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Nancy Kelton
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Hi Terence, Thank you for leaving such a sweet comment. Names sure do stick. I really felt awful leaving my Mom there with the one she did not call Marge. Oy! Lasagna. I can still see her. Kind of like your Sarge. Best, Nancy
Dear Mrs. Erenstoft, You are the first person I know to celebrate a 100th birthday. I'd like to mark the occasion by sharing a few thoughts. Until 1991, when I read Molly Katz’s book, JEWISH AS A SECOND LANGUAGE, I thought you invented the phrase “little sweater.” The first time I came over after school in first grade, you gave us a snack before we headed outside to play. “Take a little sweater,” you told Inez. Then, every school day morning when I picked her up, you, in your ‘space shoes’ and short sleeve bathrobe, made sure that after she... Continue reading
Posted Oct 5, 2012 at The Best American Poetry
LASAGNA AND MARGE In her 70s, my mother began to call some women “Marge.” The real Marge, a kind, caring neighbor, visited my parents with homemade cookies and condominium gossip. She enjoyed my mother’s company. She and my mother had great rapport. Mostly, Marge appreciated my quirky, unconventional mother. Mom felt safe with Marge. The first new Marge was my parents’ regular waitress at the Florida deli where they ate breakfast. She greeted them each morning with a warm hello and a basket of rolls, and then conversed as she brought their usual egg order along with a white paper... Continue reading
Posted Oct 4, 2012 at The Best American Poetry
GIVE MY REGARDS… It is bad enough they aren’t writing musicals the way they once did. And that we no longer have a Frank Loesser. Or a Rogers and Hart. Or a Rogers and Hammerstein. Or an Adler and Ross. Or a Lerner and Lowe. Colony Records, the great Manhattan music store on the Great White Way, recently bit the dust. The news of its closing six weeks ago (NY Times, August 24, 2012) with a photo of Ernie Doole, a longtime Colony employee, in the basement, dismantling shelves, hit the wrong notes. And hit hard. In the mid-1950s, my... Continue reading
Posted Oct 3, 2012 at The Best American Poetry
HELLO GIRAFFE This silver-framed picture of my friend, Doreen, is on a shelf next to my desk. The actual picture is four inches by six inches. Doreen was 5’ 10.” In 1965, the day before freshman orientation at Western Reserve University, Doreen and her mother walked into the Howard Johnsons across from campus where I was eating breakfast with my parents. Other kids, flanked by parents, looked anxious. Doreen, with a spark in her eyes, stood out. We smiled. Our outfits were almost identical: navy sleeveless mock turtle neck shells and madras plaid A-line skirts. Hers was taller. “That one... Continue reading
Posted Oct 2, 2012 at The Best American Poetry
I recently tried yoga. Again. Years ago, I took yoga classes. My not-too-flexible body did not bend easily. It was hard to hold each pose. Not the Corpse Pose. That I loved and could hold. I looked forward to yoga to do the Corpse Pose at the end. Partly because my gung-ho yoga friends claimed I’d reap immeasurable benefits and find my inner-Zen, and more because I am not a giver-upper, I hung in for a while. And I did reap benefits. -- I began to meditate. -- I became more aware of my breathing. -- I became more aware... Continue reading
Posted Oct 1, 2012 at The Best American Poetry
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Sep 27, 2012