Memoirous

This Story Will Change: a Memoir Elizabeth Crane Counterpoint, 2022 A Review I might have met Betsy Crane in Chicago—or simply imagined I did. There was a friend of a friend connection we have, some slight thing in the past. ALSO there was her photo in the bottom level of the Harold Washington Library I’d occasionally see when attending events in the library auditorium. She was a recipient of the Chicago Public Library Foundation 21st Century Award. I might have also met her through her stories and novels. But this was fiction. Her latest work is about the Happily Ever After where the novelist falls in love, the couple adopts a dog, both find success—but the happy is somewhat more elusive. Through reading the memoir you (and possibly the novelist) discover that there are signs along the way, pinpricks of revelations. Nevertheless, the novelist is blindsided by a confession from her husband and the two separate. I think we’ve read this story before. It is also my story: where you are go

The Last Blockbuster ever anywhere. Wow, it sounds like extinction. This is a documentary streaming on Netflix that I came across the other night. It was a program of hope—that this place has survived—and of nostalgia—its fame and renown has only increased with the distinction of being the last. It also seemed a bit lonely, no other mate in order to procreate. Also there is the hint in the show that they, too, might be shut down, refranchised at the end of their contract. For now, Bend, OR has the only known Blockbuster in existence. The doc also brought up memories. I remembered me and my husband walking to the Blockbuster on Argyle, to a strip mall in Little Saigon, to pick up a couple of videos. This is the square bulky thing. It was hard to choose from among all the new releases—and, though we were assured of numerous copies, there was still a scarcity. We waited around hoping someone might drop off the one I wanted to see. Mike’s preferences were art house so those were usuall

Wild Geese You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting - over and over announcing your place in the family of things.  – Mary Oliver My writer friend has told me I have a week to wallow in self-pity. My daughter has told me NOT to wallow, but instead get up and get going. A critique partner has given me an assignment: massive revisions of the manuscript PLUS a re-write of a short story. My writer fr

 Last night I stepped out of the house at 8;10 for an evening walk. Now 8:10 used to be brilliant sunshine, but now has slowly mellowed into a pale champagne. Under tree canopy it is a musky darkness. Nevertheless, I went forth, already missing the solstice. Across from Cornell Elementary are a couple of remote side streets—a combination of thick woods, meadow, well-maintained gardens, etc. During the summer they flourished, even now they are still lush. But, lately, the deer have been visiting. Last night I encountered whole deer families! At first I thought it was a dog, a small doe, near the road, then another, then its mama. Leaving that cul-de-sac, I started down the second side street and saw more deer nibbling beside the road. They pricked up their ears and the mama’s tail twitched nervously. The whole time she kept her eyes on me. On the way back home, I crossed a playing field behind Cornell Elementary and saw four more deer on the lawn, making a total of 20 deer observed on m

 On Meditating, Sort Of, by Mary Oliver Meditation, so I’ve heard, is best accomplished if you entertain a certain strict posture. Frankly, I prefer just to lounge under a tree. So why should I think I could ever be successful? Some days I fall asleep, or land in that even better place — half asleep — where the world, spring, summer, autumn, winter — flies through my mind in its hardy ascent and its uncompromising descent. So I just lie like that, while distance and time reveal their true attitudes: they never heard of me, and never will, or ever need to. Of course I wake up finally thinking, how wonderful to be who I am, made out of earth and water, my own thoughts, my own fingerprints — all that glorious, temporary stuff. I’m in an uncomfortable place right now—I’m speaking metaphorically. Yes, I long for my tiny house and a sense of permanence, but this “place” I speak of is psychological. Once again, an agent has let me go. He said, You have no platform. There was no arguing with

I heard a snippet of a podcast the other day that reminded me of one of the tenets of this blog: to pay attention to small things, write about the mundane, stay present to daily life. Rough Translation is a podcast that explores language and crossover of language. It delves into the social and anthropological surrounding language and how culture and tribalism also impacts words. Yeah, fairly broad. A recent episode “The Cat Must Still Be Fed” is about: a hyperlocal news site in Red Hook, N.Y. posts a job opening. A journalist in Ukraine applies. And what readers think of as "local news" is going to change dramatically. At first the editor thinks its spam, a joke, a bot. Then she contacts the respondent. No, he just likes using the world wide web as a way to escape, to live vicariously—so no, he doesn’t have a background in journalism nor is he especially proficient in English. But, using algorithms and data sourced from the internet he thought he might be able to writ

Folks have asked if I miss my old community. As I’m nearing almost a year here in Okemos, Michigan, I can truthfully say: No. I feel as if I have a life here. I’ve got family, though, we don’t see or talk to each other every day. I have a job and food stores that I frequent. I have a GREAT set up here with a townhouse mostly to myself. But. There are times when I still feel like a transient, as if I’m still on the road somewhere trying to get home. It is then that I pine for my Tiny House. Anyone who reads this blog knows that I actually have one—sort of. It is an ADU, an accessory dwelling unit on my daughter’s property about 2 miles from where I’m staying. Since moving there the end of June I’ve been over to visit the Tiny House, but have been unable to actually move in as there are a number of things that need to happen first that involve a remodeler. The unit is 15 x 15 and has a loft for sleeping; it is insulated, and has finished walls and floor. Other than that, it is a bl

Through my work I’d met a remodeler who works just on his own. He came out and did a walk through, getting a sense of might be required. Yet so far I have no idea of how much everything is going to cost or time frame. As most of us know, the pandemic rearranged the world. It’s one of the reasons the bike shop is going bonkers selling bikes. Everyone wants one, it seems. Same for remodeling and home improvements. During lockdown suddenly everyone wanted to re-do their kitchen or bathroom. It’s why the cost for wood and hardware sot up. Now the price for lumber is falling but things are still scarce—like labor, folks to install or build. My guy has found a guy to help with the plumbing needs except that he is 3 months out. Meaning=it might not be until December before I can get in. I’ll keep you posted on “progress.” Fingers-crossed.  

 I knew what I was going to do that day, the next, and the next day after that. Routine. The Familiar. Here—there are so many new roads and none of them are stale or boring. Whenever I pulled out my bike to ride in Chicago I had a list in my head of places I could go—all of them I knew like the back of my hand, traveled many times and in all seasons. I knew what to expect. Now, when I consider a bike ride there are so many roads I haven’t been down on or places to explore. It really will take a while for things to become settled or boring or old hat. I look forward to new adventures. photo taken in Nov. 5, many years ago on Des Plaines River Trail, outside of Chicago

Just because we were in a small town and, in places, semi-rural, people were not lax about their right to vote. It seems since absentee voting took off and early voting became a thing, in-person voting has gone to the wayside. Yes and no. People have options now on how they choose to vote. Yet, many people decided to wait and come into the physical polling place during this primary. The biggest hurdle was that last-minute a few polling places changed due to input from schools that they preferred not to open to the public or be on the list—understandably. So churches and libraries took on more precincts. A few voters asked why they had to vote here instead of their local middle school or said they went past a voting place closer to home and had to drive here. Mostly they wanted to know if they were in the right place. Yes. People are creatures of habit and the ones used to coming to that church to vote had to contend with the question of which precinct? So the first table sorted them

 As I mentioned in my intro post, it was sort of accidental registering to be a poll worker in Michigan. I picked up the wrong app and then realized my mistake, yet turned it in. I knew that democracy was under pressure as were all election workers. If things don’t go right this time then surely cracks in the system, in people’s thinking would only widen. I’m NOT an election denier. I believe Biden won 2020, that there was no evidence of fraud. Just a lie to provoke skepticism. Election workers are working now under undue scrutiny and pressure. If they don’t dot every i and cross every t, then the system, not just that precinct, comes into question. That’s why the team works, past and present, to get EVERYTHING right. We are there to help people vote and, in some cases, not to vote. The differences in process between Illinois/Chicago and Meridian Township in Michigan are numerous and not enough to delineate. Meaning pretty minor. I saw stuff I wish the Chicago Board of Elections wo

Few experiences are more tiring than being an election judge. You start work at 5:45 a.m. which means waking up even earlier—which also means a crappy night’s sleep. Then, after hasty, groggy introductions, you then have to work cooperatively with others, some of an opposing party or ideology, for the next 16 hours. Hours! I didn’t get home, riding my bike in the dark along roads where the deer jump out to scar the pants off every driver/rider, until 10:30 pm. But, it wasn’t all bad. I actually had several moments that I count as victory and even profound in the emotions they provoked. In addition, I worked with an outstanding group of people. My experience voting and working the polls goes back to the first election I voted in as someone entering adulthood: 1980, Carter vs Reagan. In 2000 in hopes of scrapping enough money together for an international family trip, my husband and I signed up to work the polls down the street—that was Gore vs Bush Jr. No sleepy national election