Memoirous

 Visitors to the Tiny House have been introduced to my favorite trail, just steps from where I work and the loop is close to 3 km in length. A few weeks ago, Playmakers, where I work, asked me to help re-set the community room after an event. There had been a meeting for Friends of the Lansing River Trail. As I picked up trash and ate some catered leftovers, I said to a guy: I love the river trail! Let me tell you about my favorite trail. He said, Hold that thought, and brought over another person. Come to find out Jordyn is the communications director for the organization and after I gushed about my favorite section of the trail, we arranged a time to meet at the trail entrance, where they set up a camera and had me and my grandson ride our bikes back and forth. It was fun! It’s about connection. The following is a link to the website and to my video. facebook.com/reel/2094247154809332/?rdid=wFNswiXhGHHD1rKB&share_url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fshare%2Fr%2F18aX...

 End of Summer, part 2 See, a hand sweeps stars     from the August sky, as if my mother swept off the supper crumbs from the table at home. Her apron, slipping now and then, smells of parsley      and chives– The sweet scent of her long-gone garden      sending me to sleep beside you tonight again.” “August Evening” by Sandor Csoori I’ve been taking walks at night, just to soak in the last drops of unfettered summer. Often I stop under a lone street lights and look down the lonely road. No cars, only the buzzing of insects, the fluttering of moths. All the houses are quiet, the windows dark and, I wonder: Where are all the people? Surely with devices no one is asleep. Sometimes it is only me and the fireflies moving ay night  When I get home, I’ll make a quick visit to the garden to check on the children before retiring to my bed. I hear the crickets in the cracks of wooden slats holding...

  End of Summer . . . I see you leaving our bright land, The last cut flowers in your hand. “The Summer Ends” by Wendell Berry Summer isn’t over, exactly—but there is a feeling in the air. Of limited time. Ticking away in the gut. Get it done. I took the children to the river where a mill race used to run and where the stream is slowed by a terrace of rocks. They waded in and launched “boats,” bits of shaggy bark. We found a rotting crawdad on the muddy banks and sent it on its way upon the sluggish current. Above the bank is a knotted weeping willow, where Jack discovered a secret door. The boys climbed in and out of the twisting roots that still feed the old tree. Hard to believe. The blue and white checkerboard sky overhead was clear of smoke, humidity, ailment, and worry. We had today this summer day. The morning felt timeless, a throwback to the 1970s or some nostalgic era where kids rode their bikes and ran free and played hard and got dirty and came home lat...

A Green Glow on the Horizon Dawn Burns Cornerstone Press, 2026 Green Glow is a collection of linked stories supposedly compiled by an editor and written by survivors of tourist traps. The subtitle is: Tales from the National Association of Tourist Attraction Survivors. NATAS. It seems legit—but what is this book, the stories, really about? What are they really fighting against? I know Dawn Burns and her background and I have a good guess. The last story is about finding paradise in Hell. That is, Hell, Michigan—another made-up place?! I’ve actually been there. To the restaurant, the billboard, and putt-putt golf venue. It exists—but is it real? But I’m getting ahead of myself with existential questions. One may as well ask if Las Vegas is real or Heaven/heaven or any number of places that may or may not exist. And who gets to decide. I guess that’s what the book is about/asking. Let me pose my own question in the form of an anecdote. All across campuses, institutional sit...