I Wish It Were Sunday

Sparkling Mississippi, lovely lady in my life. Headed out on the flood wall for that early morning walk.


Practicing Jedi warriors at the marina. May the force keep you dry.




























A little touch of Greece on University avenue: chicken dill lemon soup, the naked gyro, and paprika in the salad that tickles the back of my throat.
























Bikers are everywhere and not the Davie Gie kind. Keep a low profile and don't attract attention.

Rock on , funky guys.

This guy offered me a ride on his Harley. Again, why do I always attract the dregs of society? And then he stalked me for about half an hour . . .







Okay, here's how we do things on the weekend in this household. First, plan when and how to exercise. Second, where and what to eat. And lastly, whatever the community calender has to offer.

Just finished an hour walking on the flood wall. Our first cool morning in a long span of monotonous hot, hot days and the city is out celebrating. Runners, cyclists, babies in biker baskets, an occasional wheelchair and one lone Harley rider. Potato-potato-potato . . . did you know the Harley engine idle sound has a patent? Only in America can these things happen. There are children with numbers on their chests racing cheered on by smiling parents. The children are sweating and do not look happy about their predicament. An enthusiastic red-headed woman whom I have encountered many times on my walk sings out to me "Good Morning!" like the first line of the Hallelujah Chorus. She is sitting on a bench and she says, "It is so beautiful I just had to sit here and LOOK!" Yes, I agree, we must remember this, thinking of the cold grey months ahead of us.

Cowboy Dave is doing his stint at his fitness club. Dave is a joiner, I am not. He likes the social circle, the human contact when he exercises and the club provides this. It also includes a sauna and shower facilities and several TVs so the man will not miss any televised sports events.

I am first in the pool on Sutton's last day. I swim my laps and leave without lingering. Don't want to stir up any sentimental thoughts here. Have a peaceful sleep under the snows, lovely pool, you will be in my winter dreams.

And I dream of my little mother last night, the first time. I was getting into the back seat of a car with my brother Mark. My father was driving and my mother was sitting in the passenger seat next to him. I cannot see her face as she is wearing a hooded sweatshirt. We were going to a restaurant and I thought, how can this be that Mom is here and . . . eating. I want to ask her, how is it where you are, what is it like. But something causes me to pull back and the thought says, don't ask her that, it may frighten her, she is not completely aware of what has happened. Instead, I say, how are you, Mom, but I waken before she can answer . . .

And then we eat. The Athenian Grill and I have my usual: delectable chicken lemon dill soup - and a bowl, not a cup, never a cup! And a naked gyro - just spiced meat and warm pita bread. Leave off the tomato, the lettuce and especially that tzatziki sauce. If I want a salad I'll order one - and I did - a lovely Greek concoction with feta cheese and paprika. The olive needs to go. I have been referred to as the "soup lady" in this little cafe and I take frozen chicken soup home to maintain my reputation.

And we're off and across the river to the state of cheese and a biker party in New Diggings, Wisconsin. For some reason many years ago this little village was designated as official Harley Davidson country and the two small saloons are filled with black- leathered folk and their old ladies. Only beer served here and the customers are as interesting as the music, a rocking blues band from North Carolina. These youngsters can blast out Johnny Cash, Jim Morrison and Stevie Ray like firecrackers. Those boys have old souls. We have roasted corn on the cob on the grill and sit with Crazy Tom and his new woman, Beverly, a Florida transplant who says she will stay the winter . . .

And in a few days I will be eating sushi in Michigan with a pack of transplanted Iranians . . .