Casey and Karis

Casey and I should be sitting at a gate at JFK waiting for the announcement of our Air France flight. We should be imagining strolls down the streets of Paris anticipating dinner, good wine, and baguettes. We should be picturing ourselves in the sunshine in Nice, beaming as our Karis marries Dmitry. We should be visualizing the reception and dancing barefoot, pausing only to hug Karis and eat cake.

 

Hotel reservations and flights were nailed down a month ago. We updated our passports, applied for TSA Pre-Check, and indulged in a T.J. Maxx shopping extravaganza – the first, we realized, since the search for Casey’s wedding dress. Like any good mama bear, Casey has worried about leaving three-year-old Eleanor, but this would be a special time for the two of us, and Karis is a special friend.

The girls met in New York in 2007. Karis was training to become a Pilates instructor and needed a body on which to practice. Casey filled in as the body. They became close friends and roommates, and in 2011, to the horror of both girls’ parents, they decided to head to South-East Asia for a 4-month back-packing adventure. 

 

Their destinations were terrifying for those who came of age during the sixties: Viet Nam, Cambodia, and Laos among them. For us, these names conjured napalm clouds, perilous jungles, guerrilla warfare, and exotic diseases. For Karis and Casey, only one of those words, exotic, applied.

 

Casey was 28, so it was not up to us, but what a leap of fearful faith it was to let our daughter go! Plus, things were a little shaky right from the start: while heading out the door to meet Karis and her father at JFK, I said, “Case, are you sure that’s the right airport?”

 

“Really, Mom? Well, yes. But now you’ve made me nervous.” She called Karis who was already in the car, on her way… to Newark. 

 

Throughout the four months of their trip, Casey posted pictures and a blog. She and Karis were the heroines of the story, and Dave and I couldn’t wait to read every installment. Hiking the Great Wall of China. Cruising the Mekong River with a sketchy crew. Sampling crickets in markets. Wading through rivers on elephants. There were alarming tales, too, which, thank heavens, we learned long after they happened: an inebriated night ride tubing down a river, a terrible case of food poisoning, and two robberies.

It was agony to think they were half a world away, so, with their permission, Dave and I joined them in Thailand. As we rode elephants, caressed tigers, bathed in waterfalls, and hiked jungle paths with them, we, too, came to love adorable Karis. And now, 11 years later, Casey and I were going to France to revel in the happiness of her wedding. 

But the telephone rang at 7:30 this morning. Casey and Eleanor both tested positive for Covid, and PJ, Casey’s husband, didn’t feel well either. We couldn’t go. It was out of our hands.

 

As the day wore on, more signs emerged. Little Eleanor told PJ she’d dreamed of “a big airplane filled with water,” and spiked a fever of 103.9. Casey sent a picture of her sick little one asleep on the couch with the message, "This is the reason we're not going." My sister-in-law called and mentioned a minor collision the week before between two planes at JFK: one Alitalia, the other, Air France.  “I wasn’t going to tell you,” she said, “but now…” 

As painful as this was, it was not meant to be, and we’ve tried to focus on the nightmare involved had we been in flight or in France when Casey and Eleanor became sick. Covid has taught us to make plans, but have no expectations, so we’ve been resigned, even grateful, that Covid cropped up before we took off. 

 

But our beloved Karis is getting married, and we won’t be there with her. 

 

 

 

  

Caught Between the Lines

This is a first, writing on Christmas morning. Normally, who has time with the bustle of family arriving, little kids prancing about, and presents to open? We should be sitting before the fire, listening to Christmas carols, and, while sipping mimosas, watching granddaughter Eleanor open gifts. 

Well. Bing is crooning, and I have my cup of ginger tea, which, thank heavens, I can taste. The tree lights glow from spiny, green boughs above packages wrapped in red. Dave and I have hugged each other innumerable times, our eyes leaking tears, so grateful to have each other, to have company, for we’ll have no other visitors in this house of contagion. Yesterday, I tested positive for Covid.

Mindful of the 5.4 million people worldwide who have died from the disease, I am grateful for mild symptoms. Still, I wonder: Who? When? Where did I pick it up? It’s impossible to know. Fortified by Moderna vaccines and boosters, we have celebrated the season. Where required, we’ve worn masks and brandished vaccination cards; when among the similarly cautious, we’ve hugged as usual. We’ve been to parties, lovely inns, shops, and restaurants. Some might call us fools to frequent such spots - I feel equally uncharitable toward the unvaccinated who are, in part, responsible for prolonging this pandemic - but so it has been. 

 

In alerting friends and informing family, I find I am far from alone. Omicron has, like an unwanted Santa, slipped into innumerable homes, isolating in their rooms kids home for the holidays, cancelling family vacations, and planting wistful grandparents back on Zoom calls. The prevalence of this disappointment makes it easier to bear.

 

As I generally do from November through February, I’ve had a slightly raw throat and intermittent runny nose. I’ve thought nothing of it, but given our many activities, my daughter said, “Would you consider a test before we come over Christmas day?”

 

Of course! We scored a test kit at CVS, apparently a rare find this Omicron Christmas, and Dave went first. We spread the sheet of instructions on the kitchen counter, then Dave swabbed, stirred, dipped, and timed the test strip as directed. In case we couldn’t easily read the results, we peered through a magnifying glass: blue line only. He was negative, and I expected the same.

 

Wrong.

 

I followed the steps as Dave had but needed no magnifying glass to detect the pink line: it glared, vibrant in accusation. We were stunned, disbelieving, and determined to get a contradiction. Earlier in the day, I’d passed the Fairfield Covid testing site and pitied those waiting; now, compelled by a pink line, I had to join them. I hopped in my car to head East.

The queue of cars had diminished, and I turned into the lot, pleased this would be a short jaunt. I rolled down my window as a uniformed attendant approached. “Appointment?” said the young man, his face nearly obscured by a mask and wool cap.

 

“No,” I said.

 

“You need an appointment.”

 

“But there’s hardly anyone here.”

 

“That’s because there are so few workers. No test without an appointment.” 

 

“Can I make one with you now?”

 

“No.” He handed me a slip of paper. “This is the number and email address to contact. But you can’t stay here. Park across the street while you wait.” 

 

Obediently, I drove to the adjacent lot and called the number but connected with neither robot nor human who could help. Frustrated, I called Dave and he pulled up the website. I listened as he growled and cursed, ultimately foiled by its intricacies. Meanwhile, my cheeks felt flushed, and my skin prickled. Oh no. The symptoms are worsening.  

 

Resolved to get a PCR test, hoping for a negative, I swung into the test site again.

 

“Appointment?” said the young man.

 

I explained the futility of the crappy information on that stupid scrap of paper he gave me, but I said it nicely, hoping to win him over and worm my way into the line. He shook his head no and, perceiving a threat in this desperate, graying matron, summoned a security guard. “You need an appointment,” they chanted in chorus. 

 

Agh. Fine. Enough!

 

For the next half hour, I toured Urgent Care centers, CVS’s, and pharmacies, hoping, without success, to secure a PCR. Resigned to missing Eleanor’s Christmas morning exuberance, I drove home. 

 

Dave met me at the door, his smile wide. He’d called Yale New Haven and - praise God! - reached a human. “She said they’ve waived the appointment requirement in Fairfield! They don’t close ‘til 6:00.  You can make it!”

 

My shoulders slumped at the thought of heading back, but I did, and again the young man stopped me at the entrance. “Appointment?” 

 

I spewed, rapid-fire, the news from Yale.  

 

“Lane 1,” he replied without argument.   

 

Gone was the flush and the prickling sensation. I was elated! And even though this changed nothing since it takes at least 24 hours to get results, it was a triumph to get past that young pup. Plus, the nurse, an angel swathed in blue robe, mask, and shield - who’d given up her Christmas Eve with family so I might be tested – was so sympathetic upon hearing we’d miss seeing our kids. 

 

Mission accomplished, I returned home in high spirits, bizarre given this crimp in our Christmas. 

 

And this morning, everyone is with us. We’ve been on FaceTime with my son, his wife, little Lexi, and Paul, who demonstrated the cool attributes of his new Hess jet. Our daughter posted videos of Eleanor joyfully washing windows with the cleaning supplies she’d requested from Santa. We “visited” by phone and Facetime with other family members and friends throughout the day. So, while often I rail with frustration at technology, today it ranks with vaccines, and the science behind them, on top of my gratitude list.  

      

 

.  

A Celebration's Postscript

What’s that sound?  It had been a late night prior, and the heavy brocade curtains in our room at Boston’s Parker House effectively muffled the outside world. But as I shook off sleep, I thought I heard… drums?

 

Omigod! Drums! “Dave! Wake up! The parade’s starting!”

 

It was 9:30 AM, the morning of the 4^th of July, and the Declaration of Independence would be read at 10:00 from the balcony of the Old State House as it was to Bostonians 245 years ago. One of our reasons for this visit to Boston was to be present for that reading. 

 

We scurried about our 7^th floor room, donning jeans and jackets, and grabbing raincoats and umbrellas, then dashed to the elevator. The doors opened to reveal a couple in full red, white, and blue regalia: beads, hats, and tee-shirts. Our lack of visible patriotism was ever more evident when we left the hotel and joined a similarly bedecked throng heading to the square, the trill and thump of fife and drum coaxing our footfalls into a rhythmic march. Thankfully, a city employee was distributing small flags which we gratefully accepted. 

 

After days of rain, the heavens were kind, gray and churning, but so far, dry. With a boom of muskets and pounding of drums, the various bands and corps dressed in colonial garb assembled in the square beneath the East side balcony of the three hundred years-old brick building. Small children were lifted to parents’ shoulders as people poured in from surrounding streets. Strangers smiled at strangers and inched aside to allow others to pass as everyone pressed closer to get a good view.

After this year of Covid, mask-contention, insurrection, shootings, and racial strife, it seemed hopeful and fitting to merge with the multitude for greetings from Boston’s Black mayor, Kim Janey, and Black baritone Dana Whiteside’s magnificent rendition of “God Bless America.” Still, as we jostled cheerfully below the balcony, I couldn’t escape troubling images of other happy celebrants - at a concert in Las Vegas or a night club in Orlando - and headlines, crosshairs, and targets. While no shots rang out, this year’s reading seemed to hold added weight, as I pondered recent events and the country’s opposing factions. How might their interpretations differ in listening to the Declaration’s justifications for separation from a government seen as grievously flawed? 

 

In the Founders’ list of accusations against King George, I heard reflected Trump’s disregard for American traditions, laws, and public health: to me, grounds for impeachment, conviction, and removal. Conversely, those who stormed the Capitol on January 6^th claiming the revolutionary fervor of 1776 might point to some of the same statements as validation for their assault. 

 

The pandemic and January’s uprising were awakenings: we are not immune to the plagues and issues that challenged our ancestors. They are ever-emerging, and ours to address. Never have the people of the past seemed more real. 

 

During a 2019 visit to Boston’s Faneuil Hall, Dave and I participated in a reenactment of a debate over the Fugitive Slave Law and 1854 arrest of Anthony Burns. Burns had escaped slavery and lived in Boston as a free man for two years, but a probate judge bowed to the federal law and Burns was returned to his owner in Virginia. Bostonians erupted at this outcome, and one Amos Adams Lawrence remarked, “[W]e went to bed one night old fashioned, conservative, Compromise Union Whigs & waked up stark mad Abolitionists."

 

For the reenactment, index cards bearing the names and assertions of those who’d attended the 1854 meeting were distributed to people who wished to take part. Slavery was abolished in 1865, but the injustices and discrimination of recent years infused the readings of the men, women, and children of all ages and colors who volunteered with an outrage as urgent in 2019 – and 2021 - as when Andrew Burns was led away in chains. The fury we gave those borrowed words was driven also by a sense of responsibility to those confined to the balcony in 1854. At that time, most of us would have been silenced: only white, male property owners had the right to speak.  

 

 

Truth is objective, but the reporting of history is not. It has depended on who held the pen, who knew how to write, who was allowed an education, and whose opinions and input were given credence. How many know the story of Anthony Burns? Or the names of suffragists Lisa Stone and Carrie Chapman Catt? Until recently, the horror of the Tulsa Massacre was largely suppressed, and the current uproar over Critical Race Theory demonstrates the resistance that remains to teaching America’s failings as well as our achievements.  

 

On Sunday, we gathered, jubilant in celebrating 245 years of democracy and progress as clouds of confetti shot skyward in a celebratory whirl. Those once silenced now can speak. Tragedy and activism have spurred wider awareness; and in teaching the whole story, we move forward together.

 

Epilogue: 

 

After the 1854 decision, Anthony Burns spent four months in jail in Richmond, VA and was then sold to David McDaniel of North Carolina. Fortuitously, Boston abolitionists learned of Burns’ whereabouts and raised $1300 to buy and free him. Burns went on to be educated at Oberlin College and became a Baptist preacher in Ontario, Canada. In 1862, he died of tuberculosis at the age of 28.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Not on the Calendar

What an endearing study in optimism! As I began my January ritual of transcribing known dates from the previous year’s calendar to the new, I smiled wistfully at the profusion of plans cramming the squares in January and February of 2020. Those months held the usual allotment of birthday reminders, appointments, taxes due, and dinner dates. The emotional stew of the times was unstated but represented in times and days marked for the Democratic debate on Jan. 14^th and the Women’s March on the 18^th. 

 

The page for March promised a getaway with dear friends at The Griswold in Essex, an Easter visit from our son’s family, and a trip to visit my sisters and their men in the Poconos.  But when the Coronavirus took over the news and our lives, I scrawled “QUARANTINE – COVID” in bold black ink over my neat notations from the 16^th on. 

 

Those early days of lockdown were surprisingly full. Zoom and FaceTime calls with friends and family could take hours. Fortunate as we are to live amid woods, farms, and open space, Dave and I took long walks every day. I was working on photo books to commemorate a variety of milestones: my sister’s 60^th birthday, my son’s 40^th, and 45 years of marriage to Dave. Immersion in nostalgia, perusing decades of change, holidays, and vacations, eased the pain of losing real-time togetherness. 

 

In March and April, scoring a can of Lysol or a package of toilet paper was a triumph. Word had it the Coronavirus was lurking on every milk carton, soup can, and box of Cheerios, so even a rare trip to the grocery store seemed a courageous, death-defying expedition. Life itself was dramatic. In our fear of disease and sadness at missing loved ones, we were living history in a way we thought had passed with the plague and Spanish Flu.  

 

For a time, humans seemed to be uniting and rising, resilient and brave, to meet the crisis. We were uplifted by John Krasinksy’s moving clips on “Some Good News,” viral videos of Italians singing from balconies, and, in America, grateful citizens applauding First Responders. But resolve was tested as cases and deaths continued to rise. This was bad, and it was not going away, but not everyone believed that. 

 

George Floyd’s brutal murder was not on my calendar, nor the Black Lives Matter march I attended with my friend Joanie. Dave, Joanie, and I participated in Easton’s vigil as well, but that was not on my calendar either. These events were shocking and pivotal, but like all news and activities following March 16th, they happened with little or no warning.  I am not a spontaneous person, and this was an excruciating lesson from 2020: anything can happen. It can happen suddenly, and it can happen to us.  COVID, witnessing George Floyd’s murder, and upended political norms shattered the illusion of stability and immunity to the suffering and injustice others endured. 

 

June’s page still bore residue of my naive assumption that plans made in advance could be penned in ink: two weddings, a stay at the General Warren Inn in Pennsylvania, and a family reunion in Rhode Island. The lockdown was soon ending, but continuing COVID cases and social distancing prevented large gatherings, and all were cancelled. Nice weather, however, as well as time with friends and evenings out on restaurant patios was a boost, and for me, there was a certain peace in having no expectations. Deep gratitude for health, friends and family, and the beauty of the natural world was my daily infusion. 

 

Not until July and August did my calendar’s emptiness reflect our new “Why bother? Better not” approach to any attempt to plan ahead. The early weeks of frequent Zoom calls and frantic doomscrolling gave way to slow days that evolved as they would. Beyond the pandemic and unfolding craziness on the political stage, my brother-in-law, Steve, was losing his cancer battle. Our pod enlarged to include his family, and our time was spent seeking to cheer, help, and bolster each other.  None of this made the calendar. 

 

Knowledge of COVID’s manner of transmission had improved, and we felt greater confidence in the steps we took to stay well, but the election was on the horizon and wearing or not wearing masks was almost as visible a declaration of values and party affiliation as a bumper sticker or street sign. Again, there was an unnerving realization that history’s agonies could repeat. I thought we had learned from past horrors, but no. America was sick and torn. Plus, colder weather and a return to hiding loomed ahead, along with the certainty of Steve’s passing. 

 

I do not put death dates on my calendar.  The indication of a loss appears in the way I mark a person’s birthday. In 2020, November 15^th and January 22nd said, “Ma’s Birthday” and “Steve’s Birthday.”  This year will be different, almost cheerier in appearance: “Happy B-day Ma!”  “Happy B-day Stevie!”    

 

For most of my adult life, my Lang Folk Art calendar has been my guide and personal assistant. Beneath scenes of charming villages, rolling hills, grazing cows, and rustic barns, its memo-filled boxes have kept me on track and on time, and I checked it every day. COVID killed the need for that routine… along with 356,000 Americans and counting. Besides, it seems some of the most significant elements of life escape calendar documentation.  Events and dates are recorded, but the love, fury, power-lust, grief, idealism, and emotional evolution that drive them rarely make the page. 

 

                                                *          *          *

 

Breaking (my heart) news: as I write, the Capitol has been breached by Trump supporters seeking an overturn of Biden’s election. The President responded belatedly by telling the rioters to keep the peace and go home. He said he loves them.  He reiterated his claim that he’d won the election by a landslide. During the Black Lives Matter protests, Trump mobilized a massive militarized police force and scattered protesters with tear gas and rubber bullets so he could do a photo op in front of St. John’s Church. Today, windows were broken, the Constitutional work of Congress halted, and Congress members threatened before reinforcements for the Capitol Police were called in. My heart is pounding. My calendar marked today’s Congressional confirmation of the electoral vote, but the horror of the day’s events, sudden and dismaying, could not have been foreseen. 

 

I take that back.  Given Trump’s rhetoric, I could’ve marked this on my calendar.

 

 

      

 

  

When Richard Called

Richard, a volunteer for the Biden Victory Fund, called last night.  While sipping a hot cup of tea, I was busy at the time writing letters for Vote Forward, a get-out-the-vote effort. It had been a lovely fall day, but with enough nip in the air to warrant long pants and a sweatshirt plus that cup of tea. When Richard called, it was after dusk, and I’d added a woolen shawl around my shoulders, and snuck up the heat on the thermostat.

 

Dave and I never answer the phone for telemarketers, pollsters, or “unavailable” numbers, but our Caller ID had identified Richard’s cause, and desperate as I am for a Biden win, I picked up the phone. 

 

Richard had barely launched his spiel when I interrupted. I thanked him for the work he was doing, told him of my ardent support, but added that I was comfortable with the amount I’d already donated to the campaign.  

 

To my surprise, he didn’t argue. He coughed.  A hearty, the-man-is-sick, cough. “Can you hold on a minute while I get some water?” he asked. 

 

“Of course,” I replied. 

 

When he returned and said, “I’m back,” I noticed how congested he was. 

 

“Richard, you don’t sound well.  Do you have a cold?” 

 

“Yes. I’ve had some health issues for a while.  We don’t usually make calls on Sundays, and I’d hoped to rest a bit, but so much is at stake, and the election’s close, so they added this day to the schedule. I’ll keep it light though.  Only two or three hours more.” 

 

“Maybe you should get a cup of tea,” I suggested. “I’m having lemon echinacea myself.”  

 

“Sounds like an idea,” he replied, then set about completing his mission. “We’re grateful for what you’ve already given, but just so you know, if you decide to give tonight, it will be triple-matched.”

 

Triple-matched. Hm. I repeated the line about my comfort at my previous level of giving, but as Richard coughed and sipped his water, I thought about the many sleepless nights I’ve spent staring at the ceiling while holding fervent fictional conversations with Trump supporters. 

 

Under the cloak of darkness, I have all the right words and evidence. What answer can be given to the damage and cruelty of this administration’s policies? The separation of children and nursing infants from their mothers in detention camps.  Staunch advocacy of the unborn yet tolerance of white supremacists and defense of assault weapons that have enabled mass-shootings. Alienating allies while cultivating authoritarian leaders. Public dismissal of COVID as nothing to fear even as American deaths surpass 210, 000. The dismantling of agencies, programs, and laws set up over decades to protect the planet and its creatures.

 

I thought of the new word I learned in the Boston Globe this Sunday that described to perfection the habit I picked up in January of 2017: Doomscrolling. While I’d avoided the news since my bout with cancer because I thought it was unhealthy, since Trump’s inauguration, I tap the news feed on my phone every morning, and sometimes several times a day, with the sick need to know what has he done now?  Doomscrolling sets my heart pounding and feeds my fury and incredulity with each fix, yet it’s a compulsion I can’t seem to shake. 

 

Since I was little, I’ve been a worrier. As a child, I worried about grades and getting in trouble. At work, I worried about word choice, guest lists, seating, and palm fronds. As a mom and grandmother now, I worry about my loved ones’ happiness and safety… and that’s where politics and love intersect. It is relatively new territory to add world events to my worry portfolio, but shootings, COVID, climate change, and this world of endless wars are no longer distant: they threaten my kids and their children… as they do the children of those who support Trump. Hence my disbelief when Republicans say to me, “I hate the guy, but I like what he’s doing.” I’ve heard that too many times and to me, character matters. 

 

Shields and Brooks, the PBS Friday night commentators, observe that most people are tired of chaos and are looking for “safe hands.” Safe hands. Oh, how that spoke to me of refuge and peace. Unlike Trump who focuses on his needs and the present, Biden’s plans embrace all Americans, as well as future generations whose well-being depends on our actions now.  Biden is not perfect, but he’s honorable, and has given his life to public service. Trump has missed that piece of the job description entirely.  In the search for safe hands, the choice is clear.

 

“Richard, you salesman you,” I said. “It’s hard to pass on that triple match. You can count me in.”

    

Do I Have It?

Eleanor raised her arms to be picked up.  “P, P, P,” she said, her version of “please.” What could be more precious than a little girl in a pink tie-dyed dress asking for a lift?  I did it, but it was an effort and I felt flushed. I put my hand to my forehead.  Do I have a fever?

 

“I’m going to change into a lighter shirt,” I told Dave.  I handed over the baby and went upstairs. 

 

Whew.  These stairs are steep, I thought. Deep breath. Slow release.  Repeat.  Repeat. My lungs were working, but am I getting enough oxygen? Is this what they mean by “short of breath"? My hips were sore; my lower back ached. It’s probably just from picking up the baby, from awkward positions. Right?  Or are these “achy joints” a Covid symptom? 

 

Mentally, I scanned my outings, hugs, and interactions over the past two weeks, minimal though they were. You never know who’s a carrier… shit. Do I have it?

 

Just yesterday I’d been satisfied and smug.  Due to my morning routine of Pilates exercises and stretches, my back had never felt better. And even in caring for Eleanor, Dave and I have marveled at our continued stamina in following her around the house, up the stairs, down the stairs, lifting and leaning as we obey our adorable tyrant and the imperative of her pointing finger to allow for closer inspection of flowers, bees, rug lint, and anthills. But every Covid patient has had a day-before-onset where they’ve felt as fine as I have. 

 

We live near Westport, Town Zero for Fairfield County, where a going away party triggered the first wave of cases in March.  Dave and I love eating out, and we’d socialized and shopped over the weeks prior as usual, not realizing the potential danger. When coronavirus alarms officially sounded, developing symptoms was an unnerving possibility. Every back-of-throat tickle was cause for concern, and whenever I coughed, I’d wonder, was that a plain old cough or a dry cough? 

 

Our daughter Casey, in a reversal of roles, was stern in demanding compliance. “You’re not taking this Coronavirus thing seriously,” she’d say. “You have to be more careful.” In one instance, when I hugged a friend after two particularly tasty cosmos, Casey’s dismay arrived in a series of disapproving all-cap texts:

 

MOM YOU’RE NOT BEING SMART.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

I’M SUPER UNHAPPY WITH YOU. IT’S NOT LIKE YOU TO MAKE SUCH A DUMB DECISION. 

 

Sigh. She was right. But it was so unnatural, such a departure, to eliminate hugs and time with friends. Those were also the early days of Covid-ignorance when Dave and I believed the precautions and remedies suggested on social media and forwarded by friends.  As advised, we held our breaths each morning for 17 seconds, and since we could, felt reassured that we were fine. I gargled with hot salt water regularly too, just to make sure.  

 

As the months passed, minimizing outings and contact became routine, although we’ve enjoyed socially distanced visits with some family and friends, and resumed contact with Casey, her husband, and little Eleanor since Casey returned to work and needed help with the baby. It seems like eons since we’ve seen our Boston gang, my son, daughter-in-law, and two beloved grandchildren. That is our greatest sadness, but given the tragedies occurring around the world, we are just grateful everyone is healthy. While the news continues to be sobering as Covid cases rise, here in Connecticut, it seems the worst is over. Most people are being careful, so all of us are safer.

 

A few days ago, however, I caught myself idly biting a hangnail as I drove home from some errands.  Oh no. I had touched counters and touch pads and well-handled-produce. Did I pick it up then? Do I have it?

 

When I got to the house, I started with hand sanitizer and washed my hands vigorously, for a long time, in very hot water.  But what about my mouth?  I smeared sanitizer on my lips, but that seemed inadequate. Then I thought, alcohol! Alcohol kills the virus. I took a hefty swig of Baumbu rum, swished out my mouth, gargled, and spit it out. A solution I hoped would be successful as well as tasty.  I felt a touch safer.

 

But now, two days later, in my flushed and fatigued state, I worried about that hangnail lapse.  The weather’s been crazy: wild rain then sunshine then thunder and lightning.  Could I blame the aches and lethargy on barometric pressure? For good measure, I downed two glasses of water, a vitamin D pill, and a B-12 gummy. Dave said, “Go relax for a bit and I’ll watch the baby.” 

 

I retreated to the back porch and tried to calm my Covid fears. A wren serenaded me with a song superlative in its composition and volume given the tiny size of the singer. Busy bees buzzed in our snowfield of clover. Foxglove spires bowed low under their weight of purple blossoms.  A mountainous cumulous cloud obscured the sun. A hawk swooped in low. Nature heals.  

 

I could hear Dave and Eleanor upstairs singing into the fan, “Wa wa wa wa…,” enjoying the tremolo produced by the swirling blades.  I was cool and grateful for deep breaths that seemed to hold plenty of oxygen. Testing... breathing in and out, in and out. I think I’m okay.  Thank you God.     

 

   

The Flag: for Country or Self?

As many did, after the 9/11 attacks, Dave and I hung an American flag on our front door. We were proud and emotional in this show of solidarity and love of country. It was particularly meaningful as the flag had belonged to Anthony Sylvestro, Dave’s father, a WW II veteran who’d been a radio operator on a B-24 Liberator.  All three Sylvestro brothers served during the war, in Italy, the Pacific, and North Africa, and it is extraordinary to imagine the sacrifice of their parents, recent Italian immigrants, as their boys put their lives at risk for their new homeland.  

Through our forefathers, Dave and I represent the melding of people who have sought and fought for America’s promise of equality, justice, freedom, and opportunity. My ancestors arrived centuries ago and my grandfather fought in WW I. Dave’s father and uncles fought to uphold American ideals and stop the spread of Nazism. While America has never lived up to the ideals professed in our Declaration of Independence and on the Statue of Liberty’s pedestal, in a mystical way, our flag has been a symbol of the country’s aspirations to those ideals.

Now the flag that liberated concentration camps and gave hope to refugees fleeing oppression is brandished by those decrying the trampling of their freedoms when asked to wear a mask to protect themselves, their loved ones, and those around them. 

If the veterans who saved us from Nazi rule were not dying of Covid, would they proclaim that yes, this particular freedom was what they fought for, given the resulting increased deaths of Americans? Given that this choice could lead to disease and a ventilator?  Given that exercising this right could consign unwitting passers-by to the same? What has become of those “who more than self their country loved, and mercy more than life”(1.)? How can people who demonstrate so little care for others’ well-being wave the flag and claim personal liberty as justification? How can the president and those who support him take issue with so small a “sacrifice” as wearing a mask when it might save their countrymen a terrible death? 

The freedom represented by the flag is not so trivial as license to do whatever you want. Freedom is a privilege and comes with responsibility to the greater good.  November will prove our Declaration’s current status: Who are we now, America? 

*1. From “America the Beautiful” by Katharine Lee Bates

Inside the Skin

An unmasked man called me a sheep this morning as I waited in line at Trader Joe’s.  Believe me, I dished out some solid zingers later as I re-lived the conversation in my car on the way to my next errand. But, why would a short man with a mustache insult a masked gray-haired woman in a flannel shirt and flats for no reason?

I’d arrived at the parking lot at 7:50 AM to take advantage of senior shopping hours. Because of the store’s effort to reduce capacity to enable social distancing, a line had formed. It ended by a table occupied by two men drinking coffee outside Bagel Plus.  “Are you in line?” I asked. They shook their heads no, and I took my position 6’ beyond them.

One of the men said, “So.  What’s in Trader Joe’s that’s worth waiting for? You could cross the street to Shop Rite and walk right in.” He’d been pleasant, so I launched into my list of Trader Joe’s delicacies: shrimp burgers, dark chocolate covered peanut butter cups, frozen halibut, and mahi-mahi burgers, “heavenly when grilled!” I added. 

He nodded, satisfied, and said, “They have some specialty items then.” 

They were joined, at that point, by the short, rude man.  My shopping motives held apparent fascination for he, too, asked me the same question about waiting. His friend said, “She’s already explained. I’ll fill you in.”

“Sheep,” said the rude man, looking at me.

Startled, it took me a moment to process. “That’s an insult,” I said, though with question in my tone, for really, why would he bother?  The man shrugged and nodded. 

There are countless “I-should-have-saids” that would have been wise, calm, and cutting, and if anything similar happens again, my in-car rehearsal has now equipped me. But I am spoiled in being unaccustomed to fending off unkindness, and all I came up with on the spot was bland truth, “it’s not sheep-ish to stay healthy. “

After Trader Joe’s, I drove to Stop & Shop, still rankling, but not hurt.  Being called a sheep is the mildest of affronts, but the comment stayed with me.  Given the protests churning the country, I reflected, how would it feel to live with the routine threat of harsh words, racial slurs, injury, injustice, and death?  These based not on one’s actions but on something that was God’s decision alone.  When does that hurt, frustration, and anger erupt? 

- When, for eight minutes, Officer Derek Chauvin kneels on the neck of George Floyd, a black man who has done no harm. 

- When Ahmaud Arbery is hunted down and shot for jogging while black.           

- When plainclothes police burst into an apartment without knocking and fatally shoot Breonna Taylor, a 26-year-old EMT, eight times. 

- When cell phone technology permits video proof, and white people can no longer look away. 

Brute force. Intrusion with no knock. Rubber bullets and tear gas to disperse peaceful protesters. Have the First and Fourth Amendments been scrapped? Is the Constitution still law or just a list of suggestions? And when we love color and diversity in all else, in flowers, fabric, and our fellow creatures, why is it cause for suspicion in our own kind?

As streets worldwide boiled with protesters willing to risk Covid so their voices might be heard, I shopped for groceries.  While passing in aisles, masked shoppers were cordial, saying, “hello” or “excuse me” or “stay safe.” Thoughts of the rude man subsided as I sought corn meal, potatoes, butter, and birthday cards. 

My rounds complete, I wheeled my cart to check out. The cashier, an African American woman with a tumble of magenta curls, greeted me. Her mask hid her mouth, but her eyes were smiling. No one waited behind me, so our conversation was leisurely as she registered my selections, and I packed them in paper bags. We talked about the anguish of past weeks, and our hope that good would come of it.  She told me about her daughter, who’d been successfully treated for bone cancer when she was eight years old, and how grateful they both were to her doctors. She drew herself taller as she told me her daughter had wished to give back, and now, at 34, is a radiologist. 

Oh, the cashier was proud of her girl! She pulled out her phone to show me a picture of the two of them, and in the photo, I was able to see my cashier’s smile. In that moment, we were two moms bending over the phone, teary-eyed together at the thought of the torment of her child’s long-ago cancer and beaming (behind our masks) at today’s pride in her daughter’s path. 

When we parted, we were earnest in our wishes that each other stay healthy, and curved our arms in an air hug. Surely that encounter is the one more true? May the horror of Floyd’s death and the furor released shock us into connection with the people inside the skin.

COVID Question: What Is Okay?

“Is it okay if I sit in a chair?” 

“Omigod Casey! Of Course! Please! Sit!”

Our daughter had come by with a card and a plant to wish me happy birthday. Dave and I had greeted her from the door, and as was true the other time she visited during quarantine, she’d stopped in the yard, well clear of us.  This day, however, was rainy and cold.  It felt wrong to have my girl right in front of me, on my birthday, standing outside in the rain. “Don’t you think it would be okay if you came in? We’ve been really careful and so have you…” I wanted her to feel welcome, but under no pressure. 

Usually, routines and schedules comfortably disguise the fact that uncertainty is part of life. Now our cruel teacher, COVID, has arrived, without warning, no end points, many questions, and inadequate tests. In the absence of clarity, almost everything requires caution, even a visit from a daughter.

Casey was wearing a form-fitted mask over her nose and mouth. And while eyes are often called windows to the soul, recently I have found, through numerous masked interactions, that the rest of the face plays an essential supporting role. Smiles communicate themselves to the eyes somewhat, but not in full; “I’m smiling at you!” I’ve felt compelled to say to cashiers and those I encounter at the store. 

Through her years of involvement in theater, Casey is practiced in exaggerating facial expressions; her eyebrows alone can tell a story. But as she stood on our threshold that rainy day, I missed seeing the smile hidden under her mask. 

“This is so weird,” she said, and Lord, it is. All so weird.  

“Do you think it’s okay if I put my arm around you?” I asked.  I was pretty sure she’d say yes, but she has baby Eleanor at home, so we’re acutely conscious of the risk of infection. Twice, when two weeks had passed since the last grocery run, we planned a visit… and backed off.  But why wouldn’t that be okay? With both households in quarantine and plenty of hand-washing? The thing is, six-foot distancing would be impossible with the baby, and masks would be an invitation for curious little fingers; we’d have to feel comfortable about hugs and kisses. Tucker and Lisa and their kids live in Boston, so for now, seeing them is out. But Eleanor’s close by, and it’s tempting. 

Casey agreed to the arm hold, and so in a bold, break-out move, I gave her a one-armed… hm.  What was it?  Not a hug, not a squeeze, just an awkward gesture that one might give an acquaintance for a posed photo. What a departure from our usual full-bodied, I-Love-You hugs. 

We moved to the den where an end-of-April fire was blazing in the fireplace, and that’s when she asked if it was okay to sit. Again, Dave and I spluttered with invitations and assurances, the anomaly of it all sparking our over-abundance of “Sit! Yes!  Sit!  OMG, of course!  Sit!” 

Casey had groceries in the car so we knew the visit would be brief. Obviously, we also knew she’d been to the store.  Hmm.  I'd touched her coat… I better wash my hands.

Not wanting to convey even a whisper of concern, I rose without announcement, leaving Casey and Dave to chat. In the kitchen, I turned on the faucet, but kept the force low, hoping they wouldn’t hear it. I didn’t want my daughter to know I was washing my hands because I touched her.  

I returned to my seat and maybe ten minutes later, Casey said, her voice slightly muffled because of her mask, “Mom.  I'm thinking... you should wash your hands because you put your arm around me.” 

“Done,” I said without Guilt or Apology, my frequent emotional companions, but I couldn’t escape the sadness of the situation. 

It is easy for me to be grateful, to count my innumerable blessings. I am keenly aware of the contrast between my enviable state and the horrors and heroics facing others. Mostly, surprisingly, and perhaps shamefully too, I feel cheerful. But the reality comes in waves, sometimes fanned by Guilt and Apology brandishing a heartbreaking article or unnerving news, and more often, simply from missing my people. 

I will never take hugs for granted again.