Archive for February, 2019


I’m back, still hanging in there. Lots of water under the bridge and over the dam since I paused my blog almost a year ago. Too much to tell today. But last May I moved from Bel Air to the Roland Park area of Baltimore to be nearer Kieran, Bethany and my amazing grandchildren — Nolan now six, Jack five, and Maeve two.  A first floor apartment in a big, old house with a fenced yard, perfect for me and my pet Angel, now about 12 years old, still lively and sweet, though on meds now for Cushing’s Disease, an adrenal gland disorder.

What prompted me to revive “The Perils” ?  I needed to write something  for a class, “Open Studio for Prose Writers,” at Notre Dame of Maryland’s Renaissance Institute for seniors. Took the course  last term, was going to try something else this spring. But serendipity, coincidence or karma kicked in. While walking Angel recently, I met a classmate, Amanda,  on two different days — in almost the same spot.  She persuaded me to join the group again. So my most recent adventure follows . . .

One bitterly cold Sunday morning, Angel and I were ready for a walk. Angel bundled up in her hot pink sweater. Me in hat, gloves, boots and puffy coat. Weird weather lately, one day a balmy 65 degrees, another below freezing.  I turned the inside doorknob to the lock position, stepped outside, and pulled the door firmly shut.  Then reached in my pocket for my keys to lock the deadbolt. Panic ensued.

They were still on the coffee table.  So was my cell phone.  I dashed around to several neighbors’ houses, knocking, ringing doorbells, hoping to borrow one to call my son.  No answer. Everybody at church?  Or just avoiding me?  Suddenly an inspiration from on high.  Or, now that I think of it, maybe from below?

There was an unlocked window — I’d been opening it often on mild days. Now, I’m well aware that what I was about to do was too frisky and risky at the age of 87. At any age. My son, an occupational therapist at a nursing home, constantly reminds me to be careful, especially about falling.   I knew he’d be horrified if he knew what his mother was up to. He was, when I told him the next day.  Too good to keep to myself.

I proceeded with my plan.  Brought a chair from the yard to stand on, ould only reach the sill, put another chair on top and stood on that. Raised the window high enough to fit me and my puffy coat.  And after much pulling, twisting, grunting, sweating, cussing and praying — I landed safely on the sofa inside. Amen!

Then Angel and I walked to Eddie’s grocery for the Sunday New York Times.  She got her usual dog biscuit there.  And I rewarded myself  with a venti half decaf vanilla latte at Starbucks.





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