Memoirous

I’ve been thinking about signs—not the blaring neon ones, but the quiet foreshadowing ones that predict (possibly) the future. Some people attribute them to God, some the universe or Karma. I wasn’t quite sure. Even before my move across the country at the end of December, I’ve been in a state of transition. A nebulous place—much like the rough patch beside the highway that technically is part of the roadway but also a netherland often full of McDonald’s wrappers, one shoe, assorted garbage, and other stuff chucked out of car windows. Yeah, a little mixed up, not quite sure of who I am, what I wanted, or where I was going. Then I saw a sign. To be honest, my friend saw it first. Sandy, as she was backing out of her parking spot after we’d packed up the van with my stuff to go to the airport, said “Look! A sign.” I tried to see, but there was a brick wall in front of us. “What!?” She jabbed her finger toward a fence about 3 feet long that separated the row of parking from a po

I know this woman who went and upended her life. Completely. She didn’t have to, but she moved halfway across the country with only a suitcase and bicycle. She left the only city she’d ever lived in as an adult and close friends she’d known for years. Most of her questions had been answered: there was a routine, a rhythm. Even some wiggle room financially. She knew where to vote, what stores gave the best price; she had a library card and had just renewed her driver’s license. This woman ran headlong during a pandemic, social unrest, into a divided America. She toed the edge and leaped. At age 62. Without a map, without a credit rating, without a digital footprint. Alone. While her friends were getting cataract surgery, hip and knee replacements, installing grab bars in the shower, clipping coupons, signing up for Medicare, retiring, settling, winding down—she had a yard sale, gave away her belongings, finally just boxed the rest up and put it out for trash. And, for what? An u

 Sort of a wonky piece that I adapted for New Critique from an artist residency on Great Spruce Head Island in 2017. Link here: https://newcritique.co.uk/2020/11/06/essay-in-early-august-among-the-spruce-reading-schuylers-memoirs-on-great-spruce-head-island-jane-hertenstein/ [Essay] ‘In early August among the spruce’: Reading Schuyler’s Memoirs on Great Spruce Head Island — Jane Hertenstein A Personal Introduction Following the US presidential election in 2016, I was jolted off-kilter, steamrolled. There was a Before, then an After. That winter, I sat and stared out my dreary window upon a busy Chicago street corner, where a sign in huge lettering read: ‘Christ Died for Our Sins’. I recalled James Schuyler’s poem, ‘February’: ‘A chimney, breathing a little smoke. / The sun, I can’t see / making a bit of pink / I can’t quite see in the blue’ . [1]

 One of the reasons parents cited for driving their kids to school was that roads are too dangerous for them to ride. Yet in many cities bike infrastructure has vastly improved with even more rigorous plans for protected bike plans coming on-line. Urban planners are prioritizing bike lanes, whether shared lanes, striped bike lanes, buffered or protected bike lanes (ones totally separate from car traffic). In Chicago the non-profit Active Transportation Alliance advocates on behalf of cyclists for street safety and more visible, efficient greenways. ATA fought to improve the lakefront bike trail, separating it into two paths where possible, one for pedestrians and one for cyclists. There is now a flyover on the most congested section of the path around the Navy Pier area. More and more bike trails and lanes are being constructed. On Milwaukee Avenue for example the lanes are painted green so that drivers can readily see and be alert to cyclists before turning right. There are even in

After World War II most bicycles were for children. Bicycle production rose from 249,500 in 1932 to over a million by 1937. In September 1945, one month after Japan’s surrender, the Wall Street Journal reported that 97 percent of American children told pollsters they wanted their own bicycle. Today, ridership is on the decline. One reason is that children are not riding. In 2000 there were 17.6 million active riders between the ages of seven and seventeen, by 2013 that number was only 10 million. In 2000, 11.6 million children’s bicycles were sold in the United States, in 2013, the number was 4.9 million. From 2018 to 2019, children’s bicycle sales decreased 7 percent in dollars and 7.5 percent in bikes sold.page 162 https://www.washingtonpost.com/sports/2019/06/04/fewer-kids-are-riding-buying-bicycles-industry-is-worried/ In 1969, 48 percent of children 5 to 14 years of age usually walked or bicycled to school (The National Center for Safe Routes to School, 2011). In 2009, 13 per

 In 1972 bicycles outsold automobiles by 2 million.Carlton Reid, Bike Boom, pg 138 City planners as well as state and federal departments of transportation were studying cycle-infrastructure—interconnected networks to help the cyclist get somewhere. The broad overview included protected bike lanes, shared roadways (with bike logos painted on the street tarmac or other signage), or cycle ways much like expressways. Also, introducing, the Rail to Trail. In the early 1970s sitting at home in Centerville, Ohio I was reading about the Elroy-Sparta, the granddaddy of Rail Trails. This 32-mile recreational trail opened in 1967. Abandoned tracks littered the American landscape. At the height of industrialization between 1860 – 1900, there were 132 distinct railroads. In Illinois, Abraham Lincoln was hired to defend two different railroads, one involved the Illinois Central Railroad and the other was the Rock Island Line, both now defunct. Today, as the result of mergers, bankruptcies, an

 I wrote a post or two ago about the Swedish death cleanse. As I’m sorting through cabinets, upper shelves, the office closet I’m making piles. There are as many piles as objects. Some are going straight to the garbage, while some can go anonymously to Salvation Army. Some I might try to sell or re-gift. There is a pile just called give-away—but then I wonder: Who wants my junk? Most of my friends are in the throes of doing the same thing. All those CDs, DVDs technology has erased the need for them. Millennials like the idea of records, but I gave away those long ago. All my Christmas ornaments are not appreciated as 1) my kid has money and an Amazon Prime account and will get her own and 2) besides she doesn’t celebrate a religious Christmas, so no angels, babe in a manger etc. It seems my treasures are someone else’s burden; they don’t want them either. And, then, there are Mom’s radish cups. The problem with these is that no one has the foggiest idea of what they are or what t

I’ve been doing a death cleanse. This is how it works: I start with one closet or a shelf and begin to pick over the stuff to determine what I’m donating, throwing out, or giving away to friends. Following the unofficial rules of Döstädning, I’m deciding now while alive what I want others to have and enjoy as I’ve already had time with them and obviously I cannot take it with me. Literally and figuratively. As I might be moving. For now I’m calling it a sojourn. Or at least until there is a vaccine. I’ll be traveling out to Eugene, OR to be by my daughter who is having a baby in late Dec/early Jan. We are all very happy and excited—but going along with that is a tandem feeling of nostalgia, forlornness to possibly saying goodbye. The logistics are overwhelming as I’ve lived in Chicago, in particular with one group of people, for close to forty years, since graduating from college. That’s a lot of history and relationships. There are questions of what to take, what to leave behind

 While 4,000 cyclists participated in Bikecentennial, about 2,000 finishing the entire 4,200 mile route from Yorktown, Virginia, to Astoria, Oregon (or the other way around).  http://www.phred.org/~alex/kenkifer/www.kenkifer.com/bikepages/lifestyle/70s.htm I was riding the backroads of Ohio.  Scout was the name of my bike. More than a bike, Scout was my friend.  I remember hopping on Scout on a Sunday afternoon, bored from nothing to do or cooped up and feeling antsy. I’d take Route 48 to Clyo Road to Lytle past Social Row Road to Township Line Road, and follow that to Lebanon, Ohio. Where I discovered the Lebanon Honey Festival and all things honey. I never knew there were so many different kinds. There was a sampling station. Some varieties had a smoky taste, some were sweeter than others. Some you couldn’t quite detect what exactly made it stand out. I talked to a few of the beekeepers and they explained to me that the honey differed according to what the bees ate. If they w