The Secret Life of Blogs

E-mailed to me by my cousin in October of 2019 Karen’s Dad was my one & only Uncle. He was my Dad’s younger brother. I really just remember a few stories about him. He was always known to be a bit of a daredevil, crazy driver. One day he drove my brother & I, in his old Corvair, down “Slope Hill”, as fast as he could go! It was a very steep hill in my hometown and needless to say, we left our stomachs at the top of the hill! There was a railroad track at the top of the hill and I remember flying over that and   just stopping by the skin of our teeth, at the very bottom of the hill, where there was a stop sign and oncoming traffic! What a thrill ride it was! Another driving episode I recall was when he took my cousins and my brother and I on a drive to a   Frank Lloyd Wright house tour in Wisconsin. I remember him driving off the side of the road into the gravel a few times. But most of all, I remember stopping to buy some “squeaky cheese”, which I had never e...

Today I write about a place I associate with my dad. It’s a tangential move from my previous intention of writing from the angles of people in his life, such as when I started with his parents, but it’s what strikes my mood this week, and it’s my blog, so I can take a tangent if I want, right?   J Is it weird to start in the basement?   All four of the different homes we lived in during my childhood had basements, but the gold-colored house in Algonquin, Illinois is the one where the most memories— both good and bad—were made. I was going into 5 th grade the summer we moved in, and it was my home base until I moved out to California after college. The basement was unfinished, meaning there was no drywall on the walls—only exposed wood frames with no insulation, making the space cold no matter what time of year it was.   I might be remembering this wrong…. Surely when I think about the four square sections the area was divided into, I can picture actual ...

September 3, 2019 Shut Up & Write! The Coral Tree Cafe The Trouble with Memory Today’s goal is to get down a bunch of ideas about my dad that might launch later, more developed stories. This morning I emailed my cousin, the oldest of the 5 cousins (I am the youngest) to get some ideas about my dad that would pre-date any memories of my own.   ( Eagerly awaiting his reply…!)   I will also email his sister, the second-oldest cousin. She is more of the official curator of family history-- the one who actually goes on ancestry.com and who archives the old photos and slides.   (Remember slides…?!?)   Wow… the word “slides” itself triggers some rusty old memories that I’d forgotten I had. Memories of the ancient (but new at the time) slide projectors and retractable screens on their own folding tripods; white sheets hung on a wall in the absence of the screens.   Reliving or witnessing our parents’ memories, imagining the live-action version of ...

August 22, 2019 Third week in a row that I’m here at my Shut Up & Write! Group.  I like it so much that I even threw in an extra Saturday last week to finish the “Fuck you I Need a Hug” short story about my student. Now though, back to my dad.  I’ve decided to write about my dad in terms of other people who knew him so as to get a broader, more objective view of him. I’m going to email my cousins and hopefully get on the phone with them (both a bit older than me) and also with my mom to get a more historical account.  I don’t know much about my dad’s parents.  I never met his mother, unless it was as a baby, and his dad, who I did know a bit, died when I was in 3rd or 4th grade.  Still, saying something about them will give more of a complete picture of who he was and how he was raised.  The grandmother I never knew was named Adelle.  I have inherited photos of her, but not many.   They are black and white snapshots of her, ...

Damien entered my classroom  loud -- with a foul mouth and an empty backpack. He came in with a combat-ready face, shoulders thrown back and phone in hand. 'Hi Damien, welcome," I said. "I ain't talkin'," his dark, angry eyes shot back. My small, cozy 9th grade class sat petrified, stunned. "Please put away your phone," I said, aiming to fold him into the activity. "Fuck you." He retaliated, lashing me with a curse. The class and I quietly, imperceptibly nodded our heads.   So that's how it's going to  be,  we thought. The kid who compels a double standard,-- absolving himself from the rules that others must follow. "I can't tell you why he's in foster care," his counselor told me. "When kids do adult things like that...." She shook her head, her wide eyes frightening mine.   "He wants to be with his mom, but she lost custody of him.  Good luck," she added. "If you need he...

Today is Day One. Day one of “Shut Up and Write!”  a group I found on the MeetUp app for people  who want a little group accountability to get them to put fingers to keys and produce something.   A friend of mine who has written quite a bit, self-published a bit, pressures me periodically by emailing me links to “Get published online!”  I tell him I haven’t even written anything yet. So, here I sit. At a table with a guy named Paul who is writing science fiction for adults this time-- he usually writes for t eens.  What will I write about, you ask? My dad. (Quick glance up to the ceiling as my eyes well up and my throat closes in on the lemonade I’m trying, with difficulty, to swallow.) My sons want to know about the grandpa they never met.   I can sympathize. It’s a strange generational coincidence that my boys’ mother’s dad died when she was in her 20’s, and that her own mother’s dad died when she was a wispy 10-year old-- a ...