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So, I've been calling myself a writer for quite some time. But I can't really say I'm writing. I have many, many ideas -- all true stories -- that I think would make great reading. It's not writer's block. It's more like time block. I'm just not making the time to craft the tales.

What's obsessing me now is the three weeks I recently spent on the East Coast. I went ostensibly to take care of my mother as she recovered from knee replacement surgery. My idea was to get my parents to nail down their memoirs while I had a captive audience. But neither is able to be captive, even my "disabled" mom. She was progressing faster in her recovery than I did with my hip replacement last year. Hard to keep her settled down, and often once she took the time to relax she immediately dozed off.

But the time was much more about me than I has anticipated, and the fodder for stories is swirling around in my brain like a many-fruited smoothie.

How you can't go home again when your parents moved out of your home town more than 20 years ago. Even visiting the old homestead didn't feel like going home. When I emerged from the train at the old train station I was completely lost. I stood by the tracks trying to figure out which way to turn; I didn't recognize anything. How could Glen Cove be this lush? The homes so grand, the lawns so inviting?

How parents quickly revert to overprotective once you're under their roof for any amount of time, even though you're old enough be a grandparent too.

What saved my sanity being away from my comfortable Boulder life for so long was bicycling. I had the forethought to bring my folding Bike Friday. But cycling was a nonstop confrontation with mom and dad. Everywhere I rode was "too far." Days with an overcast sky were "not nice enough to ride." The roads were "unsafe," and I'd never find a place to lock the bike up. (I later discovered, despite a complete lack of bike maps and few bike lanes, paths or racks, New Jersey ranks 9th on the League of American Bicyclists' bike friendly states. Go figure.) The morning I took Friday into Manhattan on the bus my parents sat me down for a serious talk about the dangers of the big, bad city and nearly grounded me. (It turns out NYC is designated "bronze" in bike friendliness by the League, but I have to disagree.)

The visit culminated in my fourth grade reunion, complete with our teacher Helen (for God's sake stop calling me Mrs.) Greene. Reconnecting with the group, especially a core of six who spent the day hanging out at our old haunts, was magical.

All this to say, jeez, so much content, so little impetus. Like everything else, first I need a strategic plan, which of course requires commitment and even more writing.

At least it's in public now. I hope to hold myself accountable for progress ...