Ode to Judy Diaz - Fare thee well, White Clogs - Notecards by Barbara Rosenzweig

ODE TO JUDY

When we love someone
they will never die.
This morning I took my
breakfast on my screened-in
back porch.

Sat on Judy's white wicker
love seat and we looked upon
my vast green backyard. A
yellow swallowtail sailed by
as did a white cabbage butterfly
a destroyer.

Shall I call her a mentor?
Why not! I won't follow her
every move, of course, but I
promised never to forget her
we don't need a burial stone
for that nor a stack of New Yawkers
these dearhearts, as her friend Marie
knows, live forever in our hearts.

*

Mailed this to her son Michael and daughter/law Tory in Longmont, Colorado.

*

 Noticed these new dishrags and bought a Tupac.


This rapper was murdered. Murdered. Murdered.

Often considered the greatest rapper of all time, read about him here and listen to one of his famous songs here.

Absolutely heartbreaking!!!

Gonna throw out the below clogs which I wore for about 5 years. I could buy more, as Amazon has a record of all my purchases. Out they'll go with tonight's trash.

FARE THEE WELL WHITE CLOGS

That you can simply go online
adjust your eyeglasses and study
all the clogs available to buy.
Quickly you give up buying
products in America tho we've
discovered the old K-Mart
has become Home Decor.

Comfortable they were
like going out barefoot
Should I wear them
to bed like a Chinese princess?

Why not? With a glass of
golden orange juice on
the bedside table.

*

Well I'm certainly not gonna watch Robert Mueller in Congressional hearings. Worries are the Russians will interfere with our elections, he said.

*
My diabetes doctor has moved to a new office. Scott and I headed out to find it. We couldn't. We kept turning around and finally there it was: In a new medical facility that wasn't even finished.

Possibly I can find a new diabetes doctor. Why not?

*
Last night Scott and I heard Nancy Schnarr from Bryn Athyn talk about beekeeping at Pennypack Trust, one of their most popular programs, wrote Lauren Steele.



Real honeybees, who live 5 weeks, were not there. Instead Nancy used puppets. How clever!

Anecdotal evidence shows the value of bee stings in helping people with MS or arthritis or other autoimmune diseases.

"No beekeepers," said Nancy, "have arthritis because we are constantly getting stung and become immune." 

*
C'est ca, ladies and gentlemen, except I just remembered a book I'm reading.

I discarded A Man Called Ove, for our Book Club Selection. 

Instead I've grown fond of THE TEA PLANTER'S WIFE, wrin in 2015, by Dinah Jefferies, which takes place in CEYLON.

The main character, a young woman who marries a man 37 yrs older than herself, loves having sex. On their honeymoon, they stayed in their room all weekend.

I'm imagining tho that something comes between them - the unfamiliar population, the sense of discord she feels - and that sex will be a long time coming.

*

NOTECARDS BY BARBARA

As I walked into the

crowded basement

of the cabaret I spotted

her, a woman my age

with honey-blond hair

and a name tag around

her barely wrinkled neck

“Barbara Rosenzweig,” a

Jew like me, peddling her

watercolors and notecards.

Now that I’m no longer young

and the pet of various one-

night stands, I seek excitement

in various new ways, the hummingbird

levitating, the darting bats at

dusk, the algae in my birdbath

and Barbara’s notecards.

For fifteen dollars I buy Seashells

from the Jersey Shore. A pack of

five, wrapped like my new Animals

of the World calendar in cellophane.

The coffee here is good, I tell her.

May I get you a cup? Her husband

Aaron fetches a hot one as we

reminisce about our families

in the Holocaust. Her people

escaped Russia in 1924. Well

before Hitler, I say.

The Pograms, she counters.

I am sixty-nine,

she is a month older,

and somehow we learn my

son Dan was her math and science

student in middle school.

Quite a boy, her blue eyes sparkle. 

I rock with joy. 

You look like him! she smiles.

Is that when I decide to splurge

on the notecards? Once my

Fallingwater cards were the

love of my life, but nolo contendere,

the seashells beat all.

Remember the first time you were

at the beach, sand, unlike the prickly

grass and clover back home, sand

crunchy underfoot, can you feel

it, sticking like paste, and

foul on the tongue, gritty on

your teeth?  

I held a conch up to my ear

in Barbados,

the sound of the sea leaking

through, along with the

slow hiss of the beginning

of the universe, whose surface

I tred upon lightly,

lightly and gently

so as not to

fall in.

Carnaby Band at Masons Mill Park - Tiny houses are great bargains - Finished The Last Stone by Mark Bowden

Hold on. I have to wipe off my face. Loads of branches came down so I wheeled them into the backyard and dumped them. Perfect for a forest fire.

In fact, last night while watching GREAT SHOWS on POV I wondered how I'd get out of the house should there be a fire. Would lower myself out of the bedroom window and land on the prickly patch while the fire alarm screamed.

Now those houses are small and entire families live together just like the immigrants did when they first came over.

Scott brought our beach chairs to Masons Mill Park and we heard a wonderful band called Carnaby. It was just like being on the grounds of Golden Gate Park, swatting mosquitoes, and people watching.

These folks tho were oldsters.

Such wonderful faces.

I felt brief moments of ecstasy.



My sister Donna before they were drummed out of the Woodwinds Condos.

Dreadful paperwork this morning. My health insurance - Blue Cross - is to be paid electronically. I was bounced around by various paperwork experts - Adam, Shamika, and finally Sabrina who walked me thru the process.

We held hands as we entered various numerals into the correct spaces. Saduka? A crossword puzzle? Hopscotch?

Time now is 4:44, when Mom and Dad were married on Marlindale in Cleveland Heights. Mom wore a lovely purple dress, which she gave to Jade.



By golly, I think this is it.

*
Would you answer the phone if it was from Jessica McCann from a 717 area code.

Don't be silly.

*

If YOU could be an expert on anything, Dear Reader, what might it be?

I used to be a talented piano player which did not follow me into my eighth decade.

*
Finally finished the book by Mark Bowdon called THE LAST STONE.

I'm gonna do some more reading about the book. And the horrific crime that was never admitted to by the perpetrators.

Is this common?

All my focus went into reading the book instead of reading seven at once.

Honestly? It's a bit dull sticking to a single book.

Jessica McCann, what do you think about this?

THE LAST STONE by Mark Bowden

We're gonna prove Lloyd Welsh guilty if it takes
months of interrogation, fooling the 'fine man with a
conscience' who did the deed and give him a life
sentence.

Welsh planned he'd get a brief sentence and then
be out on the streets since he became a born-again
Christian while in prison.

Imprisoned now, we know he's still plotting to
be released, his chief interrogator
Dave Davis knows. 

The only way is to break out
with his creepy little eyes and partial moustache
and then what would he do?

The two little girls, Sheila 10 and elder sister Kate, 12, will never grow old
as they were repeatedly abused by the Welsh clan, odder folk you will never find.

Terrible things like this happen.
No one, not even God, knows why.

What to do when it's too hot to move!

The light was too bright when I photographed my salad with very unusual ingredients.

Leftover fried rice from the Giant, some well washed cabbage leaves from our garden, cheddar cheese, fresh tarragan, mushrooms, and fresh spring mix with baby kale.

Debra Lew Harder from WRTI-FM has a program about Coffee Classics every day.



She plays songs and listeners vote on which ones they like the best.

The Pastoral Symphony by Beethoven won. She named the different movements and I thought I might write a story about them.

Awakening of Cheerful Feelings
Scene by the brook
Merry gathering of country folk
Thunder, Storm
Shepherd's song. Cheerful and thankful feelings after the storm

HOW I wanted to drink coffee this morning, but it doesn't 'go' with my salad and previous egg omelet and I'm making a hot soup right now in the crock pot.

Perhaps you will excuse me. I'm taking Baby Kale upstairs - "Kale, darling, time to go upstairs with Mommy, where we'll lie on the bed and read together."

County workers fix the street while I loaf - Poem: New Jack Reacher Book

 Early this morning before the heat came in, I walked around the block. Signs said Get out of the way, we're coming through - Napoleon Bonaparte

 My favorite truck was the one with the yellow umbrella, matching their yellow shirts.

As you can see today was garbage day. Scott brought ours in very early.

A purple hibiscus appeared overnight. WHERE are you?

The guys with the umbrella remind me of my tiny clay sculpture of Simon Baniewicz. He would have loved being alive, but cancer killed him. I wrote a novel about him which has been rejected near and far.

I keep precious objects in this Chinese cabinet. If I buy it, said I, at the nearby Staples shopping center, you must hang it up for me.

Made this scrumptious soup in my crock pot last night. Looks like I have a lot of scrubbing to do.

Hey, is it time for pre-dinner?

The soup is F A N T A S T I C !!!

Was determined to finish PAST TENSE by Lee Child this morning. So I lay in bed, fan trained on me, and read, and slept and read and slept.

As I was nearing the end, I was getting, well, ecstatic, it was so damn good.

What poem shall I write now?

THE NEW JACK REACHER BOOK

Reacher, described as light-haired,
rough, neither good or bad looking
appears in a 488-page book where
he doesn't get into a fight
until the last few chapters.

Some wise guy has the bright idea
of bringing millionaires and billionaires
up to his mountain hotel in Vermont,
where they will play a game, shooting
and killing human beings with cross bows.

People will watch and place bets on the Internet.

Somehow and unlikely as it seems
Jack Reacher gets involved.
"Dyou realize," he says to one
of the players "that you've just
killed a human being?"

Although Reacher kills him with the
same arrows from the guy's quiver,
he can't elicit any information
from him about what's going on.

In the office of the hotel, the owner
whose name is also Reacher from a long
line of them reaching back centuries
a host of TVs show the heart flow
of each person, players and victims alike
which are the same.

My God, cries the owner, half of them
are dead!

Every single player must die and
Reacher's not loath to accomplish this.
Very very bad men are left including
the owner.

"Where's that tub of lard?" cries Reacher,
and the other baddies are eager to point,
hoping a bargain can be made.

Our man Reacher grabs the wrists of
several men and squeezes as hard as he can
breaking every bone in the wrist.

YOW YOW HELP HELP LET GO LET GO

He also congratulates the first fools
who arrived, knowing not where they were
only they could not escape.
Patti Sunderson and Shorty Fleck,
who played the game and won.

They abscond with billions of dollars to
Florida where they will set up hotels and
bait shops and everything pleasing to
the retired or the relaxers.

Then Reacher asks for a ride to Laconia
New Hampshire from a pastor nearby and
says drop me off where I can get a
good cup of hot coffee.

Reacher owns no car, is not a good driver,
but, man, can he walk like a Kenyan across
the Mojave Desert.

ONE HELLUVA READ. I THANK YOU KINDLY
MR LEE CHILD.

Waiting to receive a discount on my Kidney Meds - Poem: Garbage Night: Drosophila - The Downpour

95 degrees outside today.

Walked around the block before breakfast and before I lost my nerve.

Since I work from home I stayed in the AC much of the day. Was downstairs in the coolest part of the house reading and sleeping to Lee Child's Past Tense.

Very suspenseful.

In the mail I received my first rejection from the CRDP, chronic renal something or other, saying that my doc hadn't signed a particular page.

I expected that!



Took the form over to Sally who said, RUTH, your hair is purple.

Since I was out, I went to the library to return books due today including The Farm, which I must renew. It's about surrogate mothers who bear children of billionaires (!)



Know what I'm making on this NINETY FIVE DEGREE DAY?

In my crock pot, which is set for 45 mins, when I'll check it, is SOUP.

Made with chick peas and blackeyed peas plus spaghetti sauce.

GARBAGE NIGHT

I lug two-handed
a plastic garbage can
filled with the detritus
from a whole week.

Such a feast inside attracts
six or seven drosophila at once.
Beautiful creatures, really,
iridescent - why, they could
dangle from a necklace -

But like those Playboy Bunnies
if they're still around, they
demand attention. Their lot is
not to be quiet or demure.

In the house they fly past you
over and over daring to catch them.

I thought I had.
One's schnozz was in
a cup where I'd drunk
blood-red orange juice

Quickly I grabbed a
washcloth and carried
him outside far from
home

Oh, I was friskly and
put my ear to the washcloth
and swore I could hear his
buzz of frustration

When I pulled off the cloth
there was nothing inside.
Nothing but my embarrassment
and humiliation.

*

Periodically I walk outside to dump more trash into the green recyclable bin.

How brave I feel as I step outside , all smeared with sunscreen, and feeling, well, lovable?

THE DOWNPOUR

Finally it's come.
Windows rattle.
Dogs squeal and
run under the bed.
Lightning flashes
across the whole sky.
Gentle, at first.

Here comes the thunder
Zeus at the mountaintop
Folks in the nursing home
think death has come.
They close their eyes
and wait to ascend.

Pool chairs tumble over
married couples pass
the gin and tonic
with nervous laughter

Will the lights go out?
The solar lights on the
walkway of her yard
remain firm.
As does she.

Whisked away by Uber in a Black Buick

After they left, I took a walk around the block.

Tried to stay in the shade as the sun was running hot.

Rounded the bend and came home on Greyhorse.

You can do it, you can do it, I panted.

And so I did.

Sarah made us coffee for breakfast.

Oh, I said, it's in the old cup of the Travis Family, the first owners of our house. Nancy Myers, across the street, keeps in touch. The old man died of Parkinson's and Arlene is fighting breast cancer.

Took a day off from Second Home, telling Kim, my kids are in town.

Poem is on the way.

MOSQUITO

So many noises in my house
Sarah and Ethan sleeping on
clean sheets in my bedroom

When I went upstairs to tuck
them in, I said, Sarah! You've
grown a beard since I
last saw you.

Now, a toilet flushes
footfalls like lumberjacks
across the carpeted hall

All pale in comparison to
the worst sound of all
a buzzing mosquito.

I wrap myself in a yellow quilt
made for me by Jonatha Johnson
Smothering, I peek out
the buzz comes inside

Slap! Slap! Slap again!

What if there's a home invasion
I think. "The kids" will never
hear it as they sleep with
ear stopples.

How can I save them?

No tools of battle
downstairs. I shall heft
Helene's old Sony radio
over my head and use
as a sword and a breastplate
and they will run screaming
from my door.

Summer Arts Fest a huge success

"Brava" for an inspiring afternoon! wrote Ada Fleisher about our Arts Fest in the Willow Grove Room at the Giant Supermarket in Suburban Philadelphia.

Ada, always so kind and gracious.

Not only was it a "New Directions Arts Fest", it was a celebration and appreciation of YOU by so many!  Well deserved! 

Cast of thousands included - that crunch you hear in the background is me chewing Snyder Mini Pretzels, one of the healthy foods Giant donated to us.

Sarah Lynn Deming, Ethan Iverson, Ada and Rich Fleisher, Ed Lakata playing the 4 string banjo, Helen and Larry Kirschner (Larry left before we could photograph him playing the Casio Electric Keyboard) Imani Scott in a strong voice, Bob Scott, her dad with pencil drawing of Sandra, his beloved late wife and other creations - I love when he said that at ND we're unaware of color -

Mark Kessler who passed around drawings of his late wife, Coley, and read poems about her, Chris Celio, bodybuilder, who is studying for his master's in education online, Linda Barrett, discussing her alcoholic father she's right that it doesn't mean you can't love him

A baseball park is named after him Barrett Baseball Park in Chester PA.

Rem Murphy, whose poem is published below, Marie Higgins the Lovable and Emotional.

A problem confronted by therapists is people don't express their emotions. Marie does. One of her poems is SHE COLLECTS POETS. It's fastened to my kitchen cupboard in glorious technicolor.

She's published several books including a famous book on spirituality. I have a copy in my bedroom. She showed us a hardback from the point of view of her dog Tucker.

White-haired Ken Ivins who wrote a fantasy poem about making love on a train.

This morning I woke up to the smell of coffee.

Sarah and Ethan had brewed coffee in my Chemex coffee pot. They made Dunkin Donuts Coffee.

Years ago, I had given up coffee for about ten days.

You can't imagine how depressed I was.

Suddenly I had an idea!

   It was like a light switch turned on. All my cares disappeared and I felt fine!

ARTS FEST A HUGE SUCCESS

I had no idea what New Directions meant to so many people.

Linda, Ada and Helen Kirschner, of our daytime meetings at the Giant. I was disappointed
that Shane didn't show up.

Shane, come back, Shane, come back. One of the greatest westerns ever made. Bad Day at Black Rock. Yrs ago, my dad and I saw it at the Cedar-Lee Theatre in Cleveland Heights, Ohio.

Dad, come back, come back. Oops, I forgot you were dead.

Ed Lakata, who has Parkinson's Disease, did a spectacular job playing the four-string banjo. He fell in love with the Mummers. He and his dad would have duets, his dad played the violin.

Imani Scott and dad Bob Scott, a graduate of Carnegie Mellon. The family is originally from Pittsburgh. A true talent, the school recognized a brilliant student regardless of skin color.

Loved how Donna Krause made so many helpful comments.

Below is Marie Higgins, who lives on the next street, Ball Road. She and Tucker, her pup, would run together. She showed us a hardback book she made from Tucker's point of view.

Ethan delighted us with his playing the electric keyboard.

This morning we ate at Mom's and then they left in my car to go to Cousin Niki's where Steve is celebrating his first year of sobriety!!!!

Novelist Barbara Custer read a selection from her horror novel. She looked lovely in her post-funeral outfit. Nice string of pearls. Have you read the Guy de Maupassant story The Necklace?

Oh, Ruthie, stop showing off!

THE POET IN THE UNDER WORLD

by Rem Murphy

Dearest Aimee,
I’m writing these lines to you

From the famous down under.
My sixpence thievery

Paid for my one-way ticket,
Of which you are well aware.

I arrived several weeks ago
On March the 12th,

And no, I can’t honestly tell you
That I’ve arrived safely, and all in one piece.

The best I can say is
I’m still alive,

Though honestly, dear,
The one thing I’ve learned

Over the last six months--
That’s not saying much.


We sailed on the Charon,
Appropriately enough.

Chained to the wall, two-by-two.
Braceleted with leg-irons.

Entombed in a sunless,
Cramped, and lice-infested

Sewage sluice,
Otherwise known as the hold,

Which pitched like a drunken Welshman
While the timbers groaned

For two solid months
After we left Rio de Janeiro,

Making everybody sick.
Towards the end we ran out of rations,

But never mind,
By that point none of us could eat.

I’m writing to let you know
Not to expect me back.

Honestly, when summer comes
In another eight months,

There’s no guarantee I’ll make it.
The sun is beastly hot.

In the fields we go around naked,
Just like the natives.

If you drop from exhaustion,
They beat you, and fling you in a cage,

Like you were some kind of wild animal.
If you complain that you’re tired,

That’s even worse,
They give you forty lashes.

I also want you to know
I’m taking another wife.

I realize, in the eyes of the Church,
This is a mortal sin.

But truthfully, dear,
I have no option.

A willing enough wife
Knows how to steal

Into the bush, that is,
With the regimental sergeant,

And thereby acquire
Some much needed provisions,

Such as, a loaf of bead
Or a quart of rum.

This is the sort of thing that can’t be helped.
This is the way it’s done down here.

By the time you read this
In another six months

Our dear sweet Emily
Ought to be turning six.

If she asks about me,
Please, tell her that her papa loved her,

And that she was the joy of his life,
But now he’s lost to the world.

*
Robin, head of the community center, and Joan, gave us loads of healthy snacks including grapes, cheese and Ritz crackers, tiny bags of Snyder's Pretzels, iced tea and coffee. How did the ice come in?

A bucket of ice, just like at home when you throw a party for your friends.

*
Later that night, we ate on Scott's huge deck:  fresh corn, lobster, salmon, and Ginger Ale, flavored with stevia.

Asparagus.

They're all in the Uriah Heap compost now, in Scott's back yard, except for me.

 Can't figure out how to rotate these photos - Bob Scott. One of 19 children. Many of them have passed.

 Your wife, Paula, I said to Ed, will be really proud of you.

He used two harmonicas as they come in different keys.

 Ed was a little nervous until he warmed up.

All of us felt the same way.

 Margie Lawlor stopped in and told us about her new volunteer job at a local theatre. Good for you, Margie!

Jane Barrett, Linda's always-supportive mother.

I brought a bunch of poems in a green folder and read a few.

UNCLE JOE DAUTCHER'S FARM MARKET 

On my upstairs bulletin board 
their business card. Ellen and I 
stopped by one hot summer morning. 

Hiring? I asked. 
Sure, said a portly woman. 
Can you cook? 

You tell me what to do, 
and I'll do it, said I, 
mopping my brow. 

I wasn't fast enough 
and Dautcher's went under 
the wrecking ball. 

Not another condo 
on smothered farm land. 
The pumpkins were large 
as tiny planets, 
the tomatoes cuddly 
as baby does, 
and the cinnamon buns 
were weighed on the scale 
and packaged in boxes 
white as the winter sky. 

Sure, they made a fortune, 
and now they have time 
for themselves. Sitting now 
on the rocking chairs 
on the porch, with Uncle Joe 
calling, "Babe, how bout 
some of them cinnamon buns?" 

Just a sec, she says, going 
into the house. "Always wanted 
to hire this woman." 

Is that them calling now?

*


PURPLE

Let your mind travel back to the 15th century BC.
Christ was not yet born nor was the prophet Muhammed.
The Jews were traveling in sandals across the deserts
preparing their inquisitve minds for the one and only one
Deity.

Royal robes were needed in the time of The Iliad
and The Odyssey. Most precious was purple, from
the shells of a sea snail. Thousands of the tiny
soft creatures must be found. Obedience was a necessity.

The snails soaked, a tiny gland removed, and a
color transformation took place. A color so bold
so brassy so infinitely beautiful that all who
looked were spellbound, in love with a color.

I wear my Purple like a proud head-dress.
For I, born on Christmas Day, allow the stars
and constellations to twinkle through my
hair, once dark brown, then dyed red, blonde
and now the color of royalty, Purple.

ARUNDAL WAY

On Sundays you invited your friends
over to play. Oldsters all of us.
You'd show us your
backyard garden complete with
reflecting pool. Your cat Missy
would try to catch birds mid-air.
Missing by a mile. 

Your pot-growing son Michael
was making a fortune in Colorado
and bid you move out west in your
golden years.

Tearfully, you drove your white Nissan
Maxima with sun roof, while he pulled one of those
orange U-Hauls, a man who was afraid
of nothing. He and his girl were
mountain climbers and ATV bikers.

You tried to like Colorado. Gave it
your all. The mountains seemed to
imprison you. Your girlfriends
were all back home, your beloved
Donna you guided into a second
marriage, Sandy a born-again
prophet, and Evelyn who lost
her marbles and was put out to pasture. 

Oh, you had your cat and the two
of you roamed your new condo 
together, a talking cat
as those Siamese are. I always heard her
babbling in your lap, so much
to talk about.

You did not go to Colorado to die.
Who does? You still had your movies,
your New Yorker magazines, and your
cat Missy, until she was called to
kitty-kat heaven.

You had no choice but to join her.
Two pals ascending toward the
moons of Jupiter, as if it were
scripted by a Spielberg or Frank Capra,
goodbye Judy goodbye.

*

MUSHROOMS

In tiny writing
"B. Moisset"
appears at the bottom
of the painting.

If this were the PBS News
a sign would come on and say
75 percent of Americans
do not like mushrooms.

I tasted my first mushroom
when I lived in San Francisco,
a salad my friend Iris made us.

I stood up from my chair.
Walked around the room with
its floor to ceiling windows
that gave onto Golden Gate Park
below.

Chewy like licorice
Tasty like Kikkomon Sauce
Lovely like parasols or silver
airplanes flying in the sky.

Mushrooms, forever.  



I PICK YOUR TRASH, JOHN LEONARD, NOW THAT YOU’RE GONE 

At first they put out
the commode
seat up
to let it sink in. 

It sat on the grass
a week,
kids passed by
what would they know of
your rosebushes out front,
or the hospice nurse
green Dodge
parked in the drive
or about you, John Leonard,
ninety-five and shuffling to
your garden out back 
in house slippers and morphine.

On garbage night
the invisble hand
brought out some broken rakes
and tumbledown shelves,
your wife’s perfume bottles
lying in a bruised Rubbermaid container

I let them lie
Seeking perfection.
After your hip went last spring
You took me hobbling
Through your backyard.

Where did you learn to garden like that?
Lilyponds with real frogs
birdhouses nailed to the pines
tarps on benches to keep them dry. 

Yesterday they put out a rototiller.
I took it at dusk
felt the length of the wood
for splinters or other irregularities
felt the rusty blades with my thumb
tiny twirling blades
then tamped it on the sidewalk
out fell the autumn leaves
from the previous fall
not this one,
for you were no longer
protector of your lawn. 

I rolled it
On the sidewalk
Your roses blooming behind me,
Hefted it over my head

Victorious at last
Then stabbed it bloodless
In the palm of my hand.

Ruth, Arts Fest 2019 was a smashing success. Thank you so much for hosting this wonderful event. Everyone's arts contributions were compelling. It was good too reading your blog on the Arts Fest.

I thoroughly enjoyed meeting your daughter, Sarah, & also Ethan! Sarah is a sweetheart - indeed charming, plus a great conversationalist. She truly is a pleasure to be with. Ethan too was wonderful to meet, & I know we all very much enjoyed his keyboard playing. I regretted missing Larry Kirchner's input, plus that of others between 1oo & 2oo.

It was nice also to finally meet your boyfriend, Scott.

Best,

Margie

*

Great show today at the Giant! A little bit of everything.
- Remington Murphy