Diabetes Rules my Life - New Poem - What Short Story for the morrow? - Poem: Fourth of July

I injected more than enuf insulin for dinner - a huge salad! - and then drove five minutes away to the Friday nite festivities at the

  First thing I did, after saying hello to Linda Barrett,

was to pour me a cuppa Decaf.

Then I took a painting class with Abbie. Her studio is in Hulmeville, PA. Used to work as a therapist at the now-defunct Bristol Bensalem Human Services and would eat at the Hulmeville Inn.

  Jackie, I'd say, I'll have a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato and a cup of Decaf.

Now, of course, I have diabetes and rarely eat bread. High carb count!

When I go to the Friday nite Coffee Grounds - and it's always mobbed - I leave my wallet hidden in my unlocked car. So I paid $10 for the painting class when I was ready to leave.

 Seven people sat around the table. We all painted the same painting, so Abbie could guide us.

I followed direx for a while, but didn't want to paint a TREBLE CLEF,

so I did my own design, as did Lynn Sinclair, who sat next to me.

A woman with perfect teeth, she looked so familiar. She was my diabetes educator and was a very good one. She, also, deviated from the treble clef.

I shared with her that I was 'low' today.... a 44.  Normal is 80 to 120. Lynn was very concerned. Asked me why.

I had simply miscalculated how many units to inject for my cream of asparagus soup.




I simply ate 8 whole-grain pretzels and then some peanuts.

  I know how to take c/o myself!

How did I know I was low?

I was in the baffroom and I couldn't remember where my bedroom was.

Sometimes you can't think properly when this happens. Calmly, I walked downstairs, took my blood sugar, and then ate the pretzels.



At the church tonite, there was no food for a person with diabetes. Usually they have cheese n crackers, but Kim checked and said there was none, so I was anxious to get home and eat my pretzels b/c I had overinjected.

Fer-shtay?

Since tomro is our Writers' Group - bye bye Bob Klein - I wanted to finish my short story.

Couldn't find it. Goggled "Moses," the name of the main character and found it. Will work on it tonite, until, oh..... about 3 am, while listening to my new CD

  I love Bodhisatva.  

 This is the snack I ate tonite to avert a 'low.'

Say hello to my new friend Gregory Godfrey. He stopped by to give me a packet of info he teaches to his students at Abington Junior H.S. The info was about Depression.

What a great guy! Good to know you, son.

 Mom's best friend was Caroline Berkman. She died in July. The above was her spoon. I wrote a poem about it.

Below is a fork from Horn and Hardart. I found it on the street.

All these new words - automat, laundromat, cafeteria, rifle range.

WXPN is having their countdown of the hundred best songs. One of my fave songs is I Only Have Eyes for You, sung by the Flamingos.

Written in 1934, here's the version by the Flamingos of Chicago. 

They're still performing.

Am listening to a terrific audio book in the kitchen. Dunno the name but the author is Nicholas Evans, the Brit author of Horse Whisperer.



When I Wiki'd him, here's what I found..... and then, Dear Reader, I will let you go.

Evans is married to singer/songwriter Charlotte Gordon Cumming.

Evans, Cumming, and several of their relatives were poisoned in September 2008 after consuming Deadly webcap mushrooms that they gathered on holiday.

They all had to undergo kidney dialysis,^[2] and Evans underwent a transplant in 2011 using a kidney donated by his daughter.

Years ago, I wrote a poem about The Hulmeville Inn. 

FOURTH OF JULY


I have come to this peaceful cafe
to rest my legs and drink from
the bottomless pot of coffee
the waitress has set before me.

I am jittery and can barely pour
the cream without creating a splash.
This is to be expected on a day like today, a
red white and blue day that
proclaims the coming of the holiday.

The waitress glides by.
A swan on a ripply pond.
She has people to serve
in the other room,
the dark room,
the room with the bar.

The waitress stops by.
Does she want to talk?
I watch the smoothness
of her neck for a signal.

Her devotion is total,
like an abbess to her flock,
bound to her plates and soup bowls,
her pitchers of iced tea floating with lemon wheels.

Just the coffee, I tell her.
The cream goes in with a splash.

Against the wall, a legion of
tiny American flags
proclaim their clean, laundered loyalty
— to what, I am not sure —
bringing to mind the
music of Charles Ives
I have listened to in my bedroom
long ago.  Where is he now, I wonder,
that daredevil cockatoo!