Hanging out with the Demings - photos of Grace at the creek

Last time Dan and I went for this same walk, I taught Grace about Moss.

Feel how soft it is, I told her.

Now, she bends down and insists we all feel how soft it is.

It's great to know I have a good influence on her.


We walked thru the Utility Yard of Upper Moreland Township. This is the bridge over the creek. Last week she called it "a river," which she learned about in the many books she reads. Ex-libris: Grace Deming.

Here's a photo of 2-yo Grace I snatched off FB, as are all the other shots.

NO DUMPING read the sign. Note the TVs that were dumped.  Grace carried this little stick along with her. We walked thru my backyard, thru the parking lot of Keystone Screw, then stopped to look at the new office furniture store Premier Office Solutions, which looks almost ready to open.

Dan predicted, probly correctly, that it would go outa biz b/c of its poor location - Davisville Road, Willow Grove. They feature Herman Miller Office Furniture, which we saw when we peeked in the windows.

Dan has Herman Miller in his basement and he can't get out.

For Nicole, who is quite pregnant, no chair is comfortable for her. Baby Max keeps nighttime hours. Last nite, in utero Max heard Grace come into the room and got excited.

My sister Donna, who studied to be a hair stylist, gave me a haircut. She did a great job. I wanted to pay her by paying for an on-demand movie but she wasn't in the mood to watch. She had to get up at 4 the next morning.

When my kids were little I took them on this very same walk, nature-lover that I am. In fact, when I drive along today I can identify all the nature spots where I'd go and often pick up stuff for my home. Once, when we lived at Village Green Apts, I put some gorgeous multi-colored mushrooms on the windowsill. Next morning there were bugs all over the place.

Scott, who visited before the Demings left, said that the crick we visited is undoubtedly the same as the one that runs through the back of the Giant Supermarket.


When Grace was exploring my house she saw the Replogle on my coffee table.

"Where's Japan?" she asked.

When I asked, her mom said someone gave her a doll from Japan.

I call that brilliant.

I had another consult with Giant nutritionist May Ann Moylen. My blood sugar readings were all over the place. That's b/c I hadn't been eating balanced meals. So, this morning here's what I had for breakfast:

cold baked salmon, small salad, 4 rice crackers.

When I got home from the walk my sugar was an excellent 87.

BUT I have to think before I eat, planning carefully what to eat.

I no like that.

Coffeeshop Writer's Group - welcome Arlene Walsh - Two poems: The Sewing Box and Sheared-Off Fronts

You mean, today is almost over? How many days left in this Book of Numbers?

Good turnout at the coffeeshop. The three women opposite me had been bitten, smitten by a bug that kept them down for more than a week.



I didn't pull out my camera until we were almost finished. Simply forgot about it.

Didn't get a picture of newcomer Arlene Walsh who I plucked like a ripe red rose from a terrible writing class we took at Abington Adult Evening School. The teacher gave us awful writing assignments and talked continuously about herself.

Arlene wrote a really fine short story that she absolutely must publish. It's about low lifes. Great dialog and very funny. Remind me to send her some publishing links.

Here's Arlene Dahl, the only famous Arlene I can think of, though the dance commentator of the New Yorker was named Arlene something.

This Dahl is still alive, born in 1925.


Arlene Croce, born in 1934. We should read a few lines from this terrific writer. 


Here we are when last we met. Marf couldn't make it today. Bugged out! As was Kym. Hmmm, wonder if she read about the Home Invasion in Bensalem, which is where she lives. A man was targeted and three masked men broke into his house. I won't tell you the ending except that funeral arrangements are being made.

Curiously, me, the one with the lowered immune system from my kidney antirejection meds hasn't a single sniffle.

Linda wrote a wonderful poem called A Former Co-Worker. It was hilarious and moving. I want it for the Compass, which we're working on now.

Beatriz wrote an essay about birds who stay here for the winter. An amazing passage talked about a gall on goldenrod made by a mother fly to keep her darling little would-be maggots safe from harm. The gall gets as thick as wood, she said.

The birds gobble up the delicious interior when food is scarce.

This morning I saw a flaming red cardinal from the kitchen window. Wasn't sure if it was bird b/c it stayed so very long on the forsythia bush. What else could it be, I thought? A bloody rag?

Reminds me of part of a movie I watched on Cozi TV today while I biked to lower my blood sugar.

Agnes of God, starring Anne Bancroft as mother superior (I thought it was Rosaline Russell with the deep voice), Jane Fonda as a psychiatrist and Meg Tilly (who dat?) as the sheltered young nun who didn't know how babies were made.



Fonda always had a cigarette in her hand. Are nuns allowed to smoke? Scuse me, I'll just be a minute. Am gonna ask God.

"Carly, are you laffing again?" I said when I saw her getting her tea.

She looked great, as always, and shared the first draft of a short short story written mostly in dialog. How come I think dialog is spelled like dialogue. Beatriz can figger this out with her iPod.

Carly wants to write a poem about her hearing aid. Carly, I said, you can write a poem about anything.

Witness my two at blog's end.

Something new happened at the Coffeeshop. Music and commercials were being piped in like gas at Auschwitz. In a huff, I waltzed over to the Customer Service Dept and talked to an young man named PJ. Upshot was that it's Corporate doing it.

At the end of our group, Carly, Donna and I went upstairs and scheduled with Kevin for private rooms on the second floor. We got most of what we wanted.

Now, for your reading edification, I will post two absolutely marvelous poems that should win me the poet laureate prize of the entire western world.

But, in a daring move, I will continue writing after that, so stick with me, kids!

 
THE SEWING BOX

When I open the heart-shaped box with beckoning flowers
I am frightened
I cannot sew.

My jeans have ripped
and must be fixed
with trembling hands I pick up
a pin cushion stuck like a porcupine
with needles
some still dangling with threads from
long ago

Lifting up one with the largest eye I can find
I see a burn mark at the end
meaning only one thing:
Sarah or Dan had a splinter
and I removed it with this very needle.

Where? Their tiny pink feet?
Their delicate fingers?

And that made me remember the tics
we picked from our bodies and heads
when we walked the Pennypack.

Such panic back then
back when we were young
and knew nothing of the insults
the world would bring.

Now I sit cross-legged on the bed
watching a film noir
and trying to mend my favorite pair of jeans
if only the thread goes in.



THE FRONTS SHEARED OFF

Hurricane Sandy taught us the relativity of safety,
of living in houses that, to her, were made of toilet paper
As I lay falling asleep at night,
bedroom facing the street,
I picture the yellow walls of my house
ripped away
not by violence
but with imagination
melting away like the snow

So here I am revealed to all
in my pajamas, curled up on my side,
under the tiger blanket used by father
when he lay dying
a feather comforter on top of that.

The observer sees me on the second floor
in the master bedroom where there has
only been one master since the day I moved in.

The house is quiet at night.
I listen for sounds.
Why that car zooming down the street
in the wee hours?

I sit up.
Have I taken my immunosuppressants?
I see them on the kitchen table
closed up for the night in their turquoise case.

So tired. My kidney can wait.

After the group, I pulled into the Upper Moreland library. There is nothing worse than not being immersed in a good book.

Since I couldn't remember a single good author, I checked the new books. Checked out the autobiography of Greg Allman. Look how cute he is with his little scruffy chin beard. Also got one of my beloved religious books - this one about Mary, after her son is crucified.

And since the library sells books, I decided to make a huge donation by purchasing the bottom book The Revisionist by Helen Shulman.

It cost a dime.

Roll the photos, Ruthie!

I find American flags irresistible. This one was right outside the library.

At first I forgot my camera was in my pocket and then I remembered. Joy!

Upper Moreland Township Municipal Building.

The reason I was walking was cuz I was trying to lower my blood sugar. At the Giant, Carly bought a six-pack of caramel pretzels from Asher candies. Scrumptious. I dipped them into my decaf which I doctored up with powdered cocoa, nutmeg and cinnamon. On Ada's Outing we visited the candy factory in Sellersville, PA.

Front of the Upper Moreland Municipal Building. I love the majestic columns, don't you?

To get to the library you've gotta drive thru the police department parking lot. Daringly, I unbuckled my seat belt before I got out of my car. I can't stand wearing my seat belt and usually unbuckle it when I'm within five minutes of my destination.

But officer! I was just scratching myself.

This is how I looked earlier today when I was two hours younger. My sister Donna gave me a great haircut.

Scott, make it a good photo, I said.

What? I always take fantastic photos, he said.

Wanted to get cross-legged on the bed as I did in the sewing poem.

They looked something like this.

My dream about ND's former office at 404 Davisville Road

New Directions once had an office at 404 Davisville Road, Willow Grove, PA. Damian LaRosa was the landlord. We had the office a good three years until I gave it up. Why not work in my own home instead of heading for an office?

Last night I was back at the office in a long vivid dream. It was not the same place. The building was cavernous, like an airplane hanger with cinderblock walls.

I set about making my desk in the front of this large building. Damian was not there. I walked back and forth looking at all the tenants.

A sallow-looking man with gaunt cheeks was sitting in his office. Just one look at the man and he gave you the willies. Looked like some weasel in a film noir. He glanced up at me and paid me no mind. Then he began to play loud rock music that blasted throughout the building. He had a big white car, a Lincoln perhaps, parked outside up against the wall.

Sarah was there. I couldn’t always recognize her and would go in search of her and ask myself, Is that Sarah? She wore a backpack. Once, after she had disappeared, I asked Where have you been? She said she’d been downstairs, the basement I suppose. She was very officious, knowing exactly what she was doing.

There were children there too, part of a large family.

Suddenly I realized I didn’t belong here. I didn’t have a key to the building as I did when I worked at 404 Davisville Road and wondered how I'd gotten in. I began to collect my stuff. I had a big pile of papers. But then again, were they mine? I wasn’t sure if it was my handwriting. I didn’t recognize anything I had written.

There was a huge bin filled with movies – videocassettes – ostensibly for our Movie Nights which we used to have at 404.

How would I ever carry out all these heavy things?

When I awoke from the dream I said, This is one dream I must write down. It seemed – what? – prophetic? A hint of what it’s like to have your brain go awry. Alzheimer's? Dementia?

Before the dream left me, I went into my upstairs office here on Cowbell Road and typed it up. Imagine if I had to trek all the way over to 404 Davisville to do my typing. There would’ve been nothing left.

Becky Shoulberg, MSW, talks about "When Helping Hurts"

Becky last spoke to us in 2006 when she was a social worker at Eagleville Rehab for various addictions.

She was a wonderful speaker, very tactful b/c caregivers of the mentally ill were listening in and relating to everything she said. Just about every word she spoke resonated with me. I'm the caregiver of the hundreds of people who come to us each year.

Becky currently helps older adults stay in their own homes. I certainly believe in that. Helen, our Daytime Leader, recently attended the funeral of her 93-yo Aunt Ruth, who stayed in her home, with much help, until the end.

I visited my own 90-yo mom earlier today. She didn't hear the door bell ring so I started yelling Mom! Mom! and was about to call her on my cellphone when she came to the door. She heard me yelling.

Becky's pointers:

Take c/o yourself first. Don't become a person who "needs to be needed."

Set boundaries. Is it a "want" or a "need?"  Say things like, "I can't do it now" - "I'll do it later" - "No, you can do it yourself." Don't be afraid to say No.

Pick and choose what you wanna do.

A man down the street from me moved in with his newly widowed mother who is 86. Mike's mom began to rely on him for everything. He's a working man and can't stay home all day to care for her. He insisted she get back in her car and drive. She'd had a hip replacement. And she does. Mike did a good job encouraging his mom's independence.



My friend Walter still drives at age 95. But don't ask me to get in his car.

By not helping someone you may be doing them a favor, encouraging them to depend on themselves.

All this is true for folks with mood disorders. Sometimes a person may be so depressed it's difficult for them to do things themselves.

Determine what they can and cannot do.

Stop being nice when you don't feel like it. I really like this one. Caregivers do have feelings. I remember when my dad was dying of a brain tumor at home and was confined pretty much to his bedroom. This was in 1980.

He asked me to go out and get him a Burger-King.

I totally flipped out. "I'm tired of being your slave!" I said and left the house. My mom was his slave.

This shows the pressure that caregivers are under, even with a person like my dad who we knew had 6 to 9 months to live.

Give as long as you enjoy it, said Becky. Stop when it causes you pain.



Our gift to Becky was a glass paperweight from Kremp's and

an African Violet.

Mental Health Awareness Bumper Sticker - Tally's Alley

Yes, like the rest of us, Woody Allen ain't no kid anymore. Read this hilarious column he wrote in the NY Times on being a hypochondriac.

After a hearty breakfast of lima bean and pea soup (Rob, this photo is for you!)

B/c I have insulin-dependent diabetes from my antirejection meds, I often eat soup for breakfast.

Drove my car over to TiresPlus on nearby Davisville Road in Willow Grove, PA, to get my oil changed.

Why, I asked service manager Gary Lipshutz, do I think the name of this place is Avellino's?

They were here a dozen yrs ago, he said.

Wow, do I ever live in the past, I told him.

B/c I can't stand to sit still in the middle of the day, I went wandering.

Right next door was Artistic Screen Design, a super-successful place that puts designs on T-shirts, cups, bumper stickers, pens, you name it.

Perfect place to have our Mental Health Awareness bumper sticker, designed by our own Katy Temple, printed up. They do the design work right there but send it out to be printed.

Here's Adriann with Katy's bumper sticker up on her computer screen.

Here's Cheryl Clark, co-owner. Very lovely people to work with.

Their printing annex.

Cheryl designed this bumper sticker for her own car.

All bumper stickers are MAGNETS!  Never knew dat, did you?

Now for those of you who only wanted to look at the bumper sticker, you can get back to work.

But for others who are so captivated by my writing, please continue. Stories are everywhere to be found!

I learned some valuable info from Mailman Bob who had a small earring in each year.

This house was once owned by Mr Taliaferro. Davisville Road once housed many African-Americans, including one Jerusha Stowe, who ages ago, I used to visit. Her demolished Davisville Road house is now a field.

Mr T was a very old man. Mailman Bob told me he spent his last days in a nursing home. His property has been bought by a firm across the street that makes BEARINGS.

I'm gonna send an email to commissioner Sam Valenza to ask the name of the company. Sam's great, even though he's a Republican, and always writes back fast. He didn't know.

Just drove by. Scheerer Bearing Corp, Willow Grove Plant. See website. 

I always loved the sign "Tally's Alley," which was lying in the corner in some mud. When I propped it up here, I thought of taking it home. But what would I do with it? Once I had a shiny bowling pin from the huge bowling alley that became the Willow Grove mall. Finally there was nothing to do but throw it away. Probly would've fetched $10 on eBay.

Side door of Tally's house.

Taken from front window where the stained glass on the front door glows. Can you imagine all this being knocked down?

Yes, everything has a lifespan.

Boy, is it hot outside, I said as I approached home. My outdoor thermo read 60.


How'd you like to go outside for a breath of fresh air.... in China?

Walk in the Pennypack

Who's this? My grandmother? Oh no! It's me, The Fearless Blogger.

As I wrote to my group this morning: A little foggy outside now? Don't let that stop you from going on a nature walk... and taking photographs, if you wish.

As a person w diabetes, I brot Glucose Tabs in my pocket. Blood sugar when leaving home was 143. After walking an hour it was 112. Normal is 80 to 120.

What beautiful things we saw:

A tree with a mind of its own.

When 2-yo Grace visited Bubby yesterday, we went on a nature walk behind the house and up toward the high school. I showed her Moss, which she was not familiar with. She found many mounds of moss. I had her bend down and feel how soft it was.

Hard to see but numerous trees had fallen, probably due to Hurricane Sandy. Life goes by so fast we've already forgotten about it.

Carol, I said, I didn't know you walked your dog along the Creek Trail of Pennypack.

Oh, I've been coming here for years, she said. Presley is a hound dog and absolutely gorgeous. Carol works at the library. Like me she was bundled up as it was deceptively warm but the dampness got to you. Lemme check my outdoor thermometer:  50.

Cowbell Road dogwalkers Tony and Carolyn and Bailey. I told em to goggle Ruth Deming and they'd find out more about me than they wanted to know.

They remembered Scott's late dog Spanky, the runt of the litter who fit in the palm of his hand. Did I mention that at SEPTA a tiny tabby kitten followed him into the carhouse and the workers adopted him? They named him Seymour. Perhaps he'll be their therapy cat.

 Horses came thru here. I told Rob this morning I'm only reading 3 books. One of them is War Horse, which the play is based on. It's a YA book. (Young adult). Rob, please email me the name of the book you're reading. Sounds good!

Believe it or not, Ripley, this soft beige patch is a fungus or lichen. I said to Scott, maybe it can be made into an antirejection med. They're all made from fungi! Here's my tacrolimus.

I told pharmacist Bobby Matza that he's in my kidney memoir. He freaked out.

I

Life forms don't wait too long to colonize. Hmmm, I wonder how my bacteria are doing all over my body.

Fallen trees are everywhere, David Robertson! He's the director of Pennypack. Signs are posted about a private hunt next weekend. It this were the short story The Lottery by Shirley Jackson, they'd be hunting you and me.

Rotten to the core. A perfect place for the elves to live.

He didn't need no hat. I told Scott about watching entire movies on YouTube and he watched a film noir he'd never heard of. Last nite I watched the wonderful Pygmalion, based on the Bernard Shaw play, starring Leslie Howard as Prof Higgins and Wendy Hiller debuting as Eliza Doolittle. Fab! Fab! Fab!

How great it would be, I said to Scott, to have this in my yard and sit on it. You'd need a forklift, he said, to bring it home. He estimated there were over 100 rings on it. We all have to go some day. Woody Allen wrote a funny column in today's Times about his fear of disease and dying.

Beautiful ruins on Pennypack Lane on the way to our trail.

I waded in with my eyes.

On the way home we returned books to the library. When we passed Manhattan Bagel I told Scott every time we pass by I eat a pumpernickel bagel with scallion cream cheese, just like I eat a couple of doughnuts at Weinrichs' Bakery.

Don't you do the same thing, Scott!

NO, he said.