Long Waits

Judy and I had an outdoor, masked get-together with longtime friends on Monday. The last time we’d seen them in the flesh was in October 2020. Coronavirus spikes and other complications had postponed other attempts to meet. We caught up on family news and planned an outing to Leu Gardens.

On Tuesday, a repairman from our internet service visited to root out the cause of a weeklong outage. He couldn’t find anything wrong with our router or phone line. He discovered that we hadn’t been included in a restart after a system wide shut down. He used an app on his phone to reconnect us. He wore a mask, answered questions patiently, and told us that long waits and problems communicating with customer service were the new norm.

I took Judy to a doctor’s appointment on Thursday and parked in a place I hoped would put distance between me and a spot where coronavirus test takers gather outside a pharmacy. (I stay in the car to avoid prolonged waiting room exposure.)

On that day, groups of three, five, and seven milled around outside a pharmacy during my forty-minute wait. I had my window down to keep the temperature comfortable and kept hearing two women speak a language that sounded like French. A few more arrived, and they too conversed in “French”. After a while, I decided that Portuguese was the likelier language with its soft consonants and bouncy rhythms. But I still couldn’t figure out why everyone waiting there spoke it. Orlando doesn’t have many transplants from Brazil or Portugal. I discussed the mystery with Judy after she returned, and she proposed that the test takers had stopped on their way to the airport. That made sense for two reasons: the pharmacy’s location is twenty minutes from OIA; some countries require tests before take-offs during the recent spike in Omicron cases.

Another workman arrived at our house early Friday morning. Our air conditioner had persisted for three months in dripping water from the coils onto the filter. Three previous service visits had failed to solve the problem. The tech diagnosed dirty coils. Cleaning them required a removal of the unit from our hall closet.

I offered him a mask before he entered. He grumped that wearing one would make his job harder, but I cut him off by saying, “I wear a mask when I teach.” Brian grumped some more, refused the mask still held in my hand, and said, “I’ve got my own.” Three hours later, he had checked gas pressures, cut through a metal pipe with an acetylene torch, wrestled coils out of a tight space, thoroughly hosed them down in our driveway, wrestled the coils back, reattached everything, and stuck his head in a space below the unit as it ran. No water dripped on his forehead or the filter. Sweet success. Gladness and light radiated from him as I signed the invoice and paid.

But Brian had frequently vented frustrations whenever the job gave him unexpected difficulties. His running commentary reminded me of working beside my father, so I understood his need to work through problems and relieve pressure by vocalizing. And his language showed a lot more restraint than Dad’s. But I had to take a break from him about halfway through the job. I went outside, took off my mask, stood at the curb watching a breeze sift through the neighbor’s trees, and sipped coffee from a mug.

Emotions Have Momentum

Emotions have momentum.  The sweetness of a first kiss lingers.  Grief drops in for unexpected visits long after a loved one has gone.  Feelings can be suppressed but not eradicated.  They hang around until they’ve had their say.

Sometimes the hardest moments come when new events promise better days.  Hope begins to rise while fears, anxiety and mourning still dominate.  When this happens, I often have trouble choosing how to react and make decisions.  I want to open to new positives but have become accustomed to dread.  Protective layers of scar tissue deaden my responses to good things.  The tentative rise of joy and happiness feels strange and even uncomfortable.

I eventually drop suspicions and welcome the return of better times, but the dark days still tinge the dawn like memories of bad dreams.  It’s hard to fully celebrate while bracing for downfall’s return.

I have a lot of sympathy for the disciples following Jesus’ death.  They skeptically received news of his resurrection.  They had just started on the road of grief and acceptance.  Their survival hung in the balance as they faced continued hostility from the authorities. Who would lead them now?  Doubting Thomas, when demanding concrete proof of the miraculous, simply tried to protect himself from the futility of empty hope.

Jesus used patience and persistence to introduce them to a new, unexpected reality.  Adjusting to abundant life takes time.  It’s hard to lay down defensive habits even when facing newfound freedom.  How do you behave when changed rules alter the game beyond recognition?

I expect that emergence from the rough waters of the pandemic will require a period of accommodation.  It may take time to find footing again as social beings.  I hope that we’ll hold onto an appreciation for the small blessings of everyday life even as the range of our activity broadens.  And I hope that we’ll be kind to each other as we relearn how to live as communities once again. 

And I wish joy for everyone whether they’re ready for it or not.

The Covid19 Roller Coaster

I recently viewed a video reporting that introverts are, paradoxically, suffering more than extroverts during the pandemic. The introvert’s tendency to withdraw has actually become heightened by the forced cut-off of interaction. In normal times, encounters at work, at school, and at a store would force an introvert to engage with other people. While too much social contact tires an introvert, they still require engagement to feel normal. Extroverts are still getting their “people-fix” by using whatever means available (phone calls, zoom sessions, shouting over a back yard fence to a neighbor). Those at the far end of the extroversion scale have been ignoring the warnings. They’re going to restaurants and bars despite the risks.

I’m an introvert and am riding an emotional roller coaster right now. I feel calm and okay at times but can switch abruptly into a state of depression and anxiety. I take this up and down ride several times a day.

The dark valley. A serious movie about grief and the “In Memoriam” segments on the PBS Newshour have sent me into downward spirals. Each new report about hospitalizations and the Covid mortality count brings back reminders of near misses, of lost loved ones, of relatives and neighbors suffering slow, difficult deaths. Gray and changeable weather (tornado watch tonight!) give me an uneasy feeling that something ominous lurks just out of sight. News reports about continued post-election conflict and the floundering vaccine roll-out erode my faith in progress.

Spells of irrational anger pop up out of nowhere. Any disturbance or change in routine can set me off in the wrong direction. I often realize, even as I’m swearing at a hammer or crumpling a bad drawing, that I’m angry at something else. My overreaction to normal mishaps and minor failures is a sign of built up tension.

I sometimes long for a brief moment when I could forget about the latest CDC statistics. While watching old movies, television shows, and recorded sports events, I envy the folks sitting packed tightly in crowds. They yell, cheer, hug, shout, even rage at each other without second thoughts about the consequences of their actions. We were such lucky bastards.

The high plateau. When I hear my granddaughter attempt to say new words, watch her play and explore, my spirits lift. She’s a spark of bright potential. When I finish a painting, read something new in a book, watch Whose Line Is It Anyway?, sit close with Judy on a sofa, share a good meal with her, and work in the yard, the gloom lifts.

Positive notes. My wife, parents, a nephew (who works as a nurse) and some of my friends have gotten at least one dose of the vaccine. My brother, his wife and my brother-in-law continue to recover from their bouts with Covid. My seasonal allergy symptoms (coupled with a pinched nerve in my back), while leaving me periodically short of breath, have not developed into anything serious.

Cleaning Up the Act

I trimmed my beard and shaved this morning after remembering that I’m meeting students on Zoom today for the first time. I’ve gotten used to ignoring my image as I rarely venture into public spaces these days. Judy and I have even begun to order door delivery groceries as the pandemic numbers in Florida remain bad. My weekly ordeal of avoiding careless shoppers wearing “chin diaper” masks has ended for the time being. I don’t miss mingling that much and have recently begun to wonder whether I’ll ever get back into the flow after life returns to normal. My introversion tendencies have assumed total control.

I also noticed that many of the Capitol rioters sported straggly beards, had gray hair, and carried surplus pounds. I resemble them. I’ve never subscribed to conspiracy theories and never felt called to Trump-worship and recoiled at the thought that I might be mistaken for one of 45’s true believers. Shave, trim, exercise, shave!

Two men wearing knit shirts sporting a company logo knocked on my door yesterday. They wore no masks. I quickly realized that they were making a sales call and waved them away from inside the house. They retreated off my front porch but stood at the top of the driveway waiting to make their pitch. I put on a mask, opened the door, and said, “I want you to leave my property!” Their smiles froze. One said, “You don’t have to be mean about it.” I responded, “I’m not being mean. I just want you off my property.” My wild hair and straggly beard must have scared them. They retreated quickly without further protest.

I realized, as they skedaddled, that the last four years have left me a bit edgy…I got teary-eyed while watching the inauguration ceremony earlier in the day. I felt hopeful, grief-stricken and angry. All the stress built up during the last two and a half months came flooding through when I could afford to let down my guard. Those poor slobs who came knocking at my door probably thought, given my appearance and stridency, that I must be a distraught Trump sympathizer. Hah.

After I cleaned up my act today, I felt more energy and had a greater sense of purpose. The load I’ve been carrying has partially lifted. And I didn’t even watch the news. I felt no need to check whether the world had come apart at the seams. The sky was blue, the temperature mild, and the breezes gentle. A day lived in a fool’s paradise seemed well overdue.

Waiting for Tomorrow

I’ve heard varying estimates for the arrival and dispersal of a Covid vaccine. It sounds like the earliest we could return to some semblance of normalcy is next fall. One year.

My wife and I dropped off our ballots at the Seminole County Supervisor of Elections office last week. No one, thank God, stood near the door shouting and waving signs…We watched five minutes of the last debate this Thursday. The mental abuse suffered while watching the first left us with no stamina for the more civilized second…The phone rings and rings with calls from strangers who would assure us, if we picked up, that the world will end if we vote for the wrong candidate. Every other TV ad shows a candidate looking majestically toward the future while hugging a kid. The rest of the ads paint a dark future if any of the gray-faced, slack-jawed, economy-killing incompetents listed on the ballot get elected. And Election Day is nine days away. Nine days.

My wife and I keep looking forward to a better future, a future that has some resemblance even to 2019. 2019 had plenty of strife and worry, but I can’t name one burning issue from that year that kept me awake at night. I’m sure there were some, but what I recall seems like a hazy memory of a childhood nightmare.

I sometimes marvel at old shows and movies showing people casually hanging out in crowds. Even old political controversies seem quaint now. I disliked George H.W. Bush’s policies back in the early 90s, but now he seems like a supreme model for a civil, intelligent, competent executive. I could live with another president like that.

I long for a dream world. In this existence, things still suck in the traditional ways that life on this planet sucks. But in my utopia, no one lies about the suckage. No one blames anyone else for their own shortcomings. No one spins facts and events for the benefit of corrupt overlords. Up is up, and down is down. And everyone, while still enjoying a great deal of freedom, considers the consequences of their speech and action on others.

I know that heaven will never descend to earth, that present “difficulties” will not magically vanish. Hoping for the dawn of a Golden Age is an exercise in foolish expectation. So, for now I resign myself to seeing loved ones at widely spaced intervals. I acknowledge that going to church and teaching in a classroom will most likely have to wait until next fall. I go through my daily routine and remember to shave, change the sheets on my bed, and wash the dishes. And I try not to waste time waiting for tomorrow.

The Slow Disconnect

Detail of an interior by the Danish painter, Vilhelm Hammershoi

I’ve noticed a reluctance lately to engage with folks outside my immediate family. After a few months of enduring the pandemic, I longed for human contact. But feelings of camaraderie and shared experience have now contracted. I feel like withdrawing further. To misquote from a “My Fair Lady” song, “I’ve grown accustomed to just a few faces.”

Looking at fellow grocery store shoppers as potential carriers of disease hasn’t helped, of course. Listening to pundits describe our nation’s divisions widens my perception of the divide. After reading a news article, I could easily assume that the guy across my backyard fence is one of those (take your pick) immoral, America hating, violent, prejudiced, degenerate ignoramuses who stubbornly refuses to agree with anything I believe.

I already had a tendency toward living like a hermit. In the past, teaching and going to church continually pulled me back into the fold. I liked the challenge of running a classroom with its attendant moments of human drama and/or conflict. Serving on church committees gave me a sense of purpose and belonging. Trying to do good for others automatically pulled me out of habitual, self-imposed lockdowns.

So, this enforced withdrawal from humankind has allowed a taste for isolation to coil itself on my heart like a cat’s claw vine wrapped around a fence post. Untangling the creepers takes time and persistence. Perhaps a daily recitation of John Donne’s, “For Whom the Bell Tolls” might encourage me to think of myself as part of the continent of human experience. The bell tolls for me.

I’ve found, however, that attempts to retrain my mind by reciting inspirational passages do not work. I think that a physical therapy model might accomplish more. Perhaps the solution to turning too far inward is to exercise my social muscles, the ones that complain the most when put to use. I don’t feel like it, but calling a friend and writing a note might work the parts of my brain that have atrophied.

My friend Mark came over today. He, my wife and I sat, widely spaced, on the front lawn under our magnolia tree. We chatted about family life, politics and our shared past. Three hours flew by. When Mark got up to leave, we noted that our get together had cheered us up and given us energy.

Steps toward recovery…We plan to meet soon at Mark’s backyard gazebo.

The Egg Had It in for Me

Near the beginning of the pandemic, baking ingredients, such as eggs, yeast and flour, disappeared from shelves at the Winter Park Publix.  This happened a week after toilet paper and hand sanitizer had vanished.  Anxious customers were more concerned, at first, about issues of outflow than issues of input.  I hadn’t been concerned about either and had to scrounge for supplies. 

Eggs began to reappear a few weeks after the first spasm of general panic had ebbed.  I bought a carton of 18 just to be sure and noticed the considerably lower price per egg.  My usual dozen began to look like a boutique buy.  I’ve purchased the larger carton ever since.

I usually fry an egg for breakfast. I lay it onto a piece of bread coated with melted cheese.  An egg-and-cheese has become part of my morning ritual, and I can make it with my eyes closed.  But I woke up more groggy than usual today and bumped into the kitchen counter on the way to the stove.  The cold, white light inside the fridge stabbed my eyes.  When I attempted to open the egg carton, the lid stuck.

I wedged my hand inside to pry out an egg.  In an eighteen-count carton, the eggs press tightly together.  They sometimes resist.  I tugged on one egg, met its stubborn refusal to budge, and tried another.  When my fingers got a good grip on the second egg, it crumbled inward.

“Shit!” I calmly remarked as yolk and white slimed my digits.  Not content to stay inside its original compartment, the crushed egg seeped sideways and beneath another egg.  I took the carton to the sink counter.  I tried to scoop out the yolk into a frying pan but suspected further treachery.  The yellow gunk tried to slide through my fingers onto the floor, but I managed to catch it with my other hand.  Some attendant white escaped to drip onto the linoleum.  (“Shit!” I calmly remarked again.)

Most of the white, however, remained behind and threatened to ooze throughout the carton.  I imagined picking up sticky, foul smelling eggs for the rest of the week.  I lifted the egg nearest to the flood and found a puddle beneath.  I tried to place the intact egg on a sink divider, but it intended to shatter itself on the sink bottom.  I decided that today was a two-egg day, cracked it into the skillet, and burned the side of my hand.  (“Shit!” I calmly remarked yet again.)

The eggs sizzled in the pan, but a puddle persisted in the carton.  I decided to tip the remnant ooze onto its frying compatriots.  I carefully place my hand over the remaining eggs and tilted the carton.  I fully expected one of the eggs to slip by and shatter on the stovetop but managed to avoid further difficulties.  I used a paper towel to finish cleaning the carton and to scrub the floor near the stove. I used soapy water to wipe down the counter, edge of the stovetop and the faucet.  I had managed to slime them all up.

A few minutes later, I bit savagely into my sandwich.  “Revenge is mine,” I thought.  Then something delicate and chalky crunched between my teeth.  Eggshell.  (“Shit!”)

Shelter: Go to a Happy Place

My mother used to tell me that she didn’t need to watch tough movies. Musicals, comedies and romances worked better for her. She’d lived through hard times, sickness in the family, a world war, the troubled 60s. She didn’t need vicarious drama in her life as life had already provided plenty of the real thing.

I used to think the opposite: tough movies were the only ones worth watching. They had depth and multiple layers of meaning. They touched heart and mind and made me rethink values and priorities. I found the shock of harsh stories invigorating.

Now I’ve drifted closer to Mom’s attitude. I watch musicals, Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart comedies, and occasional Humphrey Bogart dramas. Happy endings are fine. The screenwriter should never kill off a lovable character in the third act. Roughing up protagonists is acceptable as long as they find ways to triumph in the end. Give me a redemption story. Keep slow motion train wreck plots to yourself.

A lyric in a Doors song informs us that “No one here gets out alive.” Yup. That’s right. But what about the time we do have? What do we do with it? I feel the responsibility to make life less miserable for those around me. I know that I need to stay informed about the latest phase of the ongoing disaster. But I hit the mute button when the news show talking heads drill deeper and deeper into misery. I tell them, “Yeah, I got it.”

I read, a few months ago, that the most popular movies during the March/April shut down were apocalyptic films about pandemics. Couldn’t rearrange my mind in harmony with these viewers. Now I wonder whether they found strength by facing dramatic representations of their fears. When a bedraggled band of men and women survive until the end credits, when they stand on a plateau and watch a bright sunrise herald in an epoch of renewed hope, the viewers might feel that they too have a chance to make new lives for themselves.

But I’d rather not participate in ersatz quests. I’ve got no taste for fighting second hand battles for survival. Instead, I want to find shelter in a few moments of peace.

I made protest paintings during the Iraq war. I needed to express outrage at senseless killing. Now I’m working on a painting of abstract flowers. Now I’m making a cardboard sculpture of a doggy.

A Good Book Passes the Time

Judy and I are sheltering in place except for trips to the grocery store. Our toilet paper issue hasn’t become acute yet. Eggs, flour, butter and yeast are missing in action at our local Publix. Packs of chicken are rationed two to a customer. We’ll probably run through this week’s food before we use the last sheet of toilet paper, but it’s going to be close.

We spend part of our time reading. Judy has dry eye and can’t read printed text for long periods of time. She listens to Audible instead. I sometimes read her chapters from Richard Russo’s “Everybody’s Fool”, the sequel to “Nobody’s Fool”. The plot, when it moves forward, holds interest. The characters pull you in. But we’ve noticed that Russo needed an editor to trim the early chapters. He frequently lapses into expository passages of internal dialogue that drag on while nothing important happens.

I stopped caring about the protagonist’s inner anguish after the author spent two thirds of a chapter describing the man’s hesitancy to open a sock drawer. The character suspected, against his own common sense, that a venomous snake had hid amongst his socks and underpants. Raymer knew that it couldn’t have. But having already had a hideous day, he thought that the laws of cause and effect had been suspended when it came to him. He suspected, in torturous detail while a young lady waited outside for him, that the universe willfully planned to continue punishing him. It took the author five pages to fully explore Raymer’s feelings of self doubt and loathing. Russo probably wanted to emphasize Raymer’s self-destructive tendencies (why waste time hating yourself and your past when someone attractive wants to spend time with you?) and pounded that point deep into the ground.

Other characters actively self-sabotage. No one, as of the middle of the book, has a chance for happiness. Carl Roebuck worries more about the after effects of prostate surgery than the prospect of going bankrupt. Sully refuses to get a pacemaker and stumbles around gasping for breath. Janey allows her abusive ex-husband to violate a restraining order by sleeping with him. She explains her mistake the next morning by telling her mother that she had felt horny. Ex-husband devotes more energy on violent acts of revenge than to staying out of jail. Jerome suffers panic attacks partially brought on by the guilt he feels over an affair with a married woman. Gus realizes that a core belief is a delusion: his love will never fix his wife’s mental illness.

One hopes that someone will pull their head out of their ass by the last chapter. Authors have to beat up their characters to move a plot from points A to B, but Russo needs to give them (and the reader) a break before the tale ends.

On the other hand, I’ve started “Commonwealth” by Ann Patchett. Her writing flows smoothly from character to character, plot development to plot development over a long stretch in a family’s history. Her characters also manage to mess up their lives by making decisions that wound each other, but they don’t endlessly ruminate about their troubles. Consequences follow actions. Folks think and emote and reconsider. But the graceful writing wraps everything into a neatly-wrapped package. Thank you kindly, Ann. Your work is a godsend during troubled times.

I have been trying to avoid watching or reading too much news. Dread builds into low-level panic if I do. A good book, or even a flawed book, helps to pass the time.