Judy Diaz called! Villages at Pine Valley

Early this morning I was across the street bringing Nancy some cut flowers from my blue hydrangea. I was wearing my Starbucks apron with pockets so I could talk on the phone when I was cutting the hydrangea blossoms. The phone goes in the pocket. Two important calls came in while standing on the hill talking to Nancy. One was the guy from Rotary where I'm speaking tomorrow at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m.

You know where I was this morning at 8? Still snoring away.

Judy told me that her best friend died. Years ago, Judy had said to me, she'll be distraught when this happens, and she said to me, It's hard, it's very very hard. Lifetime friends. Lucky for me, I'm such a despicable person I have no lifetime friends.

The irony is that I wrote about Judy in my poem Lakota, published below, so I was fairly certain she'd be calling me. Things like this happen. An unspoken communication thru forces we don't understand. Thought waves. Talk waves. I'd like to learn more about this. Lemme know if you have any good reading material about this.

I'm trying to think of what feelings describe my response to calling my mom this morning.

Yesterday I drove her to an assisted living facility in Northeast Philly. It's near my bank so first we stopped at my bank so I wouldn't have to mail in the $100 bill a client gave me. I've mailed in cash for about 7 years rather than make the 35-minute round trip. I am incredibly lazy.

When I parked, my mom asked if she wanted my help in robbing the bank. I said, Just keep the car running so we can make a fast get-away. She's g0t the wit, my mom, she's got the wit.

Off we went to ....oh god, what's the name... Villages of Pine Run, no, Pine Valley, Villages of Pine Valley. "Village" must be the operative word now in old-age homes. We sat in an air-conditioned room with Holly, our nursemaid. Oops, our rental agent. She knew e-v-e-r-y-thing, plus she was not high pressure.

We looked at a couple of models of apartments. There's 89 units in one apartment building. Brand-new. And filling up fast. By the time mom makes up her mind to move in, she'll be put on a waiting list. Me, I would've given Holly a check then n there and begun the process, but hey, that's me, Little Ruthie.

My mother has never lived alone. This would be a first. We entered the Douglas Fir model apartment. Douglas Fir. Please. Well, it's better than the Adolf Hitler Corner or Josef Stalin Suite. A feeling of spaciousness and openness greeted us. Huge floor to ceiling windows let in lights of lot. The carpet was eggshell white. If I were 86 years old, I would love it. Being just a youngster of 63 - hey, my half-birthday is coming up on Thursday (no gifts please!) - I felt a pinge (pang plus twinge) of terrible sadness at the thought of losing my house and its sphere of room after room streaming with light and the kitchen where my brown rice is cooking as we speak), I felt an awful pang of grief.

This morning I call mom. She hasn't given a thought to moving, she said. She's busy baking brownies. WTF!

Snip, snip, I was cutting the hydrangeas as we spoke. I was so mad at her. I kept my big mouth shut. Well, I did say something. I used words like 'prioritize' and 'you're making excuses.' Then I came in the house and thought IF ONLY MY FATHER WERE ALIVE he'd get things moving.

Where are you dad when we need you?

Like Judy Diaz's best friend who just died, we're all plucked up by some giant invisible forklift and never seen again.