Jazz Funeral & Celebration Of Life
Saturday, August 14th, 2021
Readers
Martha Early
Frank Swoboda
Jess Kiel-Wornson
Sean Chicoine
Emily Swartz
Panda Smith
Emily Rice
Pallbearers
Jason Boehme
Ben Judge
Jay Kozel
Gabriel Mac
Billy Morefield
Justin Rice
Kenny Thelen
From “The Breathing World” - application to UI Undergraduate Writing Program, December 2000
You have to commit yourself to swimming. Every other day, Martha and I fill our backpacks with our new swimsuits, our swimming caps, cheap goggles, two towels, and one dollar. We walk across campus, down the hill by the Union, across the river, up the sloping western hill, past the Pharmacy building, to the Fieldhouse gym.
...My time seems better in the pool. One, two, three, four, breathe. I count. I count my breaths; I count my laps; I count the minutes. When I focus on my breathing and how far I have swum, it is hard to concentrate on anything else. The focus is placed on my body and how it is functioning, not on the mischievous tasks and insecurities that swish around in my brain. One, two, three, four, breathe.
...I watch Martha swim by me. She has an interesting pattern of laps, and I try to figure out the pattern. One lap she swims fast. There are hundreds of people who are more talented than me. The next lap she swims is slow. Not only are they more talented, they are more dedicated. After that she swims on her back. That is what you need to be a writer: talent and dedication. Do I have those things? Is it possible to learn those things? Lots of people want to grow up to be writers. It is like being a rock star for nerds. Then she swims a lap fast again.
...The end of the lane is approaching. I have to get ready to turn around. Am I going back to where I have come or am I starting out on a new path? If I wasn’t in the pool, this is the kind of deep question I would ask myself. Are you going to do anything to make your life meaningful? Leave a mark. Leave a mark. Make the world a better place. Am I brave enough to strike out of the complicity and solipsism that would make my life so easy to live? I have the option of just making do with the life I am handed, but I could also make an attempt at greatness. What will I choose? When will I start? Am I brave enough to make my world-improving mark? Will I make my life meaningful?
From “Spring Fever” - presented at Gulf Coast Association of Teachers of Creative Writing Conference, April 2006
One fine April day, my literature class talked our professor into taking the discussion outside. When spring arrives in earnest in Iowa, it feels like a miracle. It is as if the people forgot what warmth and sunshine were like and are discovering them for the first time. In Iowa nice days are worshipped with cultish devotion. When a southern breeze makes a new crop of daffodils dance and bob; when the sun warms the cotton of clothing until it smells baked and fresh; when the drab ice on the river finally cracks and opens the silty water to ducks and the crew team; when the pink returns to the cheeks of undergraduates playing Frisbee on the lawn that is green again; and you catch the scent of charcoal and grilled meat lingering on the last chill in the air; and you can almost taste freshly turned soil; and you can see for yourself just-born buckle-kneed calves loping through the pastures and the sky is so blue that just looking at it makes you feel dizzy and rich, you know, every fiber in your being is telling you, you must be outside. Being inside is a sin. The lesson learned by our pioneer forebears, to make hay while the sun shines, is distilled into a modern condition suffered by every Iowan stuck inside on a nice day. We actually feel guilty. “What are you doing inside?” is all we hear, all we say to one another, all we can think. “It is so beautiful out.”
...While they discussed literature, I gazed upriver, catching whiffs of the conversation, but mainly meditating on the sway of the tall grasses in the breeze. I thought about my slow walk home, up from the river valley, past the bars and shops and restaurants and the delicious scent of the honeysuckle plant that grew on my street, past the park where I played on the swings with my roommate.
A blond sorority girl raised her hand and disturbed my reverie. “Uh. There are some people having sex over there.”
She pointed downriver to a spot not fifty yards from where our class was seated. She was right. There were people having sex over there. Not making out. Not dry humping, but honest to Christ, up and down, 'round and about S. E. X.
“Oh, dear God,” the professor wailed. “I’m going to lose my job.” He glanced over and then away in horror. He tried to pass off some lame joke, but I don’t remember what he said. There were people having sex over there. He advised us to try and ignore the couple as best as we could and participate in the conversation. But there were people having sex. Over there. Sex.
... Let me assure you, there were more secret places to get down in the middle of the day than the center of a busy Big Ten campus in a humming little city in the heart of Iowa. Maybe they were exhibitionists, or maybe they didn’t care if anyone saw. But I prefer to think that on a day like this, to be inside on a bed would have been an insult, a shame. It was just too beautiful out. The weather made them do it.
...When people imagine Iowa, I know they think of work ethics and of never-ending fields streaming by I-80, of a population consisting more of pigs than of people, of cows, of soybeans, of a nightlife that involves raccoons instead of swinging hep-cats, and of wholesome, corn-fed, puritan lifestyles. Those notions don’t bother me. All of those things are true. Iowa isa land that takes some subtlety and some stoicism to appreciate. It is a place where small blessings, especially the seasonal ones, are celebrated in small ways. Iowans enjoy the weather. It fills them with a glee that brightens their smiles and opens their hearts and keeps them working hard and happy in a sleepy, pastoral land. Some express their joy more vivaciously than others, but what is amazing is their ability to find that joy spring after spring, and that, no matter where I live, is a value to which I cling.
From “Lost in Arkansas” - originally written 2003; published in Turn, master’s thesis, 2006
Over the years I had become, by default, a city person. When I was a kid, four or five times a summer, my parents packed up the big green canvas tent, the flashlights, and the flannel-lined sleeping bags and we headed to a state park for a weekend. At night, my mom put me to bed with stories of her rustic camping days on Lake Michigan. She and all of her friends boated out to an uninhabited island for a weekend, but they forgot to bring ice. It was my mom’s idea to sink the beer in the lake and in the evening she was the one who volunteered to dive into the icy water to fetch the six-packs. I imagined her, trim and sleek, a gymnast in her youth, slipping into the frigid lake, shuddering as it enveloped her. Swimming deeper and deeper in the clear greenish water until she came to the stone that kept the red and white six-packs submerged. The story gave me happy shivers.
...On the second morning of our trip, Lexi and I packed up the camp and reconsulted the maps. If they were to be trusted, we hiked more than five miles in three hours, up a mountain, with full packs and lots of breaks. It wasn’t possible. A decent hiker makes ten or twelve miles a day, tops. So we gave up on the maps and continued hiking west, expecting to meet with the Caney Creek Trail around noon. Then we could camp early and hike out in the morning. At two we were still heading west.
At this point, panic set in. We were smart girls. We weren’t supposed to be lost. If we turned around we’d have to backtrack and we would be behind schedule. If we went forward we would be walking farther away from the car. Our plan disintegrated, but there were no good solutions.
“What the hell,” I finally said. “Let’s keep going.” The trail heading west looked nice. It followed the creek and was lined with little bamboo forests. We decided to see where it led and figure the rest out later.
...In some respects, my first backpacking trip had been a bust. We only spent one night in the woods. We had gone the wrong way almost the whole way. We got lost with some strangers on ATVs. We spent so much time being lost it seemed like we had hardly been camping at all. And I was right back where I started, sleeping in a tent in a campground full of R.V.s.
But then I thought if everything had gone according to plan I might never have had so much fun falling into Caney Creek, or seen the moon all alone in the sky, or hugged some old guy from the back of an ATV. I wouldn’t have munched trail mix and looked on as Lexi climbed the outcroppings above Caney Creek. An adventure, even a small one, is supposed to get out of hand. Being lost was kind of fun, maybe more fun than following the itinerary.
From Writing Workshop taught in Webster City - February 2010
All writing can be traced back to storytelling. It is our first art as human beings. We gathered around the campfire and told stories of the days’ hunt. Today, we use stories to convey the news, communicate with our family members, and we read or watch stories for entertainment. Writing brings you joy, makes you laugh, and helps you see the world a little more clearly.
Anne Lamott writes: “Writing and reading decreases our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed our soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truth, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It’s like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can’t stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship.”
From blog post-New Year Part 4: Puppy! - January 2011
Her name is Holiday, and she's a crazy mixed-up mutt (only the good kinds of dogs in there).
A puppy, as I am sure your parents told you when you were a child, is a big responsibility. As an adult, the only other pet I've had was an aging, gentleman Pomeranian, named Mr. Bingley. Caring for Mr. Bingley was pretty much the equivalent of caring for a slightly needy throw-pillow. He slept, he ate, he hung out at Back Country while I worked, and he suckled his hedgehog. I liked to be lazy, and Mr. Bingley was happy to oblige me.
While I am nervous about our little bundle of joy, I am also excited about the ways Holiday will challenge us. Dog ownership, I believe, almost inevitably, makes you a better person. More hugs, more smiles, more people saying hello on the street, more responsibility, and more exercise
From blog post-R15 134 “And, That's It, That's Everything” - April 2016:
I learned that I am a lucky gal. I can't believe I have so many smart, funny, strange, crazy, awesome friends who like to drink beer and ride bikes as much as I do. The Team Beaver roadshow can be a bit of a shit show, but it is our shit show.
For four, and perhaps I haven't learned this yet, I think I need to step more into my role as Chief Beaver in Charge. I didn't realize my glue-like role on the team. Steven told me about it, but I have a tendency to look at ragbrai as, "I did all of this planning to get this team organized, now I just want to chill and party." And I might need to recognize that I have a leadership role, whether I like it or not, and I shouldn't shirk that role.
Ragbrai is magical and stupid. Ragbrai is both mystical and visceral. It is both a challenge and a delight, and I can't wait to do it again.
Postcard - March 16, 2020
Dear Emily - Well just like that, they canceled the program, booked us on a flight, and I’m headed home. Fingers crossed that we don’t get too stuck in customs/immigration/plague checks. This trip has definitely reminded me that so many of our plans are, really, just hopes. But there’s value in living every day as much as we can. See you soon, I hope. Love - Lauren.
Following the readings pallbearers and musicians will lead the procession to the pond, please join us.