Memoirous

You have no idea what to do. He was the only person you could ever talk to. Your sister plays high school varsity basketball and attends Bible study: two things you know nothing about. He was the only person who didn’t treat you like a kid. Your other brother flicks you on top of the head with his hard fingernail and makes jokes about niggers and watermelons—which you don’t get, not because you’re naïve about racism, but because you don’t find his jokes very funny. He was the only person who ever listened to you. To get Dad’s attention you’d have to turn off the TV. He was the only person who ever understood you. Mom gets a confused look on her face when you mention you’d like to be a writer. And now he’s leaving. Remember that time you walked together in the woods and you told him you were thinking about getting an M.I.A. bracelet and he said it was just a ploy to legitimize the Vietnam War. You never sent away for one. Don’t go, you begged...

This coming weekend in Chicago is an architectural event entitled Open House where the public is invited to travel to view architectural treasures scatter throughout different neighborhoods. The building I live in is part of Uptown and one of the options to visit. http://www.openhousechicago.org/site/184/ Some background here. We got the former Chelsea Hotel out of receivership with the promise we’d continue to house senior citizens. So we got a ten-story building that needed a lot of help and a new program, Friendly Towers. For the past almost 20 years we have worked endlessly to refurbish and renovate the building. Our latest effort was the lobby/foyer. When one walks in they are greeted with over thirty panes of original stain glass back lit from above. The ceiling decorations have all been replastered (if needed) and repainted. I can truthfully say lovingly restored. If in the area, please come Oct. 13 & 14 th —and, as always, the coffee shop is OPEN . Last nig...

I was sharing just this morning with one of our residents at Friendly Towers about memoir. She read my contribution to a themed anthology on memoir ROLL , my essay “Sense of Smell.” This was a flash memoir that arose organically out of lilacs growing at a corner by the hospital on the way to the park—and then spiraled into 2 or 3 other memories. The resident commented that the piece she read seemed to have spiritual implications. How to respond? Not to get too abstract, I said that most memories stem perhaps from a physical jog (in the case of my essay I was literally jogging) ie a tangible reminder sparks the memory. But that most memories are seated in the heart. Consider the word “reminisce.” Yes, it means looking back, but it also implies nostalgia or longing. More than simple recall, certain aspects of remembering involve the emotional child, the hurt little girl, the angst-ridden teenager. I can remember exactly where I was when I was packed and ready to go to ca...