Teasing - A Weather Snippet

The clouds started forming early in the afternoon.  

Sunshine out front, grey fluffy mounds gathering in the back, and a certain thickness in the air.

All afternoon we waited.  And waited.  And waited.  

The sun came out.  The clouds moved, south to north, but never got any darker.

And there was no rain.  There's never any rain.  The one monsoon we had lasted for 15 minutes, took out my palo verde, and vanished.  

The newspaper is talking about drought.  

And every afternoon it's the same damn thing.  Clouds.  No Rain.

Primary Day

The last time I voted by mail, G'ma and I worked on her vote from home ballot.  The Democrats, the Jews, the women - those were our choices when I didn't have enough information for an informed decision.  We laughed, we commiserated, we grumbled, she signed her name and I put it in the mail.

Neither one of us gave it another thought.  

Now, with our President raising hell over the validity of vote by mail, TBG and I joined the rest of the sane world and asked for mail-in ballots.  The process was simple; a few clicks on the first website that came up when I Googled  request mail in ballot in Arizona and we were all set.

I proved it to TBG by going back to the website and looking ourselves up.  We were listed as requesting vote by mail ballots.  They arrived two days after the newspaper told me they were mailed.  

They sat on the ledge.  I did some research (the Corporation Council, the sheriff, the county attorney), found a dark pen, and marked away.  TBG finished his.  We signed them and sealed them in the inner enveloped and put them in the outer envelope and marked the appropriate boxes.  They didn't need stamps; I affixed our individual return address labels and dropped them in the mail slot inside the post office.

Five days later, I Googled check mail in ballot status in Arizona.  Two clicks and I was at my own personal page in the Secretary of State's database where, it was recorded, my ballot was Accepted.  And today, Primary Day, I didn't have to deal with other humans.  I stayed safe and I voted and I'm certain.

That's all the job of the Secretary of State, an office that's pretty important right now.

Katie Hobbs is our Secretary of State; can you tell that I like her?  Jan Brewer was our Secretary of State before she became our Governor.... that didn't turn out well in either position.  Michigan's Secretary of State is Jocelyn Benson, as she memorably told the Tweeter in Chief. Brian Kemp was Secretary of State in Georgia at the same time he was running against Stacy Abrams for Governor..... and we know what happened there.

Who is your Secretary of State?  

More New Words

Although, to be fair, this post should really be title Old Words Which Are New To Me.

When I was in elementary school, the kids called me The Human Dictionary.  Daddooooo and G'ma were never afraid to use a 5 syllable word when a 2 syllable word would suffice.  They assumed that I would understand, either from the context or, more frequently, from the dictionary.

They had a gigantic Webster's Unabridged, always out and available, its onion skin pages full of adjectives and nouns and synonyms and explanations.  There were flags of countries that no longer exist.  There was a definition of whore when Cleopatra was in the theatres and my down the street neighbor told me that's what she was and I should ask my mom about it.  Before I took that step, though, I went to the dictionary.... where I was left flumoxed and confused as a 9 year old in the middle of the 20th century shold have been. 

Still, I remember that I went there first.  

So when JannyLou loaned me her copy of Bruce Holsinger's Innovation of Fire, I was emotionally perpared to dig in.  Big words, unusual words, arcane words - they don't bother me, or so I thought.  But 10 pages into the novel I realized two things:  I wanted to start with the first book in the series, and I needed a dictionary close at hand.

The library had a downloadable ebook available, so my Kindle and I settled in with A Burnable Book, Holsinger's tale of skulduggery in the 14th century.  Geoffrey Chaucer and his friend John Gower write poetry and play politics and engage in subterfuge while Holsinger plunges the reader head first into the original town and gown struggles between the clergy and the Parliament and the upper and lower classes.  

And head first into language oterwise unencountered in the modern world.  Holsinger understands the confusion, and brings it to the forefront in the first episode.  A young maudlyn (a whore) comes upon

A square of silk, the embroidery dense and loud..... Here is a language she reads: of splits and underside couching, of pulled thread and chain stitch, an occulted story told in thread...

I had a vague sense of what she was seeing, so I skipped looking up splits and couching.  But then Part i started, and with it a calendar, Day XV before the Kalends of April to the Ides of April, 8 Richard II (18 March -13 April, 1385).  Turns out that March, May, July and October are the months when the ides fall on the 15th (thank you Julius Caesar for teaching us about that).  Otherwise, it's the 13th, the day roughly in the middle of the month and from which other dates are counted.  The Kalends is the first day of the month.  Apparently, each King marked the passing years of his reign (cf 8 Richard II); I thought I was being clever by renaming this year Pandemic '01 but it seems that British royalty got there first.

Holsinger pens a careful recreation of London, Southwark, Westminster, Greenwich and the lands beyod.  I like maps, and his book could surely have used one.  But he takes the reader through alleys and over bridges and carefully tells us whether we are turning right or left at each juncture.  His prose is powerful; you can smell the stink of the Long Dropper ( a privy atop the Thames, with 3 holes, all too small for a grown man's body, and a looooooong drop before the plop) and feel the blade of the knife as it pierces the flesh.  

But I didn't know about the gong farmers, who shoveled the shit out of the river and onto barges to be floated or carted further away.

By the end of the second book, I knew about the barbican (the outer defense of a castle or walled city, especially a double tower above a gate or drawbridge) because I had to figure out where a character was waiting and who could see her and why it was a big deal to be let inside.  

I learned that curfew was strictly monitored, and that hue and cry was exactly that.  When a murder occured in the streets, our hero began shouting to raise the hue and cry!  A murder! nd all the windows opened and calls for the sheriff rang out.  911 was more personal then.

I didn't know that carl was a peasant or man of low birth.  I didn't know that hermits lodged in the towers surrounding the gates of the City of London.  I didn't know that a lozenge was a charge in the shape of a solid diamond, in particular one on which the arms of an unmarried or widowed woman are displayed.  Heraldry was big in the 14th century; a legal battle over who can have what on his bends (the colorful band denoting rank and name) swirls in and around the books.  

There was more, much much more.  The first book, on the Kindle, was easier to parse.  The dictionary was available at the touch of my finger.  For the second, physcial book, I had to have my phone by my side.  G'ma's dictionary is in Little Cuter's house, mine were on my shelves, and my phone was smaller and quicker.  

Quite a change from the mid-1300's.  I am left wondering what devices will be used to decipher Maus 700 years from now.

 

John Robert Lewis

I like funerals. I like the raw emotion and the simple gestures.  I like the well told stories and the shared, rueful, laughter.  I like the occasional token - an angel coin from a young mother's service, the green satin ribbons we took from Grandpaw's casket - as well as the memories.  I like the remembrance of a life well-lived, if cut short before we were ready to say goodbye.

Funerals are a story telling time - how he met his wife, what he wore as he crossed the Edmund Pettis bridge - and that, too makes me smile.  They're old stories, or stories to be told only after I'm gone, and they always shine a light on a particular piece of the human spirit.  Joy or kindness, erudition or compassion, the teller wants us to know that about the deceased, and will stand, choking back tears, until the story is told.

Pericles and Antony and Abraham Lincoln were joined by Sheila Lewis O'Brien this afternoon.  She spoke of her Uncle Robert with such love, such delight, such passion that the tears rolled down my smiling cheeks.  The Presidents and others spoke truths and exhorted us to remember that  Democracy is not a state. It is an act.

I spent the day enjoying Congressman Lewis's life story.  It healed the hole in my heart created by our current situation, at least just a little.  He had such faith, such determination, such focus.  His funeral reminded me of all that is possible, of all that is necessary, of all that we can be.

Rest in peace, John Robert Lewis.  May your memory be a blessing.

I Shopped at Costco Today

Actually, My Young Friend was the physical presence in the store.  I was available for consultations by telephone while she took my list and my Costco Visa card and walked the aisles. 

It was fun to imagine the store in my head as I organized the list for her.  I went down the outside aisle, rejecting the clothes and furniture and, I'm sure, Christmas decor on the right, and the tools and practical supplies on the left.  I sent her straight to the drink section, where we got to work. 

I wanted sparkling water, but in bottles not in cans.

 I knew that the bottle had green writing on it, but it's not Perrier.

 It's Italian, but the Kirkland brand.

 Oh wait!!! I see it!!!!!

Success is measured differently during a pandemic.  We were ecstatic.  

From there, things went smoothly.  The mini heads of romaine, one of which is just enough for the two of us as an appetizer (or, lately for TBG, as dessert), were unavailable, but these were just fine.

I didn't care if the eggs were organic; they are cage free and that's good enough for me. 

The flat of peaches and the loaves of Tillamook cheddar, the bag of sweet onions and the one of very sweet oranges navel (a cry from the Marin Farmer's Market, sent with love to my little girl), and the rotisserie chicken (only one, thank you) were much simpler.

After a phone call from the store to verify the fact that My Young Friend was authorized to shop for me and to use my credit card ( a delightfully friendly call, from an overworked but cheerful woman who thanked me for helping her...... which made no sense since she was keeping me safe), my entire list was delivered and placed just inside my doorway, and I had a chance to check in with my personal shopper.  

It's those intermittent yet personal moments that I miss.  But before I could sink into a funk, I looked at the picture My Young Friend sent me the first time she Pandemic Shopped for us:

Things could be worse.  They were.  Then, they were better for a little while, and now we are careening toward FlapJilly's disastrophe.... a disaster and a catastrophe rolled up into one.  

But I'm not going to concentrate on that right now.  It will get me nowhere, just as listening to Bill Barr was more painful than it was worth. (Thank you, @JoyceWhiteVance, for tweeting the highlights and saving my sanity.)  

Instead, I'm going to smile as I look at a full pantry, a sunny sky, and the face of the sweetest 6 year old birthday girl I know.  It's a much healthier place to be.

Self Portrait by FlapJilly
July, 2020

Happy Birthday, FlapJilly

Six years ago last night, your mommy had a backache and wondered why.  She scoffed when I told her that she was in labor; you weren't due for a week or so and your mommy is a woman who plans ahead.  She assumed that you would, too.

By 7 in the morning, 6 years ago today, I was washing the bedding soaked from when her water broke, as Daddy drove you all to the hospital.  Of course, you were unaware of all this commotion, floating along in your pool of amniotic fluid.  While you were deciding when to join the world, I vacuumed and read and had just stretched out for a nice afternoon nap when I was summoned to the hospital.

Maga and Papa were there and Mommy wanted to be sure that I didn't miss any of the fun.  So the three of us sat in a lovely, sunny, almost comfortable waiting room, watching heavily pregnant women walking the hallways, trying to coax their recalcitrant passengers to get off the bus.  

That was fun, but seeing your Daddy's big grin as he walked down the hall, announcing your name and just about tripping over his joy.  

I won't describe the mad rush to hold you, your first night at home (replete with projectile pooping, a thunder storm, and a frantic dog), or my feeble attempts to figure out how to put a baby wrap around my self..... those are stories about us.

What I remember about you is your searching, piercing, big, dark eyes.  

I remember holding you on my chest at 3 in the morning so Mommy could sleep and I could sing you the songs my Bubba sang to me, tell you the stories Daddooooo made up for me, pat your back and croon shhhhhhh into your sweet smelling keppeleh as G'ma would have called your delicious little head.  

There was a chain behind you.  I was conscious of holding the next link

And now you are 6.  You need two hands to show us just how old that is.  You've left Disney's princesses behind for fairies and unicorns and adventures.  You'll be starting 1st grade, learning to read chapter books and write your very own stories. 

Where did the time go?

You're a big sister now.  You can cook and you can clean and you can amuse your grandmother for hours, adding filters and decorations to our FaceTime chats, loving how you look just as much as I do.  Your heart is as big as the Milky Way and your smile is as bright as those stars.  You have all the emotions, all the feelings, all the time.... and a Mommy and Daddy who understand and help you figure it all out.

There will be a time when we can hug.  There will be a time when you can style my hair.  For now, I can only send you virtual hugs and kisses .

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Reopening Schools - A Serious Question

In-person classes will probably look much the same on the university level.  Fewer inhabitants, perhaps, in the lecture halls, but otherwise, they're probably good to go.

Virtual classes, e-learning, the on-line option - call it what you will, it's not school.  But, it may be all we have... and that's worrying me.

Not a little..... a lot.

I've taken a few summer courses from Cornell over the years; those on-campus have been mind expanding works of wonder.  This summer's virtual offerings have been quite the opposite.  They were free; I got what I paid for.

If the Ivy League can't figure it out for the summer, I fear for the students paying full freight for the semester.

Cornell uses Canvas, a central hub where syllabus and questons and tech help and discussion groups can be found.  It was not very intuitive for me, but, like my aversion to Canon cameras, that might be a personal foible.  What was not personal was the utter lack of interest shown in the discussion sections by the other 75 members of the class. A few questions were raised, but even fewer were discussed.   When the professor asked for topics to be raised in the Q&A section, no mention was made of the conversations already started in the discussins.

Add to that the fact that the professor read his slides aloud and you'll begin to get a sense of my frustration.  The fact that a trusted friend admires the teacher adds to my woes; he's probably fine in the classroom, just miserable on the small screen.

Today's webinar started off just fine.  The connection was clear, the introduction was on-time and concise, the professor was charming and funny.  Then, he, too, began to read his slides out loud.  Word for word.  Every single one of them.  And then he said "Next slide, please."  

That should have been a clue; he wasn't controlling his own multi-media presentation.  The worker bees in the main office were in charge.  So, when he could no longer hear what they were saying, the webinar devloved into hundreds of people across the globe listening in on a tech support chat.  After 5 minutes or so, I signed out.  

Read the damn questions posted in the chat function.....unless you can't find the chat function.  Sign out and sign back in.  A 25 minute mini-lecture was all you prepared?  I'd blocked out the suggested 90 minutes.

These are adults with PhD's and a host of immediately available tech helpers.... and still it went awry.  Had I paid money for these sessions, this post would have a decidely darker tone.  But as I type to you I think of the students who will be returning to Notre Dame and Cornell and Harvard next month.... and the folks who will be fotting their bills.  

True, that generation of students is more computer literate than mine on the whole, but the faculty tends more toward my side of the generational curve.  Without the immediate feedback from the faces before them, very few will have the power to hold the attention of the students at the other end of the ethernet cable. 

Today's webinarian was fascinating (I was crocheting and listening so didn't notice he was reading aloud until several slides had passed) and held my attention easily.  The Odyssey professor, however, was more engaged with his screen than with the words coming out of his mouth. 

I spend a lot of time video chatting with FlapJilly; I recognize that seeing yourself in the little box in the corner is fascinating and distracting and often more fun than what's at the other end of the connection.  But if I were a parent paying $60,000 a year for my child's education, I'd certainly expect a whole lot more.

And so, the serious question - is this the inflection point for the ever rising cost of private colleges and universities?  

Lanyards

Returning kids to school has many components.  The CDC can't decide whether it's better for students to spend hours a day in sanitized bubbles, trying to learn to spell while not infecting themselves or others, or to stay at home without access to the internet, meals, or an actual living, breathing, trained adult to help them.

The fact that the need for schools and teachers is being conflated with the need for child care for working parents makes me too angry to type.  Los Angeles is setting up spaces to warehouse these children, sitting them socially distanced in cafeterias and gymnasiums and auditoriums and music rooms, superivsed by aides.  FlapJilly's district send a hundred gazillion attachments covering everything from the bus to the playground in the emails Little Cuter's receiving.

This is not going well.

In my little corner of the world, GRIN  is trying to bridge the digital divide (if someone could figure out what's needed we'd be glad to help foot the bill) while commiserating on-line with my teacher friends.  They miss the classroom, the students, their colleagues.... and they don't want to die.

Amdst all this arises the issue of masks.  The quilters in Tucson are being most generous; hundreds of kid sized masks are being made available to me (and others) just for the asking.  Not-Kathy's a quilter who does not make masks, but she's my conduit to those who do.  In a town like ours, with two degrees of separation between a need and an answer, she's my mask life-line.

But, as the principal and I were discussing on the phone last week, how do we keep those masks attached to those kids?  They'll have to take them off to eat.  They'll be permitted to take them off on the playground if they are playing far away from anyone else.  Not everyone has pockets ... or pockets without holes. Do they toss them all in a heap and then each one grab one at the end?

Double clip lanyard were the answer we came up with, with bulldog pincers instead of a j-hook clip, on a black flat cloth that will feel soft around young necks.  Finding the right price, conveying my need in a pitiful tone to customer service clerks on Chat functions, doing the math on random scraps of paper on my still almost-clean desk..... the project kept me busy from Friday through the weekend.  I placed the order on Monday; the box of 700 lanyards arrived on Saturday.

My plan was to spend that money on books for the kindergarten classrooms.  I've been collecting titles (thanks to long-time denizen dkzody for the tips) and was looking forward to spending a productive afternoon at Bookmans and Barnes and Noble, turning donated dollars into stories to share.

But I won't be sitting on the grown up chair in front of 20 little faces at a time... not anytime soon, at least.  Garden Club may be happening, but even that is still unsettled.  If in-person learning ever does start here in Tucson, I fear it will intermittent at best - how many classrooms will find a substitute ready to step into the fray if the teacher becomes ill?

So I swallowed my sorrow and spent the money on safety equipment.  

I. Spent. Money. On. Safety. Equipment.

Not your tax dollars, local or state or federal.  Not funds allocated from the public pot to the public good. Nope.  Donations sent by caring individuals, people who wanted to put books and plants and fun in front of kids are being use for safety equipment.

It wasn't a lot of money.  I still have lots left to give.  But I'd rather be dropping off Crayola's new Colors of the World  

than lanyards to keep masks on necks when kids don't need them covering their noses and mouths.

Is 2020 over yet?

Have a Nice Weekend

It would help if something happened.

I've spent some time helping to bridge the digital divide, trying to figure out on-line gardening, and fertilizing my roses and containers during the lovely rainstorm this morning.

I read a little, exercised a little, ate a little and cooked even less.  For excitement, I ordered two Brain Quest workbooks for FlapJilly.

I watched a lot of talking heads, and noticed that Chasten and Peter Buttigieg sit in the exact same chair when they are being interviewed, whether for Joy Reid or Time Magazine.  I finished a baby blanket while listening to the yammering... it all sounds like yammering to me right now.

It was a stellar day in Covid Land;  everyone I love is safe and healthy.  Sending protective vibes your way, denizens.  I'm going to spend the weekend imagining that Little Cuter and I live in Portland, and that we've spent the last few nights in bicycle helmets and swim goggles and yellow t-shirts, standing as a buffer between Trump's hooligans and the protesters. 

It's been a stellar day.

From a Different Perspective

Perhaps the worst part of shelter in in place is the lack of novelty.  I love my house.  I love my views.  I love my pool and my shelves of books and my kindle and my television and my closet of crochet projects and I wish I could see anything but all of them right now.

The same old same old is getting me down.  Perhaps that's why I was so pleased on Monday to discover three new ways of looking at three different subjects.  My brain was surprised.  I could feel it expanding to include the new perspectives; my smile reflected the joy inside.

Two of my moments came during Nicolle Wallace's MSNBC afternoon hour of what the f** has Donald Trump done now?  Usually, she amplifies my feelings.  On Monday, I turned two corners.

First, Richard Stengel, former editor of Time, was talking about Portland and the unmarked camo wearing police detaining protesters.  "The President has it backwards.  The States provide policing.  The Federal Government provides pandemic care.  Not the other way around."

It was the clearest way of stating what has been bothering me about the situation.  It's concise, it's honest, and it's understandable even to the most close minded....... I hope, since I plan to use it widely and often.

Next, came Maya Wiley, she of the fabulous grey dreadlocks, potential candidate for Mayor of New York City, professor at the New School (where, if I lived my life over again, I would study ), and snarky regular commentator on MSNBC.  The conversation turned from terror in the streets to Alzheimer's disease; Maya cared for her mother as she declined and died.  She reminded me of what I already knew - taking that mental status test is a stressful experience. 

The Look At Me! I Aced It!! response of our President reminded her, and me, of our mothers' responses.  It's a stressful experience, wondering how much of your brain is no longer able to distinguish an elephant from a rhino.  Doing well is confirming that you aren't slipping.... even as you know, in some corners of what remains, that you are. 

I spent a while remembering G'ma.

How did I do?  She wasn't asking about the results, really.  She was wondering, in real time, how much of herself was left.  Trump's excitement over doing well is, as Ms Wiley pointed out, familiar to anyone who has had the pleasure of caring for someone who is in decline.

The fact that the conversation went on to discuss how much of DJT's brain is actually working.  I couldn't listen.

And then there was TBG, the one who knows me best of all, who said something that should have been obvious to us all along.  I was noting that my walking has improved to where my gait is nearly symmetrical.  I'm still not fast, and I can't maintain it for long, but I find myself, more often than not, engaging my back and my outer thigh and my lower abs as I walk, upright and not bent forward, hips swiveling but not jerking from side to side.  I'm not Lauren Bacall sashaying to Hoagy Carmichael in To Have and Have Not, but I'm not Frankenstein just up from the operating table, either.

I told him that swimming was awakening muscles that had lain dormant for years.  I'm aware of the interactions of different parts of my body as they are used in an active, prone postiion.  I can isolate the weaker parts and work on them i the poool in ways I can't on land.  I attributed my walking progress to my swimming progress (I'm up from 6 laps to 50) as TBG cocked his head and smiled.

Your dad loved swimming too, y'know.  He was good at it, too, almost all the way up until the end.  He always said it was the best exercise for him, and you have his body.

Duh.  Of course.  Daddooooo swam every day in Sen. Alfonse D'Amato's pool in Island Park, thanking the Senator on his way out of the community center every time he left.  Though his physical structure was crippled by arthritic hips, the rest of him was strong and powerful.  His only exercise ws swimming. 

Why I never thought of that before is a mystery best left for the sages.  All I know is that I now have a renewed commitment to the pool.

Three new ways oflooking at the world, all discovered in one day.  My brain was very very happy.

Umwelt - Thoughts on My New Favorite Word

Umwelt - the world as it is experienced by a particular organism.  

I'm considering the umwelt of the lizards dashing across the courtyard.  The ground covered with mini stones must be like rock hopping on the mountain for me.  

I'm considering the umwelt of the Maya, somewhat larger in scale but an organism nonetheless.   We can imagine it, pretending that we understand what motivated the hands chiseling out statuary and steps. But without the Maya themselves, it's only play acting.  

The Mayan umwelt no longer exists.  There is a hole in the cultural universe of humankind.  Ever since I learned the word a few weeks ago, I've been having thoughts like these.  It's probably not the healthiest thing for my brain to be concocting these images of what has been lost.

I realized that and tried to move on, with some (see the lizard above) success.  

But I'm also wondering about the umwelt of our individual responses to the pandemic, bringing the word down to the smallest human entity - one of us.  I'm laughing as I remember R. D. Laing's inexplicable Politics of Experience: 

Your experience of me is not inside you and my experience of you is not inside me, ...

and I fear that I'm going down a rabbit hole with this one.  But what will it be like when we all begin to interact with one another again?  We've each experienced the world from an individual perspective for so long now, with no end n sight (at least for those of you who are reading this, who, I assume agree with me about the seriouslness of what's going on outside with The Yuckiness).  

Do I want to go back to the way things were?  Am I enjoying bits and pieces of being isolated? What are my neighbors doing and thinking?  What used to be a collective, a We, the people, now is not only politically but physically distanced.  We've spent lots of time reveling in our own umwelts, forgetting about the larger organism, the USofA that ought to be reeling from what's now the third story on the news shows - anonymous, camo-clad, agents of the government are kidnapping people on the streets of Portland.  

And, as the Governor of Oregon pointed out just now, the graffiti they were there to protect remains, untouched, just as it had been for three weeks before these detentions.  

I've wandered, haven't I.  This organism has spent too much time examining the lint in her navel, I'm afraid.

Grandma's Woes

Doing good feeds my soul.  Right now, I'm running on fumes.  Grandma needs her Prince kiddos hugs for fuel.  

This is the time of year when I'd contact Albertsons and remind my friend, the grocery manager, that I want all the baked goods in the land.  I'd pull out my list of What to Deliver Where and In What Order, and retype it so that the additions I made last year are available in a big, bold font, readable as I cruise through Tucson, dropping off goodies and checking in with old friends at all ths chools in the District.

I won't be doing that this year.  No way I'm going into building after building, exposing myself to others and surfaces and particles floating in the air and landing on me. I don't think I could keep my (now very long) hair out of my face without swiping at it with hands that might be infested with the virus.

I know that contracting it from surfaces is unlikely.  But the likelihood increases with the number of contacts, and the Back to School Love Feast requires a lot of contacts.  I don't go into stores any more.  I have curbside delivery even at our local diner; I leave the mney under the windshield wiper and they put the food on the hood of the car.  We wave, the server leaves, and I get out and retrieve lunch.  Safeway and Walmart put the groceries in my trunk, Whole Foods and DoorDash leave sustenance on the pony wall by the little black gate.  

I interact with almost no one in person.  I can't see the sense in changing that ..... although skipping it this year, for the first time in 10 years is making me very, very sad.

But that's nothing compared to the garden.  I drove by on April 30th, and this is what I saw.

Lonely. Overgrown. Untended. drowning in greenery, smothering the tiny veggies yearning to breathe free.  

I went with the intention of weeding.  I left after taking these photos.  I can only imagine what it looks like now.

I am thinking about collecting pots and trying to salvage anything that can be transplanted.  I am thinking about potting them up and distributing them to the students.... how, I do not know.  I am thinking about creating a Zoom Grandma's Garden Club and having the kids interact with their plants and their friends and me, all on-line.  

My USDA/UofA contact sent me an email with links to webinars about school gardening.  I sent back an email asking for pandemic guidance.  I feel comfortable with the garden part.... it's the disease that's got me flummoxed.  I am sure that I can make something virutal feel like fun, but I'm missing getting my hands dirty, seeing the bugs they find, cautioning them that tools stay below the shoulders. 

It's not the same, but nothing is the same.  Little Cuter quoted Oprah for me - anxiety is wishing that what is, is not - and that helps, a little.  But as the weeks dwindle to days before what would have been the 10th anniversary year of my volunteering at Prince, I'm having a hard time ot wishing for this all to be over.

Now.

Right now.  Vanishing.... in just the magical thinking way our President is counting on.

A girl can dream, right?

The Tatooist of Auschwitz

I am not drawn to Holocaust stories.  I saw Schindler's List, alone, in Marin, and couldn't talk for hours afterwards.  When I took Big Cuter to see it, hea asked to leave when the little boy was shot, and the red blood fell onto the snow.  As we, shakily, walked out, an older wman in an aisle seat met my eye and nodded a knowing smile.

It was important that he see it.  It was really too hard to watch.
*
G'ma made me join her on the couch one night.  We sat together, watching films taken by the liberators of the concentration camps.  The black and white images of corpses stacked like firewood are still stored in my brain; I don't let myself go any further into that box. 
*
My Cousin Noomi fled the backyard when our cat wandered through the family reunion.  G'ma told us not to worry; Noomi was remembering what she had had to eat in The Camps and it made her sad.

The reality of what I'd seen on the television was sitting in a lawn chair under my pin oak tree.  It was enough to make a tween's head explode.
*
One of my favorite patients at Sloan-Kettering was a Holocaust survivor, as was his older brother.  I promised my mother I would keep him safe, was the older one's constant refrain.  He'd been a sonderkommando, he dared to tell me one day, in my office, with the door closed.  It kept them both alive.

Is the word unfamiliar to you?  The Sonderkommano took the bodies from the gas chambers to the crematoria.  They were fed and clothed and housed well enough to keep their strength to do their jobs.  The Tatooist, too, was fed and housed and protected, because he was necessary.  He vowed to come out alive, and did what he had to do in order to get there. 
*
So why did I read the book?  It was a freebie on my Kindle, and the next new book in my queue.  The sun was out and my belly was full and my heart was light; I couldn't have read it if I were in a Covid Funk.

But it turns out to be a horror story wrapped in a blanket of love.  The love is everywhere, even in the beatings.  Despicable acts follow random kindnesses; I cried and I laughed and I exclaimed aloud as I zipped through the pages today.

It's a love story and a history tale, a reminder of the depravity of man and a beacon of light in a dark season.