Bubby's Kitchen instead of Bonnet Lane / Poem: Goodbye Old Man (spider poem)

Ya know, I just look at this photo and shake my head about what a miracle this kid is. Grace is 11 months old.

Driving home from mom's tonite, I thought, My god, I ate all their food and took all their magazines.

I got a Time Mag where Dr Oz, our nation's doctor, talks about his cancer scare and admitted he's a lousy patient. I'll read that before bed.

Then I took a copy of The Rebbe: An Appreciation, found inside the Cleveland Jewish News. Apparently, this Lubavitcher rabbi, Menachem Schneerson, had a tremendous impact. It's beautifully produced by three donors.

I was apprehensive this morning about making breakfast for Dan, Nicole and Grace. Why? B/c of my difficulty standing. I gauged my pain after waking up. Decent. I wouldn't need an opiate. The gout is only 30 percent there.

From my bed, I imagined what I'd do:

- Clean and wash off kitchen table

- Beat four eggs in bowl

- Grate Havarti Caraway cheese for the cheese omelet Dan instructed me to make last nite

- Take out the delicious Giant-made rye bread from fridge

- Remove butter from fridge to soften

He wanted jelly for his bread. None. I suggested he eat a delicious dried fig for a sweet treat.

As soon as he finished breakfast, Dan went upstairs to swap my old computer that he built for me 10 years ago, with a newer model my friend Freda gave me.

It took a couple of hours. Paper collage in background by Claudia McGill. Gee, I miss her.

I invited Patrick and family over to meet my granddaughter. The whole family came - Sue, and the kids little Pat and Ian.

In Ocean City, these kids - Pat just graduated first grade (his favorite subject is recess and lunch) - Ian graduated kindergarten - went on the huge ferris wheel, utterly fearless.

Yesterday I was in a mild frenzy trying to get everything off my old computer. What I did was to email it downstairs to my laptop. Scott had put as much material as possible on a 'flashcard' so I had to finish the rest, manually, as opposed to rectally.

While they were here, Sarah called from DC, where she is covering the Dalai Lama in a blog on Huffington Post. She said it takes really long to write these posts, which are excellent. I know what she means since I write for Patch.com when I can walk and for the Intell which I do from el couch.

I put the phone on speaker-phone so she could hear Baby Grace babbling.



I'll tell you. That little girl is so incredibly endearing. So charming. You just can't take your eyes off her. She likes her bubby, too.

Here are some more photos followed by a new poem.







Getting ready to mount the stairs. Her dad is in The Study, last room on right, but tho she hears his voice, she can't quite figger out how to get there.

She crawled up the steps like a champ, then explored the upstairs on all-fours. What a delight it was seeing her crawl along the balcony. Camera was too far away and she's a fast crawler. Knee-pads?

My old computer preserved forever on z blog. The keys on the Microsoft keyboard wore out so I had to paint some letters and punctuation marks with White-Out.

A word about my new poem, Goodbye Old Man.

The image was emblazoned in my mind, so I said, Write about it!

Often I send it to a few people for their opinion. People liked it but no one was ecstatic. Here's what Helene said: Actually, I have several push me pull you responses. I close my eyes and view the entire imagery of this poem. I wonder at the style, new to me.. Did you invent it?

Bill Kulik, my poetry teacher, said it was interesting. Hmmm. I also sent it to my erstwhile acquaintance Rod of the Spider Museum at University of WA, who hasn't responded yet.

AND HE NEVER WILL, RUTHIE, PEOPLE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR YOUR SHENANIGANS.

Reason I wrote it was cuz I couldn't stop thinking about the image in my mind.

GOODBYE OLD MAN

near my bedside
a glass of water awaits my thirst.
inside,
an insect lies at the bottom
like an aborted fetus
eyes wide open on the sides of its head
body floating gently
in the rivers of the glass.
i hold it up
see eight tiny legs
fluttering, thin as saffron
balancing
though dead.

i stare and
love you just a little while
before taking you out for
a proper burial:
cascading you over
the growing
shiny
green
tomatoes.