Memoirous

Rodham Curtis Sittenfeld Random House, 2020 My first introduction to Curtis Sittenfeld and their work was at the Festival of Faith & Writing at Calvin University in April. There are times I wish I could turn back the clock—before this year’s election. Sittenfeld’s novel does just that—providing a parallel universe in which to dwell, if only in our dreams. Again, in this sideways/circular moment in history, Rodham can perhaps be read as satire, a mesmerizing what-if. The premise of the book is that Hillary Rodham never marries Bill Clinton. The first third of the novel is devoted to Hillary meeting Bill Clinton at Yale Law School and their early courtship and sex life. A bit of this reads rather cringey—but I think that might have been intentional. I filed it under Too Much Information—at the same time trying to keep in mind this is all a made up story. But it’s hard to separate fact from fiction in this first part. Then comes their break up. Bill eventually marries, divo

It is early days—of what? We don’t know. My soul senses some impending doom. It hovers above the migraine and my twitching eye. I have no words, it seems, as I continue to write, type, fill up the page. First there was the build up to Halloween, trick or treat night, then baby’s birthday—now 1 year old—then my birthday, 66 (I’ll be 70 the next presidential election). And the aftermath of this election. The trees are mostly bare. First there were the colors, latent and sparing this year, then the latter rain (after a dry September and October), then the wind, which brought down the last of the leaves. After the hype, the string of busyness, the frenetic running here to there—is over; we tuck into shorter days, longer nights, and learn to love . . . these November days.   Fall, leaves, fall Emily Brontë   Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wre

It is strange this time around. My circumstances have changed. I live in a tiny house in a different state. A state of being and the state of Michigan. There’s no going back, but yet history seems to circle, around and around, and I shake my head at the irony and wonder: Will things ever change. Back to the darkness. It comes early—especially these last couple of days with low clouds and dreary skies.   When I leave work, I walk home in beneath street lights and the occasional light from someone’s window, past the little playground, the spooky abandoned house, and the weird triangle bordered by towering pines. There is a stretch with no lights at all—yet home is not so far. Tonight I’ll remember to put my headlamp into my bag. And, when I get home to my tiny house, I’ll switch on the overhead and flip a button on the kettle and light a candle in my window and sit in a warmish glow of my own making, and welcome in my November guest. My November Guest Robert Frost   My sorr

All my energy spent. The build up, the roar, the wind passes over. I remember how miserable I felt eight years ago, on the eve of a new presidency—and, now, new trepidation. The feeling of not being safe. The nerves leading to my brain, neck, shoulders overloaded and prickly—the kind of thing an animal feels when hunted. Flight or fight. But, it’s not 2016. In 2024 I live in a tiny house next to my daughter, next to the garden under a bed of dry leaves, next to the garage that holds my bike and the bike with the kid trailer that I pull out to ride my grandson around, where, also he leans his balance bike against the plywood wall. He brings me a book. Across the deck, to my front door and knocks and hollers, “Hey, Grandma!” I open up and he climbs into my lap and we study the pages of a toddler graphic novel about an adventurous frog on a bike that winds his way through a dark woods and meets a dragon—but also males friends and learns he can be very brave, if only he continues to

 After whining  a bit about not having very many acceptances this year—I received news of ANOTHER acceptance. The dam burst. This time from a student-led journal out of the University of Stockholm, Two Thirds North. The piece is titled The Writer, where I cobbled together impressions from a trip I made in 2007 to Istanbul, Turkey. Essentially, pure fiction. In addition, I’ve put out a couple feelers for teaching Flash Memoir workshops in some beautiful places. Yes, that was my criteria, places I’d like to spend time in and just asked if the literary community there might be interested. And, already there’s been a response. I’ll have more news updates as things solidify for 2025. Looking forward! Until then, Dribble Drabble .  "reading" runes in Sweden

Soooooo after writing last week about a perception that things were slowing down in regards to acceptances—I got another acceptance. This time from Ink in Thirds . From their website: Established in 2016, Ink In Thirds is a boutique literary magazine that publishes Poetry, Prose, and Photography/Art. The focus is on the emotive, visceral layers of the human condition, bringing artists and writers together in cohesive fluidity. The prompt asked for a prose poem and I had something on hand, in my portfolio. A piece originally written as a free verse poem and that I’d worked on to revise into a prose poem—about cycling at night on an October night along the Chicago Lakefront. I write this to again reinforce the potential for all writing and keeping a portfolio of work on your computer or folder/notebook. You never know when a call for submissions will draw out a certain piece. Along with this I’ve been revising a piece of flash memoir about Opening Day (deer hunting) and have had i

In mid-October my daughter and son-in-law celebrated their anniversary—5 years—and went away for the weekend, leaving me with 2 children who do not sleep well at night. Sooooo, I said to myself, I’m going to tire these kids out. Except for a dry autumn, it decided to rain. On Sunday morning we got up and because everything was so early we had a long breakfast and indoor play until the baby grew cranky and I knew the best way to get him to sleep was to push him in the stroller. There was a break in the rain and we left in milky light for the woods. Early Sunday morning and there was no traffic on busy Grand River Road. Our tires made sizzling sounds on the new blacktop path in the hushed woods. As the sun slowly broke through the clouds the sky between the tree canopy was a Capri blue. A flock of wild turkeys gobbled and ate their way back into a copse of trees. Glittering leaves lined the path, gems red, orange, and gold. After cresting a “hill,” Jack said his hands were cold. I

One of my earliest memories is my dad strapping blocks of wood onto the pedals of a tricycle so that my feet could reach and me pedaling up and down the sidewalk in front of our house. Flash forward. My 3-year-old   grandson Jack on his Strider balance bike pushing his way through the woods—5 miles! When I first got him the balance bike in the spring he was flush with excitement, but then the glow wore off. I realized he was tired of just going on our street; he needed to branch out. We rode around the “block”—he on his bike and me on mine. Next we rode to Playmakers, where I work, then through Indian Hills the residential track next to ours along the Red Cedar River. Then . . . I loaded his bike onto the trailer and we rode across busy Grand River Road and at a trailhead through the woods I’d stop and get Jack out and his bike and we’d ride. The path was recently paved as an extension of the Lansing River Trail. The trail winds up and down some sloughs and drainage ponds and t

I’ve had a few less acceptances this year . . . after a record-setting acceptances last year. In fact, I was growing despondent—there’s always an emotional high, a release of adrenaline when I do receive notice of an acceptance. Through Submittable I saw that HOOT had taken a short-short for their postcard review. These are snippets, text short enough to fit on the back of a postcard. I had Sea of Lingerie ready and sent it in. It’s an odd duck—perfect for HOOT. To go along with the piece they wanted art, which I had on hand and an audio recording—which I produced with my morning voice. A combination of befuddled old lady and smokey, dry throat. Check out HOOT, https://www.hootreview.com/ And my books, sold through EVERYWHERE. Just Google and click and buy.

Never underestimate a squirrel. They like to hang out on the sides of the road where a walnut tree drops those big walnut bombs and wait for cars to roll over them and then they run out to gather the nuts. It’s also where they die, run over by a car. So whenever I ride by on my bike I) am careful not to hit a walnut bomb and topple over, my front wheel torqued by the impact and 2) I’m careful not to squish a squirrel, and 3) I remember once collecting walnuts as a kid. It might have been my Little House on the Prairie period, one that lasted over ten years, approx. age 8 – 18. This is when I experimented with natural dyes and woodland crafts. Anyway, I collected a paper sack of half-decomposed walnut balls. Somehow I thought that was the nut, or maybe I knew the nut was inside . Nevertheless, I picked up the whole thing and brought them home an put them under my bed. So that when I was doing sit-ups, a hundred every night before going to bed, I was accosted by worms crawling acro

In the 80s and 90s, when listening to late-night radio, I’d catch an episode of *Unshackled! * Unshackled! is a radio drama series produced by Pacific Garden Mission, in Chicago, Illinois, that first aired on September 23, 1950. It is one of the longest-running radio dramas in history and one of a very few still in production in the United States. Wikipedia Unshackled originated in Chicago—just down the street from our city mission, also in Chicago. I loved listening to the first-person testimonials of how people’s lives changed. Something about listening in the darkness to hope and light created a warm glow inside of me. Then we heard that Star was going to be on Unshackled!. Star was already a star at our place, but this elevated her even further: a mega-Star. Notes were posted about when her episode would air. Anyway, the other day I had a flash memory, thinking about Star going downtown to the Unshackled! studio to record her testimonial and wondered if the digital footprin

Yesterday I pulled up most of the garden. Truthfully, I should have done this in August as the tomatoes were terrible this year. The stalks were limp and brown and could hardly hold the fruit. Something (a bug, worm, beast?) got to my kale and made lace out of the leaves. The beans refused to climb or grow until the last minute and put out a handful of fruit. Not a single cucumber, same as last year. I got about 4 or 5 squash, but have now decided I do not like squash. No matter what I do, they turn out wet and awful when prepping to eat. Also TOO MANY seeds inside, though soft and edible. The whole experience was like eating over ripe okra. I’ve been thinking about next year’s venture (always) and have decided I will move the garden to the side of the shed and do a raised bed. There is just not enough sun for the poor garden at the side of the house because of the big trees. It seems doable in the spring, but then they leaf out and it rains and the soil doesn’t dry out and moss grow

I know we all have highs and lows, but as I’m getting older there are periods when apprehension grips me. It hit me last weekend when I was out on my bike and the front gearing failed. You see, I’d just gotten the bike out of the shop where I’d had it in for a tune-up, so this seemed like weird timing. Then I came home and took a shower and did a load of laundry—laundry that took ALL day as the washing machine also failed.   This time, we all think, could be its last, but, nevertheless, we have called in a repairperson. One more thing to fix. Plus, Google keeps telling me I'm about to lose data or access to photos, emails, etc unless I pay a monthly subscription fee. Then there’s the election and the wildcard games for the baseball playoffs.   Just watching my co-workers’ tense faces as the Detroit Tigers played . . . I’m not even sure against whom (it’s a whole other league from the one the Cubs play in) was very stressful. It seems so much of our livelihood and happiness ride

This mini-series first aired in 1994—before streaming, so I HAD to make sure I was in front of the TV to catch all 7 episodes. I wasn’t familiar with the story, but loved dramas and literature and period pieces. Middlemarch by George Eliot was a wide-ranging novel following the lives of several residents and newcomers to a proverbial town somewhere in middle England right before the railroads came through and at the rise of Industrialization, which upended the 19 th century. Virtually everything was about to change. At the center of the novel is Dorothea Brooks, a woman you admire and at the same time want to slap silly. Her idealism is ambitious and totally lacking in common sense. She seems to stumble from good intention to good intention while sinking in a quagmire of her own making. She aims for an ideal of love by marrying a stodgy cleric given to vain academic pursuits, hoping that she might be able, by proxy, to expand her own knowledge, I get it. Women of that time period

There are still a few of us on Facebook—though not as many as in the 2010s, For me, it’s a way to catch a glimpse of old friends, look at holiday pictures, post my bike trips. In fact, every day now there is some new old picture Facebook is reminding me of=all bike trips from the past decade. There’s fall 2015 when I cycled from Pittsburgh to Washington DC on the GAP and C&O Towpath. There’s my old bike leaning against a tree. There’s a pic from my trip to Sweden in 2014 when I rented a bike on Gotland. I had no itinerary—only a vague idea that I wouldn’t get too lost—I was on an island. Last fall I was in Switzerland, Germany, the city of Berlin. I visited friends and rode the Rhine River. There are autumn getaways—such as the jaunt I just took to Traverse City and thereabouts. That, too, will show up in my digital memories. I am followed by bike paths I have followed, the ghost of past trips haunt me both online and in mind. I see they are in my blood and under my skin. W

 Colors of the Sky   early morning the sky is dishwater grey the sun is coming later and later in near darkness I start the kettle and set out my cup with one tea sachet Where does the time go, the end September, almost October   in one burst Jack pushes open the door Grandma! Grandma! Come look at the colors!   Together we stand on the deck and watch the sky change from bruise purple to mauve to butter clouds scatter revealing a tablecloth of blue   Wow! Where does the time go? photo by Lyda Jackson, Lake Michigan, Chicago lakefront, colors of the sky provided by Helene, the storm that ravaged the southeast US

I reported that last weekend me and my grandson went to cheer on runners at the Capital City River Run. It reminded me of early mornings, getting up before the sun is up to go downtown for the Chicago Marathon. Either to run or support runners. We had a support tent for Run for Change—runners raising money for Cornerstone Community Outreach, the homeless shelter I volunteered at. I’ve been asked to be lead bike for the Autumn Classic taking place Sept. 29 for the 5K—a little over 3 miles. Again, I’ll have to get up early and ride to the start line. I’m a little anxious, as I’ve never done this before, but I’m certain I’ll be able to stay ahead of the lead runners. Anna, who talked to me about the event, explained many of the participants are walking it. I love being part of these events. The comradery is infectious—making all those there want to keep moving. Keep moving!

We’ve left summer—officially, though the heat persists. Mornings are cool and the sun rises later. At 7 a.m. it barely breaks through. Despite the progression of time, we’re still stuck here in the routine of daily living: Kids that don’t sleep through the night Trying to keep several plates spinning at once Meal planning Managing multiple schedules (see plates) Add to the above apple picking and corn mazes. Yesterday my grandson and I were up and out early for the Capital City River Run to cheer on participants and co-workers. He kept saying to me, “We’re leaving in the dark?” The sun rose while driving. After helping set up, we ate doughnuts and pumpkin muffins while waiting for the runners. It was the only time we encouraged Jack to be loud; he also had use of a whistle and cowbell. Great fun! We look forward to campfires and falling leaves.

  Follow up--using public transportation Wednesday September 11, 2024, 4 miles (6 km) - Total so far: 103 miles (166 km) 1) using Indian Trails motor coach to get to Traverse City: I experienced NO problems, The first driver who picked me up in East Lansing was a curmudgeon. He complained that my bike took up half his bin. Not true. I had ridden the ten minutes to get to the bus stop with a bbq grill cover rolled up and bungeed to the back of my bike. Load in was easy. There was no baggage put on top of the bike--though it had to lay down in the bin (not upright). I made sure the gear-side was up. In Grand Rapids we changed drivers, but I did not have to transfer. All in all, it was a longish trip, but I could sit back and relax and read a book. Once in Traverse City, I did the reverse, rolled up the cover and was on my way in less than 5 minutes to my host's house. On Indian Trails you do not have to pay extra for the bike nor check a box when ordering tickets indicating you are b

  Leelanau Trail and Old Mission Peninsula (east arm of Traverse Bay) Tuesday September 10, 2024, 60 miles (97 km) - Total so far: 99 miles (159 km) I did A LOT of riding today and am seriously tired. I haven't done this many daily miles in about 3 months, plus temps climbed to 84 this afternoon. All this to say I did a killer couple of rides in one day. First, I started at 8:30 again at the BATA station taking the route 10 bus up to Sutton's Bay. I quickly got sorted to a public restroom, a trail map, and the actual start of the trail. It was a relaxing, event free 17 miles. Very pastoral, no big climbs, but also no views of the bay. You had no idea you were on a peninsula surrounded by water. It was mostly orchards, honeybee meadows, and forest. I certainly didn't overheat with so much nice shade. Then I made my way through Traverse City. The waterfront street and accompanying bike trail are torn up due to construction. So I had to follow detour signs and use a combinati

  Monday September 9, 2024, 35 miles (56 km) - Total so far: 39 miles (63 km) What a wonderful day! I had no idea how some of this was going to work out as far as bus schedule, distances, room for the bike. You see the bus only takes 3 bikes and knowing this is a popular tourist destination plus the Heritage Trail, I wanted to be early. I was very excited and got to the BATA station a half hour before departure. I was the only one there. The bus, Route 11, took an hour to get to Glen Arbor. It was not immediately apparent where to pick up the trail. I finally saw a lone cyclist (it was 9:30 a.m. a bit early as it is past the season) and he told me where to go. Everything was well-signed and easy. At Glen Haven I met Mary also a newbie on the trail. I said I didn't know how much time it would take to get to Empire and if I'd need more water. She seemed to think one bottle was enough. I thought it was 20 miles to Empire, 40 round trip. I was there in maybe 10 miles. We rode toget