Monday, November 17, 2008
I sure hope not.
Professor Vallone keeps saying that I am a researcher, but I'm pretty sure that I am an old woman reading poetry on the porch of her cabin in the mountains. I must go there to meet her. Country road, take me home, to the place where I belong. Somewhere west. The whole world is west of here, but only half the universe– assuming we are in the center of the universe. I sure hope not.
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Working with different old women I often wonder who I'll be most similar too, many times I hope I'm never like them in some ways but other times I really hope I'm like "that"; So-and-so's smile, this person's vocab, one ladies gratitude, the three of them who have very very supportive husbands who take them to the bathroom and everything or at least visit practically every day, another ladies stories, another's good manners, yet another's house plants, someone else's generous candy bowl, most of their grandkids and greatgrandkids and kids, a few ladies' memories of travels all over... the list goes on.
I hope when you're old you've seen tons of Europe (like Doris), you have great-grandkids that make you bracelets and necklaces of beads, shells, and noodles in Sunday School for you (like Jane), that you have a very sensible wardrobe and slip-on shoes (like...some of them), real nice real teeth (like Bethany), a good chair (like Margaret) but you aren't practically immovable (there are a few I won't name...), cranky (Grace), OCD (Louise), an amputee (Marlea), or confused to the point of frustration (Ed or Beth or others...)
oh and I hope that you have tons of family to visit you (Laura) especially a sister (like Enid)
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