I had the last word

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Who doesn’t like having the last word, and this time it was mine at the end of Ronni Bennett’s great essay on elderboggers, Put It In Writing, published today in the Wall Street Journal. You can’t get to the essay online, so Ronnie had to send it in an email to those of us she mentioned in case we don’t subscribe to the newspaper, which I don’t.
Interestingly enough, the Journal began the printed version of Ronni’s essay with a quote from my quote. So, here I am, the alpha and the omega.
On Ronni’s blog, Time Goes By, she mentions the essay and shows the great graphic that the newspaper included.
Ronni will be having occasional articles on aging and retirement for the Wall Street Journal from now on. Congratulations, Ronni.
And thanks for giving me the last word.

I blog to connect with the world outside myself
that I’m trying to make sense of.
I blog to keep up my spirit;
to stir the spirit of others;
to stir my blood, my brain and my beliefs.

ADDENDUM: I discovered that you can read the whole great article by going here and then clicking on the story title, “Put it in Writing.”

reluctant reentry

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I spent last weekend in a place as close to perfect as I’ve been in a long time. Good friends, good food, a good book, a lake, mountains, a spacious home with lots of decks, pitchers of Cosmos, and laughter-filled games of Boggle. I could have stayed there forever.
Now I’m back in the situation I should never gotten into, and I’m finalizing plans for my escape, with support from both the Hospice nurse and social worker. I would like to take my mother (92 years old and demented) with me, where we would be with our extended family in a home with beautiful gardens on a dead end street with lots of neighbors. She would have pleasant distractions from the painful movements of her body and mind. I would bring in the help we both need.
But my brother doesn’t want to let her go. And I just can’t stay.
As my hair grows gray, I need to spend more time in places of peace.
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Myrln Monday: chipper munky

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For a while before his death in April 08, non-blogger Myrln (aka Bill Frankonis), posted here on Kalilily Time some kind of rant or other every Monday. Our daughter, who has salvaged his published, performed, and non-such writings, continues to send me some to post posthumously.


CHIPPER MUNKY
The chipmunk who was unhappy with his life
Friend Crow
“great shiny suit” Chipmunk admires
“neat racing stripe” Crow notes of Chipmunk
Little top hat, tux, cane – Chipmunk becomes a socialite renowned for dancing prowess.
Learns emptiness of superficial life.

carefully care-free

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Four days free of caregiving!
I am heading out tomorrow with my gaggle of friends to Lake Luzerne, which is not far from Lake George, which, as fate would have it, is the site of the annual motorcycle Americade at the same time. No doubt, the roads will be crawling with hogs of all kinds and their wannabe relatives
Back in high school, I dated a guy with a motorcycle — unbeknownst to my parents of course. It might be fun to ride on one again. I mean, isn’t there some commercial where a grandmother rides in on the back of a bike that her grandson is driving? Hmm. Maybe I’ll run into a senior citizen biker.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out if the itchy bumps popping up on my arms are flea bites or hives or some sort. I can’t seem to find any fleas on my cat, but I know those critters are pretty tricky.
Also, meanwhile, the hospice nurse continues to check in on my mother. Mom somehow fractured a rib while I was gone a few weekends ago. While the pain seems to be finally subsiding, she is getting less and less stable on her feet and just is not happy about very much. The nurse brought in a young woman who played the guitar and sang, and my mother seemed to like that — although after they left, she was sure that they stole some of her jewelry.
I don’t know how my brother is going to handle four days and three nights taking care of mom on his own. If it were me, I’d hire someone to come in and help. I’m leaving a list of available private hires on the refrigerator and a stockpile of food that mom likes inside.
I am sooo out of here.

Myrln Monday: ex memoriam

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For a while before his death in April 08, non-blogger Myrln (aka Bill Frankonis), posted here on Kalilily Time some kind of rant or other every Monday. Our daughter, who has salvaged his published, performed, and non-such writings, continues to send me some to post posthumously.


ex memoriam
somehow it seems appropriate
my art lives in transcience
(theatre)
while friends, students, lovers
reach for permanence in written words
(poetry).
(theatre) leaves behind no marks:
Is there a moment and is gone.
struck, as we say.
(impermanence).
Appropriate because some say
there should be no memorials
(me)
mucking up the lives behind us
with our droppings
(bullshit)
all right, so why a paean to (impermanence)
In this (permanent) form?
well, sometimes letting contemporaries know
where you stand is necessary
(bluntness).
Or so cap’n billy if’n say.

a book thing

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I read books, listen to books, pile up books, buy books, lose books, lend books, give books, and love to get books.
But I don’t make books.
(i don’t “make book” either, which is the slang term by grandmother used back in the forties, when she would send me down the street to the bar where I would bet her weekly “10 cents, combination” on the numbers.)
Last month, a dear friend of mine sent me, as a condolence gift, a book that she had literally made. It’s not just a book; its a sculpture of sorts, fanning out, when opened, with flaps containing her favorite quotes. It’s got color and texture and is a book like no other.
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And this is my favorite quote of her favorite quotes:

Forgiveness is letting go of all hope for a better past.

–Anne Lamott

major ear worm

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It’s been there all week. I can’t get rid of it, no matter what other music I play.

Famous Blue Raincoat.
It’s haunting me.
As I’m immersed in music, I get this poem from and by Jim Culleny.
The Pumpkin Harvesters
Jim Culleny
In town the café’s coffee buzz
seeps into the street from under the door
as a tender singer moans her song
not as in the old days
(as in rockabilly and rhythm and blues before)
but with power chords
and a fresh monotony
My dad preferred country tunes
and hearing Little Richard first time
stopped where my big-holed 45 spun
and in his best blue-collar voice said,
“You call this shit music?” and I did
as we twirled off each other about then
and went our separate ways awhile
until a fresh dew froze on the pumpkin
in a new late game and the harvesters
off across the field sang both
Coldplay and Hank Williams
as they came.
As we sorted through his CDs, we rediscovered just what an eclectic taste in music in once-husband had. From Willie Nelson to Anrdea Bocelli, with Moody Blues somewhere in the middle.
As for me, Hank Williams and Kitty Wells were my high school idols, which, I know is strange for an urban kid, but I hung around with guys who had a country band.
Gotta get rid of that earworm.

green doors

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Green Doors

Fences are a good thing
and walls, too, as long as
you can see over them.
They lay the line, the bounds,
hold space and sanctuary,
designate, define the personal.
Doors are necessary to
fences and walls, access,
of course, both ways.
But I wonder what is it about
closed doors that draws his eye, stark,
silent green doors..
What is it about closed outside
green doors, and only one nestled
in the green of spring.
elf 5/08

Myrln Monday Memoriam

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For a while before his death in April, non-blogger Myrln (aka Bill Frankonis), posted here on Kalilily Time some kind of rant or other every Monday. Our daughter has been sending me some of his writings to post posthumously, but we were all away all weekend at the party Bill said in his will that he wanted.
So, today, I post my second letter to the dead.
Dear Bill:
Were you whirling in your ashes as so many of those people whose lives you touched so meaningfully told stories about their relationships with you? Even a few with whom you were no longer on the best of terms stood up and remembered the good times.
I know how much you wanted to let those people with whom you felt close at various points in your life know how much they meant to you. Well, obviously they already knew.
I didn’t count how many of the little theater’s seats were filled, but there had to be between 50 and 60 people who came in for the story telling. And there were others who came and left before that time as well.
You would have loved to hear the stories — some funny, some poignant — all remembering you at your best. There is no doubt that you will be remembered by your colleagues and students not only as an amazingly talented writer and director, but also a uniquely nurturing mentor and teacher.
You would have been so proud of our two kids. Well, I should say proudER, since you always have been proud of them.
You also would have loved to see your almost 6-year-old grandson and the (equally young) granddaughter of our friends Pat and Bill. They hit it off amazingly. Word has it that she said that she really liked his hair and was going to marry him. The pairing of our respective offspring didn’t happen last generation. Wouldn’t it be a hoot if it happened with this one.
I wish I could talk to you about that novel Enchantment that you gave me a while ago and I found in my pile of books-to-read last week. I couldn’t help see you and me in the princess and the scholar. I wonder if that’s what you thought as well. I’m only half way through, so I don’t know how it ends. I hope that it ends better than we did as a couple.
On the way back to where I live now (I can’t call it “home”), I played the Famous Blue Raincoat CD that you gave me.

There Ain’t no Cure for Love.

the lone crow

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For the first time ever, I see a lone crow wandering around the area of the bird feeders. At first I wonder if it’s a grackle, but a quick look in the Audobon bird book confirms that, indeed, it is a crow.
I leave tomorrow to join family and friends for my late once-husband’s remembrance party. A lone crow, and thoughts of death.
My mother is now losing her hair. Her digestive system is screwed up. She is always afraid, never satisfied or happy, constantly restless.
I watch the crow march back and forth across the small area where squirrels and doves are pecking at what the finches and cardinals have accidentally tossed their way. He doesn’t seem to be eating. He looks like he’s checking things out.
Is he wondering “Is this the place?”