a different era

I can picture it, easily. Grandma, Grandpa, Mom and Dad. A Sunday afternoon. A then-new portable black & white TV in the living room that must have been cramped. The original transmission of men walking on the moon, with Walter Cronkite setting the stage. I can picture it, though I wasn't a witness: my mother had some crazy idea about 10 week-old babies and naps.

I've often told her she should have propped me up in front of the television, just so I could say that I saw. Not that there would be in purpose in that; that history still wouldn't be my memory. As most of the events narrated or explained by Cronkite, it was just a little before my time. My image is from late in his career, sitting at the anchor desk with a symbol of the Iranian hostage crisis over his shoulder: an eagle in a cage.

Years hence, Iran's in the news, again or still, but now virtually all the headlines and commentary that come into my home arrive via individual screens; news on our televisions is rare, save elections and the occasional catastrophe. Besides Obama, I'm not sure what my daughter will remember from the history of her childhood. I made sure she had no first-person memories of 9/11: she was only four. She hasn't complained about that yet, but, being her mother's daughter, I expect some day she will.

Read More...

Collapse...

in print

I'm not entirely corrupted, but close. I'm kind of, more or less, doing my part. I still pay for the delivery of the local paper, four days, if not seven. Not that I ever unfold the newsprint as I carry it to the recycle bin from the yard. If it were still possible to cancel a subscription through the newspaper's website, it would already have been done. But as it stands, I read its stories online, the subscription fee nearly a charitable donation to a futile cause.

Books, I figured, were still less fragile than the fourth estate. Despite the fact that I've read fewer of them this year than ever in my life. A handful, no more. Few enough, I bet, to count on one hand. I am entirely out of the habit. Or at least I thought I was, until in three days I read two. It was like old times: I sat and read until I was finished, and then, the urge renewed, I went on to something else. It was like old times, except for the fact that I never laid hand on a book. Instead I read the Kindle versions using the freebie app for my iPod.

My 12 year-old is pretty sure this is a desecration; she may be right, but I'm not so sure. I'm positive there are consequences, unintended and otherwise, of this electronic shift. But to go from, "I need something to read," to possessing a new book in seconds? That's pretty much magic, to me. Not needing decent light in the room or even two free hands are bonuses as well. So far, I seem more likely to pay up for the convenience than for the paper version, so much that the ease of spending another $9.99 every time a craving or even boredom hits could in fact become a problem. I've been resisting the urge all day. Perhaps the bottom line will get me back to the library. In the meantime, there are worse habits than giving a writer another sale.

Read More...

Collapse...

all wet

Yesterday, as I finally stepped out to run, the sky began to clear and the steady rain that had fallen all day slowed to a sprinkle then quickly disappeared. I was disappointed. A week ago, I ran further and more easily than I ever had in my life, and by the end of those eight miles, I was soaked to the bone. I trust you see the connection. What the heat and humidity had been taking out of me, a cooling rain put right back in. Finally, I felt like a runner, one who had a reason more concrete than just sheer power of will to believe she'd get to the end of 26.2. I may have even made a wish for every remaining summer Saturday to be equally wet. I should have thought that one through.

Or at least been more specific with my precipitation requests. Because I would never have asked for a summer storm to mark the beginning of a 32-mile bike ride, but that's what we got today. One wouldn't think anything could be that cold in July, but perhaps that's why some of it came down as hail. And yet instead of running for cover, we got on and pedaled through, eyes half-closed against the wind-driven water. "It's better than being hot," was more convincing after the downpour slowed and then stopped, but in the end, despite squishy shoes and a damp car seat-- perhaps the third time, I'll remember dry clothes-- I'm pretty sure that's still true.

Read More...

Collapse...

Visiting

I may be a tourist, but at least I am a tourist who walks fast, stays out of the way, and knows how to use public transportation.

I'm just sayin'.

But then again, given that a fair number of establishments here can also be found at Disney World, maybe it's too much to expect visitors to act any different. Just an observation.

Not that I don't love the Chicago part of Chicago, as my resident friend once described it. Except for the sports teams, it's got so much goin' for it if I'd ended up here as part of that twenty-something Midwest tour, I don't think I'd ever have gotten home.

Another life, perhaps.

Meanwhile, it's time to head back to where the pizza is cracker-thin and the public transportation is non-existent. I'm looking forward to being there, too.

Read More...

Collapse...

Happy Independence Day

That was a good day, too.

Read More...

Collapse...

more like it

It's the phone ring, the door bell, the in and out, the up and down. It's the door standing wide open. It's shouted good-byes and, "Will you please take us?" and a flip-flopped walk down a hilly half-mile that no longer seems too long. It's swimming and skating and long, convoluted stories that don't mean anything to anyone else. Pit stops for frozen custard or tacos. It's conversations that start in the middle; it's notes left in the mailbox. It's showing up uninvited but not unwelcome, it's ten hours later and then, "See ya tomorrow." It's summer, suddenly, with a friend in the neighborhood, finally. The girl is happy, and so is her mom.

Read More...

Collapse...

a definition

Progress:

Before, I never rode my bike in my neighborhood because it's hilly. Now I ride here because it is.

Read More...

Collapse...

kids today

I first noticed him out of the corner of my eye as he rode lazy circles out close to the highway. And then again, one hill ahead of me, standing as he pedaled to the crest. Two thoughts: the first a kind of wordless satisfaction that the climb took the kid some effort, and then, as we both left the neighborhood and crossed through the new subdivision to the blacktop behind:

"Does your mother know where you are?"

Not that I knew where he'd come from or where he was headed or even that, really, he was going that far. I guess I've been brainwashed, too, as I had to remind myself that roaming around was once a vacation birthright, and still a good thing to do. Because I never see any kids out, despite summer, despite beautiful days. And I know they live here. I see the swingsets and free-standing basketball hoops drug out to the curb. I've waited behind school buses delivering from door to door to door-- one even stops at my house. And now and then, she'll walk to her friend's, or they'll hang out on the docks, or go down to the park. Even go for a walk with me. But more often than not, she's in while I'm out, and it's just me and the landscape crews traveling the too-quiet streets, except for that one day and that one kid who somehow discovered the right idea.

Read More...

Collapse...