Memoirous

Lately Google has been sending me “photo memories.” Six years ago, four, three, highlights from 2021, etc. The best of April. And, usually, it’s a picture of my tent (or an old tent before my current one) set up somewhere remote: a hillside in the Scottish highlands, next to the GAP, Greater Allegheny Passage trail outside of Pittsburgh, a flashback to my Lewis & Clark trip, or my ride from Amsterdam to Norway. All these photo memories seem a million years ago. It is the selection, the zeroing in on the epic, that moment either early morning or at night setting up camp, alone, just me the tent and grassland or trees. It’s as if Google is teasing me—remember! See you are not gone, you are here! For some I’m sure, as soon my photo stream will only contain one kind of photo, pics of family, the baby, the grandkids, friends eating on the back deck. I dream of it reflecting other lives—not enticing me to come away, to go live with the fairies in a netherland, between everyday reali...

Despite how I must look to strangers, I do not feel old. The essential Jane is still here, the Janie that woke up early in the summers to ride her bike to Indiana and back, the school girl often lost in daydreams, the one always with a plan that turned into disaster before ending up as innovation. Yet, today, with wrinkles and gray hair I appear (if anyone indeed notices at all) past all definitions of prime, competent, vital. Someone in need of Geritol—remember those commercials? Again, I’m dating myself. For most of us we walk from the car to the front door of the supermarket, down the food aisles, back out to the parking lot and no one knows that beneath our clothes, hidden under the flesh is a rock star. Lately, I’ve become fascinated by YouTube videos (sorry, not on Tik Tok, hahaha, too old!), featuring vocalists from the 80s—such as Natalie Merchant. Of 10,000 Maniacs fame, Wonder, These Are the Days. She’s old, has long gray, more salt than pepper hair, wrinkles like me, no ...

I have fallen two times since being in Eugene. I’m age 62 so this is no small thing. The absolute terror, checking if bones have broken, did I lose conscious. Embarassment at my own stupidity, frailty, mortality. Should I install grab bars, wear a helmet when going out, use a walker? I’m not there yet. Both instances involved running. I had just gotten my vaccine and was feeling invincible; I went on a run to celebrate I’d made it through a plague year. I’d made it! Then, bam! I was paying no attention to my feet and the sidewalk. My toe had caught some broken pavement and, not being at all aware, my head slammed onto the ground like a bouncing ball. No one was around, but it must have been hard—all the neighborhood dogs started barking. Dazed, I quickly got up and looked around. Everything seemed all there, so I took off. Later I had a bulging blue/green bruise ripening on my forehead. I looked like a domestic abuse victim. Then a few weeks ago I had a terrific run. I’ve taken...

 As I mentioned in my last post I work at a bike shop. It’s (for now) just me, the owner and a student running things. During Covid people decided they wanted to bike. It is automatically a social distance form of recreation. Gyms closed so folks were looking to exercise. Also for those who had to work but didn’t want to take public transportation (either because of germs or the bus shut down) they got new bikes or had to fix up their old one. Regardless bike shops under the pandemic have been busy. We’re considered essential workers. So to be clear, we have not stopped since I’ve been there. Every day is busy. The demographics, in my limited opinion, seem to skew older. There are many people just now getting into cycling, but the old geezers, like me, have been doing it since the 70s. Or are in their 70s. Either way, when they come into the shop and see me a 62-year-old lady in a shop apron embroidered with a bike on the bib, they feel at ease. Especially the women. We can g...

A couple posts ago I wrote about my Norwegian Sweater ( http://memoirouswrite.blogspot.com/2020/01/the-norwegian-sweater.html ). Specifically I wrote about how when I was younger the idea of wearing a thick, wool sweater set me aflame in hot flashes. This is not exactly a series of flashes about hot flashes (though it sounds alliteratively interesting), but I would like to write and explore the idea of what used to feel totally wrong, now is exactly who I am now. Basically I was Young, and now I’m not. Case study: Sundays I used to burn with the energy of a thousand suns. I Sunday came around and I had not done “anything,” then I would have to fix that. Sundays were for ten-mile runs. Going down to the park and playing soccer. Finding someone and riding my bike –60 miles. Sundays were the capstone to an epic weekend. If Sunday night rolled around and I didn’t have anything to tell my friends at work the next day then the weekend was a wash-up. At bootcamp when I g...

The Norwegian Sweater I remember a time when I was young and hearty— and never cold, so that we ripped the radiator out of the room in order to get two and half more feet of living space I was given thick wool sweaters that I passed on, gave away to Salvation Army; they were made for people living on the streets After having my baby (thirty years ago) my feet ached I bought cushiony fleece and suede slippers from L. L. Bean but hardly wore them; they made my feet so hot I had to kick them off in the night I could not imagine a time when I’d ever be cold My motor ran fast and high, creating energy to light up Chicago, or at least my block I lost more sweaters leaving them on the back of chairs or castoff in other people’s kitchen, or forgotten on the sidewalk after loading up the car. Now I live in thick wooly sweaters six months out of a year and that Norwegian sweater is my mainstay, and those Bean slippers: I sleep in ...

I’ve been going through a dry period. Tell me this is normal!! I’ve been someone who could dash off a short story a week, about a dozen flashes, along with 3 blog posts. I kept a critique group busy every 2 weeks reading my stuff. Now I’m lucky to hold a single thought in my head for 20 minutes. I’d like to blame the Internet because secretly I’m afraid it is a sign I’m growing old. And I’m petrified of aging. It is all about the mystery. I’ve never been here before, each new year, each new day and I have all these questions. If only I knew what the future looked like, then I might not be so afraid. But we don’t have that luxury. I need to be able to ride my bike, write stories, find enjoyment in reading, meeting new people. I live in a building with an elevator, so I’m okay with letting go of climbing stairs. In fact, lately, I stare up the stairs and then walk around the corner to the elevator bank. Speaking of banks—I got my first perk of aging! I have quit ...