Commotion on Cowbell!

A backhoe is sitting on a long trailer across the street, ready to depart. It arrived at 9 a.m. this morning while I was doing my morning reading in bed. I love the sound of trucks! All that masculine energy. Growl! As soon as I got dressed I ran outside to ask what was going on.

Two - count em! - two houses on our street are getting new sewers put in.

"Am I next?" I said to the Roto-Rooter man. He explained that the sewer pipes in our neighborhood were made of a particular material which is corroding. The new pipes are a black plastic and will hold up better.

Shucks, I was hoping to save my money for a new - what? - cmon, Ruthie, flex your capitalistic muscles - whatcha saving your money for? - uh, er, well, I'd like to buy some raspberry bushes for my yard, you have to order them special. I called around and no one has them.

Dr. Stamper had them years ago when I went traipsing through his backyard. He taught science at Abington Friends where my daughter went and somehow me and some other nosy people ended up in his backyard. A rifle sat against a lawn chair. It was the only way, he said, to get rid of squirrels.

Yesterday I went cruising around looking for raspberry bushes. I stopped in the the Holy Redeemer Counseling Center where I'm giving a talk on - Bi-polar! They spell it with a hyphen. I do not. As you know, I can't stand the word, I much prefer manic depression which is soooo descriptive but hey, I'm a modern gal.

So I met Sister Gerry who said Yes to my talk. About 8 years ago I applied for a job there as a counselor. I was dying to get out of working at Family Services and there's nothing so sweet as getting another job while you've already got one that you don't like. Ever done that before?

Well I didn't get the job b/c I made a fatal mistake. Sister Gerry and I were jibing together and of course I told her I ran New Directions for folks with mood disorders and she said, What made you start the group.

Foolish me confessed she had bipolar disorder. That clinched it. She gave me a bogus reason for not hiring me and I was sorely ashamed of myself for taking the bait and trusting her.

The Redeemer Counseling Center is exquisitively beautiful. Located on emerald green acres, it has a chapel of stained glass, a retirement center upstairs for retired nuns, and a swimming pool out back.

Sister, I said with a straight face, I'm seriously thinking of becoming a nun.

Oh, it takes a lot of work, she said in her loving voice.

I asked the secretary what kind of PR they do to advertise my program. She told me where they send notices. Decidedly poor advertising. I emailed the secretary my list of PR contacts. Nothing worse than an empty room for one of my seminars.

When I was leaving I spoke with an elderly volunteer who manned the front desk. A tinkling water fountain splashed merrily against the wall. A forty-ish black priest in collar smiled and walked out the door. Wow, did I ever wanna talk to him. Giving up his manhood for the church!

Betty and I spoke. She lives near me on Terwood Road. She calls up Pennypack Trust just like I do every time she sees an extraordinary animal. I told her about the Little Foxes I saw in Huntingdon Valley, my most cherished sighting.

And Betty told me about..... coyotes in her backyard! She called Dave Robertson right up and he said, Isn't that wonderful.

Today I submitted my Final Report for a grant we got last year. I mailed it in FOURTEEN DAYS early. This is amazing. It took me 63 years to realize, Ruthie, you don't have to wait till the last minute. It feels great to get it in early.

My friend Marcy called from California just as I was reading the final letter. I print these things out and re-read them as if I were reading it for the first time. Suddenly, a "placement" mistake jumped right out at me. I scribbled a huge black arrow onto the page, and with Marcy holding on from California where she's celebrating the graduation of her nephew Aaron from UC Santa Barbara, I cut and paste the sentence, "I am requesting another $1,000,000 for the next year."

Then I stuffed everything into the envelope and stuck on a Black Heritage Stamp. I give messages in everything I do. I'm a trumpeter. However, it felt pretty heavy, like I needed an additional 17 cents so I took it to the dentist's office with me (thankfully I don't have to return until my postmortem exam) and then went to the PO for a 17-cent stamp.

One thing is this. You don't wanna put excess postage on a letter to your funder cuz it'll show them you don't know the value of a dollar. So I spent 70 cents in gasoline driving to the post office to buy a 17-cent stamp.

Postman Jim asked what kind of support group I run. Then he told me the story of his sister, "Laura." She's 52 and has schizophrenia. At age 45, she got pregnant and has a 7-year-old son. She goes on and off meds. Since she's skinny now, Jim knows she's not on medicine. She's usually off the wall. She doesn't answer the phone when the family calls.

What on earth is gonna happen to her little boy blue?

When people tell me they have a bad day, said Jim, that they had a crazy day, I think to myself, You don't know what crazy is.

Amen to that. And you know what I said to Jim when he sold me the 17-cent stamp? I said, Jim, I've gotta put this stamp on myself. It's gotta be perfectly straight.

Money is riding on this letter. New sewer pipes? Or new raspberry bushes. I'm betting on raspberries and cream. I'll invite you over if you're nice to me, if you read my blog and laff at my jokes.