Posts Tagged ‘ friend ’

The Underpants

Wednesday, August 28th, 2013

We’ll Talk About This Photo In A Minute…But First, The UnderPants.

A woman friend comes to my house for tea and company.

She bakes and brings fresh scones with strawberry jam and clobbered cream. The scones are flat when they should be fluffy. They look like flat, pale cookies.

My friend complains her scones are a failure, but in fact they are delicious. In my mind I call them ‘Sccookies’. The word Scone with Cookies. Very cleaver of me.

Maybe we can bake and build a Twinkies kind of mega-corporation off my friend’s Sccookies? Maybe we can become rich and pudgy off our own brilliance?

No, we are not drinking.

My friend wants to swim in my pool in her underpants and tee shirt.

“Good idea,” I say, about the swimming in panties.

I want to swim, too so I run in the house, put on a hot pink sports bra and pull on a pair of neon green nylon shorts. Pulling those shorts up and on is hard work. I have gained weight since last summer.

Finally, the shorts are up, but eeeh gads, they are inside out! They look even worse than they might if they were on proper.

However, they are too much trouble to peel down and re-do as they are so tight I will never get them off. I will have to wear them inside out.

I usually swim naked. I know you know that.

I am always getting into unexpected trouble while naked in the pool. There was that time I heard my old, deaf pool man coming through my iron gate and I banged out of the water so fast that I had to go and see a chiropractor for a twisted back.  (more…)

My Mother’s Friend

Wednesday, May 8th, 2013

My Mother’s Friend, Martha

My mother’s friend Martha is 90 years old. She is mainly blind from birth, and now her hearing is drifting off. I imagine words coming towards her and curling into a gentle, blue puffy cloud.

Martha lives alone with her dog friend, Gretel.

Martha considers my mother her best friend. But, my mother is dead… and hence so is Martha’s best friend.

Martha calls me on the phone one day, wanting to return a book to me. She must have borrowed it from my mother.

I say, “Keep it or give it away, whatever you want.”

There is a silence.

“Oh. Do you want me to come and get it?” I ask.

Yes. She does.

She’s lonely. She wants to see me. I haven’t seen Martha since my mother died 2 1/2 years ago.

The next day when I arrive at her gate, I park my car, get out and wait for her to push her way down the drive with her walker. She unlocks the heavy wire gate and I step through the opening.

She reaches toward me, takes my face in her hands and peers closely up into my face.

“Oh. You look just like your mother. It’s like having your mother here with me, again.”

I am going to be my mother for an hour or two as I spend some time with Martha.

We inch our way up the long drive. Martha tells me she has to use the walker because her dog, in her great thrill with life and running, ran over her one day when they were outside. Greta knocked Martha to the ground and Martha broke her leg.

“But, I’m fine now,” Martha tells me once we are settled in the house at her table. “I only bring the walker outside with me so Greta can’t take me down when she’s chasing rabbits and squirrels.

Martha has a nice old house. It’s not fancy. It’s plain. The kitchen where we are sitting has old coffee cans dotting the sink, mismatched dishes and cracked drinking glasses. It looks like my mother’s kitchen.

Martha’s husband died 25 years ago. I remember him. A tall man with a great, big dark moustache that ran up at the ends into a wide smile.

They raised chickens. Looking out the kitchen window I notice the long old chicken houses, rusted with age and neglect.

Martha has been alone for a long, long time.

Her children live in places like China and Nepal. One lives across a wide field near Martha but she is gone for ten and more hours a day.

I look around and silently wonder, ‘How do you live alone when you are old and nearly blind and can hardly hear?’

“How do you do it?” I ask her.  “How do you feel about living alone?”

Martha says she is healthy. That even her knees are good. She thinks a minute. “About living and being alone for so many years? I just do it.”

She says it used to be easier when a bus came by and took her uptown but that it’s been years since that bus came by. Once a week, a friend takes her for a senior lunch at the Centre. The daughter that lives across the big field, takes her grocery shopping and they have lunch every Sunday.

I hear the ticking of an old wooden clock on the kitchen wall. We sit quietly and I listen to the tick. Martha has been listening to that clock tick her days away for at least 25 years.

“I have to go now,” I say, reluctantly. “I have to be somewhere else.”

“Oh. It’s been so nice having you here for awhile,” she says. She is disappointed that I have to go.

“In a couple, of weeks,” I say, “I’m going to call you and come and get you and take you to my house for lunch and tea. Would you like that?”

She would!

Now, we both have something to look forward, too.

Martha sees my mother in me…and I see my mother in Martha.

My mother’s old friend is now my new friend.

My mother’s friend is now my friend, too.

Suddenly, I feel all sweet and warm inside.

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The Secret To A Good Hair Day

Tuesday, March 13th, 2012

The Secret To A Good Hair Day http://www.artmojos.com

The East wind is blowing as I’m walking through the Farmer’s Market. I’m watching the cold wind smack the lettuce off my hot fish taco.

When I look up I see a woman waving at me from a booth. I walk over and recognize her from other places in town.

“I can’t remember your name,” she says, “but I sure remember your hair!”

My hair is white. I call it platinum, and I have lots of it. It’s bouncing in the wind now, blowing and billowing around my head in a whipped frenzy.

This hair has a lot of energy. My mother used to say “I can always tell when you’re upset Venus, or when something dramatic is going on in your life because it stands straight out all over your head.”

Oh yes. It’s curly, too.

My hair is electric; sometimes more so then others.

When my hair is wet it looks like almost nothing is there. It sticks to my head making my face look like a pecan in it’s shell or the top part of a long green onion.

As the hair begins to dry it gains momentum and is soon flying around my head and face like white frosting shot from a can.

People marvel at the change.

Why am I rapturing on about my hair to you? In a moment you will know. (more…)


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