Memoirous

We’re about to turn a page in the calendar—August to September—which always leaves me wondering: Did I do enough? Did I wring enough summer out of summer? They’re already offering pumpkin lattes at the coffee shop. I’m seeing candy corn in the candy aisle. Despite the fact that meteorological summer is not over, for all other purposes, we’re moving on. In two weeks I will make a trip to Sleeping Bear dunes, something I’ve wanted to do even before moving to Michigan. When in Chicago we used to visit Indiana Dunes (now designated a national lakeshore) frequently. I loved climbing the steep hills of sand and hiking the trails that wandered between woods, scrub oak and sand, and then disappeared into the dunes. Sleeping Bear was a destination for me, but seemed out of reach either because of work schedules, the fact that it is an expensive area for accommodation etc, and getting there. I’ve worked out some of these difficulties. Indian Trails bus can take me and my bike all the way

I read in the news that Phil Donahue died. Suddenly I felt very Daytonian. I texted my friend, also a Jane, from Dayton. Donahue died, is what I wrote. I knew Jane would understand. It’s not news but us. Once more, we’re remembering our childhood and where we came from and how pieces of it are sloughing off each day. I can’t help but think of Donahue and Erma Bombach the famous newspaper humorous and author of several books who was also from Dayton. She and Phil Donahue were neighbors in Centerville, Ohio (where I’m from) when they both broke out onto the national stage. (Side note: my piece “Obsolete,” was published Fall, 2019 in the Erma Bombeck blog out of University of Dayton.) Anyway, Phil Donahue died and now my friend and I are left bemoaning that we, too, will one day be relegated to a random memory to those who care to remember. RIP Phil. Peace.    

I last posted my Again and then found this on Facebook, via a friend I know who has struggled since the death of her husband—many years ago now, but the feels are still real. RUN THE DISHWASHER TWICE. When I was at one of the lowest points in my life, even getting out of bed felt impossible. I had no energy, no motivation, and was barely surviving. Once a week, I’d drag myself to therapy. But during one session, I had nothing to say. My therapist asked how my week had been, and all I could muster was, “I dunno, man. Life.” He wasn’t satisfied. “No, what exactly are you struggling with right now? When you go home after this session, what will be staring you in the face?” I hesitated, embarrassed by the answer. I wanted something more meaningful to say, something bigger. But the truth was so small. Finally, I admitted, “Honestly? The dishes. It’s stupid, I know. The more I look at them, the more I can’t do them. I’ll have to scrub them first because the dishwasher sucks, and I

I'm amazed that everything is dirty again, that once again I need to buy groceries it seems I just shopped The hours, the minutes the days repeat, until-- interrupted by a good book, a star shower a hidden, ripe tomato found under a leaf. Therefore, I can live again.

Frank Turner is known for being an angry British punk singer/song writer. I first was turned on to his music when I heard “Sand in the Gears.” Donald Trump had just been elected. I was in my own funk at the time. Can’t I just spend the next four years at a punk show? I want to spend the next four years in the front row. Because if the world outside is going to shit, You will find me in the centre of the circle pit. I want to spend the next four years at a punk show. I wanted to bury my head in the sand, wake up four years later—maybe more. I wished for a rocket ship, to escape, go somewhere where there wasn’t TV, news, the sound of rancor and rambling which was modern politics. We can’t just spend the next four years in a safe space. I’m going to spend the next four years getting outraged. Every single day, let’s find a brand new way To let the motherfuckers know that we can’t be swept away. I’m going to spend the next four years on the barricades. But, that position took a lot of

Last fall I rode my bike up the Rhine River from Cologne into Switzerland. It was a GREAT trip. See links. I used Warmshowers  as an option for where to stay and trip planning. In the famous town of Strasbourg in northeastern France I was lucky in finding a host. Florian answered yes and we arranged where and when to meet up. I cycled to his apartment building outside the historic city center and waited beside my bike. Within minutes Florian showed up after his evening commute. Later—after a warm shower—we sat around a table and ate a wonderful lentil salad and a baguette because . . . I was in France! I saw on a bookcase over his shoulder a whole shelf of Harry Potter books. He was of that generation, same as my daughter who just turned 35, who grew up reading Harry Potter. Their whole childhood was comprised of Harry Potter. Every year there was a monumental publication, the subsequent hoopla, the launch event, the completive reading, marathon, then the waiting for the next book

Recently a friend invited me and my grandson to a trampoline park for a playdate; they had an extra ticket. Sky Zone was awesome. It was hot outside and cool inside and NOT overrun with kids. Thus, I was able to get on the apparatus. So was this a good idea? I’m 65, and marginally medically insured, like most of us. As I sat on the swing high above a foam cube pit, I wondered about first setting up a Go Fund Me. How would I be able to explain to my boss at work, how I’d broken my arm, leg, foot, finger? The idea was to push off from the platform and about 7 feet below was an impact pit. I’m sure it is soft, but from height, considering my weight, it could still hurt. At this point my friend who is 8 months pregnant and not doing it herself plus her son and my grandson were spurring me on. Just do it. She had her cell phone camera trained on me. After a few more minutes of deliberation, I let go, where I discovered . . . The worse part was the worry. Which reminded me of every

That One Bike Ride, 1970 *where we took off without water, food, money, a map *where I are a whole loaf of French Toast and got a huge tummyache *where after a few miles and a big hill we turned back *where after those few miles, I began to miss home and got scared *where I felt the furthest I had ever been from what I knew *the unknown I cannot tell you how old I was. It was the 1970s when kids rambled outside unwatched. We were a gaggle of kids with a plan—albeit one very loose, disorganized, not well-thought through plan—to ride our bikes, possibly to Miamisburg. Again, I’m not certain as memory and time have corroded the edges of what may or may not have happened. I believe we took Alex Bell Rd, past Normandy Methodist Church and down a hill. The point is, we entered uncharted territory, left Washington Township, Centerville, our school district. Nothing was recognizable. I do remember a hill going down and feeling sick because before leaving one of the kids’s mother

In 2015 I first blogged about the series of photos taken by Nicholas Nixon of the Brown Sisters. I was intrigued by the honesty of the photos—women from girls into midlife into post middle age, marking the external changes, telling details (such as the Blackberry attached at one of the sister’s waist). Secondly, I was amazed at how a photographer (albeit one related to the oldest sister through marriage) could consistently organize an annual shoot. It is sooo hard to get family together even casually let alone for a project on a year-to-year basis. See family reunions, headaches, #moretroublethanworth Kudos to Nixon and the Brown Sisters! Now almost 50 years since the first photo in 1975, the project is still ongoing. I was so pleased when visiting the Art Institute of Chicago over the past weekend to see the 41 images plus a few more more on display. My friend and I before setting out to explore the museum wanted to fill water bottles and wandered downstairs to the bathrooms. Wow

We just did a longish weekend to Chicago. Short and frenetic, constantly on the go. I was able to tick a few items off my summer to-do list: concert downtown in the park (Beethoven’s Fifth under the lights and waning nighttime sky), Siam Noodle and a GREAT Mexican place I ate at last time, and a visit to the Art Institute, where I saw the Georgia O'Keeffe’s show “My New Yorks.” As opposed to how we often remember O'Keeffe as a painter of the American Southwest, these drawings and paintings represented her time off and on in New York City as well as upstate New York where she and Alfred Stieglitz summered at Lake George. Shows like this sort of gather up what ever they have and add to it from whatever collections they can borrow from and hope for a cohesive theme. I really liked the angle of this exhibition as it showed another facet of the artist that most people are not used to seeing. O’Keeffe and Stieglitz were apartment dwellers, taking rooms in various hotels high abov