I’m a sucker for word games. I love playing Scrabble and doing the mini crosswords and puzzles in the NY Times. It must be hereditary. A couple weeks ago on Zoom, I asked my sisters if they had joined the latest word craze. We spent the next ten minutes sharing strategies. For the record, I’ve played 63 times and struck out only twice. If any of you play Wordle, I’d love to hear your approach. The poem below, an ALOUETTE, is in response to my WP friend Muri’s annual poetry challenge. If you’d like to participate, click HERE for the details and join in the fun.


The first words I play
are PIOUS and TRADE,
see what turns orange and lime
Sis One does the same
but she starts the game
with STORM and ADIEU each time

Sis Two drags her net
through the whole alphabet,
taking a gamble
that she can unscramble
the answer in only one crack

Sis Three plays it loose,
Weird letters a help or a hurdle
You know, without doubt,
what I’m talking about
if you are addicted to WORDLE


To celebrate my (hard-won eventual) success at learning to use Block Editor, I thought I’d share my Christmas letter with all my WP peeps, a summary of the ups and downs that contributed to my hiatus. If you already received a paper copy via snail mail, you are not obligated to read it again.


Christmas is fast approaching, family and friends, and the drawing at the top of this letter pretty accurately sums up our year.  Think of those spinning plates as physical, mental, and dental health, caretaking of husband, pets, and other family members, keeping our hundred-year-old house and aging cars in working order, doing Zooms and coffee dates, adjusting to new technology (computer and Bluetooth hearing aids), getting vaccinated for COVID, figuring out what to make with the oodles of bell peppers arriving weekly in our summer farm share, submitting poems and filing rejection letters, while doing the things that normal people do—wondering if eating potato salad at a family picnic is a bad idea, getting blisters from wearing new sneakers to Cedar Point, hoping my use of the word “sneakers” doesn’t brand me as old, enduring haircuts at Great Clips from stylists who graduated beauty school last month, sitting outside wearing two jackets and gloves to pass out trick-or-treats to ten kids wearing winter coats under their costumes, and pondering the mysteries of life, like why I think Callie is tan and Peaches is orange when, in fact, my dog and cat are the same color.  

Age eventually catches up with all of us.  In April, after years of relative peace with his diagnoses, Brian had to be hospitalized for a mental breakdown.  In their zeal to get to the bottom of things, the doctors ran a lot of tests.  These unearthed low thyroid and Vitamin D, mild sleep apnea, and pre-diabetes.  One day, he took no daily meds—the next, he was filling the biggest Pill Minder on the market.  His vision became blurry.  Stronger reading glasses helped with small print, but I still do most of the driving.  Ten hopelessly decayed teeth were extracted.  By comparison, my health problems—worsening hearing loss, a persistent sinus infection, and weekly chiropractic adjustments and allergy shots—seemed almost trivial.  When our 11-year-old dog Tailor fell ill, therapy was my salvation.  At each session, I poured out another chapter in the unfolding story.  How the vet examined his lame leg, said he had torn his ACL, and referred him for surgery.  How by the day of his Ortho appointment, he had lost 13 pounds.  How x-rays showed an intact ACL, but also a shadowy mass in his pelvis that turned out to be colon cancer.  How he went to the Rainbow Bridge on June 21, the first day of summer.  He is survived by his heartbroken dog parents and two tan (or orange?) fur-siblings, co-Alphas in the new household order.  A few weeks into autumn, my invincible mom fell and broke her leg, just below the hip joint.  On the fourth of October, my surgeon gave to me…   four Oxycontin, three rods and pins, two weeks of rehab, and a walker with tennis ball feet!!  She is currently convalescing at my sister Judy’s house, doing physical therapy and outrageously difficult jigsaw puzzles.   

Between appointments, we coped with smaller crises, like a burned-out attic fan, a sink with a hairball, and a relentless supply of farm share vegetables.  I used my stimulus check to have a crown replaced.  A week later, my aging computer, whose touch-screen had been overly touchy for months, conked out.  I drove to Best Buy on the hottest day of summer and plunked down $1500 for a shiny Dell laptop.  On the way home, the AC in my Honda breathed its last.  For a minute there, I questioned the Lord’s judgment regarding how much I could handle.

In times of doubt, it’s helpful to count your blessings.  Like having an attic, access to farm-fresh produce, and hundreds of gratis government dollars to spend on things you need.  Readily available COVID vaccines with nothing but minor arm soreness afterward.  An end to wiping down groceries with Clorox towelettes.  The safe return of our nephew Chris from his overseas AF assignment followed by a blow-out homecoming party in the park.  The safe return of Brian’s lost cell phone…  Twice.  Strolls along the Cedar Point midway.  Julie’s summer visit, including outings to the Carousel Museum and Toft’s Dairy.  Sharon’s birthday visit, a whirlwind of autumn leaves, food truck gyros, and tea cart conversations.  A new Ohio driver’s license that doesn’t expire for eight years!  Finding Christmas gifts in this, the Year of the Back Order.

As for what I’m writing?  You’re looking at it.  I submitted a few pre-pandemic pieces to the local 44839 contest and, at a live reading in September, was awarded first prize for my poem People of Greyhound.  A month later, a fellow poet who attended the event brought me a Greyhound badge he’d come to possess when his friend, a career driver, passed away.  It resides in my Special Box, a tangible reminder of the connections I’ve made through my writing.  An unexpected email from Team Erma (Bombeck) had me LITERALLY jumping up and down.  It said 2020 essay winners had been granted free admission to their 2022 conference.  Did I want to attend in-person or virtually?  That morsel of good news put me back in the black in the Giant Ledger in the Sky, but doing the Happy Dance caused me to pull a muscle and smell like Ben Gay for the rest of the day.  Please don’t say that’s the “new normal” at my age; I’ve really come to hate that expression.

Phrases like “new normal” are eye-rollers in my book.  Whatever this is, it ain’t normal.  That’s exactly what Jesus must have thought when he woke up in a manger on Christmas morning.  Just when he got used to swaddling clothes, warm milk, and naps, he had to flee to Egypt and live on the lam, then move to Nazareth, learn to be a carpenter, turn water into wine, feed a crowd with provisions from his disciples’ knapsacks, and finally, die nailed to a cross.  Makes spinning those plates seem like child’s play, doesn’t it?  Maybe I’ll up the ante and try it with my Christmas china!  Just kidding!!

May the Ringmaster watch over your circus, at Christmastime and always.                     

Love, Joan, Brian, Callie, and Peaches


The deadline for entries to the 2022 Erma Bombeck Humor Essay Contest was yesterday. They’ll accept only one essay per person, so I had to choose between two of my favorite pandemic-related pieces. Below is the one I didn’t submit:


How do I love our hometown grocery?  Let me count the ways!  Local produce.  Freshly roasted coffee beans.  Housemade tortilla chips.  Twenty-piece buckets of fried chicken for $11.99.  Real, live cashiers.  Paper bags.  It has only two drawbacks.  One is the international aisle, sponsored by La Choy and Old El Paso, which lacks key ingredients for every ethnic recipe I’ve ever clipped from the New York Times.  Ask the stock boy where to find umami paste and he’ll say, “Um… on Amazon?”  The other is having to dodge horny widowers who think “Senior Hour” means “Tinder for the Elderly.”

A few days before Halloween, I pop in first thing in the morning to grab some necessities.  I’ve forgotten 7-8 am is Senior Hour.  I’m not technically old enough to shop then, but I quit coloring my hair years ago, so no one is the wiser.     

In canned goods, a player in a buttoned-up cardigan pushes a cart with a marked-down grapefruit in the front that is already attracting fruit flies.  “Excuse me, pretty lady,” he winks.  “Are these the beans that are on sale?”  He points to a tall pyramid of store-brand baked beans next to a fluorescent yellow sign that reads SALE—59¢.  I nod and watch him load eight, ten, twelve cans into his cart.  He clears his throat as if to continue the conversation and I skedaddle, as would any sensible woman who finds herself too close to a cheapskate who might spontaneously combust.

In the snack aisle, I’m approached by a casanova with bird legs and a low-hanging belly not fully covered by his shirt.  He appears to be cheating on Lorna Doone.  With Little Debbie.  He leans in close and stage-whispers, “Are you gonna eat all that candy corn by yourself?”

Two more are prowling in Frozen Foods.  The one wearing a flannel shirt has a stack of Hungry Man fried chicken dinners in his basket and says, for no apparent reason, “I’m a breast man.”  Not to be outdone, the other one squints through his bifocals in the direction of my cart and says, “I sure would like to get a closer look at those pot pies.” 

Me and my pot pies sprint to the end of the aisle and squeal around the corner so fast we almost bump into the stock boy, who’s arranging tortilla chips and jars of salsa on an endcap. 

“Hey, ma’am!” he says brightly.  “Did you ever find that tsunami paste you were looking for?”

I can’t tell if he’s clueless or a comedian-in-training, but it’s the best line I’ve heard all day.  Hey, I might even share my candy corn. 


This season, I was gratified to discover a few Millenials embracing an old-fashioned tradition, writing and mailing out Christmas letters.  My nephew Sam, an aspiring artist and musician who toiled at Walgreens by day and performed at open mikes by night before COVID interrupted his life, did a phenomenal job with his letter, closing with his “playlist” for 2020:   

Will You Miss Me When I Burn?  (Palace Brothers)

Say Valley Maker (Smog )

Out of Tune (Real Estate Band)

Jubilee Street (Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds)

Helplessness Blues (Fleet Foxes)

Sister (Angel Olsen)

Weyes Blood – Bad Magic (Mexican Summer)

It Seemed the Better Way (Leonard Cohen)

Shelter From The Storm (Bob Dylan)

Pretty Eyes (Silver Jews)

He sent me a YouTube link, so I spent a morning listening to his picks, trying to imagine the impact of the pandemic on the young… Living alone or with roommates in tiny apartments, going to scary essential jobs or scraping by on unemployment, alienated from friends, dating, and most social venues.  There is some overlap, certainly, but I am 52 and married, introverted, and retired.  I am my own landlord, have my own washer and dryer, and enjoy the company of two dogs and a cat.  I’m content baking cakes and reading the newspaper and assembling jigsaw puzzles. In fact, I may continue living this way after COVID has passed.  52 is quite different from 25.  Immersing myself in his playlist was like journeying to the past in a time machine.  When a particular lyric spoke to me, I jotted it down on an index card.  Strung end-to-end, with a little rearranging, these lyrics became a “found” poem: 


It is longing that you feel,
to be missed, or to be real.
The world outside is so inconceivable,
often, you barely can speak,
a ten ton catastrophe  
on a 60pound chain.
The one-eyed undertaker,
he blows a futile horn.
At least there’s nothing more
you could really lose, now is there?

You wonder what it was…
You wonder what it meant…
You know we can’t cop to
the frequency of your inner debate
so you learn to take it as it comes.
You fall together, fall apart
with the grace of a corpse   
in a riptide.
Make the best of death 
and love what’s left.

Do you still believe stars
are the headlights of angels
driving from heaven
to save us?

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I adore parodies, and The Parody Project is cranking out some real gems.  Just in time for holiday viewing, 12 Months of Trump’s Mess,
a month-by-month summary of his insane political agenda in 2017.

The Parody Project does non-Christmas parodies, too, like Confounds the Science and Fifty Ways We Can Recover.  Check them out.  There’s a “donate” button on YouTube.  You’re welcome, and Merry Christmas!

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It’s May and RV’s are cruising the highways in search of adventure, nature, and camps with pull-through spaces and on-site laundry facilities.  Some of the events described below are real; some are fictional (but entirely possible).  I’ll let you guess which are which.
This is Part 1 of a 3-part series on RV-ing called House on Wheels.


The seller handed us two huge rings of keys and a tattered briefcase.  “All the papers are here,” she said.  “I wish I could help you more, but
my husband – God rest his soul – always took care of things when we traveled.”  With that, we became the proud but clueless parents of a bouncing baby motorhome.  We figured we would learn as we go, and before we’d traveled a hundred yards, we learned that low-hanging branches can wreak havoc on a rooftop air conditioner.  At the gas station, we discovered that filling up the tank takes twenty minutes, fifty-five gallons, and a 9-1-1 call when you see the total and suffer a heart attack.  Heck, by the time we got home, we were practically experts.  So we reserved a campsite and started packing.  Though no lock was left unturned, half the keys remained a mystery.  Important-looking items like batteries, lumber, hoses, and thick electrical cords hogged every outside compartment, so I stashed the lawn chairs and Dog Chow in the mini-shower, certain the water heater’s generous
six-gallon capacity would deter anyone from actually using it.  I added the bare essentials—the coffee pot, a package of RV-safe toilet paper (engineered to begin dissolving the second you touch it), and a can of bug spray—and off we went.

Lessons continued on the road…  Thou shalt not reverse without a spotter; it is the number one cause of RV accidents.  (Reversing with a spotter is, incidentally, number two.)  Be aware that mirrors, bike racks, and roof vents stick out a foot farther than they appear to.  Avoid toll roads, where “highway robbery” takes on new meaning.  If you do not know what a switch is for, never flip it while you are in motion; some do harmless things like disable the carbon monoxide detector while others extend the patio awning and initiate lift-off.  That said, a solid roadside assistance plan is worth every penny and tow truck guys are great; they winch you out of impossibly stupid jams and never say, “Holy Moses! How did that happen?”

On site, seasoned campers are quick to take newbies under their wing.  One grizzled guru watched as we backed up and pulled forward seven-teen times into our assigned space, then introduced himself.  “Keep her on the blacktop,” he warned, “or you’ll wear a rut in your lawn.”  The following day, a plaid-clad neighbor sprinted over and yanked a bottle of lighter fluid from my hands.  “Whoa!” he hollered, “What are your leveling boards doing in your fire ring?” Aha!  No wonder we kept rolling out of bed!  “Stash your dirty laundry in the oven,” offered a third.  “It’s pet-proof and holds exactly a load.  Who in the hell bakes on a camping trip, anyway?”  I did some quick mental addition… including those three little gems, I’d collected enough pearls of wisdom to earn my RV merit badge.  Secret handshake, I thought excitedly, here I come.

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