Are my eyes still wet? Just finished watching Escape from Sobibor on PBS. The Nazi Death Camp was in a remote village in East Poland.
Himmler had visited earlier to install new fortifications including more barbed wire and beyond that, land mines.
Hold on, I wanna tell my friend Alex about it.
So I'm at physical therapy with Gina - she's on the left - we're working on my right rotator cuff - and I see two old friends of mine!
You can do exercises any old time. Just raised and lowered all three arms.
Many years ago I helped Bryn Athyn folks deal with the bipolar d/o of one of their own. She was married to one of the ministers there.
Midge never accepted her illness or took meds. Later in life her episodes were calmer. Both she and husband Larry have long since passed away to the Afterlife. They are believers.
How did they know to contact me? Can't remember. But I was terrified, I'll tell you that, to be with so many people. That's when I had raging manic-depression.
So I'm sitting on the table doing exercises and I spot the unmistakable Donnette across the room. "Are you a Rose?" I yell to her.
"Used to be," she says.
And lying down next to me is her sister Sylvia. I heard her say that she retired from volunteering at the library
and is now sewing costumes for the high school play.
I knew it was Mary Poppins as I pass the sign when I'm on my way to the Huntingdon Valley Library to take Lynn Levin's Poetry Class - narrative poetry - or watch the Friday movie.
Will go tomro to see Miss Sloane with Jessica Chastain. Don't tell me about it. I wanna be surprised.
I asked Donnette and Sylvia if they could wait for me so we could chat. We sat down in the hall and caught up a bit.
They'd hired me to counsel a grand-daughter awhile ago, she was in high school and appeared to have no empathy, but she's doing fine now and is in college.
Are you waiting for your ride? I asked.
No, said Donnett. I'm driving.
They're both in their 90s.
Self-hypnosis: You are getting tired, tired and tireder.
I fell asleep with the TV on, and woke up during The Nazi Escape show.
After I left physical therapy, I was thinking about a narrative poem I'm writing. Lynn Levin liked it but gave me some tips. The name of the poem is Strawberry Milk Shake. Scott thought it was incomprehensible.
Drove down the street a bit and went into Burdick's Newsstand. You park in the back.
They use Edy's Ice Cream.
AN IMPULSIVE TRIP TO BURDICK'S NEWSTAND IN HATBORO
Years and years ago, camera in hand, I took a Polaroid
of white-haired Francis Burdick, standing against his shelves
of Herr's Potato Chips, Snyder's Pretzels and packs of beef
jerky swinging on the rack.
I visit upon occasion to pick up a newspaper when my article
is published within.
Now I was on a mission. My sweet tooth was acting up again and there was no reason to resist.
The counter had bags of M and Ms on it, colorful sonofaguns, I would not be eating today. I studied the menu. Old fashioned malts would be delicious, as would a vanilla milkshake.
I was tempted, but I didn't feel like slurping. No, I wanted
to sit there with spoon and eat. The young man at Bassett's in Reading Terminal had said Vanilla is the most popular flavor.
"Carl," I said. "I'll have vanilla with chocolate sauce. Is your chocolate sauce good?"
As my grandson Max might say, "It wasn't good it was great!"
Soon the fluted glass cup was empty. I was sated. Paid Carl less than three bucks and said Keep the Change, which he gave me back anyway.
Didn't need to buy any of their Reed's root beer hard candy, or Mounds Bars, or Smith Brother's Cough Drops for my mom.
Driving home, patting my belly, the world looked beautiful. Does that ever happen to you?
DINING AT WILLOW GROVE'S FINEST
Tyler, a sample please.
He pours from a dark bottle
of Pilsner ale, into a little
plastic cup. I swig it down
like in cowboy shows. Have
Gun, Will Travel, with the
pockmarked face of dream-date
Napkined to the hilt, I
open my styrofoam container
of paella, smack my lips,
and turn to the jerk chicken,
a man in an Eagles sweatshirt
Kinda hot, he warns me. My
throat is burning. Should I
buy a beer? Too lazy to get
up, so I wash it down with
a juicy chicken leg. Had they
hired my mom to bake it?
Kayla was closing the coffee
shop. They all wear uniforms,
green, with caps. I stagger
from my seat, sittin too long
and walk to my car.
At home, the garbage bins
are out on the street, gaping
upward at the starless sky.
Gee, I wish Stephen Weinstein were still alive. He enjoyed my poetry. And wrote a fine political blog as well as Letters to the Editor of the Inquirer.
Just left a note on his obituary notice.
Hired my neighbor George Garcia to mow my lawn. His dad, Jose, had just come home from Spain where he had a business. His dad helped him mow.
Gave him a check for $40. Me and George sat on his front porch together where my check was blowing in the wind.
Chico, on a leash, was there, too. Zeke, five and a half, came over too and I made my escape to Scott's where we watched the film THE BIG HOUSE about a prison escape. Wallace Beery got his first film break there. My fave of his films was
Am gonna work on my short story THE RED SPOON and submit it. 3000 words or less. It's based on a very overweight woman I know. I picture her but write about another.