Showing posts from November, 2015

Notes from the Home - November 29, 2015

The phone rang at eleven o'clock a couple Monday nights ago. I didn't hear it. Or, maybe I heard it just enough that I was more alert when the phone rang again a half hour later. The ring was muffled, though. I had left the phone in my pants pocket. By the time I'd figured out where the phone was and managed to get to it, it had stopped ringing. The phone was kind enough to inform me that Al had made two calls and that there was a voicemail message awaiting me.
     "Tom, Al here. I need your help. I fell and can't get myself up. I called the desk about three times and nobody answered the goddamned phone. Get your ass up here. Now!"      I opted to call the desk. Warren answered and said he'd check on Al right away. I thought about going to Al's room. Then I thought a little more: It would take me fifteen minutes or more to put on socks, pants and shoes, by which time Warren would have Al back in bed, and I would disturb him. Or Warren would have…

Tis the Season's Opening Day

Three Word Wednesday -  This week's words: Habitual; Illustrious; Jumbled
Christmas comes but once a year, which is just as well, although all the retailers would like to have more so every single week there would be a Black Friday, with jumbled hordes of crazed shoppers outside the store at three-ten in the morning, credit cards in hand. Christmas: a great excuse for a shopping orgy.
The proudly religious also up and orgy over “Season’s Greetings,” a term they don’t take well. And “Happy Holidays” gives the devil a hand, they say. “And we’ll not shop here, not even once more unless the cash registers in your godless store tell the clerks to say ‘Merry Christmas’ by Friday.”
That way, when the saved go shopping on Black Friday they can revel religiously in the orgy

Prompt Responses

The Three Word Wednesday prompt this week is to use the words ragged, threatening and unsightly in a piece of writing.

     With a steady hand on the wheelchair's joy stick, I maneuvered through the dining room of the old folks' home where I live. The management takes offense to the term "old folks home." Their euphemism of choice is "senior retirement community." This place isn't like the old folks homes in the TV commercials of the fifties, where the residents spent countless hours on the veranda discussing their bowels and laxatives. Here, we old folks have those conversations inside in air-conditioned comfort.
     Enough of that. If the management finds out I'm saying such things, I'll get a threatening letter and my rent will be doubled.
    Back to the dining room. Jane waved and said hello, as I approached the table where she was sitting. "What's that?" she asked, pointing to my shirt, I thought. It was a T-shirt with…