Memoirous

The other day it was 65℉ The other day I ran in capris The other day I sat outside with my tea and listened to the birds I heard a whooping crane The children stripped out of their clothes and played Today there is ice in their mud kitchen The water toys are frozen over Standing water left after the thunderstorm That ushered in the cold front The pond has turned to ice With a little pink plastic lawn mower on top

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...

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.

Yes, it’s cold outside. Bone-chilling. Sometimes all I want to do is crawl into my loft and sit under blankets and read a book while sipping a hot drink. The cozy quotient. As a kid on school break during the holidays I’d read first the books I got for Christmas, then I’d read the ones my mother bought for my father: current paperbacks, then I’d reread stuff off my brother Steve’s shelf. If I could get someone to drive me to the library, I’d be set for a while. Anyway, my mother might find me sitting on top of the heat register in the bathroom—if she bothered to look for me. It was the warmest place n the house and a place utterly private. No one wanted to barge into the bathroom and out of respect usually didn’t knock on the door. They’d go to one of the other bathrooms. This week with the relentless cold, where not even a hot drink or thick socks helped—I found myself remembering: this young girl seeking solace in books, a warm refuge in the midst of a family where I felt like ...

 Spring Snowfall   Who’s surprised? It happens every year. After April 1. Only a fool would be fooled. One day it is sunny and sixty and the next . . . below freezing. The deck slippery. The brave daffodils bobbing above slush. The children’s picnic table brought out in a flurry of excitement for the changing season—now coated in white. A cascade of emotions overwhelm me. The first: Nooooooooo! The second, a jaded sarcasm: Of course. The third, one of despair: When will this end? In my right mind, I know it won’t last. It’ll melt by noon. By the end of the week we’ll be in the 50s. All of this is solace for the soul, but does nothing for my cold hands, the white wet clinging to my slippers, the never-ending sense of being so over this. I haven’t run for about a week. Of course, nothing is stopping me. Except for the cold, the fact I might fall, The simple idea, I don’t want to, Not until it warms up. Not until spring actually arrives. Not until the sun comes out....

Slowly the tide is turning. Temperatures in the 40s this week, rain in the forecast. I’ve begun work in the new garden. On the first warmish day in February I ordered a set of box planters. What seemed like a great location when I first planted 2 years ago has turned out to be a bust. Once the trees leafed out the seedlings were sun-starved. The tomatoes and everything else planted there became stunted and kale leaves lacey with blight. The plan this year is to create a whole new space back behind the shed where there is a strip of grass that receives abundant sun. I removed the top layer of grass and dug up the old garden and transferred some of the soil to the denuded path. Then I can rake some leaves over it and let it mulch for the next 6 weeks until planting (sometime after the first of May). The new path is approx. 8 x 4 I’ll continue to use containers for the tomatoes, peppers, and thyme. There will also be porch mint and basil. The seedlings wait-on their little heat ma...

We have moved into select deck sitting. On the days when the sun is out we are able to sit within the enclave of the back patio in chairs facing the sun and in the square of sunlight hitting the decks. It’s a miracle. This past Sunday we slowly unpeeled layers of outer clothing. We set up the bistro table to hold mugs of hot tea while lounging. The little picnic table came out so the children could sit with a snack. The baby climbs up and down the stairs over and over, as if at Planet Fitness. We discuss the garden, house projects, new sand for the sand box. A Rubbermaid of sand toys is unearthed from the shed. We know it won’t last—this feeling of hope. We’ll eventually go back to cool and rainy. But, after that it will return. Come and go. For now deck sitting is keeping us going, that square patch of sunlight is lengthening, and we can at least pretend.

Sunday, once again, I joined the group Adventure-ish for a morning hike. This week the word was WET. (Last week it was ICY.) Soon it became apparent that we would be walking beside the trail more than on it. At certain points we had to traverse new spring streams. This was accomplished by walking further up/down to cross, jumping and getting a soaker, or, and this was my idea, throwing a bunch of sticks and twigs in order to cross relatively dry. At first it was a pain. We weren’t getting anywhere fast, which felt like a big change-up. I approach the hike like exercise, something to get done. Walking in cadence and letting my mind wander. Sunday’s hike was more about logistics, hopping on and over logs and figuring out how to not fall into water. But soon, the problem solving became motivational, exhilarating; I loved being about to figure things out and outfox the stream. There was at first complaining, moaning and groaning, then laughter. It reminded me that as humans we get stuc...

 The snow, piled higher and higher after each snowfall, is slowly whittling away. The square on the last deck is shrinking. Snow under the trees, at the root base, is also settling. In some places there is the faintest hint of grass. This a.m. I took both children with me to take Jack to nursery school. He for the first time in weeks was able to ride his bike. There is ice at the edges of the sidewalk where he rode to break it into pieces and hear the crack. At one point he gleefully shouted out that he was bike skating. The baby peered out above the collar of his snowsuit while tucked into the stroller, the wheels a snowy, salty mess. After dropping Jack off, we trudged home, up a hill and past the koi fish pond (snow covered, but bubbling away) and turned into the wind. It’s still cold, but there’s a hint in the air. A bit of hope.

I wonder if my readers (both of you) ever get tired of reading my minutia. A cardinal, the sun—it’s making a comeback!—all are about nothing. Pretty much the stuff of real life—when we decide to get off social media. I know, I know. It’s tough these days. But let me tell you about walking to the composter. When we got the spaceship-looking contraption we pondered where to place it. We determined the farthest corner of the back yard was best, so that if it smelled (all that rotting compost) it wouldn’t offend. So now I have to tromp across unbroken snow, the tops of my boots barely sticking out, in the freezing cold to the composter with my little buckets. It seemed reasonable that if one of us was going to dump, then I should take both my daughter’s and my compost. I compost to save the planet and hopefully make some nutrient-rich soil come spring for the garden—ahh! the garden). Once I reach the composter then I have to chisel away the snow and ice locking the lid down and yan...

Today I saw a cardinal the reddest thing ever the most colorful color in the horizon   it stood out in stark contrast to the brown and white all around   nothing nowhere compares to the cardinal flaming in the tree setting the morning on fire

We always used to say to our daughter whenever things went to catastrophe or disaster such as a flat tire, or running out of money, or getting lost in a road trip—we’re going on an adventure—meaning: we have no clue what’s going to happen next. I guess nothing too bad because I’m still here. But, the point being, putting things into a positive light in the middle of absolute internal/exterior chaos. It was a way of buying time before freaking out in order to figure out our next step. Sometimes there is no next step, but to let the natural order of chaos work itself out. Either way, whatever happens next, the entire ride is an adventure. I had an adventure yesterday. Sunday after being all cozy in the Tiny House I decided to go get groceries and stop at the library—and, why not?!, put the skies in the back of the Jeep to cross-country ski at the trails behind Aldis. I started the car and cleared the snow off the windshield etc then went to toss the little shovel thing into t...

I’ve written here about my “normal” morning routine. It used to involve reading or listening to the news—now I’m doing a kind of Benedictine hours thing sent to me by the monks at Assumption Abbey in Richardton, ND. We’re in Ordinary Time. It doesn’t feel that way. Whenever I check in with friends from Chicago or at work here in Okemos, they all say the same thing: They/re stressed out from the news aka REAL LIFE CURRENT EVENTS. I hate to say it, but stop paying attention. If the news is killing us, killing our will to live, then we have to ignore it for our own well-being. This isn’t the same as not caring. We can continue to care and read The Sermon on the Mount. We can care by taking care of ourselves and helping others as best we can. So first thing in the morning after I wake up, turn up the heat, take the thyroid pill and my Vitamin D3 gummie, and start my kettle for tea—I go out onto the deck in only my long johns and thick sweater and shovel the overnight snow. Ther...

I’ve been in Michigan for a little over 3 years and there is still so much to explore. I’d heard of Burchfield Park, but had never been. But when a notice for a Moonlight Ski came up in my feed, I thought—I’ll go! This kind of thing was right up my alley. For the past week I’ve been skiing at the Meridian Township Historic Village. The distance—both on the ski and from the house to get there were perfect for after or before work jaunts. Of course, on the sub-zero, sub-human cold days, I didn’t go. When I did, I’d be out for 40-45 minutes—not sure of how far I trekked. There were numerous trails that weaved through the woods and a ditch called Muddy Creek that laced the paths. Also a couple of picturesque footbridges over the creek. In fact, everything looked picturesque and gift calendar-like under mounds of glittering snow. The Moonlight Ski was at Burchfield Park, so here was my chance to check that out. It was far driving in the late late afternoon. I missed a turn and had to re...

I’ve reached into the back of my drawer for a couple of sweaters reserved for only the coldest of days. They are in rotation currently. They are both horse-blanket type sweaters, thickly woven, one acrylic and the other wool. One was hand-knitted the other from L.L. Bean. The green one I put on in the morning, right out of bed. As I’m turning up the heat and changing from my wool sleeping booties to shearling-lined slippers, I shimmy into the green one—sort of a throwback to the 1950s, gee-whiz Mrs. Hertenstein, kids walking a mile or two to school kind of sweater—before going outside to shovel the decks. I’m not sure how this got to be my job. Most likely because 1) I don’t want to fall, 2) I’m out there first thing because I need to go to the mothership for something, 3) I actually love doing it. No one makes me. I love waking up and in a sleep-daze go outside into the startling fresh cold air and exercise my arms, back, shoulder muscles. I’m reminded of why people sit in saunas an...

This Winter—Okemos Yes, it’s cold, but I’ve gotten so much inspiration from the frigid sunrises, The sun pours over the horizon like molten gold around 8 a.m. It starts as a lavender hue, a tiny glow that grows stronger and stronger, changing from mauve to orange. The pinks and bronzes get all mixed up, a backdrop silhouetting the bare tree limbs, tinting the snow on the ground. For a moment everything looks new again. As if we haven’t been here before—and we haven’t. There is only today—and when it is gone, we have tonight, and then tomorrow. Neolithic societies had all kinds of traditions to welcome the sun mid-winter. I’ve actually been to Newgrange in Ireland, where the docent contrived, after we clambered through a tunnel into the center of a submerged dome-like structure built around 3200 B.C. before the Celts were the Celts, to show us how the inhabitants had aligned the doorway in conjunction with the Winter solstice sunrise. Back then there was no way to mark time and an...

2 That was the temperature this morning when I awoke in my Tiny House. I sleep in a loft under layers of warm covers. So climbing down the ladder, I wasn’t immediately hit by the cold. At night I turn the heat down, though last night I wondered if it was a good idea. This a.m. it was about 56 in the Tiny House, but after I bumped up the heat. The temperatures climbed. I use a ceiling fan to send the air into the corners. My writing table and computer are near the doors, Again, not insulated, but I put a draft stopper and a blanket down at the bottom at night to help. These next few days will test the mini split, Tomorrow’s high is expected to be 3 degrees with an overnight low of -3. Fortunately I have work and keep busy babysitting at my daughter’s house. Meanwhile, I’m cozy, all bundled up at my Tiny House drinking tea and hot coco, reading in my chair with a wool blanket on my lap.

I’ve blogged here before about my regular/irregular morning routine . Post-election I’ve needed to come up with new strategies in order to save my sanity. I’m not simply going to be able to jump on my bike and ride across the country and lose myself in endless pedaling. At least not for four years. Before going to bed I organize my thoughts by listing things to do the next day/reminders/etc. A bit of a road map for when I wake up. Some of this list is aspirational, intended to keep something in front of me to work toward. For instance, it took me TWO days in a row to move stuff to the shed. I’ve listed clean and organize shed two weeks in a row and yesterday finally got to doing it. I ALWAYS write down write—even if the morning or day won’t allow for it. I do this because I’m a writer and try to remind myself daily to do the thing—even if just to blog/work on posts, even if, in some cases, it feels too hard. Lately, many things feel too hard. Before the election I’d write at the to...