Memoirous

In December, around Pearl Harbor Day—does anyone still observe, even care, or know what this means?!—I had a nice phone call with an editor from a small publishing house. They are intrigued by one of my manuscripts, a nonfiction project that I’ve been pedaling, peddling (it’s about cycling) for a while now. I wish someone would love it like I do. In fact that’s what our conversation consisted of: Why do I love it? Why did I write it? And can I change it and revise it and make it better? I wasn’t sure. Another good friend and reader told me—you have to bleed on the page. Not literally, but go back she encouraged me and really drive down to the emotional core. I mean it’s a memoir. She’s right/write. I did need to drill down and really think about how I felt about living in community, my marriage, and about riding my bike. Writing/riding is like the saying goes: like riding a bike—except that doesn’t explain things, such as the why and how I got here. So for the past 2 weeks I’ve bee...

I’ve been in Michigan for a little over 3 years and there is still so much to explore. I’d heard of Burchfield Park, but had never been. But when a notice for a Moonlight Ski came up in my feed, I thought—I’ll go! This kind of thing was right up my alley. For the past week I’ve been skiing at the Meridian Township Historic Village. The distance—both on the ski and from the house to get there were perfect for after or before work jaunts. Of course, on the sub-zero, sub-human cold days, I didn’t go. When I did, I’d be out for 40-45 minutes—not sure of how far I trekked. There were numerous trails that weaved through the woods and a ditch called Muddy Creek that laced the paths. Also a couple of picturesque footbridges over the creek. In fact, everything looked picturesque and gift calendar-like under mounds of glittering snow. The Moonlight Ski was at Burchfield Park, so here was my chance to check that out. It was far driving in the late late afternoon. I missed a turn and had to re...

I’ve reached into the back of my drawer for a couple of sweaters reserved for only the coldest of days. They are in rotation currently. They are both horse-blanket type sweaters, thickly woven, one acrylic and the other wool. One was hand-knitted the other from L.L. Bean. The green one I put on in the morning, right out of bed. As I’m turning up the heat and changing from my wool sleeping booties to shearling-lined slippers, I shimmy into the green one—sort of a throwback to the 1950s, gee-whiz Mrs. Hertenstein, kids walking a mile or two to school kind of sweater—before going outside to shovel the decks. I’m not sure how this got to be my job. Most likely because 1) I don’t want to fall, 2) I’m out there first thing because I need to go to the mothership for something, 3) I actually love doing it. No one makes me. I love waking up and in a sleep-daze go outside into the startling fresh cold air and exercise my arms, back, shoulder muscles. I’m reminded of why people sit in saunas an...

This Winter—Okemos Yes, it’s cold, but I’ve gotten so much inspiration from the frigid sunrises, The sun pours over the horizon like molten gold around 8 a.m. It starts as a lavender hue, a tiny glow that grows stronger and stronger, changing from mauve to orange. The pinks and bronzes get all mixed up, a backdrop silhouetting the bare tree limbs, tinting the snow on the ground. For a moment everything looks new again. As if we haven’t been here before—and we haven’t. There is only today—and when it is gone, we have tonight, and then tomorrow. Neolithic societies had all kinds of traditions to welcome the sun mid-winter. I’ve actually been to Newgrange in Ireland, where the docent contrived, after we clambered through a tunnel into the center of a submerged dome-like structure built around 3200 B.C. before the Celts were the Celts, to show us how the inhabitants had aligned the doorway in conjunction with the Winter solstice sunrise. Back then there was no way to mark time and an...

This Winter February 12, 2014, written in Chicago   This is the first winter I can remember when 2 coats wasn’t enough. This winter I’ve worn my long underwear for the past 40 days. This winter has been so cold that 4 above feels like a heat wave. This is the first winter where I’ve come to understand the principle of hibernation. As someone who loves winter, I can’t stand the thought of another 6 weeks of it. Instead of putting on my normal winter weight of 2 – 3 pounds, I’ve gained ten. The idea of a snow day no longer holds delight. I dread the weather report now. In the past I’ve run throughout the winter, unless I was x-country skiing. This winter I’ve had to push myself to exercise. It’s hard to move when wearing 6 layers. There are some days when I never step outside—and I like it. This winter my skin has been so dry I’ve gone through a whole bottle of Jergens; my last bottle lasted 2 years. This winter nearly all the Great Lakes are ice covered. I ...

2 That was the temperature this morning when I awoke in my Tiny House. I sleep in a loft under layers of warm covers. So climbing down the ladder, I wasn’t immediately hit by the cold. At night I turn the heat down, though last night I wondered if it was a good idea. This a.m. it was about 56 in the Tiny House, but after I bumped up the heat. The temperatures climbed. I use a ceiling fan to send the air into the corners. My writing table and computer are near the doors, Again, not insulated, but I put a draft stopper and a blanket down at the bottom at night to help. These next few days will test the mini split, Tomorrow’s high is expected to be 3 degrees with an overnight low of -3. Fortunately I have work and keep busy babysitting at my daughter’s house. Meanwhile, I’m cozy, all bundled up at my Tiny House drinking tea and hot coco, reading in my chair with a wool blanket on my lap.

The Vaster Wilds Lauren Groff Riverhead Books, September 2023 In the Distance Hernan Diaz Riverhead Books, March 2024 I wanted to slip out a quick review of these titles. My Christmas vacation was spent reading. I think in one week I read four books. It was lovely— You know, with all the snow and cold, hot tea and chocolate, cozy slippers, warm blankets, putting my feet up in my Tiny House. I was blessed. I’ve been a fan of Groff for a while. I love her Florida stories and the novel Matrix , not so much her highly-acclaimed Fates and Furies . In fact, that novel put me off so much, I thought I might not return to her work. But every time I hear of a Florida hurricane (which is frequent) I think about her short story collection, Florida . Also, I think I might have been at the Sewanee Writers Conference in a critique group with her. She looks so familiar in her author pic. It seems that Groff’s interests are varied and far-ranging. All her books are different, coming from, I’m sur...

The Rest is Memory, a book review Lily Tuck Liveright Publishing Corp. 2025 I’ve written before at the blog about Lily Tuck . Tuck never seems to do just one thing; her work spans/defies categorization. The title, taken from a Louise Glück poem, NOSTOS, dwelling in the subterranean of memory: “We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory.” Glück/Tuck. Tuck is a master of the hybrid, meta novel. A mix of memoir, fiction, Wikipedia, fate and fairy tale. In this small book (114 pages) she employs cruel irony, omniscient voice, pathos, twists and wishes. Things are not always as they appear: there is senseless evil, random goodness, power play showing winners and losers. All the elements of what makes a story and history. It all starts with a photograph of a concentration camp inmate. The small prisoner, overwhelmed in her striped jacket with shorn head, stares into the lens. The camera captures her soul.   Tuck works outward, painting a fictional picture filled in ...

When I was out in Eugene, Oregon on my sojourn I bought a Whirly-gig Popcorn Popper at the thrift store. When I lived in Chicago it was a nightly thing to popcorn for a bedtime snack, while watching TV, or instead of dinner. There was rarely an evening when someone wasn’t in the kitchen making popcorn. The pan was blackened, stained with old oil, never washed. Always there were bits of old popcorn seeds, white stuff, the flimsy shells of past poppings left in the bottom. It was like an archaeologist excavating a dig to clean the thing out. So to find a “new” one, not broken in or seasoned by prior use was a real find. Every time I used the popper I would think of my Chicago neighbors, the Bocks, who used the Whirly-gig popper as much as I did. They LOVED popcorn. One time I called Elanor after popping a big bowl, forgetting the time difference between West Coast and Eastern time—she answered immediately worried. It was hard to explain between chewing mouthfuls: I was just thinking ab...

Remember when you had to use an operator to call long distance, to place a call? Remember asking to call a friend you met at camp and your mother nixed the idea, saying it’s too expensive, meaning you only call long distance if it’s an emergency. Your parents used to call the grandparents every Sunday and everyone huddled around the one phone in order to say hi, tell them what you wanted for Christmas, birthday, you know, emergencies. If a relative from out of town called, Mom and Dad immediately assumed someone had died or been in a car wreck. It was never about anything as frivolous as just talking. Or remember when rates were cheaper on weekends, late at night—that’s why they waited to make a call, hoping the person on the other end would be at home. Remember when you worked summers at Yellowstone National Park and would call your mother from the parking lot as you crossed from the employee dorm to the inn at Old Faithful. In the often chilly morning, the dry air tickling your nose...

 Waiting in a Snowy Wood Riding our bicycles Through a fog-hushed snowy wood A train horn echoes We wait, the sound fills the air Grinding down all around us The above is a tanka, a Japanese form I’m revisiting after my class, The Road to Haiku. In a previous post  I outlined the 5-7-5-7-7 syllable scheme. Truthfully, anything can be a form see renga, sonnets villanelles, and the rondeau. Consistency is the secret sauce. Regardless, the form forces us to search for different words instead of taking the first one that comes to mind, it forces us to pay attention to sound. With a specific word/syllable count we have to make choices—often for the stronger adjective, verb. It makes us slow down, dwell with the piece, ask ourselves, What exactly do I want to communicate? Emphasize the sensory. The context or story behind the story is Jack, my 3-year-old grandson, and I like to ride our bikes in the woods near our house. He on a child’s balance bike and me on mine. Believe me,...