Memoirous

More False Starts—in more ways than one                        What to do With twisty story ideas                                                        Erase and try again Relationships                                                                       Say I’m sorry Last night’s dinner recipe                                                    Add more salt/spices Going wrong way on one way street (oops!)                      Bac...

Every once in a while, I get a brain burble, a brief flash of memory. I’m not sure what spurs this synapse. Maybe it is the season of Lent and the liturgy sent to me by the brothers of Assumption Abbey in Dickerson, ND where I stayed on my cross-country bike trip in 2020. Maybe it is from watching “Secrets of the Dead” on PBS as I work on a new cross-stitch project. As I work, moving my needle up and down, I listen to how civilizations rise and fall. People and places I’ve never heard of, pre-antiquity, before medieval Europe, before the spread of Christianity, people groups from places our current president might label “shit-hole countries” were building and crafting fabulous palaces using gold and silver and precious gems, living sustainably for hundreds of years—before . . . . Sometimes no one knows. Something stops. The people die-off, are assimilated, migrate away due to ? Again, we don’t know but perhaps climate change, invaders, disease, other disasters. Bardic tales are f...

Soooo I wake up again to the United States bombing another country. This is becoming a thing. Not something I want. There are so many thoughts rattling around my brain—I’m wracked with guilt for just being alive and living in this country, guilty of trying to ignore what Washington is doing. For many people it is more than a disruption—it is shifting the very course of their life. On Sunday, a day after the initial bombings, I attended a little boy’s birthday party, where I was the only non-Iranian person there. I’m not sure I can convey historically how this felt. I took my shoes off at the door and kissed my host. I clutched her and said, “Khamenei is dead.” First: She corrected my pronunciation of his name, then, shook her head: “This is not what I wanted.” I said, “Me, too! But I’m hearing that some Iranian-Americans are very happy. Glad that the US has stepped in.” My friend acknowledged this. Everyone has their own opinion. But, a war . . . More people will die.—My ...

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Dawn Burns a great writer and someone I’d hoped to meet up with when I moved to Michigan—a person with similar sensibilities about art, literature, God!—is having a book launch in a few weeks in Lansing. It’s funny how the necklace of feminist writers all link together. One person brings another one into your life, and on and on. Anyway, I read Dawn’s short story collection, Evangelina Everyday , feeling as if she were writing about me when describing Evangelina’s small victories, how she walked through a mundane Indiana housewife life while still finding things to celebrate, such as a plastic bag caught in straw grass in a forgotten field. Her newest collection is also linked stories based upon visiting what amounts to “tourist traps.” As we all know, there is something very human and basic in the curiosity we show to outsiders, the different, the just plain odd. We are attracted and yet repelled; we want to know more—perhaps because we secretly harbor the knowledge that it is t...

This past weekend brought another visitor out from the city. And, another fresh batch of snow. I was a little conflicted when all the snow melted during our “Spring Break.” Nothing says cozy better than snowflakes the size of feathers falling all around, while holding a hot cup of coffee. Well, we got our chance when a Clipper came through unexpectedly and brought a fresh groundcover of white. Not so much that our boots sank up to the shin, and not so much that we shivered inside layers of coats. But just the right amount to make everything cozy again. We picked up coffee from Château and continued walking onto the River Trail recently extended from Grand River Ave. to Okemos Road. Readers of this blog (both of you) know I love this path, the tall trees, and the chance to escape from cars and traffic. My friend and I walked through the woods sipping coffee all the way to the movie theater where we checked in for a weekday matinee of Wuthering Heights. From the woods of snowy Mich...

It’s still snowing . . . and it’s still cold in the morning and the sky cotton candy pink—yet the sun is rising earlier.   Except—after the first hint of spring after being teased by shorts-wearing warmth after pulling out the lawn chairs after the kids got into the shed for the bubble machine— the chair is draped with snow and the toys are MIA beneath ground-covering white   So we return, to Winter. But even the birds and squirrels are saying “It won’t be long now!”

False Spring? I’ll take it. True or false. I can see bare ground beneath the trees. Whether real Or not The icicles are crashing to the earth. It’s not my imagination Not a mirage That square of white is shrinking. Teasing, kidding, Pulling my leg There are signs of life. The birds don’t care. The squirrels are scurrying. The blue sky spreads out overhead. Winter weary Soul crushing Long-enduring We wait with hope— Chick-a-dee-dee, soon soon soon  

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back dedicated to Keith Wasserman and Lynda Moody, two old college friends Is still going forward; I’m still moving. So there is bare ground starting to show outside. The temps have warmed up, a bit. I rode my bike 3x in one week. I ran twice. This is progress. The sun comes up earlier and sets later—after 6 these days. *Yet, last week I locked my keys in the car (one step back) but Chad from Okemos Marathon came in a jiffy and got things straight (one step forward). *I was cleaning my water reservoir and got too vigorous and broke a piece. No biggy—until a few days later I discovered a lake flooding my countertop. (One step back!) Yesterday I ordered a slim 27-cup Brita from Walmart and the online option said delivery was same-day and free. Altogether, it was much less than I thought it would be to replace. I went out and met the drivers in my driveway, a couple out on a nice day in their KIA making stops. I asked is this a side gig and they said, yeah. G...

Here is a Throwback to a post from 2013. I've been thinking of Suicide Hill lately--all the snow and cold this season. It was a place I'd go to on "Snow Days." ** I was reminded in a recent conversation about a sledding hill I always went to growing up near Kettering, Ohio. It was famously named Suicide Hill. This was a real sled eater. Approaching the climb there were barrel fires fed by broken wooden sleds sacrificed to Suicide Hill. The hill was deceptive. Trees lined the descent so that any veering brought the sledder into contact with them. As a kid I was always bailing, letting gravity take the sled into it’s gentle good night, the tight fist of death. I cannot count how many sleds my brothers, sister, and I ruined. The back of Suicide Hill was just as dangerous as the front—though perhaps not as many trees. A ride this direction was longer and not as fast, but full of moguls or bumps that sent me flying. The community golf course where the hill was located was ...

Some say Scandinavians—people from Sweden, Norway, Finland are humorless. I haven’t found that to be the case. Except— When I stayed at the huts on the Kungsleden. The southern terminus of the trail is in Hemavan, about a 12 hour train/bus trip north of Stockholm near the Arctic Circle. So yeah, up there. The stereotype of the frozen stolid Swede didn’t exactly align. There was a lot of animated conversation, joking around, and playfulness with the various groups and visitors. Just not with me. I couldn’t figure it out. So I asked my recent Tiny House guest her opinion. You see, she’s originally from Norway. I’ve met her family. They’re all warm and friendly; they speak English and love to converse. Why the stand-offness in the huts with me? Was it because I’m an American and presumably want to take over Greenland? She acknowledged the stereotype, saying that yes, the art of small talk isn’t part of the culture. Okay? But, then I remembered. There was a couple whose itinera...

Last week I had a guest come stay at the Tiny House (in which case I move into my daughter’s basement just next door). It was a perfect cozy snowy time. I like to offer the Tiny House as a retreat for my friends out from the city. They usually take the train up and I meet them at the East Lansing station (in this case: 1 a.m. darn Amtrak! Late!). Back at the House I have homemade soup and rolls waiting and a bit of warm grog. My friend is a late riser so it was perfect as I needed to catch up on sleep after such a late night. Freezing with temps near ZERO. She enjoyed sitting and having coffee watching snow fall. It was like a calendar picture outside. We eventually got going on a robust walk in the woods followed by more soup and hot tea. That evening we had a roast with root veggies and a homemade streusel with French vanilla ice cream. On what was to be our last day there was a visit to Playmakers for shoes, a coffee shop break, and another walk in the snowy woods where when t...

Soooo it wasn’t exactly a launch, since the book had several soft coming outs, but last week we had a party to celebrate Woman of a Certain Age. And oh my goodness. Yes I was nervous and scared—but I wasn’t doing it by myself. I had Dawn Burns a professor in the Rhetoric Dept. at MSU and also a writer with 2 books coming out this year. She’s part of a Great Lakes Anthology and also has a collection of linked stories coming out later this year at Cornerstone Press (part of the University of Wisconsin).  Also, a friend and workmate who’d read an advance copy volunteered to read a short short titled “I Wish the Virgin Mary was my Girlfriend,” something he said really resonated with him. Me—basically I had to just show up. I did arrange the food table and setting up the books. These kinds of thing are usually by-the-seat-of-the-pants kind of thing. But I had folks stay the entire 2 hours and also people who rushed in at the last minute from an appointment in Ann Arbor to buy ...

Throwback—This Winter This was ordinally written in Chicago, posted February 12, 2014 The other day I walked into the kitchen at my daughter’s house and someone said—"You look like one of those Finnish winter soldiers.” I had on long johns, a cable knit sweater, with a quilted white shacket (from Wiki: A shacket is a versatile hybrid garment, combining the structure of a jacket with the style of a button-down shirt. Thicker than a standard shirt but lighter than a coat). I did indeed look and FEEL like a winter soldier, standing up to the cold and snow. And, a little stealthy, in order to blend in. Somewhat like a snowy owl or snow hare. This Winter February 12, 2014, written in Chicago This is the first winter I can remember when 2 coats wasn’t enough. This winter I’ve worn my long underwear for the past 40 days. This winter has been so cold that 4 above feels like a heat wave. This is the first winter where I’ve come to understand the principle of hibernation. As ...

 

17℉ A number is just a number until attached to a thing. For the right-brained One, two, three, For some, more or less, How does it feel? Take calories for example: One may consume 2000 And wreak havoc, while Those filling up on veggies Salad, whole grains equal That number and more! One person gains, another Loses, looses. Not all temperatures are the same Is 17℉ cold or frigid? My weather app ascribes both It depends. Is it sunny or cloudy, Night or day, full Or waning moon? Monday, I skied in 17℉ And felt warm, almost hot! Yesterday, I skied in 17℉ In blustery snowy conditions And never fully warmed up. I awoke today to 2℉ And didn’t know how To start the day Where is the gauge? x country skiing Meridian Twnshp Historic Village

The big house next to my Tiny House is a throbbing hub of energy. I can hear my grandsons’ feet pounding the kitchen floor as they run circles around the table. The little one shouts in glee. The attic was long ago converted into living space. Not sure how well insulated the house is. After a snowfall the roofs are iced in white, but after a day or two there are melt spots (if no further snow covers), peeking out like shorn fur on an animal’s hide. The process of melt—either generated by the house, the inhabitants, or thermal from the rare appearances of the sun, a mid-day warmup—creates spectacular icicles. Like fringe on a surrey. Like monster fangs. Like daggers hanging from a knight’s belt. Like cavern stalactites, solid, hanging from cathedral ceilings. They multiply, grow longer by the day. I gauge how cold it is by the number of icicles lining the eaves. Visitors from the far north of Narnia.

A few days off in the middle of the week, in mid-Winter I work at a very popular shoe store, performance wear, aka running/walking/trail shoes. But, even we have slow periods. So more time off. I wake up under the eaves of my Tiny House—sometimes my nose is cold and sometimes my sleeping body heat has warmed the upstairs. It is incredibly cozy lying under blankets on a soft pillow in the half light of a winter morning. This a.m. it was a little hard to get out of bed, I wanted to stay forever in that netherworld of dream, but . . . Day called. Most mornings, nature calls. I quickly climb down from my loft bed on a sturdy oak ladder specially built for me and the Tiny House. Next is a series of actions not in any particular order: Visit the composting toilet, screened off in a corner Change out of fleece sleep slippers into lamb’s wool Uggs Don a sweater or insulated shacket from Patagonia Switch on kettle, prep tea Pills—thyroid and Vitamin D Shovel That’s right. I go outside in ...

New Work Out: Centerpoint Actually this piece has BEEN out. I just didn’t know it. Someone at work was asking about my new book, Woman of a Certain Age, a story collection, and I said let me show you my website. I googled my name and up popped the piece, published online in Third Wednesday. Okay, that’s a surprise. I’d submitted it in November and it was taken soon after. I just had gotten so busy with holiday rush that I hadn’t checked my Submittable dashboard to see it had been accepted. Sheesh. Anyway, I’m linking to it now and will soon get it up under Other Writing. A pleasant surprise and acknowledgement that 2025 had truly been a fruitful year. Now as I take time to think ahead to 2026: I have a lot of work to do to raise to the level of 12 ACCEPTANCES IN ONE YEAR!! I have to start cracking on writing new stuff and submitting. Maybe time for another collection . . . hmm. Keep tuned—book launch for Woman of a Certain Age to be announced.

The more things change, the more they stay the same: Happy MLK Day This is more musing than scholarly: The more things change, the more they stay the same. Sixty years ago, in the midst of the Civil Rights Movement, was a surge of public engagement in the most basic rights for fellow human beings, Americans pushed to the margins. In the south particularly but everywhere, Black Americans were living under segregation. Martin Luther King Jr. acknowledged this and challenged the status quo—not without reprisal or the fear of death. He and his adherents, believers, did the right thing in standing up. As must we. But, he knew talk was cheap. In a talk delivered at Stanford in 1967 he credited advances that had been made (mostly under his leadership), but he said it wasn’t enough. He addressed the problem of Two Americas. One is living in sunny oblivion, unaware that a second America exists. It isn’t just about black or white, Black or White, but many Americans live in inequality, wi...

A creative nonfiction piece, commonly called The Essay—is out now! About a trip I took in 2007 to Albania, I know, no one goes to Albania. Albania is a weird mix of contradictions=cultural progress meets social mores, modernity butts up against resistance to change, hundreds of years of political upheaval. Versus. Versus. Turning towards. Against. Read No One Goes to Albania here :

So far this cold, cold season I’ve stayed warm in my Tiny House. It was still hot out and living in the converted outhouse was not quite out of the dream/aspirational stage—the sales guy came over to evaluate what I might possibly need to stay warm/cool in the various seasons. I’d met him through work, a mountain bike customer where when checking out at the register I asked about his sweatshirt logo and he told me he repped a heating/cooling company. “Can you come over and check out my Tiny House?” And, we exchanged details. Here he was, trying to decide what the heck I was contemplating. *was it properly insulated *the tile floors make for some cold mornings (was the understructure insulated) *was the roof just sheet wood and shingle These were all good questions. We knew—or at least he did—that Michigan winters were cold, long, unpredictable. He suggested a unit with 18K BTU: An 18,000 BTU ductless system (≈1.5 tons) is typically suited for 600–1,000 sq ft spaces...

“The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow”  “The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow" is a line from the famous Christmas poem, The Night Before Christmas . It’s an odd archaic, Victorian phrasing, but highly imaginative, top of mind last night as I walked home from work under a full-moonlit sky, the white orb casting long tripod shadows from the fir trees in the neighbor’s yards, spidery shadow webs of branches from the trees by the playground. There was the orange square glow of light coming from the front windows of houses—reflected upon the new-fallen snow. There’s always new-fallen snow, these days. The breast of new-fallen snow—is this some reference to the white bosom? Something about purity, something a man would write as an ideal? The ultimate in untouched beauty? The sacred body. A temple, undefiled. Supple, clean, comforting, giving succor. It was cold and I ran a little to keep warm. The crunch and squeak of snow beneath my boots. And, I thought of t...

This Christmas had it all—see last post, plus enterovirus, which I would not wish on my worst enemy. It has taken me days to feel better. To feel like even being around food. I finally settled into the occasional banana, the off-chance ramen (half the package). Then . . . I came home from work last night and was hungry. I didn’t know what to do. I needed more than ramen or a banana. So at 8 pm made a casserole. My brain said this is crazy and feels late and also necessary. It was interesting this sensation of actually wanting food. The varying facets of one’s relationship to food—I’d certainly run the gamut this holiday the big dinner the plates of cookies, cakes, pies Nothing even the specter of food being repulsive I threw leftover bread etc out into the snow for the birds and squirrels purged the fridge of almost everything—except a 12-pack of ramen, a bunch of bananas Suddenly peas sound good!? I never eat peas Hunger.