Memoirous

 Mating Dance A few days ago while shivering as I was running from my house to my daughter’s, across the deck, I caught out of the corner of my eye, movement in the backyard. A bit of color. There was a furious flapping of wings, a joining and sunder, reminding me of Renaissance dance. Courtship. It was two robins. While on the fence, an onlooker to the sexual tension, sat a cardinal. We both were voyeurs to this springtime revelry.

This post is to announce my latest acceptance. A piece called Yellow House was taken by the Midwestern literary journal Of Rust and Glass. I’m proud to be part of this. Print copies will be available April 30,   go here:  https://ofrustandglass.com/ ALSO on April 30 th there will be a reading on ZOOM for writing contributors. April 30, Tuesday, at 7 pm EASTERN time. Go here for ZOOM link:  https://fb.me/e/ 4mjb9vL5t Thanks. Cover image below.

This is always fraught as I do not have a car. Years past I lived in Chicago and carpooled, usually in a minivan and could bring my bike. This time I live in Okemos/E. Lansing and could have possibly rode my bike to Grand Rapids had I not been out of shape and worried about the swings in weather we’ve been having. Which was never more evident at the Festival. Huge amounts of walking back and forth between venues, despite there being a shuttle, new this year, and a stormy Friday where winds exceeded 30 miles per hour. All this to say, I booked tickets on Indian Trails. Which, as it turned out, was a GREAT option. One never knows, and I emphasize the word never, what a driver or transit company thinks about bikes. They can decide to give you a hard time no matter what. I had called ahead to see what the regulations were. They told me it needed to be boxed (more on this later). I showed up at the E. Lansing pickup point by the Marriot and hugged my daughter good bye. Pray for me I sa

Soooo back from Grand Rapids and the Festival of Faith and Writing. It has been 6 years since we met in-person. I was last there in 2018. Boy, has a lot changed. Of course, I’m/we’re older. I missed seeing some of the Calvin University faculty (Gary Schmidt, Karen Saupe) that used to introduce the speakers. Some of the intros were more informative than the actual speaker. This year, as the festival continues to regroup after the pandemic-induced hiatus, there were some measurable differences from past years. As I mentioned I missed seeing some faculty—and, especially on Thursday, I noticed venues were half full (I’m being generous in that observation). In past years I saw way more of the student body taking advantage of the festival. Maybe there are just less English majors. The humanities have certainly taken a hit. There is a “new” financial/business department supported by the DeVoss/Amway family fortunes that I walked through to access the Prince Conference Center. I doubt the

I was thinking the other day while out on a run about the novel by Willa Cather, Death Comes for the Archbishop. I know, I know—how abstract. But, not really. It had to do with friendship, between unlikely characters, and their steadfastness—even that word seems antiquated—and how our lives are impacted by the love and support of one or two faithful companions. I reread Death Comes for the Archbishop every couple of years. I miss it, the story, like an old friend. We have been together since high school when I went out to New Mexico to visit my sister who was working at Ghost Ranch in Abiquiu. Many scenes from the book are inspired by the landscape of this area. In fact, one of the driving themes of the novel is the Archbishop’s desire to build a cathedral in Santa Fe. The plot is sort of a string of scenes out of Father Letour’s long life. Some don’t even involve him and are merely retold stories of parishioners or myths that support the theology, local folklore. It is not a nov

The Festival of Faith and Writing taking place in Grand Rapids, Michigan on the campus of Calvin University. Which used to be Calvin College when I first started attending the festival in 1992. The conference began in 1990, inaugurated by the Calvin English department, The first few festivals leaned academic with the presentation of papers, but evolved into a mainstream celebration of all kinds of literature that resonates with Reformed Theology—from their mission statement: [rooted] in common grace and the goodness of creation, the Festival of Faith & Writing creates space for meaningful discussion and shared discovery among people with different religious beliefs and practices. The festival is now hosted by the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Through the years I’ve changed pews, but I’ve always held onto the belief that reading will save the soul. This year I will be presenting at a Festival Circle, basically a lunchtime discussion. My topic is Slow Looking: Freeing

I no longer reside with gulls. This is hard to believe after so many years. Thirty-eight years by a fresh water lake, Gulls were everywhere. Eating out of the trash barrels, scavenging in the streets, circling the sky overhead, resting on fence posts, in the vacant soccer field, skipping over the sand beach. From a distance their white bodies looked like sails. Like the pigeon, they are a bit of a pest—especially when picnicking. If not careful, they would swoop down and rip the bun out of your hand. With cautious hops they’d edge closer to your blanket to see what they could steal. These are Chicago gulls, cagey, street-smart, running in gangs.   Now, living in Michigan, I am struck by the fact that there are no gulls. I live in the interior, no longer by open water. The woods are full of birds—but no gulls. I’m feeling ambivalent, not sure I miss them or merely the idea of them. After so many years . . . Shouldn’t I wax nostalgic, reveal a hidden longing, be burne

I was reminded the other day of something that happened when I was a teenager, before the “new” Woodbourne Library in Centerville was built, when they rented space in a strip mall near PK Hardware, where my mother worked part-time. Anyway, I tried to check out a book and the librarian at circulation told me in a prim voice that “this book is for adults.” I believe I was in high school. The book was The Go-Between by L. P. Hartley. Published in 1953 it had a Victorian feel and theme of illicit love at the plot’s center. I say feel because it wasn’t as explicit in its treatment of sex as D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover . You see, I checked it out anyway.   I remember being a little lost while reading it. I knew something was going on between the adult characters. In fact, it made me wonder if adult material was discouraged because it was so oblique. Because the story is told from the naïve point of view of a young boy used as the lovers go-between we only catch glimpses of t

We’re past the equinox, officially spring—even though we had one of those probable snow storms that always sweep through this time of year. You know, the ones that make us bow our heads in despair, that dashes our hopes. But not the firm and steady stalks of daffodils or grape hyacinth. They know what to expect and are prepared. Oh, we of little faith. With the time change, there’s more light at the end of the day. Thus, I can come home from work and feel like doing something, rather than switching out of work clothes and into pajamas. But the time change has wreaked havoc on my young grandson’s sleep schedule. Remember the Big Boy Bed ? He’s now an apostate after a quick conversion. He will not stay in it for the entire night. No one is getting sleep these days, as the baby is also teething. My son-in-law told me that Jack climbs the stairs up to their room and takes the blankets off his feet and says: It’s looking like daytime. When actually it’s 3 a.m. There’s no invitin

Finally two days off, in a row. Forty-eight hours to get caught up with Zoom calls, writing, laundry, grocery shopping, maybe a TV program, find something in the shed, rehang the picture that keeps falling down, perhaps go for a run, pick up the handicraft I put down and haven’t picked back up for a month. I checked in with my daughter after breakfast—we live across the back deck from each other. As soon as I slid open the glass door into her kitchen she handed me the baby. Can you hold Remy while I drive Jack to nursery school? Sure. Later, again, can you hold him while I put in a load of laundry. Okay. He has a Bumbo, an activity saucer, and a rocking sling back chair that also plays lullabies, but, hey, he’s cute in his little T-shirt that says I’m New Here. Or the one that says Hello World! Or his Dismantle the Patriarchy onesie. I can’t help but hold him. If I’m home all day long I get pinged to come over for this or that. Sometimes it’s did you eat dinner, do you want to eat

The Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory: American Evangelicals in an Age of Extremism Tim Alberta Harper, 2023 Tim Alberta is a native son of Michigan and adept observer of the Evangelical and post-Evangelical world as the son of a born again pastor who built up a successful church down the road from me in Brighton. We’re all floundering right now in a netherland between polarities, in a nation more divided than ever. Some assert on the verge of a civil war, Into this dire fractured battlefield stepped Tim Alberta.   After his father died, the author decided to assess the health of Evangelical Christianity from a number of perspectives, knowing that not everyone would agree on even what it means to be an Evangelical Christian. What he found was that the Church was in trouble, I began reading this book in the aftermath of a decision by Chicago’s City Zoning Committee to deny CCO (Cornerstone Community Outreach, the homeless shelter I used to work at) a Special Use Permit to extend a

I like occasionally reading reviews by NPR music correspondent Ann Powers, who recently wrote about Beautiful Things. Google it, it’s viral, y’all. My take on the lyrics and delivery are uniquely my own. And, though, it could be interpreted as male toxicity when he belts out I NEED YOU TO STAY I came away with a different feeling. I find it to be a song about faith and security within a faltering relationship. Some of this comes from my current insecurities with God, the Church, and my own faith journey. Powers mentions that Benson Boone is a Mormon, which introduces its own complexities to the modern relationship. I need to add here that I’m not on Tik Tok or keep up on all things viral. Lately I’ve been too busy to even write the occasional short story, But, last Friday I took a break and caught up on stuff having nothing to do with my writing or backwoods existence. I didn’t know anything about the artist or that he’d been on American Idol. I had never seen his videos. Etc.

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 I stop and pause on the back deck to study the night sky above me, where a kind of theater takes place: Dancing stars, piercing the veil A succession of clouds, entering and exiting Moons, fat or skinny, no shows, everything in between From the pit—a crescendo of crickets, a train horn section, the percussive bark of a neighbor dog Every night a different show, a version of the same Before stepping back inside I do a dance On the dimly-lit stage

After three months I see you again, old friend, hanging around. I get you off the hook and we go out together, for drinks, dinner, a walk to the store in twilight’s new warmth. You’ve always been steady, by my side in rain or shine; you’ve got my back. As the season’s turn and our love for each other wans and waxes, I hope I never lose you.  

I think I’ve shared here at the blog that 2023 was a very successful year as far as publication of various pieces: both micro, blended, and the short story. Thus, I began 2024 knowing I needed to produce. I felt so much pressure that it stymied me. It seemed I only had time for the blog entries. I was keeping up with three posts a week—just. But ongoing submissions and writing down new ideas was taking a hit. Not to mention actually beginning a project that would take multiple sittings. I get very anxious leaving things undone. For one month I’ve had loose ends as I’ve strived to complete one short story. In the past month I’ve had exactly 3 days off—and even then off is relative. One was unexpected as I showed up to work early voting at the municipal center and they said they didn’t need me, and the other two days I still helped with child care as I took Jack to the library and playdate with my friend Sepi. I have even been cutting down the amount of time for exercise, runs

Early March, unbelievable. We were sitting outside after a run in shorts enjoying the weather before I quickly changed to ride my bike to work. I didn’t need a coat, but took one just in case after work I’d need one. Thus, I forgot to take my safety vest. I left for work at 11 a.m. wearing a flannel over my work t-shirt and also wearing sunglasses. It truly felt like spring. No overpants. No boots. Is this even right? I wondered. Never fear—today when I woke up it felt heavy inside my Tiny House. Especially dark outside the windows. I opened my French doors just as the first drops were beginning to fall from the sky. At the same moment my daughter and grandson were watching from their sliding glass door. An audience for a cacophonic symphony.           The back and forth rhythm of spring.  

I’ve learned a new word: vernal ponds. Here in Michigan in the spring I ride my bike past snow-laden fields that slowly give themselves over to marshes. In the woods the trees are submerged into run-off pools. From Wikipedia: Vernal pools, also called vernal ponds or ephemeral pools, are seasonal pools of water that provide habitat for distinctive plants and animals. They are considered to be a distinctive type of wetland usually devoid of fish, and thus allow the safe development of natal amphibian and insect species unable to withstand competition or predation by fish. Certain tropical fish lineages (such as killifishes) have however adapted to this habitat specifically. This description almost makes them sound magical—ephemeral, but they are temporary and are slowly, even now, fading. Everyday there is more field than pond. And, on the really nice days I can hear the boisterous bull frogs, the chirpy peepers, and all the other members of the vernal pond orchestra camouflaged in the

My job at the bike shop involves an array of hours. Some days are 9 – 5, some 11 – 7, some, lie today, 10 – 6. In deep dark winter after the time change, when leaving after close, I’ll have to turn on all lights and my blinking helmet while riding home. As we get close to spring equinox I’m having to less and less. The sun currently is setting around 6:30. Seven pm close it definitely is dark, but 6 and 5 I can now ride home in light—sometimes taking a detour through the woods and onto a board plank bridge that straddles a marsh. I am more likely to stop at Aldis before coming home for few items as it also isn’t so cold as to freeze my TP before arriving in my driveway. The whole idea of growing light at both ends of the day is lending me a better attitude. Two days ago it was 18 degrees as I rode to work wearing my lobster gloves reserved for the coldest days. I was not ready to head back to those after a day before of 70 degree temperatures. But, it is spring. Or at least we’re get

I was just sitting by my computer putting off writing when a neighbor cat showed up outside my French doors. He (who knows!) has a black coat and beautiful chartreuse eyes. He played around on the back deck and then spied, probably a squirrel, stood stock still then went off. I came outside and looked for him. In Oregon there was a neighbor cat (there were many in fact) that used to prowl around. My roommate called him Frank (maybe he called all of the outside cats Frank). We kept our doors open as we rarely used the heat and there was no AC, One time Frank just walked in. Because of my daughter’s cats, I am not inviting this cat indoors or habituating it by petting it or trying to pick up. (We just got done with running to the vet for anxiety-ridden Cato). Anyway, while out on the deck I heard a flapping of wings, much like the sound my underarms make when I run. I looked up and saw a black crow overhead with a twig or pieces of grass in its beak. I thought if I were Mary Oliver a

Check out Pure of Heart online at Fa thom. Fathom has an ambitious mission: Our goal is to approach everything we publish with an eye for intellect, wonder, and story and a conviction that our beliefs have consequences for ourselves, our communities, and the world. Our hope is that in the wonder of God’s presence, we can help one another cultivate an embodied faith that furthers the kingdom of heaven on earth. Somehow there was a mix-up and they accepted one of my pieces and I discovered they’d actually put it up without having ok’d. Usually there is a bit back and forth if a submission is accepted for publication. For instance, this particular piece had already found a home when I made the discovery. I had Furtive take it down. But— I sent them Pure of Heart as it also represented the themes they advanced. Thankfully it was accepted and now is out. From the story: One night on the “L” train, the car she was sitting in emptied out. A man got on at Clark & Division. She

We sort of built up the idea. The box arrived and sat in a corner until time to assemble. New sheets and pillowcases were ordered. The crib was taken upstairs for the baby. Would this next level be accepted or rejected? Would he miss the security of what he was used to or would the new bed be received as a sign of being a big boy? With all the changes of a new baby would Jack feel he was being replaced or “losing” parts of himself? Not at all. He loves the new dino sheets and the independence that comes with being a big boy. At night he runs to settle into bed while we read stories. Before turning off the light we turn on a turtle light projector that splays stars on the ceiling and put a card in his Yoto player, with bedtime stories. Thankfully he falls right to sleep. Mainly because he is growing out of the afternoon nap. We’ll still put him down after lunch with high hopes. We’ll do the whole routine and close the shades and turn off the light. On the monitor we can see him

For the longest time Jack was in a “resting” period before active with language. We rarely employee baby talk—with the exceptions of owie for a cut or scrape and coldie, something I picked up from living in community in Chicago. We always said it was coldie, maybe to soften the winter blasts, the wind blowing off the lake that turned a summer day into parka weather. Coldie didn’t sound as bad. At library toddler storytime there were the children that sat in their caregiver’s laps, quietly listening, while Jack ran around in the background. Or the little girls with complete vocabularies interacting with the story. I doubted Jack recognized there was a story let alone that any of us existed. He was the center of his own orbit, interrupted by having to put on shoes, time to eat, etc. It was my Swiss friend Monica, a professional speech pathologist working with special needs non-verbal children, who used the word resting when I referred to Jack not really speaking. I knew he had a lex

This morning I was awakened not by my alarm but by a train whistle. I lay there confused—Why was there a train inside my room? Where I live in Michigan, in Okemos, right outside of Lansing, I am bounded by train lines. A very active line parallels the library and on the way to work is another line heading to Canada, which Amtrak also uses. Both lines access the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence Seaway for shipping. It seemed an unseemly loud train whistle awakening me, pulling me out of sleep. After being in Chicago for over 35 years, there are times when I wake up and wonder where am I? That hazy middle place between dream and day. I could be anywhere, except in reality. I’ve sometimes been on a bike trip, traveling an open road, or back in my childhood home on Princeton Ave. in Kettering, or in the dining room back in my Chicago community. In Chicago there were different sounds that accompanied going to bed and waking up. Gunshots, for example. Because I lived between a fire sta

Hello, kids! How is it that for months you lay dormant, scrubby, blah—and then, open? I saw activity about a month ago in bleak January when it was cold but snowless, a little snow, always cold: There were brimming buds. Of hope, I thought. This is new, my heart said. Ah! There is only so much I can do to beat back the blanket of depression that falls on me in weak light, dark mornings, early evenings, a day that never ripens but stays a leaden gray. I light candles, turn on my grow lights over the spider plant, eat comforting hot oatmeal, get a Netflix subscription. I plan a garden and reread my blog where I ride my bicycle . . . everywhere. For example, last year at this time I was dreaming about my upcoming  Rhine River trip .  Five hard little buds formed at the end of what appeared to be a dead stem. (I never know whether to trim them back or tack them up.) I did a bit of research. Orchids like cold nights and warmish days; they love sunlight but not direct light. So I trained

I’d like to remind readers, both of you, about my seminar at Calvin University (Grand Rapids) coming up in April. If the schedule for the Festival of Faith and Writing wasn’t already jam-packed, attendees have the option to sign up for Lunch Circles where they pay for lunch and sit with others and discuss their writing in a casual, relaxed environment. It’s a nice way to 1. Have a lunch plan and not have to worry about what to eat or how to source it on the busy campus 2. Network with a group of others who have an interest in writing and literature, and finally 3. Not be the kid holding a lunch tray wondering where to sit or with whom. Festival Lunch Circles solves a number of “problems.” My seminar—I use that word because it will be a discussion—revolves around Sister Corita and her unique way of viewing the world and helping her students to see things from another perspective. We can all get bogged down in editing something over and over and not seeing the meat through the sauce.

I just read a great piece by the wonderful Annie Lamott in the Washington Post about aging and acceptance. About resting in the idea that most things will work themselves out, I’m hoping that spring will make up its mind. Okay, maybe the problem is winter, not spring’s fault. The neck-snapping whiplash of the seasons is killing me. Yesterday me and my son-in-law were sitting out on the deck with hot tea, the baby snoozing in a stroller while Jack combed the backyard for “worms”; we were basking in sunshine and warmth (while still wearing knit hats and hoodies). Nevertheless, it felt great. I cast a glance at the snow shovel and thought, I’m gonna have to put that away. Right now, this morning, ten hours later, it is snowing an inch an hour. Big fluffy flakes coming down. I’m thinking of Lamott’s piece and wishing I were retired, a famous writer, not having to ride my bike into work in 30 minutes. What’s up with this weather? Finally, thinking, There’s nothing I can do about this

I left off my last post in the Bebelplatz in Berlin, atop the glass covering the Empty Library below. The swirling colored lights bouncing off the buildings added to the hallucinogenic feel to being there. I wasn’t quite sure where I was. Yet, watching the movie Origin , I recognized the location and déjà vu—personally and historically—washed over me. It’s happening again. Book banning. Isabel Wilkerson’s book Caste , upon which Origin is based rests on the premise that the othering of Jews in early 20 th -century Germany and how we treat people of color here in the States informed each other, The writing and examples in the book are irrefutable. The end of the film goes back to an interview Wilkerson did with a subject who as a young boy, white, growing up in what is presumed a southern town, though I guess it could have been Illinois, when his Little League team wins a championship and is rewarded with a day at a town pool. The whole team goes, even the star player who score

I remember as a little kid waking up on Valentine’s Day and coming downstairs to find a little plastic cup, pink and red, filled with candy hearts, heart-shaped redhots and a package of Reese cups beside my breakfast plate. My Mom did that every year on up through high school. I need to Google those cups—do they make them anymore, is it possible to source them from Marketplace, a vintage store?? Or do they exist only in my memory? Anyway, this memory now stands in contrast to the bitterness of my parents writing me out of their will, dismissing me from their lives and legacy. I’m not sure how to feel about this memory. For Mom there was this attention to detail, almost a slavish exertion to celebrate the holidays—even Sweetest Day, which I’ve never heard of outside of Mom—again giving redhots. She kept the home spotless, fixed terrific meals, made cake and cookies from scratch. While, on the other hand, the “loving” part, the emotional side of the relationship was difficult for her

I went to see the fictionmentary: Origin written and directed by Ava DuVernay based upon Isabel Wilkerson’s book Caste: Origins of our Discontents . It takes a particular skill to adapt nonfiction to the screen; you’re actually telling a couple stories at once and most or all of it has to be TRUE. On a personal note: I couldn’t stop crying through the entire viewing. Am I highly emotional? Maybe, but I’m the kind of person you want in the middle of a disaster because I tend to keep my head without panicking. But once you start intuiting a lynching—I’m gone, and the movie opens with the murder of Trayvon Martin, the young man/teenager who was killed merely for walking home in the rain on a dark night wearing a hoodie. You know the end of this story before it even begins, and you get a sick thud in your belly just watching the Skittles slide across the convenient store counter. It’s all going to go so bad. It is a complicated story to tell, weaving the history of black oppression in