We plant our Garden in the 84-degree Heat - First Day of Wearing Eyeglasses - Poem: Chasing After the Mailman

When I attended Claudia McGill's Open House recently, she tucked her Chapbook into my bag. It's quite wonderful. She rode the train to Pittsburgh to see her reporter-son Andrew.

Oh look! He's got his own blog. 

 Scott and I drove to Home Despot and picked out our Crops. We automatically reached for Bell peppers and then I said forget it. Ours never fully grow and are stunted and bitter. He did get his hot peppers which do fine.

Basil, oregano, parsley.

Several cherry tomatoes. And six sweet potato plants which are underground tubers. 

These are from Sweet Home Alabama.

Our rail barrel (one L) collected a lot of water. You can see my watering can in which we are soaking two tiny trees I got from the Arbor Foundation.

Here I am in my new horn rim glasses. This type of frame was orig from either tortoise shells or the horns of various animals.

Scott's house is filled with posters he bought on All Posters. com.

Last nite I was so exhausted I fell into bed at 10:30 pm.  When I awoke a couple of hours later, my room was really hot, despite the opening of my new windows Bob Walmsley had put in.

And then I remembered!

Sleep downstairs when it's hot!

It was perfect. I kept my back door open - screen door was locked - and a nice cool breeze floated in while I read myself to sleep.

Am reading the last book by Peter Matthiesen - In Paradise.


Matthiesen. Sayonara.


Feig by Richard Bank.
This is an excellent book. Problem is it's about a concentration camp, as is In Paradise, so I keep getting mixed up.

Also,  The Gifts of Adversity by Norman E Rosenthal, MD.

If I were smart, I'd finish up Adversity and then I'd only be reading two books.

CHASING AFTER THE MAILMAN

This time he had left.

I must track him down au car.

This letter, like all letters, cannot wait.

“You know I’m a poet, don’t you?” I asked Ken

when I caught him.

“Yes,” he said, sitting in his truck, white hair

afloat, mail lying expectantly in his lap, awaiting

final placement.

“I wrote a poem called Chasing After the Mail Man

which my group liked.”

“For me?” he asked.

“For you,” I said, telling him as always

what’s on my mind.

Succinctly, I told him this is the first time

I’ve driven in my eyeglasses. It was easier

than I thought.

On my travels to find Ken, I spied the frightening

black and white car of the Upper Moreland

Police. As frightening for me as an owl for

a mouse.

What’s he doing in my neighborhood when

he should be out chasing crooks.

I hastily buckled on my seatbelt but

still no Ken.

A flash of white! He waved to me as

I did a U-turn between Cowbell and Greyhorse

dismounted from my car, grabbed the letter

to Marvin Berman and strode up the hill

unsteadily in my clogs, minding how the

world looked in eyeglasses.

Instantly I was an eight-year-old girl back

in Cleveland, wearing my silver-blue glasses

and noticed the trees had leaves and the

blue sky, cloudless today, soared beyond

my understanding.