An Afternoon with Mom and three sisters - Two poems: Two Aging Sisters - The Four Sisters

Grrr! Can't find my pink camera. Took lots of photos at mom's house.

Ah, just found it, guided by Donna, who spent the nite again. Twas in my pocketbook, which I'd checked three times.

For the tekkies among us, buy this chip to locate lost items.  Thanks Marcy!

Great news! My short story The Last Lawn Party was just published after half a dozen rejections. Loosely based on relatives in West Virginia.

Tomro I'll have a Letter to the Editor published in the Inquirer on World Bipolar Day. I've been conversing via email with the editor, name of Bill Reed.

Since Patty Duke died today at age 69 of sepsis from a ruptured intestine, I asked him to add a short graf about that. He used his own words, including that she'd won an Academy award.

Marcy sent me a link about Patty made by her actor son. Let's watch it now. Popcorn please!

Bill Reed, who I picture looking like Bill Nighy

added something to my Letter that I did not like at all.

He wrote that the date of March 30 as World Bipolar Day was chosen bc Vincent van Gogh suffered from bipolar disorder.

His diagnosis is complex.  General thinking is that he had temporal lobe epilepsy. I emailed this link to Bill Reed.

He removed the van Gogh part. I emailed him a thank-you.

***

Am watching a film on Netflix called The Way Back. Almost a dozen people escape from a hard labor camp in the wilds of Siberia. What a horrible place, where a gang of tattooed inmates run the place from the inside.

Makes it easier on the brutal guards.

I've got 23 minutes left.

***

Is there anything I might put on my camera so that when I misplace it I can find it? Maybe a very long string?

Yes, I think if I ever find it again, I will do dat!

Thanks for listening!

My sister Donna slept over last night. Great fun. I wasn't the only one in the house.

Photos please

 Donna adjusted the wabbit ears so she could get good reception on my TV. See them dangling from the dresser?

I kept coming into the bedroom and riding my bike cuz I'm eating all sorts of stuff that raises my blood sugar.

 We hung out in our jammies.

 Earlier this evening, I took my pitcher of garbage out to the compost heap and actually screamed softly when I saw someone coming through the same porch door as I was.

It was a reflection of myself.

Basically I'm very brave living alone and not being scared.

Hold on! What's that sound? 

TWO AGING SISTERS

Donna's friend Joyce
who died on the roof
said, I can just see us
two old ladies
knitting

Donna and I talk
on the red couch
Daddy is here and
so is God.

Words are often
forgotten, completed
by the other. She
brews hot coffee
and drips it on
her freckled chest

A beauty still, she
sits in lotus position
her feet bare
the Buddha on
the red couch.



THE FOUR SISTERS

Daddy was a risktaker
never played it safe
A man who rode on
the handlebars of
a blue bike
backwards, he
moved us into a
restricted neighborhood
in Shaker Heights.

"Kikes get out" they
wrote on the house
where the owner
of Sherwin's Bakery
of creme-filled
chocolate doughnuts
lived.

We frolicked in our
front yard and the
Turnocks next door
got their first look
at Jews, "Why, they
look like just like us,"
they reported to Jane
and Larry. We learned
to like "shaved ham"
from them. And keep
butter out year round.

We survived all sorts
of crises. Dad stopped
showing up at Passover
seders, left us mid-life, bald,
emaciated from the
cigarette-smoking
cancer that ate him
alive.

I've forgotten the
sound of his voice
or how it felt when
he put his hand
on my shoulder.

Duck duck goose
we played with the
neighbors in the
back yard. Put on
plays, built tree
forts, fell in love
heard on the evening
news of a neighbor boy
shot dead by a woman
with a Swiss cheese brain.

Tragedies sifted their
way into the elegant
restricted neighborhoods
where the Queen
in Alice in Wonderland
might have played
croquet on the
smooth green lawns.

Our tragedies
came with the morning
blizzards, and departed
after the thaw.

Embedded in the four
of us - Ellen, Donna,
Lynn and Ruthie -
and in mom, at the
head of table -
are silent reminders of
wounds so deep
they only come out
in dreams.

Mom's face at 93
is surprisingly beautiful
her network of wrinkles
like a road map of the United
States and Parris Island
where her beloved trained
to be a Marine.

His presence hovers above
his shadow trailing us
every moment of the day.

My dream last night - Poem: Rainy Monday

Rainy and 46 degrees, said the WRTI-FM announcer. But are we gonna let that stop us?

Then he launched into a rousing piece of music. I snapped off my bedside radio and awoke for the day.

First I read the online NY Times, including an obit for a writer I really loved and had discovered ages ago.

Jim Harrison, whose lust for life — and sometimes just plain lust — roared into print in a vast, celebrated body of fiction, poetry and essays that with ardent abandon explored the natural world, the life of the mind and the pleasures of the flesh, died on Saturday at his home in Patagonia, Ariz. He was 78.

Went online to borrow one of his poetry books and his film Legends of the Fall made from one of his books.

The dream was so real I had no idea I was dreaming.

Was in a state of great fright, brought on by the book I'm reading



My house was being buried by snow. I woke up in the dream and walked down my carpeted upstairs hallway to glimpse what was going on outside.

The floor rocked as I walked, so much so that I grabbed the bannister so I wouldn't fall over.

My word, I thought, we must be having an earthquake. Hope we're not buried alive!

The latter thought probly came from an audio book I'm listening to in the car, where a man is buried in quicksand.

Hold on for one sec, while I wright (sic) a quick poem now.

RAINY MONDAY

Sounds delight me now.
Tires sloshing down the street.
A bird, like a whistle, calls
from an unseen tree.

Nothing stops him
in mating season.
Rain, from my upstairs
window, taps like Santa
on my roof

A calm sound, an
ancient sound, that
makes me a child
again, safe as
Daddy tucking me
under the covers
to sleep.

Two dinners on Easter Sunday - My house - The Deming House - Poem: He is Risen

 My lamb stew has been simmering for two days.

Lamb cubes from Whole Foods -3 cans Rienzi plum tomatoes, sans salt - carrots, onions, garlic, umami beans, celery, and a heaping of Red Wine.

Scott and I loved it!

 A nap after lunch - gosh, I was tired - and then a walk at the Pennypack. Was thinking of writing David Robertson, the director, and saying Loads of people today in your back yard.

 Wore these sneaks when I went to the kids' house.

No one liked them.

Bubby! cried Max when I walked in.

He likes snakes and has em on his T shirt. He's holding Grace's sunglasses.

After dinner, I put on the sunglasses, walked into Grace's room where everyone was gathered and said, Help! I'm blind. I can't see a thing.

Bubby, laffed Grace. You've got my sunglasses on!

I told Max - who wants to be either a Snake or a Lizard or a Fire Truck when he grows up - that I saw a snake when Scott and I were walking on our street.

What I didn't tell him was that the beatiful open-mouth snake lay dead in the middle of the sidewalk. I touched him to see if he'd move, then lifted him up and tossed him into the mulch pile so critters can eat him.

Caw Caw, says the vulture.

 Max is going thru my backpack.

Paper, he said when he pulled out some pads.

Pens.

"More pens!" he cried.

 He has very deft fingers. The Easter Bunny brought him an Easter basket filled with plastic eggs. Each egg was filled with a different treat - jelly beans, a Reese Peanut Butter Cup, and a Hershey's Kiss.

In an experiment, Max is pushing the spilt jelly beans off this stair and into his hand. Nicole agreed that he has and she used the word kinesthesia.

She's been subbing in Special Ed all over Bucks County and loves it!!!

 Dinner time! Superb food. Ham, mashed taters, green beans, mac/cheese, and a biscuit left over from b'fast Dan made.

 Max, said Mom. What's your full name.

Max Abacus Poopie! he said.

We cracked up. The boy is hilarious. His dad's son.

Dan was doing the dishes. He remarked on all the processed foods ruining the planet like the Keurig coffee containers.  I told him in the book I'm reading The Man from Beijing, one of the main characters Birgitta, from Sweden, takes a trip to Beijing on a hunch, seeking the killer of 11 people in a tiny town in Sweden.

When she arrives in Beijing, she can scarcely breathe, the air is so toxic.

You'll get used to it, they tell her.

We waxed philosophic, Dan and I in the kitchen, when we were all alone.

With Nudge the cat, he reminded me.

We are so fortunate, I said to Dan, who is recovering from laryngitis. He hopes he won't have to go to a doctor.

I touched his shoulder. You'll be fine soon, Dan. I said. He's still my baby boy and I worry about him.

We have homes, jobs, great families, people we love.  And, I did NOT say, Jesus died for our sins.

 

Jesus died for you and me, is a "poster" Grace drew. And who is Jesus, I asked. Grace looked at Nicole.

He's the son of God, said Nicole.

Grace repeated it.

Listen to For Unto Us A Child is Born. Commercial first. 

HE IS RISEN

I open up my red door
where the choirs proclaim
He is risen
He is risen

Black crow from Nancy's lawn
Gray jacko from Bea's back yard
Woodpecker on the last of my maples
Cardinals swooping hither and yon
beneath the infinitude of gray sky
and sleeping Full Moon

He is risen
He is risen

Watcher of the skies,
I stand starstruck
on my little porch
smelling my lamb stew
in the kitchen
while my stereo plays
For Unto Us A Child is Born

Wonderful! Counselor!
The Prince of Peace!

My house is a place of
warmth, of life, of flowers
blooming on the window sills

My thanks ring out to
The Mighty God
The Everlasting Father
Hear my plea
Will there ever be an
end to strife and poverty
and hunger on this
earth?

The infinitude of the sky
looks down as one lone
dove dips his head
in the birdbath

Funeral of Janet Taylor - September 21, 1959 - February 23, 2016 - Age 56

At the church they had a screen which showed photos of highlights of Janet's life.

As I headed to my car - Scott had given me direx to the Somerton United Methodist Church - I thought, OMG, they're gonna bury their daughter today.

 Paul Taylor. The caption read something like traveling to Paul's graduation from Cornell. He's an etymologist.

Janet and her mom were members of The Sweet Adelines, dedicated to "barbershop harmony."

At one of New Directions Bonfires at Tamanend Park, Janet and her mom Irene came, dressed in hillbilly clothes. They played a washboard and clanged together some pots and pans.

It was wonderful!

 I was looking around for her casket and then I saw the urn, next to her photo.

I'd brought my camera and was glad to see many other folks did too. 

Here's mom Irene Taylor. When I saw her, here's what I said, Oh, you look great, Irene. I stopped dying my hair a couple years ago. Do you know who I am?

You look familiar, she said.

Then I told her and she remembered me and said she was happy to see me.

Here's Lew Taylor, who did remember me and said, "I thought you'd come."

BTW, everyone was in really good spirits, talking and laughing, introducing one another. 

 Jonathan and his folks came up from VA, possibly the city of Radford.

Jonathan told me that lots of deer have given birth on their property. His folks bot him a camera/video cam and he photographed them.

Jonathan, 26, studies graphic arts online and designed the religious candles by the pulpit.

Jon's mom, Laura, talks to Patricia, younger sister of Janet. Patricia is a social worker. Her beautiful daughter came. She's in college.

 "The Country Gentlemen," a barbershop quartet were fantastic! They performed two religious songs.

This young feller was beautifully dressed in a grey shirt and grey sneakers.

I like em almost as much as the sneakers I painted last night. My neighbor Patrick liked em and told me not to wear them to the funeral, as did Scott.

Here's how I looked. Am wearing a sweater whose stains I painted over last night.

 Lew and Irene prepare to read a poem they wrote about her.

Lew said, Janet once asked me why I'm not more emotional?

Well, he was certainly emotional at his daughter's funeral. Lucky he had his white hanky with him.

Before they read the poem, he spoke briefly about her mental health issue and the med she took for it, a new one back then, prescribed by her doctor at Friends Hospital. He also thanked Project Transition and pointed to a couple of folks in the back from there. 

 Hard to see. This is a Rose that Janet painted for her dad.

A sheet was handed out called Remembering Janet.

Highlights: Janet Elizabeth Taylor, the first of our three children, passed away unexpectedly at her apartment in West Philadelphia.

Janet from her early childhood had always been precocious in many kinds of ways - particularly art and history. She was award a history medal by Frank Rizzo - there was a photo of that on the memory board.

Graduated from Swarthmore College where she was elected to Phi Beta Kappa.

Following graduation, awarded a no. of scholarships, she took one at the University of Pennsylvania, until she had to drop out due to illness.

She had always aspired to be a librarian, which she was for a period of time, but ultimately moved into a mental health program called Project Transition.

It served her well for 11 years until she was able to move into her own apartment.

Shortly before her death, she and her family had a lively dinner together which made it an even greater shock when she was found deceased. For her, we shall always be grateful as a person and a daughter.

May she be forever blessed.

Amen!

The pastor then asked us to come outside for the "committal."  There's her urn which will be buried alongside other "saints" of the church, he said.

He also mentioned that it's better than being buried  "the other way."

 What a glorious day! The magnolia was in bloom.

 Paul! Paul! I kept calling. I wanted to get a photo of her brother Paul. He's quite shy. I sat with him a few moments and told him a story of an insect collection I made in the eleventh grade.

At one point, we were asked to come forward and give memories of Janet.

This older gentleman rose from his seat and said he and Janet were pen pals.

I read my poem


ELEGY FOR JANET TAYLOR
March 26, 2016

Janet, this thing we call
Life gave you a hard ride
at the start
a beautiful girl strapped
like a rodeo rider to a
wild, cantankerous beast.

You held on,
tossed, over and over
down into the
chaos of a thunderous
mind
better to have been
born blind, but
what choice did you have?

Thorns dwelt deep
in your mind, drilling
its way through your
innocence, deeper
and deeper

Until merciful God
raised his fist and
cried Enough! And allowed
you to dwell in
the land of Shangri-La.

There, you read the books you loved,
painted a perfect rose,
dreamt of your
lost loves, and of
Adam, who won
your heart, then
perished like a
smashed window.

Swimming in the
pool back
home on Herschel
you watched the
clouds travel by

wondering
what it's like to be
old and fading
like your folks.

Never did you dream
that back home a
quick sharp pain, like
needles in a pincushion
would send you reeling,
tumbling
cartwheeling
all the way to
Heaven where a
gleeful God

awaited you.

“Spose I've got a
lot of explaining to
do,” he smiled. “You've
got the stuff of
the Saints of old.”

He kissed her
still warm cheek
and bid her have
a seat. She felt
whole for the
very first time
whole and
totally understood.

Delivering the Compass - "Everything is Copy" - Painting on the back porch

"Everything is Copy," is a term used by the late Nora Ephron. Her mom told her that. Her son, Jason Bernstein, was on Charlie Rose last night, which I happened to see LIVE in my bedroom, insteada on my laptop.

I was eating Triscuits. And sipping on some water. Then I recommenced my Henning Mankel book and made a bit of headway in Anne Tyler's Dinner at Homesick Restaurant for our Book Group.

I loved it the first time I read it, but can't remember a thing now. Muddling my way through while on my bike.

Jason Bernstein is making a film for HBO on his mom. Read about it here.

The secret of a happy life, said Nora, was to marry an Italian.

Nora and her husband Nicholas Pilgeggi.

Photos from delivering the Cp (that's how I abbreviate it)

Horsham Clinic

 I spose I could ask Dave M if this silo-looking bldg used to be a.... silo

 Sycamores line Butler Pike where the clinic is located on a beautiful space of land.

 Funeral home where Adam A from our group had his funeral. Died of some weird infection.

 

 My sister Ellen just emailed this foto from CNN. She titled it "It's not me."

This is a survivor from the Brussels attack on the phone and looks very much like Ellen!

The other bruised woman looks like my sister Donna.

What a terrible world we live in.

Below, a speeding SEPTA train carrying passengers "from coast to coast. So people get ready!"

Loller Academy is now the Hatboro township bldg.

 Major culling of my close. Darn, my fave PJs are ripped and torn. I'll make a couple rags out of em and toss the rest.

Scuse me for eating in front of you. The cheese is melted in the middle of this omelet.

Off to the Giant now for veggies for my lamb stew. It was a favorite when we lived in Cleveland. 

Thanks to Ed Quinn and Scott for giving me the okay to submit Valentine's Day to an online mag I've never heard of. Kind of a Hurricane.

Home from the Giant. Got new nail polish for Janet's funeral the morrow. The shop - Best Nails - has been there 20 years.

I just saw it when returning an audio book to the library.

My camera was ailing so I plugged it in the wall to have some iron installed. Needed to look nice for Janet's funeral.

Got my poem Clay published in Halcyon Days.  

  As a kid I made things in school out of clay. Then when I was 302d to MCES I resumed it. 

 Warm enuf today to PAINT on the back porch.

I wear this schmatta from Ellen Rosenberg

and painted until it was nearly dark.

 While cleaning out my clothes drawer I noticed one of my fave sweaters. It had two unsightly stains on the white part. So I painted the entire 'bib.' Not bad!

 On the other hand, I bought these formerly all-white sneakers at Walmart and since my paint jars were open I fancied em up.

Do I dare leave home wearing em? 

Your input please!

You NEVER write back. C'mon. Be a sport. Well, maybe you'd better not voice your opinion.

Gonna go to the DD, have a cup of Decaf and then submit my true story called Valentine's Day.