the Scott Stein

My grandmother, Flo Stein, died on Christmas day, and was buried yesterday, December 27, 2006, on her 95th birthday. It wasn't a shock, of course, given her age, and her failing health in recent months. My grandfather died about eight years ago. I thought it would be an appropriate tribute to my grandmother to post a poem I wrote back in 1996, inspired by her devotion to my grandfather and the tragedy that is dementia. I was taking a poetry workshop with John Balaban at the University of Miami and was visiting my grandparents frequently in Century Village in Deerfield Beach, Florida (my grandmother lived there; my grandfather was in a home by that point). I wasn't much interested in writing poetry, I discovered, and used the spatial form as an excuse to write a narrative. Maybe it technically counts as a poem. Others more qualified than I am can make that judgment. Anyway, my grandmother was an extraordinary woman and had her wits and memory and sense of humor — substantial attributes — until nearly the end, a full and fortunate life.

On some monitors, you might have to scroll down to see the image of the poem. Just keep going until the blue left sidebar ends.

Oh, but I have.

See here, and scroll down to see comments by Dr. Karen and Ed O'Connell here, and by Caseworker Alice Pitney here. And lots of other places. All of which is explained here.

I'll still be posting on the Scott Stein, of course, but I'm doing some flying under the radar these days. I'm a stealth bomber. Fellow bombers are invited to join in the fun here, here, here, and here.