Memoirous

Telephone books. I know, I know. They don’t make them anymore. We used our Dayton and outlying suburbs book for me to sit on at Thanksgiving at the big people table. I remember as I got older checking for the last name of the boy I might have a crush on. Once calling and hanging up when their mom answered the phone. Scanning for names of people I might possibly call if I had the courage to see if they wanted to go sledding or play tennis. Activities where you needed another person. I remember feeling so lonely going through the directory. All these names and there was no one for me. I remember when on vacation the first or else first thing when I was bored, I’d look for a telephone book at the motel we might be staying at. And see if there were any other Feebacks in the area. That was my maiden name. A weird one. There’s a greater than average chance any Feeback in the area was related to us or originated in the Kentucky area where my father came from. From Ancestry: Where is the...

I thought after getting my eyes fixed everything would be perfect. But, suddenly, I noticed how old I look. Is this how others see me? Grey, veiny, flabby, crepe-paper skin. Tea-stained teeth. Like an old Twilight Zone episode, the irony of good cancelled out, subsumed by a new revelation. The one thing that completes, now disrupts, throws the wheel out of whack. One step forward, one step back. Pull back the curtain. I can see so much more clearly: What others have known all along: This façade, these bones are sailing away Nothing is as it seems.

 This is the house that Jack built. This is the malt that lay in the house that Jack built. This is the rat that ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the cat That killed the rat that ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the AI That sent the bots to worry the cat That killed the rat that ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the bots That hacked the program That like a serpent eating its own tail Brought down the house That Jack built. This is the ground where the house stood Converted into a data center That worries the cat, the people, the cows All that lives nearby. There is no longer a house that Jack built. This is the technology Hailed as the future That ate the cat, dog, cows, jobs, the researchers That mowed down all in its way That took over the world built on dreams. This is the devil’s hand, the work of chaos Sown by theories of evolution Whether nature, m...

I remember Welcome Wagon. Welcome Wagon was an idea dreamed up between neighborhood groups and the local Chamber of Commerce. In the 1960s and 70s when suburbs were expanding and many middle-class families (remember those ?!) were moving into homes, Welcome Wagon was a way to introduce the families and familiarize them with the local businesses (remember those?!). I remember when our family moved to a newer, bigger house in Village South in Centerville and a woman came to our door within the first week carrying literally a basket with gifts and coupons. She learned our name and a bit of our story ie why we moved etc. I thought of this last night as I took a quick walk—it was starting to sprinkle—and reflected upon the fact that I didn’t know the names of 90% of our neighbors. There was no welcome when we moved here in 2022. And, truthfully, several homes have turned over multiple times since then. Some are owned by older singles who either work or are retired and, thus, gone a lot....