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Tag: aging parents

BLOSSOMING, NO MATTER WHAT: A CHRISTMAS (CACTUS) STORY

Posted on December 25, 2021December 25, 2021 by Crescent Dragonwagon

SOMETHING, SOMEWHERE, IS BLOOMING. NOW.  IT MAY NOT BE THE PLANT YOU WANTED OR EXPECTED. ITS TIMING MAY BE OFF, OR ODD, OR MYSTERIOUS. BUT BEFORE YOU GIVE OVER TO  DESPAIR, — EASY, IN THESE DIFFICULT AND UNENDINGLY STRESSFUL TIMES —  LOOK FOR THE BUD, THE BLOSSOM. IF IT CAN FLOWER IMPROBABLY, SO CAN YOU….

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THE REINVENTION OF A DAY: HOW WE’RE CALLED (& WHO WE CALL) WHEN THINGS DO NOT GO ACCORDING TO PLAN

Posted on August 29, 2016September 3, 2016 by Crescent Dragonwagon

Last Friday, I finally made it to my doctor’s office for a full physical. I had tried, sincerely, a few weeks earlier, on a hot, hot humid day. But only partially succeeded. A tree got in the way. But in a larger sense, perhaps, a tree was the way. Disruption. What a weird gift it…

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THE DILL-SEEKERS: AN HERB, A MOTHER, MEMORY

Posted on August 3, 2016July 25, 2017 by Crescent Dragonwagon

I’d had friends over last Friday, for dinner. A couple of the dishes I’d served them required a little fresh dill. Now, you can’t buy a little dill. You buy it by the bunch. That bunch is usually, especially this time of year, preposterously large. This is problematical. I live alone, except for when my boyfriend comes up from New…

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A FOXGLOVE FLOWER FALLING REMINDS ME OF CHARLOTTE, AND WHY

Posted on June 29, 2016June 29, 2016 by Crescent Dragonwagon

It’s the softest sound in the world, and one only occasionally hears it: a flower falling. This morning, sitting in the right place, I heard it. A single foxglove blossom dropped from the arrangement I had placed on a table yesterday.   It’s such a small sound, but it stayed with me all day. Until I…

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My father, the stripper’s press agent

Posted on January 10, 2014October 20, 2015 by Crescent Dragonwagon

After the Los Angeles funeral of my late father, Maurice Zolotow, a well-dressed, chic, trim woman came up to me and extended her hand. She had excellent posture, and her hair — a jet-black that looked neither harsh nor unnatural — was well-styled in a short, flattering, expensive cut. Her age was hard to guess…

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Keeping the “dead” in “deadline”

Posted on October 15, 2013July 31, 2017 by Crescent Dragonwagon

“He cannot be dead,” said Paul, my father’s editor at Playboy. “It is Friday. I am sitting here looking at a pitch letter he sent me on Monday.” Things you don’t realize will be part of your job description: returning voicemail messages left for your father, who has suddenly died. “Well, Paul,” I said, “Maurice…

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