Crossing the Bridge

Here I am driving across the bridge from New Hope, PA, to Lambertville, New Jersey.

Is it my imagination or when it rains do our cars sway trepidatiously on the chain-link bridge? I always feel like I'm gonna sail over into the Delaware River below. Especially when I'm trying to take a decent photograph!

My photography mentor is, of course, the one the only Bill Hess, who photographs while he drives in Wasilla. In fact he left me a comment below telling me not to get killed while I drive. I'll surely try not to, Bill, I'll surely try.

Reason I went was cuz Dave Kime told me I had a poem published in The River. It's one of the best poems I wrote & I couldn't find it anywhere so I went to Lambertville to retrieve it. Believe it or not, I haven't looked at it yet. Too busy.

The editor, Elaine Restifo, autographed these copies on the last page.



Three serious men

We sit in a large room on the second floor of the Lambertville NJ library. A huge pine tree is outside the window. I plopped a huge container of cut-up watermelon on the table w/toothpicks I brought from home. Everyone marvelled at the delicious fruit, which, of course, I buy at my Giant supermarket. Bill Donlen (left) brought a big container of tart plums that grow in his yard.

Surreptitiously, I photo'd the group cuz I didn't wanna disrupt the meeting. Its leader, Judith Lawrence, sat directly to my left. She's the editor of the above River Poems.

Elijah Pringle III

Elijah echoed my thoughts when he said, This was one of our best poetry sessions ever! Of course I hadn't been there in nearly a year and missed it terribly. Among other things, I was running therapy groups on Saturday,

Ah, the many lives we live. I said to Scott that spending three hours with the poets yesterday was tantamount to traveling to Europe last year. My mind was given so much stimulation. Something I can't find here on Cowbell Road.

Intellectual stimulation is the most important thing in my life. I realize that now for the first time. To achieve this, I've gotta cross the bridge. Will do, Ruthie!



When I got home, Scott and I went on an easy walk at Pennypack Trust cuz we were both tired but wanted to spend time together and with our beloved Mother. We discovered that walking just before dusk the animals are in action.

Shhh! There's a mother deer and her two does grazing on the tall grasses. When Scott whispered to tell me -- I was already watching them -- the mother deer looked straight at us and took off, white tail a-flashing with her two fawns running after her.

She was teaching them as they ran from us. Stay away from folks.

The sound of chattering families of birds was overpowering at this hour. I could've stood there and just listened to their complicated twitterings, a language that I'm sure birders have partially decoded.

As we headed back from our walk, leaving behind the gently-sloping meadow, and stepping into a thickly-wooded area that would lead to the parking lot, I stopped dead in my tracks. And did not whisper. But said right out loud, "Scott! Look at this!"

He looked down on the trail and saw a brightly painted box turtle.

"What shall we do with it?" I asked him, thinking we should return it to the pond, the pond where a year ago Sarah had freed a turtle from a fishing hook that stuck in his claw.

"Leave it alone," he said. "It's been fine for millions of years, it'll be fine without us."

We watched the solid fellow, so seemingly sure of himself, so wise looking, as he slowly walked into the thick vegetation.

I am a feather-finder and keep them in various places in my house. I found the above feather in the Pennypack meadow. What kind dyou think it is? Pheasant?

Charlie Rose: Best show on Mental Illness

On the Charlie Rose Show, July 8, he had the 9th episode of his Brain Series. Last nite his stellar panel discussed my favorite illness: mental illness, namely, depression, bipolar disorder and schizophrenia.

Watch it right here.

My first question is, Who is Kay Redfield Jamison engaged to? She's the famous psychologist who has 'manic depressive illness,' its original name who co-authored the definitive book on the illness but perhaps more importantly saved lives with her Unquiet Mind. I've never read it since I lived it.

Jamison, amazingly, still takes lithium. She's lucky it hasn't killed her kidneys as it has mine and a couple of my friends. Most people have 100 percent kidney function. Mine is down to 10 or 12 percent.

Elyn Saks, a brilliant law professor and memoir writer, said she takes Clozaril for her schizophrenia. One of our members has failed on every antipsychotic for his schizophrenia and was just put on Cloz. I called him and told him about Elyn taking it. Another of our undetectable schizophrenics is doing well on her med.

According to the three scientists who rounded out the panel, the earlier you are treated for your mental illness, the better your prognosis. Apparently, future episodes traumatize the affected parts of the brain and they have difficulty recovering.

Does that account for my cure? And my ex-boyfriend Simon's cure?

Simon was 17 when he was misdiagnosed w/schizophrenia. He took Thorazine for 30 years, living a productive working life, tho miserable internally since he was on the wrong medicine.

In his 40s, he was properly diagnosed w/bipolar,and put on lithium. Life was better.

In his 50s, trusting his gargantuan intellect and intuition, he went off everything and was fine. Occasionally, however, when he was stressed, he'd believe he was Christ or the Governor. No wonder I fell for him...nothing like being the bride of Christ!

He did know enuf, however, to pop a Zyprexa for his transient psychotic episodes. He also told me that one reason for his cure was that he finally found someone to talk to who understood him. Yes, me, little Mary Magdalene.

Like Simon, I was treated immediately. After my florid psychosis at 38, I was put on lithium.

Saks and Jamison differed in their experiences with psychosis/mania. Jamison smiled when she described her out/control euphorias, saying we enjoy our euphorias. Au contraire, Dr Jamison, au contraire.

My experience was like Elyn Saks: horrific, a waking nightmare. That's why I never fiddled with my meds. Who wants to return to The Holocaust?

Neuroimaging techniques -- pioneered by researchers like the two guests from Emory University and one from Columbia -- have led scientists to discover which brain regions are affected by mental illness. You'll see these brain maps on the TV show.

Nobel Laureate Eric Kandel, brilliant at age 80, co-led the discussion. A Jew who escaped Austria after the Nazis came to power, he won his prize for discoveries about memory storage.

Where was I?

Oh. Helen Mayberg, a neurologist, is particularly interested in depression. Why, she wonders, do some people not respond to standard treatment? She has done Deep Brain Stimulation on people who have been 'moribund' with depression for years. It works! And quickly! However, repeated treatments are necessary...and quickly.

Like Botox! The tendency to sag, to achieve homeostasis.

Babies of all species are just plain adorable. Can you find the baby cucumber? This is the first cuke our garden has produced. Every flower will yield a cucumber. Nature! Ain't she the greatest?

We broke our losing streak

New Directions Support Group, our July 6, 2010 meeting at Abington Presbyterian Church, Abington, PA, photo by Greg Hodges, head of our Family member group, lower left

Time was when we'd apply for grants and get them! We've had a very bad run of luck even with the best grantwriter we've ever had...my own little daughter, Sarah Lynn...but we finally got a hit. Although we love hitting home runs, this was, you might say, a sacrificial bunt that got us to first base.

Fourjay Foundation explained that due to the poor economy they were scaling back and just giving a portion of the monies, deciding to give to many, rather than the few.

It felt like a real victory. I wrote an effusive heart-felt thank-you to them. This was our third attempt to get a grant. The main project of Fourjay is the operation of HealthLink Medical Center in Southampton, PA, their free clinic for the working uninsured.

I had the pleasure of volunteering for them several years ago as their Saturday receptionist. During that time, I went thru a very rough time emotionally, since my psychiatrist yanked me off lithium -- no titration -- and I went into suicidal despair for nearly eight horrid months. He added Lamictal to the compost mixture which unknowingly revved me into hypomania.

I still remember that one warm Saturday when my suicidal urges were so strong I wanted to sit on the floor and die. But my automatic pilot kept me working at the front desk, checking people in and scheduling their appts.

Gee, that was painful to write. Knowing how it feels to be that low is what keeps me working so diligently on behalf of my people. It's also true of our other group leaders. The word depression is a pitiful term that scarcely conveys the despondency, emptiness, brain fuzziness, and ineptitude caused by the whole body illness of depression.

Enough already!

I was talking on the phone today to the Mayor's son. True story. He said his father is so cheap he wouldn't install air-conditioning in their house. He's got the window units but they're just sitting there.

Today's temperature was 102. That's right. Three digits. I told the mayor's son that my boyfriend and I are probably the two biggest cheapskates on this side of the moon but that both of us are using our A/Cs today.

Put a fan in front of you I told him. Fans are really helpful.

Why is it that whenever I get a grant I wanna go out and spend money. Dutifully, I went sandal hunting tonite. When I couldn't find any, I thought of driving to Scoops in Hatboro to get a root beer water ice. I imagined it dripping all over my bare legs and blue shirt.

What could I counter with at home? Popcorn will usually do the trick with its satisfying crunch. Add to that a loam of grapes and you've got a healthy snack that's real food.

Hmmm, I wonder what time Scoops closes.

Journey of the Iced Passionfruit Tea

You heard it right. Iced passionate fruit tea (total typo). I studied the menu at B&N Jenkintown desperately needing a cold drink, one w/o caffeine. The color was beautiful.

I like to defer pleasure so I didn't taste it until I found my seat. All the good ones were taken. Finally, in the magazine section, I sat down with the two books I wanted to look at. No sooner had I sat down than I noticed a man on his cellphone, head missing, but with a booming voice. Curse words poured from his mouth. I looked up and caught the eye of another patron. I sat there stewing w/indignation, not knowing what to do.

I love getting people in trouble. Unfortunately he failed to attract attention again so I couldn't call over the officials. Darn! I have a strict moral code. I asked a man at our support group never to return. I didn't say, Please return when you're on the right medication. But I ordered him out, then and there. No one's gonna scare off my members with their ill-advised comments.

I sat reading How to Write a Novel in Six Months by a man I'd never heard of. Most people I haven't heard of. I live in a bubble. My own novel took two years. Like the man said, I wrote it in three-hour increments.

Last nite when we ate at Ada and Rich's, I brought a copy of The Blind Pig, a novel by Beth Dougherty, a woman in one of my online novel-writing classes. In her intro, she thanked those of us in her online class. I wanted to show them what a completed novel looks like. I'm halfway thru. As you may know, if I don't like a book, I refuse to finish it. I only have 13 more years to live and I'm not gonna waste time reading bad books...or writing them.

Bad poetry, I'll continue to write.

Next in my Messy Desk series. The letter on the bottom is from my wonderful grantor, who's supported us since 2001. We gave her our Year-End Report. All done online, the first of its kind, which is also the name of our Grantor.

I parked my car at my doctor's office in Rydal, PA. I have a different doctor for each organ I possess. We're in a race to see which organ will kill me off. After Cesar de la Torre gave me a good report -- btw, he has a SALT WATER POOL in his backyard -- I felt so alive, so invincible once again, that I slung my backpack on my back, and walked the half hour down The Fairway to the Barnes n Noble.

Temperature hovered around the early 90s. I passed all sorts of car dealerships. Scott began his career as a mechanic at car dealerships. To a man, he said they treated the mechanics "like crap." Really verbally abused them. He'd put his app into SEPTA and finally they called him. True, he gets treated like crap at SEPTA, it's not known for its humanitarian care of its employees, but at least he makes good money and enjoys his job.

So I tromped along The Fairway...dyou believe that's the name of the street...like the Champs d'Elysee...interesting how the mind works. Soon as I get outside the doc's office my mind begins playing a tune, whatever was on the radio when I got out.

Geez, I said to myself, I don't even like that tune. Relax, I told myself, your own thoughts will soon swarm over the song. Plus looking all around. A guy was up one of them poles changing a light bulb. He smiled at me and I waved. That got me to thinking how people are so friendly in the suburbs. Then a woman drove by and asked me where Trader Joe's was.

I watched myself put my hand on my beard & start to think. Universal language. You're going the right way, I said. She said that's all she needed to know. You know why I never shop at Trader Joe's? It's out of sight...you forget about it.

B&N seems miles away. You can do it, Ruthie, I said to myself. It took 25 minutes, not bad. The straps of my backpack were soaking wet when I went in.

I got my two books. I also asked the bookseller to recommend a book that explains Gay Life to someone who is not gay.

"Lucy" called me yesterday and upset me. She said the Bible says it's wrong to be gay.

It's not wrong to be gay, I shot back. The Bible is a fine book but it doesn't have all the answers. I was furious at her, thinking how dare she be prejudiced against gays when she herself is a complex woman who dare not tell people what her true diagnosis is. Must she have someone to look down on to assuage her ego?

You know, Lucy, I said, we have gay people in our group. But I couldn't forget about what she said.

First thing I do when I make breakfast is turn on the radio and look for something good. Changing the stations, I heard this baloney: "Punishment comes from a judge..."

Suddenly I thought to myself, People who are racked with guilt for various sins need to hear that. See, we all have a conscience (except psychopaths) -- and NO, you are not a psychopath -- but certain people cannot live with their sins or supposed sins, maybe they came from a shame-producing family -- and this type rhetoric makes em feel good.

Jews, for the most part, do not use the word sin. Catholics love the sinner cuz they keep them in business. Come to me, my little sheep. And I shall teach you what a bad person you are and god forbid if you're gay, then God will shun you.

Gayness occurs naturally in the animal kingdom. Everything serves a purpose.

I thought of a new definition of a poem. A poem takes you to a particular place. This profundity, or lack thereof, came to me last nite when I was falling asleep. I commanded myself to remember it. Fortunately that area of my brain still has blood flow.



I think the Passionfruit Iced Tea looks nice on my windowsill, don't you? It's next to the empty powder-sugar container George gave me when they moved to Ann's Choice. I'm quite partial to sturdy plastic cups like this one. With the darling green straw.

I'm working on a poem now about my late brother David. Maybe I'll mail it to Sarah and see what she thinks.

Fourth of July poem

Dedicated to the Hulmeville Inn, Hulmeville, PA

I have come to this peaceful café
to rest my legs and drink from
the bottomless pot of coffee
the waitress has set before me.

I am jittery and can barely pour
the cream without creating a splash.
This is to be expected on a day like today,
a red white and blue day that
proclaims the coming of the holiday.

The waitress glides by.
A swan on a ripply pond.
She has people to serve
in the other room,
the dark room,
the room with the bar.

She stops by.
Does she want to talk?
I watch the smoothness
of her neck for a signal.
Her devotion is total,
like an abbess to her flock,
bound to her plates and soup bowls,
her pitchers of iced tea floating with lemon wheels.

Just the coffee, I tell her.
The cream goes in with a splash.

Against the wall, a legion of
tiny American flags
proclaim their clean, laundered loyalty –
to what? I am not sure –
bringing to mind
the music of Charles Ives
I have listened to in my bedroom long ago.

Where is he now, I wonder,
that daredevil cockatoo?

If only we had a stereo,
we could hear him play.
You’d know him anywhere,
his strut and clang of his marching band,
so unlike Sousa,
straying lavishly off course,
but full and sure,
stars and stripes, forever,
stepping into realms unheard of,
notes colliding with notes,
seas boundless and green,
Misted-over emeralds mined from zigzag depths
in colors yet unknown.

You’d like him, if you heard him,
But – careful! – he comes in fast –

Gone in a wink!

Stay Curious, Stay Alive!

This profound statement was made by Jim Walsh, head of the fourth-generation Yarrington Mills where I stopped over on my morning's curiosity trail, while waiting for my oil change in Hatboro.

Go left, I said, when I walked outa the Sunoco station. I had half an hour before my car would be ready. I knew I'd have adventures. What was waiting for me?

I tried to keep up my aerobic pace and not stop, so I simply rubbernecked as I walked by the stores...Jarrett Dodge now only sells used cars...Victorian Village where Marion will move when her house is sold is a 15 minute walk from the center of town...and Mill Road, which one realtor said was the 'best street' in Hatboro was straight ahead on my left.

I wanted to check the Louis Kahn house. Our support group had gone on a tour there b/c one day I saw the late Norman Fisher outside his house and asked him. He paid Kahn $50,000 in 1960 to build him a house for his growing family. Fisher was a family doctor in Hatboro. He told me to call and talk to his wife, Doris.

Surprisingly, I still remember their phone number, last four digits are 1214. They had a huge unabridged dictionary and a key word on the top of the page was faculty. In my novel, we find the marriage counselor with her own dictionary turned to a page that reads....well, I can't remember, but look how we can use every type of experience we've had when we write.



As I turn down shady Mill Road, I decide to visit my old friend Alice, a woman my age who I met many years ago on my long walks. I knocked on her door and could see her husband moving about the kitchen. I gave a little wave.

Does a woman named Alice live here? I asked when Peter came out on the porch.

Oh, she died of cancer ten years ago, he said.

I said I was sorry and we talked about ten minutes more before I pushed along. You can't just go up to someone, have them tell you their wife is dead and then just leave. So we passed the time together on the porch, he asked if I wanted a drink of water and I said No.

I told him some other folks I remembered on this fine street. It was part of my walking path when I lived in the apartments. One woman, an older woman with white hair pulled back in a bun, grew red poppies in her front garden. That gave me the idea of growing poppies which I do.

See how people influence one another?

Maybe I will start smoking a pipe like Peter Flood does. It smelled so good. I could just sit on my backporch, listen to my new Keith Jarrett album -- Koln Concert which arrived from CA three days after I ordered it -- and smoke my meerschaum pipe like Robert Mattuck at Goddard College.

I greet each new day with love and curiosity. Many people don't, however. Just called a newcomer from our group. When she wakes up in the morning, she wishes she were dead. That's how bad her depression is.

When you're depressed you can't think straight. I gave her strict orders. Very nicely, of course. I was outside watering my new mint plant. I had attempted to plant the mint in another spot. I'm down on the ground digging a hole when suddenly I hear a buzzing noise, down on the ground.

Without thinking, I began poking around w/my digging knife, and then I saw the bee hive! Bumblebees, I think. A huge one was heading toward me so I rolled over onto the grass. Then I covered up the spot where I found the hive so they could live undisturbed.

"Irene" is an older woman says she doesn't have the money to get a consult with another psychiatrist. Her own doctor hasn't helped her in four years. You know what? Most people do have enuf money put away so I came in from the garden, sat down at the computer and got on our Top Doc list. I gave her two names, told her to pay out of pocket and keep me informed.

Ready for some photos?

When I went to Dan's thother nite I took this shot outside his house, as emblematic of the suburban life style. "Mom," said Dan, when he saw me photographing him from the outside, "that's creepy."

To that I have no response except....it was worth it.

My handsome boyfriend Scott standing by his farm. I compliment Scott all the time. I love showing my feelings to him. I think he's given up teaching me how to use the remote control to turn on the TV or movies. "But you're so good on the computer," he says.

Scott and I watched one of our favorite movies, an annual event on TCM. Buddy Ebson was orig. offered the part of The Tin Man but was allergic to the makeup so they got Jack Haley. Scott said one reason the acting was so good was b/c they'd all been vaudevillians.

Preparing to meet the Wizard is a little like preparing to meet God. How does my hair look? Are there stains on my shirt?


Once a year I get my house cleaned. Concentrate on the kitchen, I said to Donna and her high school daughter who vacuumed the whole house. I just have a puny Shark Vac, not a deep cleaner. I refuse to lug around a heavy vacuum, just another quirk of mine. The kitchen floor looked brand new when Donna got finished with it.

While they were here, I went downstairs to read Angela Carter's collected short stories. Never heard of her. Born in England, she was only 51 when she died. When I finished reading The Bloody Chamber I wanted to call up everyone I knew and say, "You've gotta read this." Heartbeating suspense, lyrically written, the kind of book you read and say, How can I ever think of writing a thing after reading this!



Interior of Yarrington Mills on South Warminster Road, Hatboro, PA. Yes, it's a manufacturing facility right here in the good ole USA, since 1915. They make trimming for athletic uniforms including the Phillies. Altho there was no work today, Saturday, half a dozen employees were buffing the floor. Jim actually praised every single employee he introduced me to -- "There's JoAnn, I don't know how she knows as much as she does, but she's amazing" -- I told him I watched a show on Irish-Americans last nite in which mine owners -- here in PA and neighboring OH -- tried to cheat their employees out of their money and did nothing to safeguard their journeys into the belly of the mines.

Jim was rightly proud of their operation which employs 30-40 people. I told him it reminded me of my Dad's business when he managed a huge warehouse in Cleveland. Nothing I love more than a humming factory which means jobs and manufactured products. And then I saw the lunchroom, which really brought back memories of Majestic Specialties, Inc.....



Here's Jim's desk with its beautiful aqua-colored accents. Perhaps they'll feature it in the NY Times.

If I were a famous photographer, I'd take photos of people's desks. So interesting!

Next door was the famous Stutz Candy. When my kids were little, I used to pronounce it Schtutz, just for fun. Then little Sarah when to kindergarten and mentioned Schtutz Candy to her friends and no one knew what she was talking about. Easy does it, Ruthie. Gotta be age-appropriate with the kids.

After my dad died at age 59, I processed my horror by writing an article about the Hatboro Cemetery. It was owned by someone Yerkes at the time. When I snapped this shot, I saw the grave of a man named Krewson. My son's best friend, Mark Davis, used to live on Krewson Terrace.

A quick stop at Meadowbrook Farm to identify an unknown flower in my garden. A rambling geranium, said young Brandon. This photo was taken in their terraced garden, a small version, you might say, of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. People never change.