In the Wrong Place

Naturally, when my father passed away in a nursing home, one week before his 99th birthday, a lot of people asked if it was Covid-19 that took him. No, it really wasn't. He died of "natural causes", the way we all pray we will, in his own way, at his own pace. But, yes, Covid most certainly did take him. He wanted to live to be at least 100. Had he truly gotten his way, he most assuredly would not have died so close to entering his one hundredth year. Not this man. Then, why have I changed my mind? 

Dementia is a wonderful thing, when one is ready to accept it, it wipes away so much of the alternate world.  My dad, along with countless others who reside in long-term care facilities, suffered from Dementia and time, or the perception of it, escaped him. Every visit, I would give him a kiss on his forehead and say "see ya tomorrow". At which he would respond "okay, Sweetie", and off I would go, fifteen minute visit ended, until days later when I would return. In the days before Dementia, I oftentimes would be greeted with "where've you been?" But as the gears shifted, if you asked him, he would have told you that he and I chatted daily, in person. 

My father's days were long, from my perspective. To him, they were relatively short. He got up when he pleased, went through, with assistance, the arduous process of getting groomed and dressed, ate breakfast, got some morning entertainment, ate lunch, got some afternoon entertainment, dinner and then to bed. A full day, filled with other residents who were doing exactly the same thing, and outside entertainers, staff members and family members (other people's families), who made the gap times shorter and the days so much happier. Small reasons to remain alive, but he felt alive and looked forward to the routine which validated his life while all the while, thinking that any day, he would be going home. Never, in two years, did we let him think differently. Never, did we tell him that he was "home", that his house had been sold and the profit converted into his monthly care. We never allowed him to abandon that hope, that belief that one day he would be back in his own chair, looking out his own window. Any day, yes, any day, he would return to that, his Paradise. That kept him alive. That gave him hope. That made him fail to realize that he had been at his current residence almost two years, not the few weeks that if he were asked, he would vouch for. 

In the earliest days of Covid, the administration of his facility decided to shut their doors to the outside world. I would tell you that my last visit, in person, face to face with a good-bye kiss, was around Valentine's Day. The doors were shut, the staff masked up, no contacts were allowed until further notice. No cards, packages, signs of life from beyond their own rooms. Isolated for their own good. Days on end, without much more than four walls. There was no way my father could be convinced to watch daytime T.V. No way that he would be able to handle a phone call. Finally, a system was put into place for FaceTime calls once a week. The technology failed him. He stared into the staff member's Iphone and asked most times, to have it "turned off". He had no idea of how few and precious the contacts with those who loved him would be.

The weeks, months, dragged on.  Finally, weekly visits, outdoors, were permitted. Those were difficult for so many reasons. Masked, seated six feet away, I had to yell above the sound of traffic and the lawn mower, finally just giving up after twenty minutes at the most each time. He had enough after five minutes. Waves good-bye. And then, eventually, weekly indoor visits were back and each time, his voice grew weaker and weaker and his remarks about going home became the only ones he made. He seemed more determined than ever. And I, I understood better, that determination. The cloak of Dementia was slowly slipping off, as if it were made of silk. The one item in his wheelhouse that kept him alive and well was being over-run by cruel reality. His once easy distractions, went missing.  No more communal meals, no more outside entertainers, no more "daily" visits from his daughter, no more, no more. Reality, the last shred, set in.

My father died with dignity. I was with him til almost the very last breath. I knew he waited for me. I felt a tiny squeeze from his exhausted hand. I knew that he was giving me a message. He didn't want to continue living this way. He was bored and broken. He thought it was going to be so different, in his younger days. Approaching one hundred wasn't what it was cracked up to be. Isolation robbed him of his ability to perceive his current situation as temporary. With each passing, lonely, long day, it became abundantly clear that he was in the wrong place. He left the Covid World for a better world. Maybe.

Chocolate Turkeys

As I write this, cases of Covid-19 continue to soar beyond anything that science may have expected. I don't feel the particular need to document that for posterity. There won't be a moment in future history in which this will be forgotten or not referred to. Pre-Covid Days will be the source of millions of opening discussions and grandchildren will have something new about which to roll eyeballs.  The fact that we will never be the same will be not a fact but a way of life. That new "never same" will one day be business as "usual" and none of this could have been predicted. Despite what so many ardent citizens profess, most of this could NOT have been prevented. Human beings just aren't made that way and without leadership, they fail miserably at just being human. Period. End of sentence.

I have been out of the country for at least five Thanksgiving holidays. My family hasn't counted me in their plans. Life has gone on with turkeys circling around me and my absence at the table has been well-tolerated. Were I twelve years old again, I am sure that would not be the case. Were I twelve, here's how it would have been.......

My grandparents lived in the Bronx, New York in the house my mother grew up. They occupied the ground floor and my grandfather's brother, Peter, the top floor. Two brothers, their wives and a total of five children all called it home and all returned for holidays. Thanksgiving meant a full-house, both floors. This meant weeks of preparations, dozens of trips to local food stores, and huge waves of excitement as the women of the house anticipated the beginning of the holiday cycle. Guest lists were never discussed. Everyone, without question, would be at the table.  As the years went by, more chairs were added to accommodate new family members, some requiring orientation to the ways in which true Italian immigrants celebrated a true American holiday. The words "I've never seen as much food" were spoken by at least one new guest per year. Never failed.  It took my grandmother an entire week and two stoves to prepare and lasagna was just a starter. No, I take that back......the foil-wrapped chocolate turkeys, one for each grandchild, they were the real "starters" and she never forgot them. Nor will I. Nor will my brother, as confirmed during a phone discussion yesterday. Years later, my own mother continued the tradition and added a new one, the gift of an Advent calendar. My children knew that the holiday season had begun and then, years later, my own grandchildren thrilled at the very same simple gestures.

The Thanksgivings of my childhood and young adult life were warm and cozy. The memories, worth millions. The pain of visualizing the now-empty seats at the table, still fresh and new, each time.That table. Huge and mahogany. Opened to its fullest, covered with pads and a huge cloth. If it could speak. There were political discussions, arguments, endorsements, rulings, outbursts, demands and commands, most of which, led by my grandfather. A post-dessert expectation. We all knew it would be coming and we all sat through it.  As we grew up, we developed our own ideas and opinions. As the years moved on from the forties through the seventies, the generation to which I and my cousins belong, moved on as well. There were health-related discussions. Fears, anxiety. Assurances that came not from doctors but from family members who skillfully practiced the art of wishful thinking. Pronouncements of "but your haven't lost weight....so that's a good sign", coupled with "you'll be fine" interrupted the rantings of my tireless grandfather. My grandmother never participated in discussions other than to say "That's enough Louie!" when she realized that the bliss was being overtaken by the views of our patriarch. She usually won and out would come the pies. And the fruit. And the nuts. And the naps. And the setting sun.

Before departing, we would have made our way up the stairs and wishes for a happy Thanksgiving would have been exchanged with cousins and second cousins. Then, off into the evening we'd all go. My brother and I, asking our father to please, please put the radio on in our car. Cousin Brucie and music to dream on as we clutched our little chocolate turkeys and headed home, our house, the place where Christmas would be celebrated, just weeks after Thanksgiving, by the very same group of people. 

Fast forward (and it does seem like all of that was just "yesterday"), Thanksgiving 2020. Abandoned in the cold of the night, two little chocolate turkeys, purchased with love of tradition and care, left behind on our patio by their recipients, along with two "winter face masks". Remnants of a dinner, the day before the actual holiday, outside. On our patio table. No first cousins, no second cousins. Just the setting sun and the last two chocolate turkeys I will ever purchase. The final attempts at normalcy.  There's no turning back. I'm just so comforted by my memories, those I can still share with my brother and husband and am saddened by the lack of interest in holding on to traditions and in being a part of future memories on the part of my own grandchildren. Their memories will be shrouded by the memory of a Pandemic, nothing more. 

Never Promised You a Rose Garden

 I rarely watch network T.V.  Fortunately, I need not.  We have 2 'Smart" televisions, a Roku and our beloved "Prime", all of which allow for selection of some pretty fabulous viewing minus the intelligence-insults brought on by commercials and speeches by the biggest waste of viewing time, Donald Trump. CNN and real news shows are pretty much my limit. I prefer print to audio/visual presentations. I wasn't surprised to hear that our president "does not read" and that he learns all he has to (wants to) know, from FOX. This information, from his own sister who did not know her thoughts were going to go public. She had nothing to gain by being honest about her brother's shortcomings. The truth is the truth. 

So, I must admit, I have spent very little time watching either presidential candidate in real time.  I did catch up on speeches cast by a few key figures during both conventions and via YouTube, and credible news sources, watched, in horror at times, party members boasting about their exploits and promising a better America. I will let you rest in peace about your personal selection and hope for the best. Transparent about this, I cannot promise I will be.  It's too important to me on so many fronts. Furthermore, I don't think either party can or will be totally honest nor will either be able to deliver their personal agendas as they want voters to believe. Rarely has that happened in the history of the presidency. But never, in that history, has our country been so low.  America has always been a place of dreams, a place of honor and a place of power. A place of pride. A place to call "home" and a home of envy. I have never, ever been embarrassed to identify as a citizen of this country and have taken pride each time I answered the question of my residency.

Of course, all of that has changed.

The Rose Garden has been re-designed. The new version, a sign of the times. The roses are gone!

So much has changed.  And, it is getting scarier by the minute, just being an American. I know I am not alone in my fears. I know that my ancestors and yours as well, had fears and many of them are still alive to tell. While they may not have had Smart T.V.'s, or any for that matter, they may have seen newsreels while at the then-affordable theaters in their neighborhoods as they awaited the latest film from the latest Hollywood heartthrobs.  Surely, the film that followed brought comfort but I am certain that most of them left the theater fearful of their futures, having seem images of a world at war and a madman at the center of the destruction of humanity. 

And so, I am left to wonder, as I plow through the images of the past few days, the Republican National Convention, the one during which hundreds of not-so-smart American citizens exposed themselves to what the First Lady labeled as an "invisible" enemy, by flouting all scientifically proven methods of infection control during their attendance at Trump's speech.....what was the message?

Oftentimes, it's pictures that do the speaking. Another reason why I chose to not glue myself to the television. And, with that, I leave you with images. Brand new images. Pictures that might make you think about the images your ancestors who put down their dimes and got a dose of reality before a dose of romance on a big screen. 

The White House Rose Garden, minus the roses. Looks like a triumphant march site instead. Heil!

This is Melania's revision of the once beautiful rose garden.  All set for the tanks on parade.

Melania in her Nazi uniform

Heil America!

 

R.I.P.

Last month, on  hot and humid New York day, not far from her birthplace and home for most of her one hundred and five years, my husband and sister, along with family members in face masks, buried, literally, their matriarch. Into the grave which already was home to a daughter and a husband. Under a mercifully-placed shade tree.  The graveside service followed two hours of a somewhat traditional wake. An open casket. An assembly of far less than would have been expected had we not still been in the throws of a pandemic that won't quit.  The second pandemic experienced during the lifetime of my newly-deceased mother-in-law.

Her death did not come as a surprise. Rather, the end of a gentle roll. My husband who spoke to her every day for the past twenty-plus years, admitted to himself, at least, that she "left" us months and months ago. Her mind was blissfully elsewhere.  Her body, free from chronicity, just wouldn't allow her to travel back to meet up with the pre-deceased but I have a feeling that there were conferences and plans for a summit were in the waiting.  If anything, my husband and his family have been known for taking a long hard look at things before making decisions.  She, especially, was known to have scanned every weekly food store flyer before making her shopping list.  Never having driven, she probably had little notion of how much patience she extracted from first, her husband, and later, her children, as they transported her from store to store.  Gas and mileage were never factored into the "savings" that she would realize and triumph over. A "sale" was a "sale" and good value meant the world to a woman who grew up during the Great Depression, remembering each and every challenge as if it had happened the day before yesterday. A stockpile of coffee in her basement meant the equivalent of a gold mine. Pandemic after pandemic, this was a woman who would not have run out of toilet paper. 

There are stories.  There will be a million more.  You cannot possibly live one hundred and five years without amassing a tome.  Her home, the one in which she lived until her final moments, is filled to the rafters with stuff of life.  A child of the depression, she never forgot the angst of not having, and she had all that she needed, and then some, in her married life.  Reluctant to part with things in which she saw value, comfort or beauty, my mother-in-law left closets filled with clothing and a house filled with dishes, bric-a-brac and furnishings.  The next few months will become an emotional roller coaster as her family pulls that long history apart, dish by dish, figurine by figurine, dress by dress.  I recall having done that with my own parent's house and one day, when my father, the last of our living parents, passes from this life, his possessions will hardly fill a small box.  I don't know which scenario is sadder. 

My husband and I have now realigned ourselves in the family order.  We are the "elders", the generation that we replaced.  Our children and grandchildren will be looking at us with new eyes, a new perspective. We'll be weighed and measured, spotted and checked on in ways to which we are not accustomed. Yet. 

End

The Baixar Cross

This is the absolute end of the Camino de Santiago

               The granite posts are route markers and they are lifelines along the entire way.

It's easy these days to allow my brain to select memories of some of the best days of my adult life.  We still remain limited in our choices of new experiences, and "Covid-19 Days"still tend to run on into each other with  few highlights.  So, it seems rather natural for a glance backwards, ruminating  and relishing memories of a delicious past. In Pre-Covid days, I may have simply hurried on my way to newer memories, gathering mental images that time did not allow for expansion.  As I start another day I am feeling the need to take advantage of, instead of damning too much, free time. So I sat myself down with the hope of recapturing some of those backward glances and savoring them for all their worth. After all, isn't that what life is made up of, memories. 

Along the northeast coast of Spain, in the province known as A Coruna, lie two towns considered as  the last of the possible stops  for pilgrims along the way of the Camino de Santiago, Muxia (moo SHEE ah) and Finisterre (AKA Fisterre).  If it was the film "The Way", that first captured your interest in the Camino, you may remember having seen Martin Sheen completing his journey at Finisterre, often referred to as "the End of the World".  It was here that the bereaved father cast the ashes of his son into the majestic sea.

I love every memory of our days on the Camino, doubting that anything else in my life to come could hold a candle to that experience. Our journey, in celebration of my seventieth birthday, was completed in five days of perfect weather, during the last week of April, 2018.  We officially ended our Camino in the city of Santiago de Compostella, feeling exhilarated and happy after long days of hiking the ancient route. We had arrived at our destination and all the "ifs" were past-tense.  We spent the next three days leisurely strolling, no deadlines or destinations. Our Camino passports were full, no more need to get them stamped.  We passed muster at the Pilgrim Office and received our Compostellas, certifying that we had, indeed completed the required 100 kilometers.  Santiago days were for relaxation and celebration, eating tapas and taking it easy after five days of walk, eat, sleep, repeat. So, no, we did not feel guilty when we boarded a luxury bus  two days later and settled into our  comfortable seats for an all-day excursion to the Finisterre.  The sky was blue, the air was perfect and the views were extreme.  Along the way, we saw pilgrims still on their journey. While most end their Way in Santiago, there are a number who chose to stay on foot and travel on to the very, very end. An hour and a half bus ride would have netted out to several more walking days. Had this been a celebration of an earlier birthday, we might have considered this option.

The coastal route was spectacular.  Living near the sea, I still never tire of seascapes.  As our bus twisted and turned through tiny towns that dot the coastline, we were able to sit back and just enjoy. A few short stops at some very scenic locales and then on to Muxia for lunch.  Of course, octopus was part of that meal as it was most of our meals in Galicia. We luxuriated at a seaside cafe and followed it up with a walk through the town, I accompanied by three other American women.  Joe ventured out on his own.  Having been together every moment for the previous two weeks, the time away felt odd, especially when the bus was about to depart and he was nowhere in sight.  Thank God for small favors....a red backpack was spotted by one of our companions and soon we were on our way again.  

The final stop on our bus route was the breathtaking Finisterre. As the bus wound up the hill, the rest of the world slowly slipped away and the beauty of the most Northern tip of Spain was revealed.  The Baixir Cross greets pilgrims who next seek the final marker of the Camino. Beyond that, waves crash against huge rock formations that lead gracefully out to the sea.  The entire point is an observation area, the boundless beauty marked by relentless sprays of ocean against nature. Symphonic. Shade of blue and green, mixed with silvery white show up with each crash, non-stop. Gorgeous. Majestic. Only words. One would have to be there to fully grasp this, this overwhelming feeling and stunning appreciation of Man meeting Sea and, in the end, Sea the greater force. A perfect way to end our Way, or any way, for that matter.

After all is said and done, the Camino de Santiago is a perfect metaphor, one that is completed at the 

End of the World.

Memorial

Eight years ago, last week, my beautiful mother gave up her guard, changing forever the way I personally approached the start of what millions of others in this country refer to as the "Independence Day" holiday.

The months and weeks before her death were sad and trying for us but she faced them with dignity and bravery that set a mark.  An extraordinary woman, a unique mother, and one of the smartest people I have ever known.  If I had half of her intelligence I would be very pleased.

My mom would have been 94 now. My father, still alive, is 98 and has dementia. Most of their generation of relatives are either deceased or very old.  I have no family historians, nobody to whom I can turn for answers so I have gaps in my knowledge and very little information about my family's past, other than the stories that were told over and over during my own childhood.  I have puzzle pieces that oftentimes just don't fit together. I have a maze through which I cannot come and feel left out when my friends recount stories of their parent's heritage. I think my mother's favorite color was blue. I know she loved the water, everything related to the seashore. I know how she and my father met. Her eyes were soft blue. She struggled with her weight all her life and had problems accepting her image. My father was the first and only man she ever dated. They meet in high school. Courtship, engagement, the War, the wedding. I have the photos and tiny bits of stories of young love and devotion. Never once was "sacrifice" mentioned. The word "regret" also never appeared. I am left wondering. It was none of my business. Secrets were part of the success of their marriage.

Wisdom beyond the stratosphere. World-class speller and mathematician. She knew diddly-squat about history, American or World.  She wasn't allowed to learn the language of her parents and knew little about their lives before their immigration. They made it to America from a life of poverty and they were not turning back; they instead, moved proudly forward and it was through their actions that my mother learned the customs and culture of her ancestors in their homeland. She was an Italian Woman. We never missed a family vacation but we never ventured across the ocean as a family. She had a work ethic and, from the time I was two years old, she held a full-time job.                                                                                           

 Being home all day with children was not fulfilling and I wonder now, had she been like all the
"other moms", how my life might have turned out. I try very hard to wipe away thoughts of having been deprived as a young child, of a full-time mom, and to realize that she sacrificed a field of flowers for a mountain peak of great memories. My childhood experiences and memories included some very special moments of quality time. It took me years to appreciate that and now, I accept it as a gift that only she could have imparted. How very fortunate my brother and I were.

It's true that oftentimes we only realize what we have, after we lose it.  It's also a sad realization that we miss opportunities in our lives to speak our hearts with those closest to us.  I wish my children could embrace that knowledge. Alas, they probably won't. They are humans too. They are busy and productive, the generation that rides on the tails of generations before, the culmination of all that their grandparents dreamed possible, genetically capable of doing great things, just as we were before them. After all, is it not the greatest wish of a parent, to see their own children enjoying the fruits of their own years of labor in the garden of life? I wish I had taken the time to discuss life, to find out more about the lives that shaped mine, to know more about my mother than what I saw. To know more than what I perceived.

We can't go back and re-live our lives.  How very trite that sounds. Mine has been, and forever will be, missing a part, an integral piece of who I am.  Trite. True. 

 

False Gods Before You

All will be well, all will be well, all will be well. I've been given that mantra by a friend who finds it useful.  It's not new to me.  I've tried it, and a thousand other mental exercises, but none really do the trick, none bring relief or any resolution to my increasing fear of doom and my giving up of the guard. I don't buy it. I don't really believe that all, or anything for that matter, will be well.

At first, I welcomed the changes that the arrival of a global pandemic brought. After all, we thought it was going to be a short shot, that in a few weeks, Covid will have come and gone and we would have been well over it and all of its consequences by early Spring.  I distinctly recall our nation's "leader" giving his opinion and he stated that "by Easter" this "thing" would be gone.  He was surrounded by people who, we assumed were giving him scientific advice on an hourly basis.  He had resources, brilliant and trusted resources. He had an assigned place on the leadership team of the world's most influential country. And, he blew it.  He blew it so badly that instead of taking pride in my American residency, I hang my head in shame and shake my head in disbelief and wonder each and every day about how this person has not been taken out of the White House and into a mental health facility for treatment.  But, that's his problem.  Mine, the result of his lack of leadership, his racist, sexist, immoral and downright ignorant missives during a time when he should have been upright, honest, empathetic and moral, isn't going away. I don't play golf, I can't escape to a bunker, I can't ignore what is around me. I can't lie and tell people that I am not an American.  I don't believe in mantras. I don't believe in America and I would be happy to take the advice of those people who are still foolish enough to enjoy the leadership of a madman and yell to people like myself...."America! Love it or leave it!".  I don't love it and I can't even leave it now.  He's spun a new web around us. We're on a list. A short and embarrassing assortment of countries who, God knows how long,will not be allowed to enter Europe or even Canada.  

This man, this insane person in the White House, this Trump, has totally taken us down with him. This evil monster who duped people into thinking that he had a plan to "make America great again", has done what so many (thank you God), others had predicted he would.  He's made America the laughing stock of the entire world. No, America is not great. America is weak and Americans have suffered more than their share during the Pandemic and will continue to suffer from the effects of a virus that won't quit and  a weak and ignorant president who has destroyed more lives than any pathogen could possibly have.

So, go Mr President, go play golf, go shoot off your large and un-attractive mouth. Go about your business of looking at yourself in your mirror of deception and go about your business of insulting people of intelligence and belittling people who are smart enough to know how smart you are not.  Go ahead and destroy any glimmer of hope that we may have while you continue to hope for re-election instead of humbling yourself and getting the job of uniting your country.  Go ahead and alienate world leaders, call them names, deny your involvement in their evil deeds.  Go ahead and think you're God.  I have news for you.  You're not.  But, I will give you credit for something.  THE God did speak about you. In fact, you are a fairly popular guy.  If you don't believe me, look it up. I've provided you with a list of references. the Bible, by the way, is not simply a prop for a photo-op, a bad photo at that.

 Or just google false gods.

• Leviticus
• Numbers
• Judges
• 1 Samuel
• 1 Kings
• 2 Kings
• 1 Chronicles
• 2 Chronicles
• Isaiah
• Jeremiah
• Hosea
• Zephaniah
• Acts
• Romans

What is Missed

There are hundreds of words that could describe the feelings and reactions that humans are sharing since the arrival of Covid-19.  The media runneth over. Our conversations with friends and family members allow us to wash and wear our emotions and over and over as we sort out how we are "doing".  We're all just trying to keep our heads above water, really, as slowly we drown.  We come up for air just long enough to realize that the surface we desperately seek is far from the relief that we had wished it would be.  I can clearly recall the words of friends as this all started....."hopefully, this will all be over by the Summer.....if it's not.....??????" The Summer is officially here now.  There's no turning back to make it different. The drum has rolled and we're dancing to a new beat.

 We  await a current set of statistics, those that will reflect the outcome of relaxation, either by defiance or government decree, of the "rules" that have successfully contained the Virus, flattened the so-called curve.  I suspect that we are in for some surprises.  And, I am in the group that believes that we are still in for the long run. I hope I am dead-wrong. 

I take a self-inventory every so often, assessing the impact of all of this on my life. In those hundreds of possible words, only one rises to the top, one makes it through the pounding surf of emotional waves. Spontaneity. That's what I am missing. That's what we all are missing and have been since late March of this year. The simple acts that used to be woven so gently into daily life, making them virtually un-noticed.  Going out for a morning coffee with a few good friends for a chin-wag, stopping by to visit a shop owner, collecting ingredients for a special meal. Doing art together. Browsing in a thrift shop. Hugging, kissing, shaking the hand of a new friend. Using hand sanitizer wipes on the handle of a shopping cart just out of habit, not necessity. Acting on impulse.Selecting dates and making travel plans, casting fate to the wind.  The bliss of anticipation, counting days until departure, packing slowly and dreaming of being transplanted to happy places. Getting a haircut. Buying an ice cream. Sitting on a beach at sunset, grasping onto the last of daylight and feeling sad that a day has ended. Not looking forward to a day's end, to the catapulting of life into a brighter future.

  

Tending

Sitting out here on my patio, it's now just past seven in the morning. Just starting to warm up a bit. Mornings have been cold, afternoons have a chill and I still wear fuzzy booties to bed. I use two blankets.

I come out onto my patio each morning to enjoy the first rays of sunshine and inspect my garden.  Mostly pots on the patio. The raised bed is outside the fence.  Adjacent to it is my little St. Francis garden.

Nothing seems to be growing.  It's as if the plants are holding back. I don't know what more to do.  I've given them the advantage of good soil from the nursery, proper organic fertilizers, and water.  I totally give up on trying to grow herbs.  It is like some sort of reverse sorcery. I never have luck.  I can't produce enough for a garnish, never mind a Medieval sort of compound for skin rash. But the failure to launch the rest of my plants, that baffles and annoys me.  Maybe my impatience is weighing in.  I have to keep reminding myself that it is only June and that we have a short growing season here. Don't ask me how the local produce that makes the farm stands and little markets so inviting, has managed to bloom and burst into the gorgeous array of salad ingredients that find their way into our weekly "Salad Club" bags. 

Maybe by August, I will produce my own salad.  Isn't that what the world around me is suggesting?  Be patient.  Be diligent. Continue to water. Move pots around so that they all get an extra few moments in the sun. Don't over-fertilize. Use only natural, organic, boosters. Fend off slugs and little creatures that gnaw away at blossoms and stems. Resist the temptation to pluck zucchini flowers, for the result will be less zucchini. Wait it out. Be a good and patient farmer. If August does not bring results, move on. Learn from the mistakes. Start again next Spring or maybe, just maybe, gardening is not my thing. Some things are just left for God to tend.

Before the Masks

I'm sitting here staring at a brand new sewing machine.  It's all set up and ready to go, a constant reminder to me that I should be making face masks.  It's a sweet machine and was reasonably-priced and easy to order on-line, just like so many of the new arrivals in our house lately.  I have yet to sew one face mask, although I have tried several times.  I'm late in the game so there are hundreds of different YouTube videos that offer instructions and it's not only time-consuming plowing through them but also, very confusing. Which one is the most comfortable, the easiest, the quickest, the most durable. I don't know how to chose. I am thinking it must be easier to simply go back to Amazon and order a box of paper masks, the ones used by health professionals, those that were virtually impossible to obtain just a few short weeks ago. I could cross my fingers and hope that from date of order to date of arrival might be before the end of the Pandemic.  Those purchased face masks will be good enough, chic enough, and enough for the job for which they were intended. I bet that very soon, everyone will finally give up on the face-mask-fashion-show and when we're shopping in the supermarket, we'll find boxes of paper masks in the diaper aisle, a staple on everyone's list. Toilet paper, face masks. Don't get caught short!

This Pandemic life is filled with so many lessons. As we cut through the layers and become accustomed to living with the fear of human contact of any kind, we also cut through layers of our own personalities.  For some of us, that in itself will be a positive by-product, something good rising out of the ashes of this unspeakable horror.  For others, it will cause greater problems.  Long into the future, we will see the evidence of shattered lives, failed marriages, undiagnosed illnesses, and countless other results that will shape the rest of our lives.  I do believe we will survive this and that we will carry forth our new ways, tempering everything with which we come into contact. But for now, we're still just trying to get through each day, week and month, akin to those layers that make up the face masks. And it still does feel quite surreal.

At home, it seems that we're constantly fixing or improving something.  How did we not notice that so many things needed our attention?  How did I survive without a Swiffer? Slowly, we're replacing things like the old sewing machine, the oven thermometer, the nozzle on the garden hose.  We're waiting for the arrival of a sound bar for our T.V., our son telling us that we must have it to improve the quality of the presentations of the Metropolitan Opera that we can pick and choose from at any given time, right in our own den.  I guess that the sound wasn't "good enough" before the Pandemic. Like the spray on the hose. Like the oven. Like the old sewing machine.

 Like our lives before. Like the lives before the masks.

Dress Rehearsal

During one of the Quarantine Weeks, I joined a group of writers online for an afternoon workshop. With a handful of others, I was asked to describe the color I was feeling at the moment.  One by one, we shared our colors and as expected, most of the descriptions were of blue, dark, grey. I gazed out the window as my turn came and I said "yellow, I'm feeling the brightness of a beautiful day here at my home". Next, we all wrote to photo prompts.  By the end of the session, most of the other writers had read, out loud, their soul-filled creations, most of which were in reaction not only to the prompt, but to the current and primal state of affairs.  Instead of reading mine, I sat and I listened to each of the wonderfully written pieces, marveling at the talents and wondering why I felt differently about so much of what was being exposed. Most were younger and most were residents of cities.  Time and place have so much to do with the writing process. Time and place.

So, I decided to not use time and place as a journal form. I have written so little about the Covid Crisis, in fact, I have written so little in general during the past few months.  A lot of my creative energy has been used otherwise.  I write daily, in the form of an email, connecting my neighbors. It takes time and thought but the feedback tells me that it is appreciated and therefore, I continue to do it. But, it is a factual rather than emotional outpouring. It's not about me. It's not Facebook or Instagram either.  It's more of a connection. Time and place, vital and not-so-vital news of within and outside the condo community. All the while, however, I have been sorting this in my brain, trying to find my own voice, to summarize rather than give a blow-by-blow description of what this all feels like and how this affects my life and my future, never mind the rest of the modern world. I think it's best to leave individual reactions to individuals.

My father is now almost 99 years old.  He lives in a nursing home and that, for the past almost two years, had been a source of some of the greatest relief I have felt since my mother's death eight years ago. Alone in his home, without her coaching, without her instigating daily life activities, he sat in his gigantic leather recliner chair for hours, looking out the window, rarely doing much more. His day was defined by his meal times, his foray out to collect his newspaper from the driveway, and his routines of simplicity. Prepping the house for the night, opening it for the new day. All very rote, all exceptionally un-inspiring, but all set in stone.  He deflected anything that was not within the set parameters of what he considered "normal" and "safe".  Each time I would try to encourage him to do something different, to perhaps visit the Senior Center for lunch or to take a small walk with his dog, he put me off.  Same clothes every day for weeks. No signs of attendance to hygiene. Same bar of soap, virtually untouched, on the bathroom vanity. Never asked me to restock toothpaste. Just a once a week trip to the barber shop. Wouldn't even shave himself. A boring and virtually useless existence as observed.  Safe harbor for him.  His answer to my question of "what do you do all day" was consistent. "I do what I want, and I don't do what I don't want to do". End of story.

Ah, reflection. Lots of time now to think about life. Not a lot of places to go. No more demands. Lower expectations. Good excuses. Early morning risings. Early to bed at night. It could be so easy. Oh brother, it could be so very easy.

Reflection has brought insight. I have to make sense of all of this.  I'm not sure that others have framed their thoughts this same way but I have made a foundation of belief that for me, is not going to crack. I know what this is all about for me. A sneak peak. A greater understanding. I forgive you, Dad, and I do understand.  I sense an opportunity here.  Enlightenment?

So, this is what it feels like?

Projection. I'm only seventy two. I have years ahead. I see that boulder rolling towards me and it
could move with fury. If I allow it. Life has become so complex. This is the life, the daily routine, of a ninety-something.  The new challenges presented by the Pandemic, they are reminders of what real, true, old-age must feel like.  It must be so damned hard to navigate in a feeble body, with a failing mind. It must be so damned confusing, the least change in the routine. So difficult to grasp and then to do something necessary but unfamiliar, just to get through a transaction, never mind a whole day, week, month, year.  Showering, shaving, changing clothes, choosing outfits, the right shoes for the time. What to eat. When. Where. How? Shopping, driving. Making phone calls. Answering the phone. Making small talk. Trying to fall asleep after a useless day of nothing but what you wanted to do. Nothing.

So, I'm thinking that this is all just one, huge dress rehearsal. That this time is good and valuable. That I have been given a great gift as it turns out. Not just me.  Everyone. A forward glance, that opportunity that I sensed. I have had a a taste of what, in not so distant a future, my life could actually resemble. I've had a chance to see, touch and feel emotions that one day I could own and I don't like them. I need and want to re-write the script. At the end of the drama, I want the star to be remembered as a vital and contributing member of the cast. I want to push back that rock, send it to the other side of the hill from where it originated. I want to declare now that I want to be as the top of that hill, slowly and assuredly making my way down, still taking in the view as I go along, still loving every moment of the journey.

Supermarket

We went to Whole Foods yesterday and waited on a small line of face-masked people,spaced six feet apart. Our turn was announced by a face-masked employee who counted the number of shoppers exiting before giving the okay.  I miss the freedom of parking my car, entering a store full of other shoppers. We were guided to a cart that had only just been sanitized by a young woman in a face-mask, wearing blue rubber gloves. Entering the store, we encountered a handfull of others and a burst of I don't know what emotion filled my brain. Was it excitement?  We're in a place where we can make choices, where we can purchase things we want or need. Fish. Chicken. Produce. Dairy. I miss the not being so excited about something as mundane as making choices at a grocery store. I miss selecting my own shopping cart and wiping the handle with a moistened sanitized cloth just because i thought it was a smart thing to do, especially when the cloth revealed how dirty the handle had been before my attention.  We followed the arrows on the floor as we made our way through the store. We kept our distance from the other masked shoppers and gave no indication of possible bodily harm. We worked assiduously at building trust and confidence in those around us.  I miss not being perceived as a possible vector, as a threat to the health and safety of a stranger.  Nobody put a head up. Shopping was all business.  We dared not hesitate, linger, read a label too long, put a product back on a shelf after deciding that the ingredients did not suit our decision to eat as clean as possible. To stay healthy. To have the ammunition that we will need to take another hill, to make it back to base camp. Eventually.  We soldiered on. People are waiting on line outside the door. Take the moral high road. Get in and get out. Be fair to others who might not have patience any longer. It's been two months already.  I miss not noticing people, not evaluating.  I used to do that for a living and I was paid well. I miss an income. Food prices will rise very soon. The will have to. We forgot a few items. Back tracking is not an easy task with all those arrows on the floors telling us which way to proceed. I miss not being so overwhelmed all the time with simple stuff like grocery lists and I miss the feeling of having accomplished with ease, the small chore of crossing everything off. My lists currently have items crossed off before I leave the house - "those are not essential".  We see toilet paper again on the shelves. Not on the list.  We have enough. Let's not hoard.  Somebody else may need it. Look at the prices!  Soon, there will be a glut.  All the greedy toilet paper buyers are now stocked up for a year. I miss not just throwing a four pack of two ply into my cart every few weeks because we were running low.  I miss the whole realm of toilet paper purchasing possibilities.  Funny, now I'm missing the game that finding a four pack on a shelf in a supermarket had become.  Where's Waldo?  Oh boy, I can't wait to tell my friends where to find the Charmin!  I miss not caring.  We proceeded to the checkout area, carefully inspecting the floor for more directions.  Footprints. Yellow feet, spaced every six feet.  Yellow bars painted on a once-innocent floor, demanding our attention. Calling us to line up, spaced, ready for the next attack. This time, the target was the forbidden payment area. The victim, clad in face-mask, gloved and protected behind a huge shield of thick plastic, shouted our orders to us.  Was it a call to arms?  Listen up.  Your life and mine are now on the line and you will obey.  What did he say? I'm sorry, can you repeat that please.  Step back. Stay in the zone that is painted red. Keep your distance from me. Put your card in now. Step to the next step. I miss smiling at the clerk, pleasantries. Knowing what, when, how. Saying thank you for bagging my purchases, not for "coming to work today". I miss being happy at the supermarket, the feeling of having crossed off the list, the small accomplishment that resulted in having the makings of some fine meals. Coming home with a few impulse items. I miss impulse items. I miss feeling accomplished. I miss feeling like I knew how to navigate my way through a supermarket.  I miss smiling at other shoppers, taking my time, reading labels, sampling cheeses.  I feel like a pre-schooler.  I feel old and threatened. I feel out of place.  I worry that this is the way the rest of our lives is going to be. I feel sad and unfamiliar with all the other emotions I feel.  I miss not feeling this way.

It's Sunday Again and We're No Better

I could not have said it better than I said it.  Every morning, I push out an email to a group of my women-neighbors.  I'm up at the crack of dawn and this vehicle allows me to get my wheels turning, to get my writing mo-jo into full swing and the feedback tells me that it is viewed as something to which a lot of the recipients look forward as they start their own days.  I try to be informative, to engage others, and to add some levity to the mix as we continue along our way and try to keep our sanity during this incredibly insane time.  The past two days have been especially stressful with the President showing the entire world how much in need he is of a psychiatric evaluation.  His attempt to cover up yet another of his grave errors in judgment, with telling us that his "disinfection" idea was one that he said in "sarcasm" isn't being bought.  Sarcasm? At a time when hundreds of thousands of lives are being ripped apart, thousands and thousands of people dying, a whole world turned upside down and backwards? Not.

I digress. What I want to do here is just post my email from this morning.  I'm not going to write another word today.  I am confused. Never mind the big picture, confused about how and why we are subject to the daily blows to our intelligence from the White House.  I'm confused about the local level as well.  The keys to our survival.  The essentials and non-essentials. So here it is.

I don't know about you, but I am beginning to feel like the Howdy Doody Show when it comes to making local purchases.  It ain't easy!

 https://youtu.be/pnUGAe0yqz4

Howdy Doody Show, The (Intro) S1 (1947) youtu.be

Maybe it's me.  But I can't seem to navigate my way through some of the things people are telling me that they can.  Everything seems a bit dead-ended.  I really, really want to support our locals. I honestly believe that they will be our only hope sooner than we'd like to admit. I keep trying. 

For instance, here are some of my personal experiences:

1. Tried a dinner order from the Royal on Wednesday.  Constant busy signal

2.Called Kender and Sisters for a morning pastry order yesterday around 9:15 and got their recorded answer - "Thanks for calling Firestarters. Our hours are 4 to...... Don't leave a message." I found out later that yes, they were open.  STEP ONE, change your phone message when you switch over from evening business to morning business!

3. I left a message on the Agway site, trying now to order some garden boots for volunteer work at Bray Farm.  I know they are busy, but how do I know my order didn't just go to the moon?  They advise against calling to check.  Last week, we ordered some soil, got a phone call and that was the end of the story. No soil yet to be seen.

4.How the heck are you supposed to order from Dennis Public Market?  I tried and I consider myself fairly savvy when it comes to technology but really?  First of all, it appears that you have to download a form, fill it in, scan it and then email it to them.  What?? How are the "elderly" going to figure this out?  Good luck.

5. Capabilities Farm.  Pat told us that it was easy. She ordered, Drove up. Got her stuff.  But Pat,what did you get?  How did you know what they had? Help!  I'm just looking for marigold seeds, some plants eventually, and some damned soil - which I still don't know if I am getting from Agway

Keep on Keeping!  LG

!

                                               

Halfway Through April

Another chilly Spring morning.  I'm not surprised.  All Winter long, while everyone delighted in the fact that we hadn't any snow, that our days were relatively mild and that the Winter wasn't at all as bad as New England Winters have been, I warned.  I smiled my cat smile and predicted as if I had a crystal ball right there in my palms. "Just wait until Spring, then Winter will hit".  My belief in the balance of nature was validated when snow fell not once, but twice, since the arrival of Spring. We still need heat on in the house and it's too cold some days to stay outdoors. Those early morning walks to which I had looked so forward, are still not a part of my day. But then, every single part of my day, every single day, since early March (what was the exact date, anyway?) have not been what I could have anticipated or predicted.  Had I gazed into the best crystal ball in the world, I would not have seen one iota of what I see, hear and experience now, every day of my life in the New World that was handed over to us by a Coronavirus, now known to all as Covid-19.

The Boston Globe newspaper on Sunday, April 19th held fifteen pages of obituaries.  Fifteen. As of yesterday, there were 2,432,092 reported cases (God knows how many more have been unreported), and 166.256 reported deaths (here again, God knows). In my county of Barnstable, as of yesterday there were 632 cases and 21 deaths and two hospitals. The peak, we are told, has not been seen here.

A reminder here.  This is not a history book in the making. Nor is it a medical journal. Rather, I look upon what I write as a memoir in the making.  I cannot capture all that surrounds me. it is far too overwhelming. I cannot expect that more than a few faithful readers will get a glimpse at what is embedded in the hearts and minds of everyone, near or far. But, this is my space and I can use it, and will use it, to say a few, out of the million words that I could say, about life churned up and resources re-allocated and the complete and utter lack of control that resides in my own brain.


So, for the sake of posterity. The days?  They lack distinction.  Might as well just remove the prefixes. Mon, Tue, Wed, Thur, Fri, Sat, Sun. They're all just "Day".  But still,we try to give each of them a place in our lives.  Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings, weather-permitting, are assigned to group exercising on our tennis courts, led by my husband.  From a social distance, we bond as a group and each of our sessions is ended with an invocation, led by a member.

We're playing by the new rules. Social distancing while out of the house. Trips away from the house, for necessities if we will be exiting the car and entering any type of the limited retail places, are limited. Face masks. Thorough hand washing each and EVERY time we return to the house. Hand sanitizing, when we haven't reached our home destination. Raw hands. Sanitizing. Constant allergy symptoms that include itchy eyes, a rash on my face and some kind of a weird feeling under my bottom lip, from all of the bleach in the air. More laundry than ever. No touchy, no feely. We get it. I always did get "infection control" but rarely had to practice it outside of my workplaces.

So, daily life, played by the rules, so far, is not all that difficult. Other than suiting up as if we were going to be taking on the Battle of the Buldge every time we must go to a store, we are rolling through those "days" with ease.  We're never bored. I'm rarely tired. We probably get on each other's nerves but we have had lots of practice with being together in confined spaces and taking on new challenges. I think upon our last Italian vacation as Boot Camp now. I think upon it also as a gift, unmatched and precious.  While we have already made reservations for Christmas at the B&B owned by friends in Umbria, we're still unsure of the plans that were in the making for an extended stay this year. I pray a lot every day.  Always have. But now, the prayer list is extensive. I pray that I can escape if only for ninety days, following the next election. I know that the same people who claim responsibility for having elected the current president, will repeat their performance and I don't think I can bear the resulting anger and grief.

Television viewing has, of course, become a staple in many homes during the days of confinement. I have friends who spend the entire day watching the news and they say that they want to break the habit but are finding it difficult. We are not having that problem.  We tune into CNN maybe once a day and avoid anything related to FOX News. We think Anthony Fauci is a fearless warrior but he is not alone. Andrew Cuomo in New York is also a warrior and a fearless leader.  Leadership. We're lacking it from our "leader".  I think he may finally get it.  It's early in my day at the moment and I don't want to ruin the rest of the "day" by reminiscing about the actions of Donald Trump so here's a quick review for those of you who want to acknowledge the truth:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/graphics/2020/politics/trump-coronavirus-statements/

You can't make this stuff up.

And please, don't tell me that this news is "fake".  It's not.

So, we spend time, real time, because that's all we have. The moments. We get lots of fresh air and exercise, feeling a sense of relief and joy when we hit the beaches for walks or use the trails and bike paths that surround us in multitude. While so many are sitting at home watching T.V., these places are wide-open and never crowded so keeping a safe distance is not a problem.  Bad weather, we have both a cardio stepper and a cardio stationary bike and YouTubes by the gazillion so our needs are met and we're constantly learning new fitness routines. I often bend down and kiss my beloved Keen hiking shoes. Best birthday present I ever bought myself.  We've had some remarkable adventures together.

Everyone is cooking and baking.  Hard to find flour and yeast on the shelves. Almost as difficult as finding toilet paper and paper towels.  That's going to be a funny story for readers of the future. Of all the damned things to be talking about. But, if nothing else, it's a distraction from the horror of the numbers and the insensitivity of our president that worsens with each hour. The true story of the disappearance of toilet paper? It's two-fold (sorry about that).  Number one, it has to do with the production and distribution of the product.  It's bulky. Hard to store in manufacturing sites and in the markets, so it's not produced in the same volume as, let's say, Handiwipes. Number two, greed and lack of respect for other people on the planet.  When it does appear on the shelves, or, rather, when it did appear as per usual, people were grabbing in large quantities, never thinking that perhaps there might be other people who also needed some.  Stores started putting limits on quantities per shopper but the shortfall has resulted in less and less being shipped to the markets.  And, there are those same greedy folk who get up and out with the chickens and pull their allotted two packs off the shelves on a regular basis.  The new status marker is how many you have stored in your basement. Unbelievable.

I cook. I bake. I try to bake.  It's not a strong point. I make a lot of soup. Soups are shared. I make deliveries in my condo community. Soup is warm. Warmth is what we need. I am a frustrated nurse. Frustrated, because my age and my distance from the technical world of nursing have kept me from helping in ways that would validate me. I renewed my license. I joined the Medical Reserve Corps. My assignment has been a pick up of face masks and a delivery to a designated site in Hyannis. I used to be an Occupational Health nurse. I built wellness programs and ran small emergency departments. I nursed nurses. I wrote volumes on bio-terrorism response and emergency evacuations after working through two World Trade Center disasters and one big Summer blackout of the world's leading city. But, delivering face masks I did with honor and pride.  I am proud of my colleagues. I pray for them, knowing what their lives are like, knowing their frustrations and heartbreaks. I wish that I could be there, if only in the capacity of nurse to the nurses again. I've seen meltdowns over far less than their tribulations.

Communication has taken on a whole new life.  Sick and tired of playing with the new technologies, many of us have taken to using the old, tried and true forms of communication.  Telephone calls have become very popular.  I have heard from some old and dear friends and some newer ones. What a treat a phone conversation is. What blessings friends are.

I can hardly bear to think about the changes that our two granddaughters are now forced to endure. Their lives have come to a halt, abruptly, for reasons that they are trying to understand.  Teen-age-hood is filled with rights of passage and now, those rites have been altered beyond the beyond. They are restless and sad, especially the fourteen year old who had visions and dreams of Eighth Grade. Eighth Grade, what an important rite that is.  And now, as of yesterday, the year is officially ended. No graduation, no social events, no sharing with friends, no time to finish what Kindergarten started. No place of honor in the hierarchy of the grade school world. No time to shift the gears and gain the traction needed to enter the lowest rungs of the high school world. Sad, and there is nothing we can do to soothe the pain, to lessen the blow, to make it all re-appear as the hormone-fueled, crazy but wonderful time that once was. My heart breaks for her and for her younger sister who also is feeling the pain.  Sixth Grade had its own virtues, its own set of rituals.  Dashed.  And then, there is Summer camp.  Will it happen?  Most likely not.

It's hard to come to a conclusion of what I am writing here.  I wish I could conclude.  I wish I could say that the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel will soon shine, but I fear not. I look for words from the wise, not from the politicians.  I pray, meditate, work out and ponder.  Not much more I or anybody else can do right now as we watch the destruction of our civilization and the nauseating bile that our president spits forth on and on and on.  In a few days, we will see more death and more destruction of our society, more insubordination, more shocking disregard of what has been our attempt to stem the tide, as we see states loosening their Stay Home policies and "re-opening".

I've treated many a wound in my day.  My parting words to the people who I have tended, after a review of the signs of infection,  were "this should be improving every day, not getting worse, so if you don't see the improvement, come back.  Maybe we will have to try something different or have your doctor take a look at it"

But then, what did I know?  I wasn't the President of the United States.  I was just a healthcare worker. I was doing what I had been taught to do and allowing someone who had more wisdom to weigh in for the benefit of my patient. Hmmmmm.