Sunday, May 8, 2022


For mom

Back in the stone age, when women did not wear slacks or jeans or sweat pants...women who worked at home wore housedresses. While I could not find a picture of the housedress I remember., cotton, light printed plaid or wild florals, this came close enough. Probably from the 30s or 40s, but you get the idea.

They were for working. You wore an apron to cover it and the dress probably was to stay clean a couple of days. Even if you sweated or slopped dirty water on it while washing the floor or using your wringer washing machine.

My one grandmother, who never once wore slacks, wore housedresses. Only around the house or in her garden.

My other grandmother was a bit more savvy and did wear slacks. She was more trendy.  More American, even if she never once read a book in her life. The other, less trendy grandma, read romances by the stack!

Now, my mother didn't wear housedresses that I remember, but she did wear skirts and blouses and a girdle. Far from trendy, she did dress up nicely for very special occasions. Her make up consisted of powder and lipstick. Perfume, sometimes.. She said it made her feel like a French whore, which she pronounced hoor.

Well, that's it for dowdy housedresses. 

Did your mother wear them?

Friday, May 6, 2022

So many things happening, not all of them good

 Let's see.

Still no word about the prostate cancer.

Still no counselors for either family members who need them.

Sometimes I think I should be the one who needs a shrink, but then, I have all of you to listen to my shit.

It is raining. We have nothing new planted in the gardens yet.  Some of the perennials have poked through and look hearty, or hardy, but there are huge gaps in the garden.

Daughter #1 and her husband are coming up to make me dinner for mother's day. Daughter #2 is in upstate NY watching CATS for the second time.

My mother in law turned 100 and is still in pretty good shape!!!

My gallbladder needs to come out. My A1c is too high at 7.9.

Yeah, I know.

This is Dick. From my early reading days. He hasn't changed one bit.

Thursday, April 14, 2022


 Spring today!

Supposed to be in the 80s. 

The house across the street  has a garden full of hyacinths. The maple trees sport red leaf buds.  Birds wake me up with their songs.

Today is actually Maundy Thursday.

What is the definition of Maundy?

Thursday, February 10, 2022

Thinking long and hard

 For days I have thought about writing here. Anything to relieve the ennui. Anything to keep my brain from working.

So, here I am without my brilliant thoughts.

They're all gone.

They went away with the wind. Or sleep. Or atrophy. Something. All the three great topics I wanted to write about. Vanished.

I think one was going to be about the end of life. Mine. Like how I realize that I am not going to last much know. Bones creaking. Getting forgetful. Aches and pains. Troubles in the world where I am not sure I want to see to the finish. Those kind of things.

I worry about dying. I worry about not waking up one morning and everything being black because I am not in my head or body any more.  I wonder if I will look at my body and wonder what was going on, or especially where I was going.

Yeah. That makes me think.

Where am I going?

I don't particularly like dirt.

Saturday, January 1, 2022

The Case of the Unsilent Schnozz

 Trouble falling asleep. Trouble staying asleep. Trouble worrying day after day, night after night.

Well, last night, I was kept awake by a whistle in my right nostril. Szzz, whistle, whistle, sznozz. In and out, whistling.

I tried blowing my nose. I tried inhaling. I tried pinching one nostril. I tried digging around to no avail.

Whistle, whistle, whistle.

Nose knows something is wrong, but nothing I can do fixes it.

If I blow too hard, I'm liable to blow out my brains. (This has happened before, don't  you know?) 

I get up. Go to bathroom. Sit for awhile, contemplating the sound coming through my head, in and out.

Dunno what happened, with me sitting there, tooting my honker. Maybe it was the sitting. Maybe it was shoving some decongestant up there. Maybe it was a supernatural being finally hearing my plea.

The whistling stopped. I went back to bed, wondering what happened and why I'd had the incessant noise for half the night. What did I do wrong?

But, I could breathe and not have to listen to that wheezeflutter booger making that godawful noise.

Happy New Year, everyone. Stay tuned. There's more idiocy to come.

Sunday, December 19, 2021

Cancer: The thing we all hate

 Husband definitely has prostate cancer. He has had all the biopsies and tests and it is real.

He has so far had markers placed into the prostate that will direct the radiation where to go to wipe out this awful thing.

Is he scared?

He doesn't say.

Am I scared enough for him?

You bet.

This is a shitty time of year. 13 years ago just about now, I was told I had my second cancer. I had radiation for the first cancer but this one was more. I had to have chemotherapy. Chemo does horrible things to cancer as well as other parts of your body.

I pray and pray.

Sunday, December 5, 2021

The Silver Swan

 One of the most often used music for try-outs in choral music in high school is The Silver Swan.

This morning it is all I can think about.

Lyrics-wise, it goes something like this:

    The silver swan, who living had no note,

    When death approached unlocked its silent throat.

    Leaning her breath upon the reedy shore,

    Thus sang her first, and last, and sang no more.

Wow, that's pretty heavy.

Four part harmony at least, sometimes contrapuntal in entry, this dirge drags on for only a short time, but it allowed each part to come in, testing the ability of the singer to read the music and entry as well as the tune. I guess this is what the judges were after. Could the alto come in before the tenors but certainly behind the beloved sopranos?

Was the tone sufficient? Not to block out anyone but rather blend to an almost madrigal POS music?

Gawd, how I hated that stupid, horrible song.

Here's why, sopranos be not offended.

It's about a poor beautiful bird, mute its entire life, that when dying, is allowed by nature or God or Richard Attenborough to sing one note. It honks out one bloody note, probably all it has ever wanted to sing its entire short lifespan, and dies.

The sad, pitiful end.

Now, I wonder why this came to me after four hours' sleep. Was there a message in that swan's song? For me?

When death approached--

I've been thinking about the deaths of so many people, of dear many victims of the plague and of unspeakable violence and my current fear of coming to the end of everything.

Do I have only one note to sing? One valuable word to write?

And who, if anyone, would be there to hear it?

(The Silver Swan can be found on YouTube, if you are interested, or if, perhaps, you remember trying out for All State or All County when you could still sing.)