Thanks

From my table to yours on this Thanksgiving Day, thanks for being here at the ol’ blog. Three years and more than 1,300 followers from 126 countries, we’re still reading and writing the American Rust Belt–and beyond–together.

Another WordPress Discover feature this year, My Interview with Ohio Poet Laureate Dave Lucas, brought more of you here, and I’m so grateful. Who would I talk to–about the power of poetry, memoir, fiction, and place–without you? 761 comments this year, nearly every one an exchange, and we learn a little more about story–on and off the page–and about each other. Stay tuned for my next author interview on Monday!

In the meantime… On a personal note, a couple of my most recent posts have helped connect me with my late mom’s dearest childhood friend, a friend who kept photos and keepsakes and so many memories–and is kindly sharing them with me. The photo above isn’t a Thanksgiving table, but New Year’s 1966. That’s my grandma, Nana, in red, looking like she has a secret to share; Papa’s at the head.

Times and traditions pass us by, but this holiday remains one for joining together in gratitude. So, thanks so much for being at this table, friends.

If you’re celebrating, how are you celebrating?

Need a read? Head over to my FB page, where I’ve linked to a great Cleveland-inspired list of books, a few of which we’ve discussed here at the blog. Check out my Categories above for book reviews and more. And there’s always book talk at Twitter, where I’m @MoonRuark. Thanks!

Mythologizing Mom…and other stories we tell to remember the lost

Yearbook artwork by Cathy Doran, Class of 1963

In another month, I’ll celebrate my mom’s birthday–for the 12th time since her death. A dozen years, a milestone of remembering. With the day comes a sort of dread, that I will forget–that I’ve already forgotten how the back of her hand felt under my fingertips, how much she liked her hair brushed, how she looked while telling her favorite jokes (I can’t repeat in polite company).

Am I remembering all that right?

Since my last post on the myths–and reality–we make around boys, I’ve been thinking a lot about the myths we create to remember. And I realize I’ve done that with my mom, picked key memories to cobble together her story–one to tell myself, over and over–because we don’t forget a good story. And forgetting is the most frightening thing.

And so it was with relief that I got ahold of my mom’s high school yearbook, senior year, 1963–all skinny ties and strands of pearls–knowing the photographs and notes from my mom’s teenage friends would bolster the Mom-myth I’d written (providing supporting backstory, if no surprises).

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