Memoirous

I’ve learned that birthdays don’t mean a lot. In fact, they can be somewhat disappointing, a let down. Birthdays come and go. Since this blog is about memories, I’d like to share how I celebrated the 200 th birthday of the USA. 1976 found me at a Young Life camp outside of Pittsburgh, PA. I was a volunteer at an inner-city youth camp put on by an organization for high schoolers called Young Life. It was considered cool Christian. My high school allowed the club to post info in meetings on campus. I met through Young Life a life-long friend, Jane McSweeney nee Jarrell, from Dayton, Ohio. She was city mouse and I was if not country mouse at least Centerville-suburban mouse. She and I were recruited for the camp, where we met Mark Bruce and a few other Young Lifers. I didn’t work directly with the kids; I did laundry. It was a regular machine and took forever to do many, many loads. On the morning of the 4 th , I was aware it was supposed to be a monumental day—for the nation, not ...

There are still a few of us on Facebook—though not as many as in the 2010s, For me, it’s a way to catch a glimpse of old friends, look at holiday pictures, post my bike trips. In fact, every day now there is some new old picture Facebook is reminding me of=all bike trips from the past decade. There’s fall 2015 when I cycled from Pittsburgh to Washington DC on the GAP and C&O Towpath. There’s my old bike leaning against a tree. There’s a pic from my trip to Sweden in 2014 when I rented a bike on Gotland. I had no itinerary—only a vague idea that I wouldn’t get too lost—I was on an island. Last fall I was in Switzerland, Germany, the city of Berlin. I visited friends and rode the Rhine River. There are autumn getaways—such as the jaunt I just took to Traverse City and thereabouts. That, too, will show up in my digital memories. I am followed by bike paths I have followed, the ghost of past trips haunt me both online and in mind. I see they are in my blood and under my skin. W...

About this time last year I was prepping for my trip to Switzerland/Germany/Rhine River Bike Ride— This year, my bus trip to Traverse City and biking around Sleeping Bear Dunes. I’ve always maintained a nature shelf. My daughter now has one for both her children. I change things out as the seasons change. I can see from the mementos on the shelf and various ephemera bike trips I’ve made through the years. In 2016 I made a fall trip from John of Groats in the northernmost of the UK down to Land’s End in Cornwall. In 2014 I made a trip over to Sweden to visit friends, which included a hapless backpacking jaunt and biking around Gotland—an island off the mainland. I love looking at my postcards and small finds. The word souvenir comes from the French meaning a thing that is kept as a reminder of a person, place, or event. to remember, come First recorded in 1775 as meaning “a remembrance or memory,” the noun souvenir stems from the French souvenir “to remember, come to mind.” A ...

Talking on the phone about Ron Brown’s Memorial   You have to trust that every friendship has no end, that a communion of saints exists among all those living and dead, who have truly loved God and one another. You know from experience how real this is. Those you have loved deeply and who have died live on in you, not just as memories but as real presences. --Henri Nouwen   A kind of grieving, missing, longing Missing not just a single man A great man, a big-hearted man But who we used to be   In the pictures I see Henry Huang, Lottie Jones, Stan and Vera I see their kids—or don’t recognize them Everyone is older, indistinguishable   The Communion of Saints Unsaints, using walkers Some, themselves, facing grave illnesses   Divorced now, separated All of us, in our own spaces, comfort zones Into old age, disease, ill-ease Mental health, fragile I can’t help but wonder Who we’d be all together Even grumpier, haters ...

If one were to look by the numbers, I’d be a publishing success. So far in 2023 I’ve had 8 acceptances—about one per month. Except . . . How is success measured? I’m struggling to get representation for my novel manuscript, placement for my short story collection, and then there’s the nonfiction project languishing because I lack a platform. Yet, I continue to write and get smaller pieces accepted. This is not a revenue driver. Mostly the journals taking my work are grateful for free content (their word, not mine)—though I do think they genuinely like the story. Albeit, they do not pay. This week I learned a short story I wrote titled Little Norway was taken by Pensive Journal: A Global Journal of Spirituality & the Arts. Cool! The genesis of the story is thus: When my daughter was getting married and had her reception at a church in Sycamore, IL I remember seeing the church kitchen and thinking—a homeless person could hide out here and always have food and a stealth plac...

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 ...

The Last Blockbuster ever anywhere. Wow, it sounds like extinction. This is a documentary streaming on Netflix that I came across the other night. It was a program of hope—that this place has survived—and of nostalgia—its fame and renown has only increased with the distinction of being the last. It also seemed a bit lonely, no other mate in order to procreate. Also there is the hint in the show that they, too, might be shut down, refranchised at the end of their contract. For now, Bend, OR has the only known Blockbuster in existence. The doc also brought up memories. I remembered me and my husband walking to the Blockbuster on Argyle, to a strip mall in Little Saigon, to pick up a couple of videos. This is the square bulky thing. It was hard to choose from among all the new releases—and, though we were assured of numerous copies, there was still a scarcity. We waited around hoping someone might drop off the one I wanted to see. Mike’s preferences were art house so those were usuall...

Soon it will be time to pack up. It is easy (somewhat) to get rid of my stuff. There are rules ( see death-cleanse, Marie Kondo) such as if you haven’t worn it for 3 years or if you are waiting to fit into an article of clothing just get rid of it. All the kitchen gadgets, “Tupperware” (really just used yoghurt tubs), tiny bars of soap, the one-sock bag=all of this goes. The maybe pile takes more deliberation, yet when the rules are applied, it’s a no-brainer. But what about Mom’s wedding dress? Mike’s father’s old record collection? Grace’s books, the ones she read as well as the ones she wrote? Our mini-storage is nine-tenths memories, full of other people’s stuff that we cannot bring ourselves to get rid of. When my parents died I was not offered anything of worth from their estate. All of that was divided among the other siblings. It is a story of betrayal, yet an old story that is still being written. Instead I took the stuff no one else wanted. Who takes a 75-year old wed...

Still on the theme of Remembering/Memories, John Legend Remember Us John Legend, Rapsody This song is a playful reminder of past times, better times It is also a soulful, slow groove, a romantic song Perhaps a good WRITING PROMPT might be to layer some sentences that follow this pattern, build a memory   Oh, I remember this: I remember you and I was like lightning and thunder (lightning and thunder) 'Member that night you met my daddy and mama? (Daddy and mama) Got drunk for the first time, we laughed all summer Laughed at Martin, we starved, it was part of the come-up Actin' juvenile to Juvenile, backin' it up Actin' a nut in the Acura, the number one stunna (oh, yeah, yeah) I remember you the same, you made me laugh 'til we cried Had knots in our stomachs (that's right) You remember parties, nights up at the skating rink? (Oh) Goin' crazy, watchin' Kobe win another ring (goin' crazy) We would argue, kiss and ma...

This blog has been in the past about memories, those imagined and those substantiated. I came across recently a trailer for an indi art house movie: The Secrets We Keep It is about a young woman, a refugee transplant after World War II now living in New York with her family, seemingly the hard war years behind her—until, memories are stirred by the sound of a whistle. A stranger whistling for his dog. One could say this is a thriller, a suspense film as she becomes obsessed with discovering the truth and coming face-to-face with herself and her haunting memories. So I’m not going to the movies right now and will likely miss seeing this film in the theater—but I love the premise and the struggle between what is true and what we thing is true—and the grey area in between.

We are about to turn the calendar page to March. Every February reminds me of James Schuyler. Lots of things remind me of his work and words.   Here is a poem written on February 28 (1969) that reflects a memory from years gone by, the glow of remembered light. “February” A chimney, breathing a little smoke. The sun, I can’t see making a bit of pink I can’t quite see in the blue. The pink of five tulips at five p.m. on the day before March first. The green of the tulip stems and leaves like something I can’t remember, finding a jack-in-the-pulpit a long time ago and far away. Why it was December then and the sun was on the sea by the temples we’d gone to see. One green wave moved in the violet sea like the UN Building on big evenings, green and wet while the sky turns violet. A few almond trees had a few flowers, like a few snowflakes out of the blue looking pink in the light. A gray hush in which the boxy trucks roll up Second Aven...

Susan Jordan, This American Life Radio and Memories Even on the radio I could tell: She was a nice person. I recently listened to the podcast This American Life where they re-aired a piece originally from 2001—the theme was A Return to Childhood, where Alex Blumberg went in search of his old babysitter, Susan Jordan, in “Ich... Bin... Ein... Mophead.” It was as much about how we remember and misremember than about how Alex eventually tracked down Susan using a private investigator. --That was 17 years ago. She must be about my age or a little younger. I could tell just by the sound of her voice that she was a nice person. It wasn’t said but I could tell as much: Alex had been secretly in love with his fearless babysitter. She was his champion. She would have beaten up a motorcyclist to defend her young charge, whom she felt a bit sorry for. Alex, she hesitated to mention, was a bit bookish and obsessed with stuff beyond his years. She was compelled to “play” wit...

I can’t tell you how many times people have told me they want to write. Great! The world needs your story. Years later they are still talking about writing. You see, it's easier said than done. Every day we have to wake up and face hard tasks. Ones that in our imagination seem easy, but once faced with them, we are overwhelmed. How does one get started with a great idea? I recall one such dilemma I encountered. When I was in high school I wanted to start a club for kids in a housing project down the road. These children didn’t have access to the swimming pool or after-school softball or soccer teams where you have to pay for membership. They had very few opportunities for fun and organized recreation. My idea was to present games, crafts, treats, and mentoring. This was before the Internet, before social media. How in the world would I be able to get something like this going? It’s not like you can just go into an open field on the property and gather up loose kid...

The other day in the car I passed a shuttered piano store. Like so many retail outlets, brick and mortar stores are closing up. Sears. Treasure Island. My favorite tea shop . People order things on-line. The tea I used to buy I have to order from Amazon. Virtually every place—in Chicago a metro area of over 3 million people—doesn’t offer the brand I like. But how do you order a piano. Drones can’t deliver it. Those people on bikes can’t run it up the steps. My UPS guy already has a bad back. Certain things can’t be plucked off the conveyor belt, packed, and shipped at an Amazon warehouse. Will pianos become extinct? In a way they are already a rarity, and the people who play them. And the neighborhood ladies who advertise lessons. All of this will become a thing of the past. We’re too busy with our devices and pressing buy.

When my daughter was little we were always losing her shoes. Not sure why I say “we.” Maybe because if I wanted her out of the house and to school on time, I had to become involved. Basically, I’d just look out the window. We live on the 4 th floor of our building and I can see down into the play yard below. That way I might spy her shoes mixed in with the wood chips under the monkey bars or by the splash pool area or on one of the benches. And, always, there would be Ann Marie sleeping on a bench. In my building the top three floors are reserved for low-income seniors. Many are only on Social Security. Ann Marie was queen of the house coat—a cross between a robe and an all-over apron. It can be worn over clothes or as it. Women of a certain age sport just a house coat. I’m almost there myself. She was also afraid to sleep in her own bed. She was convinced someone was out to get her. There was a rumor that her late husband had been part of the Chicago Mafia. I be...

We all have heard about the memory of elephants—they can retain info for a long, long time. But lately there have been experiments on: Snails “Memory transfer has been at the heart of science fiction for decades, but it's becoming more like science fact. A team successfully transplanted memories by transferring a form of genetic information called RNA from one snail into another. The snails were trained to develop a defensive reaction. When the RNA was inserted into snails that had not undergone this process, they behaved just as if they had been sensitised. The research, published in the journal eNeuro, could provide new clues in the search for the physical basis of memory. RNA stands for ribonucleic acid; it's a large molecule involved in various essential roles within biological organisms - including the assembly of proteins and the way that genes are expressed more generally. The scientists gave mild electric shocks to the tails of a specie...

Remember those? Doorstoppers. Booster seats at Thanksgiving. Ten pound slabs of paper delivered every year. If we went on holiday to another town, we’d look up our name in the town phone book—out of curiosity, to see how many other Feebacks there were. Usually none. It was a name from the hoots and hollers of Kentucky. Yet every now and then we’d come across a stray one in North or South Carolina, or Virginia Beach. I was reminded of the phone book last night while watching a TV show set n the 1970s. THIS IS US, the part about the parents is a time period I’m totally familiar with. I recognize the dishes she uses, the hair styles, and clothes. Then there was the phone book. I remember having a crush on a boy and looking his name up I the phone book. His parent’s surname. Then I’d guess which one might be him, since there might be two or three with the same last name. Then I’d hop on my bike and ride past his house. I’d make several passes. I guess today you’d just st...

This blog is about Memoir, about turning memories into words, building a portfolio of writing that can be used for a novel or non-fiction. All experience is fodder for literature. That’s why the crazy comp 101 English teachers told us: Write what you know. That can be intimidating when you realize you don’t know much of anything. That’s okay, take a deep breath, and let your mind go. Flash. That insignificant moment might just be the thing. The springboard that launches a thousand words. So how did LH come to write her groundbreaking Raisin in the Sun ? A native of the southside of Chicago her father moved the family into an all-white neighborhood called Woodlawn—and all-hell broke out. Eventually after firebombing and rocks through the windows the family moved out to one of her father’s other real estate ventures. But the memory never faded. And, after her father passed away, she surmised that the stress of that situation played a part in his death. His heart was broken. Lorr...

Last Tab Lastly, in closing up the tabs: an article at the BBC website: (Credit: Edouard Taufenbech) The woman who can’t forget Some people can remember every single event in their life – what’s it like? And The Blessing and the Curse of Never Being able to Forget Both articles are basically profiles of people who file away data/memories. Who can never forget. Some of us have excellent memories, some of us—mostly husbands—cannot remember what they went to the grocery for. Researchers are not yet certain what forms the basis of memories. The assumption is that most memories are language based—thus, it is unlikely to have memories pre-verbal. Yet, I know I can recall certain images—an overhead light over my crib because I associated the seemingly glazed spiral with a honey bun, even though I still didn’t have a word for honey bun. I guess looking at it made me hungry. I wanted to eat that thing over my crib. I remember climbing out of my crib. I wasn’t tall e...