Submitted a bunch of poems: Helene Ryesky, Mary Oliver, White Wicker Furniture of Judy Diaz, and a couple of others.
BTW, I am exhausted now.
Then came the fiction or nonfiction.
Nothing can be previously published, so I happily composed stories: MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH BILL HESS and WHATEVER HAPPENED TO JUDY and LETTER TO STEPHEN.
The first two disappeared.
They could not be found anywhere. I was so tired, tho, I didn't even panic.
Letter to Stephen remained on my upstairs desktop.
I heard the voice of my former boss Kathy Decato who shouted at me when a patient's chart disappeared THEN RECREATE IT.
I saw Decato thother day at the Giant where she was hunched over a shopping cart. As I passed her by, instead of ignoring her I said, You probly won't remember me but I'm Ruth Deming. Like Lot in the Bible, I did not look back.
A former enemy, which she was - she did not like that I was different or that my clients did well with me - and I had lost my contempt for her.
What was the place called? Family Service of Bucks County. Audrey Tucker was the boss. This is where I learned about working in a hostile environment.
This is really depressing. Quick change the subject.
The furnace is going full blast, tho I keep it at 68.
Am wearing warm wool pants, tho they're really polyester, my grey sweater made by George, bought at Walmart, polka dot PJ top and a warm cap pulled down to my eyebrows.
Ya know what I found from my birthday bash? Club soda. Really nice.
Will lie in bed now and read.
Just found these in notepad. Photo of Helene when younger.
TAKING MY CLOTHES OUT OF THE WHITE WASHING MACHINE
It’s chilly down stairs
I plunge my hands deep into the dappled well
How many times have I done this since Mother
Bought me my latest Lady Kenmore?
Out they come, the washed, the chastened,
The damned.
This is not the Ganges in India
Where deadly bacterium coat the waves
And fishes of all kinds lay dying on the beaches
Beseeching the heavens to preserve their species.
I carefully place my white hankies over the rack,
Smooth down my favorite pink and grey blouse
From Paris, drape my oversized panties catty-corner,
And fit in half a dozen old washcloths with hanging
Threads. I cut them off with nearby scissors, as if I were
deadheading mums.
Here come the wet washcloths, a cold, wet pile. Here is one that is pure
Beige. With my fingertips I pick it up and mop my forehead,
my freckled cheeks and chin. Refreshment is mine. Refreshment
And a sense of purpose.
...
THE CUP AND THE SOFA
When the Travis family moved out
And I moved in to my house on
Cowbell Road
They left a simple white cup with handle
And two lime-green stripes as decoration.
Can you see them?
It wasn’t ‘till days later I found the sofa.
They wanted to sell it to me, which I declined.
Dying slowly in the woods behind the house
My mouth opened like a fish
At their insufferable nerve!
What kind of people would so disrespect a sofa?
Bought perhaps at Gamburg’s,still there
in Hatboro town.
It’s stuffed now with decades of autumn leaves
Mice, raindrops and rainbows, rolls of white lace
From the bridal store long gone but Keystone Screw
Is still there.
Walk across their parking lot and you will
Find brass and aluminum screws. Collect them if you wish.
I myself continue to collect letters of the alphabet
To see if I can make words out of them.
...
A TRIBUTE TO THE WILD WOMAN, MARY OLIVER, WHO DIED IN 2019
My heart sighs for the simply named Mary
And how she used her abusive childhood – oh, don’t we hate that phrase –
And wonder if all of us were abused, Mom washed my mouth out with soap
Gramma beat me with a yardstick on my back – and Dad did something unmentionable
When my flight feathers started coming in.
Worst of all, my privacy was invaded.
I’d head to the basement to read but my parents snuck down to see
What I was doing.
Reading. Reading. Reading.
I haven’t a quiet stream to sit beside as did Mary
But here’s what I'd do, a smart girl like me.
I sit on the screened in back porch in my warm lavender jacket
And knitted polyester cap which looks like it has owl feathers on top.
I close my eyes and meditate, listening to the sounds of the pileated
Woodpecker – tap tap tap – the black capped Chicodee – tee tee tee
And the lonesome sound of the choo-choo train
Taking me away to far-off lands.
Alhambra with its golden domes
Taj Mahal with the reflecting waters
And Sitka, Alaska, at the Veterans Home
Where old men recline in utter peace
Their veterans caps upon their knees.
...
HAR: Helene Ann Ryesky, b. 1929
When she moved out the house to the home
she gave me blue and white clattering plates
from Copenhagen, smaller desert plates
to put in the compote she once made,
dried apricots, prunes, and pears she found
at Sam's Market
She and I once traipsed all over Philadelphia
she'd take the photos, I'd write the stories,
Robinson Fredenthal, Sam Maitin, all still alive
in her pictures as she dies slowly in the home
How come I never knew until this very day
how much I love you!
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