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Here are a few excerpts
from my stories.
I Forgot To Get
Old
 This
is a book of recollections of childhood; reminiscences
of events important and unimportant in the scheme of
things, poetry (humorous) and otherwise, essays on life
in general and mine in particular. A
random walk through my life story, stopping now and then
to laugh, to cry, to remember and most of all to look
back and say “Hey, look at me I’m still dancing”.
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Seduction of
Silence
From the
Publisher:
This is
the journal of a recent widow who not only can’t accept
her husband’s death but cannot accept being and acting
like a "widow." Insightful, sensitive and occasionally
humorous reflections are mixed with a profound
philosophy of life that is exchanged between the author
and her current companion–her cat. In ways she never
anticipated before, the author grows from her experience
of widowhood and a dormant part of her begins to emerge.
A new peacefulness and self-acceptance that offers the
promise of wonderful life experiences yet to come. This
book will bring smiles and tears to a number of readers,
and it will especially bring understanding and comfort
to other women in similar positions.
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Highly
literate prose about a subject most women don’t even
talk about.
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An
intimate portrayal of the feelings, the questions,
the disruptions of widowhood.
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What do you do
with the silence?
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And yes,
there is even humor in this dark subject!
Read more
The Waco Kid(s)
Barefoot Girl With Cheek
 Growing
up in a warm weather city is one of the best things a
child could possibly want. I went barefoot most of the
time and when school beckoned, I sadly had to encase my
happy feet in shoes.
I
remember rain; wonderful rain that left puddles in the
soft sandy loam that was the street in front of my
house. I would go out when the rains stopped and sit on
the curb holding handfuls of the sweet smelling moist
earth to my face. The scent of fresh cut grass came in
second best. I inhaled the scent of Waco.
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You're A Noodle, I'm A
Noodle, Will You Marry Me?
 Long
ago I had a book of poetry and one of the poems started
or possibly ended with the lines “I’m a noodle, you’re a
noodle. Will you marry me?” I had read and reread many
of the poems during my very young life. When we moved so
many years ago, my book didn’t make the journey.
However, over the years the words “I’m a noodle, you’re
a noodle” have haunted me. They make me smile and
remember how delighted I was reading from this magical
book. I found among my belongings notebooks containing
many poems I wrote in the ‘40’s and ‘50’s starting when
I was in my late teens. I now find them quite remarkable
in their psychological search for the meaning of life,
my life. Some are humorous, some are quite sad but
mostly I wrote randomly never expecting them to see the
light of day. As I reread some of them, I thought they
deserved a place in a book. Or to paraphrase, I’m
noodling around and trying to weave the rhythm of my
words into a pleasing word picture. The first few pages
include poems I wrote at the age of 9, 10 and 11. They
are not necessarily noteworthy but I thought I should
include them. The old saying is that writers “write” and
I started early and returned to writing about ten years
later with more poetry and then much later with short,
short stories, a journal, a book and another book.
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Butterfly Chronicles
 The
Chrysalis Butterflies are fragile and almost defenseless
creatures but rely on a variety of strategy to protect
them, blending into their environment so well it is
almost impossible to detect them. I learned about pain
and loss but my ability to take wing became my major
defense. My father, an intellectual, arrived as a young
man from Austria with a portfolio of plays, poetry and
short stories. He spent his life in search of a dream to
become a great writer that did not materialize. My quiet
small mother was born in a small village in Hungary and
she gave me the freedom to explore the world. Her warmth
was my mainstay. In her eyes I could do no wrong. My
silent melancholy father rarely talked. I grew up in h a
home where conversation was restrained and I found
myself doing all the talking. It became norm but I
desperately needed to hear a sound even if it was only
coming from my own lips. My brother, Morton, was an
intelligent, composed gray eyed boy who also had a dream
but death at the age of fourteen killed the dream and
left me to grow up alone and lonely. I remember visiting
Morton in the hospital as he lay foaming at the mouth in
a coma. My life was never again the same. I was ten
years old. I was friendly but had no real friends. I was
lonely but did not spend much time alone.
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