Got my crepe myrtle - last nite's ND meeting / Poem: Crepe Myrtle, My Son

Say hello to my new Crepe Myrtle on left with a thriving Dwarf Lilac on the right.

Sure, the crepe myrtle is very popular on my street and I don't like to "copy" people. But beauty is something I must have in my life, so I stopped at Galbally Nursery right around the corner and bought my first crepe myrtle, Latin name "Red Rocket."

Beth sold it to me, end of the season sale price, $61, which included an extra charge for their coming out and planting it.


Beth drove out and planted it. Water with a watering can several times a week, not the flowers, just the roots. Stick your hand thru the mulch to see if it's dry, she told me.

She removed my dead blueberry bush, which is in the back of her truck, and planted the Red Rocket in the same space.

I bought the blueberry bush for Dr John O'Reardon when he gave a talk to us in June on treatment-resistant depression, but he didn't want it so I gave him a white chrysanthemum instead.

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Despite all the rain and huge puddles last nite, we had a great turnout at New Directions. People came all the way from Pottstown, Valley Forge, and Wayne. I always send an email to the people in my small group to encourage them and to tell them to stay in touch with one another between meetings.

We have lots of friendships.

One man, who lives in Southampton, is doing very well, but his live-in girlfriend is in a crisis. His problem galvanized the group. She was floridly psychotic and they're letting her out of Bldg 50 after 6 days.

What will he do?

I was floridly psychotic on Sept. 11, 2001, and will write about my experiences on Patch.com.

CREPE MYRTLE, MY SON

(This is what came to me just now when I decided to "poem" the crepe myrtle.)

They say I never recovered from
Johnny’s death in Vietnam
oh, I do go about life,
sip my coffee, read the morning paper,
nap in the afternoon,
but his bedroom remains the same:
his smiling photos
the prom he and MeSook attended in
a huge limousine
the letters he wrote with the Schaeffer
pen I gave him one Christmas.

He died on August Third and instead of
crying and tearing out my hair
instead of falling on the cold kitchen floor
and beating it with all the strength I had
left in my forty-year-old body
I bought you: a Red Rocket Crepe Myrtle.

The man came out and planted it,
I stood by, arms crossed, speaking barely
a word.
It’s all I have of you, Johnny, even as I watch
the cars drive by and the walkers with their dogs,
still hoping one of them will be you,
you, Johnny, all grown up now, with
children of your own.