Running with the Mailman / Poem: The Men Who Love Me

Mailman Tom and his buddies went to Forest Hills in Queens yesterday to watch the US Open. I didn't tell him I thought it was golf and then fortunately he mentioned he saw Venus Williams (photo from the Times) play. He and his buddies sat in a box courtesy of his friend, a representative for Heineken Beer.

Tom got home at 1 in the morning but was pounding out his route today. This is the same mailman who attends the Philadelphia Folk Festival.

Since I hadn't done my 20-30-minute aerobic walk I walked alongside him. Very hilly neighborhood but I was wearing my Magic Sandals.

Yesterday I paid a condolence call to a neighbor whose husband, Bill, died in a nursing home of Alzheimer's disease. He got it as a result of brain surgery in 1994 to remove a tumor. I actually wrote a poem about it that got published in a well-respected online journal, which is not as well-respected as a real magazine.

Those were the days when writing poetry was easier than eating an apple.

During my hour-long visit with Carol, she talked constantly while I listened intently. Many things ran thru my mind, such as Dear God, I wish I could write a poem about this....or a chapter like in Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson who no one reads anymore.

Every single person on earth is interesting including this housewife who walks with a cane and lives with her Down syndrome son, a handsome man, who works every day and comes home to watch the Hallmark Channel's Little House on the Prairie.

Now don't you knock over those flowers, Bruce, she said as he brushed by some huge white daylillies one of her nieces made.

I went over to the collage they made for the funeral.

Bill was such a handsome man, I said. This photo is my favorite, and I pointed to one where Bill was standing in a field in Pittsburgh with his two little kids. They had 5 in all. He was an insurance man.

His garage was turned into a toolroom and was a sight to behold. Me, who doesn't know an awl from an spool, was spellbound by the supreme organization of this man's toolshed.

One day, during my devout Jewish phase (I am currently a Jewish heathen) Bill hammered up a mezzuzah by my front door. This was after I was cured from bipolar disorder and I attributed it to God's intervention.

Ha! Hubris!

As I've told you before, it's only the finest beauty shops for Our Little Ruthie. My sister Ellen goes to Manhattan. Ada goes to two shops for different treatments. But I go to the finest of all...The Hair Cuttery.

Actually, it's not that cheap anymore. But Moi, who hails from Indonesia, gives me a great cut and color. I was reading so ravenously (my New Yorker and the mental illness hoax book) that I didn't even hear when Dawn called me to wash the color out of my hair, having washed all men out of my hair long ago.

Dawn wears the burkah. She has very gentle hands. With my head tilted back and her rubbing in the shampoo, I asked her if her children were Muslim.

No, she said. She's got three kids. She was born in Barbados. "I'm Bajian," she said.

After my appt was over, I went in the back and took Dawn aside.

Dawn, I said. I publish a small magazine and I'd like to interview you on the topic of An American Muslim Woman. Could I do dat?

She gave me her home phone and asked me to call her on Monday. "It's our holiday now," she said. "Ramaden."

Oooh, I hope she lets me interview her. She's gotta check w/her husband first.



By now, I was starving. In the frig I had flounder glued onto the Pyrex by its juice and loads of fresh veggies. Question was, could I avoid stopping at one of my favorite eateries: Manhattan Bagel.

This time I got an everything bagel with scallion cream cheese. See, I told you I'm Jewish. Ilyas, the owner, was there.

"Why don't you sit down when you eat?" he asked me.

"I eat like this at home, too," I said. "I like to taste my food. I'm concentrating on each delicious bite."

Suddenly a white SUV pulled up and I ran outside. He had picked up a long white metal tube resting at curbside.

"Sir," I said, holding the unbelievably delicious bagel in hand and chewing, "you had dropped that in the middle of the road and I put in on the curb. What is it?"

"It's for my trailer," he said, tucking it into the back of his car. "We noticed it was missing so I retraced my steps. Thanks for picking it up."

Headlines read: Good Samaritan killed as she schleps trailer part from middle of the road.

THE MEN WHO LOVE ME - published here

The men who love me,
Codgers mostly, call my name
As I walk by.
Their voices rising in jubilation
as I pass by.
I'm young enough still and
I've got good legs. My fresh mowed
Grass shows I work hard like they do.

There is Bill's house, alive with light and movement,
Though he's not there. We remember poor Bill,
Cocoon'd in a nursing home
No use to anyone after five-hour surgery to
Scoop out a tumor from his brain,
Big as a grapefruit they say,
Can that be true, Bill?

His house resounds with life,
A ceiling fan atwhirl as Bill's grown boy
throws off his
shirt & comes barechested to the window,
While Bill's car, like a faithful Schnauser,
Stands sentry in the drive
awaiting word.