Memoirous

I read in the news that Phil Donahue died. Suddenly I felt very Daytonian. I texted my friend, also a Jane, from Dayton. Donahue died, is what I wrote. I knew Jane would understand. It’s not news but us. Once more, we’re remembering our childhood and where we came from and how pieces of it are sloughing off each day. I can’t help but think of Donahue and Erma Bombach the famous newspaper humorous and author of several books who was also from Dayton. She and Phil Donahue were neighbors in Centerville, Ohio (where I’m from) when they both broke out onto the national stage. (Side note: my piece “Obsolete,” was published Fall, 2019 in the Erma Bombeck blog out of University of Dayton.) Anyway, Phil Donahue died and now my friend and I are left bemoaning that we, too, will one day be relegated to a random memory to those who care to remember. RIP Phil. Peace.    

From the Corona Files A Voice from the Past We’re hearing a lot these days about keeping in touch with friends—via social distancing. So I’ve been making and receiving calls. Last week I answered the phone and was thrown into mental gymnastics. “Guess who this is?” I racked my brain. Mary Anne? I’d last spoke to Mary Anne maybe 30 years ago. In 1980 when I moved out of the house after high school, Mary Anne was my first roommate in Dayton. So yeah, it’s been a minute. We took a good while to catch up. We each had gotten married, divorced, had kids, now grown kids. She has grandkids. It was actually hard to imagine. When we lived together in Dayton near UD it was the “bad” side of town. Not exactly a ghetto, but working class in a working class town. Mary Anne told me that the district had gone through gentrification and urban renewal. The house we lived in would likely sell for half a million. I remember the electrical being so fragile that we couldn’t run an ...

So this week I’ve been focused on the end of the world. How it’s all going to end. And, in case you missed it: the end of Pier 1. Pier 1 Imports bankruptcy: Chain files for Chapter 11 as it continues closure of up to 450 stores I remember going to the Pier 1 at the Dayton Mall. Back when there was such a thing. It was the kind of place a teenager with a meager allowance could spend a few bucks. Candles, little enamel lacquered boxes that opened like treasure chests. Imports from Africa, wooden beads, parasols from the Orient. I wove stories—even if there is no Orient, but a figment of the imagination. It wasn’t about geography—more a place of mind. A key chain from which dangled a leather Moroccan shoe with an upturned toe. Reinforced stereotypes. It might have all been junk made in China. But to a fifteen-year old from Centerville, Ohio it was exotic. Worlds I could hold in my hands. Without getting on a plane I could go instead to Pier 1 and travel long distance...

Holiday @ Home Parade It’s that time of year—back to school—when I recall the Holiday @ Home Parade in Kettering, Ohio. Here is a flashback post: from an earlier post:  http://memoirouswrite.blogspot.com/search?q=holiday+at+home Holiday at Home Parade Labor Day weekend. School was right around the corner. Which meant autumn was coming, falling leaves, and change. But things would never be different. Freshman year I was a nerd. As a sophomore I was a more experienced nerd. Junior year I entered school thinking halfway done, only 2 more years of being an ostracized nerd. Finally as a senior, I knew it was my last year. I'd never be popular but forever a nerd. But at least a nerd on her way out. The only good thing about Labor Day weekend was the Holiday at Home Parade. I looked forward to getting there early and finding a seat along the curb. Friends of my parents lived close to the parade route, so I rode up to their house and parked my bike in their garage. The Centervil...

I remember, growing up in Centerville, Ohio, near Dayton, going to department stores. You could spend the day shopping at Rike’s, then have lunch in their restaurant and get your hair done at the store salon. Elder-Berman was possibly one step down, but a notch up from J.C. Penny. Unbelievably places where you placed orders and had the products delivered was not considered as classy as actually shopping. I still have a fancy hand-painted hairclip manufactured in France that I bought at Rikes one day on a whim. Rike’s have now gone the way of Field’s, consolidated into a Macy’s. Which will probably go the way of all things. One day there will just be Amazon. To shop local we went to the hardware store. The hardware store was where we bought most of our stuff. I was reminded of this when someone wanted to know where they could buy some ice skates. I bought my Huffy bicycle and ice skates at PK Hardware where my mother worked as a cashier and, thus, we got a store discoun...

I’ve done a lot of crazy things for money. Collected bottles and cans for cash, There was the usual: babysitting, mowing grass, cleaning the kitty litter, and shoveling snow. I got up at 4 in the morning to deliver newspapers. One summer me and the neighborhood kids built an amusement park in the backyard and charged admission. We sold Zagnut and Zero bars at our concession stand. The weirdest thing I’ve ever done was answer an ad looking for someone to dress up in a broccoli costume and walk around the mall offering samples of raw vegetables. It seemed surreal—probably because I was sleep deprived. It was my final semester of college, I needed a few extra bucks. But surreal in the sense that I, a vegetable, was asking people to eat me, to eat my fellow vegetables. It felt cannibalistic. Obviously, I was overthinking the job. Whenever I see broccoli on the salad bar line I’m reminded of that time in my life—and usually skip it.

I took a break from the KKK the past couple of weeks. Actually a break from blogging about recent events in Charlottesville. A break from the politics, the statements, retractions, mis-statements, arguments over statues, etc, etc, etc. It’s exhausting. On many sides. I’m from Dayton, Ohio, Centerville to be exact. A well-heeled community, triple A high school, definitely upper-middle class. But as a kid I rode my bike everywhere, anywhere two wheels might take me. I also met some friends at camp and often drove to Cadiz and locales close to it in southeastern Ohio, formerly coal country. Then later I went to OU in Athens to finish my Bachelors degree where I rode my bike and ran in the foothills surrounding the university. The Ohio I remember was this: colored leaves in autumn, small towns, Main Streets, hills, small liberal arts colleges, ravines, waterfalls, hiking in Yellow Springs, car wrecks on Friday nights. Conkles's Hollow State Nature Preserve Rim Trail ...

When you reach a certain age you start losing people. There’s been a tally at the end of every year. 2017 reached new lows, new depths of grief. I’ve been thinking especially, somewhat retroactively as it happened during a very busy and then emotionally-occupying time, about my friend Curt Mortimer and all that he has meant to me through the years. His lifetime of selfless giving. Checklist Before Dying: *write a poem *vote for Hillary *watch an epic sunset *drink a good cup of coffee (especially good if accompanied by a friend) Curt had a check in every box before passing away on Election Day 2016 sitting on a park bench late afternoon. He is an example of someone who lived a good, long life committed to the people he loved. But, I’m also reminded of the first person, the first friend I had that died. They weren’t as lucky to have lived a good, long life. I remember the shock—if mortality, that time isn’t forever, that we can be too late to right wrongs, sa...

Flash Memories: I was a childhood insomniac. Sometimes in the middle of the night, the quietest hour right before dawn, I’d slip out of my bed and drop out the window to the spongy dew-grass—and under the wan light of the moon I’d twirl, my night dress lifting up like a gypsy dancer. Later I’d sneak back inside, the dog lifting his head monetarily before closing his eyes, and return to my bed. what a strange child I was

Flash Memories: Behind our house was a woods. More like undeveloped land. I remember trekking through drifts of snow with my brothers and sister to go ice skating on a pond. It was big enough to support a pick-up game of hockey and for the beginner such as myself to make circles. Once (or maybe more than that, but at least once as far as I recall) my sister fell in and kids made a chain, the last person, possibly my brother, on his stomach, to fish her out. She walked home with us soaking wet. A few times my mother drove us and we were able to put on our skates in the warmth of the car. She waited for us to finish with thermoses of hot chocolate. --If not, the way home felt long and shivering cold in the grey twilight.

From an earlier post: Wednesday, December 18, 2013 Let It Snow Already this winter we’ve had a couple of snows with more predicted for this weekend. Yup. A White Christmas!! 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 th...

The other day I had a flash, a memory—and it still brings a chill over me. It’s one of those nightmare memories, along the lines of standing next to your high school locker naked. I needed help moving and a friend loaned me his car—just one tiny problem: it was a stick shift. Like a normal twenty-year old, I thought this wasn’t going to be a problem. I loaded up the vehicle and told myself, All I have to do is get out of first and I’m rolling. It took me an hour just to get out of the driveway. On the roadway (I remember now it wasn’t a highway, but a very busy divided road—much like Far Hills Ave.) all I wanted to do was cruise. Not have to stop for a red light. Which might have worked had I not had to go about 8 miles. Eventually I did have to stop. I can still feel the terror come over me as I stalled out and, in my anxiety and fluster, was unable to get the car into gear. Either I would be rear-ended or towed, and none of these ideas appealed to me. I started, jerked, ...

The only time I’ve ever been arrested . . . . sounds like a good writing prompt. Go! The only time I’ve ever been arrested was about 40 years ago on an overpass in Nebraska. I’d flown out from Dayton, Ohio to visit my sister working at a summer camp in Platte. It was the end of the season yet before time to go back to college. At that time in Ohio classes didn’t start until the second half of September. I remember the silty-bottom rivers and sand cranes, the sound of them calling to each other over the rolling hills. Outside of that and getting arrested there isn’t much else I remember about Nebraska. That summer a friend had introduced me to the thrill of sitting on an overpass above the highway and the rush when a semi passed beneath, the sudden whoosh as it flew out. I’d sit with my feet dangling, feeling the aero dynamics through my thin-soled sneakers. Movies and bowling cost money, but this was free. So on my last night in Nebraska I talked one of my sist...

from an earlier post: http://memoirouswrite.blogspot.com/search?q=holiday+at+home Holiday at Home Parade Labor Day weekend. School was right around the corner. Which meant autumn was coming, falling leaves, and change. But things would never be different. Freshman year I was a nerd. As a sophomore I was a more experienced nerd. Junior year I entered school thinking halfway done, only 2 more years of being an ostracized nerd. Finally as a senior, I knew it was my last year. I'd never be popular but forever a nerd. But at least a nerd on her way out. The only good thing about Labor Day weekend was the Holiday at Home Parade. I looked forward to getting there early and finding a seat along the curb. Friends of my parents lived close to the parade route, so I rode up to their house and parked my bike in their garage. The Centerville Elks marching band and Coed Drill team would be in the parade along with both Fairmont high schools, East and West. Schools from ...

Already this winter we’ve had a couple of snows with more predicted for this weekend. Yup. A White Christmas!! 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 the product of glacial moraines: imagine icy fingers...

I discovered a letter you wrote to me dated 8/6/83. It was slipped into the pages of an old cookbook. What was I doing thirty years ago—making gravy? You had just gotten married and were expecting a baby. I was still single. “Where does the time go?” you asked in the opening line. Your dad recently retired. That’s when your dad was still living as was mine. Before the fragile brittleness of mortality entered in. You say you’d love to come to Chicago, but your husband has a new job and can’t get away. In Lima, Ohio. “Well,” you write, “you have to start somewhere.” We’d become friends while freshmen in high school. Different schools. I still cannot remember the exact circumstances, but it involved Young Life and meetings with guitars and exuberant singing. “It Only Takes a Spark to Get a Fire Going.” We ended up sitting next to each other and at one point in the song you turn to the person next to you and “pass it on.” The summer before tenth grade we volunteered t...

I taught a class this morning in Winnetka at the Off-Campus Writers Workshop (OCWW). I like the name of this group because even though it is “off-campus” it means that somewhere there is a university. It might be as close as I’ll get to being an adjunct (which, in some situations, is not saying so much). Anyway—it went well. We talked about where flash comes from and one of the things I mentioned was to-do lists. I create lists for just about everything. I’ve been keeping a list of things that remind me of Mom. My mother died about a year ago. I wasn’t exactly devastated when I got the phone call. She’d been in a state of fragile health for going on two months. My grief was mixed—relief and a sense of closure. Lately, though, I’ve been getting these sudden nudgings, memories provoked by the weirdest things. Here is a partial list: --excess handlotion Mom would routinely squirt too much out and then make me come over, hold open my hands, and then rub the excess lotion on ...

These unremarkable moments, they come and go, then disappear into an abyss of moments, similar in their familiarity. Staring into pure nothingness. Yet, I am made up of these moments of the ordinary. The laundry, the rising and lying down, the steady rhythm. A day like any other day, one right after another. When sometimes all that gives it shape is a cup of good coffee, the #78 arriving soon after I cross the street, or a robo call from the library letting me know a book I requested is now in. If all we aspire to when writing memoir is the monumental or heroic, the turning point or plot twist, then we are likely to overlook the mundane, which is actually the flesh and bone of existence. Sitting around a table at Shotzy’s Bar in Upper Sandusky, Ohio after Mom’s graveside service we shared simple remembrances. Mom never had to write a resume or beef up an application. There were no bullets, no highlighting her accomplishments. Her life revolved around husband and home, and as noble ...

In the Great Divorce C.S. Lewis conjectures that what we sense is reality might actually be a dim mirror of a realer reality. That’s right. If we think this is all we have: the here and now—think again. Behind this world is another where the sky is bluer, the grass greener. I know this comes across as sentimental “over the rainbow” and there is no way to prove there is a parallel universe. There is no bridge that connects us. My husband likes to tell me that my version of how something came off is simply my narrative, my overview. His postmodern opinion is that there is no objective one truth. Versions of what we think happened are as varied as the number of people who contribute their side of things. I believe my mother has crossed over. She’s fully engaged somewhere else other than here. Where she is mixing up biscuits, making cole slaw, cleaning out cupboards, searching for her rain cap. Harold is with her—and at the same time so also is her mother. Her sister Gwen doesn’t have...

So I was at my parent's house clearing stuff away. This was WAAAYY harder than I thought it would be. It's stuff. It's life. It's gone. Pretty much all the furniture had been either divvied up or taken to storage. What was left was just a bunch of little stuff. You know what I mean, all that stuff you put away in closets, under the bathroom sink, etc that can take a whole other u-haul, twenty more boxes, we're always SHOCKED at how much of the small stuff there is. Well, this was no exception. How many plastic space organizers can one woman have? The answer is innumerable. My mother had a capacity to save space by taking up space with plastic bins, drawers organizers, etc. After I emptied them half of the garage was space organizers. And plastic bags. My God! Did she never once throw one into the garbage?! These were good for stuffing, for wrapping around glass and breakables, but it was again beyond me how much trash she kept. Of course both my parents were t...