After taking a fairly immersive writing class this summer, which ended August 4th, I was eagerly expecting some good news from my Libby app. On June 13^th, I had signed up for Eruption, the last book by Michael Crichton. Who doesn’t enjoy this bestselling author who mixes adventure, science, medicine and technology with a good thrill ride? It would be a perfect summer read. I should clarify that the research was his, but his widow hired author James Patterson a couple of years ago to write it after Crichton’s death in 2008.

On the day I signed up, I was 153^rd in line with 22 available copies. Who knew either how long it would take or how much I would need it after spending a month of excavating into childhood memories? I had actually begun to have dreams with my parents in them.

Eureka! On August 3^rd, they contacted me. It was ready to borrow! But I didn’t see that news until late in the day, and I wanted my 14-day loan to begin August 4th. So, I waited to click “Accept” until the next day.

Yes, when I opened the app the next day, it was gone. They placed me back in line and would try again soon. I was furious with myself for making this mistake. I was ready for some escapism; it had escaped alright!

So, I made the best of my time and returned to the memoir. There is always work to be done there. Based in part on a recent one-on-one zoom conversation with my teacher about the possibility of bringing the city of Cleveland into my story more (it is connected in some ways), I guess I thought I could focus on that for a change. I may have grown up in Cleveland Heights, but I was born in the city and had plenty of interaction with it.

I started thinking about the Little Italy neighborhood which sits at the bottom of Murray Hill and Mayfield Road and is known for its famous Feast of the Assumption festival every August. It is where I first tried Lemon ice (they don’t call it Italian ice.) Owners place booths in front of their restaurants where visitors can buy pizza slices, sausage sandwiches, pasta and red sauce, powdered fried dough and so on. I remember sitting in a slow-moving Ferris wheel at night, set up very close to the neighborhood houses and reveling in the lights of both the festival and the city. The sights and sounds of this special place have always stuck with me. The festival’s one and only sponsor is the Holy Rosary Church, which has been doing it for over 120 years. Traditions mean a lot to me.

I also remember visiting the Cleveland Museum of Art many times (sometimes on class trips). It is recognized as one of the wealthiest and most visited art museums in the U.S. I was very young, maybe seven, when I first got to visit and run outside into the garden and see Auguste Rodin’s sculpture “The Thinker.” I was a diminutive devotee standing in front of this 900-pound Cleveland landmark. It was one of only ten casts created under Rodin’s personal supervision.

I was only nine, and don’t remember the details, but tragically, a political organization placed a pipe bomb at the base of the statue and blew off part of the lower third of it in 1970. It toppled the statue to the ground. They were protesting the Vietnam war. After much soul-searching about restoration, the museum decided to pick it up and place it on a new base in its damaged form. It would preserve the integrity of Rodin’s original work on it. I appreciate that wisdom so much.

Unbelievably, I had also forgotten about an internship I accepted in the summer of 1981.

 For one amazing summer, I took the bus every day from my mom’s condo 20 miles away, right to Euclid Avenue in the heart of the city. I was thrilled to be the assistant to the Communications Director of the Greater Cleveland Growth Association.

As a Mass Media/Communications major in college, I helped write press releases, participate in meetings and hand out promotional material at events including the Party-in-the-Park event held every Friday afternoon; among other tasks.

As one of its many goals, the association focused on keeping the employees in all those office buildings to stick around after hours by making the nightlife more appealing; so many of them exited to the suburbs after work. This goal was certainly achieved when the city green-lighted a plan to renovate “the Flats” right at the heart of the industrial part of the city along the Cuyahoga River. It became an extremely popular spot with bars and restaurants.

In 1987, I returned to the area with my soon-to-be husband to experience this scene firsthand. Without even knowing it would happen, we were sitting outside on a deck when lights appeared off in the distance. Mesmerized, we walked to the boardwalk at the water’s edge and watched. Soon, an enormous 700-foot iron ore freighter curved along a bend and headed straight for us, passing us with what felt like inches to spare. I felt the enormity of it, from the genius of engineering to the ship’s power and beauty gliding by us with twinkling lights. It’s like Cleveland’s industrial history was passing by, giving a nod to its present.

And because my brain’s receiving centers were so stuck on Michael Crichton, I actually googled Cleveland and Crichton. I felt like something might be there; some connection. I was wrong. Although I discovered that the movie soundtrack to Jurassic Park (Crichton wrote the book) was performed one evening by the Cleveland Orchestra at its summer home at Blossom Music Center.

Blossom! Set inside the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, I attended so many concerts there including Harry Chapin, America, James Taylor, Firefall, Seals & Crofts, Linda Ronstadt and Doobie Brothers, sitting on a hill on blankets with my friends, looking down towards the open theater shell. Listening to live music you love in a natural setting is magic. Woodstock had only happened seven or eight years prior! (This makes me feel incredibly old.) The vibe was real, although I didn’t dance in tie-dyed clothing.

I truly appreciate my teacher offering an idea which evolved into mining for meaningful memories by focusing on a single theme; Cleveland. It’s a giving vein, I think.

But more important to me, and what this exercise uncovered, is that many of my memories are not buried as deeply as I thought. I have said for years that my mind worked hard to entomb negative memories, and, in that process, I lost many good ones. This may not be the case. It’s more a matter of using a singular concentration while digging within specific topics. Perhaps this is how I will work now.

My mistake in waiting overnight to borrow a book led me here. Otherwise, I’d be reading right now. Everything happens for a reason, right?

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