Quick Links
Listmania books on caregiving and writing
Here are some books on caregiving that can help you tackle the tough issues without romanticizing the burden or turning yourself into a martyr. As for writing, I find that at my age, I don't like to waste time, either in reading for pleasure or picking up a book that might make my own writing better. I want to share these with you.
Flores Island in the Azores
Never heard of the Azores? Flores Island is the westernmost part of Europe and a great destination for birdwatchers. Watch my video, and you'll discover a hidden paradise,
Veni, Vidi, Venice
Or, in the baudlerized version of Caesar's famous line, "I came, I saw, and Venice conquered me." I love to travel and discover new places, and making these videos gives me a chance to share the known and unknown world.
Youthful Acts of Charity
The ashtray of the little Fiat overflowed with snuffed-out butts that spilled onto the floor at every hairpin turn, while the driver, Harun, swayed in time to a Turkish singer clanging finger cymbals. Bonnie Cross, fifty-five, gripped the handle on the passenger door to keep from lunging sideways. Her breasts and stomach jiggled. She looked down. Ivory buttons stretched the buttonholes and she hoped the thread was strong; she hadn’t remembered to bring a safety pin, even though this blouse was an oldie, back when size 18 still fit. Suction held her thighs to the leather seat.
“I’m sooo hot,” she said.
Harun, half her age, threw open the vents. Her skirt ballooned, and his eyes rolled like marbles, dropping in her lap.
“Why is it, men think they’re God’s gift to women?” she said, punching down the faded batik of her skirt. “Or in your case, Allah’s gift?”
“But is true, don’t you think? Womans need man, and man womans.”
“Right, they do.” Looking out to sea, she saw another cruise ship, similar to her own. She had come here on a singles trip, two weeks in the Mediterranean. She was glad to have hired this waiter, who was squinting
against the glare now, to show her “the real Turkey.” Harun’s long fingers on the gearshift reminded her of that old game: scissors, paper, rock. An adorable curl bounced on his forehead. Somewhere in his genetic line stood a Mongol warrior; she could practically hear hooves beating across the steppes. In less than a week, she’d be back in her Chicago office—the padded cubicle, pizza dinners, and PowerPoint presentations. Hospital consulting was no kind of life.
(Click on the link below to read the rest of the story as originally published in The Bellevue Literary Review, Spring, 2003. Prior to publication, the story and its author were awarded an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship in Fiction.
“I’m sooo hot,” she said.
Harun, half her age, threw open the vents. Her skirt ballooned, and his eyes rolled like marbles, dropping in her lap.
“Why is it, men think they’re God’s gift to women?” she said, punching down the faded batik of her skirt. “Or in your case, Allah’s gift?”
“But is true, don’t you think? Womans need man, and man womans.”
“Right, they do.” Looking out to sea, she saw another cruise ship, similar to her own. She had come here on a singles trip, two weeks in the Mediterranean. She was glad to have hired this waiter, who was squinting
against the glare now, to show her “the real Turkey.” Harun’s long fingers on the gearshift reminded her of that old game: scissors, paper, rock. An adorable curl bounced on his forehead. Somewhere in his genetic line stood a Mongol warrior; she could practically hear hooves beating across the steppes. In less than a week, she’d be back in her Chicago office—the padded cubicle, pizza dinners, and PowerPoint presentations. Hospital consulting was no kind of life.
(Click on the link below to read the rest of the story as originally published in The Bellevue Literary Review, Spring, 2003. Prior to publication, the story and its author were awarded an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship in Fiction.