Ode to Judy Diaz - Fare thee well, White Clogs - Notecards by Barbara Rosenzweig

ODE TO JUDY

When we love someone
they will never die.
This morning I took my
breakfast on my screened-in
back porch.

Sat on Judy's white wicker
love seat and we looked upon
my vast green backyard. A
yellow swallowtail sailed by
as did a white cabbage butterfly
a destroyer.

Shall I call her a mentor?
Why not! I won't follow her
every move, of course, but I
promised never to forget her
we don't need a burial stone
for that nor a stack of New Yawkers
these dearhearts, as her friend Marie
knows, live forever in our hearts.

*

Mailed this to her son Michael and daughter/law Tory in Longmont, Colorado.

*

 Noticed these new dishrags and bought a Tupac.


This rapper was murdered. Murdered. Murdered.

Often considered the greatest rapper of all time, read about him here and listen to one of his famous songs here.

Absolutely heartbreaking!!!

Gonna throw out the below clogs which I wore for about 5 years. I could buy more, as Amazon has a record of all my purchases. Out they'll go with tonight's trash.

FARE THEE WELL WHITE CLOGS

That you can simply go online
adjust your eyeglasses and study
all the clogs available to buy.
Quickly you give up buying
products in America tho we've
discovered the old K-Mart
has become Home Decor.

Comfortable they were
like going out barefoot
Should I wear them
to bed like a Chinese princess?

Why not? With a glass of
golden orange juice on
the bedside table.

*

Well I'm certainly not gonna watch Robert Mueller in Congressional hearings. Worries are the Russians will interfere with our elections, he said.

*
My diabetes doctor has moved to a new office. Scott and I headed out to find it. We couldn't. We kept turning around and finally there it was: In a new medical facility that wasn't even finished.

Possibly I can find a new diabetes doctor. Why not?

*
Last night Scott and I heard Nancy Schnarr from Bryn Athyn talk about beekeeping at Pennypack Trust, one of their most popular programs, wrote Lauren Steele.



Real honeybees, who live 5 weeks, were not there. Instead Nancy used puppets. How clever!

Anecdotal evidence shows the value of bee stings in helping people with MS or arthritis or other autoimmune diseases.

"No beekeepers," said Nancy, "have arthritis because we are constantly getting stung and become immune." 

*
C'est ca, ladies and gentlemen, except I just remembered a book I'm reading.

I discarded A Man Called Ove, for our Book Club Selection. 

Instead I've grown fond of THE TEA PLANTER'S WIFE, wrin in 2015, by Dinah Jefferies, which takes place in CEYLON.

The main character, a young woman who marries a man 37 yrs older than herself, loves having sex. On their honeymoon, they stayed in their room all weekend.

I'm imagining tho that something comes between them - the unfamiliar population, the sense of discord she feels - and that sex will be a long time coming.

*

NOTECARDS BY BARBARA

As I walked into the

crowded basement

of the cabaret I spotted

her, a woman my age

with honey-blond hair

and a name tag around

her barely wrinkled neck

“Barbara Rosenzweig,” a

Jew like me, peddling her

watercolors and notecards.

Now that I’m no longer young

and the pet of various one-

night stands, I seek excitement

in various new ways, the hummingbird

levitating, the darting bats at

dusk, the algae in my birdbath

and Barbara’s notecards.

For fifteen dollars I buy Seashells

from the Jersey Shore. A pack of

five, wrapped like my new Animals

of the World calendar in cellophane.

The coffee here is good, I tell her.

May I get you a cup? Her husband

Aaron fetches a hot one as we

reminisce about our families

in the Holocaust. Her people

escaped Russia in 1924. Well

before Hitler, I say.

The Pograms, she counters.

I am sixty-nine,

she is a month older,

and somehow we learn my

son Dan was her math and science

student in middle school.

Quite a boy, her blue eyes sparkle. 

I rock with joy. 

You look like him! she smiles.

Is that when I decide to splurge

on the notecards? Once my

Fallingwater cards were the

love of my life, but nolo contendere,

the seashells beat all.

Remember the first time you were

at the beach, sand, unlike the prickly

grass and clover back home, sand

crunchy underfoot, can you feel

it, sticking like paste, and

foul on the tongue, gritty on

your teeth?  

I held a conch up to my ear

in Barbados,

the sound of the sea leaking

through, along with the

slow hiss of the beginning

of the universe, whose surface

I tred upon lightly,

lightly and gently

so as not to

fall in.