Ada's older brother, Edward Moss, was there. He's a radiologist at Cooper Hospital in Camden. The top exec at the hospital and his wife were brutally murdered. But by whom?
Edward has had diabetes since he was in his early 20s. He wears an insulin pump which he likes very much. The only complications he's had were corrected by laser surgery.
I told him one doctor - Rachmel Cherner - told me I had a mild case, if that's possible.
Yes, said Edward.
Before I left home my sugar was 93. After 15 minutes, I injected 10 units, and another 10 units during dessert. When I came home I rode my bike for 20 minutes.
We had daube - say DAW-bay - a 'peasant stew' made with meat soaked in wine and fat pieces of onion.
For dessert, we had a delicious but tasteless Portuguese custard in a tin foil tart container.
And lo-fat brownies.
Ada got the recipe from America's Test Kitchen, Chris Kimball. Rich said he'd been married three times. I said he was a "Dead" fan. I said, cooking shows are no longer shown on WHYY.
Hold on, lemme send them an email. Just did and CCd it to Ada, Rich and Scott.
Edward brought over three white albums of photographs from yesteryear, including his own bar mitzvah and Aaron's bar mitzvah.
We marveled at Ada and Edward's mother, Lillian, and how nice she looked. She don't look so good now at one-hundred plus in her nursing home.
In one of Edward's white albums was a photo of a rabbi, a very popular man who had a large congregation in southern Jersey.
He was later convicted of hiring someone to murder his wife. People who knew him could not and would not believe it.
When Ada saw him conduct the bat mitzvah ceremony of Edward's daughter, Allison, she said to Rich, "He's a pompous ass."
Read about him here.
Today it's a sunny and beautiful Monday afternoon. Ran after the mailman, whomever he might be.
Which law should I break, I thought, as I gathered my two envelopes. Okay, I tucked my red wallet with my driver's license under my arm but did not buckle my seat belt.
Found Mailman Craig, a black guy, who was on Division Avenue, at a house on an impossibly high hill.
No way was I gonna climb that hill, Jack. So I waited for him to descend and got my letter out to my college chum Iris and another to Kim and Bob Ruby.
My story for our Writer's Group was called The Mail Truck. The group gave it good reviews.
My new reader - Marcy Belsh - from southern California - also liked it.
Thank you Marcy!!! She and her mom used to live on Susan Road in the Northeast but their house burned down and they moved to California to be with family.
She is the basis of my new unpublished-as-yet short story "Saving Charlotte."
Ah! Here they are now.... our Coffeeshop Writers Group, all accounted for except Floyd. I bought 4 bottles of beer for him, left over from Scott's bday party. Grrrr!
I think everyone was eating pudding. Soft, smooth, creamy. I love pudding. I love KozyShack, over in the dairy case.
Donna wrote a poem about what happens to all of us. We lose friends. We like these people but they just don't like us back. For some reason. I remember I was friends with Mona Don and her husband Harold. And then one day, they dropped me. Will I waste time and goggle them? Nope.
Beatriz felt lousy from chemo but like the trooper she is managed to get there. She brought her step-daughter Janie Peters with her.
She'll join the group via Skype.
And Martha wrote "My Dark Companion" a brutally honest look at her dark side.
Question: Do we all have a dark side? I certainly do.
Allan Heller, who I had the honour of picking up and driving to the group, brought in several terrific poems. He submitted one to The American Dissident and got a haughty reply from the editor.
I esp. liked his Of All My Dulcineas. Dulcineas, of course, being Don Quixote's idealized love whom he never met.
Let's find a snappy picture of the Don.
This famous sketch is by Picasso. I never knew dat did you?
It's going straight into the Compass. She came over yesterday with my b'day gift.
On her home computer - Linda lives five minutes away - she's not able to submit poetry to online publications, so I'm doing it for her. Told her I'd do it today.
THE KITCHEN WINDOW
I stand at the kitchen window
tongue cleaning teeth from
the last of the ham
two minutes ago I was
out in the back yard I look upon
plenty warm in
my new pink cowl-neck sweater
this latter day in December.
The Rose of Sharon bowled over
dead
the shed I painted when we first moved in
gone to rust and growing hair on its gabled roof
shall I remove the things inside before I die?
The people who lived here before me
were sneaky
still are
they come to visit across the street
yet never visit their old house
Arlene Travis, now in her eighties, asked me
“Do you want this pretty green couch?”
When I said no, I found it in the little woods
beyond my house. Decaying slowly, the bitch!
How the little woods is changing.
It’s an important path for the deer
the schoolchildren and Scott when he
walks to the train.
The fallen tree is new
a long curved runner from a rocking chair
I step over carefully
then under a bridal arbor
whose crisp dangling leaves
tickle my hair
I glance toward the green sofa
off to the left, very far, and wonder
of the mice and snakes dwelling there.
The ham is tasty
I spit out bits of fat
nothing gets wasted
in these woods
which will be here
long after
I’m not.
No comments:
Post a Comment