One Hundred Days

I stopped short of titling this post “The First One Hundred Days.” Like the rest of the country -- and indeed the world -- I am hoping that there is not another 100 days like the last hundred; an unprecedented (do you hate that word yet?) period marked by the rampant spread of the novel coronavirus, conflicting  “expert” advice and the knowledge that numbers are not static but can be manipulated in startling ways.

I have been self-isolating for 100 days.  It is a milestone.  But, unlike birthdays and anniversaries, Hallmark does not (yet) have a card to pluck from the rack at the local store to commemorate the occasion. There are no pictures of ringing bells, mortarboard hats tossed into the air, explosions of confetti or flaming candles, the traditional congratulatory markers of achievement or longevity. 

The early days of the isolation were characterized by napping, reading and the sorting out of all those weird little drawers, closets and under-bed spots that had been long neglected. It was naively satisfying.  Just as the reality of isolating really started to set in, the seasons cooperated and the sorting gave way to the gardening and the taking in of great, grand gulps of fresh outdoor Vermont air.

Through each day I watched the news (channel-surfing endlessly), read countless Facebook posts (some so long they might qualify as novellas) from friends with wildly disparate views.  And I paid attention to my own emotions -- my joy, my anger, my sadness, my frustration and yes, my gratitude. 

These might not quite be what Hallmark would put on a quarantine-themed card, but what follows below are some brief, random thoughts and observations from the past 100 days -- to commemorate and celebrate the milestone!

• Please do not confuse “fear” with “caution.”  I do not fear death but I am not going to put myself at unnecessary risk. I would not risk walking to the edge of a precipice where signs clearly indicated DANGER unless I was suicidal.

• I miss social contact but have Zoomed into a new social world.  I Zoom church services, Zoom with far-flung relatives and Zoom with family. It helps. (The downside is that I look a lot older in the Zoom grid than I do in my bathroom mirror!)

• Be careful with your words either written or spoken. Regret is a heavy burden and kneejerk remarks can -- and do -- hurt.  Express yourself but be careful and thoughtful when you do so.

• I have never paid much attention to age.  But I cannot deny that I am in the high-risk group based on my age alone.  I have to admit that I am hurt and shocked that we elderly seem to be viewed as no longer useful, that we’re some kind of expendable collateral damage. It makes me angry.

• I am not a one-trick-pony. I do not think you are either. If we have a relationship, it is based on more than whether you wear a mask or not. 

• Like most folks, I love a sunny day. But, I have never been a sun-worshipping, beach-going person. I far prefer fishing or canoeing on a Minnesota lake or tubing down the Batten Kill. Now, for the first time, I find myself basking in the sun on my patio, drinking in the healing medicine of vitamin D, utterly quiet.  I now understand sun-worshippers.

• I am going out a bit more.  Each opportunity is met with “risk assessment.”  I remember that from my youth (when the calculus was: “Will the fun of that party be worth the trouble I might get into?”).  It makes me chuckle to realize that I have been a risk-assessor my entire life.  Nothing new here.

• I had thought of cataloging all the divides but there are now so many things that divide us. You know them already for you post and tweet and film them. We are a culture founded on individual freedoms and that now seems to hamper instead of help the solidification of a common goal based on equality and fairness. We need uniters in politics and I don’t see many.  This is frustrating.  This is heart-breaking.

• My day starts early.  Almost every morning I cry. Not for long but, when I wake up, I mourn for what we have lost, or for the daily complications for which we have had no preparation and over which we have scant control. Then I pray. My mind goes first to Matthew 11:28: “Come unto me, all of you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” The burden is in my mind, an effort to understand the chaos of 2020. The tears and prayer have comforted me. I am ready for my cup of coffee. I am ready to face the day with gratitude for my blessing are many and my burdens are relatively few.   

Previous posts:

Stayin' Home / Stayin' Alive 

The Woodpile 

It's Complicated: A Sentimental Journey

Stayin’ Home / Stayin’ Alive

I only know how long I have been self -isolating at home because I remember that my last day of being physically present at the Wayside Country Store was St. Patrick’s Day. Since then, I’ve been lovingly side-tracked by my family due to my age and underlying immune issues.

A few days in, I started making slash marks on my calendar but that felt curiously like being a prisoner scratching out days of a sentence served on the cell wall.  I did not yet feel like a prisoner and there was no end in sight -- then or now.

Tending to be an optimist, I cast around for productive uses of time.  A mountain of old photos needed to be sorted and I got down to the Jurassic layer (see the photo of a five-year-old me at the top of this post) pretty quickly.  I kept dozens of images and threw away hundreds – most of the latter blurry or duplicates. When I die -- hopefully no time soon and not because of Covid-19 -- I want my children to know that whatever they have to sort out is now a good one tenth of what it would have been before the isolating circumstances of the 2020 pandemic.

I’ve sorted out bits and pieces of metal and all things shiny accumulated through my jewelry-collecting hobby (and even managed to construct a few jewelry Christmas trees along the way). I’ve gardened -- pulling miles of mint roots that zippered out of the thawing soil, I’ve spent too much time on Facebook (checking Getty Images is entertaining – and illustrates the kind of ingenuity that has resulted from this quarantine).  I’ve learned to use new technology (hello Apple TV!) to get more stimulating programming (not to mention distance myself from the ubiquitous and often confusing “information” about the very virus that landed me here) as well as connect with friends and family in ways I hadn’t thought possible (hello Zoom video-conferencing!).  

I’ve texted and emailed and cleaned my cupboards, snacked way too much, played game after game of solitaire and I’ve prayed.  Oddly – given how voracious a reader I am – I have not read very much. I have stacks of books within reach but have not been able to concentrate.  I used to be able to retreat into the fantasy of fiction but right now the welfare of my family (both near and far), the welfare of my business and my concerns about the future of the country seem to lurk just below the surface. 

And, truth be told, I started thinking too much.  Case in point: Not being particularly musical, I was surprised to be visited with an “ear worm” of the Bee Gees singing “Stayin’ Alive” from the “Saturday Night Fever” soundtrack.  The subtext of the song is about staying alive – and perhaps even thriving -- on the mean streets of New York, which is currently the U.S. epicenter of the pandemic and frighteningly close to my corner of the world (less than 175 miles as the crow flies). 

It is no wonder that we are is obsessed with how to stay alive and to thrive; are we politically and individually doing the right thing, the best thing? Only history will tell.  We can only do what we think is right for us so we can look ourselves in the mirror, realize that our instinct to live and protect those around us is alive and well, however we manifest it.  In many ways, I feel like I’ve been through Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’ five stages of grief:  denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

I am beyond grateful that my multi-stage grief processing is not for a departed loved one.  Rather I grieve for the normal that was here and no longer is. What a “new normal” will look like is as uncertain as the path of the novel coronavirus itself.  I accept that. 

So, for now, I am stayin’ home – and stayin’ alive. 

Previous posts:

The Woodpile

It's Complicated: A Sentimental Journey 

A Little Boy and a Hummingbird

The Woodpile

The 16-inch chunks of wood are in a jumbled pile on the grass between my back door and the wood shed.  

It was cut and delivered last summer and was slated to be properly stacked and air-dried before the first snow frosted the mountaintops. But it did not happen. I refused several offers of help, saving the chore as an opportunity for a lad who owed me money to work off his debt. But that too did not happen. And so, the pile aged from a bright, raw yellow to a pale, watery lemonade as it mocked me for my foolish failure to get it under the protection of the wood shed.  

At my age (senior – senior), I thought I could gracefully nod out of the wood-stacking chore. But it was not to be. And I am glad that it was not. Without being too Pollyannaish, it seems that my unstacked wood is now my source of exercise and sunshine -- both badly needed while I am self-isolating to protect myself from the novel coronavirus pandemic.  

On the first day of my isolation, I luxuriated in reading. On the second day, I cleaned out kitchen drawers -- interspersed with reading and TV-watching. By the third day, the isolation began to feel real …watching television, while informative, was also scary as hell. This is not a random couple of days off or a vacation, it is a catastrophic, deadly worldwide event that alters the very fabric of the way we have lived. We, as individuals, families, and businesses are crafting a new normal and we don’t exactly know how to do that (there's no YouTube tutorial -- yet) or what that will look like.

But, what I do know right now is that I need exercise, I need to get out of the house, away from the television and the cocoon of my down comforter, the escapism of my books, and the temptations of the snack drawer and refrigerator.  

As I whittle down the unruly pile, 20 minutes at a time, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, my mind takes things a step further. This is an act of faith in the future, I realize. On the cusp of a terribly troubled spring, while stacking the hunks of birch, I am betting that this time-honored Vermont chore -- and the sense of normalcy that engaging in it imparts -- will hold me in good stead nearly a year from now in a calmer and healthier winter when the snow comes to frost the mountaintops.  

Previous Posts:

It's Complicated: A Sentimental Journey

A Little Boy and a Hummingbird

Fourteen Stories

It’s Complicated: A Sentimental Journey

Como Park Zoo

I have just returned from a 12-day vacation. I knew ahead of time that it would be complicated; it involved some intricate travel arrangements, more than a dozen other people and a highly sentimental journey to the place I’d spent much of my childhood.

We landed at Wold-Chamberlain Field, more commonly known as the Minneapolis-Saint Paul International Airport.  As a child, it was not uncommon for my family to return from church, the wonderful scent of a roast in the oven heralding the imminent arrival of our big Sunday meal -- which we knew would be followed by a ride to the airport to watch the planes land and take off. Air travel was still new and fascinating back then. Now only the name, Wold-Chamberlain, remains familiar though those long-ago memories remain sharp and dear.

Securing a rental car, we headed to Como Park Zoo, another childhood haunt only blocks from the brick and stucco house that I had called home for so many years. I audibly gasped as we passed familiar streets:  Lexington, Larpentuer, Snelling, Hamline. I had often traveled these streets but now only the names were familiar -- the other landmarks long gone or changed beyond recognition. The zoo itself is now an animal sanctuary, educational center and amusement park. Blessedly gone were the tiny cramped cages that defined zoos of the 1940s and ‘50s where a solitary bear would circle in bored captivity or the monkeys would screech and hurl food or feces in frustration.

Not everything about “the good old days” was good though; I was too young and ignorant to see the cruelty that existed in this place that had been my backyard and playground. In this particular case, I was thankful that only the name was familiar. And, yes, I have recollections of a happy childhood walking daily and blissfully to Como Park unaccompanied, it was a time when kids were safe to roam unencumbered and unclouded by adult concerns.

Now, clouded with the adult concern about whether or not I’d be able to walk the long distances on a hot day that a thorough visit would require, I sought refuge on a bench in a cool, breezy corridor between the amusement park and the zoo – and I was not alone. 

As I “people-watched,” I saw blonde pigtails on little girls that must have been the Nordic grandchildren and great-grandchildren of my peers. Surely they carried names like Anderson or Erickson, Peterson or Pederson, Lindquist or Sandquist. But I saw something else too.  I saw families of every color and ethnicity. 

A tall black man wore a T-shirt emblazoned with the printed message “I’ve had enough adulting for one day.” A few minutes later, a slight, grandfatherly man who appeared to be of Asian descent ambled by clad in the identical T-shirt -- how universal a sentiment that phrase is some days! Another memorable passerby was a tiny boy with caramel-colored skin whose shirt declared the ultimatum: “Only Good Vibes Today.” I could only guess at the complicated, meandering paths that brought this mix of color to what I remembered as such a historically white state. 

While this made it markedly different than it was when my memories were first formed some 70 years ago, what hadn’t changed at all was the fact there were families enjoying a day outside – and together -- trying to create memories that would sustain them over the ensuing decades – just as mine had sustained me on this sentimental journey. If I knew where to buy one, I would have purchased a T-shirt to match the one worn by the little boy with the caramel-colored skin!

Sitting on that bench, seven decades into my journey that brought me back to where I grew up, my head began to spin. There would be many more observations and complications to be sure -- I was only 12 hours into my vacation after all -- but already I found it hard to believe that joy and sadness could simultaneously occupy the same space in my heart.

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A Little Boy and a Hummingbird
Fourteen Stories
On Readin' and Writin'

A Little Boy and a Hummingbird

A hummingbird preserved as decoration from the New York Historical Society's recent exhibition "Feathers: Fashion and the Fight for Wildlife." Credit: Adam Tschorn

It is a clear cool September day. It is the kind of day that heralds the iconic Vermont foliage season.  It is bookended by days of late summer heat and humidity and a forecast of Indian summer heat to come.

It is the kind of day that urges fall housecleaning, stacking wood, putting the garden to bed.  It has been said that September is second only to the dawn of a new year in January as a “re-set” month. And that is certainly true for me.  Always a casual housekeeper, I am armed with broom and vacuum cleaner, trash bags and disinfectant cleaners.  I am about to tackle the long-neglected “shed way” that is the only easily accessible entrance to my house, a double-doored 4x4 space that also houses my garden tools, yard toys, a few decorative plants and the detritus of living in the country.  And its two little windows and their sills – one on each side -- are the graveyard of ladybugs, a few furry bumblebees, a curled-up spider and, it turns out, the  carcass of an ill-fated hummingbird.

My breath caught in a moment of sadness at this undeserved fate; caught between doors and unable to escape this tiny gem perished with its tiny, pointed,  thorn-like beak and iridescent green feathers perfectly intact.  Somehow I could not leave it alone there.  Nor could I throw it away.  I envisioned another use for it.  So I placed it in a tiny white Lord & Taylor jewelry box, carefully wrapped in clean white tissue paper which I then moved to the temporary funeral home of my deep, black leather purse. 

Who would give a last bit of love to this tiniest of nature’s marvels?

Most adults who live in the country, familiar with ebb and flow of life and death as they are, would certainly not be impressed -- or even very curious. 

But great-grandson, Carter, six years old and already very familiar with the toys and curiosities of my shed way would probably like this … Maybe.

When I saw him at our family’s country store shortly thereafter, I called him over to me, opened my purse and pulled out the tiny box. His big blue eyes got even bigger and rounder as I carefully unwrapped the tiny mummy with its luminous colors.  His first reaction was sadness at this wee death.  Then he looked carefully at the long beak and layers of feathers and took off across the ancient floor boards of the store to find someone with whom to share his discovery.  He was as excited about this treasure as the original recipient of the piece of jewelry in the Lord & Taylor box must have been.  It was his gem.

After exhausting the supply of customers and employees at the store, he cradled the bird gently in his arms and announced his intention to take it to school to share some more.  Knowing the school, I was sure this would be accepted and, perhaps, serve as the starting point for an examination of the brief and stunning life of a hummingbird.

I was happy that he liked this little not-from-Walmart gift. I was glad that he could be sad but still see the beauty even in death.  Maybe that is an old person’s wish.  

Maybe it is life in miniature.

Recent Posts:
Fourteen Stories

On Readin' and Writin'

Forget Friday the 13th

'

Fourteen Stories

It was late afternoon on a glorious Monday in the middle of June. The weekend past exploded with celebrations as it is the season for graduations and weddings. Our little community also hosted hundreds that came to celebrate the life of a beloved coach.  In the blink of an eye the little kids that could barely see over the edge of the counter at the Wayside a moment ago are diving pell-mell into deeper pools; college, jobs, travel, internships. Passages, so many passages.

Now I was wending my way to the northern part of the state.  As I drove through the kind of scenery that Vermont cherishes on the kind of day that we wait longingly for throughout the winter months, I was in a pensive mood. I thought of change.  Who do we reach out to as we navigate these passages? Whose hand do we hold? Who will hold ours?

I was about to find some answers.

The reason for my trip was to attend the final exam of a public-speaking English class.  My grandson is one of the 14 young people whose assignment is to give an oral “Tribute Speech” -- to talk about someone who has influenced you, someone you want to honor or thank. My grandson had chosen to speak about his grandfather and spending time with him at our Sandgate homestead. I would have not missed it for the world. I had expected, in my quick-to-tear ways, to need the tissues tucked discretely in my sleeve.

What I had not expected was that while they spoke of their heroes -- the kind of heroes that do not exist in movies or video games or wear capes -- that these 14 would become my heroes.

Gangly cowlick-crowned boys with their shirts untucked mixed in with brawny skateboarders (yes, one brought his skateboard class) and more formally dressed young men. Young women in fancy dresses accessorized with stiletto heels sat beside plain dark frocks, cardigan sweaters and breezy short dresses showing off dancers’ calves.  There was no uniformity here.

One by one, they stepped up to the podium and began to tell their amazing stories. What courage did it take for these teenagers to talk with humor and conviction, with pathos and love about their honorees?

They spoke of renewed Christian faith fostered by a clergyman who remembered what it was like to be young and to keep the Faith.  They spoke of cultural acceptance, mixed-race families and step-families, sibling rivalries, crazy aunts, treasured grandparents and teachers who did not give up on them. They almost universally spoke of the work ethic and commitment that their mentors had exhibited. They revealed a host of memories and sacred moments. 

And one nervous young man spoke eloquently of death.  He made us fall in love with his quirky mentor. Then he paused, tore off his suit coat and shirt to expose an ALS T-shirt. His hero had died young but his influence lived on.

The teacher could easily have assigned a public-speaking assignment on a trip to the zoo or on how weather reports are generated.  The fundamental principles of speaking in public are the same no matter the topic. But she did not.  She had asked a simple question: “Who do you honor or remember?” And she got some very profound answers. Thank you.

Fourteen stories …

Their hands have been held.

They will hold the hand of others.

Heroes all.

“We’re all just walking each other home” -- Ram Dass

On Readin’ and Writin’

“They” say that if you want to be a writer you must be a reader.

Well … I guess I am that. A reader, I mean. At least when judged on the basis of frequency – the writing comes sparsely and sporadically.  I read about a book a week, sometimes more.  I am indiscriminate in my reading only having a penchant for fiction -- especially the fictional likelihood of historical or real events. I am the worst when it comes to knowing authors -- to my shame and their chagrin. I pick books from the canvas pop-up tent at the library book sale and from the musty shelves at Goodwill. I actually DO judge books by their covers; I pick them because of the way they look, the way their titles sound rolling off my tongue and even, sometimes, simply because of how a book feels in my hand.

I panic -- like someone out of “Hoarders” on TV -- when I have less than a dozen tomes awaiting, like patient pets, by my bedside. If, on a trip to the doctor’ office, I’ve forgotten to bring a book with me, I’ll read every last magazine in the waiting room. I have even resorted to reading candy bar wrappers and cast-off drugstore flyers when no other words are available to lay my eyes upon. I love words. But, more than that, I love the images they create in my mind. A candy bar wrapper, for example, can instantly conjure up the mental image of a laboratory where chemicals combine with cocoa, white-coated lab technicians smell, taste and research variations on a product in an effort to hit on the perfect mouth feel for the latest Hershey company offering.

But these wrapper-conjured images, as important as they are, pale by comparison to the places I travel and the people I become through the skill of someone’s prose. An olive orchard in Italy becomes my own, a train ride in China becomes my trip. I become the Queen of England one moment and a prairie wife the next. Time travel and shape-shifting are not only possible, they are my diet; consumed with relish and motivated by an unappeasable appetite. I am the tattooed lady on Coney Island. I am the super sleuth navigating the back alleys of Marrakech.  I am a lover in Paris and a beloved in Alabama. I am a murderess in Iceland and a condor feathering its wings to catch the thermals over the majesty of the Grand Canyon. I dip and soar and weep in the clouds of my down comforter, pillowed by the magical words of an author’s skill at arranging words into stories that transport me, inform and educate me, entertain and enlighten me.

Ah … that enlightenment element … How I wish I could tell you of the wisdom contained in in the humblest of bound pages! It is a treasure hunt to find these nuggets but the search is often rewarded. Sometimes a wise author urges me to embrace humor (I have been known to giggle like a school girl in my solitary reading) and to look to the absurd to cushion the trials of everyday life. Sometimes an author will take me on a much-needed vacation to a place that refreshes my soul. Sometimes the philosophy of the author comes through with startling gut-punching clarity and lets me own it. 

“What I want is so simple I almost can’t say it: elementary kindness. Enough to eat, enough to go around. The possibility that kids might one day grow up to be neither the destroyers nor the destroyed.”  (from “Animal Dreams” by Barbara Kingsolver)

You see?

I am envious of the skill, in awe of the research, intrigued by the plot twists and the lives and minds behind them. I love these authors’ willingness to share. If the seed of the Great American Novel has not taken root in the soil of my writing, I can at least write about reading.

“Sometimes I’m asked what my advice would be for emerging writers, and it is always simply, to read.” (author Hannah Kent)

“The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you’ll go.” (the oh-so-wise Dr. Seuss)

Read I will continue to do with much frequency. And write too – even if sparsely and sporadically.

Previous Posts: 

Forget Friday the 13th 

A Pearl Harbor Birthday Wish 

I'm in Trouble ... Two-Dollar Bill's Worth