3:17 A.M.

The dinosaur was of clear glass, and I’d placed the concert tickets in its belly for safe keeping. The unfolding plot was intriguing, and I fought to pursue it. Why did I think the dinosaur was secure?  What concert were we planning to see? Were the tickets that valuable? But the pain persisted, increasingly agonizing. Ignore it!  Ignore it! But it could not be denied, and I was wrenched from sleep. I stole a squinty, one-eyed glance at the clock. 3:17. What is it with my bladder and 3:17?

I padded to the bathroom to pee, then stood at the bathroom window, nose pressed to the cold glass to better see the full moon.  Bathed in light, the roof seemed snow-covered, and the yard and woods beyond were a tracery of radiance, inky-black shadows, and bare limbs. A jet trail, illuminated - stark, straight, and startling - cut a path among pinprick stars. As I always do when the 3:17 call comes, I scanned the scene hoping to spot a bear, dismissed the stump that masquerades as such, and decided the serene beauty of my night visit was worth the dream interruption. 

 

Back to bed. 

 

Sound asleep still, Dave breathed evenly, stirring not at all as I snuggled into bed and sighed deeply. Ahhh. Cozy flannel sheets, soft blankets, a warm quilt, and my Honey beside me. I nestled in, eyes closed, smiling at my comfort and good fortune to be so ensconced. 

 

Apparently, comfy or not, I was no longer tired. Ruminations intruded. And hey, why not guilt?  That’s always a sure bet for the middle of the night. Why do I have all this when others have so little? Why do I have the security of this house, this good man, this comfortable bed?

 

 Lea. Stop. Nothing to be done about that now.  Empty your mind.

 

Oh yeah, like that’s gonna happen. But I gave it a shot. On my command, blank mental screen. Inhale.  Exhale. Keep it blank.  Doing it! Deeeep breath.  Deeeep breath, not to be taken for granted in the age of Covid. I took another deepest of deep breaths for the sheer joy of it and because I could. Imagine the horror of being on a ventilator.  Thank God I can breathe! Thank you God for healthy lungs! Thank you for the health and safety of my Dave, kids and grandkids. Thank you for my sisters and friends! For the beauty of your world and my fellow creatures… 

 

In White Christmas, Bing Crosby crooned about counting blessings to fall asleep, but it wasn’t working for me. Never seems to. Blessings, guilt, and pleading prayers seem to go hand in hand in a stroll toward troubling thoughts. Like trickling waters in a tidal surge, seeking and spilling into even the tiniest crevice, Covid worries tumble to Trump’s maneuverings, his machinations morph into a chessboard, which triggers disquieting images from the Queen’s Gambit. Sigh. Empty your mind indeed.

 

But on some nights, like that night, associations spark inspiration: must-do’s remembered, quandaries resolved, awkward conversations worked through, and snippets of sentences that might lead to a piece scribbled on the pad on my bedside table. So, when the clock hands marked 4:09, I’d made my peace with it. I hoped my scrawl would be relatively legible in the morning, took another quick bathroom run, and tucked back into bed to give sleep another try. 

 

P.S. You were up too?  Shoulda called!

 

 

Message Received

The robotic voice of our message machine intoned that we had only two minutes and 53 seconds of space remaining. It was time to review and delete, but this would not be simple, for our machine is the repository of treasured voices now lost to us. Among blithe reminders of appointments, easy to trash, are what were once mundane check-ins, now rendered poignant and precious. In the fourth saved message, Mom is characteristically chipper as she ends with, “We’ll chat tomorrow!” How I wish that could be. I tear up every time I re-play it.  

 

Fourteenth in the queue, Dave’s brother’s voice is strong as he sings a line from “On the Road Again” and then swings into the birthday song with Deb, recorded as they drove to our house last April to drop off my gift. It seems ages since Steve’s voice was that exuberant and robust, but it was barely seven months ago.  

 

Given that Ma was 95, we knew to hold onto several taped birthday songs, although Dave used to chafe with annoyance at the childish endearment when his mother warbled, “Happy Birthday, my sweet baby.”   We also saved the love she wished our way on Valentine’s Day, which now seems a portent as she continues to send her love from the Other Side in the form of a heart. 

 

The first one appeared the day after she died. I’d taken my morning shower, toweled off while standing on the navy blue bath mat, and stepped aside to pick it up and replace it on its rack. And there it was: a heart in the damp imprint on the mat.  It wasn’t sort-of-a-heart; it was a perfect heart. And after I took a picture, I tried to replicate it, standing this way and that, heels together, heels apart, but I couldn’t readily re-create that precise Valentine shape. 

 

“Love you too, Ma,” I said.

A week later, Dave and I were awash in a welter of bins and boxes as we worked to empty Ma’s small apartment within the available two-week window. Like me, Ma was a fan of both Christmas and teddy bears. She had a lot of teddy bears, and I was guilty of giving her many of those that filled the bins in her storage area and occupied her windowsills, deacon’s bench, and shelves. 

 

I’d emptied one large bin marked “CHRISTMAS,” stuffing black garbage bags destined for Goodwill with assorted angels, Santas, and yes, teddy bears. I left a mid-sized fake fir tree by her front door to carry out on its own as it would take up too much room in a bag or box.  I passed by the tree numerous times over the course of a week as I went back and forth from the apartment with loads for the dumpster or my car.  

 

In the final days, I took a picture of the tree and sent it to Casey along with the text, “Want it?” 

 

“Sure!” she responded, so I took the tree to my car and wedged it in the back seat.  But wait. What was that? A bit of red I’d not noticed before nestled within the branches. Ignoring the prickle of simulated pine needles, I worked my fingers between the limbs and extricated a tiny teddy bear in red pajamas with a miniscule heart pendant at his throat. Some might say I’d just missed it all the times I’d passed, and maybe that’s true, but the tug in my chest let me know it was from her. “Love you too, Ma,” I whispered. 

When someone passes to the Other Side, we yearn to know they’re okay. When my parents died, I wanted them to find each other in some glorious Beyond, but when their deaths were fresh, I wanted to know they were still around; that they were here with me.  My father, in particular, was true to character in sending clear communications, and when Steve left us in September, we were on alert, looking for signs, not ready to let him go. 

 

Last summer, Steve gave us a Rose of Sharon sapling, offspring of the abundant bush at his home. It remained in a pot by our back door through fall and winter; we never got around to planting it.  Finally, in late spring, Dave transferred it to the ground.  It lived, but seemed stagnant, neither growing nor sprouting leaves. The day Steve died, Dave came to me wide-eyed. “Come look!” he said. He led me to the edge of the yard and pointed. On its spindly trunk, the plant had sent forth, finally, one lone blossom. “It’s the Rose of Steve,” said Dave. And so we will always call it. 

 

Deb, Steve’s wife, also searches for signs. Over the past month, a fox has been a regular visitor, lingering beneath the bird feeders, stalking squirrels, and trotting across the lawn between Steve and Deb’s house and their barn. “I call him ‘Sly’,” said Deb. Sly was Steve’s nickname in college, as fitting for a handsome red fox as it was for that handsome young man.

 

Dave’s bathroom looks out over our backyard. It was late September and the leaves had just begun to fall.  “Check it out,” Dave called to me as he stared out the window after his shower. I followed his gaze and saw a heart in the middle of the yard. I felt that tug in my chest and knew Dave felt it too. It was a leaf, but our recognition let us know it was from Ma.     

 

Be it a text, letter, phone call, or … a leaf, rose, bear, fox, or damp imprint, a message sent is as commonplace as the means chosen until the receiving heart tugs in answer.

 

Love you too, Steve and Ma. 

 

  

  

Christmas Catalogue Connection

Covid might have derailed holiday plans and traditions, but Christmas nostalgia is deeply ingrained, with triggers as varied as the scent of cinnamon, carols playing on Sonos, Dickens on my bedside table, and the L.L. Bean catalogue appearing in the mail.

 

With a cup of tea in hand and a Bean’s catalogue to browse, it could be any decade from my past: me in a voluminous, unflattering Lanz nightgown, Mom and Dad reading by the fire in Vermont in the seventies, or, in the eighties, my kids in their pajamas, playing with their Transformers and Cabbage Patch Kids. L.L. Bean is consistent, and relatively unmoved by trends. Models smile rather than pout, and stride through snow in sturdy boots and puffy parkas without that awkward hand-on-cocked-hip pose favored in most fashion magazines. L.L. Bean’s catalogue is colorful, familiar, and comforting. 

 

Not long ago, I called the company’s 1-800 line to order some gifts, and a woman answered the phone.  She introduced herself and asked how she could help me.  I had questions about sizing, fabrics, and colors, and she was patient and friendly. I must’ve been feeling raw that day, for her kindness touched some deep chord, and I was inordinately grateful for her gentle voice. 

 

“Can I tell you something?” I said. “You have no idea what it means to have a real person, a nice person, answer the phone.” 

 

I confess, I choked up a bit… I know. It’s pathetic, but so it was.  “Everything now is rushed and impersonal, all about business and money. It means something to have a human connection. Please let the company know how important that is, and how much I appreciated talking to you. ”

 

She was quiet for a minute, then said, “Just this morning, I left home for work and thought, ‘Here I go; off to change the world selling slippers and sweaters. I felt sheepish about my job. But maybe the way I do it does make a difference in someone’s day. So, thank you for saying that.” 

 

Again, I assured her it did, and we signed off with warm wishes for the holidays. 

 

Dave has all the flannel shirts he’ll ever need, and my signature Bean’s rubber-soled boots have held up over the years as advertised. We already have snowshoes, quilts, towels, and turtlenecks, but still, I flip through the catalogue, enjoying the ride: evergreen wreaths, berry-red candles, families in matching plaid PJ’s, and precious Labrador puppies peeking from canvas tote bags. It’s a relief in this time of turmoil, loss, and disease to give myself over to the fantasy of L.L. Bean world and pretend that it is 2020 that is the illusion. 

 

An added note: My husband, Dave, routinely asks for a manager in order to compliment an employee when someone has been helpful. They certainly hear the complaints, but not always the good things, and THAT can make someone’s day.   

 

  

What Will We Do?

Candles are lit and dinner is ready: grilled eggplant and lemon, rice pilaf, and sautéed zucchini. Dave has set Pandora to the 70’s channel and The Band is singing “The Weight.” It is such a Stevie song, one I’ve heard him sing countless times, with Red and Phil at Trinity; with Dave in our basement; and with his sons, Christopher and Trevor, at Old Post Tavern and FTC. Although I’ve been fine all day, I'm weepy and snuffling into a tissue when Dave joins me at the table. 

That’s how it’s been since Steve passed. To our amazement, we’re mostly okay, and then something will strike a chord, triggering a prickle in my nose and a flow of tears. Mostly, I don’t think our hearts are letting us feel fully what we’ve lost. For, from the time Steve was diagnosed with prostate cancer 15 years ago, I’ve worried who will Dave be without his brother?

 

In the early years of our marriage, Dave would sometimes retreat, face closed, his response to my inquiries always an unsatisfying, “I’m fine.” Casey has recently defined that as “Feelings Inside, Not Expressed,” and when I was younger, it made me crazy trying to figure out what was wrong. Once, I called Steve and asked, “Can you come play guitars with your brother, or take him out or something?  I don’t know what’s up with him.”

 

“Is he pouting?” Steve said. “He always has.”

 

Wait. What? Dave has been declared a saint by many, and this was an insight I seized on with relief.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve said. “Just the way he gets sometimes.” 

 

It wasn’t my fault! Such a burden lifted! I still wanted Steve to divert him, but I felt better. So there’s that too: what will I do without Steve?    

 

As required of older brothers, when the boys were children, Steve tormented Dave, staking him out in the backyard, the unwilling cowboy captive to Steve’s victorious Indian. Unmoved by Dave’s wails of “Maaaaaa!” Steve would sit on his chest and say in a voice annoyingly calm, “Why are you crying? All you have to do is eat a spoonful of peanut butter, and I’ll let you go.” 

 

Needless to say, Dave hated peanut butter. 

 

But Steve was also his best friend and protector. “Do you have any idea how many fights I got into because of you?” he once said. Dave spoke with a stutter from the time he was four, a target for the mean kids who pounced on anyone with a frailty; Steve was three years older, and bound to defend him. As much as Steve-n’-Deb became one word, from the time Dave was born, so was Steve-n’-Dave.

 

When Steve and Deb started dating in their teens, they welcomed Dave as the third in their trio. Dave chuckles in recalling a beach picnic with the three of them and Steve Larrabee.  “Deb had to go to the bathroom, so we built a sand toilet for her.  ‘Don’t look!’ she said. So, nearby, we drew the outline of a door with a huge keyhole in the sand, and we boys stood, eyes peering down, hooting as if we were watching. Silly stuff.”

 

“I followed Steve everywhere,” Dave has said as we cuddle together with our memories, stories, and tears. “To the same high school, on dates with Deb, to Trinity, and to Eagle Hill.” 

 

What will Dave do without his brother?

    

 

When first I met Steve, it was a wintry night in 1972. My roommates and I had borrowed trays from the Trinity cafeteria to use as sleds, and headed to a snowy slope on campus where a group had already gathered.  Back then, Steve’s nickname was Sly, and with his confident air, piratical look, long hair, mustache, and high cheekbones, he was cool enough to carry it. As a recent graduate from 12 years of girls’ schools, I was giddy with my newfound freedom and easy proximity to boys, and euphoric that a fun, flirty senior like Sly would be nice to me. 

 

In the spring, he asked if I wanted to go with him to watch his little brother play baseball. I jumped at the plan, and when I met Dave after the game, I discovered he was quite nice too, nice enough to marry as it turned out.  Soon after Steve died, Deb told me, “You were his hand-picked sister.”

 

Around Fairfield, Steve and Deb were fixtures, renowned for their welcoming warmth, genuine interest in others, athletic prowess, and participation in community events. Both turned heads, Deb with her flowing blond hair, Steve with his mane of white, so recognizable as they zipped around town in the red Miata. And prized though it was, when our son Tucker graduated from high school having never driven a standard shift car, Steve tossed him the keys to the Miata and said, “Hey, congratulations!  Let’s go for a spin!” 

 

 

Since his diagnosis in 2005, there have been years of worry, treatments tried, tests taken, results awaited with agonizing fear, all trials bravely hidden by Steve and Deb.  In truth, none of us know how long we have, but it’s a fact we happily suppress. We didn’t have that luxury with Steve, and because we knew time was limited, we created opportunities, and nothing was taken for granted. 

 

We had years of work together at Eagle Hill-Southport, reunions on Block Island, travel, drinks, dinners and guitars at Old Post Tavern. Steve gained a cherished daughter in Trevor’s wife, Lisa, and more recently, we’ve had grandchildren to share: the blessing and balance for worry.  All along, Steve and Deb were stoic in facing together the indignities and hardship of the disease while maintaining those sunny public faces. What courage and energy that must have taken.  

 

It was Christmas, 2015, when my daughter Casey and her fiancé PJ asked Steve to perform their wedding ceremony.  Oh the hugs, laughter, and happy tears… but Deb had just told Dave and me that a recent scan had revealed the spread of Steve’s cancer to his bones. I worried: should I tell Casey to have a Plan B? I said nothing, hoping my brother-in-law - athletic, competitive, handsome Steve –would beat the odds and pull it off.

 

In September of 2016, Steve and I stood arm-in-arm on the steps at the Inn at Longshore, waiting to be introduced as the mother-of-the-bride and wedding officiant. I gestured to all the beloved faces smiling in our direction and whispered to Steve, “None of this would be happening if it weren’t for us.”

 

He looked at me, puzzled, and I said, “If we hadn’t met on the hill, traying at Trinity!” We hugged each other tight and walked down the stairs.

 

My mother always said her one regret was not giving me a big brother, but the Universe had other plans, and gave me Steve.  

 

 

 

 

 

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.     

 

   

Beyond Us

A faint smudge between the Big Dipper and the horizon looked promising. “Is that it?” I asked my husband Dave, hoping I had spotted the comet, Neowise.

“Yes. Yes, I think it is!” Dave said as he handed me the binoculars. Inwardly, I always sigh at this helpful offering as binoculars present their own challenge: the adjusting of the plastic flipper focus in the middle; the bending of the bulbous tubes that house the lenses; the scanning high, low, and sidewise to locate whatever tiny object I am trying to see. 

It was late, 11:30 PM, and Dave had read in the Boston Globe, our Sunday paper, that optimal Neowise-viewing was between 10:00 PM and 1:00 AM, so we thought we’d planned well. At home, we had tried to locate the comet’s position using our house’s relation to the Merritt Parkway North, the route of Black Rock Turnpike’s near-stretch to the coast, and the compass on Dave’s phone. The canopy of an ancient silver maple blocked the Northwestern sky, the comet’s reported path, so we’d driven up to Samuel Staples School to take advantage of the open skies above the playing fields. 

One other car was in the parking area, a mom and her children.  Given the darkness, I couldn’t see them well, but loved the thought of their memory of a summer night spent searching for a comet. As we gazed skyward, a youthful voice nearby observed, “Mom. I think it looks more like a cereal bowl and a spoon than a dipper.” I smiled. He had a point, although I would’ve called it a saucepan myself.  

Kids out at night after a hot day of camp, games, beach, or swimming! I can feel in my soul that remembered sense of freedom and adventure.  Catching fireflies. Sneaking out to meet my friend Edie and spying on neighbors’ parties. Playing Kick-the-Can until darkness obscured even our white shirts and bases. Watching, incredulous, with my sisters and parents as Sputnik, the Russian satellite, a speck of light, flew among the stars. It has been a long time since I felt that elation… but something similar was swelling within me as I stared upward.

“We’ve come every night this week,” the mom remarked, “and this is really too late. 9:45 is the best time.  When we saw the comet last night, you couldn’t miss it.  It was that clear.”

Could Boston time for viewing be that different?  Maybe so. “Okay!” we said.  “We’ll try earlier.” 

Two nights later, we arrived at Staples at 9:30 to join a cluster of cheerful comet hunters. Some had thought to bring folding chairs; others stretched out on the hoods of cars.  We climbed from our seats and scanned the sky. “There it is!” Neowise! No doubt this time. And I tried to imagine the light, the spray of gases, the rush of sound, close up as this phenomenon sped through space. 

Throughout written history, comets have been seen as omens.  Certainly, we are living through a time pivotal to human well-being and the future of the planet.  What might this comet portend? And when it returns in 6,800 years, as its orbital period projects, what will be the status of our planet and its creatures?  

On this night on Earth, in the elementary school’s parking lot, the mood was neighborly. Conversations ranged from the cosmos to Easton’s 175^th anniversary, to children’s science projects at school. One heard occasional exclamations as Neowise shared the spotlight with other celestial wonders. “Look! A shooting star,” “a satellite!” “That’s Cassiopeia,” and, “the other night I saw the space station!”     

  

Binoculars were shared, and one gracious gentleman, his voice muffled through his mask, offered views of Saturn and Jupiter through his telescope. “Can you see them?” he said.

My God!  I could!  I saw Jupiter’s bands and Saturn’s rings! I saw tiny moons, which the man named, and I quickly forgot. But oh, what a thrill to turn my eyes and thoughts upward, far beyond man’s reach.  No one spoke of Covid.  No one mentioned politics. For the moment, I put down the personal sorrows of recent months. It was a summer’s night, and a warm breeze lifted my hair. Around me, as they have for eons, my fellow humans gathered to marvel, in awe, at the heavens.    

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.   

A Chance

Deeeeeep breath. Oh, that feels good. Lately, I remind myself to drink in that air, purer than it was a month ago, as deeply as I can, and thank God I can do so. It makes me heady, actually, the blessing of lungs that fill and swell my chest, fueling my cells. As we are forced into retreat by COVID-19 for fear of losing that life-giving ability, our fellow creatures and the planet itself are taking a restorative sigh of relief. 

 Ahhhh, they're gone…  

The charming image of dolphins reclaiming the canals of Venice is fiction as it turns out. A shame, as I’d like to think fake news applies primarily to reports Trump deems uncomfortable. Disappointing as is the dolphin fable, I’ve seen videos of turkeys strutting Boston’s thoroughfares, a mountain lion leaping onto an urban wall, and wild boar snorting and scuffling along an Italian street. Our exploitation and disregard for Nature’s children, human and animal, is a deep sadness, and I hope this respite results in responses that give all species a chance.  

Here in quarantine, my thoughts and moods circle, at times like the mythical Venetian dolphins, leaping with energy and hope, and at times like the haggard wraiths working COVID wards, swathed in masks, scrubs, and flimsy yellow gowns. It depends on the moment. I can be engrossed in a project, comfy and content, while Dave pours me a glass of wine and cooks up a tasty red sauce, or, usually at night, a tickle in my throat conjures the haunting specter of failing lungs and desperate prayers for a free ventilator.  

On this Earth Day, snug at home, I know what’s critical for my survival.  My loved ones and hugs, a treasure I’ve indulged in with abandon, never imagining they’d be forbidden, top the list.  Daffodils, sunshine, magnolias, and birdsong have proved essentials in braving hug-deprivation and CNN reports. Given the leanings of the current administration and man’s enthusiasm for dominion, I’ve worried about my other priorities a lot longer: a thriving animal kingdom, clean air, clean water, and planetary systems and seasons operating as they should. 

It’s hard to imagine that, in the midst of a respiratory crisis, an administration would whittle away at the Clean Air Act, even casting covetous eyes on the provisions of legislation guarding the nation’s waters, but, believe it. The same is true of the Environmental Protection Agency and Endangered Species Act, since 1970, the efforts of past administrations to keep Creation on track. 

In 1989, TIME magazine diverged from human-centricity to designate our Endangered Earth, Planet Of The Year. In the lead article, writer Thomas A. Sanction asked, “What on Earth Are We Doing?” as page after page depicted floods in Bangladesh, slash burning along the Amazon, species extinction, and mountains of refuse. After all these intervening years of alerts, still we face those issues, along with COVID deaths, locust plagues, scorched koalas, hunger, and wildfires. Indeed, one must ask, what is our problem? 

This week, Dave and I watched “One World, Together At Home,” a concert coordinated by Global Citizen and Lady Gaga to benefit the World Health Organization from which our president just withdrew funding.  We were drawn by the lengthy, extraordinary list of participants: Paul McCartney, Keith Urban, Lizzo, Billie Eilish, Beyonce, Celine Dion, Andrea Boccelli, Stevie Wonder, Taylor Swift, Elton John, and the Rolling Stones among them. It filled my heart that they had chosen to support the WHO and give us their music, their best gift, to cheer us in isolation and applaud those on the front lines. 

The program was a hug in itself, a message of unity, caring, and gratitude in our time of trouble. Throughout the show, I fought back tears at clips of medical personnel, first responders, sanitation workers, delivery drivers, and cashiers, some we’ve always admired, and some routinely overlooked, and all have dedicated themselves now to healing and helping. 

Even in my sorrow and anxiety over this disease, I feel the Universe has taken extraordinary measures to give us a chance. Noting that prior warnings were inadequate, this push-back is impossible to ignore, and the answers are apparent in fresh air over Beijing, free movement of wildlife, and the surge of kindness, love, and appreciation among men. I pray we reflect, learn, hold onto the good, and take action.

Happy Earth Day. 

So Many "Always"

Last night, I saw a shooting star. It always feels lucky to catch a glimpse of that heavenly streak of light, but this was even more serendipitous. I was lying in bed, Dave beside me playing Words with Friends, his face illuminated by the glow from his iPad. My gaze had strayed from the game to the window and beyond, to the forked limbs of the maple tree black against the night sky.  And there was the star, falling, it seemed, from one branch to the other. 

To see a star fall as I lay in my bed? What are the odds? I so want to think it was a good omen from Mom or Dad or God, saying all will be well. 

Dave, as always, fell asleep as soon as he closed his iPad. Also as always, I lay awake for hours. From the front of the house, the moon shone with extraordinary brightness, casting patterns of mullions and silver across the bedroom floor. More than once, I rose to press my nose against the cold glass of the windowpane. The pink Super moon was two days passed, but still, it was round and full and brilliant. I thought of all the eyes, going back through time, through hardship and longing, that had been lifted to that beacon. 

A shooting star, a beaming full-faced moon: so much light in the darkness, and I want it to mean something, to portend hope well placed. 

I’ve been sifting through old family pictures, some as far back as the 1800’s.  One captures an elegant young woman dressed for a party, her hand resting gracefully on her lap, palm upturned. She is my great-grandmother, and she doesn’t look happy.  What was she thinking when the picture was taken? How did she die? What was she like? What did she enjoy doing? Why didn’t I think of these questions when Mom was still alive? 

To me, those in the past seem as gray and two-dimensional as their images. Hell, my own past seems a fiction now, when pictured moments of babies held close, giggling groups crammed close for a shot, and great gatherings of celebrants at weddings and holidays are forbidden luxuries. But I’ve given more thought lately to the reality of sorrow, fear, and pain faced by ancestors who endured great wars, depression, and disease.

A friend wrote me recently about her great-grandfather.  He returned from serving his country in World War I and then succumbed to the Spanish Flu. Imagine the elation of the safe return of that husband/father/son from mortal threat and one’s own release from the agonizing worry over his daily peril… only to lose him to illness at home. My heart stills at the cruelty and depth of that pain. With losses mounting from COVID-19, even of those striving to heal and help others, I want reasons, I want meaning. I cling to belief in a grand plan, far beyond my understanding… I must.

I pray a lot these days, often with tears, always with yearning, and always with gratitude for those on the front lines and in my own life, for so many years of blithe, wonderful times with loved ones. This pandemic crisis will end, and we will emerge from quarantine to hug again. For now, and for always, memories, prayers, phone visits, Dave’s hugs, funny videos, ZOOM-time with loved ones, and shooting stars must sustain me.