The great Eddie Redmayne from PBS fame plays a man who wishes to be a woman.Doesn't it sound great?
Mom just called. Bad news, she said. Donny Garber is in hospice in Long Island and his wife Liz has dementia.
Two absolutely brilliant people. Rozzy called my mom. I'd wrin about Cousin Rozzy recently, but had to call Mom cuz I couldn't remember her sister's name. Iris.
Life! Honest to God, how can anyone believe there's a God?
The two of em will stay at a camp, sleeping in a bunk together.
Will they or will they not get it on?
Can't wait to read the next chapter.
Bob said the words simply flew from his pen. He writes on Monday afternoons, mails the handwrin copy to Donna, who types it up.
That man has honed his craft with us.
I'm a big believer that no matter how old we are, our writing gets better and better.
If you wish, read my story Tommy on the Ladder of Life - about the molestation of a would-be priest - and my two poems.
Click here.
When I got out of bed this morning - it seems like a year ago - I had no idea what to write about.
What's on your mind, I asked myself.
My grandson, Max, who will be 3 in August, and his sighting of the crescent moon last night when I was over.
I gave a copy to Mom and Ellen when I was there. Ellen said she doesn't like poetry and Mom said she didn't understand it.
LOVE THAT MOON
One: Jefferson
We
sat on the front porch, the whole
lot
of us, the Washington
family, knowing
that
yes our folk of all different hues of
brown,
were born of the first father of our
country,
our country too.
Granny,
born of a young slave girl, had
nearly
died today, fell down once again,
not
good for much, she was one-hundred-something
but
who was counting? “Take me Lord” she would
pray
with her toothless mouth that still
loved
to sing “Let My People Go” and to
sip
homemade hooch.
We
done a right good load of hay baling, said
brother
Jim, pointing toward yonder fields.
Oughta
fetch a pretty penny and we can buy
our
ladies some right pretty material for dresses
and
bonnets and what not. Easter Sunday’s
on
its way, praise the Lord.
Long
as you gots enough wood to repair these
rickety
steps that leads up to the cabin, says I.
Oh,
don’t you worry, Little Miss, we’ve got
plenty
including those wrinkled up bills we save
for
when’s we need em.
Plus,
says I, my boy Jefferson is going away to
college
some day. We all watched Jefferson as
he
played with his little plastic trucks in the dirt
zoom
zoom – as he crashed them together
head
first.
We
laughed as one, a church-like chorus where
our
own Pap was preacher, he done left us long
ago.
Jefferson looked our way and
smiled that big ole
Mississippi smile of his. He
pointed over the
newly
greening fields and stood up.
“Mama,”
he cried. “There’s my crescent moon.”
My
crescent moon, he shouted over and over,
jumping
up and down and raising the dust.
“You
are right, boy!” I said, coming off the porch
and
swooping him up in a hug. “That moon
sure
do love you, boy, and so do I!”
<>
TWO: THE KID
No
fair, I cried, you’re so tall we don’t have a
chance
in hell of scoring against you.
That’s
just a damn excuse, he cried as he dribbled
toward
the basket, you just don’t know how to play.
There
were six of us, Bobby, David, Ronnie, Max,
Danny
and Tall Rose. He was a new guy. Me,
I
wanted to punch him and say Get the hell
outa
here and don’t come back.
“I
know what you’re thinking,” he said, his
blackness
the color of a worn leather belt.
“Who’s
this new guy that’s taking over your
court.”
“S’right,”
shouted Tall Rose. “It’s our court
and
we want you OUT.”
“Tell
you what,” he said. “If you give me a
chance,
I’ll show you how to play.”
Mumble
mumble mumble.
“Deal!”
we shouted.
The
kid was good. “You’re so good, Billy,”
I
said as we rested on the bench, wiping
ourselves
with towels, “you could be a
pro
someday.”
”That’s what I’m hoping,” he said. “That’s
”That’s what I’m hoping,” he said. “That’s
why
I’m here every day, shooting hoops
while
the rain sullies my beautiful black
skin.”
“What’s
your last name, anyway,” asked Dan.
“Russell,”
he said. “Billy Russell. Remember that!”
Tall
Rose pointed to the sky.
“Crescent
moon right here in the day,” she cried.
“They
been seeing that ole moon since forever. Guided
Captain
Ahab in Moby Dick. As for me, Call me Billy.
<>
THREE: THE USELESS KINDNESS OF THE MOON
A
moonless night, but of course she saw all.
Floating,
like a wayward seashell, in the
year
of our Lord, 1912. Twas April, when daffodils
bloom,
but not on moon.
She
watches it all. The chaos, the disbelief, the
orchestra
playing on deck, the lifeboats lowered
down
down down.
No
way could she melt that iceberg, huge as
a
floating city, which is what they called the
ship.
Moon
loved the cold. Her ancient cheeks – she
was
already over 4 billion years, but who’s
counting,
she laughed – sniffing the freezing
cold
air.
Below,
many were in the water. She
watched
them struggle in clothes
that
puffed up like balloons. Babies,
too.
They’d go quickly, like the buzzing
bee
who dies after the first bite.
She
cast her glance at Father Sun.
Who
was bronzing on beaches
far
away? She views the moon-colored
sands
in Florida,
unseen sharks miles
and
miles away.
***
I wrote a true short story about a pal of mine - thanks, guys, for the term "pal."
Here's the beginning
HOT STUFF
Was
just reading
the book The Geography of Genius by Eric Weiner when I came
across the phrase
“hot stuff.” My late friend Vincenzo Cardinale used that term. We
were great
friends during our three-year relationship which began with a
phone call.
I
was eating a
peanut butter sandwich on my homemade rye bread when the phone
rang.
“Mrs.
Deming, I
hope you don’t mind my calling,” said the self-assured voice
on the other end.
The Caller ID said he was calling from somewhere in Jersey.
“What’s
up?” I said,
attempting to mask the food in my mouth.
I’ve
always
wondered about eating etiquette on the phone. Perhaps I should
simply spit out
the food before the mandatory rings stop. Yes, that’s what
I’ll do next time, I
lie.
As
a mental
health advocate, I follow the news of what’s happening in the
world of mental
illness. I read that the FDA had denied use of the “vagus
nerve stimulator,” in
helping depression, despite recommendations of dozens of
psychiatrists and
neurologists who claimed it worked well.
I
wrote a Letter
to the Editor to various national papers, including the Wall
Street Journal.
**
Will continue the story and present it next week. Beatriz is having mucho company from Argentina and other places. So guess where the group will meet?
Hot stuff!
Allan was online thother day and up pops a vacation rental in LA.
Allan said that Napoleon was basically a good guy and gave Jews and Protestants citizenship in the mostly Catholic France.
The Master Letters of Emily Dickinson I checked outa the Hatboro Union Library. It hadn't been checked out in 10 years. Who would miss it?
