Memoirous

This is for me as well as (both) my blog readers. There’s a piece I’ve been collecting snatches of words and phrases and now need to knit together into a short—or whatever it calls out to become. Your retreat place. Your vacation spot. That place of surrender. Where you can be your truest self. Most relaxed.  Is it somewhere your parents took you every year as a child? We went to an old motor court called Wild Waves on the shores of Lake Erie—every summer there was a spectacular fish die-off as the lake was under a great deal of pollution stress in the 1970s. The old log cabins harbored spiders in the wood, the walls crawled with them. The cement dock was crumbling, every winter eroded another chunk of it. The metal Adirondack chairs were one color: rust red, with hints of a former palette shining through. Yet, in my mind, I travel there all the time, checking images on the Internet to remind me of that part of my past. A past that was past even back then. Or did y...