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Margaret, loving called Donnie by friends and family began telling stories at the age of 5. By the time she was 8, her mom complained that she found it difficult to tell the difference between Donnie's truth and her fabrications. Her mom encouraged Donnie to start putting her imagination on paper, including poetry since she seemed to have a talent for it.
Donnie, finally had her first story published. The title is Max and Donnie wrote under the Donnie Harucki. She's had many poems published in various anthologies.
Now being in the senior category of her life, she want to write more and see how far it takes her. That's why she became a member of Biopage. She's hoping you'll read her stories and leave a message.
Thanks for reading about her. She appreciates your attention. Have a great day.
Being both widowed, Rich and I met about 10 years before he was due to retire. He often said that once he retired, he wanted to move to Florida and spend as much time as possible, fishing! I was hesitant thinking Florida was not much more than heat and bug and I really, really don't like bugs! While he visited Florida many times with his first wife and their children, I never had the opportunity to set foot in the Sunshine State. I wasn't too concerned about the heat because I knew wherever we lived, our house would have air conditioning. I was more concerned about the bugs. As I said, I hate bugs! Big or small – doesn't matter. I just don't like them. Being quite comfortable in my New York home, I saw no reason to leave it. Then the unthinkable happened. My husband had an accident while at work that put him into immediate retirement. After his accident, we began making several trips to Florida to check out the different areas in order to find a place upon which we both agreed to build a new home. I was still very skeptical about moving but will admit that I enjoyed our vacations. We traveled from New York down the east coast and up the west coast. During one of these vacations, my sister-in-law volunteered to drive us around the areas near her home. That's when we came to a little town called Punta Gorda that stopped us in our tracks! How could you fall in love with a lump of dirt? Intuition, I guess. It just felt right. We put a deposit on it. Two years later, we paid off the remaining loan and hired a builder. While we found the area to be a quaint little town that has several great restaurants and a civic association that offers many things to keep you busy, we found more. We found home. Our neighbors are friends who are eager to welcome you into their homes for coffee, dinner, and/or lunch and yet aren't intrusive. They respect our privacy but let us know their doors are always open. Almost one year later, we moved into our beautiful Florida home and I was totally surprised and the lack of bugs! Except once every seven years! Lovebugs swarm the area and I do mean swarm! The swarms are so huge, most sensible people stay inside for two or three days until the volume of bugs begins to wane. But that's another story. We moved into our home in April of 1999 and the first thing we did was organize and host a Christmas party for our neighbors. There were only six couples, but the party was fun. We made new friends. Then we joined the civic association and the fishing club. We met more people and made more friends. Nineteen years later, we made the decision to halt our Christmas parties. At our party lasts year, 88 people were invited and 88 people attended. Yes, we made that many friends. I define a friend as a person who I can call anytime day or night and they'll be there. All I'd have to say is, “Something happened. Can you come?” Without question, anyone I'd call would show up. That's a friend and that's why I can call all these people my friends. From living on a dirt road on Long Island New York to a Florida suburb was a huge change for me but it turned out all for the best. I can no longer see a home anywhere else. The climate is perfect. On occasion, we'll have a scorching, summer but many other states do as well. We live on waterfront property, so fishing is as easy as stepping out the back door, off the dock and on the boat. And, last but not least, is the social aspect. I knew many people n New York but none were as friendly as those I met here in Florida. They are more than friends; they are my family. It took us two years to find this little town but since moving here, there is no doubt that it's a beautiful place to live and anyone living here calls Punta Gorda paradise, located just under the rainbow.
Everyone who knows me, knows I'm a klutz. My latest mishap? A picture frame. I chose a special frame for a photo of my mom and dad. It was the last photo I had of them together. Not long after that picture was taken, dad unexpectedly passed away from cancer. Maybe unexpected isn't the correct word but we only found out about his cancer six weeks before he died. So, yeah, unexpected. After perusing several frames, one stood out as being the perfect one for their photo. I made the purchase and brought it home. I carefully lifted all those annoying, sharp, metal prongs in order to insert my photo. Whew! Done that with no problem. Then after positioning the photo, I carefully pressed them all back down...... or so I thought. I held the frame sideways against the wall to measure where the nails would go for hanging. And that's when my problems began. The frame slipped and rather than having to sweep up a pile of splintered glass, I caught the frame. I found out all too quickly that I'd missed one sharp, very sharp prong. I may have missed it but it didn't miss me. In one quick swipe, it slid across my finger and because I'd grabbed it in such a fast and tight grip, I ended up with a huge, deep slice in the back of that finger. And boy did it bleed!!! All those little capillaries weren't happy! My attempts at curtailing the flowing blood were all in vain and a trip to the local ER was inevitable. Four hours and several stitches later, I arrived back home. Now, here we are, two weeks later, the sutures are out but my finger is still a bit swollen and very sore. The doctor said it will be this way for about "maybe another week.” Darn those tiny spider-webbing nerve endings that re in your fingers! Wonderful!! Just wonderful!! I never realized how useful that finger is until it actually hurts to use it. Can't hitchhike for awhile (although I never really did). It still throbs violently to bend that finger. Can't stick my thumb in a pie to pull out a plum (although I didn't do that either) for the same reason. But seriously, it hurts to hold a pen (or pencil). Opening a jar is out of the question. Anything that requires pressure against where the injury was is something that will only happen as the injury heals...which the doctor assured me will happen but slowly. He did remind me that the cut was deep. So, now you're wondering why I'm writing all this nonsensical trivia. It's to alert you of the hazards of what lies behind the frames or rather on the frames. Before you attempt to hang your beautiful photos, check and double check that you've actually pushed all those prongs back into place. You just never know when one might be lurking behind to make you yell, OUCH, that hurt!
Every few weeks, many of my friends and I get together for lunch. It's been a habit of ours for several years. When my mom moved in with us, I decided to include her in these activities. Mom soon became a favorite member of our group and the women looked forward to hearing her tales of things past, her times in America when she was little and emigrated with her mother from England, but mostly, the antics of her middle child – me! My friends vied for the opportunity to sit next to mom and encourage her speak her memories. Mom always obliged. Knowing mom was nearly blind due to severe age-related macular degeneration, our lunch group made sure mom received all the care and attention she needed. One luncheon started during a beautiful, sunny morning. We met at the restaurant just around 11:30am. However, by the time we were getting ready to leave, the heavens opened, and a torrent of rain was pouring down. We debated trying to make a run for our cars or waiting out the quick-moving Florida rain. Looking at mom, we took into consideration since she was wheelchair bound racing her through the rain wasn't something advisable. The decision was made. We'd stay a bit longer and order dessert, something we dieters rarely do. That day, we'd make an exception. As we looked at the dessert menus, I asked mom what she'd like. Without hesitation, she said, “I'd love a big piece of Strawberry Shortcake!” When the waitress arrived to take our latest orders, I asked for the strawberry shortcake but with two forks.” I had to at pretend to watch my calories! Our orders started arriving at our table and everyone oohed and aahed at each plate. The waitress placed the strawberry shortcake in front of mom. She squinted at it trying desperately to see it and then asked what it was. “Mom, it's the strawberry shortcake you said you wanted” Mom looked perplexed and in a loud voice said, “Why on earth did you listen to me? I was only joking. I don't even like strawberry shortcake!” I ordered a slice of apple pie for mom and I ate the strawberry shortcake. But despite the extra and unneeded calorie intake, we all had a great time and hearty laugh at mom's sense of humor. Yes, mom ate all her apple pie and asked if we could make one once we arrived home. “Mom, you are joking, right?” I really had no idea. Then, in front of the entire group of women added another of her zingers: “Of, course I am” she said, “Everyone knows you can't bake applies pies! You always manage to mess them up. We'll just stop at the supermarket and pick one up for later.” Now, all these years later, whenever I see a piece of strawberry shortcake, it reminds me of mom and the day she ordered hers.
It started with a blank page like the feeling in my heart The day my father passed away; it ripped me all apart. As I recalled each memory through the tears that filled my eyes, The page began to gather words – much to my surprise. I found a certain comfort as I read the words aloud; A poem about my father – now wouldn't he be proud! I remember how he'd always smile at the things that I'd do right. I always felt protected when he kissed my cheek each night. He took a bit of time off work, knowing he'd be late. All that mattered to him then was to see me graduate. I saw a tear roll down his cheek on my wedding day, Although he did his best to smile, he gave the bride away. The day he came to spend some time and hold his grandson near Was the day I thought his face would burst as he smiled from ear to ear. There are so many memories – enough to fill a book: His smile, the tears, his laughter, the way he used to look. The photographs and poetry comfort me a tad, But missing are the many hugs. Missing is my dad.
I watched him limp as he walked my way. There was sadness in his eyes. His clothes were ragged and wrinkled And time seemed to have passed him by. He seemed like he didn't belong here And yet he had been a part Of a time when the turmoil around us Tugged violently at all our hearts. I tried to offer some comfort But he gave me half-hearted grin. He said, “No matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to fit in.” He looked much older than his 50 years. I thought back to a time long ago When he was a handsome young soldier. Oh God! Why didn't we know?. If we had known of the outcome Would things be different today? Would we have turned our backs on the world Or still sent our young men away? The mental scars were more painful When the soldiers came home from war. Our country considered them outcasts And cast them aside all the more. The man said I shouldn't be worried And hoped he wouldn't offend But if he had it to do all over, He'd do it all over again. He'd be willing, again, to shoulder a gun And put his fears and his hurt aside. After all, he was defending his country. His eyes glowed with a young soldier's pride. It seems like it was just yesterday When I spoke with this man so brave. Now with tears mixed with pride and yet sadness, I kneel praying at my brother's grave.