Do I have a story for YOU!

THE OLD FRONT PORCH is one of those short stories that 'wrote itself.'

It was influenced by folks in our group plus others - Imani's dad, Bob, who became Major Robert O Scott - Rem, who listened to far-away radio stations when he drove me to New Directions - Cousin Mark who while stretching a canvas cut off the tip of his finger, which was reattached at the hospital in Cleveland.

AND late last night I'd read a couple of chapters of Winesburg, Ohio, with very odd people, lonely people, so we had one lonely old lady who was the daughter of a slave.

Why was I running late to the Warminster Library? I was stuffing myself with food so I wouldn't get low.

Wove thru the town of Hatboro, then found NORRISTOWN ROAD and made that crazy left, but I took the wrong turn down Emma Lane. You can go left or right.

Ended up in a development called Five Ponds. Rapped on some doors with mezuzahs on them. No one knew where the library was until I found one older woman. Wrote down her directions.

Ended up at Lancers Diner near the Horsham Navy Yard and just kept driving driving driving homeward bound.

How my heart pounded doing all this driving. Stayed in my lane while everyone passed me.

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Watched a terrific film on YouTube called something like The Story of Tartuf, master spy. Very suspenseful. Starring Robert Donat with his pencil-thin moustache, Glynnis Johns, and a gorgeous woman whose name I will learn later.

ND meeting tonight - Rem will pick me up

This was quite delicious.

What dyou suppose it is?

Today I did a lot of reading.



The Institute is the best novel I've read in a long time. But please don't scare me. Look what it says!

Am bringing green grapes to the meeting in case I go LOW.

Am also reading CALL SIGN CHAOS by General James Mattis. Is he teaching me to be a better leader? Yes, I think so.

After 9/11 he thought the USA could rout Al Qaeda and bin Laden quickly and wrap up the war.



Ada's mom continues her slow decline.

My mom is desperately trying to clean out her paperwork. She begged me to come over today to go thru her Letters from when she and dad went to Europe.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

Right now, Mom, you're the best mother you've ever been.
I'm hampered, she said, I used to do a lot more for you girls.
Like mustangs running in the high Colorado hills
We fight amongst ourselves, and you know what?
It matters not a whit.

She wanted me to come over and help her with her papers
Years ago when she wore a warm beaver coat and an amber watch
from Aunt Ethel, she and dad flew to Europe.

The best days of their lives.

Letters fill the drawers in David's blue bedroom
He, like Dad, and her brother Don, have all gone home.

You're all grown up now, Mom, I said,
Just do it, I know you can.

Sure, I cried inside, but toughness is
what's wanted, before we all disappear
like the nightingale bidding us
farewell.

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Okay, back to the Stephen King book called... The Institute.

Made with 3 eggs and butter. Am eating this now with a pinch of salt and paprika.

Before I went shopping this morning I wrote Ingrid a greeting card. Good luck as you travel to your  new home, I said. And left my phone number.

The great PETE TOWNSHEND was interviewed on World Cafe,

He wrote a novel called THE AGE OF ANXIETY,

His characters are fascinating. He had therapy, he said, mostly about his children.

Rock opera. Tommy. Quadrophenia. Pinball Wizard.

Was at Mom's this morning to pick up my back pack.

Stole into Scott's house and got his bonus card.

SIXTY CENTS off gas.

Then I went into the little hut where Tonnia and I talked.

I bought a hot dog with mustard and relish. Ate it the moment I came home.



A fellow came inside and said he forgot his money.

I only live in Hatboro, he said, so I'll be right back. 

Hatboro? Did you say Hatboro? Lookee here and then we're gonna take a lay-down.

han
Neil Callahan CEO of Brooke Glen with Abby Grasso.

Update on Ingrid - Apparently she's in hospice

Just called Christ's Home and spoke to Craig and then Ingrid.

Ingrid said she had just finished breakfast.

According to Craig, hospice will be held in the same room where I met her.

Craig said he spoke to the head nurse and she could live for a short time or a longer time.

He said this after I asked if she had any last wishes.

I said call me if you need me.

Ruth

I sent the above to my sister Ellen, Ada and myself.

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This morning I shopped at Giant and for some reason decided to make a FISH STEW with loads of fresh veggies and farm-raised PERCH. It was so pretty I couldn't resist.



First I sauteed everything in the same pot I used to make fresh applesauce with Gala Apples. When they were cold I peeled off the skins with my fingers.

I had a dreadful coughing fit and looked up what to do.

Brew some tea.

I made hot water - too hot - so I added cold water from the rubber udder on my fridge - kept sipping on it and FINALLY the cough is gone.

More hot water please.

Lillian Moss - Ingrid - Mark Rothko - Poem: My roof is assaulted

Can you make out this photo? It's a new way of celebrating Latinas Rite of Passage Day, which I grabbed from the NY Times.

I LOVE fancy dresses. The woman is following her father's orders and wearing long sleeves so as not to show any skin. 

Ada's mother is about 110 yrs old. She is starting not to eat. This bodes that Lillian Moss is homeward bound, or heaven-bound, tho they are not believers. They'll have a graveside service at Levine's. Pre-planned, as they say.

I sent Lillian a long letter yesterday. Her family reads it to her. Also sent a note to Blanche Lipshutz on the occasion of her 95th birthday. And the chase was on, me driving to find Mailman Dante.

There's not much heat in my upstairs office. I did sleep in my clothes but I just added my warm PJ top from DKNY.




Donna Karan.

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My sister Ellen and I visited Ingrid and Craig at Christ's Home. She is being put out to pasture soon bc of "nodules" in her lungs.

I insisted a nurse come in to tell her and me what she is suffering from.

In other words, like it or not, she will be in hospice, and die soon.

Years ago, I visited them on Webster Ave and wrote a great poem for the two of them. Ingrid loved it.

I will bury my sorrows by writing a short story about her. I've pre-planned it.

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Last night I watched a drama about the artist Mark Rothko, played by a shaven headed Albert Molino.

Brilliant and depressing. I fell asleep at the end.

I was at the Rothko Chapel when I lived in Houston.



Morning has come. Did a lil reading in bed about the origin of the Nancy Drew books. It's readably boring.

MY ROOF IS ASSAULTED BY FLYING OBJECTS

D-dap D-dap-dap
Seeds from trees
Tiny pine cones
Tree bark
Hollow sour berries

But at Christ's Home
where the appointment with death
comes soon, the unwilling prisoner
a long-time friend of mine
will argue with her husband
and we hope leaving him with
last words that will comfort
him when she's gone.

Volunteering with the Elderly - a poem for our times

Hello, my darling readers.

Just found this poem, so while my 4 raw eggs are waiting to turn into hard-boiled - tick tick tick goes the timer for 25 minutes - lemme publish this poem.

I DO have dreams that my mind is going.

Tick tick tick.

VOLUNTEERING WITH THE ELDERLY 

Names have been changed

Parkinson's Disease
Alzheimer's
Dementia
They arrive early in the morning
Dropped off by their loved ones
Guy, my favorite, comes over to our table
his blonde wife Eileen
lets him through the door. He finds
a way to our table, but a sense of
direction he does not have, as once
I saved him from wandering into the
ping-pong room.

Every 20 minutes he asks me where
I live. "Willow Grove," I say,
"just down the road."

Two weeks ago we learned Albert,
the silent man, who would come
alive when we sang Sinatra, had
died. Guy had not forgotten and
kept asking, "Is everyone here
who's supposed to be here?"

I looked around. Elena with the
little beard was there. Val, with
Parkinson's and hallucinations
was there, her arm stiff as a
block of wood, and Lily, who
thought people were stealing
from her but could go to the
bathroom herself.

"They're all accounted for Guy,"
I said, deciding to skip
Albert's death.

Guy, a doctor in a former life,
dresses in spiffy clothes,
a warm brown sweater, round eyeglasses
like John Lennon's and saddle shoes,
neatly tied. 

We know who dresses him.

We smell the food getting ready
in the kitchen. Guy and I swivel
our heads just so and await the arrival
of meatballs and pasta.

Am I working here in a silent pact
with Fate to make sure my mind
remains free of all the terrible
conditions that await us?

Silence.

Poetry Night at Library simply great!

This morning's poem

THE BOUNCING SPIDER WEB

Here in the buoyant light of morning
The web dazzles as it "ups" and "downs"
on an invisible filiment
beloved of the sun, of the clever,
of EB White, its trap set but
rarely seen, more webs outdoors I see
through the window, a silver cloak
I'll wear to the ball, with a strange
buzz about it, the trapped flies.

=
Steve Delia introduced us and was especially impressed by Remington's poems. Rem will probly read again tonight at the Elkins Park Library at the Arthur Krasnow Memorial Event.



Arturo and I were buddies.

I must tell you cobwebs are everywhere this morning. Is it the cold weather?

Alaska Joyce will not be at our Warminster Writers' Group as she is on a retreat with other women.

I attended an overnight retreat at Cranaleith.



The breakfast gong goes off now.