I think we could write this retro Retro piece in synchronous serendipity, so I won’t dwell on a nostalgic past. But Retrospect fills an enormous need and has created a deep and profound community where none had existed before.

The timing could not have been better. I joined Retrospect on the eve of the 2016 election, an inflection point for all of us. Within months, the fat, incontinent child descended the escalator in his gilded cage, the sphinxlike Svetlana by his side. “I don’t really care. Do you?”

A manipulated national election slid The Loser into power despite a 3,000,000-vote majority in favor of the popular winner.

Covid carried its mystical terror into our households and our respiratory systems, its handling bungled by hubris.

Through all the hubris, mendacity, and corruption, we built a community based on reflection, recollection, deep thought, the hard work and pleasure of revisiting our past and shaping our jumbled thoughts into articulate clarity.

I hope we don’t let this community fall. It will rise and fall, wax and wane, but any living organism — and I do catch a glimpse of Retrospect as a large, amorphous, but purposeful organism — goes through metamorphosis.

Carrying Retrospect forward in oxymoronic fashion will require revamping. Our leaders have operated mightily to maintain Retro’s impressive momentum, but the burn-out phase of any self-starting effort can be wearing and ultimately conclusive. But I do hope we will continue. I would miss you terribly. We’ve all suffered enough loss.

Until we meet again…

"A farm family ambience, sifting compost piles of memory, tilling soils of a late lamented culture..."
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Writing for Retrospect

Altho I’ve RetroFlashed about my feelings for Retrospect,  there’s more to say about this wonderful website!

In September 2019 at the urging of my friend Betsy,  and after some transcontinental calls to Suzy with tech questions,  I wrote my first Retro story for the prompt Road Rage.  It was about an accident I had with my husband’s beloved T-bird,  a car that had been his mid-life crisis gift to himself when he turned 60.  And by the way he’s now 79 and the car now 19,  both still running fairly well with the occasional tune-up.   (see Fender Bender.)

Since then I’ve written over 200 stories,  in fact several more about my relationship with cars,   see Smash-Up,  Rainy Night on the Highway, and The Chain Letter and the Fender Bender.

I enjoyed writing those as well as some other humorous stories evoked by other prompts,  see The Corpse in the Office,  Spoiler Alert!,  17 Gas Stations,  and Words with Suzy.

And I enjoyed writing to prompts that reminded me of beloved pets,  see Missing Pussycats,  ASPCA, The Puppy in the Waiting Room,  and Mr Bucco and the Ginger Cat.

And prompts evoking childhood memories , see My Heart Remembers My Grandmother’s Hotel,  Our Special Guests,  Blizzard,  and Skate Key.

Looking back there were also Retro prompts that evoked some painful memories of loss,  and writing about them was cathartic,  see Take Care of Your Sister,  Piano Man: Remembering Herb,  Cantor Gladys , and Comfort Food for Renee.

And stories evoked by prompts about home –  see 2026 McGraw,  My Beloved Basement,  Parkchester, Celebrate Me Home,  and Magnolia, The Story of a Garden.

And other prompts that elicited emotional responses and stories about family ,  see My Game Mother,  My Father, the Outsider Artist,   Call Me by Their Names,  Around the World in 80 Days, Hermine’s Morning Joe,  College Girl: for Aunt Hannah,  My Cousin Rick,  Aunt Miriam, Diva,  White Shoulders for Aunt Frances, and Family Photo.

And my college years,  see The Fortune Cookie Candidate and Theatre Dreams.  And my dating years,  see Cherry Coke,  The One Who Got Away, and Playing with Fire.

And marriage,  see Bed and Breakfast,  Flowers on the Windshield,  Both Sides Now,  Valentine’s Day in Foggytown, and New Leaf.

And politics,  see Getting Woke,  Birmingham,  What Did You Do in the War, Daddy?,  and The Naked Emperor.

And the joys and trials of parenthood,  see The Great Hampton Babysitter Heist,  Our Noisy Nanny,  Aruba Nights,  Reading with Hattie, Baking with Julia,  and Three Noahs,

And stories about my long, rewarding library career,  see My Snowy Year in Buffalo,  Magazines for the Principal,  and The Diary of a Young Girl.

And just as meaningful as writing my own stories has been reading those of my fellow Retro writers across the country.  Sharing and commenting on our stories has meant more to me than I could ever have imagined,  we have truly become a family and I thank you all.

And to our tireless Retro admins Suzy,  Barbara,  Laurie and Marian I send my love and deepest gratitude!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

2026 McGraw

Leaving Manhattan recently on a wintry Friday afternoon we hit rush hour and my husband turned off the highway to avoid the traffic.   We were taking a detour through local Bronx streets when I realized we were about to pass my old neighborhood,  and we decided to drive down my old street.

I’ve written before about 2026 McGraw Ave,  the house I grew up in,  and that I last saw a dozen years ago when I went to a wonderful neighborhood reunion.   (For more about my childhood home see  Reunion,  Parkchester, Celebrate Me Home,   Magnolia, The Story of a Garden,  Mr Bucco and the Ginger Cat,  and Fluffy and the Alligator Shoes)

But it had been heart wrenching then to see the changes to the house since my parents sold it in the 1970s,  and now I was sorry to see there had been even more changes.

Our property had spanned two lots and we had a large garden with a lovely stone birdbath,  a garage and tool shed,  a charming grape arbor that bore fruit,  and on each side of our front door a beautiful magnolia tree –  but now all those were gone.

And that recent winter day seeing the house again,  now painted a garish yellow,   I regretted that we’d made that detour.

But maybe Thomas Wolfe had it wrong,  because lying in bed that night I saw the house once more  –  it was painted a warm brown,  it was early spring,  and our magnolia trees were in full bloom.   And I went home again.

– Dana Susan Lehrman