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Tell me the one about Satchel Paige again, Dad.

We sat on the swing, eating bing cherries, pushing off the grass, looking out over the valley down deep in which my dad and his mom grew up. “Tell me the one about Satchel Paige again,” I said.

“Satchel was up to bat and I was playing centerfield. Satchel’s hit lobbed into centerfield, and was almost a trap, but I caught it before it hit the ground, and the umpire called Satchel out and it was the third out. As headed toward the dugout and passed Satchel heading toward the pitching mound, he looked rough, that man, like 90 miles of bad road, and he said, “You say you caught that ball, Hoerner, I’m gonna strike you out.”

So when I came up to bat, Satchel pitched, and I drove a home run into the center field bleachers. I wasn’t dinkin’ around.”

Dad drove in all four runs of that game for the win. June 29, 1951.

I loved swinging with him and listening to his stories. Recently, around Father’s Day, my sister sent me a photo of this article in the Dubuque Telegraph Herald.

Wow! I answered, thrilled to see Dad’s name and to read Erik Hogstrom calling him “one of the Key City’s finest homegrown players.” Sister Julie told me our brother Dan had gone to Finley hospital that morning with his wife, Linda, and after she was wheeled into surgery, and he was in the waiting room turning in circles and worried, he picked up the paper, opened it, and there was Dad. So Dan sent the photo to Julie in Iowa City and Julie sent it to me in Barcelona, and it made the ache for him ease in all of us. And we all called each other, too. Thanks to Erik and the Telegraph Herald!

Below is a slide-show of some photos of other clippings I found in a box in the fall of 2018, months after Mom died, and while I was in Iowa City, working on I am home. The story of Satchel and Dad that night varies a bit with everyone who tells it. I’d like to write about all of the clippings I found in that box, highlighting some of the fabulous language those sportswriters of yesteryear used. Seeing Mom’s handwriting on the date, June 29, 1951, and knowing my father died on June 23, 2011, I wondered when we buried him so did a quick search and saw it was June 27. Almost 60 years to the day after that remarkable evening that made him and many others smile for the rest of his life.

To imagine my dad, Beltin’ Bobby Hoerner, at 25, and Mom, 24, childless, a whole life ahead of them, celebrating the win and the runs that night also makes me smile. Their first child was born on April 30, 1952. Dad still played for a year or two after that. Gosh, how I wish I could have seen him beltin’ them in.

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Sometimes

there is a resistance to write at the same time there is a drawing toward the page. deep inside, new understandings are bubbling up from a deeply stirred well, pocking in the heretofore unseen sediment resting at the bottom for god knows how long. the understandings feel icky thus the resistance to touching them, to looking at them, to owning them. and maybe they are just passers-by. which leads to the consideration that these understandings and feelings could be common, and the pocks perhaps a way to get the poison and sickness out. human, human, human, you are, they whisper. not god. but yes, god, too, connected to god, an angelic voice chimes in. the whole mess seems like a connecting agent, like muddy mortar that could adhere the tiles we each are in the mosaic of humanity. does it ever happen in your life that when a situation you have been long concerned about seems to be resolving itself, new concerns–or concerns you have turned your attention away from because they seemed less important than the newly resolving concern–insist upon your attention? it feels hard to see beauty in the mud of shame, humiliation, regret, envy, disappointment, fear, longing–and some call these negative emotions–yet how to move through and grow from them without becoming self-indulgent in a mud bath of self-regard? they are all about the past and here we are in the present. and how to grow without them, and thus, how can they be negative? how to look at these discomforts without indulging in self-consciousness? how to swim through them and emerge fresher and cleaner? To remind ourselves that we all have worth, regardless of our behavior. Our behavior is another story. This all the more stirred by listening to Dignity by Donna Hicks, PhD, which is recommendable. “Safety lies in connection with others […] we develop the awareness of our worth in relationship with others.” And her questions what does dignity feel like and does it perhaps feel like love?

Yet something written: This feeling of nothing and no one to hold onto–connect to–right here at home–yet, here we are, at home. Yet, yes, relationship with others. This feeling of things to write about which are difficult to approach–more changes, more growth & depth & opening & a trembling, too–and to put it all on paper overwhelms–yet here is jotting & noting things on IG that arouse envy, repel, & make sad and then a pushing to feel happy for the poster– A poster. Interesting. Look. How many of us have become posters? Human posters.

And this is with little mention of the news, which is terrifying.

“What is love if not the act of honoring dignity?” Again, Donna Hicks’s question.

Dignity even when in a cualdron of mud. Privileged to have the time to think about it all. Afraid to post because it may all sound trite. Looking for humor, lost somewhere in the mud, next appears the image of a naked muddy woman. A funny reflection with a frog in her hand waving hello.

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Home in our bodies?

Breaking and entering the land of the free and the home of the brave is a crime.

excerpt from I am home., Chez Soi Press 2023

Just finished reading this article about women who have come out to say they have been bodily assaulted by the accused defendant and presidential hopeful actually on trial. They are angry and concerned for themselves and their neighbors after speaking out about having suffered an unauthorized entry of their bodily home by someone with the intent of committing a theft of their integrity and dignity. It stirs a lot in me, this breaking and entering of another human. So does the template of denial seeming to have more power than truth. Also alarming is how people seem to find the issue–unwanted sexual touch, and unwanted touch of one’s person in general, in other words, one’s body up for grabs–unimportant and common and therefore somehow acceptable. I write this thinking about a recorded statement by the accused claiming the privilege of grabbing, and after having seen photos of some women with t-shirts glorifying that grab. The female body, in particular, is more obviously considered public domain. Look at how the state is again taking more control of it via a Supreme Court which includes other accused deniers.

Who has the power to abuse and in so doing normalizes abuse? How is and was that power obtained? How are people okay with a flagrant denier (and admitter) of abuse representing a supposed land of the free and the brave? To those who are unbothered by it–do they understand that anthem to mean US citizens are free to abuse and brave to deny?

How often do you touch people without asking their permission? Do you ever touch someone you feel has more power than you without their permission? Would you even dare to ask for it? How do you feel when people touch you without your permission, especially people you would prefer to keep at a distance? Are you aware of it? Do you pay attention to it? Do you move through this world expecting it?

IndieBound

Lucy, go see. and I am home. are available wherever books are sold.

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It’s just one of those things.

You could probably say this about moments of your life while on your way home and it would be true for you, too.

This page comes to mind often. It used to be in I am home. and for a while was the opener. After moving it around, I decided it was unnecessary, yet it comes back. Always playfully and in mystery, and especially living here in Catalonia right now. Always when readers mention moving around in the story at ease. What songs would your heart sing if you played it like a xylophone? What patterns and colors do you see when you look into the kaleidoscope of your life?

Thanks for coming. Thanks for being here. Wishing you wonders.

Reading
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I am home. out there in the world for a year now.

Thank you, readers! Today marks a year since the publication of I am home. A special anniversary because it was also timed to be released on the birthday of Mom’s first child, my eldest brother. His name was Tommy, and I only knew him through photos and stories, and the plant that graces the background of the cover of I am home. That plant was a gift to my mother at his birth and has been in our family for 72 years now. I have written about that, –it’s a touching story, and the plant, the Dieffenbachia, is thriving in Spain with me. Since we reunited, 7 new offshoots have grown from the base. My mother had 7 children. The plant, the book, and I have done some remarkable traveling, all the way walking each other home.

The second video below (after the cremation fire) is of a beach that is dear and also home to me, Playa San Sebastián in Sitges, where I landed after leaving Los Angeles last spring, and where I stayed a while before I moved into the city, into Barcelona. I used that video to announce the release of the book.

To have finished writing I am home. in the USA and then to carry advanced copies of it with me here to Catalonia, and once here to make the final minute and detailed touches on the cover (a friend witnessed this with her eyes wide) and it seemed each time I opened the book at a random spot, I found something I wanted to change and, well, that all was sweet, symbolic, and serendipitous as so much of life if is, maybe all of it–anyway, if you read the book, you will understand what I mean.

The first slideshow and video are of a thrilling, sometimes tedious (because of the amount of burning hours necessary in a small fire pit), always artistic, funny, enlightening, illuminating, and in the end very smoky burning of all the drafts, the prima materia, of this second book (with wine and a good friend nearby) in the garden of my California home of four years, in Silver Lake, Los Angeles, two nights before I left. I love fire and all the fascinating beauty it creates as you will see. We devised all kinds of methods to make the burning interesting, fun, and efficient. Also, and I digress, I loved that I lived on Fargo Street in LA. Far, go. I did. Anyway, I have no idea how many pages were there, thousands for sure, umpteen drafts, some on loose leaf paper, some spiral bound, some bound as books–all distillation until I reached the point of nuff’s nuff, which was at the end of 2022, a month or so after I decided to return to Spain. I promised myself I would finish it before I left, in a way, leave it behind. Release it and leave the country kind of thing. The book contains the decision to leave Spain, a return to my hometown in Iowa sparked by my mother and son, exploratory travels, eventual moves to Chicago, my college alma mater, and Los Angeles. A decade of life and all my stories and thoughts and feelings about it all that seemed important at the time and poof, up in flames. The essence remains. Hallelujah.

432,000 and some hundred words, that I know, reduced to 56, 000, or something like that. I used to know those numbers by heart. It’s a good sign the count is hard to recall right now.

It is a non-fiction book (isn’t it funny that they describe a genre by what it is not?), and because it is a hybrid of story, poetry, and essay and because the Marianne on those pages is different than the Marianne who is writing these words now and looking up at that plant occasionally, and because it is far from a traditional memoir timeline, I have hesitated to call it a memoir even though I could. (What is in our mind but memory and imagination?) It skips–sometimes darts, occasionally farts, perhaps–around in time, always with a connecting home thread, stitching a tapestry of love lines far and wide, somewhat like the trails little clams leave in the sand of shallow Frentress Lake waters as they move toward the depths. Most pages in the book are chapters distilled into one 6 x 9 inch frame, with the intention of offering a moving and evocative word painting amid a lot of open space.

It was recently described as a book that explores where “home” really is.

The last slideshow is compiled of images readers have sent from around the world. I think I have more but I am tired now and must post this soon or will get carried away and need another fire before too long. Someday I would also like to compile images of all the places around the world where I wrote this book.

I love hearing from you, readers! Thank you. I wrote the first draft for me and all the rest with you on my mind, asking myself how much I could give you while asking the least amount of your precious time. It makes the experience complete when I hear from you. It also nourishes and expands the soul of the book, adding yours to it with each experience of it, and any thought, any spoken or written word about it. (send an email welcomewonder@mariannemaili.com, and please talk about it, tell others). Thank you, thank you, thank you. May I am home. travel far and wide and reach deep and lift high. May it make you laugh and cry and feel happy to be you and to be alive.

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Available wherever books are sold. Ask your favorite indie bookstore to get it for you!

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Some words on I am home. from Utah.

I shot this photo in February 2023, while visiting Bryce Canyon with a friend. It was a trip I wanted to make before leaving the country. And it was amazing and fun to do it in such great company. Maybe my third or fourth time in Utah, a state I came to love on my travels. During this trip, I was carrying the first advanced copy of I am home. with me, to show my friend. It was a celebratory trip. On my other travels through the state, the manuscript was resting while I explored on my own, and often those trips were celebrations of another draft finished. So, when I woke up on Thursday and read the following message from Utah, my heart filled with gratitude for connecting to a reader amid images of all the beauty of that state.

 Dear Marianne, You inspire me to be more aware and appreciate each little moment as I navigate through this next 50 + yr old woman-chapter of my life. A recent shift & desire to broaden my perspective has also increased my awareness to the impact of each & every small act. Have you been told that you have a crazy cool peaceful optimism about you?  In your book I am home. … it blows my mind how little you’ve written perhaps on any given page, yet there is so much in it!! Your vocabulary, writing and savvy are thrilling to me. The memories you’ve shared spark deep emotion. I love that you’re helping me be cognizant of the amazing life I have and the wonderful wild world we live in. Thank you so very much!!

Ask your favorite Indie Bookstore or click below and in celebration of Independent Bookstore Day shipping is free all weekend.

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And I was marveled by a poet from Trinidad and Tobago in Iowa. Read her books, too, asap.

This post is long overdue. I’ve had these books on my shelf in Barcelona for months, after a friend of mine from Virginia who lives here now brought them to me after hearing Lauren speak and read from them in Richmond last spring. Lauren is thriving in Virginia now. Way back when I moved back to Iowa, in the fall of 2012, to teach at a university there, Lauren was there, and she opened her wonderful home and rented a nest-like room to me while I settled myself and then my family in Dubuque. That’s another story. The story here, now, is her moving, inspiring, informative, urgent, and comforting poetry. I read both of these books in the Spanish sunshine perched above the city, occasionally looking up to the hills, resisting getting up to take care of necessities then hurrying back. Most of the pages are dog-eared because I love them. Countless times I was stopped in my tracks, uttering some version of wow, and often with tears welling in my eyes. Read her and live and learn.

Free shipping all weekend at Indie Bound, link here:

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Another Direct Connection to Iowa on Independent Bookstore Day! Great new reading

Because it is Independent Bookstore Day and because I have been talking about Iowa stories, go to your favorite bookstore and ask for Laura Farmer‘s new book. Her moving stories are set in Iowa and peopled with big-hearted Iowa folks. I was honored to be asked to write a blurb for this wonderful collection of stories, published just 10 days ago by Bridge Eight Press. To make the blurb-reading easier, here you have it: Laura Farmer’s artful tales are about paying attention, perhaps the noblest act of love and the surest way home…There’s an instancing about her writing. A beat like a heart’s throughout. An honesty and energy that rocks us. An inspiring aloneness amid a gathering of pleasure and pure connection. Her characters are all finding their way. Beauty accompanies them.

Buy Direct Connection From Indie Bookstores
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Strolling through Barcelona on my way to Iowa.

When I started my meander on this special day, I was unaware that Iowa would appear near the end of it. Roses on a balcony moved me first. As I mentioned before, Sant Jordi is a romantic Catalan holiday that celebrates love and Catalan literature. It is a combination of remembrances from different periods of history–for one part, it commemorates Sant Jordi slaying a dragon and offering his beloved a symbolic red rose from the bleeding belly of the beast, and for the other part, it celebrates a 19th century Renaissance of Catalan identity and culture. It’s marvelous to live in a city where people gift each other books every year on a day associated with romance and culture (almost two million books are expected to be sold), selecting them and also rose arrangements from vendors while strolling through the city’s wonder-filled streets, blocked for pedestrian traffic only. The symbolism of the day started, for me, in a private school up on the hill where I was being interviewed for a position to teach about books, writing, reading and speaking. I was then invited to see a special poetic performance and was witness to that wonder along with the prize-awarding to students in Sant Jordi writing competitions. I walked down the hill under ever-changing April skies, the scent of orange blossom filling the air, then made myself some lunch at home, with the plan to wander through the streets after. A friend from a village nearby called to say she was coming to town to see it all, too, and we met in the center of the city and had coffee at the café in the Hotel Pulitzer. While there I received a message offering me the teaching position. When my friend and I separated I headed for Paseo de Gracia because I wanted to see the Casa Battló decked out in roses for the day. Everywhere I looked there were smiling people, books, and roses. A helicopter whirred overhead and I imagined the view and wanted to be up there, too. As I was wondering if Laia Fabregas would be at the ONA bookstore (one of more than three-hundred bookstores in Barcelona) stall, I looked and there she was, signing books. So I stopped to buy her new award-winning book, El silenci dels astronauts, confident I would be able to understand the Catalan and when I did not, I would increase my vocabulary. Reading stories in other languages is an especially sweet way to learn them. I carried on strolling gently up the hill of Barcelona’s most luxurious boulevard, lined with modernist architectural masterpieces, cafés, restaurants, and high-end shops, marveling again and again at the quantity of readers and the grace of a culture that celebrates reading. I stopped to admire the Casa Battló with thousands of others. Then kept heading toward another favorite place, the magnificent Casa Fuster, and its Café Vienés, pausing along the way to look at books and roses. There was a Book of Mormon, in English, propped up outside in the window of the café. I called a sister in Iowa to mention this oddity and there was no answer. Then, I was drawn to the book stand of Males Herbes, a publisher who has published some of my favorite US and French authors in translation. I noted all the striking green covers of the books, some of Kurt Vonnegut’s among them, and commented on that to a friendly woman standing behind them. Then I saw one with the title AIOUA–I mouthed the vowels in Catalan–it sounds like IOWA. I stared at it for a while then turned it over and saw that it is about a woman who travels to and throughout Iowa in search of peace. I read the author’s name. Is Roser here now? I asked. That’s me, the woman I had already spoken to said in Spanish. I’m from Iowa, I answered in Spanish. Her eyebrows rapidly scaled her forehead as she said, Are you serious? She told me about driving around the state, her desire to return, and before long we were talking about the International Writing Program in Iowa City and other beloved places. Roser pointed to the photo of Strawberry Point on the cover, something I had overlooked when I fixated on the vowels, and I mentioned my parents talked to me about going there, and one of my brothers liked it. I kept to myself that these three people were now dead and I grieved them deeply. We spoke of getting together for drinks and a meal soon and as she signed my copy, she said we have to take a picture, and she kept marveling that on Sant Jordi in Barcelona, promoting her book AIOUA, she had met a real live Iowan who chose to live in Barcelona. I think we are less rare than people imagine yet it is true that I am the only Iowan I know here. I have made some marvelous Iowa-Barcelona connections in my life, other great stories to tell, and this was wonderful to add to the list. I can stop here, this is a perfect ending, I said after she wished me a wonderful rest of the festival of Sant Jordi. And then I wandered more, uplifted and connected. The Barcelona Film Festival was also happening so I saw a wonderful comedy. All afternoon I had been craving one of the many pastries I had seen, and after the movie noticed there was one golden yellow rose left at a nearby bakery. As I waited to be served, I saw a new friend passing by with a smile on her face and went out to call to her, Paz! I sang out (Paz translates as Peace. She is from Barcelona and lived in the US for about as long as I lived in Spain). She was too far down Calle Asturias, so I went back inside and called her. I’m on my way to meet my kids at the English bookshop then go somewhere to eat, she said. I felt a pang of envy. While feasting, a featured photo came up on my phone–there was my son, dressed as Sant Jordi for a school play on this day in 2006. My sister called from Iowa as I was walking home and I told her all about the perfect day. I just want to go home and go to bed now, I said. I imagine, she said. Just to make sure it stays perfect, right?