I am done with Environment for a while now. We had a WONDERFUL crew of about 20 people who worked very efficiently from 6 to about 8:00 and got everything done. It is beautiful. All gold and white with green plants around and the Celtic scrolls that Bob Fleming did for the church while he was in the parish. When I get pictures, I will post them on the blog so that you can see.

After we finished four of us went to Parkview Restuarant for a lake perch dinner. It was pretty good. I have had better, but I have difinately had worse and would bo back there for another one if the occasion arose. By then I was very hungry and it was a welcome repast.

The choir sang at the Good Friday Service this afternoon too, so I spent a LOT of time in church today.

I also got the kitchen cleaned this morning and boiled the eggs for Easter dinner and the baskets. Tomorrow, I only have to leave the house to walk the dog. I intend to be a real hermit.

I have not heard for ANY of my out of state kids for several weeks now. I guess it it time that I call to see if they are all still functioning. My weekends have been so busy that I have been thinking of calling much too late.

Below is my attempt at a prose poem. A prose poem is one that does not rhyme or have lined. Its only claim to being poetry is that it is supposed to flow and seems to me is an excuse to write ideas in a form other than a essay but that do not quite become another form of poem. Let me know what you think. A prime example of a good one is the poem Get Drunk, which I think I did put on the blog at one time.

Memories of a Strikers Daughter


Fear and fervor lived in our house. A STRIKE was being called for by the workers. The workplace was not safe. Everybody knew that the Company built the hospital for the victims of dreaded silicosis, the scourge of the plant. And Dad was a UNION MAN. United we stand! He believed. Then he walked the picket line. I remember. His friend John crossed the picket line. SCAB! They were friends no more. Ever. Some names are burned in memory - Dad spat out those names. These were the enemy. Mom made homemade donuts for the guys on the picket line. Dad joined the Union Chorus. They sang “When the Union's inspiration through the workers blood shall run” . The chorus traveled to Georgia to sing at convention. They went to other exotic places too. We kids loved THE SOUP KITCHEN! They were open 24 hours and they served dry Bologna Sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper with all the soda we could drink. Unbelievable luxury.
One day, Uncle Jack put Kohler fixtures in his new addition. Why Dad checked, we don't know but he saw and left without a word. Dad didn't speak to his own brother for years.

The Brothers made up. Praise God!

Many Never Have.




Mary