Nadia’s Birthday

Tuesday, March 30, 2010: Today would have been Nadia’s 86^th birthday. Nadia, the old woman with the great big dark brown eyes, the dark circles under those eyes, the baggy pants and beat up snickers. I am so glad that 11 years ago, she and I celebrated her birthday. I bought some sandwiches de miga and a cake. We had tea and her adopted son showed up for a little while. Nadia, the woman who had once been someone quite important in the multinational pharmaceutical world. Her dogs were her real family.

Wounded Bird

Wounded Bird

I noticed that the bird had difficulty walking. From my place on the Ladies First line at the soup kitchen on 51^st. and Park Avenue, I took out a plastic bag full of bread crumbs and threw it on the sidewalk. A lot of birds started eating, but this one especially caught my attention. He was limping and I wished I could do something to help him. I reached for my plastic bag again and threw more crumbs for him and his fellow birds. Then we ladies were called inside to get our share of the food. Bye, little bird, I told him. Take care.

Knocks

Monday, March 29, 2010: My knocks for help are not being answered. The situation is very grave and there is no one.

Too Late

Saturday, March 27, 2010:  The help that President Obama is offering  people who own more than their home is worth comes too late to save mine. In November it’ll be 5 years that my condo in Atlanta, Ga foreclosed. I think of this event as losing a family member–a very dear family member. Eugenia Renskoff

No Bed

No Bed

Yesterday I bought the NY Post as I always do once a week. Oh, to look at the pretty houses, the wide open spaces in condos in Tribeca, Noho, Soho and other great neighborhoods in Manhattan. I love the shiny wooden floors and the bedrooms with real beds. I don’t think I’ll have a bed anymore—not me and Lauchita. That is no longer possible. The pretty pictures will have to do until whatever comes next.

 

 

Sexual Abuse in the Church

Sexual Abuse in the Church It seems funny to me that when I fell in love with a priest years ago, a big deal was made of it. In the neighborhood there were people whispering behind my back (and his) and when he was transferred to another parish church, it was rumored that it was because of me. My feelings were honest and all too real. The priests who abuse or have abused children in Europe and everywhere else (it has happened in Argentina too) do have a sex problem. They have to be denied the opportunity to have a personal life, and a wife or girlfriend/boyfriend. Even if they are personable and well liked by their parishioners and they are invited to dinner and parties, a big part of their essence is cut down. They can’t do this or that because of the Celibacy Rule. It is time that the Church came to terms with the sexual issue and did something about it. I would love to see the Church admit the truth: Sex is important, even to priests.

Chiquito

I I miss Chiquito, my dear aristocratic dog, very much. It is so hard to find a human or living being who shares the same things—a living being who is not going to laugh if you show yourself as you really are. I treasure the short amount of time that Chiquito and I had together. Those 6 weeks in the late spring of 2007 were some of the best days I have ever lived. It was an authentic time for me. There were no masks.

Out of Print

Wednesday, March 17, 2010: Different Flags, the novel that I wrote a few years ago is now out of print. When it came out in 2002 Different Flags received excellent reviews, which can be looked up on google and other search engines. I, as the writer of the book, am happy that even the most expensive copies have been sold, but, at the same same, wish that a copy could still be available somehow, somewhere. I plan to rewrite the novel, adding things that 8 or more years ago I could not say about being a young and inexperienced woman in a foreign land and a foreign situation. Eugenia Renskoff

Sour Cream

 I take a taste of it, close my eyes, and I am somewhere else. I then take a tablespoon and get more. How good this is, I say! I am not who I am, I am not what I am. With the taste of sour cream in my mouth I am rich. I have money and I don’t have to worry about housing or anything like that anymore. I feel as if I had just won the lottery.

Comfort in Classics

Comfort in Classics:

I seek comfort and solace everywhere I can. One of my favorite sources of something better, something to make life more tolerable are the classics I started reading when I was 11 or 12. Some of my first books were A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and David Copperfield. Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility came later. Now I reread them and their pages transport me to a time when things were (or seemed) easier.