January 2006

It seems to me, that after thousands of years of youngers caring for the elderly, the public sector would have come up with a special code for communication.


You know: when going to the bank with your 90-year-old mother, wouldn’t it be nice to simply wave your little pinky—and the bank teller would immediately know, “This one’s a little deaf!  Speak loudly!”


Or an arch of the right eyebrow would mean, “My mom’s got the mental ability of a 5-year-old—go slow and simple!”


A left eyewink says:  “This old geezer is sharp as a tack, don’t try to pull anything over on him and DON’T treat him like a child!”


My family, being more practical-minded, says it wouldn’t work after a while.  We youngers would grow old and know the code.  “Ah, “ but my husband says with a scratching of his chin,  “you could counter-code back.  This means ‘I’m not as crazy as she thinks!’”


Magnetic Poetry   January 29, 2006


Various magnetic poems currently on our refrigerator; you can see the pathetic life in this house:


Stare at the forest

And lust for meat.

See it run fast.


He lets it rip

And gets in spring show.


The butt sags;

She screams.

We take them because we can,

To hold that beauty in our house.


If their weight were as a sunset,

We could only gaze with delight.

The beach is fog.

The condos are gone;

The ocean is heard but not seen.


We stand without moving,

Listening for some sign

That the new year has begun.


Faint shouts from the mist cry

“Happy New Year!”