Tuesday, May 11, 2021

The “Grim Reaper”


Not only does Mitch McConnell (the Senate Minority leader) like being called “The Grim Reaper”, but he actually IS one ! He has proved over and over that the words fit him to a “T”. In a message on 10/23/2010 he wrote: "The single most important thing we want to achieve is for President Obama to be a one-term president." Luckily that didn't happen.

However, 4 years of Trump DID happen and it may be years (if ever) before we can overcome that deadly fiasco. The people of the United States legally and fairly chose Joe Biden as their President and we are just starting to see how that will work. Now McConnell on 5/5/2021 wrote this: "100% of my focus is on stopping this new administration." Wow, !

So, in other words he is saying that it is the only thing he will accept and it leaves absolutely no room for compromise.  The whole concept of our government is based on bipartisanship and President Biden is practically begging the Republican Senators to do just that. Unfortunately they are a sorry bunch of gutless elected officials who will completely take the country down rather than give an inch. It is a wonder that they can sleep at night and, in my opinion, that includes the people that vote for them 



Thursday, May 06, 2021

KNOW YOUR MESS ...

 My son, Mark, in 1983 at age 24, wrote this ode to his Dad



Know Your Mess”.

My father’s workshop…a busy space,
But so many tools out of place.
Tools smeared by oil, others by grease,
Some should be labeled ‘rest in peace’.
Hammers hang longing to drive the spikes.
He leaves us room for broken bikes.

Slew of tiny screws, stack of wood,
Things he might use, things he never would.
My mother, his love, can’t understand
All of these things without a plan.
She brings ‘it’ up and he says “yes”,
But never has time to plan the mess.

He asks for a wrench, I hear of cost,
He always knows when they are lost.
Then he asks me for the pliers,
I think I saw them by the tires.
But he knows just where they are,
He had to look some, none too far.

It takes a man years to know his mess,
Where all his tools lie, more or less.
My father’s work shop, lots of space,
And every tool, he knows it’s place.”







Saturday, May 01, 2021

PORTRAIT of a NEIGHBORHOOD… 1962

 My husband, 3 children and I were living on West 94th St. in NY City in 1962. Our apartment was on the 11th floor and, although this was a reputable address, it changed very quickly when you turned the corner. The first building on the right was The Whitehall and our bedroom window looked right into it. To say it was low down and tawdry is being kind. It was a mess! I was also in a Writer's Workshop at the time so when the assignment was to write about a “Portrait of a Neighborhood” this rolled off my pen.

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PORTRAIT OF A 1962 NEIGHBORHOOD


To me, “off-Broadway” is not a theater production but a massive, out dated hotel for transients on New York City’s upper West side. Hanging from the marquee is a grimy cloth banner that proclaims this to be “THE WHITEHALL”.

All shades of humanity pass through the filth-infested hallways of this building just four doors from the respectability of West End Avenue.  Daily a handful of World War II vets wheel their chairs to the pavement. They sit deceptively still in the sunlight. Then a pedestrian walks by and they spiel off obscenities from mouths twisted with hatred.

A maroon convertible purrs to a stop in front of the hotel. Five scantily dressed girls and the driver, a strutting and jewelry encrusted black man, pile out of the car.  “Big Boy, you sure can peddle them white gals”, says one of the vets and they stand around cracking jokes until a police siren pierces the air. As if by osmosis, the group fades silently into the building and the street is deserted. 

Only the men remain, their faces closed as they watch the squad car approach. The police rush into the building and the men place bets on who they will pick up this time. They all lose.

It’s just a family quarrel and the police are still breaking it up as they drag the couple to the squad car. The man holds his arm, blood seeping through the dirty towel that he’s twisted around it. “She used a bottle on him”, say the men knowingly, and so it goes at THE WHITEHALL, the transient hotel where only vice, corruption and poverty find a permanent home.