I think about July 4 lately, when this unpatriotic American will be presiding over the festival of our freedom.  What a sad state of affairs we’re in.

Little things in life pile up, don’t they?   I’m adverse to talking on the phone, but there are so many appointments one cannot make via email or texts.  When I do connect, it seems that no one has the time or the timing is inappropriate.

Haven’t we all at one time or another been in a situation that was morally fraught, where we asked ourselves what we should do?

Whither or wither our common heritage?  I often ask myself that question  when listening to news shows on television or even talking to friends.

I can’t do it.  As wonderful as I am, I can’t stand before people and tell them how wonderful I am.  It’s just not in my nature.

I like to consider myself one with nature.  Maybe not the fauna so much but definitely the flora.

Now, despite the two cancers and Covid, I’m a great believer that nothing is going to go wrong with me, that some day I shall just say, “Bye, bye, Earth,” and make a quick exit.

No longer do we just turn away, muttering, “Each to his/her own opinion.”  Now someone must pay for annoying us.  They have to lose their job, be shunned by the community, be sued—be shot to death.

I feel guilty even writing about this subject.  I know there are people who would love to hear, those whose hearing was never there or those whose hearing loss can’t be helped.  And yet, I debate whether to get a hearing aid or not.

Now my husband has insurance.  Regular Medicare and a supplemental.  Northwestern says Medicare won’t pay, and I’ll have to appeal.  But I still owe $323 for a less-than-seven-minute conversation to fill out a form.

In September we will have been married for 59 years.  In 2013 my husband fell and suffered a traumatic brain injury.  That sort of spelled the end of our “normal” marriage because he would never be “normal” again.

Now there’s one good thing about me technologically.  I don’t read booklets, but if someone explains it to me verbally—perhaps many times—I get it.  Yes, I stumble and things need repeating, but I’m not a total dunce.  My husband, who could become impatient with students who didn’t understand statistics—like who does!—was very patient with me.

In some families the children would band together to protect one another.  In ours it was each man/woman for him/herself.

This latest effort submitted to the WANKER poetry group might be a bit squirrelly.

Real housewives everywhere are being splattered across the tv screen.  First of all, are they real?  The plastic surgery seems to suggest otherwise.  Second, are they housewives?  Does anyone admit to being a housewife anymore—unless they’re on television?

Now I live outside what is known as the Windy City, and the wind is no fun anymore.  Winds here can lead to tornadoes.  My property has plenty of trees, and every season I’m left to pick up branches and even heavy limbs.  Yes, I do need tree service but I only get it once every five years or so.

I’ve reached the state in which so many of us older women dwell.  I married for better.  I married for worse.  Now it’s worse.

When I was young, from kindergarten, I would say, until seventh grade, my one great desire was to be a musical comedy star.  How I loved those Hollywood musicals, the joy, the romance, the songs!

While we at the WANKER like concise communication, sometimes it’s best just to let the mind wander.  Ergo, therefore, hence forth, and all that, following is a poem by a new, gifted wordsmith, joining the WANKER family of poets the world should hear from.  Get out your Tibetan singing bowls and ruminate on this one.

Waking to getting up:  I read all my news sites and find out the country/world is still going to hell in a hand basket.  Then I wonder about using that cliche.  After the news, I play games, Wordle, Connection, Crossword Mini.  Usually, I’m totally stymied on that one.  I’m not good at crosswords.  If I’m being lazy, I’ll play canasta on the iPad.