Memoirous

I started this blog 12 years ago with a lot of skepticism—like does the world NEED another blog? Perhaps it was doubt about the legitimacy of my own voice, but through the years my voice has become stronger and clearer. In fact by blogging I’ve been able to sort out thinking and smooth my opinions into articulated arguments. In some ways, it’s been a source of healing. When I started years ago I wanted to organize around memories and the importance of small observations. Being a writer means looking, using one’s senses, being alive to the world around you. Some of the best poets and prose writers incorporate the simple everyday, but weave it into their narratives in such a way that helps us to see our own lives as unique. We draw a reader in by having them relate, while at the same time hitting reset. There’s always something new. Use the link below. Some of you may be curious about my flash method, if so then Flash Memoir: Writing Prompts to Get You Flashing is available for free....

 I read an interesting article at the Atlantic that sort of capsulated the West Coast feel, the vibe I picked up in Oregon. I’ve been struggling to find the right words to describe how light and airy it felt out there compared to the Midwest—while at the same time discerning what made it less appealing in some ways. There was a social consciousness that was very affirming, but also meant that I felt guilty a lot of the time because the homeless encampments which were ubiquitous, those living on the margins were so prevalent—it was inescapable. Just like my work in Chicago, the reason I never carried money was because I was compelled to give it away to those asking for it at the train station, in parking lots, etc. The poor was ALWAYS with me, really. On the West Coast is the added factor of meth. Sometimes people were totally out of their minds, dancing for hours and because it was anything goes, there was rarely intervention. The mindset was NOT to call the police. There was ...

Leading up to the Fourth of July weekend, Meridian Township here in Michigan just celebrated Meridian Days. To their credit they didn’t call it Founder’s Day or Pioneer Days or Patriot Day—which speaks to a sensibility of the multi-cultural make-up of the community. And, for good grief, the original people’s, even the name Okemos all speak to indigenous people. So an overlay of white supremacy wouldn’t have gone over well either. Simply Meridian Days. There was a Green Fair of which our bike shop participated, a Farmer’s Market, the obligatory food trucks, and in the evening: FIREWORKS!!! I love fireworks. Always have. One of my earliest memories (and, remember, this blog is about memories—collecting and archiving them as writers for future work or distilled into smaller flash pieces) is watching a fireworks show from a rooftop. Now I’m not sure where this was as even as a baby we lived on Hadley Ave. in Kettering, but nevertheless I remember Mom handing me over and all of us getti...

I’ve learned several of my friends and others have gotten Covid recently or are NOW experiencing it. Finally. No one expects to die anymore, but the prevalence and transmissibility of this latest variant tells me that it is everywhere and widespread. Mostly I try to imagine a world without Covid or life before the disease. What would I being doing now or what might have been different. It’s almost impossible now to think of a before or an after. It is .   Reality. Every part of my existence has been touched or impacted by Covid. Future generations will only have known it—or the existence of coming pandemics. Thus, I move my mind away from this line of thinking—from the inevitable to watching deer leap across the fields, scurry into the woods, or a rabbit stop, pause, unblinking, before hopping away.  

 Lately, here in Michigan it’s been looking a lot like winter. Cottonwood duff drifting down off the trees and piling up in quiet corners of the parking lot. Sometimes I’ll look out the window and see in the diffused light puffs of it suspended in the air, wafting to the ground. It is like being inside a snow globe or in a pillow fight. The world cushioned and cozy soft.   Until a car drives through and scatters the fluff, breaking the magic. Summer snow    

 I wrote a few posts ago about riding at night. Boy, do I miss Oregon. After being here in Michigan for eight months, I expected to feel a bit more settled, at home. Yes and No. In Oregon by now I’d had visited one national park and already gone camping for several nights. Nada here. I need to find a rhythm to bike camping a quick and easy getaways. In Eugene I could take the shuttle to the coast for $5 and go visit lighthouses for the day or go for a weekend to a state park along the coast. Public transportation could also take me into the mountains. Here, I have use of my roommate’s car, but I just heard gas was over $5 a gallon. You see, I haven’t been paying attention since all I do is ride my bike to the shops, work, and appointments. I’d like to branch out and meet more people—especially the cycling community. Especially since I work at a bike shop. It seems clubs and group rides are focused on speed. I’m not slow; it’s just that I don’t care. I want to be out there a...

 A couple nights ago I hopped on my bike after dinner and went for a ride. And I rode and rode and rode. I know this doesn’t sound unusual. I work in a bike shop and I ride often—except lately after work and after eating dinner I more likely opt for a walk, keeping nearby. While riding I was reminded of my evening rides in Oregon. Though I was only in Oregon for 9 months—they still feel magical. The weather there is dry and after the rainy season stays that way, until, again, the rains come. Thus, in the evening I could depend on being able to get out in the still abundant sunshine. I’d often ride 2 – 3 nights a week. I’d go out along Amazon Creek where there was a bike path leading west. It was then that I got the full effect of living in a valley. I could see in the distance the bumps on the horizon representing the Cascades and in the west the coastal range. I lived in Eugene in what was called the Emerald Valley—because grass or sod was grown. To be honest many things are g...

 In my last post I wrote about Baby Talk, or the limited but profound communication from my grandson. It made me again remember a talk given by Kathleen Norris at North Park Seminary a number of years ago— And how can I remember that talk? Because of words. She talked about a memory she had and in the midst of clarifying it said that perhaps she might have been below the age of 3, or non-verbal, and when she made this distinction it made me wonder: how do we remember without words. It is when we are able to “name” things that we can begin to remember. I guess before verbalization we can remember in images. I know one of my earliest memories is laying in my crib and looking up at a light fixture that reminded me of a honey bun, the glass sort of waxy yellow and swirled. But did I actually know it was a honey bun or did I simply want to eat the light fixture? Another early memory was hearing the milk man truck outside. It must have been early morning—when the milk man arrived w...

 Since Covid I’ve been in a bit of a funk. I mean really=I didn’t die! I should be grateful, but instead have focused on the time spent in isolation and the plans I had to give up. I had to cancel a bike trip that doesn’t seem to be able to be rescheduled. On the human front: What seems to interest me lately is watching the baby, my grandson, grow and change. It is dynamic. Everyday there is something new. This element alone keeps me engaged. I can’t wait to see what is new. What is new?! Baby talk. Communication. He is trying to tell us something. It’s in there, just trying to get out. I can tell he is storing up a lexicon of words that will one day burst forth. Right now he is mimicking or “approximating” as a child development expert friend I have said. Either way, he is meeting milestone of verbal development. However slowly, or so it seems. There are a few things he is successfully able to communicate. One is a sign language sign for more, which has also expanded to plea...