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Posts Tagged ‘writing’

I remember Walter Cronkite, the “most trusted man in America.”. My foster parents tuned into CBS Evening News every night after dinner in the 1960s and 70s. He told us when our President was assassinated; he took off his glasses, looked up at the clock on a wall, and told us the moment JFK was pronounced dead. Cronkite helped us make sense of Vietnam. In fact, when he returned from a trip to Vietnam his usual objectivity had changed – he told us the war would end in a stalemate. This prompted LBJ to say, “If I’ve lost Cronkite, I’ve lost Middle America,”

Tuning into his broadcast was a ritual, like putting the kettle on for tea. But In this information age, where breaking news is lightning fast (and rarely newsworthy btw) on a phone buzzing in our pocket, the idea of gathering around a television set at a certain time is nostalgic at best. Like the Flapper hearing about the end of WWII on a radio in my father’s pharmacy. For my parents’ black and white TV generation, former war correspondent and CBS journalist Edward R. Murrow was must-hear-and-see on their nightly “…wires and lights in a box.” Murrow wrote about television:

This instrument can teach, it can illuminate; yes, and even it can inspire. But it can do so only to the extent that humans are determined to use it to those ends. Otherwise, it’s nothing but wires and lights in a box. There is a great and perhaps decisive battle to be fought against ignorance, intolerance and indifference. This weapon of television could be useful. Stonewall Jackson, who is generally believed to have known something about weapons, is reported to have said, “When war comes, you must draw the sword and throw away the scabbard.” The trouble with television is that it is rusting in the scabbard during a battle for survival. Thank you for your patience.https://www.rtdna.org/murrows-famous-wires-and-lights-in-a-box

Then he would say, “Good Night, and Good Luck!” Of course he had no idea what technological innovations would be battling for our grandchildrens’ attention.

Which is why Bob and I looked forward to Saturday night’s live broadcast of the Broadway play, “Good Night and Good Luck” for weeks. Remember we’d befriended Anne Brandt in California, the mother of one of the cast members. I emphasized the CNN show on my family group text chain, I told our Germantown friends all about it at a dinner party last Friday. George Clooney played Murrow during the McCarthy era, when a junior senator from Wisconsin turned Congress and much of the country into a Red-baiting, anti-Soviet court of fear and suspicion. He went after the Army, and even fellow senators. Many liberal, and especially Jewish artists, were black-listed in Hollywood simply for having been associated with a Communist.

For a moment during the play, time stood still. Murrow invited Joseph McCarthy to come on his show, to explain his ideology, and using McCarthy’s own words from archived footage, we listened to the hatred and outright lies of the junior senator. We could see the malice and contempt in his face. And then we heard Murrow’s response in Clooney’s calm and reassuring voice, calling out all the falsehoods. This kind of ‘advocacy’ journalism was still pretty new, it too changed the tide of public opinion. McCarthy died of alcoholism three years after counsel for the US Army asked him, “Have you no sense of decency?” 

Today another news journalist has been suspended from the air waves, “ABC News suspended the network correspondent Terry Moran on Sunday after he wrote on social media that Stephen Miller, the deputy White House chief of staff, was “a man who is richly endowed with the capacity for hatred” and called him “a world-class hater.” https://www.nytimes.com/2025/06/08/business/media/abc-news-terry-moran-suspended.html

Granted this was said online on X on Moran’s own time, but beyond the First Amendment is a backdrop of ABC settling a law suit with Mr T for millions over something George Stephanopoulos said on air. I’m furious this morning after reading this NYTimes article, and after seeing what’s happening in LA with the National Guard. And yet I have to believe the American public can differentiate between opinion and the who what where when and WHY of the news business, and that free speech is still our unalienable right. It’s as American as ice cream and apple pie.

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We’ve had a noteworthy Spring so far in our family and friends network. Aside from the early arrival of our beautiful baby grand girls, there’s been a record number of graduations – the Pumpkin from lower school, one high school, two college alums and a law school! Congratulations to ALL the graduates out there. May our Grandson have smooth sailing in middle school and best of luck to everyone on their next chapter.

And remember, no matter where you start out, it’s the journey that counts.

My Father, a pharmacist from Scranton, PA, turned away from the family business of butchering to pursue an education in science. The Flapper told me his family never forgave him, and well, they also didn’t approve of her – a widowed, ex-dime-a-dance girl. His family was well established Irish; they came over early and made their money in cattle. The Flapper’s Mother, my Nana, was a domestic worker. I have a picture of my paternal grandmother looking quite formidable. All I know about her is she went to Mass every single day.

Excuse my nostalgia, but Bob has finally filled two legacy boxes with all our old paper pictures. We are on the cusp of entering the digital visual world! So I’ve spent the weekend going through lots of black and white photos. My foster parents kept an album of my baby pictures glued to thick, black paper and I can’t thank Bob enough for managing to free my childhood photos. It seems after reading the back of one photo, they actually entered me in a cute baby contest! I love the one of me pretending to read a newspaper, like Daddy Jim. He left school after 8th Grade to help support his family.

He was the most loving and nurturing father a child could ask for, I was lucky.

School pictures, my college graduation picture, my wedding pictures. The Flapper with Cab Calloway in MN. A picture of my sister Kay in a white coat next to one of the first ultrasound machines in NYC. Kay tells me that buried in her apartment is a 1958 graduation picture of her National Airlines stewardess class. My brother Dr Jim’s graduation from OCS in NC, before he went to Vietnam. The Flapper pinning his bars on his shoulder, my sister wearing her wings.

Journey joyfully and with alacrity, and always be ready to pivot. My Kindergarten picture.

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Remember that movie with Jim Carey playing a lawyer where all of a sudden he couldn’t lie to save his life? It was hysterical. His facial expressions alone were comedy genius.

The Flapper could lie with impunity. One time she announced at the supper table that she’d made the dessert herself! I remember being dumbfounded because I knew she had bought the cake at a bakery that very morning. Mind you, my foster parents never lied and I was taught at Sacred Heart School that lying was a sin, which is why this moment of time is embedded in my brain.

I just sat there in the dining room on Orchard Street, my ten year old self trying to make sense of my first major moral contradiction. Of course I didn’t contradict her, children were taught to respect their elders. If I could talk to my ten year old self, I’d tell her to wait patiently because soon I would be moving in with the Flapper. I’d exchange my black and white, absolutist home for a home of many colors, religions and shades of grey.

I wonder how much longer the GOP can continue to buy into the fire-hose of lies from this President.

Some of Trump’s 2025 false claims were about consequential policy matters, others about trivial personal fixations. Some were sophisticated distortions about obscure subjects, others obvious fictions about issues average Americans experience in their daily lives. Many were ad-libbed or posted on social media, but many were scripted into prepared remarks. Aside from the staggering frequency and the trademark brazenness, what stood out was how repetitive Trump’s lying was. Though he regularly sprinkled in some fresh deception, he deployed a core batch of favored falsehoods again and again – undeterred by the fact that many of these claims had been publicly debunked for months or even years.https://www.cnn.com/politics/fact-check-trump-false-claims-debunked

“…trademark brazenness.” In fact the Washington Post fact checker chronicled 30,573 lies in his first term! Many were repeated over and over again on Fox news. Mr T has continued lying to the American people – more than a hundred times in his first hundred days this year. How we managed to elect this man is still a mystery to me.

One of my favorite authors, Anne Tyler, was interviewed on CBS Sunday Morning this past weekend. She said that in order to write fiction, one must be able to craft …“an extremely believable lie.” Which got me thinking, maybe that’s why I wanted to write non-fiction, because I knew I’d be no good at lying. But I can embellish a story like any good Irishwoman. And the Grands tell me I’m great at playing “One Night Ultimate Werewolf,” a card game of deceit where the object is to lie if you want to survive.

But if the Republicans want to survive as a party, they will have to stop lying to themselves. Because I’m pretty sure that most Republicans don’t actually believe Mr T’s lies. They just want to survive the next election cycle.

Hope your summer is off to a good start. It’s still wild weather here in Nashville, to be honest…

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Do you get Mother’s day gifts? We’re a more experiential type of family – gardening, cooking togther, going to a play are all acceptable activities for this holiday in particular. I started the day on Zoom with my siblings and reminded them that i had two mothers; a warm, nurturing, demonstrative mother, and the Flapper. The yin and yang of unconditional love.

The Bride feted me with freshly baked sourdough bagels for breakfast. The Groom delivered scrumptious sandwiches for lunch even though he was on call in the MICU. And for dinner, we all piled into his car and traveled across town for a Mother’s Day celebration with our cousin Peg’s family that couldn’t be beat! It was also her son’s birthday. He was finishing up medical school and about to apply for a residency so we wanted to hear all the gory details! The weather cooperated with sunny blue skies and puffy clouds; “A good day to fly,” Bob said. Like a good pilot, I can expect to hear this several times a month.

It seems Mr T was given a 400 million dollar personal gift this weekend. It did not surprise me to hear that our President of Grift wants to accept a 747 plane from Qatar, even though this is obviously unconstitutional. “All of this would be worrisome to the White House except that, as I’ve written, Trump does not care about national security. “Trump is the only thing he’s interested in,” former National Security Adviser John Bolton told me earlier this year.https://www.theatlantic.com/newsletters/archive/2025/05/trump-qatar-plane-gift/682785/

What bothers me most about our current president, besides his lack of empathy, is this transparency – his belief that he can get away with anything so why try to hide it. He pivots with impunity. He dares us to try and stop him in the courts, and if a judge opposes him, his sycophants send pizzas to their homes. Hundreds of unsolicited pizzas have been delivered to federal judges in seven states – a sick and dangerous threat that echoes the shooting of U.S. District Judge Esther Salas’s son, Daniel Anderl five years ago.

If that isn’t alarming, if it doesn’t look like we’re sliding into a kleptocracy, well you’re not paying attention. Remember Melania’s coat that read “I really don’t care, do you?” She wore that on her way to visit to an immigrant child detention center no less. I wonder how she celebrates Mother’s Day. This was part of her official post a few days ago on celebrating moms – “I urge you to prioritize your well-being. Nurture yourself, for your strength is the bedrock of a brighter future for our children…”

Happy to hear FLOTUS wants us to care for ourselves since this administration is dismantling many of our social safety nets and aggravating allies. But I had a Pinterest plan to bake a French strawberry cake for our cousin, which ended up being more like a cobbler unfortunately. On Saturday, we got up early and stood in line at the Farmer’s Market waiting for the cow bell to signal its opening – I didn’t want to miss out on the first strawberries of the season!

I should just accept defeat graciously and stick to baking muffins. This is the unwritten rule in our neighborhood; Les is the Queen of cakes and Kris is the Empress of rosemary bread. And our beautiful Bride, besides baking bagels, raised money for our TN neighbors’ legal representation after a soul deadening week of ICE agents marauding Nashville’s streets in masks. If you would like to help, please contact TN Justice for our Neighbors: https://www.tnjfon.org/

Remember that your grandchildren will ask you what you did during this time. This was us on Peg’s porch with her sons and her 92 year old MIL who had just flown in from California.

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When you’ve been away from home for awhile, things pile up; for instance, our car’s neural network failed. Granted it also didn’t want to start, and once jumped, our Subaru kept beeping and beeping its displeasure. Turns out, the back hatch has some locking system that needed adjusting. It was my first foray into the Nashville world and all I wanted was to go to the grocery store…alone. No “Do we need that?” in my ear.

But then, my NPR radio station changed on the dashboard monitor, as if possessed. I changed it back. It changed again. So I switched to the map. The image of my street zoomed out to include the Gulf of Mexico! After saying a small thank god in my head that it was still the gulf of Mexico, I realized there was a strange feedback loop happening in the upper right corner. My car was losing its mind, and so was I. It was the most frustrating trip, so of course I called Bob to complain.

“Call Bob mobile!” I said, as I pressed the little ear/speech ativated button on the steering wheel that is connected via Bluetooth to my phone.

“Cancelling,” my car spoke back.

I won’t repeat what I said after that. Today while I’m writing, Bob is at the dealership getting this fixed. Turns out it was a manufacturing glitch for two years that included our 2018 model, and since we have tariffs to look forward to, we’re putting off purchasing another car. What we couldn’t put off was a new heating system for our house.

Right before we left for California, we were informed that we should not use our heat since we would have a carbon monoxide leak! Now this would not be an easy, or an inexpensive fix. This past week, we had a whole new HVAC system installed which included replacing possum damaged ductwork in a crawlspace sized for a Lilliputian. Needless to say, the Rheem unit outside my snug is quiet and much more efficient.

Remember back in February since the twins came early, on my first morning alone in LA, I heard a loudspeaker in the street telling people they didn’t have to open their doors to ICE agents? I can recall that surreal feeling so vividly since this weekend TN state troopers and ICE agents raided South Nashville and sent buses containing people who have no due process to a prison facility in Louisiana. I thought Nashville was a sanctuary city! I wanted to scream; he was doing it again, separating families. THIS IS HAPPENING HERE.

Mr T’s agenda is pure malicious evil. Our Mayor Freddie O”Connell clarified:

“While O’Connell cannot institute official sanctuary policies, the mayor announced a partnership with the Community Foundation of Middle Tennessee to assist the families of those detained. The newly minted Belonging Fund will go towards emergency assistance for childcare, housing instability, transportation and other needs. “’Belonging is more than a feeling — it’s a sign of safety, stability, and community,” said Hal Cato, CEO of CFMT. “When immigrant families face a crisis, we want to ensure they’re not alone. This fund helps organizations on the ground respond quickly, compassionately, and effectively.’” https://www.nashville.gov/departments/mayor/news/belonging-fund-launches-provide-emergency-support-immigrants-nashville

BUT it does NOT pay for legal fees!! Why? In retrospect, my car, our home heating problems are minor compared to this administration. If you know, or would like to start a GoFundMe for legal representation for a family in crisis please comment below.

I’m so glad to see my son has continued playing guitar for his girls. Hearing from my sweet California family melts my heart and brings me peace.

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Bob and I have been known to throw a good party over the years. We’ve done a clambake in our Jersey Shore backyard, we did Bob’s infamous 40th “Come as You Were in the 60s” birthday bash, and of course the post-flood homecoming in Rumson, not to mention the Big Chill Thanksgivings and numerous Grandma Ada birthday parties – and the 2000 Millennial New Year’s Eve. There’s nothing I love better than cooking for a crowd, well maybe catering…

I had to laugh when I overheard one political commentator say, “The Democrats have to throw the kind of party you want to go to.” A light went off in my head!

Of course, we don’t want to be all doom and gloom. But I also don’t do raves either, luckily that trend has skipped my generation. Still, turn on Fox News and their anchors are actually having questionable fun. I don’t stay on Fox for long, but everyone is sitting around telling jokes, instead of stating facts or analyzing policy. They are not worried about the end of democracy while their president and his oligarch, tech-bro, side-kick go about trampling everything in their path like two giant Gullivers run amok.

So what kind of party would you want to attend? I hear that Rubrik’s Cube parties are all the rage in Paris. I’m not quite sure how you play, but wearing articles of clothing in the cube’s colors is de rigeur. Or what about a Knives Out mystery party? Maybe we should leave weapons out of the equation. An escape room? I’d love to escape reality, forget this past year, a year of nearly dying from a simple fall that happened the day before our election.

Well, both splints are off my hands and the Aspen collar has been packed away. I look perfectly normal, if not shorter, but that is an illusion. I’m tempered. I’ve had to face mortality and my head still feels like a bowling ball. My right hand doesn’t work the way it used to, but then again, pretty much nothing else does either. Ah, to be seventy again!

Let’s plan on throwing a party for the Dems. Let’s brainstorm all the things we want to happen, like getting egg prices down, controlling bird flu, and not whether or not to buy Greenland. Let’s talk about the positive things we can do to help the climate, and help families with childcare. We need to make our party fun again and build community.

We need to party like it’s 1999! And Happy Anniversary to these two!

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Don’t get me wrong, I’m in love with the Harris-Walz ticket. We are overdue for a female president, and her VP pick reminds me of my own foster father, Daddy Jim. He’s the guy who went to work every day and came home with a tiny surprise for me. He drove me to the swimming pond and the ice cream store after Sunday Mass. He built me a doll house out of popsicle sticks! Jim and Nell literally saved my life after our family’s Year of Living Dangerously.

And some of my earliest memories involve leaving our tiny home in Victory Gardens only to realize that other people are weird: I had lunch with a friend and her mother swept the entire kitchen floor after we finished – Jim cleaned the kitchen floor every Saturday. I slept over at a cousin’s house and the grandfather clock kept me awake all night – there was no clock, no bells chiming the hour and half hour in our house at night. And when my foster parents would take me to Scranton to visit the Flapper, well everything was different! I didn’t have to clean my plate for instance, the Flapper said,

“All the more for us!”

She also used to say, “Everybody has a story,” which is probably why I became a journalist. I wanted to capture all the details, to connect all the dots, maybe because my life felt so disconnected – one family in NJ and another in PA. I have a vivid memory of swinging on a dutch door that was in the Flapper’s kitchen, and when I close my eyes I can see a curly-headed blond girl in saddle shoes hanging on the bottom half of a blue door.

This morning I was surprised to read that 1-4% of the population cannot construct an image in their brain. Could you close your eyes and imagine an apple? Well, if you can’t don’t worry, it’s not a disorder, but it does have a name, aphantasia. I was intrigued. I asked Bob, so he closed his eyes and told me yes, he can see an apple. But I pressed on; really, can you actually see one in your mind’s eye? Well, he said he’s not seeing numbers… And the funny thing is, I couldn’t.

Closing your eyes and remembering something is different from conjuring up an object out of thin air. I started thinking in words about my favorite apple from Jefferson’s orchard, Pink Lady, which made me think about the Bride’s wedding on Carters Mountain. I could certainly picture that day, the chuppah blowing in the wind of my mind… but the apple, a simple red (or pink) apple was eluding me. Maybe it’s just ADHD in my head? Maybe I really am weird!

“That would make it really hard to draw anything,” the Pumpkin told me in the pool.

“But really, everybody’s weird, Nanay says. We all sit on the spectrum between hyperphantasia and aphantasia. It’s not only possible but likely that you have a totally different internal experience from someone you walk by on the street. ‘The world—as we see it, smell it, hear it, think about it—is reconstructed,’ Shomstein says. Even a single shared experience, a thought, a memory, or a simple image of an apple can look and feel shockingly different on the mind’s stage.” https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2024/08/aphantasia-visual-imagination/679427/?gift=MZkyOCULmn5OA_9_ikIP-3k9e9svpxXbPFSNPM4epew&utm_source=copy-link&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=share

Now this would seem self-evident, that everybody has their own unique perception of the world. But you’ve got to admit, that Mr T is becoming more and more delusional. I mean come on, to say that Joe Biden will take back the nomination and that the crowd size for a Harris-Walz rally was a conspiracy generated by AI??? Yesterday he insisted on his media platform that the Michigan airplane hangar crowd “DIDN”T EXIST!” I mean I’m almost starting to feel sorry for the guy. He wants his followers to think the picture is fake, just like a good cult leader.

I bet what the ex-president sees when he closes his eyes is a prison cell. We all dream, and some of us daydream, to create our own reality. And sometimes we design perfect, pearl eternity necklaces – pretty weird stuff!

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Ann Patchett was sitting right in front of me last night at Parnassus Bookstore. We were listening to Meg Wolitzer read from her new book, “The Female Persuasion,” when Ann (I hope I can call her Ann since I see her so much around town) asked if the sum of a writer’s work isn’t simply an aria – one voice:

“aria, an elaborate accompanied song for solo voice from a cantata, opera, or oratorio.”

In other words, every book you write is saying something about you, about what’s really important to you. Your subjects may change, your place in time or your landscape may change, but your unique Voice, your Point of View comes through consistently, almost unwillingly.

And Wolitzer has written plenty of books, in fact this is her tenth novel. She notes that she actually started writing “The Female Persuasion” a few years before the #MeToo movement, but she has always been interested in female friendships, and the power dynamics in relationships. This book pivots around a college campus where a young female student, Greer with a streak of “electric blue hair,” is mentored by an older feminist writer, Faith Frank.

The audience last night was a mix of ages, young feminists with severely short hair, mixed in with my aging variety and a few men. One shop dog named Bear strolled around the room, while the smaller variety, Mary Todd Lincoln was cradled in a baby wrap on a bookseller’s hip. Wolitzer read from her opening chapter, where Greer is groped by an entitled frat boy at a party her freshman year. I wondered how many of us could relate to that!

I thought about a friend’s son, a quiet innocent boy, who went off to college only to be expelled after an episode with a girlfriend he dared to break up with – he was an unsuspecting sheep while she turned into a wolf. I thought about the UVA Lacrosse player who was killed in her dorm room by her off/and/on boyfriend. And that girl who was raped and left outside a garbage can at Stanford.

“Novels can be a snapshot of a moment in time, or several moments in time, and as a reader that’s what I really like, and as a writer, it’s what I’m drawn to also. It can’t be a polemic. I’m always saying, What is it like? That’s one of the mantras of writing novels for me. And then, in the game of musical chairs, the book is coming out now.”  

http://www.vulture.com/2018/04/meg-wolitzer-doesnt-want-to-be-tied-to-a-moment.html

Wolitzer would call her publisher and ask her assistant first, a millennial, “Before you put me through, tell me, what was it like being a feminist at your college?” 

And that was my question. At my Boston college in 1966 we didn’t have the word “feminism” yet. We couldn’t wear pants outside our dorm, we had to wear a dress or a skirt once we left the brownstone. We didn’t have birth control pills or roofies or mind-altering drugs, yet. There was obviously no social media, if a girl dropped out, you assumed she got pregnant. We didn’t wear bobby socks, we wore knee socks. We had no recourse, no defense; we huddled together and traded tricks sneaking into the Beacon Street residence after curfew.

We had a phone booth in the downstairs lobby!

Strangely enough, Wolitzer hits her mark writing about today’s college culture, about those times in our lives when we meet someone who will change our trajectory. Her generation is just behind mine, a decade younger – the second (or is it third) wave of feminism. And she mentioned that another Nashvillian, Nicole Kidman, has optioned the rights to play her character Faith in the movie.

My first thought was, so Kidman is playing a mid-60 year old woman? And I immediately slapped that thought away as too judgmental, the opposite of feminist, after all maybe Helen Mirren is unavailable!

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Last night I attended a course on “Writing and Publishing for Children and Teens.” It was jam-packed with good advice and important resources, but the most interesting thing to me was the “other” facilitator – an illustrator. Her name is Mary Reaves Uhles and I happened to pick up one of her picture books while waiting for class to begin – I absolutely loved it! Lots of shenanigans and different skin colors at a Grandmother’s holiday celebration:

“The Little Kids’ Table” by Mary Ann McCabe Riehle and Mary Reaves Uhles http://sleepingbearpress.com/shop/show/11704

At first I wondered if I should have been named Mary with multiple surnames, like all the nuns who taught me how to perfectly diagram a sentence, and probably set the stage for my love of reading and writing. Before popping into my class, I delivered two children’s books in Spanish to the Grands; one on Frida Kahlo and the other on Julio Cortázar! After all, they will be learning Spanish in school and why shouldn’t they think of art as a career choice? The Bride smiled at my obvious motive while she cooked up some delicious beans and rice.

One of the most important things I learned from Uhles is that when a manuscript is accepted by a publishing house, the writer has basically zero influence on the illustrator. For some reason I’d thought I would have to provide the artist along with my book, that writer and illustrator came as a duo, a married couple ’till death intervened. I might be able to suggest someone for the job, but nope, the editor gets to pick the person she/he likes. Uhles mentioned a friend who wrote a book about a family, only to find out it was finally published as a PIG family, which was not her intention, but hey…

I also learned I don’t have to rhyme, although I love reading aloud in rhyme to children. It’s like a melody that’s enhanced by harmony. But Dr Seuss seems to have cornered the market on couplets, still I’ll leave a bit of my idea for a another book on Buddha Bear. Y’all know Buddha was our wonderful part-Samoyed rescue who looked like a polar bear. One hundred pounds of pure love. https://mountainmornings.net/2011/11/03/to-a-good-dog/

Buddha Skates Across the Pond

Snowflakes settled on his nose

As Buddha stepped outside to find

A fox left tracks in the tall sea grass

And chocolate milk was on his mind

The school was closed, so back inside

He jumped to pull a crazy quilt

From Lena’s bed, “Up, up, up, sleepyhead!”

He begged with paws of icy silt

I envision a series, Buddha in the Morning, Buddha at the Beach, Buddha Gives Chase, Buddha on a Plane, etc. Which reminds me, when we arrived in Mexico, a police officer was strolling through the airport with a proud German Shepherd dog. who started sniffing all around my bag. Oh Oh, was I carrying some contraband into the country? We always thought Buddha was a drop-out from a K-9 program. It turned out this drug-sniffing dog had smelled my half of a ham sandwich from Starbucks. Needless to say, it was confiscated.

Our current combined pups:  Guinness, Ms Bean and Maple the newest IMG_2040

 

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The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Billy Collins was appointed Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003. This may have been one of our country’s most fragile times, when more people sought peace from poetry. And he is a poet who gets us, and last night Bob and I had the distinct pleasure to listen to him read some of his poems at Salon 615. Everyone of a certain age has picked up a book in rapt anticipation, only to find a few pages down the line that it’s something we’ve read before. I admit it, and Collins makes it bearable in his poem “Forgetfulness.”

Like that moment when he realized he was older than Cheerios, at the age of 70, and so wrote a poem about it. He scatters serious sonnets in among his readings, so last night’s audience gasped and laughed in unison. Because poetry is “…a megaphone.” Because he loves to make up new words, like “azaleate” – which loosely translated means we’ve arrived at a place just before, or after, it’s signature event. Oh, it’s too bad you’ll be missing the peak leaf season here in Vermont, let’s say. Or:

Bob and I azaleated the lavendar blossoming in Provence this year. 

Collins writes about cats and dogs from their point of view. And he even writes about Tennessee Fainting goats! This type of goat freezes and keels over whenever it is startled or feels panic. It’s something I may be catching here in loud and noisy Nashville 🙂

What brought me nearly to tears was Bob’s reaction; he didn’t fidget or head for the bathroom. He actually loved listening to Collins, we poked and prodded each other at yet another small truth that bounced between the two of us. It was like going to Jacob’s Pillow when we were young and discovering that he enjoyed the ballet almost as much as I did!

Then, towards the end of the evening, he turned to that ultimate question all couples must grapple with, “Who will go first?” The universal hope that “…you will bury me.” But is that really true love, to want to go first and save yourself from grieving. Bob has told me so often that due to his genetics he will most likely go first, and I almost believe him.

But what if I were to get hit by a bus tomorrow? A very real possibility in this busy city. He would still buy peanut butter and jelly, he would still drive like someone from NJ. Maybe he wouldn’t search for a beach house, or maybe he would?

Collins recommended a book, one that had inspired him in his youth, by a philosopher named Gaston Bachelard, “The Poetics of Space.” And I remembered the Bride showing us her Public Policy building at Duke, the light pouring in through modern-Gothic arches. And just last year, pointing out her son’s little hidey-hole inside his closet in their new home.

In the first and last days of life, it is the cosmos of the home that takes on the full weight of human habitation, as retreat and space of belonging. Bachelard’s greatest work remains a compelling reflection on the enduring human need to find psychological refuge in familiar places and spaces, though its author admitted that poets and story-tellers got there first. 

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/reviews/book-of-a-lifetime-the-poetics-of-space-by-gaston-bachelard-1673212.html

Here he is reading from his book, “The Rain in Portugal.”

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