Spring is always rainy, sometimes zany, can be drainy.
Summer's heat waves, lifeguard braves, ball saves.
Fall is changing, rearranging, completely engaging.
Winter...holly, folly, and oh-so-jolly!
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Spring is always rainy, sometimes zany, can be drainy. Summer's heat waves, lifeguard braves, ball saves. Fall is changing, rearranging, completely engaging. Winter...holly, folly, and oh-so-jolly!
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 What reason?
Captured by their beauty I stood Wobbling on wooden fence rails Arms stretching outward to Balance a shiny red apple, Open-palmed and Fingers snuggled together. Chomping down They Spew sticky sweetness that Collects in cracks between my fingers, Runs in clear thin veins Toward my elbow. My heart Pumps my passion, Filling me with Love and wonder. Passion forming With my first breath. Or perhaps… Long ago In white Russia Where great grandparents Trained Majestic, noble beasts For the Czar.
 Raggedy Ann kept Grandpa company.
Every day she traveled to work. I stood on the curbside, Jumping up and down… Stretching to watch the old Dodge Slowly make its way Down the friendly Emmaus street. Grandpa waving Raggedy Ann out the window, Grandma clutching my hand to keep me safe. Funny…that’s why I sent my doll with him - To keep Grandpa safe. Every evening they would return With stories about their day. Minnie (that’s what I called her) And Grandpa had deliciously delicious tales. Allentown Plumbing and Heating Supply, A bustling place filled with mostly men. I was secretly greener-than-green with envy. I wished I could have traded places. I wished I could have been that doll. I yearned for all her adventures, The fun she had each day with Grandpa. Grandpa’s been gone for many years, But I still have that doll. She sits on my bureau where I can see her. Every day, I see her and the photo beside her. My eyes linger there for a long time - The silvery hair and too-much-time-in-the-sun face, The hazel eyes that match my own and the high brow, The strong hands that often held a rake or a saw, The wisdom earned from being a grandfather. I am glad I still have Raggedy Ann, but… Wish I could trade her for Grandpa. I still love to do my first drafts with a pencil or pen in hand. There is something magical about putting pen to paper. It is electrifying – charging me to spill words onto the page! I love to write ideas down in different colored pens and watch the words spill onto a notebook page. It's both comforting and energizing to watch the steady thought flow (most of the time) race from page to page. There’s nothing better to curl up on a chair in the den or sit on a dry, grassy spot in my backyard and write. Airports, classrooms, dog walks, even supermarket trips inspire writing. I use my notebook to write about people, places, and objects that I love or that I find unique in some way. My notebook is filled with snapshots of friends, relatives, and pets. Rich descriptions of Long Beach Island, the Poconos, my grandma's house, the stables, and my East Mt. Airy neighborhood are some of my favorite entries. This June, I will fill a notebook with entries about my trip to Ireland with my husband and friends. I am sure sketches and photos will help to bring new energy to my words. My notebook is always a place to store lists. For example, after reading Names for Snow by Judi K. Beach I had the urge to brainstorm a list of names for autumn. I came up with names such as Leaf Dropper, Best Dressed Gal, Party Girl, and Masquerader. I love making lists because they often help me find a topic I want to write about or research. My notebook is a place for memory chains, my heart and hand map, and my neighborhood map. A running theme in all my notebooks is my grandfather, Alexander William Sulima. Often, I revisit my notebooks, and I am always surprised to see so many entries about him. He is like a very deep well where I can go to quench my thirst over and over again.   Recipe for a Poem
A sprinkle of sunshine, A powder of snow, Mix in some emotions, Add rhyme to the dough. Beat in a few metaphors, Season with sounds, Stir slowly with rhythm, Add color by mounds. Chop fine some similes, Pat in white space, Whip up a title, Delight in its taste! Rain Spilling over from heaven’s teacup Its sweetness soaks the earth like orange sherbet Cleansing the palates of flowers, trees, and meadows Causing streams to sing and jungles to steam As forests send pine-scented winds to nearby cities where Pigeons bathe in glorious puddles And windshield wipers Beat like metronomes To the rhythm of the rain, The heavenly rain, The glorious rain That washes the world clean and new again. The light, tinkling music from the Good Humor truck as it rolls down Durham Street pulls the children from their houses like a powerful magnet. The macadam street is hot enough to fry an egg. Windows are open, but shades are lowered to keep out the unrelenting rays of this August sun. Then the slap-slaps of screen doors are followed by the jingle-jangle of coins stuffed deep into shorts and jeans pockets as we dash for the street. We push and shove as we vie for our position. Each child has a favorite flavor. Mine is the rocket with its creamy vanilla ice-cream swirled with chocolate. I like to push up the ice-cream slowly so I can enjoy the cool taste on a hot August day for as long as it is possible. I take the ice cream treat and order for my younger sister Sandy who follows me everywhere like a faithful puppy dog. My younger sister Sandy, with huge baby blues and ringlets of gold that jig, jig, jiggle as she jumps up and down in front of the truck window, always wants an orange Creamsicle. I hand her the popsicle, and she carefully unravels the paper. As we walk home together, the sunshine beats down on us. Sandy is slowed by the licking and walking. She can’t seem to do either quickly. Her pace slows as the creamsicle runs rivulets between her long fingers and down her right arm to her elbow. She spatters the sidewalk with drops of sticky sweetness. I wonder who gets more ice-cream – my sister or the ants?  It was such a beautiful September day, and I was tired of Saturday morning cartoons almost before I started watching them. My little sister was busy with her coloring book. I just needed to get out of the house. Mom was occupied for the third straight day with our sister Sandy. She had spiked a high fever the night before, and this morning Mom had worried that she was still a bit too warm. The medicine was not working yet. I went out into the kitchen and suddenly, I had a plan! After toasting four slices of bread and smearing them with butter, peanut butter, and jelly, I crushed some potato chips on top of the peanut butter to add a salty taste. Then I packed them in paper bags, grabbed two bottles of Cherry Coke, and motioned to my sister. “Let’s ride our bike to the Aggie,” I said in a whispery tone. Diane and I pedaled hard to make the trip a little faster. After eight blocks, we arrived at the agricultural center. There was a pretty little pond with ducks swimming around, and I hadn’t forgotten the pieces of bread – end pieces – to break up and feed them. We parked our bikes on their kick stands and sat on the grass to enjoy our paper bag picnic by the water. After feeding the ducks, we chased after butterflies, tried to catch a few grasshoppers, and stretched out on the velvet grass to close our eyes and feel the sun’s warmth. Some neighborhood friends arrived, and we organized a game of kickball. Suzy and Lois had jump ropes, so we sang, “Cinderella dressed in yella went downtown to kiss her fella” while we jump-jump-jumped. My little sister made ugly faces at us and occupied herself digging in the dirt with a stick she’d found. Finally, my friends left and we picked a lovely bouquet for Mom (dandelions and Queen Anne’s lace). The sun was getting lower in the sky. I scrunched up my face in a frown. What time was it? We rode home, but we did it more slowly this time. Either we were tired or we already knew what was going to happen to us when we arrived. And yes, you probably already guessed. We were in BIG trouble! Mom was hysterically crying. She had been calling all our friends and then the hospital and then the police. Dad was riding around in the car, looking for us. He had left an appointment in town to come home when my mother had called him in sobby tears. We were grounded for two weeks. No bike riding, no t.v., no radio. No phone calls from friends, no weekend birthday parties (I had to miss one), no sympathy from Grandma. My mom didn’t mess around in the discipline department. Why I ever crossed her, I’ll never know. Lesson learned: Don’t leave home without permission……Or at least, leave a note!  Mom was a registered nurse, and ALL the kids came to her whenever they were hurt – and I’m not exaggerating! Long lines would form at our kitchen door, especially during spring and summer when everyone played in the back alley and yards. News had traveled that the Dorfman residence was a first-stop before running home or going to the emergency ward at Abington Hospital. I came to expect almost anything and everything! One day my best friend Suzy had fallen in the slippery-dry grass in her back yard while playing with her Dalmatian, Dolly. Suzy-Q, as everyone called her, was as pretty as could be with emerald eyes and blonde curls that jiggled and danced when she walked or ran. Suzy-Q ran up the back steps and burst into the kitchen. Her big eyes were full of tears. Dolly was right behind her, looking most concerned. I was close behind. I wanted to know what all this fuss was about. Suzy showed Mom her “scratched” arm (There really wasn’t a scratch on her!). But my mom just patted her back and led her to the sink where she washed her arm with warm, soapy water and gently dried it. Then she rubbed some lotion into her arm and asked her if she’d like some milk and cookies. Suzy shook her head up and down, her long eyelashes still wet with tears. She helped herself to three chocolate chip cookies. When my hand went into the cookie jar, Mom shook her head and said, “You’ll ruin your dinner.”  My sister Diane had a knack for finding ways to irritate my other sister. Sandy was an easy target for Diane’s creative mischief. She was high strung, sensitive, and always felt like she was the poster child for the “Middle Child Syndrome.’ I won’t go as far as to say that Diane delighted in “getting my sister’s goat,’ but she did a good job of it on a weekly, if not a daily, basis. I remember the time Diane volunteered to get ready for bed first. We all should have known that there would be trouble, but somehow, none of us noticed how unusual this behavior was. Diane waved goodnight and even blew us kisses. When she got to the top of the stairs, she quietly emptied the hamper of clothes and hid them under her bed. Then she turned out the bedroom light after placing her Patty Playpal, a doll that stood about three feet tall, under the covers and tucked her in. Satisfied that Patty looked like a child sleeping peacefully in her bed, she managed to climb inside the hamper and closed the lid. She must have waited in darkness for at least 30 minutes. When she heard Sandy’s footsteps across the wooden floor of the hallway, she popped up like a jack-in-the-box! Sandy screamed bloody murder and brought my mother sprinting up the stairs like an Olympic runner. My mother had a hard time keeping Sandy from strangling my youngest sister who was hooting with laughter. My poor mother tried to reason with her, punish her, take away special privileges. But nothing would deter her. My youngest sister Diane was a trickster through and through!  |
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