Memoirous

I don't have room for a lot of stuff where I live, but after both my parents passed away this winter (I know, incredibly sad) I asked if I could bring home with me a large collection of pictures. It was a HUGE job. Scads of miscellaneous ephemera and pictures of who? when? why? Then I stumbled upon an envelope--and truthfully it made me cry. It was full of pictures, some you can tell only taken a second or two after each other, of Mom and my oldest brother, my parent's first-born. Anyway, I never knew this person. Mom looks SOOOOO young and thin and in love with her baby boy. I think the word would be PROUD. Steve--you made Mom proud. Enjoy: back of this one says at Aunt Sallie's house in Cincinnati

After losing both of my parents in a matter of 2 months, I'm now more than ever reflecting upon the transience of life and what remains when everything is done. The Tree of Life. The Tree of Life is a film by Terrence Malick whose earlier work has exhibited an ethereal quality--grass blowing in the wind, long takes of actors staring across empty fields, etc.  I'm not sure how to describe this movie. Is it a montage, a series of vignettes, moody, emotive? But more important than what it says are the questions the film forces us to ask: What is this about? Where's the story? --spoiler--it has no traditional storytelling arc. Tree of Life is flash memoir. Moments. Ordinary. Riven. Island. A mother's voice. A father's criticism. The look from a younger brother. Trust. Betrayal. It is about the threads of life that weave in and out of all of us. I couldn't stop thinking that the house in the film reminded me of my Aunt Jane's house in Upper Sandusky, Ohio...

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 ...