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!

Estate Sale

Estate Sale.  Magic words conjuring antiques at bargain prices.  Dave and I were headed to Putnam Park, “Connecticut’s Valley Forge” for a lovely fall walk, but the homemade, red-lettered sign on the side of the road was lure enough for a twist of the wheel for a detour.

Tucked in the woods just beyond the park entrance, the house was probably built around the time the park opened in the late 1800’s.  Strong bones and gracious details were evident beneath the peeling paint, sagging sleeping porch, and broken windows.  A tumble of cast-off furniture littered the yard, and two decrepit sheds at the end of the driveway seemed at one with their woodland surroundings as their loosened planks leaned among fallen limbs and leaves. 

  

Many were drawn to the house by that sign.  Men examined rusty tools in the shed off the kitchen.  Wives and girlfriends checked china figurines for cracks.  In a glass-fronted cabinet, I spotted a stack of plates, blue on white, the kind sold in grocery stores, but I liked the rustic design of a thatched English cottage.  I scrutinized them for chips, counted out eight intact plates, and started a “hold” pile behind the makeshift cashier’s table.  I’d lost track of Dave the moment we came through the door.

 “What’s in there?”  A man called from the kitchen as I entered a walk-in closet. 

“Mm, mostly products: Lysol, Windex.  Old mops, a broom, some bottles – not vintage, just old.”  The stuff all of us have in our cupboards and closets, only here, doors and drawers were swung wide and pulled out; the mess we squirrel away exposed for inspection. 

When I returned to the kitchen, a bearded man leaned against the wall, his arms folded against his chest, while a woman, his wife I supposed, picked through a box of dish towels and tablecloths.   She glanced at me and we shared small smiles.  

“So much of a life here,” I said.

“I know,” she replied.  “I imagine my kids, after I’m gone, saying, ‘We’re going to have one hell of a yard sale!’”  The three of us laughed, then she added, “But you do get a sense, at a sale like this…I don’t know...You think of the person.”

“Once I was up in the attic at a tag sale,” I said.  “It was filled with boxes of Christmas decorations.  And I pictured the family, a time, when the garlands were up and the ornaments hung on a tree… and I got teary.  Later someone told me, ‘No need for sadness.  They moved to Florida.’”

Again we laughed.  As I inched among the boxes and chairs and counters to go to the next room, the bearded guy unfolded his arms and moved to let me pass.  “That could be it.  Maybe these people are on a beach somewhere thinking, ‘Those poor people in Connecticut!’”

In the den, I admired a black ladder-back rocking chair with a caned seat.  Nice, but we already have one that’s similar.  A tall, narrow bookshelf near a doorway was crammed with books.  I angled my head sideways to read the titles, among them The Da Vinci Code, Painting for Beginners, The Power of Intention, and Birding in North America.  Books I have read; interests I have.  Books give a sense of those who bought them, and I felt that whoever had lived here was someone I would like. 

Into the next room, the living room maybe?  All the rooms were small, and with the jumble of boxes, chairs, and odds and ends, it was hard to discern which room had been used for what.  The floor here, too, was crowded with boxes of books.  “Wow.  They read a lot,” I mumbled. 

“Yeah,” said another browser beside me.  “Have you been upstairs yet?  Rooms full of books.” 

I climbed the broad staircase with its dark wooden banisters and, on the landing, was confronted by a machine the color of lichens and the size of a dishwasher.  A small plaque on the device below a neck-sized hole read, “Vita Master.”  A black-treaded exerciser, frozen mid-step, but ready to march on, waited on a side table down the hall.

Dave found me there and handed me a small plaque.  “Look.  The Desiderata,” one of my favorite pieces.  At one sad, lost time in my life, I burst into tears at its reassurance: “You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars;
 you have a right to be here.
 And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.”

As I stood, head bent to read the plaque, a petite older woman approached.  She had short, gray hair and a kind, lined face, and her eyes met mine as I looked up to let her pass.  Her expression was wistful as she said, “You get such a sense of a life here.” 

I nodded slowly.  “I know.  I just spoke to some people downstairs who said the same thing.”

Clothes hung in every closet: floral silk blouses, cotton dresses, a sixties-style peasant skirt, jackets, flannel slacks.  So personal, these clothes: a woman once bought and wore them close to her skin. 

Down the hall and into another room.  Boxes and boxes of books.  I picked up a photo-journal of the Kennedy family, published after the president’s assassination and dedicated to John Junior.  Now he’s gone too.  In the pictures, JFK and Jackie cuddle and cavort with their little ones, Caroline at four or so, and John John, a toddler.  The pictures of Jackie reminded me of my Mom in her youth, so I held on to it. 

“Jansen!” I exclaimed upon spotting the familiar mottled gray cover.   “I still have my copy from my high school history of art class! I was just talking to a friend about this book a few days ago.”  The stout redhead poking through another box of books nodded, polite and uninterested, and continued her perusal.  I gather she’d not taken history of art. 

So many books!  There were plenty that had been bestsellers in their day, and multitudes on the power of prayer, on the brain, on inspirational healing, and health.  Someone had been sick in this house; that was clear.

In the master bedroom, I walked in on a conversation between the petite older woman I’d met in the hall and one of the sale’s organizers.  With her auburn hair caught up in a loose knot, the organizer was youthful, energetic, tattooed, and friendly.  “No,” she said in answer to a question I’d missed.  “No one was sick here.  Well, at least, not the owner.  She was a nurse and her kids tell me she was the kind of person who would drop everything to help someone else.  She ran a resting house for invalids for a while.  So, yeah.  Others were sick here, but she was fine. ”

The three of us smiled together, and I felt relieved.  The woman who bought and read these books had children who respected her.  From the sound of it, she’d not wasted away at her death. 

The young woman folded crocheted Afghans and white pillowcases as she chatted on.  “Of course, her kids can’t come here during the sale.  But I’ll tell them about conversations like this.  They picture a rummage sale, a bunch of blank-faced people pawing through their mom’s stuff.  But I’ll tell them, ‘No.  People cared.  They asked about your mother,’ and that will make a difference.” 

It made a difference to me.  To walk, by chance, from a brilliant fall day into this woman’s life.  To see her books, her clothes, and her collections.  To worry about her and the nature of her passing.  It helped to learn she’d had a full life, and that she was beloved.