Memoirous

More False Starts—in more ways than one                        What to do With twisty story ideas                                                        Erase and try again Relationships                                                                       Say I’m sorry Last night’s dinner recipe                                                    Add more salt/spices Going wrong way on one way street (oops!)                      Bac...

This past weekend brought another visitor out from the city. And, another fresh batch of snow. I was a little conflicted when all the snow melted during our “Spring Break.” Nothing says cozy better than snowflakes the size of feathers falling all around, while holding a hot cup of coffee. Well, we got our chance when a Clipper came through unexpectedly and brought a fresh groundcover of white. Not so much that our boots sank up to the shin, and not so much that we shivered inside layers of coats. But just the right amount to make everything cozy again. We picked up coffee from Château and continued walking onto the River Trail recently extended from Grand River Ave. to Okemos Road. Readers of this blog (both of you) know I love this path, the tall trees, and the chance to escape from cars and traffic. My friend and I walked through the woods sipping coffee all the way to the movie theater where we checked in for a weekday matinee of Wuthering Heights. From the woods of snowy Mich...

The big house next to my Tiny House is a throbbing hub of energy. I can hear my grandsons’ feet pounding the kitchen floor as they run circles around the table. The little one shouts in glee. The attic was long ago converted into living space. Not sure how well insulated the house is. After a snowfall the roofs are iced in white, but after a day or two there are melt spots (if no further snow covers), peeking out like shorn fur on an animal’s hide. The process of melt—either generated by the house, the inhabitants, or thermal from the rare appearances of the sun, a mid-day warmup—creates spectacular icicles. Like fringe on a surrey. Like monster fangs. Like daggers hanging from a knight’s belt. Like cavern stalactites, solid, hanging from cathedral ceilings. They multiply, grow longer by the day. I gauge how cold it is by the number of icicles lining the eaves. Visitors from the far north of Narnia.

Yes, it’s cold outside. Bone-chilling. Sometimes all I want to do is crawl into my loft and sit under blankets and read a book while sipping a hot drink. The cozy quotient. As a kid on school break during the holidays I’d read first the books I got for Christmas, then I’d read the ones my mother bought for my father: current paperbacks, then I’d reread stuff off my brother Steve’s shelf. If I could get someone to drive me to the library, I’d be set for a while. Anyway, my mother might find me sitting on top of the heat register in the bathroom—if she bothered to look for me. It was the warmest place n the house and a place utterly private. No one wanted to barge into the bathroom and out of respect usually didn’t knock on the door. They’d go to one of the other bathrooms. This week with the relentless cold, where not even a hot drink or thick socks helped—I found myself remembering: this young girl seeking solace in books, a warm refuge in the midst of a family where I felt like ...

I’ve reached into the back of my drawer for a couple of sweaters reserved for only the coldest of days. They are in rotation currently. They are both horse-blanket type sweaters, thickly woven, one acrylic and the other wool. One was hand-knitted the other from L.L. Bean. The green one I put on in the morning, right out of bed. As I’m turning up the heat and changing from my wool sleeping booties to shearling-lined slippers, I shimmy into the green one—sort of a throwback to the 1950s, gee-whiz Mrs. Hertenstein, kids walking a mile or two to school kind of sweater—before going outside to shovel the decks. I’m not sure how this got to be my job. Most likely because 1) I don’t want to fall, 2) I’m out there first thing because I need to go to the mothership for something, 3) I actually love doing it. No one makes me. I love waking up and in a sleep-daze go outside into the startling fresh cold air and exercise my arms, back, shoulder muscles. I’m reminded of why people sit in saunas an...

This Winter—Okemos Yes, it’s cold, but I’ve gotten so much inspiration from the frigid sunrises, The sun pours over the horizon like molten gold around 8 a.m. It starts as a lavender hue, a tiny glow that grows stronger and stronger, changing from mauve to orange. The pinks and bronzes get all mixed up, a backdrop silhouetting the bare tree limbs, tinting the snow on the ground. For a moment everything looks new again. As if we haven’t been here before—and we haven’t. There is only today—and when it is gone, we have tonight, and then tomorrow. Neolithic societies had all kinds of traditions to welcome the sun mid-winter. I’ve actually been to Newgrange in Ireland, where the docent contrived, after we clambered through a tunnel into the center of a submerged dome-like structure built around 3200 B.C. before the Celts were the Celts, to show us how the inhabitants had aligned the doorway in conjunction with the Winter solstice sunrise. Back then there was no way to mark time and an...

This Winter February 12, 2014, written in Chicago   This is the first winter I can remember when 2 coats wasn’t enough. This winter I’ve worn my long underwear for the past 40 days. This winter has been so cold that 4 above feels like a heat wave. This is the first winter where I’ve come to understand the principle of hibernation. As someone who loves winter, I can’t stand the thought of another 6 weeks of it. Instead of putting on my normal winter weight of 2 – 3 pounds, I’ve gained ten. The idea of a snow day no longer holds delight. I dread the weather report now. In the past I’ve run throughout the winter, unless I was x-country skiing. This winter I’ve had to push myself to exercise. It’s hard to move when wearing 6 layers. There are some days when I never step outside—and I like it. This winter my skin has been so dry I’ve gone through a whole bottle of Jergens; my last bottle lasted 2 years. This winter nearly all the Great Lakes are ice covered. I ...

2 That was the temperature this morning when I awoke in my Tiny House. I sleep in a loft under layers of warm covers. So climbing down the ladder, I wasn’t immediately hit by the cold. At night I turn the heat down, though last night I wondered if it was a good idea. This a.m. it was about 56 in the Tiny House, but after I bumped up the heat. The temperatures climbed. I use a ceiling fan to send the air into the corners. My writing table and computer are near the doors, Again, not insulated, but I put a draft stopper and a blanket down at the bottom at night to help. These next few days will test the mini split, Tomorrow’s high is expected to be 3 degrees with an overnight low of -3. Fortunately I have work and keep busy babysitting at my daughter’s house. Meanwhile, I’m cozy, all bundled up at my Tiny House drinking tea and hot coco, reading in my chair with a wool blanket on my lap.

I’ve blogged here before about my regular/irregular morning routine . Post-election I’ve needed to come up with new strategies in order to save my sanity. I’m not simply going to be able to jump on my bike and ride across the country and lose myself in endless pedaling. At least not for four years. Before going to bed I organize my thoughts by listing things to do the next day/reminders/etc. A bit of a road map for when I wake up. Some of this list is aspirational, intended to keep something in front of me to work toward. For instance, it took me TWO days in a row to move stuff to the shed. I’ve listed clean and organize shed two weeks in a row and yesterday finally got to doing it. I ALWAYS write down write—even if the morning or day won’t allow for it. I do this because I’m a writer and try to remind myself daily to do the thing—even if just to blog/work on posts, even if, in some cases, it feels too hard. Lately, many things feel too hard. Before the election I’d write at the to...

We were forewarned—sort of. No one, not even Consumer’s Energy, the Meridian Township streets and san, the befuddled weatherperson. No one could predict how much ice or snow or wintry mix. They used a combination of all three when describing the possibilities. I was off work babysitting. I took Jack out in the morning to a park. My phone said 30 degrees, I paid little attention to the fine print (feels like 20). We were okay for the first 20 minutes, but on the walk home he cried. His little hands were cold. When we got home he crawled over me on the couch looking for pockets of warmth. Poor fella. But, outside I could hear pellets hitting the roof and windows. The ice accumulated on the back decks. The wood was like an ice skating rink. I felt like a tight rope walker seeking balance on a flat surface. My daughter came home from work early. We watched a movie with mugs of hot tea. There was no more going outside. Even before going to bed my boss texted we’d be closed. Whew! I wo...

I heard recently that viewership of this Winter Olympics is down 40%. I can attest to this. Ever since I can remember I’ve been an avid Olympics watcher. An Olympic watcher, top of the podium, sit on the couch viewer—except lsast year for the Summer Games and this winter. Finally the limitations of cutting the cable has caught up with me. I know, I know it’s only $4.99 to sign up for Peacock to be able to stream, but it’s more than the money. Sort of. I used to just be able to turn on my TV and watch for FREE. Now I don’t have a TV, an antenna, none of it. With almost everything else I can stream . . . I’m looking for an easy way to watch. Also lately, and maybe it’s because I’m an old lady I’ve been shunted into signing up for so much JUNK I don’t want. I’m killer at Googling, it is my writer/researcher instinct, but I’m still naïve enough around the internet to click on and think I need to sign in to do this or that, like recently when doing my taxes, or getting a Windows que...

The winter sky here in Michigan is just beautiful, a Turner painting with soft colors and tattered clouds against a slate blue/gray background. Dark branches of trees silhouette the horizon—though bare, a kind of promise, spring and green. I often ride home into this sunset. Or complete darkness, with only car headlights glancing to and fro. The other night after an afternoon of snowfall, I made my way down Central Park to a busy slushy intersection and onto the sidewalk where my tires crunch crunch over the new fallen snow. If all this sounds like a Winter Wonderland then yes, but it is also terrifying. I’m on a bike. Fishtailing and constantly worried about slipping on ice. So last Tuesday when I awoke to get ready to ride to Grace’s house to babysit out the window in the near darkness of early morning was three inches of new snow. Oh my God. A salt truck went by in my complex so I steadied myself and put on over pants, zipped up my parka, fitted my balaclava over my head. De...

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 ...

A cascade of coincidences. Kyle White and Jane Hertenstein, both writers of flash and THE SAME BIRTHDAY. I discovered Kyle’s work, Wisconsin River of Grace, when he was doing a reading at Everybody’s Coffee. I never intended to buy the book, but had to once I opened it and read a snippet (the good thing about flash is you can dive in anywhere and get a taste). Since that 2012/2013 publication he has continued fermenting flash. Bear With Me is a field journal that reads as a contemplative children’s book. In the sense that I could see it being shared with the whole family, the meaning explicit on so many levels. Just like a good Jon Scieszka book—there is something there for the adult and younger folk to hang their hat on. Mostly I enjoyed the pace of Bear With Me : short, pithy haiku-type entries with a unspoken “selah” at the end where one can sit and pause, ruminate over the importance of hibernation, relaxing, listening to your body, nature calling, living in tune with t...

In Wiry Winter - James Schuyler (1970) The shadow of a bird upon the yard upon a house: it's gone. Through a pane a beam like a warm hand laid upon an arm. A thin shell, trans- parent, blue: the atmosphere in which to swim. Burr. A cold plunge. The bird is back. All the same, to swim, plunging upward, arms as wings, into calm cold. Warm within the act, treading air, a shadow on the yard. Or floating, gliding. a shadow on the roofs and drives, in action warm, the shadow cold but brief. To swim in air. No. Not in this wiry winter air. A beam comes in the glass, a hand to warm an arm. A hand upon the glass finds it a kind of ice. The shadow of a bird less cold. From   Collected Poems, Farrar, Straus & Giroux

a hundred years ago-- got these photos from Forgotten Chicago THANKS