So I've had better days. See the video.

The day started out with me having to drive the co-star to not one, but two urgent care facilities because I muzzled my control freak when she wanted to demand verification that St. Elizabeth's is open 24/7. I knew I should have Googled it myself.

Instead I took as gospel the belief that what some random poker buddy said had to be true and off we went.

Now, mind you, I'm doing this for a man who couldn't take off work to drive me to physical therapy the day after I had knee surgery, but there I was driving him to urgent care because he's been flopping around like a dying fish since Monday and not heeding my suggestions that he call the clinic, take a COVID test, or even swallow something that would reduce his obvious fever.

Because when you can moan about something, why act? Why try to get to the bottom of the problem so you can at least address the symptoms.

This comes on the downward slide of a week that has already kicked my ass. Two long Board meetings. A City Council meeting. Multiple phone calls with my father so we can go over every aspect of the weather. Having to shovel snow because the co-star has a bad back and is sick. And finally having to organize someone to come clear the snow because we were stupid enough to be giddy over having our cars in the garage with nary a thought for how we'd get them out with a driveway covered in 9 inches of snow.

Being the good partner, I hauled veggie scraps and saved poultry carcasses (mmmm sounds appetizing) out of the freezer to make homemade stock for chicken (or maybe it was turkey?) noodle soup. The soup with the thick frozen Reames noodles.

The soup was good but I needed something.....what do you call it? SWEET.

So I'm sharing this recipe first seen on my friend Andee's channel. When she's not entertaining us, she's feeding us. I love this hot dog bun french toast idea because do you know how many hot dog and hamburger buns I toss each week because someone with a palate so delicate he can only drink Melo Yelo, cannot believe I'd have the nerve to serve him something on anything less than the MOST fresh bread? It's absurd.

The French Toast hit the spot. Thank you, Andee, for making a bright spot in my week. It was delicious.

Habit

My father is a creature of habit. So much so that when he was in the hospital last winter, he suffered because he was out of his routine. I watched him physically and mentally decline because he couldn't follow his daily activities in the order or manner in which he does them every day. 

I'm not kidding you when I say he appeared to age 10 years in 5 days. His mental capacity declined. His already compromised mobility nose-dived as he remained bed-bound and then chair-bound during his brief stay.

When I say his mental capacity declined, I offer to you a low-key argument we had because he was convinced he'd been in the hospital since Thursday and refused to believe me that it was actually Friday when he was admitted. He got sullen with me when I showed him my phone with the date and time of the phone call he made to me when he thought he needed to go to the emergency room. Later, he continued to press the point that he'd been there since Thursday and I had to just let it go. Sometimes the argument is pointless.

When he was finally released, he was supplied with home health visits for an indefinite number of weeks. At first this seemed like a good idea because he was so pitifully shrunken from the man he was when the EMTs took him to the emergency room. He sat slumped in his chair, doing this weird swiping thing with his tongue, his eyes all watery and weepy. He was a little boy trapped in an old man's body and he felt helpless and angry - the only emotion he's ever really been comfortable with.

I had to choose between catering to his self-pity or forcing him to buck up. My father, the youngest of a highly, but quietly dysfunctional family, has always been a bit of a big baby and he is terrified of death. He can't abide the slightest discomfort. I mean, a small belly-ache launches him into the bathroom where he stands over the toilet sticking his fingers down his throat to make himself vomit in order to feel better. Usually it doesn't work. There have been times when he has called me in the middle of the night asking me to take him to the emergency room because his tummy hurts. Thankfully, I can usually talk him through it and avoid the trip to the hospital.

I chose tough love. I told him that if he didn't pull himself out of this tailspin, we'd have to consider other living arrangements. I got a little shouty and told him that this was not who he is. He looked like that old man John, my great-grandfather, sitting in recliner, leaning on a cane, smelling like pee.

That did the trick. The next day he asked me to go with him so he could get out and drive to see what his level of independence was. He drove and to this day, we've never revisited that day in his kitchen when I had to shout.

By the second home health visit, my father was complaining to me that he didn't need the help, the nurses weren't doing anything he couldn't do himself, and it was confusing to have the different people with different responsibilities running in and out of the house, setting appointments without his input, giving him a time between 8am and noon for one person on one day and between 1 and 3 pm on a different day.

In essence, even though he was home, his routine was still not established. He was at the mercy of all these other people and their schedules. It wasn't sitting well with him.

After the third week, he'd dismissed the whole team. He got back to his routine and while he's still aging, still sticking his fingers down his throat, still asking me what to believe on social media, still terrified of dying, and getting confused a little more each week, he is, in the grand scheme of things, doing okay. 

The apple doesn't far from the tree. I see patterns in my own life where a disrupted routine can throw me in to a tailspin. A food tailspin. A workaholic tailspin. A lack of self-care tailspin. And low-grade depressions. It's not lost on me that I was able to deal with diabetes without medication by sticking to a strict, self-imposed routine. I've staved off depression and bad decisions, by having routines in different eras of my life. 

Changing my work routine was a big upset that I didn't fully acknowledge, and now that I feel like I have a bit of a handle on what is required and what will help this organization address its concerns, I can sense a new routine ready to take shape.

And that gives me comfort.

Common Threads

As part of my October Halloween/Samhain indulgences, I listened to an Audible version of American Witches - A Broomstick Tour Through Four Centuries by Susan Fair. Fair covered the penchant for claiming mostly older women were witches to be feared, jailed, tortured, and executed reaching as far back as the ships crossing the Atlantic to come to North, Central, and South America. 

Set aside the common thread that many of the bewitched were young women who required physical examinations by a room full of soul-troubled men searching for witch markings in the swimsuit areas and that those same men found it necessary to examine the accused for teats and marks of the devil. Examinations required stripping the accused and rough handling to be sure. Boner material Colonial New England style.

Near the end of the book, Fair tells the story of how the phony documentary that created the framework and viral buzz for the mockumentary The Blair Witch Project turned things upside down for a small town in Maryland. 

After viewing the faux documentary, people converged on Burkittsville, Maryland, in search of the witch, hoping to solve the mystery of the missing college students, convinced that there had been a conspiracy to cover up the violence and horror alleged to take part in the Black Hills Forest, a place that didn't even exist.

A theme emerged among some of those who traveled to Burkittsville - the children. They were going to save the children. Just like the dolt who took a gun to Cosmic Pizza in Washington, DC, to free the child sex slaves in the non-existent basement, these people went to Maryland to rail at the residents of Burkittsville who dared to have children is such a wicked and dangerous place. Even though none of the story about the witch, the missing students, or murdered children was true.

It strikes me that from the witch frenzies during cross-Atlantic voyages to the internet-inspired nuttiness following the release of the Blair Witch Project, these events highlight a human desire to latch on to the weird, the outlandish, the illogical. No facts can get in the way of a good mob mentality stoked by conspiracy. Especially if the victims are children.

The Colonials who clamored for witch drownings and hangings are no different than the people who invaded tiny Burkittsville, Maryland, to save the children from the Blair Witch, and there's little daylight between them and the people driving around with QAnon stickers on their SUVs and F150s.

We love a good spine tingler made all the better for a number of us when you throw in "but the children." If you want to rally the laziest among us, you can usually activate them with a pitch involving children in peril - physically, morally, and/or sexually.

And let's not kid ourselves, there's an underlying racial element, as well.

Trafficking women of color? Meh.

Trafficking children of color? I'm listening.

Trafficking white children? GET ME MY AK, BABY! IT'S PEDO SEASON!

Grabs his gun and heads to his truck with the Come and Take It window sticker and set of balls dangling from the hitch because he's going to save the children.

November 1 and All Is Okay-ish

It's November first and I have committed to writing a ridiculous number of words. Why, you didn't ask?

I have no idea. I think I miss writing.

Here's what I do know. Sort of.

It's transition time. It is mid-autumn. Halloween is over. Thanksgiving and Christmas are on the horizon. The days are getting shorter. The time is going to change. Mornings will be brighter, but night will fall so much earlier.

This is Davey's time. He loves the shortening days, the lengthening nights. He could easily live without the sun. If I could ever get him to get a DNA test, we'd probably learn he's got a bit of the Land of the Midnight Sun in those genes. Even when the sun is out, he's holed up in his cave with the shades closed and maybe, just maybe one lamp glowing. He's a vampire without the fangs and cool clothes. Can a DNA test pick up a vampire gene?

Meanwhile, I'm scurrying around, trying to convince myself this is all fine, I can handle the short days. I crave the serenity of the long evenings where I want to be in bed by 8pm and there are enough candles to keep a semblance of hygge if I embrace it. 

Is it okay to drink decaf loaded with milk and sugar at 6pm? Is it time for me to finally conquer that rommegrot recipe? If I'm going all in with the hygge, I'm indulging in the sweets, I tell you what.

Halloween has been stowed away for another year. Goodbye spiders crawling up the exterior wall, the giant web, the ghosts hanging from the front porch, and all those delightful vintage Beistle cutouts. You pumpkins, gourds and mums can stay. 

And yet it's too soon for Winter decor. I mean, I still have to tidy up the garden and put my tender plants under cover so I'm not ready for winter. And what is winter decor anyway?

Well, if you look at my Amazon cart (yes, I'm a big part of the supply chain and economic problems), it's some kind of mashup between Nordic and lazy. Pinecones, a Rookwood ceramic tree, a macrame thingy, and da-da-da- CANDLES. 

What was I saying? Oh, yes. Decor. Okay. Okay. It's not decor. It's slapdash, whatever my mood is, what I can afford with a few dear pieces thrown in. I keep telling myself that I should get rid of the thrift store finds, and antique store purchases that no longer speak to me. A lot of what I need to get rid of (read: donate) are a lot of those mismatched, no joy-giving Christmas decorations we've collected along the way.

I have a glass turkey. That'll hold me through December. The turkey has no choice.

Warming Up

 Light a clove cigarette given to me as a gift for performing a wedding.*

Click the bookmark for an archive of MTV's 102 Minutes.

Select Fadeaway by the Bodeans and listen. LISTEN.

Lean back in my broken down office chair and think about my ex-husband. The one I met at a Bodeans concert at Jakes in Bloomington, Indiana, in October 1987.

No longer together, but still friends of a sort, we share three adult children and two grandchildren. I'm now married to another - a good man who has loved me longer than I can imagine. My ex is in a committed relationship with a woman with whom he has so much more in common than he ever had with me.

Consider if you will what relationships are like when you are more or less fully formed. Adult. Mostly finished with the messy beginnings of adulthood. 

Consider contentment. What an underrated emotion when  you're 25, 30, 35....

Smoke that cigarette down to the filter because this kind of procrastination feels so damn good.

Let the Bodeans songs roll one into another on YouTube. 

See that I can still blow smoke rings. Listen to another song that takes me to the streets of Chicago as I walk to my first office job, Walkman earphones wrecking my hair and so what? It's all ahead of me. That first job lead to a career in which I'm still working. 

Note that to really hurt my feelings I should go look at the childhood photos of our children. But not today. I remember why I'm sitting at this desk and there's work to do.

Always,

Lisa

*The wedding is tomorrow. They also got me a pipe, but that's a story for another day. 

COVID-19 Diary - She's Gone

The hardest part of any writing assignment is how to begin. When the writing assignment is your mother’s obituary, it might be best to work backward.

Rosie Hewitt was special. A daughter, sister, wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, aunt, cousin, elected official, administrative professional, 4-H leader, home-ec club member, community volunteer, and friend. She’s been described as sweet, caring, encouraging, and kind.

To know Rosie Hewitt was to know her smile and her laugh. She loved to crack a joke.

An avid reader of mysteries, a watcher of cooking shows, a fan of the Cincinnati Reds, Rosie had the most beautiful penmanship I ever saw. She enjoyed quilting, crossword puzzles, and watching Rick Steves’ Travels on PBS. She loved taking drives as long as the road wasn’t too curvy because she was prone to motion sickness. But that didn’t usually stop her from going along for the ride anyway.

A few years ago, she was itching to get out of the house and volunteered to be my lookout as I drove around the countryside taking photos of barns. We had a nice drive through Switzerland and Jefferson Counties and stopped in Madison for lunch at the Key West Shrimp House. It was a lovely day. I’m grateful for the memory. I lived away from the area for many years and couldn’t spend much time with my parents, so these moments mean so much to me.

Mom loved food. She enjoyed cooking and baking and still possessed the same Good Housekeeping cookbook she used in the 1970s. Even so, she loved trying out new recipes and her Pinterest account was full of recipes to try. (Oh, how she took to social media once she got started!) She made delicious fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy. Her Texas Sheet Cake was legendary, especially when served with Dad’s homemade vanilla ice cream.

Rosalie (Rosie) Anne Lawson met Paul Hewitt at the Frisch’s Big Boy in Aurora in 1958. They were married on March 19, 1960, in Rising Sun, Indiana. Rosie followed Paul to France where he served in the Army. There they lived in Orleans until Rosie left in 1961 to return to the United States to give birth to their first daughter Denise.

Two other children followed – Lisa and David.

Rosie went to work outside the home in 1970 as Ohio County (Indiana) Recorder, an office she held from 1975 – 1978. She followed that position with four years as the Ohio County Auditor after being elected in 1979. Later she was the Office Manager and Bookkeeper for Paul H. Rohe Co. in Aurora, worked for the Dearborn County Division of Family and Children and served as the Executive Secretary to Rising Sun Mayor Mark Guard from 1995 – 1999.

Rosie was involved in her community and wanted the best for her adopted hometown. In addition to working at City Hall and for the County, she served on several committees throughout the 1980s and into the early 2000s. She was the leader of the Lucky Charms 4H Club in the 1970s and 80s and directed some of the best Share the Fun skits to ever happen in this corner of Indiana.

After retirement, Rosie spent time with her husband Paul catching up on all those years when they were both working and so busy. They enjoyed getting together with the graduates of Aurora’s Class of 1956 for monthly lunches. Early in retirement, they traveled. More recently, they stayed closer to home, but still enjoyed drives to Vevay for ice cream at Shell’s and trips across the river for lunch at Jewell’s on Main. And while Dad stayed home, Mom took part in her Home-Ec Club activities and loved a day out with her sisters Jan and Nancy.

Rosie pushed us to do better, be better. She wanted each of us to reach our potential. For me, that meant forcing me to enroll at Ball State against my wishes. I told her many times how much I hated her then, but how grateful I was for the push. Because of my mother, I got to see, do, visit, try, and be things I never would have imagined.

In 2019, our family suffered an unexpected tragedy when David died as a result of a car accident. He was 49. Watching one’s parents survive a child’s death is impossible to describe. But Mom and Dad endured and although I know they suffered privately, they put on a brave face and got on with it.

And now our father, Rosie’s companion for over 60 years, will do the same. It’s been hard to lose someone during the COVID-19 Pandemic because we’re not able to grieve or give comfort as we know it. My sister couldn’t spend some last moments with Mom. She has a chronic condition that leaves her compromised. The required physical distancing meant that Dad and I could individually see Mom for 15 minutes before she died. While I could be with her, it meant that I had to leave Dad alone in the car. It was bizarre and sad and frustrating. While we are not the most demonstrative family, it’s been hard to not at least give him a hug during all of this.

The staff at Highpoint Health in Lawrenceburg, Indiana, could not have been kinder. They gave me the opportunity to talk to Mom on the phone while she slipped away. For that, I am grateful, too. There are so many people who won’t have the chance to say one last I love you to their dying loved ones.

I had a text from a friend who recently experienced the death of his father in this time of quarantine. He wrote that it will seem as if Mom won’t have the funeral she deserves. For someone who touched lives the way she did and who provided a kind word whenever she could, it seems a shame that we can’t truly celebrate her life.

This is my small offering.

Here are the standard details….

Rosalie (Rosie) Anne Lawson was born August 3, 1938, in Milan, Indiana, to Carlton and Gertrude (McMullen) Lawson. She was welcomed home by brother Carly and sister Jan. According to an interview conducted by my daughter Sophia Golden a few years ago, she was named Rosalie after the song by Vera Lynn. Her brother Dan and sister Nancy came later.

Rosie graduated from Aurora High School in 1956 and went to work for a small bank.

Rosie married Paul Hewitt in Rising Sun, Indiana, on March 19, 1960. They had three children Denise (Russell) Taylor, St. Leon, Indiana; Lisa (David) Williams, Rising Sun, Indiana; and David (Donna) who preceded Rosie in death.

Rosie is survived by her husband and daughter, her sister Jan (Wade) Turner, Rising Sun, and Nancy (Bill) Parks of Aurora, and sister-in-law Betty Burgess.

She is also survived by her grandchildren: Kenny Orem, (Rising Sun, Indiana; Clay Orem, St. Leon, Indiana; Chloe Golden, Bedford, New Hampshire; Nathan Golden (Kade), Rising Sun, Indiana; Sophia Golden, Euharlee, Georgia; Olivia Hewitt, Vevay, Indiana; and Drew Hewitt, Vevay, Indiana.

Rosie was also blessed with bonus grandchildren. Also missing her will be Zach (Nichole) Taylor, Harrison, Ohio; Nick (Andrea) Taylor, Fairfield, Ohio; Haley (David) Core, Pueblo, Colorado; and DJ Williams, Rising Sun, Indiana.

A prolific bunch, she also had one great grandchild: Samson Golden, Rising Sun, Indiana; and great stepchildren Anna, Sadie, Oliver, and Ziggy Taylor.

Others who will miss her include a long list of nieces and nephews: Connie (Denny Baldwin), Doug (Cindee) Scott, Karen (Jeff) Chase, Andy (Theresa) Scott, Ed Turner, Lori Turner, Todd (Denise) Lawson, Curt (Amanda) Lawson, Megan (Charles) Dunn), Danielle Lawson (Ken) Miller, Chris (Brooke) Lawson, Bill (Michelle) Parks, Jr., Cindy Collins, Michael Parks, Veronica Foster, Douglas Parks, and Jeremy Parks.  And many great nieces and nephews.

In addition to her son, Rosie was preceded in death by her parents Carlton Lawson and Gertrude Lawson Heitmeyer, stepfather Horace Heitmeyer, brothers Carlton (Carly) Lawson and Daniel (Lynelle) Lawson, brothers-in-law Wade Turner, Jimmy Burgess, sisters-in-law Linda Lawson.

Donations in Rosie’s name can be made to the Ohio County Public Library in honor of Rosie’s love of reading.

 

 

COVID-19 Diary - Wall

I woke up angry this morning.

I received some bad news yesterday. As I wrote a couple of days ago, I'm one of the lucky ones - I still have a job.

But.

I'm taking a pay cut. It's a pay cut that creates a frustrating and, frankly, insulting situation.

But.

I learned today that the largest employer in our little town laid off most of its workforce. As the Rising Star Casino wrote in the letter to its unlucky employees, should the casino reopen, the employees will be able to reapply for a position.

Ah, perspective.

I lost a good job in the economic crash of 2009. I was without work until March of 2012. It was a hard time for our family.  We lost a house, a car and eventually, a marriage.

I have never regained the salary level I lost in 2009.

My heart goes out to the people who have lost their jobs as a result of this crisis. Unlike 2009 when it felt like I was watching one friend after another slide over the edge from employment to unemployment, this crisis showed us what it would feel like to slam into a wall.

Hard.

This kind of thing is traumatizing. Trust me on this. These people, like so many others, have lost their jobs through no fault of their own. None. We didn't see this coming.

I fear that harder times are coming. Please be kind to each other. Watch what you say and what you post on social media about jobs, the social safety net, people in need (they don't need you to broadcast your generosity if you help them out), healthcare, unemployment benefits (no one wants to be on unemployment), who works hard and who doesn't, who is deserving and who isn't.

You might think you're being funny, insightful, or clever, but take it from me - that stuff hurts. It's pointless pain. Keep your opinions to yourself because no one needs your shame right now.

When I was out of work, the economy was so bad that the Administration had to keep begging Congress to extend unemployment benefits. Every quarter was a nightmare while I fretted that my benefits would end and there was no job in sight.

One day I was scrolling through Facebook, having taken a break from trolling all the job posting websites, and I saw someone I'd grown up with posting about how all the lazy people who wanted more unemployment money should "just get a job."

I'd spent hours every day looking for a job. I'd applied for hundreds of jobs sometimes having to complete applications requiring so much detail that it took over an hour to complete.  In all that time, after all those applications, I had two interviews. One place didn't hire me, but the other did.

At half my 2009 salary and a much longer commute.

And I felt lucky to have a job.

I'm telling you this so you don't hurt someone with your words.

Sermon over.

Stay home if you can. Tell someone you love them. Make a plan for hard times. Wash your hands. Remember the Golden Rule.

COVID-19 Diary - Life During Wartime

We're all thinking about and talking about the Coronavirus. We can't help it.

On top of the worry about the virus, we're watching our economy come apart at the seams as people are forced to stay home and not work. Restaurants and bars are closed or are only serving food via delivery and carry out. Many states have banned large gatherings. Houses of worship are closed. Shows and concerts are canceled. Tradeshows, conventions, and conferences aren't happening. Schools are shuttered. Colleges and universities are closed for the year. People are told to not travel. Most stores are closed. Casinos across the country have shut down. College and professional sports seasons aren't happening or are postponed.

March Madness did not happen. The 2020 Summer Olympics have been postponed until 2021.

These are hard times.

I'm one of the lucky ones. I still have my full-time job and continue to work from home the same as I have since 2014. Our entire staff team is now working from home which requires some adjustment for those who are used to working in the office at least three days a week.

To combat that isolation some are feeling, we're doing creative things like having a virtual happy hour every Thursday. We all log in to Skype for Business, fire up our webcams and cut loose. I mean, cut loose as much as one should in a work environment. We're a pretty careful bunch.

From many conversations, I'm learning that I am not alone in what I thought were my weird and over-the-top concerns and newly-acquired habits.

We wonder how to handle the mail deliveries. Spray it with Lysol? Let it sit for 24 hours before handling?

We have detailed conversations about how long this sticky virus lasts on surfaces. We Google for answers.

We tell tales of madness involving bags full of takeout food, what amounts to a decontamination procedure with clean dishes, hand sanitizer, and a group effort to not bring potentially virus spreading Burger King bags into one's home.

The dirty hands/clean hands swap.

We whisper about wearing latex gloves in public.

The pushing of Clorox wipes onto loved ones and strangers.

A dog who got a bath because a neighbor petted it right after returning from a trip.

It's only been two weeks.

On the flip side, this struggle is also showing us some extraordinary acts of kindness. People are pulling together while keeping their physical distance. Social media is full of stories about people pitching in, helping out, and doing good.

I had my own taste of that last night when I walked into my parents' house to find that they were Facetiming with all three of my children. My kids never had the chance to live near their grandparents so this was especially touching.

My dad marveled at the fact that they were right there - dialed in from New Hampshire, Georgia, and from across Highway 56. Mom and Dad can see the roof of Nate's house from their front windows, a fact that still rocks me back in wonder. Who would have ever guessed that would happen?

My grandson Samson gained control of his mom's phone at one point. He displayed his new phrase "night night." Chloe turned into a frog, a mouse, a giraffe, a monkey, a rabbit, and a chicken.

"And she's the educated one," Dad said.

Yep.

Be well. Stay home if you can and especially if you're sick. Wash your hands. Tell someone you love them.

COVID-19 Diary - Bomb

It's here.

Indiana is now under a Stay at Home Order issued by Governor Eric Holcomb.

Just in time! Or too late? Our tiny county has its first confirmed case of the Coronavirus. I don't know who the individual is, but I hope they heal quickly and stay safely quarantined so our community spread stays small.

Because someone who shall remain nameless failed to stay home and I went into his house to drop off food, I now have to add more names to my tracking spreadsheet and do the math.

Seriously, people. If you read one thing today, read that link. Or this one.

Here's the takeaway:

EXPONENTIAL GROWTH MAKES THE VIRUS EXPLODE LIKE A BOMB IN OUR TOWNS BEFORE WE CAN EVEN SEE THAT IT’S HAPPENING BECAUSE WE CANNOT IDENTIFY THE COUNT OF INFECTED PEOPLE, DUE TO A LACK OF TESTING AND SYMPTOMS.
Now, math was not my subject, but even I know what exponential means. More to the point, I know what explode and bomb means.

Be well. Stay home. Wash your hands. Wash them again. 

COVID-19 Diary - Physical Distancing

I saw somewhere - Facebook? Twitter? Instagram? - that perhaps we should call what we're doing physical distancing instead of social distancing. 

I like this. 

I like this because what I'm seeing on social media tells me that we're finding ways to remain social while practicing the physical distance to slow the spread of the Coronavirus. And much of that social interaction is positive. People are sharing links to free online access to the arts. Music. Museums. Books. People are sharing original content, photos, ideas for keeping busy, recipes, etc.

This is a refreshing break from seeing the same meme shared 28 times in a day.

Like the canals in Venice clearing, because the sediment has settled, and the Nitrogen levels over China decreasing, we're adjusting, too. Even if it's in small ways.

Over the last few days, I've talked on the phone more than usual. I've Facetimed with my friend Amy. I video-chatted with my daughter Chloe who is in New Hampshire. And Sophie who is in Georgia. I talked to Grandma Bea. I've talked to my sister. I've talked to my mother who relays my strongly-worded admonishments to my father, as necessary. (Still struggling!)

Everyone is well, but worried. You can just hear it in their voices. 

All this communicating. Talk about having to change habits.

Chloe had a puzzle delivered from Amazon. I dropped it off at Mom and Dad's today so they can stay occupied while they're stuck in the house. I stood across the room from them and tried to touch nothing as we talked about what's happening and how they're feeling.

They have concerns. Like most of us, they're trying to grasp just how long this time of physical distancing will last. I've worked from home for over five years. There have been times when I had to think really hard to remember the last time I'd left the house, apart from walking the dog. I'm good at this. 

But for most people who are used to being able to decide at the spur of the minute to go out to dinner or who remember what day of the week it is because of their weekly scheduled hair appointment, doctor's visit, or lunch with old friends, this is hard. This is habit changing. It's confusing. And, by extension, scary.

At the other end of the age spectrum, we're also trying to stay physically distant from Nathan, his wife Kade, and their one-year-old son Samson. We're taking the stance that the fewer contacts we have, the better. It also means I have fewer names to write on my list of daily contacts. I wasn't kidding in my last post. I'm keeping a list. It might be an Excel spreadsheet. I will neither confirm nor deny.

Because we're being extra careful, this means I can't get my hands on Sam. It's hard. I want nothing more right now than to have his soft cheek smooshed against mine. Instead, I have to settle for seeing him through a window. I'll take it.

Be well. Stay at home as much as you can. Wash your hands. Let's fight this thing.

COVID-19 Diary - Taking Names and Buying Snacks

Day two of keeping track in a small way of what's happening as the United States' number of confirmed cases of COVID-19 begin a steep climb.

Here in our little corner of southeastern Indiana, we remain fairly isolated from the virus, but it feels like it's closing in.

Ohio County where Rising Sun is the county seat and sits along the Ohio River is the little red blob.

You can see how the counties with confirmed cases of the virus are beginning to surround us.

It's enough to make me want to lock everyone up in their houses to hunker down and hope that this scourge passes us by. A Rising Sun Passover, if you will.

Alas, and as I'm frequently reminded, I am not the boss of anything. Don't believe me? Check out any Adventures in Real Parenting post on this blog. You'll see.

My husband isn't even under my jurisdiction at this time. He's off to the University of Cincinnati Hospital every weekday for his job. He's not a healthcare worker, but he's there working and watching the triage tents go up and get busy.

This morning, I broke my own rule to venture out for provisions. I took my ration book aka my Discover Card (cash back!) and made a run to a local IGA for donuts and then braced myself for a trek through the belly of the beast - Krogers on Eads Parkway.

Sidenote - I would love to shop at our local IGA for all our groceries, but would need an increase on my credit card limit to keep us well-stocked in Mello Yello. That, however, is a post for another day.

Kroger can't keep up. The shelves and refrigerated cases still looked like the day before a blizzard is predicted to hit. I asked one woman stocking shelves how she was doing and she said she was glad she liked her job and noted she didn't mind the job security. I credited her for having a great outlook and wished her well. This exchange took place as we stood several feet apart.

I found myself holding my breath as I walked past other shoppers. I had a ziplock of Clorox wipes I used to wipe down the shopping cart and ran it over my hands every time I touched something. I had to remind myself to stop picking up packages of strawberries to look for the best one. Oh, and not touching my face? An ongoing struggle.

I ran into people from Rising Sun. No hugs, no pats on the arm. We practiced our careful physical distancing as we chatted. Everyone reported the same thing - all is well so far and yes, we're all worried about our parents who are trying to adjust to this new "normal."

I stopped at my parents on my way home to share some donuts with them. Guess who had already been out that morning to buy a newspaper? No, I didn't shout at him and I even let him have the one jelly donut I'd gotten. We had a rousing discussion about washing our hands, I bagged up some Clorox wipes in a ziplock for him to keep in his car (I know when I've been defeated) and then he mentioned they'd have to go to Walmart for some groceries soon.

What a joker.

They'll be handing over that detailed grocery list to me and I'll go. At least we settled that. Wish me luck that I don't choose the wrong brand of orange juice.

Last night before we fell asleep, my husband and I talked about how things have changed so swiftly. It's like the world is upended. I wondered aloud if it made sense for people to start keeping a list of where they've been and when and who they've had close-ish contact with.

David wasn't sure. Or maybe he was already asleep. His response sounded something like mmmmmm or hmmmmmm? I have never known anyone in my life who can fall asleep as quickly as that man does. But that's a post for another day, too.

Be well. Stay home. Wash your hands.

COVID-19 Diary - We're Not Having Any Fun

I yelled at my father today.

We live in a very small town and I have eyes (spies?) around town. My pals know I'm concerned about my father (83) and mother (81) because both of them have chronic conditions - heart disease, hypertension, and diabetes. Both are overweight. Full disclosure - so am I.

One of my pals mentioned she'd seen Dad out and about. I knew from conversations with my mother that it would be difficult for him to shelter in place during this time of COVID-19. I mean, he's a social guy. Rarely does a day go by that he doesn't go out tootling around town in his car, buying his lottery tickets, picking something up at the store, and driving by my house just for kicks.

But this is getting serious and I've asked him to stop going out just for kicks. I get it. It's tough. It's boring. It's isolating.

But Mom's health isn't great. She's had multiple heart attacks. Both of them caught every cold that passed this way over the winter. My kids and I still laugh at a mess of a Facebook Messenger video that included a wide shot up my mother's nose and both parents announcing that they were sick.

"We're sick here. We're not having any fun."

You don't say.

Today is their 60th wedding anniversary. I'm lucky to still have them. I'd like to keep them around to celebrate their 61st wedding anniversary.

"If you're out around people, you're bringing home germs and passing them on to Mom," I grumped at him.

"I'm going to do what I want."

"If she catches this thing, it's going to kill her. In Italy, doctors are having to choose who lives and who dies. They don't have enough medical equipment to care for everyone."

That got his attention.

Earlier, I'd watched a video of military trucks transporting bodies out of Northern Italy to somewhere else for burial and cremation. They are out of room for all the dead.

"If the hospital has 10 ventilators and 40 sick people who need them, what chance do you think and 81-year-old woman has?" It was a low blow. I'm desperate.

I rooted around in the closet for my extra hand sanitizer forgetting that I'd given it to my son and daughter-in-law a couple of weeks earlier.

"Wash your hands as soon as you get home," I bossed. "And stay home. I can get you whatever you need."

He left under a barrage of my nagging and a wish for a happy anniversary.

"I nag because I love!" I shouted at his retreating back.

I think he knows. He might not like it, but he knows.

You went away without saying goodbye

A song reminds you of someone in particular.
It might be a single phrase that does it.
Or was it a shared moment?
A time captured?
An idea?
There might be no explanation for it at all.
You just know when you hear the song, that person won't be far from your mind.

Hey, Jack Kerouc. I think of your mother.....

<End>

Airing of Grievances 2018 - The holidays

Google tells me that Festivus is December 23, 2018 so I'm putting together my list so I can once again perform the Airing of Grievances. It's my annual schtick. Mostly annual.

To quote the great philosopher Frank Costanza, "I've got a lotta problems with you people!"

On with it. Today I'm griping about the holidays.

1. Inflatable lawn decorations.

They look fine when inflated.

Deflated they look like huge used condoms littering your lawn. If the aftermath of a giant orgy is the look you're going for, you are killing it.

If not? For the love of all things candy-striped and cutesie, please keep those things inflated. Yes, even during the day.

2. Holiday advertisements suggesting we buy our beloveds vehicles costing upwards of $40,000.

How is that the people who are, according to the commercials, capable of buying sometimes not just one but two shiny new luxury vehicles, always seem to live where it snows at Christmas?

They step out of their exquisitely decorated perfectly preserved Mid-Century homes nestled in some gorgeous, snowy woodland and yet their noses don't turn red and you can't see their breath.

Because I tend to complain of this every year, let me at least recognize the fact that the ads have done away with the giant red ribbons affixed to the new cars.

So there's that.

3. Bath and Body Works

My bank account is crying uncle. Why must you offer so many wonderful scents to cover up the smell of dog?

Our china cabinet looks like I'm becoming a Doomsday Prepper. Were we to survive something cataclysmic, at least we'd have plenty of light and something to cover up the smell of our own rapid decay.

And you think I haven't noticed that the deals have gotten less AMAZING the closer we get to Christmas? Think again. My cart remains empty. If those candles cost a penny more than $12.95, I can say no.

To be continued...

Calm

Positive Feedback works

A couple of years ago in an effort to manage the stress of my newish job and caught up in the annual ritual of bettering oneself, I attempted to learn how to meditate.

First I signed up for a free, introductory program promoted by Deepak Chopra and Oprah. I settled into a a relaxed but upright position in an easy chair and tried to follow along. To say it was a struggle is too mild. To sit in silence was hard. To try to be still? Harder. To reject the pleas from my over-brimming brain to get up and do something, do anything? Impossible.

I think I managed three of the seven days provided by the free program. Maybe.

Next I found an app for my phone called Calm. I used it a few times, but again found the act of sitting still for 10 minutes at a time and concentrating on the very calming voice of Tamara Leavitt to be too much. Too much sitting still, too much thinking, too much attempted calm. I don't think anyone who spent much time around me in the past would have hung the word calm on me.

Looking back, the changes in my life may have been too fresh to allow me to set aside the guilt and fear and well-worn self-loathing to be able to focus within. I did not like sitting with myself. I could not stop my mind from constantly wandering back to my lifetime of mistakes, my trunk load of regrets, my unresolved anger. Staying active was my coping method. 

I kept myself mentally distracted like my brain was a toddler in church. Some kind of audio stimulation accompanied my every waking hour and even some of my sleeping hours. The background noise of the TV while I worked from home, satellite radio in the car, an audio book playing from my back pocket as I did housework, prepared meals, walked the dog, and gardened. I went to bed with one earbud in so that I could continue to pump sound into my head. Anything to keep thought and self-examination at bay. The more occupied my mind was, the better I felt.

Fast forward to the end of July. I was at a work conference and learned from colleagues that I wasn't using one of the most important features on my new, ridiculously gigantic iPhone 7. I wasn't using the Health app. 

Someone showed me where it tracked my steps and other features. While I was horrified at the idea of actually putting my weight and other body measurements into the app, I was intrigued by the mindfulness section.

I reloaded the Calm app onto my phone and started again. It might take me a long time to fully grasp the understanding and benefits of the practice of meditation, but now I am ready to commit. I added a second mediation app called Simple Habit.

I've spent most of my adult life in motion. Not healthy motion, necessarily, but the motion of doing. Doing dishes, doing laundry, sweeping, vacuuming, wiping up, wiping down. Being a parent, being a wife. My house was clean. My car was clean. Not just clean, but Paul Hewitt clean. Sometimes even the garage had been vacuumed. Those were bad days. No clutter gathered dust. The dishwasher was either fully loaded or completely empty. Children were ferried to various activities, cats were fed, litter boxes were clean, blog posts were written, commutes were made, jobs were done, the career ladder climbed. Every day was a race to get it all done, prepare for the next day, and fall into bed exhausted.

My measure of success had to do with how clean my house was and had I checked everything off my list that day.

I'd be healthier today if I had tried to physically outrun whatever demons seemed to pursue me, but no. I do, however, have an amazing set of cleaning and organizing tips on on Pinterest. Today I have become a reformed productivity junkie, you could write you life story in the dust in this house and I can't remember the last time I washed my car. 

I am pleased to report that I am now better suited to the practice of meditation.

I look forward to sitting quietly, the solitude, the breathing. I am not trying to do anything. The only thing I am trying to accomplish is to be calm.  And while I am struggling, as always, to tame my mind, I do find that meditation is helping.

I can focus for longer periods of time on the breath. I can focus on the guide's voice. I can still myself and my magpie brain for five minutes at a time and, generally speaking, rest with myself.

This is a very big deal.

Of course, I'm also having to learn to not make meditation a competitive sport with myself. My need for perfection is still a driving force and I have a long way to go. 

Case in point; I composed much of this blog post as I attempted to meditate this morning. The idea came to me and while I tried to focus on the breath, I couldn't stop the phrases from coming at me. I was able to corral them until I finished, but I'm here to tell you that it was not easy.

I thought about how to phrase things for this post. I thought about how meditation has actually helped me to come back to writing. I thought about my somewhat addictive personality, if somewhat is even a plausible qualifier for the word addictive. Can addiction be qualified? Is there a sliding scale?

What I do know is this - I'm all in. I want to surround myself with the equipment of meditation. I realize I am just skimming the surface and I have more varied practices and much reading and learning in my future. I don't want to be a dabbler because I have already seen results and I like them.

I relish the daily ritual of the morning meditations. Where once I could only fall asleep by distracting my brain by listening to television shows I've seen so many times I could recite the dialogue, I now look forward to the nighttime meditations with the deep breathing and body scans that help me to relax enough to just drift off and stay asleep.

I've asked for wind chimes for a birthday present. My YouTube channels are now crammed with Native American flute music and Tibetan singing bowls and black screen 11 hour sessions of calming music, birdsong and ocean sounds. These all may be trite accoutrements and embarrassing cultural appropriations for which I am sorry, but they work. They help me to set the stage to relax and sit with myself without the old dread, the fidgeting, the mental begging to please, please, please get up and do something.

The day I realized my meditation flow wasn't broken by my left arm being humped by a little white dog, I knew I was on my way. I was making progress.

But meditation, like everything worth doing, is going to take practice and perhaps that's the point. 

Blended

Love multiplied.

This happened two weeks ago - a new marriage with bonus family. My one regret from the day (because let's be clear - I'm 50% regret most days) is that Chloe couldn't be there with us because of work.

I'd like to introduce you to my new blended family....

I've gained a husband, a daughter, a son-in-law and a son. The wedding was simple and casual and we had a small group of friends and family there to share in our happiness and cupcakes.

Mathman, ever the wonderful friend and man he is, sent a text of congratulations and good wishes the morning of the wedding.

My cup totally runneth over.

Wedding day selfie.

Cupcake Cleans Up

Once upon a time....

And now....

Junior Prom 2016

Yeah, I'm still trying to wrap my head around this. It's not like I haven't already watched two children grow up and move out. It's just - - - I don't know. Even though I'm no longer there, Sophie's age seems to define the end of some era. She has one year left of high school. One year.

And in case you're wondering, she still texts me that she's dying from some thing or other and should probably leave school so as not to traumatize her peers. So much for our family has changed, so it's weirdly nice to know that some things probably never will. 

Paybacks are coming though. One day I'll be the one texting her from the home they stick me in. "Come get me. Pleeeeeeaaaaase!"

Placing a stone

Once upon a time blogging was the thing. THE THING.

We spent hours writing and reading and commenting and even having weekly gatherings online.

And in those days there were circles of bloggers that overlapped and intersected and they made up a big, scattered, interconnected, crazy quilt of an online world. Connections were made that changed lives forever. Friendships were formed. Marriages and partnerships got their start in the comment sections of blogs.

I once tried to make a Venn Diagram of the connections. I gave up because it was too much. I was too lazy. And damn it, I had a blog post to write.

Social media usurped the blog in most of those circles. Sad, but true. Many of our blog friends removed their masks, tossed aside their avatars and became Facebook friends. It wasn't the same, but we were willing to settle because the only thing that was constant online was change.

Our online world(s) were made up of all kinds of characters.

One of those characters called herself Dusty Taylor.

I learned today from one of Dusty's friends (Diane Gee) that Dusty was murdered by her son last spring. I'm saddened at the death of our outspoken and raucous friend and stunned by the tragic way she was killed.

I know that some of you were friends with Dusty. I wanted you to know so that you might honor her memory, say a little prayer or just think of her, her intelligence, her passion for liberal causes and her unforgettable foul mouth.

RIP, Diane Hugo aka Dusty Taylor who blogged at Left Wing Nutjob and It's My Right to be Left of Center.

On appropriate attire

What is it about this month?

Death.

A childhood friend's mother. David Bowie. Alan Rickman. And now Glenn Frey.

Recently my parents and I had a conversation about death and how people my age are handling the deaths of their parents and how social media seems to be creating a place for grief that didn't exist before.

That conversation was in the abstract. I've watched my friends and cousins losing their parents from the safe distance of knowing that I can scoot down the road and visit my parents who are comfortably and relatively healthily watching TV at home or out on the town.

But I also know my time is coming. Their time is coming. They're pretty clear about expectations.

We're old.
We're going to die.
We're not happy about it, but there it is.
You're going to have to deal with our deaths.

Less abstract, my mother has instructed my father that if she dies in her sleep, he is to change her out of the ratty old t shirt she sleeps in and put her into something decent before calling the EMTs.

Priorities.

Daily Journal #6 - Not so daily after all

January 11, 2016

Recently I listened to the novel Brooklyn by Colm Toibin. I selected it because it was on one of those lists of books you should read before you see the movie. Not that I'll actually ever see the movie unless I stumble across it on Netflix a couple of years from now, but I thought I'd give the novel a try. It's a small break from the cozy mystery vortex I've recently inhabited.

I wasn't crazy about the book at first. It wasn't awful. The dialog (usually a deal breaker for me) was fine. The characters were well-sketched. It wasn't full of action, rather a telling of a life. A part of a life. I think it's what people might call a quiet story.

Told from the perspective of Eilis, the main character, the writing was straightforward and almost mundane. Was it lacking detail? I couldn't put my finger on it. Eilis seemed a little hard to get to know. She only told you the bare minimum about herself and there seemed to be a paucity in the sharing of her emotions. Sometimes I wanted to cheer her for her ability to hold it together and other times I wanted to throttle her for her naivete. True to most of my own life, she was a little late to understand things. By the time she had a full grasp, the consequences had already engulfed her.

As you have probably figured out, Eilis maybe bothered me most because I was seeing myself. I suppose that's a common reaction to many stories, but this one, in particular, struck me as Eilis went back to Ireland after having established a life in Brooklyn. When she returned to her home, she experienced the same feelings I have every time I visited my parents' home after I left for college. That feeling of being a guest in your own home. It's also the feeling I get now when I visit the kids in Georgia and stay with MathMan and Sophie.

I starting writing this from the spare bedroom of my former home. I was there visiting. We celebrated Sophie's birthday on the 7th. It was wonderful and loud and crazy and fun and sad to spend time with Nathan, Sophie, Nathan's girlfriend Kade and Doug. I couldn't help wishing that Chloe had been there, too.

But visiting there is hard. I AM a guest in my old home.  A new dynamic fills the house as it is just Doug and Sophie's home now. Three of us - Chloe, Nathan and I can only be guests there. When I am not there, I don't have to think about that reality. I prefer not thinking about it.

It takes me a day or two to adjust to the feelings of weirdness. I have to check myself. I can no longer act like a human bulldozer, cleaning and commanding while everyone rolls their eyes behind my back. I'm the person who gets to have things done for them as if by magic. I'm not entirely comfortable in this role even if it is kind of nice to get what you wish for once in a while.

By the time I've adjusted, I'm contradicting myself by feeling an itch to head home and be in my own space. Domestic Queen of my domain. I tell myself each visit that the next time I come, I will get a hotel room or insist that Sophie visit me in Indiana instead. It's not that the visits are unpleasant. It's just - - - - it forces me to take a good look at what I left behind and how our family has changed. While necessary to own the situation since I was very much the engineer of those changes, I think it's unhealthy to revisit my old life every couple of months. I never get beyond the guilt and regret before the reset happens.

But back to the novel. The thing I am most struck by now is how Toibin unravels the story in a way that's natural. Most of us aren't information dumps of self-knowledge. Hell, most of us struggle with self-awareness. Eilis doesn't spend large amounts of time puzzling over her own behavior. She's more interested in observing the actions of others and only occasionally assigning intent. It's only in short bursts of enlightenment that Eilis identifies some profound trait or value held by herself or another character that gives her some clue as to what may be not morally right or wrong, but right for her or the other character.

After a while, Eilis began to feel at home again in Ireland and began to question her life in Brooklyn. From Ireland, the time she'd spent in Brooklyn seemed like a dream. The life she'd had - school, work in a shop, her rooming house, the man she'd fallen in love with - it didn't seem real anymore.

And I can see how this happens, too. Having straddled two lives since 2013, I recognize the opposing tugs of the familiar and the unknown, sometimes being unable to know the difference between the two.