Straight up, straight up, turn.

Bitty houses or schools or factories.
“Little boxes, little boxes.
And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky.
And they all look the same.”

Slivers of highways or dirt roads or rivers.

Patchwork of crazy quilts of brown, greens, rust.
Squares and rectangles and circles of what?
Farmlands, forests, barren land waiting to be
desecrated by man or bulldozer?

Puffs of cauliflower clouds on a bed of darkening
cerulean blue.

Sudden shards of rain as they pellet the window of this
monstrosity that shouldn’t be able to soar so high.

Sparks of firelight in the distance.

Bump, shudder, rock ——-descent to safe haven.

Then – home.

Homage to Gramma

Dedicated to the Memory of Blanche Anna Brown Eaton


I could give you timelines and dates and genealogy but this essay is not about facts. It’s not about the Exacts. It’s about feelings and remembrances. It’s about a grandmother who on some level is thought about every day. It’s about a grandmother who gave me an emotional foundation.

In the day she would have been called stout. I only know that by pictures and the fact that she didn’t have much of a lap. She wasn’t necessarily a pretty woman, but her twinkling eyes and ready smile belied that fact. She was a strong woman, who could chase a chicken, rings its neck, have it butchered and in the pot in the twinkling of an eye. She worked 8-10 hours in the canning factory and come home and prepare a full course dinner for her family. She could go without sleep for days while she nursed a neighbor back to health – while doing all of the above, it was said. She could keep going when there was no money, no wood for the fire, nor little food for the table but managed somehow to keep her family together. She stayed in a marriage to a man who was said have been ‘the salt of the earth’ by his friends but a n’re  thee well by those who knew him. A good man who had the wanderlust, who drank too much and worked too little. She stayed with him until her children were grown and loved him til the day she died.

But those are the facts and I said I wasn’t going to write about those. I am going to write about the Gramma I knew, the Gramma I remember.

I hear her as I sit on the top of the stairs, whimpering that my tummy hurts or that monster is trying to come out of the closet again. I hear her say “Come down and have some peppermint tea and you’ll feel better soon.” She settles me in the big rocker next to the old wood stove and pours the tea into two china cups. Always the same two cups. Special only for her and me. She re-positions me on her lap – what there was of it. We drink the tea, she tells me a story, my eyes become heavy with sleep and she carries me upstairs to bed.

I feel her protective  comfort as we sit on the front porch during the thunder storm. “O, the angels are bowling in heaven”. When the thunder booms she says it’s  the  ball rolling down the alley. When the lighting strikes, its an angel who has knocked down all the pins and they go all over the place.

I smell the smells from the kitchen as she stirs and bakes and roasts. Always with the apron on. I see the two big glass jars she keeps under the sink, one filled with molasses cookies and the other with sugar cookies. I see the door to the cellar and feel the anxiety as I am asked to go down to the dark, dank place to get a jar of pickles. I see shelves and shelves of canned vegetables and jams and jellies and all kinds of pickles. But it is a scary place and I hurry to go up those stairs to a safe haven.

I remember picnics where she was always asked to bring potato salad because she made the best dressing. I remember berry picking and the little tin pail. I remember her cautioning me not to eat too many of those berries – “Leave some for the pie.” I remember shelling the peas and shucking the corn I had helped her pick from her garden.

I remember first the two-holer with the Monkey-Ward catalogue which was used for toilet paper. And then I remember the exciting day that the indoor bathroom was finished with an honest to goodness bathtub. (Gramma was given the honor of taking the first bath.)

I remember the day she took me to pick out my very own kitten. We named her Topsy. I remember Gramma’s  laughter and giggles as she watch us play ‘hide and seek’ or my trying to dress Topsy up in my doll clothes.

I remember how she comforted me when I couldn’t find my Mom. I remember her telling me Momma would be home soon, bringing me a baby sister – and that I would be the Big Sister. I remember her standing beside me by my Momma’s bed when I looked at that little wiggly thing. I was reported as saying  ” Well, she’s not going to be much fun.”

I remember going to church with Gramma every Sunday, singing the hymns even when I didn’t know the tunes. I remember the big velvet drapes behind the altar, and asking Gramma if Jesus lived there. I remember paying much more attention to the pictures Gramma drew on the church bulletin to keep me quiet!

I see her as she is dying. In our own home now, letting Us take care of Her. I smell the musty, close smell of sickness, of incontinency. I feel sadness all around me. I hear her moan but not complain. I see her arms reach out for me as I crawl into her bed to comfort her, as she had comforted me so often.

I see her in her coffin, peaceful, like the Gramma I knew. I place a rose on her chest and kiss her cheek. Cold, leathery.

Even now I see her twinkling eyes. I feel her hugs. I hear her laughter and giggles. I sense her love for me, her pride in me, her hopes for me.

What did she give to me?  Unconditional love.

What lesson did she teach me?  To persevere, to keep going no matter what.

I see her every day.

I saw her in my Mother.

I see her in my Sister.

I see her in my Daughters

I feel her in my heart.


My mother, sister and I lived with my Grandmother while my father was in the Army- from 1942 -45. She died when I was eleven. I am writing this for my sister who was too little to remember too much about Gramma, and for my only cousin who was just a baby when she died. I am writing this for my children who I hope will have a sense of who they came from – a woman of grace, of loyalty, of perseverance, of humor, of optimism, of faith, and an indomitable spirit.

The River

the-riverPeace I ask of thee, O River

Peace, Peace, Peace

When I learn to live serenely

Cares will cease.

From the hills I gather courage

Vision of the day to be.

Strength to lead and faith to follow.

All are given unto me.

Peace, I ask of thee, O River.

Peace, Peace, Peace


This day Mullet Bay is placid, the glassy ripples mesmerizing as we drink our coffee by the shore.

Another day the white caps will be churning. Boats will be bobbing. Storm will be brewing.

Each day a mystery on The River.

The big ships come up and down the channel. The flags – of the United States, Canada, countries from afar – unfurling from their masts, evoking thoughts of adventure and exotic places.

Boats and canoes and kayaks stream in front of us. Some to go fishing, some to pull water skiers, some to paddle peacefully along the shore dreaming, meditating – all to revel in the beauty of The River.

Swimmers at the beach. All shapes and sizes, out for a good time. Some floating on rafts, some dog-paddling, some serious stroking. Children venturing out too far. Squeals of laughter, admonitions from Moms and Lifeguards. Sandcastles and tunnels to China created in the sand. Imprints of little feet as they go to fill their pails.

Sunset comes. Kaleidoscopes of colors as they break through the sky. Awesomeness that takes one’s breath away from the beauty of the heavens.

Nighttime comes. Black and deep. Sounds of the crickets, sounds of the big ships sending their messages up or down, sounds of the lapping waters. Sounds of silence.

The River. The River. The River.






The Penny

It  would drive Momma to distraction as she would gaze through my living room, or dining room, or kitchen, or bathroom, or laundry room, or porch, and find coins of all shapes and sizes on the floor!  Even when dementia fogged her memory, she would look down and giggle- finding a nickel or a dime or a penny.

Momma died.

I began to put ‘found’ money in a jar. I became more careful about dropping money on the floor. But then a strange thing began to happen. Every once in a while I would find a penny in the most unexpected places. This has continued for the last ten years.

Let me tell you of the most current sightings.

A few weeks ago I was putting on my make-up before setting out on a venture to Florida- first stop New Jersey. I put my hand in my make-up bag and pulled out a penny.In New Jersey I wandered into my daughter’s kitchen. There was a penny on the floor.

Now in Florida, I put my suitcase down on the floor in the bedroom – on top of a penny. I found a penny on the bathroom sink. Another day there was a penny under the covers of my bed. Later in the week I STEPPED ON A PENNY AT DISNEY!

So ended the Florida adventure.

BUT – when I got home and did my first load of laundry, there was a penny on the washing machine.

Oh and  I have to tell you this. Sitting quietly in its own space in my apartment complex in Utica, not doing nuttin’, my car was totaled! (Long story.Tell you about it sometime.) It was overwhelming to say the least to deal with insurance companies, not to have a vehicle, trying to decide what kind of car to purchase etc, etc, etc. Sad, anxious, depressed — I happened to looked down. There was a penny.

Coincidences? My imagination? A message from above? I like to believe the latter. Momma was saying ‘have a good time’, ‘welcome wherever you land’, everything will be all right’.

Oh no. Guess what. I just saw a penny on the floor!


New Post




My Tree

If you were giggling friends, or lost in your own thoughts, or bumbling along with picnic and swimming gear on the path to Grassy Point, you might not ever even see my tree. It was off to the right in a thicket with a lot of other pine trees to be sure. But one had ‘welcome’ spewing from every branch.

Like an opening to Neverland its lower branches reached out,exposing my nest, my refuge, my safety, my dreamworld, my space. Branches enclosed me like the most beautiful tent.A carpet of pine needles, soft to the feet, delicious to lie on.And the smell. Oh the smell. To this day the smell of pine evokes the vision of my tree.

My tree kept me cool on the most sweltering of summer days, warm from the chill. On the rainiest of days I was dry, protected by its dense bough. (Unless it started to thunder. Then I was out of there.) The dampness enhancing the smell of the pine.

For a long time I kept my tree private – my sister allowed to come in by invitation only. It was MY retreat. Momma and Daddy respected that. They never invaded my space, calling from the road if it was a mealtime or I was needed.Hours spent day-dreaming, or reading, or listening to the rain or the sound of the summer folks not far away, but hidden from my retreat. Momma would sometimes peack me a lunch. I don’t remember what. But it doesn’t matter.

At some point I began to invite my friends in. My girlfriends and I would talk of boys and movie stars, gossip about other girls, imagine how it would be when we really grew up. We would talk about the injustices of our families about how old-fashioned they were! My boyfriends – not boy friend – were only allowed in to play games (only if the girls were there too) which eventually evolved into Post Office and Spin the Bottle.

When did it stop being enchanting? I cannot visualize the teen-age Gail sitting underneath the tree. I cannot bring back a picture of bringing the love of my life to this special place

And then it was gone.

In its place a parking lot – cold concrete, impervious to the who or what.

I grieve for may special place. I grieve for the lovely feeling of complete aloneness. I grieve for that part of myself that disappeared into the concrete. I grieve for the enveloping embrace of my tree.


O Prednisone, O Prednisone, how lovely are thee, Prednisone (sung to tune of O Christmas Tree)

Well, it went like this. I was making my breakfast – and both legs started to go numb. Made it to a chair to wait it out. Horrible pain in my lower back for just a few minutes, then left side of face and left arm felt funny. Wait it out, Wait it out – at least til my live-in nurse arrives home.(For those of you who might not know, that’s my daughter Linda. Boy, was she ever angry at me for not calling her or 911.)  Anyhoo, to the ER we went. People lined up against the wall waiting for a room. I got one right away ’cause the admitting nurse wrote Possible Stroke on his papers.That was nice to see but it did give us privacy. Went through all the verbal tests and questions. Passed. Urinalyses – passed. Lab work – passed. Cat scan – passed. No stroke, no brain tumor, no cancer – but what? Final diagnosis: exacerbation of spinal stenosis (which I have had for some time), affecting the nerves in my legs. Plan: follow up with my doctor within the week for referral to a neurologist, use walker, refrain from any big jaunts by myself.  Prognosis: good.  Medication prescribed: PREDNISONE  for five days. Yeah!

First time I was on prednisone I felt like I could write the Great American Novel. (I didn’t). Another time my house never looked cleaner. Etc. Etc. Etc. This time I read a 367 word novel completely between the hours of 9:30 PM last night and 6:00 AM.  Sorted and cleaned my closet and drawers . Uploaded pictures to Facebook. Wrote this blog. Still going strong. Why oh why can’t I stay on prednisone forever.

BECAUSE ON MONDAY I PROBABLY WILL COLLAPSE.  So I’d better make hay while the sun shines.


lucyGIVING TUESDAY:  This year it fell on December 2, 2014.

Part 1:

I never wanted another kitten after M’lady died . (If you haven’t read the blogs about her you really should to bring you up to speed.)  I expressed this to everybody!  It would be too hard to potentially lose another cat. There would never be as perfect a kitten as she. I didn’t have the energy and was too sad to even think about it.

But then Fate intervened.

My friend Jennifer posted a picture on Facebook which our friend Donette sent to her suggesting that I might be ready to consider adopting this little rescue kitten. I fell in love. Two days later the kitten named Monkey (appropriately named by her rescue mom, Michelle) came to her furever home, to be renamed Lady Lucy. I know M’lady sent her to me for  healing, for comfort, for purpose.

Giving Thursday:  I will give her love. She will give me joy.

Part 2:

What can I tell you about Lady Lucy, aka Lucy, aka Monkey?

She loves her mice, Christmas wrapping paper, paper clips,her tail, the other cats’ toys, zippers, ribbons, anything that dangles. She hasn’t bothered with the Christmas tree, but knocked over my crochet angel which was large enough for her to crawl into and think it was a tunnel. She happily slid across the coffee table scattering everything in its site. No cloth on that table for awhile!

She loves to play Phase10 with me on my Kindle.

She  loves to hold her own with Maude and Stanley, even when swatted. (I think they like her too!)

She loves to  hop, jump, prance, dance, fly, scratch, scamper.

She loves people. She does not try to scamper out the door as we come or go out.   She loves to have her ears scratched – and right under her chin – and her belly rubbed.

She loves good music.(In fact is listening to the Choirs of Kings College on Pandora right now.)  She has been known to dance a bit with Mannheim Steamrollers’s Christmas album, and falls asleep listening to the Bach Magnificat.

She loves her Human Aunt Linda but  comes to her Human Mom when she is sleepy,needs to be cuddled – or knows the Human is on the computer!

Yes,  she loves me!

She kisses me on a regular basis. She nestles on my shoulder as I doze in the recliner. She burrows deep down under my comforter while I am asleep but is somehow always beside me, sleeping on her sweater nest, when I wake in the morning. She is so content but sometimes naughty too,  already has learned to ‘mind’ the red spray bottle.She makes me giggle and laugh out loud!

Right now she is on my lap, editing the script. Makes no comment.

She is loved. She is needed. She is our Lady Lucy.