The Long Slow Slog Uphill

The doctor says I am slowly healing, but S L O W is the correct term. I still wake up about 5 times a night coughing violently. But at least I sleep some. Previously I wasn’t sleeping at all, just lying there propped up coughing. I am so sick and tired of being sick.


I’m back working, although I haven’t been able to do any real writing. Phlegm instead of brains just doesn’t breed creativity. I have no ideas, although I can think perfectly well now that the fever is gone. I judged the regional contest last week and I working my way through the national contest now – the 2017 WOMR Outermost Radio Jose Gouveia poetry contests. I’m still reading mss. for my 2017 June juried intensive Poetry Workshop here in Wellfleet. I am the jury, of course.


Last night I actually cooked a company dinner for a friend who is on the Cape at present – he has a house in Truro where he spends about half the year, the rest in Berkeley. I have been cooking dinner every night this week, but this was a more elaborate meal. However, I didn’t try to make desert. One of the many perks of living in Wellfleet is the presence of PB Boulangerie and Bistro. The restaurant doesn’t mean much to me [great if someone is taking you out but a bit pricy if you’re the one paying] but the bakery produces terrific breads, croissants and pastries. While I was still very ill, my friend Gigi went there and brought me croissants and eclairs to cheer me up. She succeeded.


I had to leave our guest and go to bed at ten, most unlike me with company, but I was coughing so violently and so exhausted I could not stay up. I think woody was up half the night with him.


I had planned to go into the women’s march in Boston, but the doctor said I am in danger of a relapse and shouldn’t overdo or get chilled. It would be hard enough at 80 for me to march at all, but since I officially still have walking pneumonia, it’s out of the range of possibilities for me. A calamitous day for all of us who aren’t plutocrats. Every appointment he announces is more bizarre, dangerous and corrupt.
The seed orders are coming in gradually. Penny and I are logging them in, then I sort them [start inside; start outside hardy; start outside tender; start as a 2nd crop in mid or late summer or fall]. It cheers me up to handle seeds. It’s grey today and supposed to rain. After the long drought, we appreciate the rain. It can’t bring back all that died, but it should keep what survived alive and healthy.


Now back to the national contest. I hope I can get back to writing soon. I haven’t written a poem since the day before I came down with walking pneumonia. Willow will be glad when I completely recover and she can sleep peaceably against my side instead of being wakened every five minutes by my incessant coughing. I look forward to it too.












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