DEAR CATLORD,

Dear Catlord,

   Yes, my lord.

   What is it my lord?

   You are always right, my lord.

   ever and always,

   Alley Cat

Delightfully Free, Deliciosamente Gratis

Delightfully Free Sudoku rebus

 

7:05 A.M.   Golden day and the gates open wide. This is it. Before the bridge ↓ Ty Classic heart tag ↑ This is love. Soothing sunlight settles. Video.  Two turtle trails. No body, save that of a fallen faint yellow bird. A vireo. An angel. No herons. One running pair ↔ HIS ↓ bright apple green laces ↑ comparatively colorless clothing - HERS ↑  bright apple green shorts and top ↓ comparatively colorless running shoes. Near the nine a stonewashed card: Delightfully Free * Deliciosamente Gratis.* McCafé. Maple wing pathling and a magenta/cyan dangling wrapper.  What’s next?

Her Eminence Teresa Arana

Did You Ever Know Love? poems by Teresa Arana

    Thursday evening, we were given the opportunity to attend a book signing by Reading, Pennsylvania author Teresa Arana, a lovely young lady who has put together a dual collection of heartfelt poems in their original English (front) with Spanish translations (atrás.)

   The Meet and Greet to announce the publication of  Did You Ever Know Love? was held at Mi Casa Su Casa, 320 Penn St., Reading  from five to seven p.m. Guests were treated to wine with fresh fruit, cheeses, and empanadas and the author’s daughter Esmeralda twirled about in a lavender dress fit for a princess.

  “She dressed herself!” said Arana.

    Arana told the audience she began writing in a diary at age nine and credits her family, friends and  teachers, along with the habit of keeping  journals with helping develop her interest and talent.

   Her Mexican grandfather Gabino Arana, who could neither read nor write, would have the family and children all around and tell stories, she said.  

  In fourth grade she saw her own poems, written for an English assignment, displayed on the wall by her teacher  - and published – she felt encouraged to write more.

   During her first year of college in Martinsburg, West Virginia, Arana’s mother, Bonnie, sent her a box of  “stuff” including the diaires.

   ”I was cleaning out the attic!” Bonnie said.

   This inspired Arana to later collect the early and recent works. She returned to Reading, and has not only taken a diploma from Penn State University, but also produced and published her first book of poems, self-published under the name Eminence Publishing Company: Creating new horizons.

   “I wanted it to have a message,” Arana said. “A positive message.”

    It was  two-year project, Arana said, including a trip to Los Angeles in order to publish:

   “I had barely any money, but I went!”

   The message she hopes to send is: Life will have its share of obstacles. Make something great out of it.

    Although the dates they were written are sealed and secret, the poems show an openness that reminds us of an hibiscus.  As we read our signed copy we are delighted with the careful and thoughtful organization of the book, the delicate touch in graphics and the jacket photos of Ms. Arana and the dashing Carlos. She did it. She did it all by herself.

   For more information or to order the book, go to: www.eminencepublishing.com.

  

Hi Mom

Phil and Annjeannette

   I wish everyone could know my mom.  Her name is Annjeannette. She is sweet. She is beauty. 

   After breakfast, we wash her face, brush her teeth and apply some lipstick. We sign out of the assisted living unit to take in the beautiful bright and windy Mothers’ Day morning.

    There is a panorama of farmland and manicured retirement village. Horses grazing and a cell tower. Green fields, azaleas and Gerbera daisies. We plan to sit and watch the vegetables grow.

“Shall we call Uncle Phil?” I ask.

“Yes!” she replies, she would like to talk to her brother.

A heron flies overhead that very moment.  What are the odds?

   A conversation with my mom these days is creatively constructed and rarely follows a normal path. What Uncle Phil hears on his side of the cellular phone is difficult to say. I know it does my mother good to hear his voice. When they were children and their mother was at work, he would play opera records for her.  He says the most beautiful sound there is is the sound of the human voice.  Aria!

   “Your mother was the most organized person I ever saw,” he told me some time ago when we drove together to visit. “She always carried a little notebook in which to write everything down.”

   After the call, we venture to the water garden. To get her up out of the wheelchair requires balance, focus and patience. It  feels good to help her stand and stretch and hold her.  We sit on a swinging bench. She looks uncomfortable. I swivel her legs so she’s reclining with her head in my lap and we remember her mother, Lillian. Of all things, bright and beautiful; exacting, and never a line on her face.

 ” Let’s plant some flowers for Grammie,” I say.

“Oh that would be wonderful!” says my mother. It’s one of the few full sentences she’ll say. So we swing and enjoy the sun and the water babbling and when she gets too chilly go inside. The dual metal spiral sculpture spins, a pinwheel, a flower, into eternity.

    Before we return to her room to listen to The Merchant of Venice tapes, we sit by the fire and sample some cheese and grapes.

   There is a little quilt display in the hall and write-ups from each of the residents who made them.

   The colors and patterns – cats and paws and fruits and stars and checkerboards – catch her eye and I ask: ‘ Here are their stories, shall we read them?’ She’s quiet, quiet as can be, considering these fabrications. Listening to other people’s stories and hers is not among them.

    I am reminded of when she was moving here and said to me:

   “I guess I didn’t make very much of my life.”

   Let me say “Oh, Mommy!  You are the best mother anyone ever had! ”

   If she were a quilt she could not be contained on this wall or this hall; her story is so far beyond a one-page synopsis. Always there for us, never letting us leave empty-handed.  To express her love of paper products and stationery would take reams. To list the books she has explored and shared, volumes. To show you the gardens and places she’s gone, album after album. 

   How to say at holidays the gifts she wrapped were too beautiful to open? 

    In truth she is a finely-stitched garden full of the most artistic, generous and wonderful flowers and plants imaginable and paths both stimulating and soothing.  Full of surprise and interesting elements. And her smile, Well, a picture is worth a thousand words.

My Jedi Knight

  There is no heron report for today and no pictures. The Jedi-cat that has been with me for almost nine years is not feeling very well and we are spending what are probably his last hours trying to keep him comfortable.

   Walked at a different place entirely. The Sudoku re:bus for 12/5 is disjointed. Working the day job too. Mostly it is a sad day even while being thankful for being here.

Perfect!

 A perfect day, clear blue sky, sunshine, 60°

Perfect Day, Perfect Love

Text from tape: Sir Phillip Sydney

My True-Love Hath My Heart

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,

By just exchange, one for the other given.

I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss:

There never was a bargain better driven.

His heart in me keeps me and him in one;

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:

He loves my heart, for once it was his own;

I cherish his because in me it bides…

My true love hath my heart and I have his.