A Day at the Zoo - Spoke to curator Dave Wood, just for you! - Poem: Death of the Primates at the Philadelphia Zoo

Cheetah at The Elmwood Park Zoo in Norristown, PA.

When Dan and Nicole asked me to go w/them, I was ecstatic!

They're always looking for volunteers.

Are bison the same as buffalo? I'm baffled but definitely not buffaloed into finding the answer.

You do want to plunge your hands into their deep fur to see what it feels like.

I interrupted Cheryl, one of the zookeepers, to ask her what she would do with the animal poop she was shoveling out of one of the animal's yards.

We recycle it, she said, either at a nearby farm or at the state hospital down the road, Norristown State Hospital, which owns huge acres of ground.

Mr. Fox.
We went with friends Ken, Jane and little red-haired Kenny.

The eagles can fly free b/c their wings are clipped.

The regal bald eagle, no longer on the endangered species list.

Man-made lake. Nearby are rheas, a type of flightless bird from South America. See below.


Flamingos stand on one leg. Wonder if they make good household pets.

Emerging from the feed-the-animals enclave. B/c of my kidney tplant, I kept my hands in my pockets so I wouldn't be tempted to pet the beautiful goats with their full billy-goat beards, quite beautiful. Almost as nice as mine.

Did you know I B Singer wrote a story called The Woman with the Beard?

Cheryl told me that the two male peacocks that live at the zoo roam freely around the entire zoo, but sleep high up near the zoo entrance. Peacocks usually sleep in trees or on high perches. Is this b/c they are birds? Or so they can see their enemies?

Just called the zoo to ask a couple of questions.

What animals breed at the zoo?

Curator Dave Wood told me the zoo has had success breeding big-horn sheep. They got a new male last year who successfully bred with the female.

Elmwood is part of a breeding program, as are other zoos, to see if the Peccaries, a type of pig, will procreate. They are highly endangered, so they're hoping for a successful mating season.

Then they must find accredited zoos to find for the babies.

Dave's been a zookeeper for 21 yrs - including the Phila Zoo and a Florida zoo - but has been the chief curator at Elmwood for the past 7 yrs.

Hey, this is a good place to put my poem about the tragic death of some primates at the Philadelphia Zoo.

Since I organized all my poems in the accordion file, I found it. Now I have to figger out what category I put it in. Animals, I spose.

I found it under the category Death.

The poem is entirely my imagination.

THE DEATH OF THE PRIMATES BY FIRE AT THE PHILADELPHIA ZOO

Dec. 24, 1995

Bob, we imagine, got wind of it first,
ordained as he was in the art
of leadership among apes,
his senses still intact,
though he was only small
when they lowered him,
a polished black diamond,
down carefully fashioned ropes
from the tribal branches
he clung to that day.

He lived,
decided to, anyway,
watching with calm eyes
his manhood rise about him,
full-chested
ready for the brides
they'd bring,
a quick tour of duty
and it was done,
not much fun,
showing him, in the end,
his heir,
this junior Bob,
lighter complected,
who ran
with a different crowd.

Other things prevailed.
Memory and sensation keen.
Who could sniff the blood
of a visitor's shaving cut
quicker than he?
Or lean with curiosity
toward the exposed pink flesh
of a passing family?

It was smell that teased him
from his sleep,
He searched his manifold layers
for meaning,
a match-up that would
explain for godssakes the
roasting of hot dogs' smell
in the middle of the night.

Wobbly, he lifted his head from sleep
dreamt that a small version of himself
snuggled near the hot shaggy body
of his mother
who wore an apron and
called him something other than Bob.

She roused him, dammit,
as mothers will,
wanting only the best for their sons,
she and that apron stitched with
"World's Greatest Mom"
bidding him from her
peek-a-boo bower
in the leaves
to see why hot dogs roasted
in the night.

He obeyed, a tactic
he found useful
in the Cage.
Limping over, his hip had hurt that day,
he saw the ice-clenched moon
through bars that demarcated
who he was and
who he'd never be.

Saw then the low-riding
purple flame
gliding in like a ruffle
on a dancer's skirt
and knew the flame
had come
for him.

Could they mount a defense?
Could they blow with a thousand breaths
and chase the invaders from their midst?
Bob, in his years of favor with
the captors and visitors alike,
drew a blank.

Finally, there was only his mother,
old and snoozing in the cool bower
of the tribal tree
She felt a might itch
surge through her flanks,
seared as if invaded by marauding ants,
breasts hanging low,
she scratched with both hands,
her belly's unquenchable itch
and saw once more
his perfect baby face.

Coffeeshop Writers' Group - Two poems: Van Gogh at the Philadelphia Museum of Art and Americans All, Under the Shell

My little leprechaun, Grace Catherine Deming. First foto taken last year. Foto on right taken today at age 18 mos.

Here's my favorite poem for St Paddy's Day. From Bartleby who I once had an intense affair with. Yes, I was in love with a website.

Violas in my garden. Before writing today's poems I had to take care of business such as watering these brand-new plants and the bird bath.
I actually didn't recognize Kym Cohen b/c her blond hair was replaced by a warm brown today. "Doesn't she look fabulous?" said Carly Brown to her right.

Carly wrote a poem about not writing a poem. And Kym didn't have one for today, but went to the Bensalem Library and came up with a good one!
Donna Krause wrote a lovely poem for her 3-month-old grandson, John Dillon. "Frame it and give it to the parents," urged Kym and Marfa. Here's Martha now in her St Paddy's Day attire. Her earrings blinked on and off.

Martha Hunter in her amazing earrings. Thanks, Kym, for taking this great picture I stole off FB. Marf's offering was the beginning of a series on her Scottish grandmother. She found info on ScotlandsPeople.

And, me, well, I worked all morning on my two poems when I wasn't making breakfast, talking to my mom who's making me lace curtains for Sarah's old room, cutting new daffodils from the backyard, tripping on the new fence we put round the daffodils so the school kids won't trample em when cutting thru the backyard, and answering two dozen emails.

I knew I wanted to write a poem about the Van Gogh exhibit. I had no friggin idea what I wanted to say.

And when I got gas at the Giant the other night, I knew that experience deserved a poem.

Almond blossoms (I always thought they were dogwood blossoms)

VAN GOGH AT THE PHILADELPHIA MUSEUM OF ART

It was the almond blossoms,
white
against a cerulean sky,
left for last
in this exhibit of
borrowed paintings
I came to

Saw the blossoms from afar
and waited,
a shy lover,
averting my gaze,
hands behind my back,
an aging ballerina,
I float closer
an acorn in one pocket
and the long white ticket of
entry in the other,
your straw hat
long gone
your darting eyes

When the Red Sea
parted,
I came to you,
sideways,
not daring to view
your planetary mind
up close
gazed at your
brushstrokes
prodigious
knowing in your soon-dead
heart
your sunflowers
your bedroom at the asylum
your butterflies and moths
would fly with you through
the corridors of forever.

AMERICANS ALL, UNDER THE SHELL

We are all of one family
here under the aluminum shell
of this popular
filler-up join

If attacked we would cling
together
like wagon trains rolling
across the virgin plains

Bucky, the manager,
would protect us,
so would the tie-dyed Harley rider
the woman in the burka
would look to him
maybe fall in love
with his tattooed muscled might
what loins lurk behind her
black full-length gown?

I've already fallen for Bucky.
I like his name
his tallness and
the way he shook my hand
and said, "May I inquire who
I have the pleasure of speaking to?"
He is mine.

Blushing tenderly
Bucky and I elope
cross country
"Yeeha!" he cries to the horses
as we settle down in Jackson Hole
to birth babies and plant corn
I can still feel the wedding gown
brushing along the dirt road.

Fickle woman
I fly back home
scan my Giant bonus card
under a blaze of light
then fill her up
the way we did the mares
with wheat and corn and apples
back home in Jackson Hole.

The Van Gogh Exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art

Vincent Van Gogh 1853–1890. Altho it's long been thought he took his own life, the rifle that killed him has never been found. I heard the two curators of this exhibit say on the Charlie Rose Show that when Van Gogh went into the city, teenagers mocked him as being a fool, or crazy, and quite possibly took pot shots at him, not necessarily meaning to kill him. Read more here.

Bedroom at Arles, 1888

My psychotherapist friend Joe drove us to the museum via the scenic route. After all, we were about to see some of the most exquisite artwork in the entire world (!) so why not immerse ourselves in beauty on the way down.

Although the exhibit was very crowded, by taking our time and being patient, we got great close-up views of the 40 masterpieces on display. Many were painted in the last years of Van Gogh's life. After a mental breakdown, he went voluntarily to the St. Paul asylum in St. Remy.

Vase with Carnations was not in the exhibit. When I got close to the work, I like to look at the layers and layers of paint he stroked onto the canvas.

"He did not begin painting until his late twenties, completing many of his best-known works during his last two years. In just over a decade, he produced more than 2,100 artworks, consisting of 860 oil paintings and more than 1,300 watercolors, drawings, sketches and prints," said R G Harrison on the website of his complete works.

At the asylum in St Remy, he was treated well. After his health returned, he roamed the beautiful farm fields - the golden swaying wheat fields - the forests - and the cities, painting with a manic intensity.

He loved nature since he was a child.

He did this still-life of Quinces while at St Remy. He did few of his beloved still-lifes b/c the open countryside beckoned.

Contrary to popular thought, Van Gogh knew of his own greatness. He knew that one day he would take his place in the pantheon of great artists. He made sure he signed all his works - 'Vincente' - and made sure each one was as good as it could be.

His famous Sunflowers were there plus these two dropped sunflowers. Notice the unique angle he painted them in. He did become known for seeing things from unusually creative angles.

His most famous painting Sunflowers he envisioned as a series of 12 paintings but only completed four. His famous Bedroom - his bedroom at the asylum - was composed in several different versions.

Many artists - whether painters or poets or musicians - constantly revise their own work over time, in a quest of a perfection they rarely believe they achieve.

I found a website that contains all of van Gogh's paintings. Van Gogh had personally met most of the great artists of his day, including Gauguin who was very important to him. They exchanged their own paintings with one another.

Van Gogh maintained an art collection and was tremendously influenced by Japanese artists such as the famous Katsushika Hokusai. The works of this master illustrator are known to many, though his name may not be familiar. Below is cherry blossoms and bird.

Van Gogh had an uncanny genius of remembering nearly all the paintings and photographs he had ever seen. They inspired him when he did his own original work.

Many of the below paintings were in the Museum's collection, but I couldn't resist putting other ones on the blog. I like perusing my blog posts when the mood hits me.

Have you ever seen such beautifully rendered gladioli? And they don't die.

He did many paintings of the Understory of forests. No one had ever done such rich detail. In a letter he wrote his brother Theo he said he discovered a Blade of Grass and became fascinated with the texture and color of every single blade.

Again, note the unusual angle, an aerial view. He loved peasants and farmers, simple working people, like our Mitt Romney does today. He was also fascinated by the peaked roofs of houses.

Newly discovered "Daffodil and Basil Leaves in Planter's Peanut Jar on Windowsill of Ruth Deming's Kitchen." Night View.

Day view.

Sunset: Wheat Fields Near Arles. I've never seen this one before but immediately fell in love with it. Look at all the space he devotes to the wheat fields, and those brush strokes, each one different as the hairs on our beards.

A son of the Netherlands, he was well-acquainted with flowers, like the field of iris in the foreground, the olive trees, and finally St Paul's asylum where he lived for a whole year. Never expecting to die, his work assumed brighter colors as his health returned and his thoughts soared toward home.

What is it that's so appealing about still-lifes?

His fascination with gabled roofs, against a yellow background. Yellow was his favorite color.

Poppies. My own poppies die almost immediately upon cutting. Hence, I have never cut them since that first time. Instead, I go out and look at them during the way and photograph them per below.



How could I resist this floral arrangement which is grasping at all four corners of the canvas in silent motion.

Time stops as these Parisian citizens (I think) cross a bridge. Straight lines and curved lines.

Cypress trees against the rocks.

While still sick, Vincent painted this eerie forest picture with no way out. The plane trees, unlike his other trees, are straight, not the nuanced shapely trees he is fond of painting.



Carnations. I esp. like the colors on the bottom half.

Look Ma, no cavities - Michener Museum / Poem: Red Tongue

The Holy Trinity of Venneri Dentists on County Line Road, Hatboro, PA. I started off by seeing the father, A. Amerigo Venneri, now I see his son, Dr. Joe, on the right. Boyfriend Scott sees Dr Doreen on the left.

During my six-month cleaning today, Doreen stopped in. I told her she did a great job on Scott and he was able to go to work that nite.

Many people get nervous in the chair. Doreen advised my boyfriend - who, as a kid, used to fight other kids who called him bad names cuz he's Jewish like me - to take 5 mg of Valium before his appt.

He's terrified of being in the chair. I told him to take half the Valium, which he did. Previously I blogged about his 2-hour appointment.

My cleaning appt today, which took 40 minutes, was made much easier b/c I askedthe hygienist Tracy to talk to me to help the time pass quickly. A good storyteller, she talked about how she met her future husband when was a student at Jefferson downtown.

A blind date set up by her roommate. She thot they'd get along b/c they were both Lutheran.

When Dr Joe came in to check me over, I decided to ask him a question.

"I was with a physician friend yesterday," I said. "He said that dentists have the highest suicide rate."

Why is that, I asked and dyou know anyone who killed himself.

He knew a physician in Erie, PA, who he used to play golf with. A few days after their golf game, the family man dentist shot himself to death.

"I suppose," he said, "it's b/c people don't like dentists and think we're mean b/c we inflict pain on them."

"We don't have to worry about you," I said. "You're always in a good mood."

"Eating makes me happy," he said.

Me too! All the serotonin flowing thru our bodies.

+

At Ada's Outing yesterday, we went to the Michener Museum in Doylestown. Always a treat, no matter what exhibit is there.

One of the many paintings by Mavis Smith.

We loved the Mavis Smith art exhibit. Mavis, 54, actually lives nearby in Solebury. She uses egg tempura to paint, a technique used since 1 AD. In the Renaissance, oil painting superseded it.

I always love the hand-made wooden furniture they have. In fact, a chair by master woodworker Robert Whitley (b. 1924) reclines on my refrigerator. He also did the table and chairs in the Board Room.

I told Tracy, the teethcleaner, that she and her husband, who live right next door to the Joe Venneri family, should visit the Michener to see the b'ful furniture. Her husband is a cabinet-maker.

Portrait of the late master furniture maker George Katsutoshi Nakashima (Japanese: 中島勝寿 1905 – 1990), interned during WW2. His studio in New Hope is now run by his daughter.



The Nakashima Reading Room at the Michener.

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Believe it or not, I did write a poem about my teeth. Dr Joe doesn't pull teeth so he sent me to a buddy of his, Dave, whose last name I can't remember. I won third prize for the poem from the Montco Community College Writer's Contest.

Lemme run upstairs and find it.

RED TONGUE
master of the mouth
sneak around
snake o' my mouth.

Check thy subservient teeth
keep us clean
shining
free of all harm,
red tongue
the snake.

It was You
wasn't it
who coiled 'round the tree
tempting Eve
and causing all harm
on this endless scurrying plain
pitiless red tongue

At peace
by night
you rest yourself
in the middle of your harem
we surround you
with love,
our master,
nothing but love

Our roots are alive and tender
green as bamboo shoots
imprisoned in white porcelain urns
for all time
darkness mostly
o show us the light
master tongue

Who will you favor tonight
Which of us will you come to
to loll with and spread your wide generosity across us
a little poke, a little caress,
whic of the thirty two
will you lie with

Choose me, tonight, master tongue,
Choose and cuddle me,
And I
will be
thy girl.

Coffeeshop Writers Group in Willow Grove, PA 19090

Jovon, one of our poets & short-story writers

We meet on the FIRST and THIRD Saturday of the month at the Willow Grove Giant Supermarket.

The Giant is at 315 York Road, Willow Grove, PA 19090. It's located in the former Home Despot.

We meet in the Coffeeshop, which is on the Right of the Store.

We usually have between 4 and 10 people.

Bring 8 copies of your ms., whether it's poetry, an essay, short story, or novel selection.

You'll read your selection aloud, and the group members will write feedback directly onto your work.

Obviously, You are the final judge of what critiques you find helpful.

Until recently, we met at Weinrich's Bakery Coffeeshop in Willow Grove and may return there in the near future.

Questions? Please email RuthDeming@comcast.net.

I feel a blog post coming on - War and Peace - So many books, so little time / Poem: Barnes & Noble: A Guided Tour

My Reading Life by Pat Conroy has captured my soul. Every book Conroy loves, I wanna read.

Look Homeward Angel, which I read as a teenager, I want to read again. I contented myself, however, with reading the first page on Project Gutenberg (I don't like reading it on Amazon b/c 'if you're interested in this book, you may be interested in these other books')

First page, please:

. . . a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone, a leaf, a door.
And of all the forgotten faces.

Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not
know our mother's face; from the prison of her flesh have we come
into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth.

Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his
father's heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent?
Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?

O waste of loss, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this
most weary unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechlessly we seek
the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a
stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When?

O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again.

I just think that's gorgeous writing. In his day, Wolfe was as famous as Hemingway and F Scott Fitzgerald. We need a literary Mendelssohn to rescue him from obscurity as Mendelssohn rescued Bach.

Jesu, joy of man's desiring (translated from the German)

While doing Wiki research for you, my love, I accidentally goggled Thomas Wolff, (July 14, 1954, – July 31, 2000. Read about this fascinating award-winning mathematician here. Died in a car accident.

The prolific Thomas Wolfe died shortly before his 38th b'day. He had contracted inoperable tuberculosis of the brain.

Pat Conroy raves about War and Peace, saying it's the best novel ever written. Many people agree. So tonite, after dropping off Scotty at the train station, I drove down to the library to see if I could buy a used edition of the 1300-page novel.

Slim chance, of course, but I did pick up two other books - hardbacks are a buck each - a John Updike I'd never heard of called Trust Me. He went thru a period of writing about adultery in America and the breakdown of morals. Updike, accdg to Wiki, went thru a spiritual crisis where he lost his faith and spirituality, but, by reading Kierkegaard and Karl Barth, he regained his faith in Christianity and was a believer until the end.

I got hooked on the very first page. My other choice was an illustrated Jack London book.



Adam the librarian was at the ref desk so I went up to talk to him. He raised my self-esteem a thousand percent when he said he's currently reading about eleven books! I'm only reading three.

Time for some more delicious peanuts, mixed w/some new multigrain pretzels I found. Be right back.

This is probly why I can't lose weight. Am always 138, a speck overweight. Scott says he likes flesh on a woman.

So, I leave my car at the library, and walk in the warm, breezy nite across the street to the Barnes & Noble.

A kid is panhandling for his Inner City basketball team, so I give him a measly three bucks. I apologize for not giving him more. He offers me a candy bar, a gift for donating, and I tell him I can't eat candy cuz I have diabetes.

He says he's sorry and advises me to get one for my grandchildren.

Do I look that old? I wonder later on.

I decline and wish him good luck, as I walk off to Barnes and Noble.

A young man named Brian helps me out. Very cute guy who studied Museum Curating in college. Worked a while at Laurel Hill Cemetery where I'm dying to go. Must mention it to Ada for an outing.

Laurel Hill Cemetery

Brian did his internship here and learned that museum curating is a cut-throat business.

We had a difficult time locating Tolstoy. His computer told him it was in the military history aisle, which it wasn't. He told me to stay right there and he'd find where Tolstoy was.

Meantime I opened a book, the first authentic autobiography of Heinrich Himmler.

While waiting for Brian, I began to read the fascinating prologue of one of the most powerful men in Nazi Germany, who cleverly found ways to increase his areas of responsibility. He spied on his own colleagues to make sure they were perfect henchmen.

When captured, he had a vial of cyanide hidden in his mouth. He cracked it open and died fifteen minutes later.

It was so peaceful in the Barnes and Nobel I enjoyed reading in a very comfortable armchair. I told Brian I might be back to read more of the Himmler book.

Oh, I nearly forgot! Brian brot out two versions of War and Peace, the first one translated by the famous Constance Garnett. The second was a new translation by an Ann Dunnigan, and guess who wrote the forward?

Our own Pat Conroy.

Well, I began reading the two versions. I liked the Garnett one better, but then - eureka! - I realized I could never read this book. Too dense. Too filled with difficult three-word Russian names I wouldn't be able to keep track of.

Of course, now I'm thinking I made a mistake and maybe I could've kept track of them.

But you know what? I can always read them on Project Gutenberg.

If I live long enough to finish it.

The other day there was a NY Times article where you rate your college professors. I asked Russell Eisenman, PhD, one of my 775 past boyfriends, if he was listed on there.

Read the reviews his students gave Russell.

I did write a poem many yrs ago on Barnes and Noble. While you're reading this endlessly fascinating post I'll see if I can find it.

If you don't hear from me, have a wonderful time wher'ere you are. Remember, we only live once, so take advantage of all the wonderful earthly offerings.

BARNES AND NOBLE: A GUIDED TOUR

When things go wrong
when the sun don't shine
and the bread don't rise
and the call don't come
and the windows reflect back on who you are
you can always go down to Barnes and Noble
Lit
like a magic shoebox.

But if you're lonely and go there
no one will soothe your soul
no one except maybe the coffee girl
whose dancing earrings, if you're lucky, may just rock you
into something vaguely resembling peace
But don't count on it, my friend.

I've come for Rimbaud.
I read him every ten years.
You may wish to do the same.
Perhaps I can be of help.
Simply pull the slim volume titled "Season in Hell"
from its place on the shelf
Take it, if you will, to a quiet station, off the main drag

Or better yet
Find your own place amid high and fragrant grasses
A nearby lake with water so clear you can bathe your face
You might lie there in the noonday sun while you turn to any
page your heart desires

But I must warn you, my friend
You must come to the encounter clean.
As yourself
Not pretending to be anything more
or anything less than
who you really are.
Your bladder emptied, your thirst abated
Feeling no urgency whatsoever that needs reconciliation
Your heart must be still as a sleeping bird
not pounding with remembrance of yesterday's ecstasies

So with quiet acceptance and lowered eyes
You will arrive like a pitcher
emptied of its contents
open
willing to receive
flowing with space
and then you may turn
to the title page.

So I won't get lost

In April, I'm taking two bus trips. One is to Washington, DC, to see the cherry blossoms and various museums, the other to a place in upstate PA called Wolf Sanctuary, followed by a tour of Wilbur Chocolate Factory.

I'm terrified, however, of getting lost on the way to getting to the bus.

The Hagey coach - you mustn't call it a bus - departs from Lightpole Number 17 at Montgomeryville Mall.

Drove down there today, with Scott in the passenger seat, and found it easily. Bus leaves at 7 am. I'll leave at 6.

Honestly, have you ever seen anything more beautiful than the cherry blossoms? Don't you just want to rub your face in them and eat em up?

Driving down, we passed the huge Grand Canyon of Route 309 - the Glasgow Quarry. When my kids were little and we'd pass it on the way to one of Dan's comic book stores, I'd stop the car so we could look down down down into the deep depths.

Everything I was interested in I showed my kids.

On the way back from the mall, Scott and I stopped at Lowe's. He wanted to get a squirrel-proof bird-feeder but they didn't have one. I bot two things: an outdoor thermometer that I can see from my living room window and the first flowers for my garden: purple violas.

After a kidney transplant you're not supposed to immerse your fingers in the soil: microbes! So Scott will plant them deep in the earth for me, then I'll do the rest, and quick run in the house and wash my hands with dish detergent. Oooh, I just love getting my hands into the soil. After all, we used to be hunters and gatherers. It's in our genes.

My mom is doing great. Dan and little Grace visited her this morning and I met them there. Grace explored the house and was probly surprised to see me there. What's the connection, she must've thought. Why is Bubby here too? Mom is walking really well since she started seeing the physical therapist Laurie.

Quick: Thinks of artists who are named Laurie.

Uh, Piper Laurie the actress; Laurie Anderson, the artist,

Here's Anderson w/her husband Lou Reed, the legendary musician, whose parents got him shock therapy to shock out his bisexuality - I'm sure Rick Sanctorum would approve.

And the only other artist Laurie I can think of is the great Lori Nelson, actress and dancer in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. She's still alive at 78.

Lori Nelson

When I was a kid I wished my name was Lori.

Now I wish it was Ruth.

My sister Ellen, who's about 60, took a class at Abington Hospital on how to keep your memory sharp. We talked about that today at Mom's. Mom is 89 and seriously has a far better memory - and mind - than I do.

Here are tips to keep your memory sound:

Use your opposite hand when using the mouse (I refuse to do dat)

Say the alphabet backwards: ZYXWVUSTRPQNMOLJKHIDEBCA

They also gave you a test - very hard - naming parts of your body - both inside and out - that have only THREE letters.

When Scott and I went walking today at Lorimer Park - we saw geese and hawks - we were trying to think of some.

Here's a few: lip, ear, hip, jaw, tit (doesn't count) toe, leg, arm. I can't think of anything inside the body w/only three letters, can you?

After we got home, we made two pizzas. We buy the whole wheat crust at giant, slather with sauteed peppers and onion, mozzarella, and spaghetti sauce.

Then I went home and went on my exercise bike for 15 minutes to lower my blood sugar, went back to Scott's, who of course lives next door, and then we began our movie marathon.

When Dawn to Dusk was nearly over, Scott asked if he could turn it off. Very violent, so we did.

Then he put on Cry, the Beloved Country, based on a 1948 novel by Alan Paton, about his country South Africa. There have been many adaptations of the novel, but we watched James Earl Jones in the 1995 film. Heartbreaking, and I did indeed cry.

Here's a quote from the novel:

Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing, nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him of all if he gives too much.

Richard Harris and James Earl Jones.

This is a deep and insightful movie about race relations. Right after Paton finished his novel, apartheid was instituted in his beloved country.

Why must people always hate each other?

I only took one photo while stopped at a lite on the way to Lightpole No. 17.

I just loved the Nissan sign.