Memoirous

From the Corona Files If this were 2018 I’d be leaving on one month for a month-long bike ride along the North Sea. If this were 2017 I’d be six weeks out from a cycle tour of Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and the coast of Maine followed by Art Week on Great Spruce Head Island. If this were 2016 and Obama was president we’d have no pandemic and I’d be going from John O’Groats to Land’s End in the UK. Even last year at this time I’d be planning my daughter’s wedding and a quick trip via the Adirondacks, Vermont, and a bit of New Hampshire. Now all memories as I stare out my window, wondering when I can get back on my bike, trying to remember who I used to be.

From the Corona Files I’d like to write about my discomfort this past winter that wouldn’t allow me to make plans, that made it hard to write, that caused me to question my faith. That feeling that one cannot get “started.” I’d like to write about that feeling of being here and not being here. That real life is elsewhere. That the future was moving further away each day. I’d like to write about living endlessly in a dream state while in quarantine. Someday.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about Millennials—I know, I know they get a bad rap because they don’t know anything and only pay attention to their phones. Or so it goes. Actually they have lived through the encapsulation of The Great Depression, World War II, and Vietnam. Thus said: a lot of stupid mistakes in American history. All of it foisted upon them. So, yeah, whatever. During the time of Coronavirus I think Office Girl by Joe Meno captures this moment in time. The novel has this indie feel to it of young adults circumnavigating the world. They have dreams, but they don’t seem to fit into current reality. In a wasteland of gentrification and the world falling head-first into shit, this couple has a moment. Check it out—I mean, download it. The Paris Review has an article https://tinyurl.com/y6v5yhej about parents discovering children’s books because they are staying at home reading to their kids. Some of these are older books such as Little Bear by Els...

From the Corona Files The spread of memes. noun plural noun:  memes 1.     an element of a culture or system of behavior that may be considered to be passed from one individual to another by nongenetic means, especially imitation. (mim ) a unit of cultural information, as a concept, belief, or practice, that spreads from person to person in a way analogous to the transmission of genes. Word origin.  short for  mimeme: both coined by R. Dawkins (1941- ), Brit biologist  “Meme” was coined by the often controversial evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins in his 1976 book, The Selfish Gene. ... The Greek word “mimeme” he derives “meme” from comes from the Ancient Greek μίμημα (mīmēma), meaning “that which is imitated” / “something imitated” / “something copied”. In the day and age of contagion memes are spreading like—coronavirus.

From the Corona Files I should have had a premonition about 2020. Not everything can be blamed on the virus—2020 by all accounts was already shaping up to be a stinker. So many foundational, rock-solid, salt-of-the-earth type stuff was liquefying, falling away, proving to be dust in the wind. Here is a small list: Boy Scouts Jean Vanier the Methodist Church for that matter all churches add to that the people in them The disappointment has certainly been building through the years. And, it’s nothing new: I recognized hypocrisy in the church when I was in my 20s. But, there had been a LOT of good also. I’d met caring concerned people as well as the jerks that have always been there. The genuine and authentic always seemed to outnumber the people who ruin it for everyone. Then there came a tipping point. At least I could trust Jean Vanier, winner of the Templeton Award for Humanitarian service, someone who had devoted his life to the “least of these.” The...

From the Corona Files During these days of lockdown my mind wanders to sunnier times—walking around without a mask, to bicycling along back roads. I remember a ride with two friends where we passed through nameless small villages. Try as I might, I cannot recall the name of the town. There were a lot of Little Norways and names dedicated to the old country, a country and time so far back in generations that the geography lent no DNA. Anyway, I passed a primitive, enclosed graveyard on a bluff, the stone wall eroding in sandy debris down the hillside.   A marker indicated the cemetery was dedicated to the victims of a cholera outbreak. Loose research on the Internet turns up reoccurring epidemics mostly during the hot prairie summers. Folks didn’t know what it was or how to stop it; they only knew it killed quickly, dehydrating victims who usually died of diarrhea until bodily systems shut down. “Some were feeling healthy and fine in the morning, but dead by the af...

From the Corona Files Lately I’ve been in a state of limbo, where time has very little definition or meaning. This actually feels different than “time off” or “vacation” time. During the holidays I let go: go to bed and sleep late. With the caveat that it is all provisional—that eventually after the first of the year etc I will go back to work. In time suspended, in the time of corona I still set the alarm and get up as normal because I don’t want to forget. I want to remember what it feels like to have a schedule. In this surplus of time I’ve found another dimension. What about “me” time? Maybe I have a much bigger quotient of self-guilt; I know I can be harder on myself than others around me are—but when one cannot be productive how to quantify “me” time? I guess it could all be considered “me” time. Yet, during what would normally be considered working hours I spend that time stressing out about being unproductive; I worry about all the stuff I’m not doing. But once late ...

From the Corona Files I am slowly beginning to understand a call to duty. Full disclosure: I am anti-nationalist, anti-militaristic. Yes, I stand for Pledge of Allegiance and respect the flag; I just don’t wave it around. Remember right after 9/11 when every house you passed down the street had a flag out front. It creeped me out. I do not believe in American exceptionalism. Friends from Norway like to remind me that their country is first in funding the UN, their students do better than ours, and that their happiness quotient is off the charts. In Sweden they have words for this kind of lifestyle where residents are relaxed and cozy—while Americans are traumatized by school shootings. I find it hard to rally up patriotic spirit. Except lately. I am totally committed, 100% behind what my state governor and the Chicago mayor have called for: the stay-at-home order. I wear a face mask when out in public. I social distance. It is my civic mission to help keep others al...

From the Corona Files Folks have been making a big deal lately about wearing pants. I get it. There are days where I stay in pajamas until noon. I’m lying—there are days I never get out of pajamas. For Zoom meetings no one needs to know I’m only wearing underwear. BUT when I do decide to get dressed I’ve come to realize my wardrobe resembles gardening clothes. It is the over-sized comfy shirt with threadbare elbows thrown on over the ratty T-shirt with bleach stains. I’ve never been big on jeans. Even as a teen I found them restrictive, but I sure as hell would not wear stretch pants, the polyester kind with the elastic top. Now—I live in yoga pants which is stretch pants by any other name. I have not worn shoes with heels now for a number of weeks. I scuff around in slippers or else garden togs. For the longer walk I wear paint-spattered tennis shoes. Every time I look at Dr. Birx in her countryclub get-up at the presidential press briefings I think, sheesh, lady,...

SPECIAL ISSUE #11: "Hope in Renewal" (An Intermission) Lives around the world have been disrupted by the current situation. We wait in limbo for what might lie ahead in our own homes and outside our doors. And though we'll be documenting it for months and years to come,  Eastern Iowa Review  is sending out a call for writing and artwork in April focused on "hope in renewal." We welcome many interpretations of "hope," and realize not everything hopeful will be bright and shiny. If you're bringing us something darker, please make sure it ends with hope, with something that lifts our spirits. We all need that at this time. Scroll down to find the submission link. http://www.portyonderpress.com/

From the Corona Files So far I’ve played 85,000 games of Solitaire I think I'm reaching the peak, hopefully flattening the curve of loneliness

  From the Corona Files My building is beneath a common flight path. I’m used to seeing in early evening, like fireflies appearing, planes queued up out over the lake. Tiny little pinpricks of light in the twilight sky, circling before lining up to proceed to the airport about five miles west of my building. These days the lavender night skies are nearly empty.

From the Corona Files Today’s Headline: 'World faces worst recession since Great Depression' I was made for times like these I’ve always been a tough mudder—a reference to the race run through an obstacle course of water and mud challenges, but also an innuendo for a tough motha. One time when I was straining the meat out of some disgusting casserole to make a sloppy joe sandwich, a friend saw what I was up to and said, “In the apocalypse I want you on my team.” I was a saver, before saving was cool. For example, check out my bread tie collection. I re-use plastic wrap, getting multiple uses. I salvaged elastic, buckles, and buttons from old clothes before cutting them into rags to wax the floor, polishing my shoes with holey socks. Today I’m fashioning raggedy T-shirts into face masks—using hair ties stashed here and there for the elastic that slips over the ears. I am the daughter of a daughter of the Great Depression.

SPECIAL ISSUE Information:  ADANNA Seeks women's stories during the Pandemic of Coronavirus outbreak    DEADLINE:  May 15, 2020 Adanna Literary Journal  is a women focused print publication.  We are seeking essay, poetry, and creative non-fiction that speaks towards the experience of mothering in a time of crisis—caring for children, especially those with children in college returning from affected areas, those with younger children exposed to media and the anxiety of school shut-downs, as well as women who are caring for elderly relatives or those in the medical profession.  To submit, please e-mail adannasubmissions@yahoo.com.   The subject line should read “Special Issue” to distinguish this from our annual issue.   Art & Photography will also be accepted in submission.

From the Corona Files So this is the week I would have been going to Grand Rapids for the Festival of Faith & Writing. Instead I’m sitting at home. Last week I realized that when I opened up my non-fiction project, made changes, and saved it—that I’d accidentally “wrote” over my file—thus the stuff I’d saved earlier before going on coronavirus hiatus was lost. Is any of this making sense? And, the only two “jobs” I’ve had lately: 1) running deliveries to our front desk upstairs to people in lockdown and 2) volunteering at the homeless shelter, serving dinner once a week—I will likely be giving up as I’ve been deemed high-risk. Does my life feel insignificant? Small? Yes. Even Thomas Merton at his hermitage (within Gethsemani Abbey) in Kentucky was able to work in his garden, break the intense isolation by walking down the hill. They say these next two weeks could be the worst (been hearing this for awhile) and that perhaps by early May things might loosen ...

From the Corona Files I was talking to a friend the other night, speculating that when this is all over and we’d made it, I will be diminished. Today I see better what I was trying to say—                                        we will have lost our innocence.

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 ...

This Year, by the Mountain Goats From the Corona Files A Lockdown To-Do List What comprises my day? The high-functioning Jane is gone, the one who could get a foot-long to-do list done in a day, the one used to doing three things at once. For example cross-stitching while watching TV—a foreign film with subtitles. Now there’s no to-do list. There are no deadlines or dates. If I’m lucky there’s a Zoom on the schedule. I’ve been reduced to the elemental, to sitting and staring out the window, drinking tea, and the occasional quarantine snack. My to-do list is made up of calling old friends, writing letters, baking bread. Reach out, be kind. And, if I do half of that, I’ve been highly productive.

And people stayed at home And read books And listened And they rested And did exercises And made art and played And learned new ways of being And stopped and listened More deeply Someone meditated, someone prayed Someone met their shadow And people began to think differently And people healed. And in the absence of people who Lived in ignorant ways Dangerous, meaningless and heartless, The earth also began to heal And when the danger ended and People found themselves They grieved for the dead And made new choices And dreamed of new visions And created new ways of living And completely healed the earth Just as they were healed. poem by Kitty O'Meara, a former teacher and chaplain from Wisconsin, in trying to process the worsening news surrounding the catastrophic spread of the coronavirus. She had adopted the persona of a poet writing years before the Spanish Flu, then even made up the idea that it presaged that pandemic and now ...

Another in my series of the Corona Files The Decameron seems like the right book for the right time. Composed in 1348 the premise involves a group of young people who have fled the Black Death to a secluded villa outside of Florence. They’re bored; they’ve eaten through their quarantine snacks; they’ve binge-watched the latest Netflix. And, because they don’t know about social distancing, they sit around together and come up with a plan to entertain each other. For each of the days of lockdown one of the members will share a story. The author, Giovanni Boccaccio, is himself a young man. The plague, ravaging all of Europe and his hometown, has claimed the lives of Boccaccio’s father, step-mother, and many of his close friends. I’m wondering if he is self-soothing by writing the tales that number The Decameron (one hundred). The book is structured as a frame story—meaning that the setting, the prescribed situation of death hanging over their heads, the end of the world a...