Back Out Into the World

The summer after Covid hit, only businesses that were essential were open. Groceries, pharmacies, doctors' offices. By fall, there were limited openings for other things, and the number of Covid cases began to rise almost immediately.

It was still January of 2020 when I last had my hair cut. In August, I was using little clips to keep the hair out of my eyes and off my neck. I could have gone in for a "safe" haircut, but to me, getting my hair cut in a salon (when I'm not going anywhere anyway) is not an essential need.

Over the winter, the longer hair was kind of nice. Warm on cold nights, and when I washed it, I could dry it in front of the woodstove.

By the following spring, my hair was long enough to put up in a clip, and even looked nice.

But enough is enough. Warm weather in front of summer of 2022 found my hair too long for a clip. The same time period, Lillian's curly mop was getting too big to stuff under her uniform cap. She came striding through the house, calling, "That's it! I'm getting this junk shaved off!"

I grabbed my purse, my mask, and hitched a ride.

The hairdresser, when it came my turn, grabbed as much hair as she could and just scissored the whole clump off. She showed it to me -- looked like road kill -- and then tossed it in a heap on the floor and proceeded to shear.

What a relief!

I know I am a 68-year-old woman, and being a beauty isn't in the cards any more, but dang, this is much more madly me.

Seder 2022

 

The last time that tablecloth graced my table was in the spring of 2019. 

2020 rolled in, and the quarantine made celebrating Seder a thing of the past. We did an impromptu mini-Seder that year, and I cried through the whole thing, missing the camaraderie of the Table Friends, the Haverim. We did a family Seder in 2021, and I blubbered through most of that one, too. Would we ever be able to sit Seder with the table fellows again?

 This year, we were able to have a small Seder with our friends the Vierras, who are more like family than most of our families were. There were only nine of us, compared to the sometimes 27 there used to be; it was wonderful, and I only choked up once or twice. (I did my blubbering earlier in the day.)

We sang, we prayed, we recounted the Exodus from Egypt, we laughed, we lamented Haverim who have died since the last Seder. We broke matza, dipped it in horseradish and haroset, munched parsley from my garden, and thanked God for our fellowship and our freedom. 

It was beautiful, and most deeply appreciated once again.

On a silly ending note, it was the first time that Ep and Kermit were allowed to be out in the company. For the most part, they were two gentlemanly dogs, even during the singing. 

Thank you, God Most High.

Eagerly Awaited Beauty

 

It's that time of year again, one I used to dread long ago before my body adjusted to the fragrance and pollen of almond blossoms. Now, I begin to long for it in January, watching the buds on my almond tree swell, then show tiny white tips, then turn pink, and voila! open in luscious splendor.

The scent from the blossoms is incomparable, better than any perfume. The sound of the bees working the tree is a natural music that gives my heart rest. Knowing that a wild bird planted the tree in exactly the right spot is a prayer meditation on the providence of God.

Yesterday I planted my tomato seeds. Six little pots of Summer Girl (delicious flavor) and nine of Bush Early Girl, (abundant yield). Oh, I'm sure I'll find places for a few more weirdo tomatoes in the next month or so, I always do. But for now, I'll wait and see if the seeds sprout, and feel like a new young mother if they do.

Life is nice, and I'm still masking up any time I go to the store. When the weather was chilly, the mask was pleasant. I have not been sick EVEN. ONE. DAY. since the beginning of the quarantine, and I'm hoping my masks will keep it like that. 

Milestone Weekend with Dog

 

Recently, Kermit has become camera-shy, for no particular reason. He'd been lying in the light of the back door, watching the birds, but when I raised the phone to take a picture, he gave me this sidelong look that has more annoyance in it than I would have thought he had in his whole body.

But that's not what this post is about.

Last weekend, Kermit and I went for a walk around the block. The very first time we've done this since the broken wrist episode.

The day of the broken wrist peccadillo, I'd begun training Kermit to walk in a Gentle Leader headstall, and was taking him out on a walk (on a regular collar and leash) as a reward for how well he did with it. Well, we know how that reward turned out. Seven weeks later ... maybe more ... I revisited the headstall training, walking through the house with him in it, rewarding him with kibble, then walking in and out the back door, then back and forth through the side and back yard, then out the gate and onto the driveway, etcetera.

I had to think we were both ready to move out into the world again. He was eager to have the headstall put on his face, and I chanted a mantra in my head that went, "If something comes up, drop the leash. Drop the leash if something comes up," over and over again. We went out the front door, and I suddenly realized that I had on the same shoes, the same clothing, the same sunglasses as I had when we went out and broke my wrist. Briefly, I considered going back in and changing clothes, but instead, cast superstition aside, and down the street we went.

At first, Kermit tugged a little. But by the time we'd rounded the second corner, he relaxed and accepted the limitations. By the time we were two-thirds of the way home, there was no pressure on the leash at all. 

Both of us have been unhealthily inactive since the Wrist Wreck, so it will take a while for us to get back up to the daily 40 minute hike we used to do. But we're getting there.

Healing

 

Gorgeous sunset the other evening. If I'm out and about in the house, and see the light change, I rush outside to see what's happening in the sky. We don't often get the spectacular colors like this; more often than not, we have creeping fog occluding the sky at this time of day and season. 

It's very pleasant not to have my hand in a brace or splint. For a while yesterday, I even wore my watch. The freedom of movement has made my hand swell a little, so I left the watch on my bedside table today. But nothing hurts. I like that.

I talked to a woman who was at Radiology in the hospital yesterday when I was. I encountered her first in the waiting area; she tried to rearrange her body in the (very uncomfortable) chair, and yelped in pain as her left wrist contacted the arm of the chair. "Careful," I warned her, knowing just how a damaged wrist can hurt.

Encountering her again in the line for x-rays (more uncomfortable chairs in a different area), I queried, "Did you have a fall?" and held up my left arm with its stiff black brace. At her nod, I told her, "Me, too."

She told me she had just had her cast removed from her arm, and that it still hurt like hell. I didn't tell her it was going to hurt like hell for a couple more weeks, but we chatted about falls and breaks and getting older until I got called in for my x-rays.

That was the first stranger I've talked to since the start of the quarantine in February 2020. 

Her story was so important to me -- I would have gladly had the wait in line go longer to hear about her life. It's why the Piker Press is something I don't want to give up. What people's lives are all about -- that's the most precious thing I get to experience.

Tell me your dreams, tell me what last week was about. Tell me about the things you lie awake at night and imagine (skip the porn, though) about the world. 

 

Tell me the story of Who You Are.

It Only Takes a Second

 

Back in the 80s, when I bought my horse Crow, I was taught to never, ever loop a lead rope around a hand. NEVER. If the horse bolts, you can be dragged, injured, or even killed. Instead, you hold the rope in your hand, so that it gets pulled out of your hand, you don't go with it.

Guess what. The same thing applies to a dog leash, in spite of the fact that makers of leashes always include a loop to go around your hand.

Out for a walk with Kermit, I had him on his goat lead -- essentially a loop that attaches to a collar. I looked up and down the neighborhood, saw a woman with a dog at the end of the street, headed away from us, saw a cat cross the sidewalk about half a block away, and before I could complete the thought, "Hope Kermit doesn't see that cat," Kermit leaped in front of me to intersect my neighbor's dog, who had darted out their door to come give Kermit a beating.

I was spun around, tripped on the curb of the sidewalk and fell. Impact, left hand, right knee, left knee, right hand, right forearm.

My God, how could I have been that stupid? 

Any other time a dog has accosted us, I've just dropped the leash. But every other time, I saw the dog coming. This time I didn't. She didn't bark; she was on a mission: her owner and newborn baby were getting into their car in the driveway, and I was approaching them, with a dangerous-looking beast at my side.

After an hour or so had passed, I had to admit that it wasn't just a tumble. My left hand was swelling in an unusual way, and I was still very much in shock. Fortunately the emergency room at the hospital wasn't too busy. They took x-rays of my left wrist and right knee, diagnosed a fractured wrist, and immobilized my arm from the elbow to fingertips with a giant splint.

A week later, an orthopedic doctor removed the splint, checked the range of movement, and gave me a brace to keep me from doing any further stupidities. I'll go back for follow-up x-rays in about five weeks.

And I guarantee you, I will never again put my hand in the loop of a leash.

Why the picture? Well, no one promised me life would be a bed of roses. And I like the colors.

A Strange Sound Outside the Window

 

Kermit had been napping on the chair. Suddenly, the sound of a strange animal screaming rent the air, bringing him to his feet, ready to protect the household from ... the neighbor's recently adopted pot-bellied pig.

My dog still doesn't know what a "pig" is, but he is quite suspicious. He sniffs the fence when the pig is in the yard on the other side, and raises the hackles on his shoulders, hips and tail. 

Considering how powerfully Kermit reacts to seeing a cat or a possum on the fence, I'm in no hurry to introduce him to a pig.

I myself was ambivalent about neighbors taking in the pig, but I must admit that the pig is quiet (mostly) and I have not had to chase any cats out of my yard since the pig arrived. For that alone I am grateful.

The 2021 Summer Vacation

 

Cement, with river rock to the right. Dirty cement, with caked dirt to the right of the door, where the slab was originally laid unevenly, where any amount of water pooled, holding dirt. 

River rock covered the soil by the chimney, wrapped around the corner, and stretched aaalll the way to the brick patio off our bedroom door. 

A tree to the left, out of sight at the moment, decided to take matters into its own -- branches and roots, and lifted the slab on that side this past winter, cracking it in two places. I had two choices: get rid of the tree and hope that the roots would rot and subside, or re-do the patio. Oh, on this patio, along with Eperis, Alex's dog, is that tree's shadow. 

Shadow. Tree. Tree wins.

I had a contractor come in and remove the Most Ogly Cement. We removed the river rock, pretty much stone by stone. (In a really astonishing coincidence, our next door neighbor on the other side of that fence, was xeriscaping their back yard to conserve water and to correct a drainage problem they had with the slope of their lawn. And they wanted -- river rock!) When we would take a break from picking rock, we used that outdoor carpet, and the patio chairs to keep us out of the dusty dirt. It was a mess, but Kermit loved the dirt, and the hours of following us around outside. That's his chewing stick on the carpet.

When I thought of what I wanted the patio to look like, I knew I wouldn't be happy unless it was brick, to tie into the brick patio outside our bedroom. I could see it in my mind, could imagine the feeling of it under my feet. So we went around to find brick we could integrate into the older patio. One place was charging two dollars a brick, and that was the low end of their products. Lowe's clay brick was the worst quality I've ever seen, scratchy and uneven. To my disgust, Home Depot had common clay brick of good quality, and in the store, after I put my hand on the brick, my hand tingled for an hour. It was The Brick.

With the arrival of three pallets of brick, we began, weaving the new brick into the same pattern of the dusty older brick. Naturally, the newer brick was not as thick or as wide as the older stuff, which had come from Orchard Supply Hardware (a now-defunct chain of stores.)

The little garden scooter was my platform, a drywall taping tool my earth mover. A bucket of sand followed me as I wet the soil with a mist of water, leveled, set a brick. The herringbone pattern anchors the bricks in place without any kind of mortar, but the nature of that pattern is such that you have to weave it one row at a time, back and forth. I set bricks, Bernie hauled them from the driveway in front of the house on a dolly, and when I would come to an edge, he custom-cut the bricks to shape with a masonry blade on his saw.

Slowly we came around the curve. A milestone, when there was enough patio built that Bernie could move his camp stove out of its temporary storage and back into service. 

Plum season arrived, and our little tree out-did itself again. We would work in the cooler mornings from 8am until taking a break at 9:30, drink a pint of cool water, then work again until 11, and after a shower and a rest, take plums around to the neighbors.

You know, the first day of brick-work, I thought I was gonna die. How the hell am I going to do this? But by the third day, I felt -- fine. Tired, but fine. And waking each morning eager to feel the richness, the organic harmony of the clay in my hands again. 

Like a wave of red, the pattern crept forward. Another milestone: now we could step out of the kitchen and get to the pool without putting our feet on dirt. The shadow of the big tree looked beautiful on the bricks, exactly as I had imagined it would.

Not long after this picture was taken, Alex insisted that I teach her how to work the bricks' pattern. You could say that she wanted to help out her old mother, but I think she was just jealous of the scope and beauty of the project. And of that endorphin rush you can feel when a brick slides into place with a shimmery clink and is level in all directions. Nothing like it.

 

Nearly there, and this was what I had in mind when I looked at that ugly concrete and knew we had to address the drainage issue.

And of course, it would make too much sense for a clay brick to be exactly half as wide as it is long. If that were the case, the herringbone pattern would be the standard for all ground brickwork, and the mortar industry would be out of luck. Instead, the bricks are about 3/8 of an inch longer than the width of two bricks side by side. That's where a top coat of sand comes in, to fill in those irregular gaps.

Today, it was done, except for the custom cuts Bernie can take his time about doing, in the cool mornings, after his morning coffee. I don't think I'll take on an art project of this magnitude again in my life, but I must admit that I loved it. Alex finished up the hard-to-reach corner this morning.

This afternoon, Bernie asked me if I am going to miss setting bricks. My answer, "More than is rational."  

And now you know why I've been slacking on emails since the end of May. 

Five Months Went By? Ridiculous!

 

Winter in Central California. Tule fog. Wet air, cold and clammy. After a couple weeks of this, I was glad that today turned out sunny and unseasonably warm.

It won't last, of course. By this time next week, I'll be wearing sweatshirts and huddling in the kitchen to be near the woodstove. But today, I took Kermit out to the side yard and threw a ball for him until he stopped bringing it back to me. Let the clement breeze dry my just-washed hair. Admired my almond tree, the buds of which are already showing tiny white tips.

Simple. Prosaic. For some, boring.

Not me, though. Along with meditating on the signs of spring in the tree, I saw a red-tailed hawk go sailing past the neighborhood. In the planter box by Lillian's window, a plant is sprouted that looks an awful lot like Alex sneaked a celery root in there. Bernie's calendula are blooming like little campfires on the back patio. A pansy plant (!) has volunteered its beauty by Planter Box #7. Kermit dropped the tennis ball on cue, finally, after five years of inability to recognize the command "Release." All those things give me a warm and peaceful feeling.

That beats the hell out of the Dear God, Deliver Us year that is past. 2021 is going to have its sad days, trying days, painful days, I know that. But today was beautiful, and I'm grateful for that.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

 

Last spring, I was cleaning up the recordings on the cable DVR (?) and I found a new recording of a horse race that I didn't know was there. When I viewed the details, I discovered that one of the sports channels was covering horse races.

This is unusual, because horse races are among the most obscure of sports on TV, and I rarely get to see more than the Triple Crown (Kentucky Derby, Preakness Stakes, and Belmont Stakes). But this year, of course, thanks to COVID-19, sports were kind of shut down -- except for a couple tracks where the managers had their ducks in a row, had quarantined the hell out of everyone, had stringent rules about who could or couldn't set foot on the premises, and so the horse races at Oaklawn Park in Arkansas and the Tampa Bay Downs were being televised. Run without fans in the stands, but running races nonetheless. I began spending my Saturdays watching horse races.

By the end of April, I'd had about enough of television and internet news. Everything revolved around the corona virus. Close it all down! Open it all up! Make kids go back to school in the summer to catch them up! I have a right to open my business! Masks make you smother! It's a pandemic! It's a hoax! On and on with the self-righteousness and accusations and worldwide protests, why isn't someone saving us from this disease? Why are you making us suffer by 'sheltering in place'? I have a right to party! Don't we have a right to health care? 

The race season shifted to Belmont Park in New York, where they put the proper protocols in place to allow racing again. I've always loved the big, sweeping track there, so I began to watch that track on the weekends. Then the reporting team said that when the Belmont meet was done, they were going to Saratoga, and that the channel would carry ALL the Saratoga races.

That was that. I let the family know I was heading off to Saratoga Springs, the oldest and arguably most beautiful track in the USA. On Mondays and Tuesdays, I'd feverishly catch up on all the in-house chores I had to do, and then Wednesday through Sunday mornings, off to Saratoga by 10am and stay there until the last race was done, studying my racing forms, listening to the racetrack team chatter about bloodlines and past performances, history of racing, tack and horseshoes, condition and temperament, jockeys' riding abilities and the strengths and weaknesses of trainers, the hopes of owners, the eerie feeling of the big track without spectators.

I don't have a 'bucket list.' And even if I did, it wouldn't have had on it Go to Saratoga Springs for the Entire Race Meet, because that wouldn't have been possible. I never thought in my life, that I would be able to spend a season at Saratoga. That was a luxury beyond my imagination.

But this summer, I was there. And it was wonderful. I've now done something I never thought I could do.

A stack of racing forms sits beside my work desk, shrouded by a dust cover to keep the ash and harvest dust off it. On the forms are scribbles of notes, names of horse sires circled, names of really proficient jockeys and trainers underlined, what the track was like that day. Maybe this winter, when the rain and wind rattle the door of my garage studio, I'll pull the stack out and look through it, day by day, and remember the shadows of the trees on the track for the late afternoon races, and smile.

The Low-light Morning

There are fires all around us, close enough that everything outside is sprinkled with fine gray ash.

When the dog woke me up this morning, at 6 am, it was dimmer than it should be. The sun wasn't yet up, but instead of a lightening blue sky, it was ... gray. Not clouds, smoke.

A couple mornings ago we had an unseasonable thunder storm roll through the state, and although we love the sound of thunder and the spatter of rain, the lightning set off wildfires in the baking August heat.

I took this photo with my camera at about 10 am. Yuck, right?

The air stinks, burns our noses, makes us sneeze and cough. No outside exercise, no sitting on the porch, no swimming for the dog, no working in an open studio. No barbecue, no gardening, and forget 'social distancing' -- 'environmental distancing' is the order of the day.

What You Can Do While Watching Horse Races All Day

This coming weekend should have been Kentucky Derby day, but it won't be, thanks to the pandemic. Most horse racing venues have been closed down to halt contagion, so all the prep races for the Kentucky Derby were cancelled, also. Only a couple tracks stayed open, and Fox Sports 1 has been having horse races televised from Oaklawn Track in Arkansas, and Tampa Bay Downs in Florida. And since the only prep race for the Kentucky Derby still open happens to be the Arkansas Derby at Oaklawn, I've been watching horse races on the weekends -- bingeing, so to speak, from 10:30 am until 4 pm.

Yesterday was a beautiful day, and since I was going to watch horse-racing in front of the TV in my studio, I cleared a spot on the work table and indulged my latest craze: cadmium red oil paint. Same palette as the last painting, but I added a little touch of ultramarine blue and the very slightest pinch of alizarin crimson.

Enjoyed the races, loved seeing the paint go down onto the canvas in rich swathes.

Sheltering in Place (SIP) and Painting Party

Last evening, Alex caught me during a suggestible moment and invited me to a Painting Event with her and her daughters. "We can drink wine and paint," she said. "Come on, it will be fun."

I knew they would be doing watercolors and acrylics. "Do you mind if I use oils?" They didn't mind at all, and so this afternoon, I hoicked myself off to the studio to join them, cleaned my filthy work table, and set out a palette of cobalt blue, cadmium red light, cadmium red medium, cadmium yellow medium, and titanium white.

"The theme is 'cactus,'" I was told. Fine. Cactus it is. Howabout cactus in Red Rock Country?

Oh, yes, and every time I accidentally got my hand in my oil paint, we had a ... sip. (*SIP*) This made for a very agreeable afternoon, and since we were in the garage studio, my solvents and paints did not bother anyone at all. This is the result:

 

The Simplest Seder

Normally, we'd sit Seder on the Saturday before Passion Sunday, since the readings for Passion Sunday include Jesus at "The Last Supper" -- which was the Passover meal, that is, a Seder.

Normally, we'd have table friends (haverim) from some of the past 20 years of Seders, new friends, neighbors, guests of former guests gathered around tables in the big front room, for Seders that would begin at 7pm and last until 10pm, with plenty of time after for more wine and conversation.

Normally, I'd begin the day of Seder going to the party rental place for chairs and place-settings, and to Trader Joe's for fresh flowers to arrange for the table.

And normally, after Seder, I'd see the guests off, send the family to bed, and spend slow, quiet, beautiful time putting things away in their rental crates and our things in the dishwasher, getting food into the fridge, pushing the tablecloths into the washer, having a last glass of wine, and remembering the evening.

Not this year, of course. The pandemic has us all locked down, so to speak, so no Seder.

Or so I thought.

We'd decided to roast a lamb shoulder in honor of Passover (which began last night), and eat it with flat breads (basically gorditas) and tzatziki (cucumber and Greek yogurt) and goat cheese spiced with chili-garlic sauce. But before we could begin the meal, Bernie showed up with pages of paper -- printouts of the shortest Seder haggadah I've ever seen. He collected our song books and wine glasses from the Seder basket on the shelf. At that point, Joma screeched, "Are we doing SEDER???" in an ecstasy of delight.

Well, I guess, of course we were.

An emergency candle holder took the place of the usual crystal ones, and Joma picked snapdragons and nasturtiums for the table flowers. Alex lit the candle to start; I was crying too much to be the Table Mother this year. Lillian read the haggadah, the story of the salvation of the Israelites, by God, led by Moses, out of Egypt.

We sang, and raised our glasses of wine, and then had a delicious meal of some of the best lamb I've ever made. Then we concluded the Seder with more song, more wine, and the silly rendition of "Who Knows One?" (That'll be for a later post.) I cried a lot more.

Because I miss the haverim.
Because I miss the preparation and the participation and the peaceful quiet and perfume of the house afterwards.
Because Seder is always good.
That's why I cried, for longing and for joy.

Lillian took care of the clean-up afterwards; this was the first Seder that she was allowed to have wine instead of grape juice, and ya gotta step up when your grandmother is dripping tears. Bernie and I went out to the garage studio and watched the clouds and passers-by until the sun went down.

This morning I got up before it was light enough out for me to see the clock (to take Kermit out) and saw the remains of the Seder on the table, wine and flowers and candlestick.

I am content, and God is good.

First Sunday in April

A Sunday without Mass would feel pretty barren.

Our bishop, Bishop Myron Cotta, was one of many bishops in the world to give his diocese a dispensation from the obligation to attend Mass, to stop the spread of (specifically) the corona virus.

Fortunately there is technology abounding, and we are able to "attend" Mass by watching a televised service.

Doing so is simply a matter of choice. Since Bishop Cotta gave us the dispensation, we wouldn't have to worry about it, and don't have to even think about it if we don't want to. But I've come to find consolation in the Liturgy; it is prayer, a way of bringing me to accept the contact of the God Who created me. It's a prayer that's been going on for over two thousand years, and each time I experience it, my heart can renounce time and space and be a part of the Sacrifice that happened once, for all, for all time -- like tips of lightning bolts that spread across the sky, all part of the same electrical discharge. Mass is all one thing, no matter where, no matter when. I like that feeling of unity, a unity that is completely about love.

What does that have to do with the flower in the picture?

Not a lot, unless you look for God in all things, and that the Liturgy and the tulip -- no kidding, it really is a tulip -- are both beautiful, and allow me to be lost in wonder in a world that some would like to paint as terrifying and heart-crushing, either because they have been indoctrinated to fear and avoid the world, or to improve their ratings.

And now I must encourage myself to see God in the rain outside that unseasonably is keeping me inside the house when I would rather be outside slobbering over my little tomato plants like an obsessive mother. Thank you, God, for the rain.

And Yet Good Things, Too

Kermit doesn't care about corona virus. He cares about getting his food on time, sleeping close against my legs, and about those darned cats that keep using our fence as a path, which is what he's watching for in this picture.

I'm trying to let him be my teacher in this. Yesterday we went out to see if we could buy some potatoes (we were out) and there were simply none to be had. But there were still plenty of people piling shopping carts high with anything they could grab. It made me cry, right there in the store, that people -- in whom I have faith that they can be good -- would continue to be so selfish and amoral in the face of a crisis. My sadness discolored almost my whole day ... then we got a text from Alex that said that the transplant center was releasing John to come home to recuperate the rest of the way.

They were home safe and sound by the time we awoke this morning, and it was a joyous and festive kind of day. Yes, we're all prohibited from having guests in the house, or visiting other people's houses, but except for Joma, we're all heavily on the hermit side of social, so that's not a hardship. John looks great after his kidney transplant, and Alex, Lil, and I had fun planning a schedule that will keep us active and productive.

We made a monumental feast of Mexican rice and frijoles refritos; tacos with home-made tortillas. After the meal, Bernie and I went to Ripon's excellent bike and hike path and walked together, admiring the trees blossoming and the geese ambling about. We were surprised by how many people -- families -- were there, too, walking, biking, exercising their dogs. This is not a time to go to a movie theater, and with so many folks working (or not working) from home, what do you do? You get out in the open air and see the sun splashing through the fluffy clouds and hear the voices and laughter of people.

Maybe not such dire straits on all levels.

Bernie split some kindling for tomorrow's fire, and found a little sagebrush lizard torpid on top of a log. He picked it up in his work glove, and we all got a chance to admire the tiny creature close up.

Oh, yes, the girls' schools closed after classes on Friday, not due to reopen until mid-April (ha, ha, so they say officially) and so Joma and I began working on the Forbidden Basics: Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic. Our text for reading is a big book of Dr. Seuss books, and we're starting with classic "1 + 1 = 2" etc. Which she has never experienced, recitation and memorization not being in style with teaching methods these days. A couple hours ago, I heard her chanting the numbers to herself.

I think, if I live through it, I will see this as more of a time of promise than of curse.

I wanted something beautiful to accompany this post, because otherwise I might begin to despair over how awful people can be. This is my plum tree on the back patio, in the sweet light of morning.

We went to the grocery store two days ago. We needed a couple baguettes, some dog food, angel hair pasta, a white onion, a yellow onion, and strawberries, which were on sale. The first clue that something was off was that there were hardly any shopping carts available.

Now I have seen pictures of empty shelves in supermarkets, usually when there is a major weather event brewing, but until Friday, I had never seen panic-shopping in person. The store was crowded, and people's carts were all piled high. I mean HIGH. We stuck to the outskirts of the store, mostly, because people were rude, pushy, determined, with pinched faces that fiercely ignored the others around them, and gave the impression that if you looked in their carts too hard, you would get punched in the face.

There was no water on the shelves. No toilet paper at all, not even the cheap stuff. No paper towels. I had wondered, as we entered the store, why an older woman in heels and a suit was buying so many boxes of tissues and -- napkins! Signs on the shelves informed shoppers that they would be limited to six items of cleaning supplies, and two bags of ice only per shopper.

As I reached for a package of angel hair pasta, a fat hairy man reached past my ear and started grabbing bags of pasta and tossing them into his nearly full cart. On another aisle, Bernie pulled me out of the way of a woman who was trying to push past me and who would have almost certainly run over my flip-flop-clad feet. Feeling a bit overwhelmed, I saw the fat hairy man meet up with his wife, who also had a heaped-full cart of her own. What they were hauling would be enough to feed them for six months, I think.

The pheromonal stench of panic was horrible. I wanted to get out of the store as soon as I could, before I caught the mob mania and started grabbing things -- any things -- off the shelves.

Quick! Time for something else that is beautiful before I begin to cry.

 Almond blossoms! Yes, remember how lovely they were, and how their perfume filled the air, and how I could stand in the spaces between the branches and listen to the myriad of bees buzzing around the flowers.

The corona virus is bad, no doubt about that. But only a few weeks ago, fully a THIRD of the students at Joma's school were out sick with some kind of cough and fever that knocked Joma off her little rocker for well over a week. No one rushed out and bought up all the cough syrup and Clorox over it. NO ONE in this town has COVID19, and what will buying and hoarding toilet paper help them with if they pick it up somewhere else?

I guess what makes me really sad is that this little town is one of the most affluent in the Central Valley. There's no need for anyone to hoard anything. But there you have it, they are. Today Bernie and Joma went to the store for parmesan cheese (Lillian is cooking stuffed shells for dinner tomorrow) and Bern reported that there has now been a run on meat and cheese, almost none to be had. (The shaved parmesan that Lil wanted was in good supply -- must be too weird for people to know what to do with it.) I sort of understand about buying meat in bulk, but cheese? It doesn't freeze well ... and I know maybe four or five folks who actually DO know how to cook, but for the most part, the general populace here doesn't.

After the bout in the grocery store, I was not at all surprised to hear that both the girls' schools were closing for three to four weeks. Or that our diocesan bishop dispensed with the requirement of going to Mass on Sundays until this virus blows over.

And until the panic does, too.

Four Tasks at Once

The nice woodstove does a few things well.

First of all, it heats the whole house. Secondly, it dries the kitchen dish towels in a matter of minutes. Third, it keeps a dog warm -- or a person, if the person is quick enough to get to the chair before the dog does. And fourth, it saves electricity by cooking my onions and celery for my Chicken Stuff dressing. (If you could peek into that pot, you'd see the celery and onion simmering away.)

Let's add a fifth: it's beautiful and comforting to look at.

The Tale of Woe

August: Joma brings home the flu to Bernie and me, possibly from some germy little hog on the soccer team. My dog Kermit starts rubbing his eyes and muzzle -- lots of wildfire smoke in the air, so probably a reaction to that.

September: Recovering, lots of coughing for us, more rubbing by Kermit, still so much smoke.

October: Alex's health is getting bad enough she has to quit working.  Kermit is losing weight and his coat feels dry and dirty.

November: Kermit takes an extreme turn for the worse, stops eating, loses 20 pounds and looks like a fur-covered skeleton. Alex has surgery to correct her health problems. By November 10th, I quit NaNoWriMo because I fear my dog is dying.

December: Kermit appears to be on the mend after we nearly had him put down -- he couldn't walk without crying with pain, wouldn't eat. Bernie has surgery scheduled to correct a scar tissue problem from an operation 44 years ago, but halfway through the surgery, the doctors see something in his monitors that makes them fear a heart attack, and he is admitted to the hospital (it was supposed to be a 3-hour in-and-out thing) for three days for test upon test on his heart.

Christmas: Bernie has a clean bill of health for his heart, his surgery was quite successful, and I know from the medical tests that he doesn't have the same heart condition that killed his two brothers in the last three years. Kermit looks good again, putting on weight, his coat soft and glossy.

Goodbye, 2019.

National Novel Writing Month 2019

I'm not really sure why, really, I'm doing NaNoWriMo this year. I don't have the time to do it, practically speaking, but here I am, on Day 5, with a respectable word count of 9214. I was hoping for 10k, but was easily distracted today by laundry, and an absurd desire to maintain some kind of timeline consistency.

I doubt that any of what I'm writing will be usable in a new novel; maybe some, maybe not any of it. What I do know is that since I started writing again, nightmares have stopped completely. A month of no bad dreams is worth the time eaten up by writing. It's like having a vacation.

The lizard above is one of the MANY we have on the property now. I'm thrilled that the sagebrush lizard population has boomed. They eat ants, says the Internet. Indeed, I am not seeing the swarms of megacolonies of ants that I did a few years ago.

With the time passing into November coolness, the lizards have to sleep most of the time. I get to see them if I head outside around noon, but before that, and after two-thirty or so, it's just too cold for them. Kind of like me, and writing out in the studio.

Liz is saying, "Hey, why does it get so cold when you write?"