Martha, you'll be glad to know that your handsome bearded husband David's photo will appear within the pages.
My Scottie just decided to grow a goatee. It's white so you can't really see it.
"You went all the way out there?" I asked.
Went to MacDonalds but they didn't have a newspaper to read, so then I walked to
Before I sat down, I asked hostess Nancy if they had any newspapers to read.
When she said No, I was so disappointed.
How could I sit still for half an hour w nothing to read.
Wait a minute, she said, and looked in her handbag.
I read a few pages and it's terribly exciting. I'll see if Scott owns it - he introduced me to Reacher - and if not, I'll reserve it at my library.
Nancy only reads crime fiction. She's also a fan of Sandra Brown, who I'm not familiar with.
Brown also writes romances. She's now on my To-Do List, along with 1,001 other books.
Oh, I'm listening to a good one in the car
Just got off my stationery bike, where I read one of the late Tom Toohey's crime fiction books,,,, almost finished
I reserve books n movies at the Library and they all come in at once
I realized when I took this photo that I would send it to Bill Hess on Facebook. He lives in Wasilla, Alaska, where the iditarad is taking place right now.
In the slush.
Unfortunately I could not find my car.
I traipsed around Hatboro going into all the free parking lots there were.
Daddypop's, I said to myself. It's near Daddypop's.
Twenty minutes it took for find my car. Yes, I know, I know. I should have paid attention when I parked as I'd never parked there before.
At the Giant, I have a spot reserved for me.
One misty moisty morning, when cloudy was the weather....
I used to read Sarah and Dan nursery rhymes from this very book. I think Sarah has it now.Yesterday my cousin Linda Fogel called to tell me she got the poem in the mail I wrote about her mom. They loved it!
I had no idea what I had written. My sister Lynn had reviewed it. "You've got everyone in there," said Lynn, Linda and Aunt Selma.
AT HOME WITH AUNT SELMA
He
is good to her
the
man named Jack
who
married her daughter
once
known as Linda Moskowitz
we
all have pasts, don’t we?
The
future is glorious
here
on Colony Drive
a
colony of what?
certainly
of ants
which
strive to keep alive
in
the harsh Cleveland
winters
They
pollinate the sweet-smelling
peonies
come spring
The
house on Silsby is lonesome
but
its mistress
Mrs.
Marvin Greenwold
has
shed her loneliness
like
winter’s leaves
when
she came to live
with
the Fogels in
the
very house where her
own
mother, Eva Bernstein,
once
dwelled with Barney,
not
he of the Flintstones,
but
the gruff good-natured
plumber
who sired
three
daughters
How
surprised they were
when
the youngest, Fair Elaine,
was
the first go.
“Life
is a mystery,” said my late
father
Harold, gone at fifty-nine
“Knock
that brain tumor out with
a
hammer,” he once told me from
his
death bed under the Monet
print
of red poppy fields, where Mom
sleeps
with her new partners,
piles
and piles of papers she cannot
throw
out. Reminiscent of Harold, perhaps?
I’ll
be frank, I told Selma,
headaches
I’ve
had a few, but none like yours.
This
was her first, months
ago,
a red-headed woodpecker tapping
without
cessation in her memory-laden
brain
Tap
tap tap
The
pain wouldn’t stop.
The
gray spot they discovered
in
her brain is nothing
more
than a kiss from
her
once-husband Marvin.
Jack
waits on her like the Queen
she
is. Who has more descendents
than
she, nearing ninety-seven
come
spring. Look! Gitti is
expecting,
but don’t breathe
a
word.
With
gusto, she downs her coffee,
pancakes
with butter and syrup
chocolate
mints that refresh her
mouth
and when she goes
she
will not be alone.
No,
she will not be alone.
****
Last nite, as I was reading a book, I got an idea for a poem, which I wanted to mail to my friend Helene at Rydal Park Dementia House. I mean, Assisted Living Facility. Helene is a brilliant individual but feels like a caged lioness at Rydal.
LIBRARY BOOK WITH
POCKET
Hungrily
greedily I attacked
the
book after reading about
it
in the Times. The story is
true.
Though fictionalized.
What
will become of the
characters
I know so well
and
care about.
Drunkards,
fools, with glorious
fantasies
of killing one another.
I
second that.
How
is it I haven’t noticed
the
beauty of the book, covered
with
crinkly cellophane, like our
own
skin protects our vulnerable
bodies
beneath.
I
rub my hands across the yellow
and
gray cover, smooth as
the
chocolate pudding
I
once made for my kids.
Water
stains mar this old book
published
in 1969
we
wonder if the jacket designer
Ernst
Reichl is still alive
but
dare not peek.
The
beautiful Oates is
on
the back cover
mouth
agape at what
she’s
done at only
thirty-one.
It
is only now
after
reading to
page
one hundred forty-two
that
my hand slips
unawares
to the
back
of the book
there,
in the morning light
is
the pocket
We
remember them
with
the pink card and
due
date
a
race against time
but
not like today
when
Joyce Carol Oats
is
seventy-six and
I am coming up onseventy.
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