Woman about town: moi

My favorite walking shoes.

Had to go to the small town of Hatboro, PA, to return my Jack Dempsey autobiography from the Philadelphia Athletics Store next to the post office so decided to do my half hour walk in town.

Nothing makes me feel better about life than walking quickly and swinging my arms and seeing the shops on main street pass by thru my eagerly swiveling head. Can't stop, tho, cuz gotta get my aerobic heart rate up there.

Hatboro Baptist Church

Here's the Baptist Church, an old building and quite lovely. I've always preferred the soaring beauty of churches to synagogues. Cutting thru the church I walked thru the wet grassy cemetery in the back and saw very old stones.

You may cremate me but please make sure I'm dead, Sarah and Daniel.

Then I went in back of this huge office complex that was once the home of some wealthy family. You can see the house poking up in the middle of the complex.

This is sort of like the way our brains evolved. We kept the primary core and then simply added on different sections, right Harvey Cushing, father of brain surgery? Article in today's Times about him. I read almost every medical story in there which goes in one lobe and out thother.

I just gave my head - and implied brain within - a little massage of love to show my deep appreciation for all the good work it's done over the course of 64 years. And I ain't dead yet. I love the Self-Esteem Group I run from my living room.

Remember this. In group therapy, the members do most of the work, not the leader. One of most effective techniques is doing role playing. Rehearsal for real life.

When I thought I'd walked half an hour I returned to my car. The ole brain was working and I found it parked in front of the post office. But then instead of getting in, I couldn't stop myself from walking a little bit more....and I discovered an old colleague of mine from the days I worked as a therapist at Bristol-Bensalem Human Services, which is now a housing development with rocking chairs on the front porches.

Glendetta was in a hurry so we didn't have much time to chat. I had been in a silent way until then and was aching to talk to someone, so I rounded the corner and passed the home of my old friend Carrell Beame who died at 96 sev'l years ago. Sure enuf, the new person was in Carrell's old garden.

Now this was quite a thrill. Bill said several people had come by, wanting to see who moved into Carrell's house. Bill and his partner Keith run Rose in Bloom, custom floral arrangements for weddings, bar/bat mitzvahs, and parties.

I was thrilled to be in Carrell's old backyard, b'fully maintained by Rose in Bloom which operates from an office out front. There was the huge white birdbath w/seahorse motif. And the sweet peas, which I have in my backyard, a gift from Carrell.

The kitchen was pretty much the same with a wall-oven that was quite old and a bow window that Carrell told me used to leak. Ah, the things we remember.

Bill and Keith had three beautiful cats. Carrell had one cat, Opie. Altho he had no children, his family took c/o him in the days before his death, building on a front addition for his downstairs bedroom.

I wrote a poem about Carrell called The Iris Man. I met him when he was 86 and very mobile until his death at 96. They say when his twin sister Caroline died a month before he did (she lived around the corner) he just gave up and died. Quite a psychological component to dying.

I had nothing to read. Scott lent me a Harlan Koban which was no good so I had that awful feeling of Need a Good Book to read. Reminds me of a sign on the Hatboro Baptist marquee: Let God fill that empty place in your heart.

Let a Good Book fill that empty place in your heart, says my marquee.

The Guermantes Way by Proust

The New Yorker mentioned this book so it was on my mind when I went to the library. I'd tried and failed Proust before, like so many people try and fail antidepressants, but decided to give it another chance. Began reading it around 11 pm, alternating w/the Stephen King thriller below.

The rhythm of this first translation - by Scott Montclief - was so b'ful I told myself, Just keep reading, the meaning will follow. The images were pouring forth like a walk thru Hatboro or the Amazon Rainforest or atop the Great Wall of China, my eyes were dazzled by what Proust saw, and I was reminded of Va Woolf's The Waves which also contained rich torte-like layers of delicious writing.

My eyes teared up while reading. I'm reading Proust, I'm reading Proust, I said between lines. I'm grown-up. I can read. I can really read. She's 64 yrs old and still thinks like a child.

Is that a quality of the manic-depressive or just really fantastic people? My doubts are numerous and forever but I never let on.

Stephen King novel that begins with a riveting story of domestic violence sustained by the main character for 14 years until she 'wakes up' and won't take it anymore. Her husband is a cop.

Cheltenham Adult Evening School brochure

Also perused this catalog. The cover showcases a class on Raising Eggs in Your Suburban Backyard. Hey, that's an idea for you Marcy! Something to live for. Fuzzy baby chicks. Can you imagine me out there in my jammies ... never mind. Anyway, I wanted to tell you the BRILLIANCE of our eyesight.

When I go hiking at Pennypack, my eyes -- like yours -- take in so much. It's our chief way of learning, even if we don't pay attention to what we're seeing. It comes back to us. So when I go onto this particular trail, I hear a rooster crowing and sure enuf there's a hen house on someone's property. So without paying much attention, my brain was picking up knowledge of this event.

That's really the whole point of this post. That we know more than we think we do.

PS - Signed up for the Poetry Workshop w/the great Bill Kulik! I told him I prefer writing prose and he suggested I write Prose-Poems. I'm psyched!