Sunday, June 26, 2022

Still Driving After All These Years


Back in the late '90's I was living in the mother-in-law suite of my youngest daughter's house. While I lived downstairs, Jessi lived upstairs with her husband and four kids. I had been living there ever since I called her one day and told her how much I hated the job I had, working at a bank.

“Quit,” she said, “and come live with us Instead of working, you can do all the cooking.”

Back then, Jessi was driving a school bus, and for a while, that arrangement was working. Or, at least, I thought it was working until the day she came home and told me the school district was looking for another driver. I told her she was crazy. I told her there was no way I was going to start driving a school bus.

“What? Why? It’s easy,” she said.

“But those buses. They’re so – long.”

“You really don’t have to worry about that,” she said. “You just have to drive the front of the bus. The back always follows the front.”

I laughed at that and told her again she was crazy. But, after thinking about it, I decided to try. And right away I loved it. I loved the hours- the early mornings and late afternoons and having the rest of the day to myself. I loved listening to the sound of children’s voices and sitting up high with the big boys. I also loved the benefits.    

But after twelve years - by which time I was 72, I decided to retire. I put in the paperwork, then changed my mind. Luckily, I was able to find another job in another district. I’ll only work for a year or two, I thought back then.

I just finished my ninth year there. This time I fell in love with my co-workers – all of them. But sometime in the middle of those nine years, I moved with my daughter and son-in law to a house twenty-five miles away, and lately that distance has been getting to me. Not to mention the increase in the price of gas.

Now, I’ve found a job driving for a district whose bus garage is only nine minutes from my home and I’m going to work for a year.

Maybe two.

But, no more.

I think.


Sunday, June 5, 2022

Automatic Weapon

 Like almost everyone

I was shocked

after hearing

about the shootings

in Buffalo

and Uvalde.

It made me think  

about a place

I visited not long ago –

a church in Birmingham

where four little girls

were murdered

by men with


and bombs –

by little men with


and bombs –

and hate.



Saturday, February 5, 2022

Such a Fun Age


It's a cold Saturday morning outside my home, just twenty-five miles north of Philadelphia, and I am about to sit in a chair in my room with a good book open in front of me.

The book, Such A Fun Age by Kiley Reid, is a novel I began yesterday. It’s a story that starts with a late-night phone call made by a young mother to her babysitter, asking the woman to take her two-year-old child to a grocery store “to get her out of the house for a while” because “we had an incident with a broken window.” and doesn’t want the child to see the police" who are on their way.

Once at the grocery store, the sitter, a young black woman named Emira, is confronted by a security guard who accuses her of kidnapping the precocious child, a child who asks questions like “Where is that squirrel’s mama?” and "Why don't we know that lady?" and who, according to Emira, is “always at the edge of a tiny existential crisis.”  

In the second chapter, we learn that what the child’s mother didn’t tell Emira is that the window was broken because of something her husband, a news anchor in the city of Philadelphia (of all places), said on the air. It’s a remark that is “slightly racist.”  Is there such a thing as slightly racist,” I wonder as I get ready to settle in to a long afternoon of reading and, hopefully, some intermittent napping. 

Thursday, December 30, 2021

A Perfect Gift

 I received many wonderful and unforgettable gifts for Christmas this year, but one of the best was the review of my memoir, Dear Elvis, that follows.

McCloe presents a heartwarming memoir with fictionalized elements about dealing with the death of the man she loves by writing letters addressed to Elvis Presley. The author tells the story of how she, a middle-aged divorced woman, fell in love with Don, a widower. They met at work, where they both drove school buses for a living, and became close friends, lovers, and then just close friends again before Don’s death, due to heart failure. At the start of this work, Don has already died and McCloe is coping with her pain by writing missives in a diary, begging the spirit of Elvis in the afterlife to pass along messages to Don. This correspondence chronicles her feelings as she manages such emotions as denial, anger, heartbreak, hope, and finally, peace. She also begins a friendship with a priest named Father Chris (a fictional, composite character), who encourages her to find a way to move on. As the author reveals more about Don’s life and their connection, Father Chris affirms her suffering while also urging her to memorialize Don in her own way, and live her life in a manner that would make Don proud. Her letters then directly address Elvis, asking him about his life and telling how his music career positively affected her as she attempts to find catharsis. Over the course of this book, McCloe’s prose is relatable, likable, and highly sincere; she’ll make readers think about how one can easily take one’s relationships—and, indeed, one’s life—for granted. The changing format of the letters keeps the narrative engaging and propels the story forward in an offbeat way. This book will likely appeal most to those who are coming to terms with personal grief, as it accurately conveys the conflicting emotions that come with the grief journey, while also honing in on how one always has the ability to find joy again. A grounding and deeply human take on love and loss.                                                                                                                                                     Kirkus Reviews                             
   Dear Elvis is available at      


Thursday, December 23, 2021

Two Days Before Christmas

I'm feeling lazy today although I'm almost ready for Christmas. I put up the tree last week and mailed all the cards - the guys at work were sweet. One came into a crowded break room as usual, took his seat beside me, and whispered,“Thank  you for the card,” A young driver, who always treats me as though I were a princess, shyly called me from the room to thank me; and a third, who is always sweet, simply said “thank you.”

Anyway, all I have left to do is wrap the presents, of which there are few, because this year, we are doing a pollyanna in a family that seems to be growing exponentially, and because I am trying to save money so I can finally retire.

And so I am just sitting here staring at my tree, wishing the presents were wrapped, and thinking about a family that grew by just one more than two thousand years ago.

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

Friday, December 17, 2021

Great Expectations

A friend and I were talking about Christmas.  “So many people are unhappy,” he began then stopped.

“Maybe it’s because they have too many expectations” I interjected.

“Unrealistic ones,” he added. “They think things are supposed to be the way they are in all the movies they see on television,” he said, and I agreed.

That night I dreamt I was sitting in on a writing class.

“What’s your story about?” the instructor asked a student.
“It’s a story about a girl who falls in love with a guy who mistreats her. But I’m having trouble with the ending.”

“Oh, that one’s easy,” the instructor replied. “It’s the story of Beauty and the Beast. But in this one, the beast remains a beast, and the girl has to find a way to accept that.

“What’s your story about?” he asked a woman sitting by a window.

“It’s a story about a woman who falls in love but something happens and she never sees him again.”

“That one’s easy too,” said the instructor. “You’re writing the classic fairytale.”

“I suppose I am,” she muses. “The whole time she knew him she felt like Cinderella at the ball. But when she lost her shoe, no one came after her.”

“That’s so sad,” a student from the back of the class called out.”

“Not sad. Realistic,” said the teacher

“And sometimes,” I said, “it’s not the end that’s worth remembering, but the middle” 

And with that, I woke up.

Thursday, December 9, 2021

On Writing Again

After I wrote my last post (La, La, La) my daughter Cindi, who edits all my posts, said, “It’s all over the place.”

Is she right? I wondered until I read it back and saw she was.

“It’s also fun,” she added, so I published it anyway, all the while wondering, why can’t I write? What’s wrong with me? until doubt – otherwise known as writer’s block - turned to despair.

“Leave it alone and it will come back to you,” a friend told me once when I complained about being unable to write. So, I tried and failed, and tried and failed, until I finally left it alone – for a week, for a month, for months until one day when I picked up something I wrote long ago and thought, I am a writer! And I began, doggedly, to write again. And the block that had become a boulder began ever so slowly to dissipate and, finally, disappeared.