The Rose Journal
Rose Hour one
Woody Allen and other rose treats
Beulah 86 years old is alone in her flat. I am far from town, here in Bombay for work and cannot visit her.
Jeremy died two months ago and as he was severely alcoholic and a very difficult person to deal with it is good in a way that she does not have to worry about him. But she misses her son and is very sad that he died before his 50th birthday. But she is coming to terms with his death.
I like to think of that room of hers, crammed from the floor to the ceiling with books! How much joy tumbles out of that room for both of us!
Yesterday I found a large, thick, brown book of Jewish humor and it was filled with excellent writers, marvelous stories, poems, jokes, poetry, and delightful illustrations.
There was a short story by Woody Allen and it was funny. Though I don’t much care for him now as a person, and many of his movies too are not so special, I liked this story!
The day suddenly turned into book burnished enchantment. We were lost in corridors of pleasure.
Death, disappointment, disease, depression were set aside, for the sheer joy of words and wisdom.
She is stubborn and will not allow us to find a daily companion for her. She suspects outsiders and we have to somehow manage to make sure she is fine.
Now I called her up to check on her and found her reading Dickens and felt much better.
This daily worry about Beulah, finding new ways of keeping her safe and well is like visiting that rose garden to come out of my private daily despair, to be glad for an hour or two. The dark walks away then. Now, talking to her, knowing she was reading, has got rid of the dark. It is definitely another kind of rose hour!