Death will come
when it will.
I kissed Helene goodbye.
"I love you," I said, telling
her to hurry to her room
to put Scott's dogwood
in water. Its skin-like petals
were beginning to wilt.
Hurry hurry, while life lives