Make em happy by giving away flowers - and extra porch furniture for a song / Poem: For our Friend Alan

The former owners of my house - Dave and Arlene Travis - planted blue hydrangea which is blooming in the front yard and the back yard. When I gave Nancy, across the street, her annual bouquet I asked how they're doing.

Not too well, she said. Dave has Parkinson's.

The horrors of aging.

They'll never come back to PA, she said. They live in Floridaland and their three children have scattered across the country.

I don't think they'd recognize their house if they walked in. Robin and Allison, whom you'll meet shortly, loved it.

Blindingly bright colors, which I luv.

My jeweled mezuzah was nailed in by neighbor Bill forget-his-last-name. He died in a nursing home of complications of Alz diz.

Here's a poem I wrote about him which was actually published.

Neighbor Nancy told me her family doctor - Maurice Gross - sent her a letter that he has moved up to become head of the Abington Memorial Hospital Hospice Program and Palliative Care.

Said he hopes to see her soon, but not too soon.

Oy! The escalator of life keeps moving upward.

Guess what I'm drinking on this lovely afternoon, 78 degrees via my outdoor thermometer

Starbux Decaf in my new favorite cup. After I finish, I'll pour more water into the grounds and have a few more.

My intoxicant of choice.

A bird is sitting on the tree stump to the right. I haven't learned to take close-ups yet.

I like to spend time with my orange daylilies and my ornamental grasses on the side of the house.

The grass likes to be petted, the way a dog or cat does. Where did I get them? Growing wild by the side of the road.

The daylilies simply require a loving and appreciative glance. I remember one year when my sciatica was so bad I couldn't go outside the entire summer. Actually, it happened during a couple of summers.

Now I'm fine thanks to surgeon Guy Lee of AMH.

Altho he listened to Metallica in the OR, I never much cottoned to that band.

My new addiction is the Indie rock group The National, who appeared on XPN's World Cafe. I listened to them this morning on YouTube when I was writing the poem for Alan. 

Dyou like them?

This morning, after I finished the most important task of the day - writing a poem for Alan - I posted on Craigslist.

Judy Diaz, who moved to Niwot, CO, gave me all her b'ful white wicker porch furniture.

She gave me too many pieces, so I'm getting rid of a few of em.

I was shocked when two people immediately responded.

Robin of Newtown, PA, won, so she and her mom drove over to pick up the first load to put in the back of their Toyota Prius.

I was so happy it was going to a home that will appreciate it. Robin, on the left, has been fighting breast cancer, said her mom Allison.

The two of em are an absolute hoot!

Allison, who's half Jewish - her dad was from Canada - used to be a performer. She sang in nightclubs where people smoked all the time, tho she never did.

Why did Allison tell me about her daughter?

B/c I mentioned my friend Alan, who has Stage Four Lung Cancer. In my letter to him, I wrote, "If anyone can beat it, Alan, it's you!"

Thanks to my friend Ed Quinn for taking a look at it online, and to Beatriz for listening to it over the phone.

Drove to the closest PO - Bryn Athyn - and was going over the poem in my mind, wondering if I could've done better.

The letter will go out at 4 pm.

FOR OUR FRIEND ALAN

We heard the news

and we cried.

Doubtless you know

your name in German

means “beautiful mountain”

How you grew from

a black-haired boy who

worked for his pop

into the kind of man

“mensch” can barely describe.

I remember you at home in

your sunken living room,

Carole at your side

you served us peanuts and fizzy water

while I glanced at the forest

outside your welcoming windows.

Talk about a life of meaning

some people fritter their days away

living in the eternity of their mind

others like you

change the world every day in small ways

despite physical pain and

pain internal for your sick son

locked away

unfathomable

punished by a creator

who doesn’t exist.

How can I forget the time I called and

listened to your answering machine

not the voice of a man in his eighties

nor the voice of a man of wealth and fame

nor the voice of the Prince of Cleveland

A man who cared deeply

A man who knows the importance of things

After a good cry

the mountain of a man

will walk among his trees at night

see the moon’s reflection

on the treetops

and the house he loves

with the woman inside he loves

and will wonder

once again

about the miracle we call life.