Memoirous

Characteristics of Pop Art, the kind Sister Corita evolved into while teaching at Immaculate Heart College, are two. One) is a preoccupation with the everyday, taking symbols or objects we’re used to seeing—or not—and recasting them or turning them sideways or on their head so that we see them differently. What Andy Warhol did with Campbell Soup, Tomato, cans Sister Corita did with Wonder bread, and the G in General Mills. Two) is color. Not the run of the mill color, but vibrant, acid kool-aid color, Kerouac, Timothy O’Leary color. Both of these characteristics are emblematic of Christianity—for those with ears to hear and eyes to see. It is about the visible world, amplified, a transcendent world all around us. Taking the quotidian and going deeper, beyond, helping us to let go, to believe— like seeds in the wind, couched in the earth, waiting to grow. This weekend I took several long bike rides within 20- 25 miles of my house and I was amazed at the color of the sky, the lush gr...

Coincidence: I was taking a walk and talking on the phone when I said to my friend—I’d love to have a guest to test out some of my theories on how I can actually manage hosting with a Tiny House—when lo and behold a few hours later I received a message asking to stay. I’m part of an online hospitality community called Warmshowers for cycle tourists. Melvin was on his way to NYC after an around-the-world tour after finishing high school in Germany last year. (Around the world tour is merely a concept on a bike since of course somewhere you have to take other forms of transportation. Thus, he mitigated his trip, bypassing the –stan countries after riding from his town in Germany to Istanbul.) Hosting at the Tiny House is tricky as there is the composting toilet hidden behind a screen—meaning: a lack of privacy. One) I’d have to trust a guest to use the toilet properly and two) I’d have to vacate. The plan was for me to stay in my daughter’s basement and give Melvin the Tiny House. At...

I’ll be riding along on my bike, maybe after work near sunset, and in the air will be this subtle odor of grapes. Lush. If green was a smell. Flowery. It is the lilacs, the honeysuckle, and all the other flowering trees opening up to the night. I ride into the sunset, dramatic in itself, with the smell of earth, spring filling my nostrils.

So if this blog is a diary of sorts, a way for me to talk about my life and as well as memories, then let me report: Everyone wants a bike. When I wake up before work, I’m lately feeling a weight, anxious. I know once I get to work it is going to be chaos, a build up to frantic demand. We could have several customers lined up at the register and many more out on the floor all needing time and attention toward their decision to purchase—you name it: lights, a lock, a helmet, a bicycle. It is up to us, me, to show them how an item works, answer questions, and work with them on fit and size. It’s amazing how little or how much a person may know. For some a bike is that thing with wheels, so to talk about tire size or the number of gears is getting way too technical. For some they have read every review and know way more than me. All of this can be intimidating for me. I’m expected to be the expert—and I do a terrible job of masquerading. All I really want to convey to them that it i...

I took the long way home after work and rode through the park, over the long plank bridge that spans the marsh, and through the neighborhood bordering our own. At every corner was a lush landscape, some new tree in leaf and some new scent I detected. The change is sudden and every bit welcomed. It feels a long time coming. In April we had a week where we were teased and then returned to droopy, cold, rainy mornings followed by the same in the afternoon. On my days off it was worse—with wind. I haven’t been able to plan a long bike ride because of the weather and the need to get things done when there is a bit of sunshine. Now that we are beginning to dry out and the sun is out—I’m amazed still at how many times I change clothes. In the morning it is cold enough to turn on the heat. I roll out of bed and don a heavy corduroy shirt and wrap up in a blanket to drink my tea. I’ll then change and go for a run. Whereupon, getting back, I’ll change again for work. After work, I’ll walk ...

Whereupon, I accidentally leave my phone at work and have little to no contact with the outside world, still deciding if this was a good or bad thing. Whereupon after getting home from work and trying to settle in for a weekend, or at least a Sunday where I’m not working at the shop, we immediately at my daughter’s house cut into a bakery cake and discover she is having a boy. Yes, two sons. Whereupon, we cry. You see, we’d secretly been planning on a girl, knowing full-well the chances were 50/50. Even so, one can’t help wishing. Now that we have the fact before us, we embrace the news. Whereupon, we decide we need to eat not just cake and order in a meal . . . to celebrate. Nevertheless, my blood sugar feels off the chart. I either need a nap or take a walk. I do both. Whereupon, we wake up the next morning to Mother’s Day festivities of cards, brunch, coffee on the deck, more talk about what the household may look like with two kids, both boys. Whereupon, we get in the car...

I’ve had a recent spate of new work accepted—check out these journals and read: Civil War Reenactment= https://louisville.edu/miraclemonocle Unobserved= (around page 13) https://www.mockingowlroost.com/blog/unknown-and-unseen-triannual/ “Peeper Pond” forthcoming Spring 2023, Instant Noodles Forthcoming a creative nonfiction piece at Amsterdam Quarterly Spring is springing! Keep checking back for more news.

  That Pink Tree   I can sit on my porch with a tea Lawn chair and feet up on a step Resting after work or just after waking up Birds in treetops, the lonely train whistle Settling sounds, the world dressing, undressing My focus on that pink tree in regalia Such sweet times

Blossoms Falling like Snow It’s been raining And before that snow Some days both But today there is a carpet Of petals, covering the deck White dots, scattered Floating down from the sky I stand beneath the shower Catching on my tongue The taste of spring

Ufff! I should have taken some ibuprofen before bed. I woke up achy. I’ve been spending evenings after work tilling the patch at the side of my Tiny House in preparation for a garden. 1) I’m not sure about how much space I’ll need, 2) I’m not sure when the big trees leaf out if there will be too much shade, 3) I don’t know anything. I do know that when I turned up the dirt there were lots of long, pink, healthy worms. A good sign. I’ve probably spent $100 dollars getting the ground ready. I bought seeds, soil, and some gardening tools. Some of these expenditures are one-offs. Now that I own them, but the soil and seeds are money in the ground. Luckily, some of the seeds have already sprouted indoors under lamps. The idea of gardening is not new to me. I’ve always wanted to have one—but in Chicago it simply didn’t make sense. Food was plentiful. (Though I would have loved a tomato that tasted like a tomato). Then in Oregon my roommate Jon tore up some thorny huckleberry bushes and...