The unvoiced thoughts and ideas of a septegenarian.



Soon I will move to a different apartment..  My goal is to pack at least one box a day and today was book day.  I’ve already recycled a dozen or more and as I began to pack the rest I had to pause a minute when I uncovered The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter.” (Carson McCruthers, 1981, Bantam paperback), one of those I haven’t yet read. Thinking about the title alone nearly brought tears to my eyes and, despite excellent reviews,  I’m not certain I want to open the book and travel into the depths of spiritual isolation the author portrays.

With a grin on my face I thought about the personal ads found in most newspapers  – the voices of those lonely hearts hunting.  How lonely does one have to be to resort to those ads?  Some are honest and heartfelt, some desperate, and some amusing.  Does the lonely hunter ever find the heart that beats in tune with his; the mind that operates on the same train track; the feet that march to his cadence?

These lonely hearts attempted to be serious –

  • …a friend to have fun with, to kiss to love to cuttle all the good thins in live….(Back to first grade and spelling lessons for you kiddo)
  • Looking for a man who is Genuine and tells the truth…a real Country gentleman between the ages of 54 and 60 — (Must  he wear a tam and carry a walking stick as well?)
  • …I look great in jeans, have great legs …I love being pursued and captured… (Place this ad in ‘Field and Stream’ but stay away from the NRA.)
  • Sensitive male seeks dominant female with extensive knowledge of  knots. (Go  to the closest marina buddy!)

These gave humor a shot –

  • Single, attractive, self-absorbed woman, 34, seeks to save money by spending yours. (Listen up ladyhonesty is one thing – idiocy another.)
  • Male, 34, very successful, smart, independent, self-made.  Looking for girl whose father will hire me. (Off to a shrink with you, fella.)
  • You’re probably wondering why an accomplished PhD, LLB, MBA, DDS, MD and Rhodes Scholar like me isn’t married  yet.  I’m a meeskate. (Baby –no man would have enough wall space for all  your certificates and blue ribbons, let alone your ego.)
  • Looking for nice man, 25-35,  to replace my 70 year dead husband. I can dream, can’t I? (Good luck, Granny.)

I admit that’s not very erudite but it was fun writing it and if it brought a smile to your face I’ve done my good deed for the day.

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Julie Rose


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first love


            I don’t think any woman ever forgets her first love. She may have been ten or   twenty or forty but at eighty she still remembers him   She remembers the sound of his voice, his crooked big toe, the warmth that enveloped her when they danced, his clumsy attempt to do a jackknife off a diving board, the smell of Old Spice shampoo that lingered when he came out of the shower. She remembers, too, the joy of falling in love.  It makes no difference whether he was a prince or a cad  – she remembers.


Sometimes the memories are of a special moment they shared. Maybe they laid on the banks of river and he read poetry to her.  Maybe his mother welcomed her with open arms.  Maybe he knocked down all the milk bottles at a carnival and presented her with a giant teddy bear. Nothing that happened to her since has the same hold on her memory.


If you ask a man whether or not he remembers his first love he’s likely to say yes. But the woman he’ll then tell you about won’t be the first woman he fell in love with:  it will be the first woman with whom he had sex. He will remember how clumsy and inexperienced he felt but cannot recall the color of her hair and sometimes not even her name. This  poem would be Greek to him.



His sparkling emerald eyes,

His copper penny hair:

A memory

Trapped in the depths of my heart.


I want to let go and when I come close

I hear a song we danced to;

Words he whispered softly.

Smell the magnolia he tucked in my hair,

Feel the caress of my name on his lips


I want to let go.

And just when I think I’m almost there

Vapors of onion soup drift in,

Smoky cafes drown once more in soft jazz.


I want to let go but I cannot forget

Memories of togetherness laughter,

Bare toes in wet sand,

Dimple in chin, freckle on shoulder,

Wading – then swimming – in passion’s waters.


The pilot light of remembrance

Flickers once more in my soul.

I lay awake in the night

Wishing the heartache away.

I want to let go, love freely,

Untethered by the leash of his memory.


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Julie Rose




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