Newcomer Emma made a big splash with her well-wrin short story Homecoming, a fictional foray into coming home from a mental hospital.
Emma, who switched from University of Pittsburgh b/c she didn't like it, will attend McDaniel College in Virginia in the beginning of September. None of us had heard of it. Her high school guidance counselor suggested it.
She'll probly major in English Literature and Political Science, with an eye toward finding a job when she graduates.
I had the pleasure of sitting next to Allan Heller, who corrected manuscripts with a red pen, like a teacher.
He's co-author of
Author of....
All are available for purchase on Amazon.
Allan and his wife Tatyana live at Moreland Towers in Hatboro, a true main street town, where you can walk to the PO, the Wawa, and Daddypops, among other places.
Sadly, Allan's dad died a week ago Wednesday at age 80 from lung problems. But his mom is nice and healthy at 73.
Coincidentally, or maybe not, Allan, author and former reporter, is working on a new book about West Laurel Hill Cemetery, whose distinguished lifers include Mr Strawbridge and Mr Clothier plus some poor souls, including dead miners who were exhumed and brought here, and lay under a huge Celtic cross.
Click here for the b'ful cross. They have it rigged so that I can't copy it and use it for my own gravestone.
Immaculata College, an active partner in the Duffy’s Cut project, is collaborating with West Laurel Hill Cemetery to provide the final resting place for the remains of the 57 Irish immigrants who came to the United States in 1832 to work on the railroad. The Memorial and Burial will be held on Friday, March 9, 2012. at 2:00 p.m.Hey, let's take a break n have something to eat.
My version of potato salad, made instead with green beans and asparagus, since potatoes spike my blood sugar. I also add a handful of sunflower seeds for the nice cr-runch they give you.
As many of you know, I got insulin-dependent diabetes from my kidney antirejection meds.
You get used to everything in this life of ours, n'est-pas Allan?
Even loss of hair, for the both of us.
In the Jewish tradition, Allan is wearing a black ribbon of mourning for his late father.
About one of his ailments that comes with age - he's had Parkinson's for nearly 4 years - Allan quoted John Milton in Paradise Lost
“Did I request thee, Maker, from my clayWouldn't it be fun to have a Book Club and read ye olde classics like Paradise Lost?
To mould me man? Did I solicit thee
From darkness to promote me?
The intense Linda Barrett also attends the Hatboro Writers Group. She presented the second chapter of her sci-fi novel, taking place centuries from today, in a ruined Philadelphia. Everyone loved the concept and the names she chose, a main character is Borax, and Scarab is a hovercraft.
Beatriz the Biologist read another one of her amazing nature essays, this one about Preying Mantises. A non-native species, introduced from China but promoted for its benign bug-killing properties, is misrepresented by advertising.
Don't look now but this 4.5 inch Chinese mantis is - gulp! - eating a hummingbird
The mantis lay in wait in the bushes and then --- BAM! How delicious, feathers and all.
Carly, showing off her self-painted nails, and charm bracelet I failed to pay attention to, b/c someone came into the Coffeeshop who I didn't wanna talk to.... no, no, it was not my boyfriend Scott, but a woman with a speech impairment. I can't understand a single word she says and it's terribly embarrassing for me.
Carly, showing off her self-painted nails, and charm bracelet I failed to pay attention to, b/c someone came into the Coffeeshop who I didn't wanna talk to.... no, no, it was not my boyfriend Scott, but a woman with a speech impairment. I can't understand a single word she says and it's terribly embarrassing for me.
Carly read a smart essay that detailed all the choices people make every day. The heart of it was her feelings of 'alienation' in a new social group she attended. She was really accepted and treated the same as the veteran members, including the rather insulting jokes they made toward her, just as they did to the other women in the group.
After a while, she realized she wants to be a part of this group.
How dyou feel when you're part of a new group? Emma? Allan?
This emanates from our childhoods, the way our parents made us feel.
Donna, always of the spectacular nails, and the person who got me into getting my nails done, didn't bring anything to read, but as always gave good critiques of others' work.
Ultimately, she said, his fate is in the hands of God.
Her second poem was also very good. If I weren't so narcissistic I could remember it.
A third poem, really terrific, was about some of her health conditions.
Here's my screened-in back porch. I take some of my meals out here so I can pay attention to the delicious taste of food while watching nature.
In fact, when I went downstairs just now to take these pix, a female cardinal was fluttering about. I'm certain there's at least two cardinal families in the backyards with nests.
That they chose me! I'm so honored!
Furniture is from my friend Judy Diaz before she moved away... yes another loss... to Niwot, CO, home of healthy people who jog, mountain climb, bike, and are totally into creating a clean ecosystem.
Judy sits. And contemplates. Watches C-Span. Knows everything about politics.
SCREENED IN BACK
PORCH
At
dusk I stumble barefoot
onto
the back porch to
see
the what the world has to offer
The
shadows of trees
rise
like mountains
against
the darkening sky
when
suddenly I hear it
something
I’ve been waiting
for
though never
realized
it
an
unstoppable fanning
sound
a
giant air conditioner
swooping
down to offer
consolation
from the
enduring
heat wave
You
know what it is
and
so do I
the sound of the cicada
the sound of the cicada
set
free from his underground prison
barely
nourished and offered
no
exercise like volleyball
or
lifting weights
or
tattoos scratched
across
his beefy arms
We
know what prisoners want
the
moment they’re set free
we’d
want it too
as
their love call penetrates
the
porch screens
sinking
onto the
wicker
furniture
and
making the ceiling fan twirl
I
stand in obedient
meditation
hands
clasped in prayer.
DRIVING TO OBLIVION
Something
about Terwood Road.
The
roller-coaster hills.
The
views that take you by surprise
Look!
The horses graze head-down
on
the hill
Their
soft black lips envelope
the
tender grass
as
they slowly
turn
their heads to see
what
the others are doing.
I
unbuckle my seat belt
and
watch them off to the left
no
cars behind me
I
pause in the middle of the road
and
remember
People
I know
are
moving on
my
mother wants to move
to
a “boom”
my
word for the cruel
“facility”
what
will become of her in
nine
years when she turns
an
even hundred
I
drive on toward the
Bryn
Athyn post office
the
Pennypack shivers below
as
I cross the bridge
then
head back home
with
a new idea
since
death’s as near
as
a whisper
the game:
the game:
I
must drive
onward
stopping
only for gas or food
if
I linger
I
am dead.
Nothing
of value is at home
I
could give it all up
the
children have grown
no
one needs me anymore
a
feeling of freedom
light
as the white fluffy clouds
and
blue sky
I
will head for Vermont
a
person in a small
unobtrusive
car save for the
green
Mental Health Awareness magnet
on
the bumper
I’ve
read all the books
mouthed
all the songs
Dylan
and the Four Tops
Is
this Plainfield Vermont
already?
students
in backpacks
walk
along the street
a
woman smiles at me
I
wave
is
she me when I was young?
I
get out of the car
lean
over the bridge to
see
if the trout are running
we
fished there once
Frankie
and I
As
I lean over the railing
a
little sweaty from the road
hearing
the sound of the
cicadas
in the faraway trees
I
am swept by silent arms
into
the Winooski
my
white shorts billow around me
it
is cool down here
a
silent world among
the
fish and minnows
and
spermlike tadpoles
glancing
against my cheeks
silent,
without compassion
as
I sink to the bottom
knees
collapsing
bleeding,
I think,
on
the rough pebbled
bottom
where all
thought
vanishes as
I
climb toward home.
Thanks for the write-up, Ruth! I am obliged to you. However, I am tentatively writing a book on graveyards of Montgomery County; West Laurel Hill is just one of many entries.
ReplyDeleteWe shall look f/w indeed to that book, AMH! As well as seeing you again at the coffeeshop.
ReplyDelete