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. 

 

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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.

 

 

      

 

  

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. 

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.