Memoirous

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 someone who loves winter, I can’t stand the thought of another 6 weeks of it. Instead of putting on my normal winter weight of 2 – 3 pounds, I’ve gained ten. The idea of a snow day no longer holds delight. I dread the weather report now. In the past I’ve run throughout the winter, unless I was x-country skiing. This winter I’ve had to push myself to exercise. It’s hard to move when wearing 6 layers. There are some days when I never step outside—and I like it. This winter my skin has been so dry I’ve gone through a whole bottle of Jergens; my last bottle lasted 2 years. This winter nearly all the Great Lakes are ice covered. I ...

We just did a longish weekend to Chicago. Short and frenetic, constantly on the go. I was able to tick a few items off my summer to-do list: concert downtown in the park (Beethoven’s Fifth under the lights and waning nighttime sky), Siam Noodle and a GREAT Mexican place I ate at last time, and a visit to the Art Institute, where I saw the Georgia O'Keeffe’s show “My New Yorks.” As opposed to how we often remember O'Keeffe as a painter of the American Southwest, these drawings and paintings represented her time off and on in New York City as well as upstate New York where she and Alfred Stieglitz summered at Lake George. Shows like this sort of gather up what ever they have and add to it from whatever collections they can borrow from and hope for a cohesive theme. I really liked the angle of this exhibition as it showed another facet of the artist that most people are not used to seeing. O’Keeffe and Stieglitz were apartment dwellers, taking rooms in various hotels high abov...

We’re all a bit discombobulated after this weekend’s events. I have strong political beliefs, yet was shaken after the news of an attempted assassination upon President Trump. The subsequent analysis and reporting by the media reminded me of when my husband and I walked down the street for President Obama’s birthday celebration taking place at the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago. The place was crawling with security. Even more than a rural area, the crowded urban corner where the event was taking place was full of building, most towering over the ballroom. I saw positioned on all of them security detail. Law enforcement kept a perimeter. Obama’s helicopter landed at the lakefront and he was motored to the event. We saw the black car go by and maybe a glimpse of him going into the Aragon. Then went home. At this time I was working at our homeless shelter. I asked some of the residents if they caught the hoopla happening almost at our doorstep. They all answered that they stayed away th...

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 b...

After reading Transcendent Kingdom by Yaa Gyasi, I’ve been contemplating moments of transcendence I’ve experienced. Many of these occurred while on my bike—or maybe it was simply being in the zone, a state of mind achieved by athletes, a process of chemicals in the body allowing the brain to detach, rest, while being physically active. I’ve also been in a zone while writing—able to get down pages and pages that seem like true art, until I reread them, mortified that nothing makes sense. Leaving me questioning the validity of these moments of transcendence. Are they actually delusions? Mini psychotic breaks? A vacating of my body and “normal” personality to adopt a persona, a person who takes risks and enjoys making a spectacle of herself. For instance, dancing. I’m oblivious to rhythm; I clap on the off-beat. Four/four time means nothing to me. It’s as if the gene for dance is missing from my DNA. Yet, I longed to move to music. In not too subtle ways I’ve been told I lack what ...

Remembering the laughs, the tears, the upsets, the betrayals, the inconsistencies, the hierarchy, the absurdity, the surreal, sitting at Cook County for hours on end, Deac rides, Deac cars, tokens for the L, or having to jump the turnstyle, Mondays off, donation doughnuts, barrels of orange juice, government cheese, Malibu quiche, treats, getting awakened in the middle of the night to give up your bed, stepping over the sleeping homeless in the lobby, Strider. Answering the telephone, ignoring the telephone, getting telephones, handing out smartphones, info mail Checking to see if you’re on the money list, waiting in line for gas money, reserving a car Linda handing out Christmas supplies, afterwards trading pecans for more walnuts, eating the bag of chocolate chips before even going up the stairs, fighting for the kitchen, room on the stovetop, losing your favorite measuring cup, finding it in the dishroom, staking out your laundry slot, weekend work rotations, wrapping gifts for ...

Outside my French doors a light snow is falling, dusting the decks. The past few days have been gray, the skies leaden with nickel-colored clouds. Yet, I’m struck by the fact that I’m in nature, that I’m living this life. My here and now, despite the gray and gloom, includes red birds, the sounds of wind, dry leaves rustling, a disgruntled squirrel chirping. For so long I was closed off. I was in Chicago from the age of 23 until I left during the pandemic in 2020 I will be 65 this year. I never planned to be gone from nature that long. Chicago was supposed to be a one-summer commitment, a stop along the way, but at the end of my summer in 1982 I had to ask myself—Where is it I’m trying to get to, where am I going? I didn’t have a ready answer. I’d just graduated from Ohio University with a degree in secondary education—a career I wasn’t sure I really wanted to pursue. All I knew was this: I loved Jesus and I wanted to do good in the world. That’s how I ended up in Chicago at an inn...

Readers of this blog, both of you, know that I’ve written in the past about tsunamis. There was something that drew me to the Christmas Day, Boxing Day event in the Indian Ocean those years ago—the sudden loss of life that resonated with the death of both my elderly parents and the subsequent opening of the will where I discovered I’d been disinherited. I was blindsided by the betrayal and greediness of my siblings. Just like those enveloped by waves, I was bowled over. I know the analogy is not the same. Those people died or at the very least were physically impacted. I was mentally and spiritually deluged. For me life has not been the same. Now I’m learning about rogue waves. A news headline at the BBC mentioned a passenger on a cruise ship bound for Antarctica had been swept overboard by a rogue wave. I had to investigate this phenomenon.   I’d first been alerted (no pun intended, maybe) to the idea by a post at a Facebook group about Old Chicago. Apparently in 1954 a ro...

This Story Will Change: a Memoir Elizabeth Crane Counterpoint, 2022 A Review I might have met Betsy Crane in Chicago—or simply imagined I did. There was a friend of a friend connection we have, some slight thing in the past. ALSO there was her photo in the bottom level of the Harold Washington Library I’d occasionally see when attending events in the library auditorium. She was a recipient of the Chicago Public Library Foundation 21st Century Award. I might have also met her through her stories and novels. But this was fiction. Her latest work is about the Happily Ever After where the novelist falls in love, the couple adopts a dog, both find success—but the happy is somewhat more elusive. Through reading the memoir you (and possibly the novelist) discover that there are signs along the way, pinpricks of revelations. Nevertheless, the novelist is blindsided by a confession from her husband and the two separate. I think we’ve read this story before. It is also my story: where you are go...

Today is the DAY! It just so happens it is the same morning they decided to lift the bridges for the sailboats to leave the lakefront harbors for winter quarters/storage. Ahhh, Chicago. As I began packing I had a grand plan. To start with books and then go one section at a time. Easy. Except I wanted to sort them into keep, toss, donate, give away for a sale, see if Grace wants. AWK! It became unsustainable. The books alone took a couple of days. Then there were last minute visits to squeeze in. It became very apparent that I needed to be intentional with the packing, stay on task (stop taking bike rides!), and give up the sort. So I threw out my filters and just began filling boxes. Good because I got it all done by today/bad because I am taking way more than I thought I would be. And, it’s a jumble   All my strategizing went out the window—I just needed to go. So just as I posted before leaving for Eugene, here once again, is Jane riding away.

Anatomy of a Good/Bad Day   The outline begins with line A Wake up, tea, stretch, a little music --pull the bike out and begin to ride --in the cold morning air, uphill Arrive, line B Begin watching my grandson --who smiles, tries to roll over --achieves, tummy to back --we both look up at the ceiling --hours pass Lunch, line C He gets a bottle, I heat up pizza Line D repeats line B --add walks, story time --Dad comes home from hospital, showers Dinner, line E At my house! --rush home, stir fry chicken --add cashew crème and curry --yum! --someone says let’s go get a designer dounut Line F Walk downtown with baby in front carrier --strangers smile at us, a family on an evening stroll --purchase crazy-named donuts sprinkled with Cap’tain Crunch,Oreos Etc, etc, etc!! Later, line G Ride bike to Washington Park for birthday/bike polo gathering --talk and tell stories until the arc lamps extinguish themselves --left in darkne...

The Great Believers Rebecca Makkai Viking, 2018 “We were the great believers. I have never cared for any men as much as for these who felt the first springs when I did, and saw death ahead, and were reprieved—and who now walk the long stormy summer.” F. Scott Fitzgerald, “My Generation” A striking epitaph for Rebecca Makkai’s latest novel, The Great Believers about . . . . Imagine a mysterious virus suddenly besetting a population. The illness itself sets those people apart, publically identifies them. It hits with impunity, across all ethnicities and age groups. At first no one knows how it is spread . . . they have an idea formed from fear and panic, prejudices and assumptions. A mixing of fluids. And, because this population is somewhat small, though no one knows exactly because it can sometimes be hard to tell, and marginalized, the rest of the world carries on. Years later as the outcry grows for treatment, a vaccine, more is done to stop the spread, to ...

Like misogyny. This weekend I was out on my bike. Yes, it was hotter than Hades. But I’m about to go on another cycle trip and wanted to make some upgrades to the bike. I was ¾ of the way home and entering the Lakefront Trail on Ardmore. A group of men veered from the sidewalk to walk in front of me. I was going super slow as I had just crossed the intersection. I was right behind them as they walked in front of me so not too far. I said, “There’s a walking path right of the cycleway.” You would have thought I told them to go to hell or go ---- themselves. It was World War 3. As I passed, giving them plenty of space, not yelling ON YOUR LEFT or ringing my bell, but just simply existing next to them, they erupted in Holy Hell. They did not stop calling after me in abusive language; I could hear them even after I turned onto the path and rounded a corner. I took a deep breath. It was weird how immediate and fraught it felt. Then a minute later on the path I was about ...

In 1995 a heat wave hit Chicago. Almost 800 people died. Their bodies, too many for the morgue, were kept in refrigerated trucks in the coroner’s parking lot. From July 12 to July 16 daytime highs were above 100 degrees while at night it didn’t cool off. Back then AC was not the norm. You opened the window and turned on the fan. In my building the fuse box overheated and fuses blew out until we were down to the last one. We were asked to turn off refrigerators, TVs, stereos, whatever was drawing power. I remember it was the very week I started recording Marie James, a bag lady, to get her story. We sat in a room with a window open to the alley and the fetid dumpster. She rolled in with her cart full of old milk jugs and wiping her neck with a dirty rag. But somehow I was able to overcome the sensory distractions and turn on my recorder. Her story transported me. A year later Orphan Girl was published. I have just now gotten around to reading 1919 by Eve Ewing. Dr. Eve E...

We went to a Community Conversation last night at Uplift High School where the neighborhood of Uptown were invited to attend an area-wide conversation about race and faith. It wasn’t very well attended. But the folks that were there were engaged. The panel consisted of staff from Kuumba Lynx a performance hiphop education group operating within Uplift High School, Dr. David Stovall of University of Illinois/Chicago, Daniel Hill, pastor of New Community Church in Bornzeville, and Tuyvet Ngo of the Illinois Vietnamese Association. They brought their deep background and experience in the community to the table. As they were talking about crossing cultural boundaries I was reminded of a time many years ago now. I’m sure my daughter won’t mind me telling this story. (Hahaha, she’ll totally mind.) We told her if she met a certain goal for summer reading we’d reward her with a visit to a special restaurant. As one might guess, she totally blew away that goal plus. We took her to Macarth...

Wake up, move these tired bones Sometimes if I have to do the same thing one more time I’ll scream, and at other times I can’t take one more new thing or I’ll explode, it is the dynamic Of life, the tension of old and new The familiar versus sudden revelation The paradox that within brilliant sunlight There is a bird shadow

Super moon in winter Looking east from the terrace Midnight blue and luminesce Powder and smoke and clouds Stirred up by the semi-frozen lake Which creates its own weather. We live in a strange and scary city Full of ghosts and the visages of Time past, full of memories Of summer, chilling on the Terrace in shorts and sandals             Watching the moon filter the sky

When I first came to Chicago in early 1980s there was a recession. The homeless I was used to seeing were single men and women down on their luck. But the first summer I was in Chicago and working at a church mission was when I was introduced to whole families being homeless. Often we discovered they were living in their cars. One of my first jobs was driving around to pick up ”donos”: donations, but also used to refer to doughnut donations. We’d pull up in our station wagon and load in sacks of day-old doughnuts. By the time we got back to the mission it had become one giant day-old doughnut. The glazed had congealed together. We were volunteers meaning we made no salary. We were basically working for room and board, and the experience. Much like interns do today—except we didn’t go into debt.  We had NO money. On days off we got as token to ride the train and went to the end of the line. Up to Wilmette to the Bahá'í Temple or downtown. Since we had no money we window sh...

The Lincoln Park Zoo This is not exactly a museum, but it is a memory. I remember going to the Lincoln Park Zoo on numerous occasions. It was FREE! (Though over the years I’ve had two bikes stolen, locked up out front of the zoo—so not quite a bargain!) Through the years animals have come and gone. Gone are the elephants. Humanely it was not possible to keep such a large animal in a small enclosed space. The polar bears have also suffered. I’d have to say one of the most popular exhibits has been the Ape House which went through a recent renovation: They now have a great outdoor playground. The old house really did come across like cages behind glass (as opposed to the new facility which is also cages behind glass but disguised to look like a jungle). One of the my first observations at the zoo was not so much the animal behind the glass, but the animals in front of the glass. The people who came ritualistically, daily, to connect with their friend, their special hairy a...

Art Institute of Chicago What a wonderful world to get lost in—this place of armor, hydra heads, Nighthawks , Ivan Albright, Louis Sullivan, and miniature houses/interiors. When I first came to Chicago in the early 80s you could get into the Art Institute with a donation. I once paid 25¢, rather donated . I have to admit I wasn’t always an aficionado. Today I work for a gallery, helping to curate their exhibits and write up descriptions. Back in 1982 I used to think what was the difference looking at art in a book or up close in person. Then I turned a corner. It happened in Washington DC at the Corcoran, I turned a corner and came across the Moor , with his black bold face, flaring nostrils. I loved that picture. And, because it was hard to find my way around, I kept turning that corner and encountering the Moor. At lot of how I discover cool stuff is by getting lost. When I came back to Chicago I paid a visit to the Art Institute and it was as if I’d woke up; I was ali...