Best ice cream ever! / Robin's Tale

Look, is it so terrible I can't make up my mind which flavor to get?

We're at the shore. I accidentally made a hotel reservation for a place in Ocean City. I prefer Cape May but I phoned a hotel in Ocean City. Fortunately before we set out Scott remembered, Hey that's Ocean City! You wanna call up and cancel?

Nah, I said. Ocean City is closer. Let's go there.

We're on the Boardwalk. Half of Philadelphia is there. A few New Yorkers. You have to look both ways before crossing from one side of the Boardwalk to another.

Hey, look! I say. There's no people at Kohr's Frozen Custard.

A teenage girl is behind the counter. I threw myself at her mercy. "I don't know what to get," I said. "I love them all."

"My favorite is strawberry," she said. "Wanna taste?"

"Sure, a teeny tiny taste please."

Pause.

"Omigod," I said. "This is fantastic. I'll have it dipped in chocolate."

Scott and I shared it. The hot chocolate crunched in your mouth. Hmmm, I wonder if the local Dairy Queen has the same thing. I would not be surprised.

When we got home, we stopped at the Giant Supermarket so we could fulfill our tradition as Americans and grill out on Memorial Day. Scott already had hot dogs from Whole Foods - that's right - healthy hot dogs. No cancer-causing nitrates or extra sodium to puff up your veins n arteries.

We invited "Maria" over from the support group, a peppy woman who hears voices. The three of us sat on the front porch. If her drunken father hadn't abused her and taken all his self-hatred out on her, that woman would be another Dr Daniel Fisher or Elyn Sacks. Super smart. Notices everything. I drove her home. "What's that noise in the back of your car, Ruthie?" she wanted to know.

It was one of my innumerable bottles of water lost under the back seat.

Earlier, Scott made an announcement to Maria and me.

I have good news, he said. I think I'm a father.

I wondered who the proud mother was: me or Maria?

Ahhh, I said, I think I hear the babies now.

Yes, the mother is feeding them, said Scott. Delicious worms. Yummm!

Maria wanted to go look right away. And Scott wanted to show her. So they softly crept to the back porch where the nest hung on a high lamppost sheltered from the rain and the wind. They heard the birds chirping but couldn't see a thing.

Maria shared a sad story about a dead baby robin in her driveway. Did that happen recently? I asked. No, she said, when I was a child. Sorry for bringing it up.

Well, I said, it's good to get these things off your chest. Here's my dead baby robin story.

I closed my eyes and remembered. There was a storm, I said. One of those great midwestern thunderstorms that knocks everything about. The wind howls and if you're a kid you just wanna go outside and stand in the drive a few moments till the rain starts pouring down.

After the rain, you go outside to look at all the dead worms on the driveway and all the tiny sticks and leaves blown all over the place. But - hey! - what was this on our driveway. Little me, little Ruthie, playful nature-lovin little Ruthie ran over only to find an entire nest - twigs sticks gum wrappers and all - right there on our driveway in Cleveland Heights, Ohio - with four tiny naked baby robins howling for mama right there on the pavement.

Carefully, o so carefully, I put the little darlings back in the nest and brought them inside.

Thinking clearly, I went and got a wad of cotton to keep the little darlings warm throughout the night. The next morning I would feed them with an eye-dropper.

When morning came, I leaped out of bed only to find each and every one of the baby robins dead.

My father was upstairs getting ready for work, lathering his face.

Dad, I said, my baby robins died.

You smothered them to death, Ruthie, he said, pulling the razor over his stubble.

They were so darn cute.

Thanks for your kind comments.....

Last nite before settling in to watch Hitchcock's film Marnie (the master makes an early appearance in silhouette and big belly), I sent out an all-points bulletin about my latest Guest Column (typos and all) in the Doylestown-PA-based Intelligencer newspaper.

This morning before leaving for the shore, nice comments poured in.

The top article in today's Times is about very old people, the most successful old people in the world. They're wealthy men and women hovering around 90 who live in Laguna Beach, CA and play bridge. These odds-defying people are both sociable and intelligent. Click here.

Missing: Bowl of unsalted peanuts

I love to eat and drive at the same time. As a child my father forbad his 6 children to eat in the car. So much for senior citizen rebellion (moi).

Was feeling hungry but needed to drive to the bank to miss rush hour traffic, so I packed a bowl of peanuts, a Stayman apple, and a bottle of water to keep me happy while I rode twenty minutes to my bank.

When I got in the car, NO peanuts. Taking a cursory look back in the house, I could not find them, so I dutifully poured another handful and drove off, munching away.

Whenever I leave home, I back slowly out of the drive so I won't kill any of my fine neighbors and I take a long look at my house. I do love my house and I gaze lovingly at it when I pull out the drive. My people at various times have lived in:

shtetls or ghettoes
concentration camps
tents in the desert
wooden farmhouses in Hungary where they had blond hair and blue eyes and read during the long day while they watched the flocks of sheep

But nowhere could I find the glass bowl of peanuts.

I'm driving in the fast lane going up Huntingdon Pike, there's a mass of cars, we pass Holy Redeemer Hospital on the right with a lovely statue of one of The Redeemers out front and I'm munching away on my new bowl of peanuts when suddenly I hear the sound of glass shattering.

Hmmm, I think. Had I left the bowl on the back of my car it would've shattered much earlier. But, yes, I think, that's probably what happened. Possibly in another dimension, not here, b/c there's no glass in my driveway.

Life is a mystery. But I don't mind. Do you?

The Surprise of a New Day

Can someone tell me why Memorial Day weekend is this weekend and not at the end of May? I am simply not ready to celebrate. Am still shaking off the long cold winter and lack of color. One of my red poppies came up yesterday. I was walking home from Scott's next door and saw this huge red dot in the middle of my garden. I had no idea what it was. I actually thought it was one of those shiny red stop signs on the back of a bike!

It's like I have to reinvent myself every morning. Does this ever happen to you? It's as if I've been so busy in the middle of the night, ostensibly sleeping, but maybe my spirit, unbeknownst to me, travels the cosmos, tiptoeing across the moon and the stars, inhaling fragrances unknown to us earthly creatures.

Woke up early so I could check online to see how my Guest Column looked in the Intelligencer. Unfortunately, they listed contents of the entire paper online except for the Guest Column so I'm now in negotiations to get it listed.

A Letter to the Editor appeared on the page next to mine. It was written by my former boss when I worked at a local day camp. I submitted a comment to his Letter. You can read it here.

I'd written a long newspaper article about him and his day camp - Willow Grove Day Camp - on Davisville Road for one of the local papers, either the Intell or the Public Spirit. I traced the history of Willow Grove and the ground the camp was built upon, the former Lichtenstein Family Dairy Restaurant and Summer Cabins for the heat-weary families from Philadelphia who trolleyed down to the farm.

What a great experience that was, writing the story and getting paid $27.50 for it.

One more God Rant & Then I'll Shut up

Dear Lord,

Please forgive me for not believing in You. I humbly swear it is not b/c religions distort your Holy Presence to serve their best interests which are usually in the name of hatred and not of love. I do know, Dear God, this is not your fault.

You or your imagined presence guided me thru my long travails with manic-depression before I was set free. For this I am deeply grateful. I erroneously - and I must say GRANDIOSELY - felt this was due to Your Intervention, yes, Divine Intervention. How can I have been so grandiose, fancying myself Your Pet, Your Beloved, Your Favored Child. Ahh! Christ! How I hate my naivete.

This morning when I was on the phone with my wonderful friend Freda (I am so thankful for her presence in my life) I told her I had given up the great burden of believing in God, that is, in You, Dear Lord. I told her my relief is palpable, as if a clogged chamber of my brain has been lightened.

And, lo, no sooner were the words out of my mouth than a flock of blackbirds settled themselves on my front lawn.

There they were, a flock of blackbirds, yes, I did think of the Wallace Stevens poem 13 blackbirds, how could I not, as each one settled himself down in the tall green grass and began pecking away at the earth.

I heard myself laugh aloud as they all floated down, coming in as if right on cue as I spoke to my beloved friend Freda.

And then, with nary a moment to spare, they looked up and sailed as one to the nearby telephone wire where they paused a moment on their endless flight to look over to where they had just been.

I watched them and wondered what they were thinking.

Only God knows.

Love,
Your Humble Ruthie

Bravo Peggela!

One of our stalwart group members - hey did you know I run the premiere support group in the Philadelphia area for folks with mood disorders & their loved ones? - is Peggela who may or not be confused with Pegasus the Flying Horse. Our Peg goes everywhere to help other members who need a good buddy to get them going thru their long and miserable depressions.

Months and months ago Peg took "Laura" under her big golden wing. Laura's depression was one of those horrible treatment-resistant babies, but finally - oh praise the lord and pass the ammunition - finally Laura went on - ta-da! - Parnate, an oldie but goodie - and is 100 percent back.

The sweet sound of success. Can you see me doffing my yarmulke to Our Peg?

We may not be famous but we sure are good! / Husband Poem

On the third Saturday of every month, our Coffeeshop Writers' Group gathers around a couple of tables to read our latest work to one another and receive feedback.

I love this group!

Six folks showed up yesterday including a new man, Lee, who writes impromptu poetry while serving customers at the diner he's worked at for many years. One time he wrote some terrific lines on a cardboard box. Before he could retrieve them, the box had been shipped halfway across the country. Now he makes a point of carrying around a tiny black notebook in which he jots down stanzas. It reminded me of my father's pocket Old Testament he carried around during World War II.

One of our poets is addicted to caffeine. I have never seen this woman without a cup of coffee in her hands. She's a beautiful woman and a prolific poet who is always fishing for compliments from the group. She read one of her most recent poems to us, got great feedback, but needed, by the end of the meeting to make her usual statement: I'm such a terrible poet I think I should give it up.

I said nothing but let everyone else soothe her. One of my modus operandi in life is I don't like being manipulated.

In the beginning of the Writers' Group I ask: Who has something they want to share. Five out of six hands went up. The readings, as always, were utterly fascinating. One of our two garbage men, Bob, sang a country -western song he wrote. What an imagination! He also read a peerless poem.

Bob, I said to him, you have no idea about this but your poem is very sexual.

He laughed and looked around in confusion as I pointed out the erotic details. My daughter Sarah, who has visited our poetry group, taught me about unconscious sexuality in poetry.

Our writers' group gives people confidence. The confidence to write.

WE REMEMBER OUR HUSBANDS WHEN THEY DIE

When you were my husband, Millard,
I tried to love you
but failed
there wasn't much to love
other than your Chinese eyes the color of
far-off rivers I never got to see
or your soft long-fingered hands
you balled into fists to pound the table
when your billfold went missing

I thought the art class might cure you
from your misery and hate
We hung up the charcoal nudes over my typewriter
but you refused to believe they were any good
maybe they looked too much like me

when you died last week
I went upstairs and took out the suit jacket
you left here last summer
examined it for traces of the man you grew into

without me

the pockets were empty
the label read Bobzien's of
Oklahoma City
my fingers searched
hungrily for any trace of you
so I could love you:
the mark of a pen
a business card in your pocket

I must content myself with a
few white hairs fallen on your back
I love you not enough to
bury my cheek in your sleeve
as I remember our wedding day
forty years earlier
your jacket, then, smaller, lighter weight,
encompassing a bright pink shirt
hiding your smooth hairless chest.