Memoirous

  Available in print and ebook, wherever you get books

I got an acceptance in early December from a journal that posts on Facebook called Ancient Paths. I was slated for Christmas Eve, The small prose poem has to do with waiting not just for the arrival or birth of Jesus but about waiting for the arrival home of loved ones. I composed the poem when Grace was in college (or perhaps off somewhere). The sudden appearance of youth, of someone who left lights on, stayed up most of the night, who ate at unregulated hours--a whole shambles to my routine and schedule, my house rules, whatever--and then gone, the place empty of life and now sad. "Waiting for Christmas" by Jane Hertenstein At Christmas every light comes on, in the basement where my daughter home from college retrieves ice cream, in the dining room a lamp illuminates the abandoned puzzle, the laundry nook dazzles, while the back porch radiates a smoky incandescence, the TV flickers a blue twilight, in the middle of the night my heart pulses as I reflect. Soon the house will...

 A Wassailing We will Go This time of year brings its own particular memories—usually brought on by the five senses. The smell of fresh-fallen snow reminds us of sled runs when we were younger, the velvety taste of hot chocolate reminds me of sipping cocoa from my Santa mug when I was five or six years old, the ugly ornament half broken and losing its shiny luster is the one I am most fond of, the one my mother gave me that used to be hers. The lights, the carols, the yummy smells all work together to bring forth memories—some good, some not so good. I remember one particular weekend before Christmas when I was a Girl Scout leader for my daughter’s troop. At best it was like herding cats. Trying to get a dozen or so girls to cooperate, for one minute to shut up and listen. We had plans to go downtown to the  Museum of Science and Industry  for  Christmas Around the World . Does the museum still do this? It is where in the Great Hall trees representing Christmas in ot...

  Here is a Christmas Day excerpt from  Beyond Paradise  my book ready now for a download. Louise and her mother and several members of the mission are in an internment camp in the Philippines. available in digital format, eBook from Amazon, Nook, Apple, everywhere!) Christmas Day arrived—my second in the Philippines, my first in captivity. It came without store-bought presents, without Papa, Julie, or mother. Mother mostly lay in bed except for when I took her by the hand and led her to the shower, the toilet, or to meals. She had hardly spoken a word since her outburst about the wedding album. As I looked into her vacant face, I often wondered what she thought about. Was she thinking of Papa? Without Papa she was missing her other half, the part of her that said she fixed good meals, thanked her for being a good wife, held her hand, and smoothed her hair at the dinner table. It was hard watching her crumble a little bit more each day. *** I thought long and hard about w...

We could use a little paradise--here is an excerpt from my YA novel (available in digital format, eBook from Amazon, Nook, Apple, everywhere!). It is Christmas 1941--after the attack on Pearl Harbor the Philippines were targeted and the Japanese invaded the islands, slowly working their way down from Manila which capitulated (not the case at the end of the war where Filipinos and Americans  fought corner to corner against the Japanese. The city was heavily damaged. and the civilian population paid in many casualties). Anyway Louise's father was in the capital city when it fell and there are questions of when, if ever, he might be able to reunite with the family on the island of Panay. Christmas excerpt  Beyond Paradise Mother volunteered to make a Christmas Eve dinner for the Fletchers. By combining pantries on the compound everyone got a little bit of everything. We received a canned ham plus several cans of green beans, creamed corn, peas, yams, and baked beans. The compound...

 I got an acceptance in early December from a journal that posts on Facebook called Ancient Paths. I was slated for Christmas Eve, The small prose poem has to do with waiting not just for the arrival or birth of Jesus but about waiting for the arrival home of loved ones. I composed the poem when Grace was in college (or perhaps off somewhere). The sudden appearance of youth, of someone who left lights on, stayed up most of the night, who ate at unregulated hours--a whole shambles to my routine and schedule, my house rules, whatever--and then gone, the place empty of life and now sad. To read the poem go to  Waiting for Christmas by Jane Hertenstein At Christmas every light comes on, in the basement where my daughter home from college retrieves ice cream . . .

When I arrived home Thursday night from work, I wasn’t sure if I’d go back on Friday. I stayed up and listened up in my loft for the winds to begin, but heard nothing. The next morning I got up and yes there was snow on the deck—about 4 inches—yet I knew that wasn’t the full extent as reports were saying the wind would pick up and temps continue to drop. All I knew was: 1. I had no car and 2. No key for work. It all depended upon a ride from a workmate—so he eventually texted me that he wasn’t going in (he lived much further out). Great! I had the unplanned day to myself and snacks! I might have cleared the deck a couple of times on Friday and made hot soup. Saturday, Christmas Eve day we were supposed to report to work for “last-minute” sales. Supposedly the storm was to be over. But, lo and behold, the decks were FULL of snow. Maybe another 6 inches had fallen during the night. The wind and cold were extreme. It certainly didn’t seem over. I waited for a text from my daughter. Be...

Lately I’ve been asking myself: Whatever happened to Chicago Jane? I lived in Chicago from 1982 to 2020. Thirty-eight years! When I first moved there I had to make peace with the piles of litter on the streets, with drunks sleeping (at first I thought they were dead) in doorways or crumpled up on the sidewalk, with all the concrete and pollution-faded facades on buildings. There was very little grass—even in parks. It had been trampled and ground away. Everywhere was gray or dirt brown. At times, even the sky was colorless, clouded over or in some way obscured. I had to get used to living with less light, less sun, less nature. I think that’s why I loved cycling so much—it was a chance to get away and see things outside of the city. Don’t get me wrong: I loved living in a culturally vibrant and diverse place. Chicago is a great place for art of all sorts. Just a bus ride away was landmark museums full of art, science, and all sorts of curiosities. I certainly made use of FREE d...

On Sunday, my day off, I did all the necessary stuff: laundry, dishes, etc but I also was outside in the cold bright and early just taking in the sunrise and snow, when I trundled to the shed for Christmas decorations. It’s been a number of years since I put up a tree—just doesn’t seem worth it—but, yet, I continue to hang around me the orbs, glass fangles and dangles, and tape Christmas cards to the walls. I’m overwhelmed by the love each object represents that I want to remember those who have remembered me. Thus, over SEVERAL hours I carefully went through my bin. In Chicago I had a schematic in my head where everything went, now it is new territory and I had no idea where things might go or work best. Several bigger framed pieces had to vacate a hook or nail and my nature shelf sacrificed space, so that in the end I have a cozy Tiny House ready for Christmas—complete with a poinsettia! First, playing with my theme of blues against the far facing wall, I stretched a piece of h...

  “December” by James Schuyler Il va neiger dans quelques jours FRANCIS JAMMES The giant Norway spruce from Podunk, its lower branches bound, this morning was reared into place at Rockefeller Center. I thought I saw a cold blue dusty light sough in its boughs the way other years the wind thrashing at the giant ornaments recalled other years and Christmas trees more homey. Each December! I always think I hate “the over-commercialized event” and then bells ring, or tiny light bulbs wink above the entrance to Bonwit Teller or Katherine going on five wants to look at all the empty sample gift-wrapped boxes up Fifth Avenue in swank shops and how can I help falling in love? A calm secret exultation of the spirit that tastes like Sealtest eggnog, made from milk solids, Vanillin, artificial rum flavoring; a milky impulse to kiss and be friends It’s like what George and I were talking about, the East West Coast divide: Californians need to do a thing to enjoy it. A smile in the street may b...

 I remember as a little kid waiting in line for Santa. This is one of my earliest memories so I was very young. I must have been told who Santa was and that he was responsible for bringing my presents. I understood I had a duty to tell him what I wanted. So we showed up at the department store and rode the elevator up. We got off into a cottony world of sparkly snowflakes. We wandered through colored lights and fabricated gumdrops. We winded through what looked like a workshop manned by elves with jingle hats and bells on their toes. It seemed to take forever. Finally we made it to a studio where there was a camera and helpers, and sitting on a throne was a fat man in a red suit with a fake beard. The Big Kahuna. The main event. Santa.  I climbed aboard his lap and whispered what I wanted for Christmas and then it was over. Leaving, I realized that all those places we walked through, Winter Wonderland, Elf Workshop, Santa World was all part of the experience and I had missed...

 Lately, while listening to Christmas music—yes, I begin listening way before Thanksgiving—I’ve been struck by the relevance or how certain lyrics have taken on new significance. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, written in 1943 during war-time is just as relevant today under a pandemic where we cannot travel, must stay socially distanced, and DO NOT eat figgy pudding together! Have yourself a merry little Christmas Let your heart be light From now on Our troubles will be out of sight *** Through the years We all will be together If the fates allow So hang a shining star Upon the highest bough A merry little Christmas now O, Holy Night is another one. I’ve blogged about this before—here is a link ,  https://memoirouswrite.blogspot.com/2019/12/o-holy-night.html Some bright (not really, maybe a little) examples:  Long lay the world in sin and error pining Till he appeared and the soul felt it's worth The thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices For yonder breaks a n...

O Holy Night is a well-known Christmas carol composed by Adolphe Adam in 1847 to the French poem "Minuit, chrétiens" (Midnight, Christians). I remember it as the finale to the Christmas Eve program at the Presbyterian church we attended in Kettering. It can be a long night until the next morning to hold off on opening presents. At least the car ride and time at church filled those tense, anxious hours. O Holy Night seems to be the perfect vehicle for a soloist, and, indeed, the woman who sang it annually was a trained professional, the daughter of one of the congregants, who came down from New York City. I remember one snowy Christmas in particular when there was speculation whether she would make it in time. Yet, always, in the end she rose up from the robed choir to take her place at the podium. The lights in the church were dimmed, lit mainly by the Advent candles, all of them now burning. The coughing and fidgeting ceased—in expectation. Or perhaps, we were all t...

Yesterday while walking past the Jewel parking lot I smelled pine. Already the Christmas trees have arrived. Suddenly I was engulfed in a James Schuyler poem “December” by James Schuyler Il va neiger dans quelques jours FRANCIS JAMMES The giant Norway spruce from Podunk, its lower branches bound, this morning was reared into place at Rockefeller Center. I thought I saw a cold blue dusty light sough in its boughs the way other years the wind thrashing at the giant ornaments recalled other years and Christmas trees more homey. Each December! I always think I hate “the over-commercialized event” and then bells ring, or tiny light bulbs wink above the entrance to Bonwit Teller or Katherine going on five wants to look at all the empty sample gift-wrapped boxes up Fifth Avenue in swank shops and how can I help falling in love? A calm secret exultation of the spirit that tastes like Sealtest eggnog, made from milk solids, Vanillin, artificial rum flavoring; a milky impulse to kiss and be fri...

"Advent" by James Schuyler Open my eyes on the welcome rosy shock of sunshine. Open the first little door of my Advent calendar: a darling hobby horse on wheels. Open the window a crack: and quickly close it against a knife-like draught. The day looks warmer than it is. My other job is helping to curate art at Wilson Abbey/Everybody's Coffee--here is a glimpse at our current project #biggestadventcalendar Come and See Wilson Abbey Windows #biggestadventcalendar are back! Located at 935 W. Wilson Avenue in Chicago, the three-story building will again unveil each day of Advent a new window decorated with seasonal images. Beginning December 1, celestial themes with a mix of magic realism will occupy each window, culminating with the final center window December 25. “This year there will be doves in outerspace,” says building manager and co-founder of Everybody’s Coffee, Karl Sullivan. “For instance the Tuskegee Airmen represent the Three Wisemen.” New...

Here is a contest you might want to consider sending flash work inspired by the holidays. Friday Flash Fiction is about to launch this year's Christmas Competition – usual prize, $50 in the winner's local currency. As ever it'll be sponsored by Comely Bank Publishing. You'll be invited to take part in two ways: You'll be invited to submit one (or more) stories to the competition; AND You'll be invited to vote for the story you think is best. First of all we'll be inviting anyone to write a flash fiction story of 100 words or fewer. The story has to be in the English language but that's about the only limitation. This year is theme-free – the door is wide open for you. Every 100-word story posted in from the 1st December until entries close on TUESDAY 18th December will be eligible to win. Entry is COMPLETELY FREE. In accordance with tradition, last year's winner, Lyn Miller and I will select around half a dozen contenders. O...

Waiting for Christmas At Christmas every light comes on, in the basement where my daughter home from college retrieves ice cream, in the dining room a lamp illuminates the abandoned puzzle, the laundry nook dazzles, while the back porch radiates a smoky incandescence, the TV flickers a blue twilight, in the middle of the night my heart pulses as I reflect. Soon the house will be silent, the only light the bulb above my reading chair. I'm lonely and miss you

I want to finish a book and start another sit and listen to music over and over watch a movie-- from beginning to end,    straight through savor a cup of tea, holding it letting it warm my hands next to my cheek.

  This time of year brings its own particular memories—usually brought on by the five senses. The smell of fresh-fallen snow reminds us of sled runs when we were younger, the velvety taste of hot chocolate reminds me of sipping cocoa from my Santa mug when I was five or six years old, the ugly ornament half broken and losing its shiny luster is the one I am most fond of, the one my mother gave me that used to be hers. The lights, the carols, the yummy smells all work together to bring forth memories—some good, some not so good. I remember one particular weekend before Christmas when I was a Girl Scout leader for my daughter’s troop. At best it was like herding cats. Trying to get a dozen or so girls to cooperate, for one minute to shut up and listen. We had plans to go downtown to the Museum of Science and Industry for Christmas Around the World . Does the museum still do this? It is where in the Great Hall trees representing Christmas in other lands are decorated. These...

All this week I have been having flashes. Memory flashes where I am suddenly reminded of something, and, then after another second, the flash is gone. Like so much in life. We had a baby, we had a little girl, we had this little tiny family. And then one day we are all on our separate paths. Maybe it is the holiday season that brings all this up. I am remembering all the hub-bub and chaos of Thanksgiving and Christmas with a young child. You see things through their eyes. Or maybe that is romanticizing things a bit. At the moment all we feel is chaos. The memory filters out the stress and I am left remembering the wonder. The pure joy. Little elemental transcendent sparkles like snowflakes on rosy cheeks—but only for a second, before melting away, and disappearing altogether. Each ornament, each stocking, each damaged school art project retrieved from the Xmas Decoration Bin pulled out of storage—each has a story to tell, some unintended spontaneous flash memory to...