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.

 

 

      

 

  

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.     

 

   

Mission in COVID World

Pens and paper in hand, Dave and I planned our strategy. It was the evening before shop-day, and we discussed, reviewed, cross-checked, and re-copied our lists before bed. We wanted to be ready and well rested for the next day’s challenge.

I woke at 3:30 AM, however, and Dave woke soon after.  I was nervous, I have to admit. As Covid cases and related deaths continued to mount, it had been a comfort to near the two-weeks-in-quarantine mark and feel well, to think we were probably safe. A trip to the grocery store meant starting the clock over, but it had to be done.

Sleep, that elusive treasure, had slipped away for good.  “Let’s move up the schedule,” I suggested. Dave agreed. 

We postponed our morning showers until later, when we’d take full-on decontamination drenchings upon returning home. We suited up and collected our masks and gloves to be donned in our separate parking lots: this was a divide and conquer expedition. 

Our departure times were staggered, based on destination and hours of opening. “We’ll touch base around 7:30?” I confirmed as Dave headed out.

“Sounds about right. Good luck!” Dave replied as he kissed me good-bye.

Who says "good luck" when you’re going to the grocery store? But it’s not a cliché in Covid world. These are uncharted waters, where a head of broccoli or an over-enthusiastic hello can harbor danger. Our quarry was neither pangolins nor fruit bats, possible origins of the disease, but our stock was running low: we needed an infusion of vegetables and dairy products. 

Dave arrived at Whole Foods as the door opened for “senior shoppers.” Distressing as that label might be, for now we’ll take it to get the early slot.  At 7:35, I checked in with him from my position at Super Stop & Shop as he completed his initial assignment before heading to BJ’s.  

“How’s it look, Hon?’ I asked as I unfolded my list and surveyed the asterisked items we’d suspected might be harder to find. 

“Pretty good,” he said. “No paper products here at all, by the way, but if you can find the frozen okra and spinach, broccoli, capers, and maybe a couple more potatoes, that’d be great.” I circled those items on my list, slipped on my gloves and mask, and nabbed a cart from the parking lot. 

Stop & Shop was a gold mine. I found everything on my list, and scored two 4-roll packs of Scott toilet paper, an unexpected and extraordinary bonus.  In my life, ever, would I have thought that unclaimed toilet paper on a grocery shelf would spark a burst of elation in my chest? No. But so it was. 

Next: Trader Joe’s. TJ’s ghost pepper chips, smoked salmon dip, dark chocolate peanut butter cups, and peppermints might not rate with toilet paper, butter, and broccoli, but in this time of crisis, they were the boost that mental health required. 

Store entry was not to be taken for granted I discovered. By this time, 9:00 AM, I’d missed the early window advantage. The store was strict in limiting the number of shoppers to allow for social distancing, so the line at the entrance stretched to the end of the sidewalk with shopper-hopefuls spaced six feet apart.  It was brisk out, and many had anticipated a quick hop from car to store, so people hugged thin sweaters tight, danced from foot to foot, and chatted with those around them. “I pray they have toilet paper,” said the young woman in front of me. “I’m down to two rolls at home.” 

“I’ve two packs in the car,” I assured her. “If they don’t have any; you can have one.”  

Behind me, a woman did leg lifts, stretches, and lunges to pass the time.  A white SUV pulled up next to us, the window open, music blaring. The occupant surveyed the line (which by now stretched around the corner), was apparently daunted, and hit the gas, abandoning us with a screech of tires.  

A female member of the TJ’s crew, garbed in a neon yellow vest and gloves, collected carts from departing shoppers, sprayed them with disinfectant, and swabbed them down. She checked with another attendant in the foyer and waved for the next five people to enter. After a twenty-minute wait, I wheeled past purple orchids and cheery daffodils and began my rounds. It was a small triumph, I felt, even to gain entry. You know life has changed when the simplest of successes – a toilet paper purchase and access to Trader Joe’s – provides satisfaction, a Covid lesson I hope to hold onto.  

Mindful of the chilly souls waiting outside, I made the rounds quickly. The shelves were well-stocked but for paper goods, yet my young friend from the line sought me out to brandish a pack of toilet paper.  “I got the last one!” she grinned.

At check-out, gloved cashiers sprayed and swabbed counters after every transaction.  They did not wear masks, nor did many shoppers. 

Once I returned home, Dave helped unload the groceries, then I shed my clothes on the porch and headed into the shower. Having left the house at 7:00, Dave and I re-united at 11:30, after completing our separate missions and decontamination. Now the two-week clock begins again: were our precautions enough? 

P.S. Yesterday, two days after our shopping trip, my daughter texted to tell me our local Trader Joe’s had been shuttered, the staff on a 14-day quarantine, as an employee had tested positive for Covid-19.    

       

What? No Hugs?

The days run, one into the other, and it’s hard to pinpoint when change really set in. When was the last day that felt pretty normal?  For a long stretch, the Coronavirus was a challenge for the people of China and Italy, but not for us. Hasn’t that been the way for so many things? Wildfires in Australia, mudslides in Thailand, drought in the west, blizzards, tornadoes, and earthquakes – all devastating and tragic, but mostly devastating and tragic for others.  We are learning that we were kidding ourselves; those never were losses just for others. Always, we have been in this together, but if the planet’s protests were distant, it was easy to see them as separate from us.  

Now, distance, even of the social kind, is required. When most we want to meet up at Old Post Tavern or Molto, hug each other like crazy, devour some hot pasta, and share a bottle of wine, we can’t.  Our comfort and answer to hard times has always been long-lasting hugs, beloved faces as close as we can get them, and eyes soft with empathy holding ours.  What kept us afloat in the past is now dangerous.  

A week ago, I made my first stock-up-for-real trip to the grocery store.  There was not a roll of toilet paper to be had, but oddly, I, like others, had laid in a supply a few days before, so no worries. There was plenty of food on the shelves, and the usual number of shoppers. Everyone was cheerful and friendly as we strove to maintain maximum space between us while navigating the aisles with full shopping carts. 

I ran into Cathy, Mary Ellen, and Linda, friends I don’t see often.  Shelter-in-place had not yet been urged, dinner plans with others had not been cancelled, restaurants and gyms were still open, and yet, somehow we must have sensed what was coming, for my heart filled upon seeing them. We opened our arms wide, miming an embrace from six feet apart, and said,  “It’s sooo good to see you! This is my hug!” Each encounter was similar, and the faux-hugs were funny; we hadn’t missed out on too many real ones yet. 

Last Sunday night, Dave and I took pasta, spinach, and a saucepan of (meatless) sausages and peppers to Casey and PJ’s for dinner.  When PJ met us at the door, Tallulah, the dog, scrabbled at the stoop striving to escape, and Eleanor gazed out at the driveway from PJ’s arms. When she spotted us, her face lighted, her mouth opened wide, and she clapped and said, “Yayyyyyy!” a greeting I will treasure forever. I handed PJ the grocery bag in trade for the baby.  She put her arms around me, her head on my shoulder, and kick, kick, kicked those chubby little legs. Ah, hugs!  That one was a ten!  

Casey was on her computer, processing the news that Lululemon had just announced the closure of all stores. For her, this was sobering, as she’d opened her new, twice-the-square-footage, store three days before. Given the situation, I was relieved, not wanting my daughter exposed to the virus in the course of a day selling yoga-wear.  We had a tasty dinner while watching “Outbreak,” Casey’s choice. I consider myself lucky she hadn’t selected “Night of the Living Dead,” although that, too, was among the “Masochists’ Delight” listed in the Boston Sunday Globe. 

Did we hug PJ and Casey good-bye when we parted that night?  I think we did. How long will the sense of those hugs have to last?

Tucker, Lisa, Paul, and Lexi came to visit two weeks ago, so we had snuggles in abundance then. We’ve chatted via FaceTime twice in the interim as they work from home with the kids buzzing about. 

Four-year-old Paul is newly captivated by the word “poopy” and is generous in its application. Lexi, at 17 months, wants to hold the phone. So, the phone spins in its travels as Tucker strives to right it, and Lexi makes her moves. We see the ceiling, Lexi’s grin, Tucker’s thumb, and Paul’s sparkling eyes as he answers our questions about his day with a jubilant, “Poopy!”

Several times, Dave has participated in staff meetings on ZOOM, like Google-Hangouts, an extraordinary tool that will be the saving grace of businesses and relationships during our Coronavirus isolation. During his first practice session, I snuck a peek at his computer to see the beloved faces of my former colleagues ranged in tiny boxes around the screen, each waving at me from the security of their homes. Again, my heart surged to see them.  “Look at you!  It’s so good to see you!” I crowed, and oh, how I felt it. Hugs are out of the question, but even visuals are a boost. 

For a few weeks, Casey has been texting me, “Mom. I’m worried about you and Dad.  You have to take this seriously. You are in the vulnerable age range.” Her concern is dear, and I’ve assured her, “Dad and I are great. We’re healthier than a lot of people younger than us. Don’t worry.” When dire reports of danger to the elderly emerged, my mind went to Dave’s 95-year-old mother. Certainly they don’t mean us… 

But, they do. Two nights ago on CNN, anchor Jake Tapper seemed almost teary as he spoke of his forty-year-old friend who has the virus, as well as his concern for his 80-year-old father.  Tapper shed his role as a newsman for a moment as he made an emotional plea for social distancing. He was critical of youthful revelers in Florida who were still packing beaches and bars, and said something like, “Who the hell do you think you are?  You might think you’re safe because of your youth, but think of older members of your family.”

Dave was solemn when he turned off the TV. “That was unnerving,” he said. “I think I’ll skip the news for a while.” 

So, we’re hunkered down at home and choosing movies over news. Have you seen “Knives Out”? So fun! Watch it on Netflix!

We live in the woods, so we can go for walks, and wave at our neighbors. Dave loves to cook and we’ve been eating well: asparagus and mushrooms in a lemon-wine sauce over pasta; roasted salmon, mashed potatoes, and spinach, with plenty of leftovers for lunch. Dave’s baking his bread, so our breakfast routine is unchanged: Dave’s toast, butter, jelly, and coffee. This afternoon, I might make a chocolate chip yogurt cake. 

Beyond that, I’ve enjoyed a lot of phone visits. I have projects to do, an attic and basement to clean, essays to write, and that cake to bake, but given the uncertainty and suppressed worry, connection has been my comfort. Long chats, emails, and texts have filled the days: with my mother-stand-in, Mom’s friend, Beverly; my sisters, aunts, cousins, and in-laws; my friends from work and friends I’ve loved from kindergarten through college. Many I haven’t hugged in years, but it’s important now to make contact. 

Next to my senior year picture in the 1971 Farmington yearbook, reflective young girl that I was, I chose Joni Mitchell’s lyric as my quote, “Don’t it always seem to go you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone?” At the time, my nostalgia was about friends and the school; never would I have imagined what we’re currently facing, that hugs would be denied me. 

Virtual hugs to you all! Stay safe!

Corona-Wise

In the final week of December, 1999, I ignored Dave’s reassurances and light teasing as I stocked a carton with canned goods, bottled water, toilet paper, soap, changes of clothes, and a hand-cranked flashlight and radio. Oh yes, and sleeping bags and a can-opener.  While the year 2000 did not turn out to be the crisis some Y-2K enthusiasts anticipated, I did not want to be caught shivering and cowering in our primitive 1700’s-era basement with only a rack full of past-potable wine to sustain us. As cases of Coronavirus are reported in the U.S., the situation is reminiscent. How to tread the line between science, sense, and alarming all-caps headlines?  

A recent online article reflecting exactly that quandary listed a number of tips.  Top of the list was “DON’T PANIC.” So helpful. Others were more so, advising that one purchase extra tissues, toilet paper, and alcohol based cleansers; make sure all necessary medications are up to date; keep one's hands away from one's face; and above all, “WASH HANDS REGULARLY.” 

As I rule, I’m a moderate hand-washer. I wash when you hope I would, but not before every meal, and not every time I come home from an outing. Plus, I gather from the article, that I’m doing it all wrong anyway.  Do I always use warm water?  Do I rub between every finger?  Do I scrub for 30 seconds? No. To all three. 

My kids are far more diligent about this, especially with their little ones. “Mom, did you wash Eleanor’s hands when you brought her home from daycare?” Casey will say, knowing how often I forget that. My son, Tucker, and his wife, too, march their kids into the bathroom first thing after school for a good hand-wash. Mind you, they travel the T in Boston to get home, then up escalators with railings any child, grandmother, or Coronavirus carrier would trail their hands along. So a good scrub at home is probably wise.

Even though his mother is lax about hand-washing, Tucker took it seriously from the time he was small. As a result, his hands were often chapped, so at night, I’d lather them with Vaseline and encase them in socks. It was adorable, actually, those dear little paw-like mitts. “Do you think we should sock my hands tonight, Mom?” he’d ask. 

Now that we have the next generation of precious children in our lives, I worry more about… everything. I want them to be happy and safe. I want them to inherit a peaceful, healthy planet still inhabited (at a distance) by free-roaming elephants, wolves, rhinos, and gorillas.   And I want them to be well. So I pay attention to those headlines… and wonder if the kids should wear masks. 

I’m sort of kidding about that, and every local store has run out of them anyway.  Others are clearly ahead of me on this, and calm preparation is not a bad idea. So a few days ago, I reviewed the tips in the article, added some items to the existing grocery list, and went to Shop-Rite and CVS to stock up, I mean, shop.

Everyone out and about seemed particularly friendly.  We held doors for each other, smiled a lot, and cheerfully said “Excuse me,” should we brush an elbow or bump a cart.  It felt as if we were all quietly doing the same thing, reaching for alcohol-based cleaners – which seemed to be running low – and doing this whole “Don’t mind me: I’m just a little black rain cloud” Pooh-bear routine as we casually inched toward the Purell.

Except, there was no Purell. Not at CVS and not at Shop-Rite. Hm.

Did I race off in search to Stop & Shop or the CVS branch two blocks down the road?  No. Truth is, I was running a little late to pick up Eleanor at daycare and didn’t really have time, and I have a new bottle of rubbing alcohol at home that I figured would work just as well.

And I can always run down to Stop & Shop tomorrow if need be….    

P.S.: I DID remember to wash the baby’s hands after daycare that afternoon.

P.P.S.: That carton of Y-2K provisions is still in the basement along with the same bottles of wine-turned-vinegar.  So, we’re good if we suddenly need to hunker down