June 2026 – The New Normal

That person I help–my dementia friend (DF): I misplaced her when we were out together. It was maybe a minute though it seemed like days. I compare it, not unfairly IMO, to losing one of my kids at the store when they were little and hiding behind a mannequin or under a clothes rack. Only she wasn’t doing either. She left the store. Just walked away. Believe me; I ALWAYS say, “Wait for me right here. Do not leave.” She always agrees. And then, boom. She’s gone.

She has an airtag on her keys. It’s necessary because she sometimes forgets her phone but never her keys. Her gerontologist suggested it, brilliant really. We’ve been fussing about how we could make sure she kept her phone with her. She swears that she always has her phone. If I had a dollar for every time she doesn’t have it, I’d have enough money for a pittie dog farm, big and fenced and shady so I could rescue all the pitties and keep them safe.

DF is going out with another friend this afternoon. We, the friend and I, chatted by text early today to make sure she’s prepared for the work involved, particularly when DF gets anxious, which is often.

It’s the last days of Pride. The bagel place is ending its month-long run of bagels with sprinkles. I did not get one because I’m one of only about 10 people in the world who does not like the taste of sprinkles. Yeah, I know that’s weird. No, I don’t know why I don’t like sprinkles. But I don’t. And like most things, you can talk me to death about it without convincing me that I just haven’t tried the right kind of sprinkles.

Two pretty young women just walked by in kitten heels. And now, they know why no one wears kitten heels for very long. Their outfits are charming–short shorts and matching midriff tops but DAMN their feets are a-hurtin.

A group of women parked near me this morning and puzzled over the solar parking meter, how to use it and how awesome the old days were. I have to agree that the old days were kind of awesome when it comes to parking. If you were lucky, you’d pull into a parking spot that still had time on the meter. That was a little like a lottery win, which is funny because parking cost like 10 cents an hour. For a time, we had these little parking receipts (?) to put on our dashboards and, again, if you were lucky, someone would hand you their unexpired receipt to put on your dash.

Once they paid for parking, the group of women–five in total–started walking down the street but worried that they wouldn’t be able to find their car again. One of them took a picture of the intersection, in case they couldn’t remember. If you ever visit this neighborhood, you’ll know why it’s basically impossible to lose your car. They were so sweetly excited to be here, in this tiny, one-street, shopping district.

My eldest and I are going to the Netherlands in about a month. I’ve been shopping for some place to stay and having a delightful time. I can remember getting hotel rooms in the pre-internet days and I’d never go back to that. Travel agents were basically a necessity if you were leaving the country. Now, I can find out with a few clicks that our prospective hotel has a mandatory no swimsuit rule in their pool. I was thinking a pool would be a good idea given the extreme temperatures Europe has been experiencing. I’ve decided, however, that my puritan roots will not allow me to get into the same pool–naked–as my adult, also naked, son. Lol We’ve found a great place and are super excited about our travel agenda. It has no pool but is about 30 minutes from the beach.

Don’t worry. I’m going to share obnoxiously. Did you know, for example, that NL has TWO different cheese markets during the summer?! I have no idea what I’m going to do with all the cheese I’m going to buy, particularly since I’m lactose intolerant, won’t have a kitchen, and can’t possibly bring it back to the US. (Can you imagine the smell of my luggage?!)

A young man in a maroon shirt just walked by with a pastry box that he threw in the garbage can before licking his fingers. I don’t know what he had but he really liked it. It’s Monday; the bakery across the street is closed. The coffee shop doesn’t provide pastry boxes. Maybe Paris Baguette, down the street? I worry sometimes about it, a chain, pushing out the local stores here but at least it’s locally owned. Does that make it better?

Those pretty girls in their short shorts and midriff tops just walked by again. They’ve changed into flipflops. They still look cute and their feet no longer hurt. I call that a win for unfashion.

Growing up, our house was miles from the nearest library. There was a bus stop about a mile away, though, with a corresponding stop at a shopping plaza where the library was located. I’d walk across a huge field by the nearby school, red brick, one story, with a playground in the back, worrying that the bus would arrive and leave before I was close enough to catch it. It never did, though I recall clearly seeing it arrive early at the stop one time. I ran all the way there, just in case the driver decided to leave.

There was no bench, just the wide-open field for sitting. One time, I waited near a former friend, J. We stopped being friends when she got into some trouble, along with her brothers. They sold; she used. I was afraid to get too close, as though drug addiction is contagious. She was friendly, tried to have a conversation with me; I didn’t know how to be normal around her. I can still picture her, sitting on the ground, criss-cross applesauce, in jean shorts and a red striped tee, long hair loose around her shoulders, big, dark glasses covering most of her face. She overdosed a few years later. Unrelated to J’s death, her brothers served some time for selling. The family moved away but I heard that J’s momma never recovered, her heart broken beyond repair by multiple losses.

The bus ride always seemed long to a pre-teen/teenager. I worried about missing my stop, which adult me realizes is ridiculous. The same man drove the route every single time I rode the bus. I’m sure he was watching out for me. I, on the other hand, was alone, feeling very adult, of course, and very centered in a universe that actually is far too large to even notice a young girl riding the bus.

The library had a literal storefront because it was, in fact, located in a strip mall with boutique clothing stores and a Hornes department store. I’d go in, drop off all my borrows and spend the hour before the return bus picking out the next week’s reads–Trixie Belden, Cherry Ames, Nancy Drew, Flowers In the Attic, Gone With the Wind, Fahrenheit 451, Dandelion Wine, and every Harlequin romance written, I think. lol

Sometimes the librarians (and my teachers) would ask if I was allowed to read the “more adult” books. Of course, I’d say yes but I’m pretty confident that my parents never checked on my reading preferences. This was the 1970s, the time when parents had to be reminded to check whether their children were even in the house.

The only thing that changed after I learned to drive was that I’d also visit the library’s main branch, which was much larger. When there was a library book sale, oooohhhh my, I would go crazy. I still have books I purchased at those sales, their “withdrawn” stamps faded now, the spines worn, treasures, all of them. Weeding, it’s called, as Rachel Maddon discovered at the ALA conference recently.

The ambulance pulled up next door after midnight. The neighbors are in their 90s, vibrant and busy but nonetheless elderly. I watch over them unobtrusively, making sure their routines continue, that the garbage cans go out to the curb and return to the side of the house, that he goes grocery shopping (the same day every week, clockwork), that they put out their usual decorations for each holiday. When I saw the EMTs, I did not rush across the yard to their house, of course, but I did text the next day to check in.

She fell down the stairs. My 90+ neighbor fell down the stairs. She broke a finger, her clavicle, her ankle, and bones in her back. The daughter gave me permission to visit. Just being honest here; this is one of the things that overflows the cauldron of grief.

The coffee shop is busy today, the overhead door open to the warm, sometimes hot, breeze, the sky a muddled blue, like someone mostly mixed in a spot of gray and then added a bunch of fluffy white with gray to cloud the edges of the canvas. It wasn’t the “art guy” who sits near me with a big bag of pastels. He’d be more likely to draw the sky as a piece of modern art and we’d stand under it, our heads tilted, as we try to absorb his vision.

There was an estate sale just down the street, less than a block away. When I saw the picture of the house, I knew that it belonged to the elderly lady who used to walk her Great Pyrenees, Maestro, in the neighborhood every day. She would invite people to “Come, drink wine with me on my purple porch.” (The porch is, in fact, a deep, lovely purple.) She was tiny with fine, long, white hair and at one time, she was famous, traveling the world with her harp, performing with all the major symphonies. She also painted, embroidered, made tapestries. Her house, which is falling apart, is bright with high ceilings, furnished with beautiful Victorian settees and inlaid mahogany tables. I hope her son took Maestro to live with him in California.

I went to an author talk recently, Penny Reid in conversation with her sister. I’m not sure what I expected. She often talks about how awkward she is but, in fact, she was delightful–funny, engaging, and charismatic. The event was in Chesapeake, Virginia, quite a drive for me, but I turned it into an adventure, ate at a great restaurant, soaked in a pool, chatted with some strangers, laughed.

Next was a talk in Bedford, New York, with Annabel Monaghan. This time, I ordered my dinner at the bar. The bartender gave me a free drink, which, since I’m sober, was a cranberry juice (with a lime!). He was a no-nonsense guy from Brooklyn, the accent gave him away, who did NOT like the guy who came to stand next to my bar seat. I didn’t like him either. That might be what got me the free drink. I ate in my room, having spent just a little too much time outside my comfort zone.

I’m doing that difficult thing, finding the person I am after the person I was.

Much love.

The diner is my first stop. Breakfast there is one of the few meals I can eat without feeling sick afterwards but we’re not talking about malabsorption today. Waving hello to the cooks, I stop at my favorite seat. One of the servers, new, offers me a menu and I decline. They’re already making my order. I get the same one every time–two eggs over medium, bacon, crispy home fries, and an English muffin with grape jelly. I can eat about half, less sometimes. The cooks always give me way too much food; they love my son who used to work there.

I’m eating and reading when a table of 10 boisterous diners sits down next to me. An older man, white haired, a retired principal, talks to two middle school kids seated across from him. He’s trying to connect by telling one of them about someone who shares the child’s name. In case you are tempted to try this strategy, allow me the indulgence of discouraging you. The kids don’t care. Points for their upbringing, though. They were very polite.

On my way to the coffee shop, I pass a woman sitting in the shade. It’s early, the sun not yet above the house horizon, if you will. She suffers from the hunched back that women my age fight against, downing our daily calcium tablets with more excitement than we’ve felt since our first Backstreet Boys concert. I’d know her age from her fingers on the keyboard of her computer, no need to see the wrinkles and spots that match those on my own hands. It’s because her fingers hover just above the home row. She, absolutely, just like most women of a certain age, took a typing class in high school.

A sound disturbs my navel contemplation. Not that I’m actually gazing at my belly button. I *am* staring off into space, though, not thinking so much as existing. I turn, puzzled, unable to determine the source of the sound. It’s not the whining child sitting at the table outside. She is very clearly saying, “I’m coooooolllllddddddd.” Her parents ignore the noise until none of us can.

Still, the other sound continues, a repetitive clack, firmer than heels, and louder than you’d expect a shoe to sound on a tile floor. I keep looking. A very pretty older man sits at the table next to the whiny girl who would not be whining if her parents had listened in the first place. It’s not the attractive man. He’s just watching the world go by as he waits for a suited man to join him. I feel like he’s being sold something from the passion with which the other man waves his hands.

Ah ha! I’ve found the source. A young man is breaking the law outside the coffee shop. Hehe He’s stapling documents to the wooden light pole that is covered with staples from prior flouters. There are so many advertisements attached to the pole that he has to reach up, on his toes, to attach the final one, firmly, six staples for that piece. The electric company rep will be by within a few days to do their monthly (or so) de-papering. I prefer the community-based adverts to the blank pole.

A bald older man just entered the coffee shop. He sees a barista and makes a gesture that looks disturbingly like a Nazi salute but then he bows awkwardly and fist bumps the barista. I doubt that he’s a Nazi. They’re rare around here and would most likely get thrown out of the place. Also, I doubt that they fist bump.

Years ago, a woman on the street screamed the N word at a passing car. People on the sidewalk turned and started toward her, booing. I’ve never been prouder. They got closer, a dozen people, booing, while she backed up, trying to defend the slur. They just booed louder because there is no justification. She finally turned, flipped them the bird, and hurried up the alley toward Howe Street. Everyone cheered and then turned away, going back to their activities like nothing had happened.

A guffaw has burst, unlooked (unlistened?) for, from the man sitting at a table on the sidewalk. He’s talking to a woman sitting across from him. I wish I were close enough to eavesdrop because she seems funny. I could use a guffaw or two.

Back briefly from my CNF writing to report that I have scored the seat next to the Great Guffawer, though he seems to have run through today’s quota of laughs.

A very pretty man walks by, meandering speed. I recognize this because I, too, am a meanderer. He pauses just beyond the coffee shop door and turns to look back the way he came, clearly waiting. I must tell you (yes, I am literally obligated to comment on all the attractive men who pass by; there are rules, you see) that this man has chiseled cheekbones and a well-kept beard. He’s not smiling, giving off the romance-trope impression of a grumpy man whose sunshine woman is walking toward him. She holds up a wrist and encourages him to smell it. Without a doubt, she was trying perfumes at Sephora. He leans into her wrist and sniffs, then nods; no smiles make an appearance. He’s going in the next novel. Sorry, not sorry.

A young man is standing outside, singing and dancing. He stops once to look at himself in his phone’s camera, fixes his hat, and continues to sing and dance quite awkwardly. He’s not the next Joy Machine, though I wish him well in his efforts to grow into that *something*. He dances off down the street a bit, out of sight but not out of hearing range. I hope he’s not trying to be discovered here. It’s the wrong neighborhood to expect to find a talent agent.

Have you ever heard of Labi Siffre? I recommend that you check out “Bless the Telephone.”

A very tall Grandpa walks by holding hands with a tiny, tiny boy who dances along on his toes, his heels never touching the ground as he sings nonsense words. His little baseball cap is tilted to the side, looking, finally, correct when the boy tilts his head for a moment and catches my eye before dancing on, music on his tongue and in his feet.

A breeze rustles the napkin on my table and the strings on my blouse, disrupting, too, my confused musings. I wish it would blow the dust from my brain, a wish that remains ungranted. I’m trying to write something that may be unwritable, though I continue to try. Where are the words? Perhaps the next breeze will bring some.

Much love.

The New Normal

Cancer Is a We(e) Thing

Month: June 2026

Kitten Heels Are Not For Kittens

Musical Feet