In search of story


Connections: January 13.17


to three little boys

three times the life

three times the joys

(you thought I was going to say¬†noise, didn’t you?)

perpetual motion

hilarity reigns

six little legs

endless ball games

they never stop

they never yield

come winter or summer

my yard is outfield.



Connections: July 13

SANYO DIGITAL CAMERAYesterday was sticky hot

the air was thick as mush

but I had to grab my camera

and get out there in a rush.

This visitor, this summer sprite,

this unabashed  flirt,

demanded my

attentive eye

and mud upon my skirt.

But would he alight, becalm his wings?

Sit still for just a



He just kept whirring


flitting to and fro.

I chased that Casanova

’round marigold and bee

and wondered if my neighbors

had a butterfly net for me.



Connections: September 16

SANYO DIGITAL CAMERAWe started today with a manhunt. Police cars, helicopter, sirens,

and there on the news an aerial view of my neighborhood from that helicopter:

flashing red and blue lights and school buses,

homes with breakfast lights golden through the crepe of morning gray.

How like a transient shadow

the illusion of safety.




I had no illusions. I knew when I bought this house that I was moving into a youthful neighborhood. I knew the lives of everyone around me would be different from mine. I knew, I knew.

But things have gone too far. Two of my lithe and smooth-skinned neighbors are pregnant. Hormones ought not be so flaunted.

People run everywhere. With stopwatches and strollers. They ride bikes, skate, and I swear I’ve heard pogo sticks. Sweating is socially acceptable. Energy abounds and muscles ripple. Flaunt, flaunt, flaunt.

I recently saw a reference to people “50 and better.” 50 and BETTER? How patronizing. Why not just pat me on my little greying head and send me to my rocker with my afghan and Geritol julep? The word is “older,” thank you.

AARP sends me glossy magazines touting the trim glow of celebrities. Puh-leeze. They have nothing to do with me or I with them. I live a real life. My right knee makes a peculiar soft clicking noise when I go downstairs. On occasion my hips seem out of sync with my legs, where veins rise up like the Rockies. My fingers grow ever more gnarled and painful. I sag everywhere. My skin grows toadstools. And, worse yet, my granddaughter plays with my old-lady elbows and tempts me to forget I dote on her.

I have heard women talk about “getting over” and “moving beyond” body image. To them I say — and loudly — IMPOSSIBLE! Not that I ever had much body to have an image about, but still I miss the days when I could get up from the floor.

Golden years, my Aunt Fanny, as my ancestors would say.

There. I’m done for now.