Daddy died on July 13, 1980.
Instructions from Berkowitz-Kumin-Bookatz say to light a candle at sunset on the evening before the date of Weds. July 22.
In my window sill, I have a battery-lit tiny candle which is on right now.
Oops, I forgot to say good morning to him.
Dad, good morning. I miss you and will never forget you.
As usual, I walked around the block early this morning.
I put an American flag out front as I know Daddy loved our country.
Love, Ruthie
...
Mailed 2 YES I CAN postcards. One to my new friend Debbie Morrison. Thother to Beatriz, who runs our zoom meetings on Saturday, when we compose new work.
Problem of the day: My fan which sits right next to me like a faithful dog, is not working.
...
When I was putting the laundry in my Kenmore Washing Machine I found a tiny Pocket Memo. On the front it said, Cowbell. In pencil. And later in forceful pen.
Can you guess who wrote it?
Mommy.
Shut-off valves for everything. Their locations. The name of an electrician is in there. And how to shut off the gas grill off the back porch.
Mom, if you only knew how my house is falling apart.
That's why I've hired Bob Walmsley to spiff it up.
TWO NEW DISCOVERIES ON THIS BLISTERINGLY HOT DAY
After I walked home in red dress from delivering Beatrice's postcard
to Dante, I looked up in the tree in the front yard and noticed
a stent-like thing stuffed there.
A huge fungus, I suppose. Dr Seuss could make more sense of it, if
he weren't stone cold dead.
Yes, I simply took my time, and looked!
A moment ago, from my hot perch here on red couch a black butterfly
sailed by.
Swallowtail, I'd say.
So wonderful it makes you believe in an Almighty.
What are your plans now?
I'll do a little reading and then write about my neighbor Eileen who escaped from her Brookside Rehab. I'm unable to think of how to start the piece.
Neighbor Eileen stopped over with her friend Jill Alexander.
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