Category: Uncategorized

A Simple Song

This was written in 1971, as the Viet Nam War was winding up. I was 16 y/o.

Beauty lingered

Why?

I know not.

All I know is that

Serenity persisted and

Drowned

The sounds

Of bombs

Exploding

Outside

My window

Anyone Have a Pen?

Truth be told, I am embarassed to tell you how many pens I have. They are an instrument of magic for me because of their grand potential to change, sadden, influence, create, spread joy, etc. As someone once said, the pen is mightier then the sword. (Edward Bulwer-Lytton). I do abide by this sentiment, though I fear it has been run off the road by all things digital.

I’m not saying that digital is bad, but when many young people today don’t appreciate the joy of a pen gliding across the page and discovering ideas and thoughts that awaken and surprise!

The fact today is that cell phones rule. When I was teaching at the college, I’d marvel at the number of students who’d walk across campus while on their cell phones. No human interactions, no enjoying the surroundings, no being in the moment, and amazingly, no falls!!

Consider:

Nearly every student clutches a phone in one hand as they traverse the University of Central Florida campus, even while walking in groups. Laptops and tablets are lunchtime companions, and earbuds and headphones are routine accessories. While waiting for class to start, many students sit in silence, drawn into their devices. (Courtesy New York Times — excellent article)

Alas, I have been on this pen crusade for more years than I care to share, but I think what it symbolizes is more important today than ever.

Here is the little post I wrote many years ago:

In Pursuit of the Perfect Pen

I was watching the TV show Hoarders last night, and as usual, horrified by the deplorable conditions of the featured homes. And while I watched, I sat there with a self-serving sense of satisfaction that I was NOT a hoarder, that I did NOT live in deplorable conditions, and that minus a few knick-knacks here and there, we lived in a rather neat and organized little home, albeit a bit dusty. (What’s a little dust?). As I gloated, and made some comment accordingly, my daughter dearest looked at me with her curled-lip smile, which is never a good sign, and said, “Pens?”

Gulp. Oh boy. That’s a “got ‘cha.” I never thought about my predilection for pens as anything more than an “I love pens” thing. Other people love pens. I’ve heard them say it. In fact, I’ve had conversations with people where we compare makes, models, and ink colors. But even in these conversations, I know I am a breed apart because in addition to these basic things, I concern myself as well with ink flow, how far out the writing tip extends from the pen, and what its weight is (the heftier, the better). I do not dare bring these things into these conversations as I suspect it would be stepping over the edge.

Man oh man, I guess the jig is up. I’m a hoarder. A pen hoarder. I have boxes of pens stored throughout the house. I keep my current favorites in front of me at all times, and if someone disturbs them, I know in a second. No casual pen-borrowing from this hoarder. Those poor souls who’ve most innocently tried will never do so again.

Indeed, I have tried and probably have just about every brand, make, model, out there. I have driven in blizzards to get a pen. I order pens online. I give pens as gifts. I am in ecstasy when I get a pen for a gift.

I have spent much of my adult life in a quest for the perfect pen. A perfect pen is like the Holy Grail for a writer. However, there exist two issues with this: it’s expensive and just as with us mere mortals, there is no such thing. So, I have a choice – continue my quest, go broke, and run out of pen storage places, or accept the inevitable and succumb to the all-electronic brigade. NOT GONNA HAPPEN.

Well, see you later. I’m off to Staples!

Cozy

Throughout my entire life, the word cozy has been a word that often creeps into my vocabulary and gives me a lovely warm feeling as I think about one of the ten-million visions of “cozy” I have in my head. Consider: a warm corner, with an old, cushiony chair, a small, beat-up wooden side table on which sits a tea cup, and book, and the whole thing infused with soft, relaxing light. I would be completely content to call this little corner forever mine.

Now let’s bring AI on board and see what they have to say about the word “cozy.”

Being “cozy” means being in a state of comfortable, warm, and snug physical and emotional ease. It implies a sense of being safe and secure, often in a small or intimate setting, and is associated with feelings of relaxation and contentment. The term can also describe pleasant, friendly interactions or activities.  

Snug is a perfect word. Safe. There have been just a handful of times in my life where I have felt safe. Snug and cozy, yes. But safe was always elusive, largely because I did not do a good job of keeping myself safe. But that’s a story for another day.

Anyway, these are times when to be cozy is essential. Go find your little corner of the world, make it uniquely yours, grab a good book, and read on while the tumultuous world spins wildly out of control around you.

Saga of a Doorknob

Yep, a doorknob.

When I was a child and people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer was: a doorknob.

That’s right. A doorknob.

It’s no surprise that me saying I wanted to be a doorknob worried my parents

However, it’s important to note that I had given this matter a great thought. It’s true that I wanted to be something that few, if any, people had thought about being. But I also wanted to be something meaningful. I thought that doorknobs provide entry into other rooms, other places, other worlds! And I wanted to be one of those things (a doorknob)  that did that.

So, I decided to see what Copilot (AI) has to say about my childhood predilection, and I was delighted with the answer.

I wrote:

What if a child wants to be a doorknob when they grow up?

Here is the AI response to my question:

That’s delightfully imaginative—and honestly, kind of brilliant. If a child says they want to be a doorknob when they grow up, it’s not about becoming a literal piece of hardware. It’s a window into their creativity, curiosity, or maybe even their sense of humor.

Here’s how you could interpret it:

  • 🌀 Symbolic thinking: Maybe they see the doorknob as something important—something that opens doors, connects spaces, or helps people move forward. That’s poetic!
  • 😂 Playful absurdity: Kids often say things to be silly or get a reaction. It could be their way of exploring language and logic.
  • 🧠 Exploring identity: They might be testing boundaries—what does it mean to “be” something? Can objects have roles like people do?
  • 🎨 Creative expression: This could be the start of a wild story, a drawing, or a game. Maybe they’re imagining a world where doorknobs have personalities and adventures.

Instead of correcting them, it’s a great moment to ask, “What kind of doorknob would you be?” You might get a story about a golden doorknob on a castle, or one that tells jokes every time someone turns it.

Want help turning that idea into a short story or a comic?

Now, I did not respond to the query to move on to a creative tract produced by AI – I’ll leave that to my own creative juices at another time in the future

Again

Enough reading and raging over everything going on in this country. Enough feeling helpless. Enough watching things like Charlie Kirk, government shutdowns, and innocent people being seized off city streets. There is something to be done, and that is write. No matter how small the audience is, even if only one soul engages here with my thoughts, I’ve made a difference.

But I think the secret is to stop reading, watching, and raging. I believe it is to shut down, shut off, and listen to the wisest songs and lessons of all, those from nature. She has been calling me lately, yet I have blithely been ignoring her call as I remain obsessed with the cesspool of a government led by a true despot.

So, dear reader, it is to the quiet of nature and the pages here before you that I attempt to carve out a tiny piece of joy and serenity, for you and for me.

Paul Resika Painting

Many moons ago, I participated in a writing workshop that took place in our local art gallery. The charge was to find a painting, sit in front of it, meditate on it, and then write a piece of poetry. I chose “Boats, Blue Square,” a painting (below) by Paul Resika, and here is my poem, “Backwards Life”.

Backwards life

Like the painting,
Boat without oar
Sail without ship
Transfixed in time
Paralyzed puzzle pieces
Forever . . .
Screaming . . .
Out of synch, out of rhyme

Requiem for a Little Horse Named Buzzy

It was a long and wonderful ride. Literally and poetically. I never thought it would come to an end. It did. I am devastated.

He was 32 – an amazing accomplishment after all he’d been through in his four-legged life. My beloved horse, Buzzy.

A stalwart little pacer, I adopted him right off the harness racetrack in Saratoga, and brought him home on a cloudy, cool autumn day. And from that day on, the saga, and disasters began. He was 8 and looked like a handsome little Morgan. He had a strong constitution and a basically calm demeanor, except for when he didn’t.

Still, whatever the case, my Buzzy took care of me, and was always there as my spiritual advisor. He was a wonderful listener!

Because there were so many adventures, disasters and sagas, the rest of his story is slated for a book.

Blantant Age Discrimnation

Ever since I’ve joined the ranks of the 70-somethings, I’ve noticed people speak louder, slower, and more simply to me. Okay, I can deal with that. But what I can’t deal with is what happened to my dearest friend.

My friend is in her late 70s, sharp as a tack, and has been working full-time for a company that boasts its commitment to employees and customers. It is, in fact, a health-care-based company. Ha!

So, my friend has been there for almost 2 years and was happily working away while saving money to pay off a few things before she retired in another year. Not!

On a Thursday, she was in the midst of a Zoom meeting when she got a phone call. She told the caller she was in a meeting, and the caller told her to leave immediately. The caller then told her this was her last day and that she was to pack up her computer, which would be picked up the next day, as she worked from home.

Boom! Slam-bang-thank-you-mam! The reason? Cutbacks. Right.

BTW, her boss, a fifty-something black woman, was also let go. My friend was told she’d be paid through November, but then on to the unemployment lines.

There is so much about this that reeks of all bad corporate things. (I have never been a corporate type and have had my own issues in the past, but never in my 70s when I planned the short rest of my life around my job.)

So, how is my friend coping if I’m in shock and incensed over this? She’s alive, not necessarily well, but as a child of the 50s and 60s, she will survive, at least I sure as hell hope so.

But what can she do? The sad fact is — nothing. To hire a lawyer, if even possible, would be exhausting, not to mention cost prohibitive, and the corporation would through their endless resources at any legal action she might bring. It’s possible she might get some sort of payout, but that’s also unlikely. Sadly, this is an outrageous example of how we treat people today. Especially our elders.

Grandma Takes on Daycare

Photo by Pixabay: https://www.pexels.com/photo/person-coloring-art-with-crayons-159579/

Who Would Have Thunk It!!’

For many reasons, I recently came off a stint as a dog-walking volunteer at our local shelter, which didn’t fit my mojo. The dogs were not one of them.

In the meantime, I’d been visiting my granddaughter at her daycare center and one day, one of the teachers in her baby room asked if I’d be interested in volunteering. It was like a big, juicy plum landed in my volunteer’s vacant lap and I immediately said yes!

So, this almost 70-something began changing diapers, soothing crying babies, rocking babies to sleep, and playing all kinds of silly games with them – all while sprawled out on the floor. Granted, it is sometimes tricky getting up and going down, but I manage.

Then there’s lunchtime! Woohoo! Talk about party time! We are eating food, including soft stuff like yogurt, with our hands, throwing food, taking someone else’s food, and eating lord knows how much of our own food. There is also the sippy cup contest, with cups being traded and thrown.

My beautiful granddaughter likes to play hard-to-get with her Omi (me), so I busy myself with the other beautiful babies while she careens around the play area behind one of those push-em toys, always with a split glance or two to see if I am looking at her. I usually am.

In the meantime, I have fallen in love with the other little ones. There is Lyle, whose huge blue eyes and shy little smile absolutely melt me. And there’s Harvey, who smiles no matter what wild things may be transpiring around him.  And Billy who takes one look at me and bursts out crying. And little Sierra, who is the most going-with-the-flow child I have ever seen. She is a precious little waif who I just want to scoop up and cuddle.

While all this is going on, my little Kelly comes closer and closer and hands me various and sundry toys, laying claim to the fact that I am hers and she is mine.

Omi reigns.

Pigeons as Pets

It’s no surprise that pigeons get a bad rap. They are called dirty, the rats of the sky, disease spreaders, and more. The truth is that these are lovely, sociable, and highly intelligent creatures!

I once had a pet pigeon that I named Oroville. We determined that he was indeed a “he,” as we never found any errant eggs hiding in his cage. He was given to me by a man who raced pigeons, and about whom I was writing a story for a local newspaper. I oohed and ahhed over his flock of homing pigeons, and lo and behold, he offered me one of his. Oroville was just a baby, technically called a “squab,” when I got him – he had just one feather poking out of the top of his head, and the rest of him was just pink, wrinkly skin.

It didn’t take long for me to fall in love; he likewise bonded with me. Whenever I entered the room where his cage was, he would start his mating dance. It became a source of joy in my daily routine.

His cooing sound was a source of serenity for me. I loved just sitting next to his cage and listening to him it.

I knew my pigeon was bright, but I have since learned some interesting things about how smart pigeons really are. They can:

  • Recognize themselves in a mirror
  • Recognize the letters of the alphabet
  • Figure out which human is which in a photograph

And, as homing pigeons, they recognize landmarks and even travel by human roads, canals, and other signposts.

Pigeons are also social animals. They like to be in flocks of 20 – 30 other birds, and they mate for life. I was sure that Oroville’s dance for me was his way of showing me I was his one and only.

Despite being clean birds, on the other hand, their poop can be a source of disease, as it carries bacteria, spores, and viruses. Pneumonia is one concern from inhaling pigeon poop, as are psittacosis, cryptococcosis, and histoplasmosis. Except for pneumonia, the last 3 illnesses are generally mild in those with strong immune systems.

So, if you are thinking of getting a bird, consider the very under-rated, smart, affectionate pigeon. You won’t be sorry when your bird delights in performing his mating dance for you every day!