grief

Rants And Rages And Pages, Oh My

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , Leave a comment

I own a lovely letter written in cursive in the early 1900s, the spelling more phonetic than accurate. My daughter initially struggled to read it. She reads cursive just fine. The problem was the phonetic spelling. “Read it as though you’re from Oklahoma,” I told her, based on the postage cancellation stamp. She read it aloud then, with a mildly midwestern accent, and the metaphoric light bulb turned on. 

The letter itself, addressed to Will from his loving wife, tells about her finishing the “warshing” and starting the “peacin” for her quilt. She cautions Will to travel safely. He’s walking home but his location is unknown to us, obscured by damage to the envelope. She also encourages him to turn back if things become dangerous again. What things? Dangerous how? It’s unlikely that we’ll ever know. 

Beyond its delightful authenticity, its tenderness, it’s a reminder that all those old pictures–cabinet cards, daguerreotypes, tintypes–are real people who lived, loved, fought, and died, just as we do. The way we teach history is such a disservice to learning and understanding. Yes, I know 1066 was important and I even (sort of) know why but you know what else was important? Will and his journey back to his wife. Perhaps if we hadn’t lost the humanity of history, we’d understand it better. Would that help us not repeat it? I honestly don’t know. 

A couple weeks ago, I took a drive to Mount Pleasant, ate at a local diner (great server but overall a rather meh meal), and then headed to Blairsville before returning to Pittsburgh. The clouds were particularly puffy. I complimented them; but from their lofty perspective, I suspect they didn’t much care about my admiration. 

The trees appeared to be a monochromatic deep green. Perhaps this is an example of that saying, “Can’t see the forest for the trees” only in reverse. The view was of a broad swath of forest, oddly still, the trees indivisible from the whole. This is, unfortunately, a view the rest of the world has of us. More noise, less exhaustion, seems the answer but that’s hard, isn’t it? 

Will it encourage you to know that on my drive, I saw only two fascist symbols: first, a weirdly homoerotic image of the guy in the White House plastered to the back passenger window of a pickup truck. People around me were making the “interesting choice” face. I mean, it’s so cringy. Just why? I like Henry Cavill but you won’t find me putting a sticker of his face on any of my windows. SMH The second was an absolutely enormous sign attached to the side of a business. It’s been there for years now. I hope I get to see it come down, like the Nazi symbols burned by the Allies.

I have more napkins in my car and backpack than the combined inventories of all the local ice cream shops. (A friend who reads this has a similar napkin collection habit. YES, my friend (whose name I will not mention), I am talking about you. haha) There is a man at the coffee shop who outpaces even me. He’s looking for something in the reusable bag he always carries. After a few minutes of escalating rustling sounds, he begins taking things out of the bag. Napkins, numerous very tidy piles of napkins. There are other things in there–a plastic bag, some notes that he reads and discards, several newspaper sections. It’s the napkins that are remarkable. If you ever spill anything or need to sneeze, find this man. Or me.

I arrived at the coffee shop early one day a few weeks ago and was clearly deep in my thinks. I did not notice ANY of the vandalism on Walnut. The coffee shop door was propped open and entirely without glass. The tshirt store down the street had a huge glass bruise. One of the bookstores had similar damage. Since I entered a store with no glass in the door, entirely without noticing, I clearly am not the appropriate person to report on any other damaged stores. Lol The baristas and I gossiped for a bit about whether someone was mad or perhaps a college student was drunk. Hard to say around here.

There are two white poodles sitting with their owner at a table next to me. I swear I didn’t call to them. THEY came to me. Now, they keep walking over to lick me, particularly my sandal-clad feet. It’s quite tickly. They’re very naughty. I love them. 

An older man, dark hair and a heavily greying beard, is reading a large pile of magazines and weekly papers at a table nearby. I didn’t notice him until I heard the distinctive sound of paper ripping. I looked up and he was tearing a magazine through. He tidily deposited both halves into a bag and returned to reading. A bit later, I heard the same distinctive sound. Just that man, ripping another bit of reading material, and again depositing it into a bag.   

The sound flashed me immediately back to a job I had in the early ‘90s. I worked for a graphic, interior, industrial design firm. It was both the most boring job I’ve ever had and also the most frantic. I lasted two years before they laid me off/fired me. It is the best employment thing that has ever happened to me. And I really, actually mean that. For years after that, on my job-loss anniversary (July 6, 1992), I contemplated sending a thank you note to the CEO, though I never did. Anyway, my boss there liked to rip paper. We shared a ¾ wall. I could hear the shshsh of paper ripping all day. Where did she find all that paper to rip? Into the tiniest pieces, too. Crazy. Would it surprise you to know that we did not have a particularly good relationship?

Honestly, in hindsight and as my own boss, I can acknowledge that I was not the best employee. First, I was terrible at “playing the game.” Absolutely terrible at it. Second, I said what I wanted to say and damn the consequences. And were there ever consequences. Even though I worked my ass off at all the jobs I ever had, I did not have the insight to realize that good work isn’t valued anywhere near as much as a penis. I was constantly judged for not dressing “feminine” enough. Even one woman I worked for – yeah, I’m looking at you NAME REDACTED – would say things like “more jewelry,” “you need to wear makeup,” etc.  I have a feeling “look more masculine” is not a performance recommendation many MEN have heard. 

Okay. Let’s talk pedestrians for a moment, in particular pedestrians crossing the street. Can we run them down? Honk at them? Bully them to hurry faster? NO. My friends, the answer is NO. We do not run over, threaten to run over, pressure, harass, or otherwise make pedestrians feel uncomfortable or unsafe in their shoes while we are in our multi-ton vehicles. EVEN if we’re desperately late for something excruciatingly important. 

Every once in a while, I hear someone start to say something about pedestrians not having the right of way and my answer always is, “So, you’re going to hit them?” Oh no, that person is jaywalking. Ten points for the pedestrian, right? NO. Let’s practice our empathy and humanity by being a little more zen in the car, my friends. But you’re late for that meeting, that doctor appointment, that interview, the Met Gala. Guess whose fault that isn’t? Yeah, exactly. It isn’t the pedestrian’s fault. And I promise, if you accidentally hit that pedestrian while you’re trying to hurry, you’re going to be a hell of a lot later for that ever-so-important thing.

Yes, this rant is the result of nearly getting killed while crossing the street at a crosswalk with a stop sign. 

Stay safe at there and look both ways before you step off the curb.

Much love.

Rants And Rages And Pages, Oh My

Not Where I Should Be, Nor Where You Think

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , 1 Comment

Someone directly behind me is playing a violin quite well, which is not a thing I normally say when I’m working. No criticism of the performers on Walnut Street intended. I’ll just say that what they lack in skill, they make up for in enthusiasm and backing recordings from their ever-present CD players. 

The air is crisp with hints of fall but the sun is all summer. It’s almost brisk, such a welcome relief that the people have come from all their hidden places to swarm the square, which, in point of clarity, is not even slightly square shaped.

Two men sit on a bench within eyesight of my shady spot. They have an elderly dog who is currently lying in a dappled sunspot but stands enthusiastically to greet any who come within reach of her leash. One of the men looks like Santa Claus on his summer break. The other more closely resembles a retired actor, could, in fact, be a retired actor for all I know. They’re sitting like a couple or loving old friends, each in a corner of the bench, turned toward each other, knees almost touching.

Next to me, on another bench, is a contemplative young man. He might have crossed into melancholy, though his twitching leg suggests that he’s anxiously waiting or perhaps just anxious. He’s been here for at least 20 minutes as the violinist plays “All I Ask of You” from Phantom of the Opera. 

If I had a dollar (inflation) for every shirtless young man who has run by, I would be retired and living in the Highlands. Why do men take off their shirts to run? Do they run faster without the drag of a shirt? Perhaps they’re solar powered and need to expose as much skin as possible to collect the energy necessary for a run.

The violinist is gone, replaced by a guitarist who is still warming up. A couple with four dogs has settled into the seating to my right. One of the dogs is sitting in a cart like it’s a throne. The humans are certainly treating the dog like royalty. The other dogs lay happily in the sun, the breeze ruffling their fur. 

The young man looked at his phone, got up, and is now gone. His place has been taken by another young man with very floppy hair that he’s fussing over. He’s looking at his phone. I think he’s waiting for someone but he might also just be a bored teenager. I’m pretty confident that he is not the person the other young man was waiting for.

The guitarist is singing Carole King’s “Chains.” Honestly, I’m not loving it. I haven’t decided if I don’t love his voice or if I don’t love the song. Or, you know, both. I’ll say this for him. He’s doing something I would not even attempt in front of a microphone, unless my children’s lives were in danger. I’d sing loud and proud if, for some inexplicable reason, my singing would save them. 

Two proselytizers have joined the community. They are standing beside a bench and being very obviously avoided by everyone. Wait, I take that back. They’ve been approached by a group who are, if body language is accurate, challenging the proselytizers. I stopped watching because…working. When I eventually look up from my screen, they’ve all disappeared. I wonder what that means.

The guitarist is now playing Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues.” Sigh. He’s definitely better on this song but he’s no Johnny Cash. I recognize the unfairness of the comment. I do. No one has the incomparable rawness of Johnny Cash. I think I’m just a curmudgeon. Shocking to realize. 

A family of Gryffindors just walked by. I know this by their tshirts. Too bad she who shall not be named uses her platform to harm others. I hope she gains empathy. If she can’t stop her efforts to hurt others, I hope that her platform diminishes to the size of a grain of salt because that’s what we should take her opinions with.

We’re now listening to “Jack and Diane.” Sigh. I’m back to disliking the guitarist. Lol This is not a song in his genre, though my biggest beef right now is that he’s singing the slow parts as though he’s running a race he has to win. Just slow down, my friend. “This is a ditty ‘bout Jack and Diann” is not a line to be hurried.

All the dogs who pass by try to stop at my table. The owners are all apologetic but they don’t know I have dog treats from the farmers market in my bag. Hehe 

There’s now a clarinet competing with the guitarist. It’s honestly rather musically jarring. They’re NOT working together. Really not. The guitarist is singing “I Shot the Sheriff.” I can’t tell what the clarinetist is playing.

Nothing says, “we know you’re alone” like all the people around you trying to take the chairs at your table. Yep. I know, folks. I’m sitting by myself at a four-top but maybe you could leave me the dignity of pretending that people are joining me soon.

A faded hopscotch board in the walkway has drawn more attention than you might expect. Not everyone plays but the people who do span the ages – children to elderly. And they smile widely. I think a lot of us have forgotten that you don’t need permission to have fun. 

A couple is now sitting on the bench near me. The man thinks he’s killing it with the woman. He is, I promise you, not killing it with her. He’s leaning toward her, arm across the back of the bench they’re on. She’s sitting forward, one arm over her torso, the other holding her ankle so it doesn’t come in contact with his encroaching leg. Her body language screams No Touching. Honestly, he’s very smug sounding, bragging about how important he is. I can see why she’s turned off. I’m turned off and I’m not even included.

A couple walking a dog named Winslow is arguing as they approach my table. She says that he was rude. He’s loudly defending himself, “I thought you’d understand.” Never a smart response. If your words hurt someone important to you, the right answer is, “I didn’t intend to hurt you and I’m sorry that I did.” Anyway, the dog approaches me. (I still have my dog-treat bag.) It’s enough to stop their bickering as they try to untangle their too-long leash, which the dog has wrapped around my table in search of that delicious smell. 

It’s evening now, just coming on to dusk. The temperature is dropping – I am not dressed for this! The young men walking by in groups are doing what appears to be a scavenger hunt. I’m guessing, from their ages, that it’s for new students to get to know each other. They’re all holding phones and discussing locations as they walk quickly and occasionally break into a jog. 

Dinner tonight is a burger, not actually, despite what you might all think, my preferred choice of meal but the pickings are few here. Fine dining, burgers, pizza. That’s it. Pizza is rarely something I would choose, with the occasional exception of Mercurios in Shadyside. Fine dining requires a reservation that I have not made. And that’s how I arrive at a burger. It’s fine. I like burgers but they’re heavy meals. I’m already tired and have many words to write today. I fear my eyes will become as heavy as my dinner.

There are four young men, I’m guessing college seniors, playing some sort of game at their table. There’s a full glass of beer and they’re all putting a finger on the rim. Someone calls out a number and one or more of the guys raises their finger. Eventually, someone wins. The rules are completely opaque to me and to one of the players. They explain the rules to him again and I try, really, to eavesdrop along. I’m missing something key, however, because as far as I can tell, the wrong person wins the next round of the game. Also, it appears to be a drinking game but they are not drinking the beer. If you have any idea what’s going on, please tell me.

Do you want a review of my burger? Well, you’re getting one anyway. It was particularly meh, the only cow meat option, covered with a grilled piece of ham and a large mound of fried onions. The burger itself was overcooked, an error for which there is no redemption. Included was a tasty but very sweet honey mustard sauce. Overall, I’d give it a 6 out of 10. I’ve had several very nice meals recently. This one will not be included on the list.  

Every step I’ve taken this week, I’ve heard the echo of young feet. Someone smarter than me once said, “You can’t go home again.” Now, I think I understand why.

Much love.

Not Where I Should Be, Nor Where You Think

Who Are The People In Your Neighborhood?

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

My brain is a roiling mass of noise. But also, this weekend is the Latrobe banana split festival. In case you’re not aware: Latrobe is the HOME of the banana split. It’s a great story of a pharmacy student working at a soda fountain in 1904 who was challenged by young customers to make a fun treat using that crazy exotic fruit.

I’ve finally found the model for my current male protagonist. He’s a construction supervisor here in Pittsburgh who is doing his part to prop up that ‘90s Diet Coke commercial. I’ve been holding off describing my protagonist in detail because I just haven’t been able to see him in my mind. My friends, he is finally visible. I would never objectify anyone, so I won’t tell you about the construction supervisor’s, I mean, my character’s magnificent beard, biceps the size of a normal man’s thighs, and rugged, grumpy face. He’s PERFECT as my hero…I mean, my character’s hero. Hehe

Two regulars are playing chess by the window. The coffee shop doesn’t stock games. One of these men brought a whole-ass chess board ON HIS BICYCLE. It’s a full-sized board, too. No travel-size nonsense for them. 

The people sitting in front of me are speaking Portuguese. A man sitting beside me is speaking farsi, I think. A group of girls on the cushy chairs upstairs are speaking Korean. Several people are speaking English, some with an accent that suggests they’re from a different country. And you know what? I’m just fine.

This is a comment on our sudden fear of immigrants.

Oof. Someone spilled their 20oz latte. The completely full latte they’d just been handed by the barista. It went everywhere. I did that with my iced tea a few weeks ago, except that I spilled mine on the only carpeted section of the store. Also, and worse, IMHO, I didn’t drop mine. I put it on the table behind my computer and proceeded to knock it over when I slid my computer further back on the table. The tea stain is still visible on the carpet. I say, “Hi tea,” under my breath when I walk by it on the way to the restroom. It’s a greeting and word play. If you think that doesn’t make me laugh every single time, you clearly don’t know me.

There are two young children at the coffee shop negotiating with Grandma to get a treat. The little girl, maybe 5 or 6, has a pink bow in her hair. She’s being extremely naughty, trying to climb onto the counter and sitting in all the chairs like a little Goldilocks. The boy is rolling on the carpet in front of the counter. I keep gasping, thinking Grandma is going to step back onto him. Apparently, though, she’s got Grandma radar because no one gets injured. 

Unfortunately, Grandma yells at one of the baristas for not being friendly enough. That sucks. Don’t do that. Your barista doesn’t owe you friendliness. They aren’t your friend. There’s a significant power imbalance and you, as the customer, hold most of the power. Baristas are paid like $12/hour to make your drink, serve you a pastry, wipe off the tables, put toilet paper in the bathroom, and ask you to leave at closing. They’re not your friend. They don’t even owe you a smile. It’s nice to get one but it’s not necessary.

There’s a server at Kelly O’s in Pittsburgh’s Strip District who is slightly more animated than a cardboard cut-out. She’s had it with being artificially friendly. If she’s waiting on you, you are going to get rote questions (how do you like your eggs what kind of meat do you want sausage bacon or ham white wheat or rye toast). There’s no inflection, no commas in her voice, no pauses inviting conversation. She’ll also be giving you rote responses to your witticisms, questions, and attempts at connection. She does not give a f**k about you or your desire to be friendly. But her service is efficient and high quality. There’s another server there who, every time she sees me and Tristan, says, “Hey, babes. How are you?” She does this even when she’s not our server. It takes all kinds and it’s okay if the kind you get isn’t your best friend from the moment you meet.

Another server I know, Daisy, works at Ritters, a local diner that’s been a fixture of Bloomfield for longer than I’ve lived in Pittsburgh (and that’s a long time). We used to go there often as grad students to eat inexpensive food on laminate tables with vinyl booths. A much younger Daisy was already working there, though I didn’t know it. 

When my son lived in Bloomfield, we started going there pretty regularly again. Not much has changed, including the vinyl booths and laminate tables. Thirty years after I first visited Ritters, I got to know Daisy. She has now worked there for 45 years. We’ve been friendly for about 10 of those, I guess, but really connected while I was getting chemo. She’d had cancer about 15 years before and immediately was suspicious when I didn’t order my usual iced tea. 

We’ve compared notes on lots of things over the years, mostly superficial, though sometimes, it’s been mom-related stuff. I know that Daisy likes patty melts without the onion and French toast and never switched back from decaf coffee after she entered remission. I also know that she’s dying of bone cancer and that I’ll never see her at the diner again. She’s inpatient right now, fighting for another few months of life. I hear she has a grandbaby on the way. I’m not on her mind right now, probably never will be again, but she is on mine. I suspect that, like so many other people I’ve met, she’ll continue to be there.

Much love.

Who Are The People In Your Neighborhood?

Enslavement Sucked, Even if the Museum No Longer Says So

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

The president says the Smithsonian Museum is too focused on “how bad slavery was.” I’m sure you all saw his comments. For the president to suggest that we shouldn’t stare into the darkness of our history is an urgent cry to do just that, to know it, to share it, to understand what this country officially chose to do to human beings. We cannot, we should not look away. The lie has gone on for far too long. 

You were probably not taught the extent of the unbearable truth of enslavement. It isn’t in the Smithsonian, at least, not to the degree that the president alludes. History is written by the winners, right? And yet, we lost the voice of the formerly enslaved. Theoretically, they won their freedom via the Civil War; but they didn’t get to tell their story in any national way, certainly not to school children. Hell, when I was a child, we were taught that many of the formerly enslaved stayed at the plantations where they’d previously been owned, presumably because they were happy there (it was their “home”); but that’s grossly, egregiously false. Sure, some stayed; as children we never learned WHY. Maybe, as adults, some of us still don’t know, still parrot the “they were happy at the plantation” falsehood. 

Most of what I’ve learned has come from active searches for the details that teachers didn’t provide. Believe me; I don’t want to know. Once you see an image of a human muzzled, there’s no promise that it will ever leave your mind. Nonetheless, choosing not to know is an indulgence I don’t feel comfortable with simply because I’m a privileged white woman who would never have been enslaved. When I read Beloved, I had to research some of the punishments Toni Morrison wrote about. I’d never been taught in school about speculum oris, tongue restraint, iron muzzles and bits. Maybe that’s a horror we don’t want children to know. And yet, many children literally experienced that horror, those punishments. Why is it okay for them to have endured it, for us to have DONE it, but not for us to teach about it? 

Books that will break your heart – Beloved by Toni Morrison; 12 Years a Slave by Solomon Northup; Never Caught by Erica Armstrong Dunbar; Slavery and Public History edited by James Horton and Lois Horton; Bullwhip Days edited by James Mellon. 

There’s a great quote from a fairly silly move, Ever After. In the movie, Dougray Scott’s character, Prince Henry, says, “I used to think if I cared about anything, I’d have to care about everything.” In times like these, it’s worth remembering that you get to choose how much you pay attention to. You get to choose what you care about. People, like me!, will shout at you from every platform that you are a monster if you don’t lie awake at night, thinking about…. Well, you name it: Gaza, Ukraine, voting rights, marriage equality, the Smithsonian, mail-in ballots, the unhoused in DC, ICE kidnappings, vaccinations, the Epstein files, climate change, and every other critical thing that has momentarily slipped from my short term memory but will wake me at 2AM. 

Rationally, you and I know that we can’t, we simply can’t put enough emotional energy into all of the things that matter. They all matter. That’s why we feel such rage and grief. And that’s why we have to give ourselves the grace to breathe. You don’t have to cry about marriage equality today to care about marriage equality. You don’t have to think TODAY about babies starving in Gaza to know that it’s wrong and to want it to stop. You can give yourself room to process the grief that you feel, the exhaustion. You personally will not stop what is happening but staying fighting fit will enable you to stand up when you are ready to.

And if you want to borrow a book, you let me know. 

Much love.

Enslavement Sucked, Even if the Museum No Longer Says So

Eels On Toast And Other Curiosities

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , Leave a comment

The news is so dark these days that today I’m scrapping my usual rants to tell some funny stories about my day here in the Steel City. Let’s go!

This morning, I was walking toward the bank when I passed an older man carrying a pastry to an outdoor seat. The event itself was unremarkable except that the man said “Good morning,” to which I replied with a somewhat surprised “Hi.” Usually, I’m one of those annoyingly friendly people who bounces down the street greeting people with smiles and petting dogs (until I notice that the owners are desperately trying to continue their walks) but I was kind of daydreaming, not really paying attention. On my way back from the ATM, I spotted him sitting at a sidewalk table and commented on how delicious his pastry looked. I think I surprised him because he said, “What?” And I repeated myself. He nodded, considered for a moment, and said, “Yeah, it is.” We both kind of laughed and I came here, to the coffee shop. Some time passes, I’m sitting at the front window, in my favorite seat, when I spot him walking by. He spots me at the same time, we both grin, he gives me a finger wave, and the day moves on. Another hour passes, he’s walking back the way he came, looks for me, we grin at each other, share a finger wave, and our connection comes to an end. Sweet, though, right? 

Today is dental work day, not for me but for my dachshunds. Mina, the runt of the litter, has a not-fully-formed jaw which means more teeth than jawbone. She’s lost quite a few teeth over the years though it has never bothered her. When the pups had their annual checkup in June, the vet said that Mina needed to have several more teeth pulled because they are an impediment to her jaw and health. Not her food consumption, apparently, because she weighs an astonishing 15 pounds. She needs to lose a fifth of her body weight, which I could probably do as well. No treats for either of us for a while. Hehe

Mina’s sister, Freya, also needs dental work but mostly because she hates, with a fiery passion, having her teeth cleaned. We do it, of course, but she’s excellent at manipulating our emotions with her sad little cries of puppy distress. It’s ridiculous. She’s not in any pain, plus the toothpaste tastes like peanut butter (gross peanut butter but appealing to the dogs). Don’t feel sorry for her. She got herself into this dental mess by rejecting the back of the mouth tooth cleaning. The worst part – according to both pups – they weren’t allowed to have their daily bedtime dehydrated liver treats last night. They were heartbroken and cried like the spoiled babies they are. And yes, the dehydrated liver treats smell even worse than liver cooking on the stove, though the dehydrated salmon treats beat both of those on the stench meter. They must be tasty, though, because even the cats will beg for them.

On the way to the vet this morning, I spotted a friend cleaning a drainage grate for Allegheny CleanWays, a nonprofit that supports keeping garbage out of the waterways. It supports lots of other environmental waste reduction efforts to prevent dumping of difficult-to-dispose-of garbage like tires, microwaves, small refrigerators, and so much more that otherwise ends up on our hillsides and in our rivers. Rather than honk, I texted her later, one of those “did I just see you…” and we made plans to meet up next month. About an hour after that, I’m sitting here, at the window of the coffee shop, and I see her walk by. Yes, of course I ran outside to bellow hello because, damn, she’s a fast walker. 

We were still on the sidewalk chatting when Maestro, the Great Pyrenees, stopped to say hello with his owner. I’ve talked about them before. She has dementia and a great support group of neighbors and family that enables her to stay safely in this community, walking her beautiful baby. She was in a rage today because we’re losing the RiteAid, a surprisingly lucid complaint given her cognitive decline. My friend and I managed to convince her that there will be another similar store moving in here to fill the gap. There’s already a local pharmacy further down the street but it is not a convenience store. If something doesn’t move in to supply her small needs, she swore that she’d move back to Hershey (where she hasn’t lived in nearly 60 years). Somehow, I doubt that her son will allow that to happen.

A man just rode his bike down the street, which would not be remarkable except that he had a dog riding along in a pack, on his back, her fur blowing in the breeze. At the same time, a man walked by with his puli, a dog whose fur I would hate to have to care for. My long-haired doxie is difficult enough, particularly when slugs get caught in her fur. She doesn’t eat them. In fact, she makes the dog version of a yuck face when she pulls them gently out of her fur and spits them onto the floor. This is a near-daily event, requiring me to rescue and rehome slugs before they get trampled underfoot. That might sound gross but all of the creatures around us serve a purpose, even mosquitoes, which are a delightful meal for our local bats. And after several years of significant growth, our recently overwhelming lantern fly population has become a satisfying snack for several bird species here. It took a year, maybe two, for birds to recognize them as food but it’s helping tremendously to keep the number of lantern flies more manageable. 

I’ve set an unusual – definitely, I have no defense –  reading goal for myself. I am going to consume the entirety of Betty Neels’ book catalogue. You’ve probably never heard of her: she wrote Mills&Boon romances for approximately 30 years, beginning in the 1960s. Her books were also published by Harlequin. Almost all of the originals have fantastic hand-drawn covers of a pretty girl and a brooding man. Occasionally, they are embracing but usually she’s looking into the distance while he glares in a foreboding manner. Content-wise, I would describe them as adult Nancy Drew books, though obviously a different genre. 

You might ask yourself – as I have already asked myself – WHY have I set this goal? I have a huge TBR pile already. The only answer I can give you is that I read one of these as a 12 year old and recognized the title when I was doing some research on old romance novels for my current novel. The plot of the book, A Ring in a Teacup, came back to me in a flood of memory. I could picture the old library at my grandmother’s senior apartment building – for those of you who regularly read the blog, this is the apartment she moved to after the graphic sex scene. Lol The library was filled with romance novels that my grandmother encouraged me to read. They were all very low on intimacy, with sentences like “he kissed her firmly” and “she admired his tall, well-built frame.” 

Of course, they are deeply misogynistic. One of them even quotes that Tennyson poem – you know the one: “Man with the head, woman with the heart; man to command and woman to obey.” I think it’s from Tennyson’s Princess saga and in my humble opinion, well worth skipping entirely. But something about her books: her detailed descriptions of medical treatments (Neels was a nurse before she began her writing career), life in the 60s and 70s, and luxury cars like the Panther, Daimler, and Rolls Royce makes them remarkably readable. She also, having lived in Holland for 13 years, used that country as one of her primary story locations. I’ve looked up the pronunciation and meaning of many Dutch words since beginning my quest. 

If Neels is to be trusted, the English at the time never stopped eating. They had coffee and toast, then breakfast, then tea, then dinner, then tea, then supper, and finally coffee before bed. Crazy. Who had time to do anything else? The portions must have been tiny. Her food descriptions are fantastic and have also required much research, though I would suggest that she had too much fondness for eel on toast, which has made a regular appearance in her books. Also, I had never before heard of Gentleman’s Relish or Charlotte Russe as a dessert. You’ll have to discover these delights for yourself. You can also eat my share of Gentleman’s Relish and you don’t have to thank me for it. 

I just noticed the wording on the sign prohibiting “dogs or animals” at our coffee shop, not “dogs or other animals.” Does this mean that dogs are not what we traditionally think of as animals? I’m inclined to agree but it does leave open the explanation as to what, exactly, dogs are. Mystical beings, perhaps? Angels sent to succor us? The reincarnation of people who have passed on? 

Lunch is in the refrigerator at home so I bought a sandwich from the coffee store, an unusual, and surprisingly inexpensive, event. Now, as more proof that I should never eat while working, I have a keyboard absolutely covered with crumbs and greasy fingerprints. (The sandwich was a delicious pepperoni croissant for $5.) I regret nothing. 

With my parking meter about to expire, I will wrap up today’s meandering notes with a suggestion: be as kind to yourself today as you would be to someone you saw struggling. It’s really hard to give yourself the grace you might give another but you deserve it. 

Much love. 

Eels On Toast And Other Curiosities

UPDATED: Anyone Here Order a Slice of Alzheimer’s?

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , 5 Comments

Pamela’s Diner, on the weekends, can often be a place to avoid. One of the great things about it, though, is the joyful noise of people finally together who often cannot be. The restaurant was full today but I mostly travel in a pack of one which makes it pretty easy to get a table. Melissa, one of the servers, sat a group of six women next to me at my tiny table (it’s supposed to seat two but one side of the table is broken like an accidental drop-leaf table). Those women looked so young to me, a familiar proclamation of the middle aged (she says in an unsuccessful attempt to make herself feel younger), and delighted to be together. There were three children with them, a charmingly self-aware 6 year old, a toddler discovering that they appeal to their neighbors, and a baby who was all id, hungry and, once sated, sleepy. 

Sometimes, as I look around the diner, I catch the eye of another people-watcher. There are two types: 1) looks away immediately, 2) smiles and continues people-watching. When I was younger, I would have been in the first group, shy and perhaps flushing with embarrassment, but now, older and a devout member of the we-do-not-care club, I smile and sometimes, depending on who it is, I’ll even wink. Very daring, perhaps, but it makes me laugh. 

I know most of the employees at Pamela’s. Sometimes, when I walk in, several of them will call out, “Hi, Deb,” which makes me feel like I live in that old television series, Cheers. Hehe I like to think that strangers whisper about the famous person and try to figure out who I am. That makes me laugh, too. If only you knew, my friends. If only you knew….

There’s a barista at the coffee shop who has the greatest hair color – it’s really a blend of several colors, a little purple, a little red, a little blue. Every time I see them, I say something about their hair and we talk about how complex it is to keep a color fresh. They always say, “Oh, I was thinking how bad it looks.” And I always say, “You can’t see what I can see.” This is not a statement about hair color. 

Also, as just an aside, why in the ever-loving, noisy-ass, shrieking, are we listening to Squid as background music? Even with my headphones in and my music UP, I cannot escape the screaming. It isn’t in my head, I swear. It’s coming from the speakers and I’m really getting an understanding of the psychological warfare we once engaged in against North Korea. 

Things in the US are about to get worse, when the House and Senate finish reconciling their “big, beautiful bill.” Whatever your party, your community will be devastated by the Medicaid and Medicare cuts that are planned. It is clear to me that the average person is so busy demonizing Medicaid “waste” – just as our “leaders” intended – that they do not realize how many people rely on it and just who, exactly, those people are. I’ll bet, if you queried people at YOUR local diner, at least a third of them couldn’t even explain the purpose of either Medicaid or Medicare. 

Do YOU know which states in the US rely most on federal funding of Medicaid? Six of the seven states receiving the most federal Medicaid funding voted for our current president. The most vulnerable in those communities will lose their coverage and they’ll think it’s a mistake that our president didn’t know about, not a strategy to fill the coffers of the ultra-rich. Hospitals in high risk communities will fail for lack of funding, not for lack of demand. 

Your first thought might be that at least all these former MAGA voters will definitely vote against Republicans next time but guess what? The bill includes a section that allows the president to cancel elections at any time, for any reason. When this bill passes and gets signed, there may not be an opportunity to vote him or our current representatives and senators out of office. Since he wants to be president-for-life (aka king), you should, in fact, assume that he will cancel future votes. Because he will. Of course he will.  Fact-checked into oblivion. Thanks, Crescent, for the keen eye.

I don’t know the answer to the dilemma we’re in. But I do know that generating fear and hopelessness are two effective strategies of the fascists currently in power. We the People cannot submit. 

Next soapbox:  This might seem to be about Mamdani. And it is, sort of. It is possible to care about multiple things at the same time. For example, people can abhor the human rights catastrophes in the United States, Ukraine and Gaza AND, at the same time, not be antisemitic. This is not a skill unique to me. You can all do it, too. Just because I don’t want Palestinians murdered does not mean I want the Jewish state destroyed. It’s weird how successful the oligarchs have been at framing this issue in a way that makes people afraid to speak up. I’m not antisemitic. I am, however, anti-murder. There are always solutions that do not require the extermination of any ethnic community. If you think the only answer is killing, you’re probably reading the wrong blog. 

Even though I don’t talk about it much, I spend a not inconsiderable amount of time supporting someone who is declining cognitively. It’s a world of contradictions – a verbal obsession with cleanliness and dirty dishes in the cupboard; paying bills incorrectly while also refusing support to make the process easier. And fear. So much fear and yet the keys are often left in the deadbolt. I struggle sometimes to figure out how to provide the necessary support. I have no trouble living in their timeline, whatever it is, but then they do something dangerous like leave the house without their phone. Sometimes, they know exactly where they are and sometimes they get lost going to the restaurant they’ve been to a million times. This makes phonelessness terrifying to those of us who are trying to provide support. 

Googling “is it ethical to sew wearable trackers into someone’s clothes?” provides all kinds of terrifying results. I know exactly what you’re going to say: tell this person that you’re putting wearable trackers in their clothes. My friends, I can text this person 16 times that I’m picking them up at 9AM for their doctor appointment tomorrow and I’ll still either get a dozen frantic calls before I arrive (at 9AM or earlier) OR they’ll have forgotten that they have an appointment, even though it’s written in their handwriting in their calendar which is RIGHT THIS MINUTE open on their dining room table. 

It’s easy, so easy, to tell someone in cognitive decline to ALWAYS TAKE YOUR PHONE but sometimes this person is living in the 1970s, when phones weren’t mobile. Sometimes, even though their phone is in their hand, this person runs out to the car as I’m about to pull away – instead of calling me – because they pressed the wrong button on the TV remote and screwed up the TV. (Don’t try to solve this rabbit-hole problem: there are already notes with arrows on the remote control.) I even have spare copies of their house keys because they have lost their keys in their own pocket. That’s not a joke, like ‘I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached’.

As an example, here’s a brief story of the terrifying world of cognitive decline: my friend, we’ll call them Sally because it’s as removed from their name as anything could be – you know I’m all about privacy! – lends their car to someone. That someone takes just the car keys and hands the house keys to Sally. When I arrive to pick Sally up later, they are in an actual panic because they cannot find the house keys in order to lock up. I remind them that the keys are loose because Sally lent the car. “Are they in your pocket?” I ask. Sally’s answer: “Now, I remember.” The keys were, indeed, in Sally’s pocket. 

My friends, they could put their hand in their pocket a dozen times and not realize those keys are the item they’re looking for. It’s not their fault. Half the time, when we’re in the house looking for something, they forget what we’re doing while we’re still looking. Sometimes, they’ll remember that we’re searching but forget that we’re looking for the bill that was due yesterday. One time, we were trying to figure out whether they’d remembered to register the car (which we have to do annually in our state). I was looking through their files, which are organized by the month in which bills are paid (don’t even ask, it’s a complete filing nightmare that we’ll fix LATER). They were wandering around the living room, picking up random pieces of paper and showing them to me. “Is this what we’re looking for?” None of the pieces of paper were what we were looking for. They had, in fact, forgotten to renew their car registration, which I was able to determine by checking the state website. We took care of that immediately but it might be time again. I’d better make a note to check with them. Anyway…IT’S NOT THEIR FAULT.

The first statement in the Bill of Rights of the Cognitively Declining should be “It’s not their fault.” It’s never their fault. Trust me: none of the cognitively declining people I’ve met intentionally lost their keys, forgot my name, burned their dinner. Their world doesn’t look like ours. And they are so AFRAID. 

I know that I’ve told the story before about pretending to make deli sandwiches with not-my-Aunt Ginny who worked at a delicatessen in the 1940s. Just a couple years ago, we made pretend turkey sandwiches, filled pretend jars with pickles, sorted pretend utensils. It might seem funny. Sometimes, you have to laugh or else you’ll cry. But the point is, she was worried, so worried, the entire time that we wouldn’t be ready for the lunch rush. Her fear was real, even though the pickles weren’t. 

Thirty-ish years ago, I met a woman living on the Alzheimer’s ward of a long-term care facility. Alzheimer’s wards, in case you’ve never visited one, are locked to prevent the patients from wandering off. If they walk or wheel themselves too close to the doors, an alarm goes off to give the care team a heads up that there’s someone potentially trying to make a break for it. 

I know I’ve mentioned this before so forgive me if you remember my story: I was at the facility with a team doing signage and space planning. We had to measure everything and I do mean everything: square footage of rooms, height of lights and doorknobs, depth of equipment. You name it, we documented it. This was in the days before technological support. We had measuring tapes and sketched room outlines to fill in with measurements. It was tedious and took days to complete. Yes, I’m a writer which makes this assignment a little unusual but it was a big job. All hands on deck, so to speak. 

We’re walking through the ward when a woman rolls up to me in her wheelchair. Just as you have probably seen depicted on television, patients use their feet to push themselves around the wards when they’re too unstable to be allowed to walk alone or with an assistive device. She’s holding a baby doll and tries to hand it to me. I attempt to refuse. Fred, who is working with me, is teasing me about becoming a new mom. I’m a little embarrassed because I’m young, so young, and at work, trying to be a useful member of the team. Also, the doll is clearly a treasured possession and I don’t want to be in charge of that. She insists, which might seem a strange thing for a wheelchair-bound, non-verbal Alzheimer’s patient to do successfully, but she did it. I have no other explanation than to say that she persisted more effectively than I resisted. I carried her baby for the rest of the day. She smiled every time she saw me as she rolled from long hallway to long hallway. And at the end of the day, I gave her baby doll to the staff at the central desk to return. 

So, what’s the point? Obviously, meeting someone with declining cognition sure does present opportunities to learn but also: it’s not their fault. Cognitive decline isn’t a failure of imagination or a personality flaw or a crime. Your patience and imagination and personal integrity are essential to work effectively with them but they can be frightened and angry and mean and confused and grateful and loving and FEARFUL. 

Sometimes, my not-my-Aunt Ginny is combative, particularly in the late afternoon because she has sundowners, which means that she gets more confused and frightened as the day closes. I don’t visit after noon anymore. It’s too hard on her. She used to cry when I left and verbally abuse me for refusing to take her with me, which upset us both, her because it was, in her mind, a betrayal of our relationship, me because it was awful to see her so afraid. “I thought I knew you better,” she’d say, deeply wounded because I wouldn’t take her home to a house that was sold over a year ago to pay for her long-term care. 

All this brings us back to the person close to me who has cognitive decline. Have you ever seen that old Will Ferrrell comedy skit, ‘The Landlord’? (“God, you’re mean.”) People with cognitive decline can be so damn mean. Even though IT IS NOT THEIR FAULT, it can still be very hurtful. Called out, they 1) didn’t say that, 2) didn’t mean that, 3) can’t remember what they said, 4) are already having a different conversation, 5) and so on. There isn’t a good answer. They simply no longer have the awareness or understanding to be accountable for their unkindnesses. Unfair, isn’t it? Because who doesn’t want to call out the instrument of their pain?! But there’s no point. It’s like shaking a child who’s crying. The child isn’t the asshole. 

Hurt feelings aren’t the worst part, though. When my mother-in-law began to decline cognitively, I was reminded of the most painful aspect of illness. “Grief has arrived…. Hello, old friend,” which I have borrowed from the poem, “We grieve but we do not drown,” by scar_poetry. We grieve those we take care of. They are becoming something different, something that doesn’t meet our notion, our understanding of who they are. We MISS the person they were and sometimes we don’t really like the person they’ve become. My mother-in-law frequently forgot my name, sometimes didn’t recognize me at all. She’d refuse to do the things I’d ask of her, like take a shower, change her clothes, eat the food I cooked. 

When we first got to know each other, many years ago, we had to work hard to find common ground. She didn’t like that I’m Irish. I didn’t appreciate that she saved every single, tiny sliver of soap, a holdover from her childhood during the depression. It drove her crazy that I didn’t eat much. It drove me crazy that she didn’t respect my food boundaries. But we figured it out. We discovered all the great things about each other. It took time and patience but it was worth the effort. We formed a friendship that lasted nearly 15 years.

Everything changed when she started declining. She sometimes hated me, not Deb, but me, whoever I was to her in the moment. Of course, she never meant anything she said and didn’t even remember it afterwards. I knew this then and I understand it now. Knowing that, though, doesn’t lessen the grief, the bereavement of missing a person who is still with you but also not. We are forced to care for them in their existing form while mourning the person that they are no longer. It’s a cruel torture. And it’s still NOT THEIR FAULT.  

Having closed the 35 open browser windows on a certain someone’s phone in order to figure out why there was an ad playing (at the loudest possible volume), I find myself thinking about this today and hoping for peace tomorrow. I know I won’t get it in my personal life or in Gaza or in Ukraine but I can and will persist. Hopefully, I’ll be a little more Elizabeth Warren tomorrow and a little less young me in that Alzheimer’s ward. 

Much love. 

Hey, also, if you have an interest in supporting comics by Black women creators, there’s this cool Midnight Mystics kickstarter. I’m not in any way affiliated, though I did back the project. Maybe you’ll want to as well. Check it out. 

UPDATED: Anyone Here Order a Slice of Alzheimer’s?

Aisle 10: Between Cackles and Loud Sex

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Why is “Blue Raspberry” the name of a flavor? Blue has no flavor at all. It’s literally a color. Another, possibly more important question: why do we add the color blue to raspberry flavoring, which, in its natural form, is decidedly not blue?

Find you a friend who makes you cackle like the lady sitting two tables over is cackling right now at something her tablemate said. Everyone should feel that level of unholy joy at least once a day, though I think, for most of us, it’s a pretty rare feeling.

I saw an old friend recently. He was sitting on a bench with another of his friends, someone I know by sight but have never met. I introduced myself and we got to talking about life and everything that goes with it. My friend asked about my kids and I did the usual age and activity update. At this point – and it’s necessary here to say that I’ve been laughing ever since – my new acquaintance says, “You must have been a child bride.” Friends, it is no exaggeration to say that I snort-laughed at that. Man’s got game. He’s 80 to my almost 59. I told him that I’m pretty proud to be an old bitch. 

My soapbox is in the shop so instead of talking about how society makes it a crime for women to age, I’ll just say that I looked down at my hands the other day and realized that they look like my mom’s hands: a little wrinkled, marked by age and life with spots and scars. It felt like a little gift to see her in me and I wouldn’t give it back for all the anti-aging creams in the world. 

Last time I was here, at the coffee shop, two hopeful sparrows hopped past my table, pausing as if to ask, “Got any crumbs for me?” I cooed at their charm and a young woman next to me expressed her worry that they might get trapped here. I reassured her that they are regular visitors, savvy city dwellers who know how to navigate the confines of this store. That young woman, my immediate table neighbor, was wearing an absolutely popping white peasant-style skirt, long and flowing. It looked cool on what was a hot, sunny day. I complimented her and she confessed that it was vintage. She just got it over the weekend. She was pink with happiness over her purchase and the compliment. In her turn, she complimented my bright red reading glasses and confessed that she’d love a pair of red glasses. I said, “Do it. Buy the red glasses. Make them a component of the art of your appearance.” 

It’s okay, you know, to go on living while we worry about our futures. It’s okay – in fact, essential – to cackle at a friend’s joke, to think about your outfit, to buy red glasses. It isn’t ignoring what’s going on to sip an iced tea at the coffee store – which tea, by the way, has increased $.50 due to tariffs. During WWII, people danced. It was an act of defiance against the people who would have us fearful, cowering at their pretend strength. 

This morning, I talked to a friend whose partner just started his second job. He works afternoons/evenings in the South Hills and then drives to the West End to work nights. She’s delighted that he’s off on Sundays and Mondays. Tell me again how lazy people are. Tell me again that Medicaid, SNAP, and CHP are full of waste. Explain to me why ICE has to go to stores and schools to steal immigrants from our soil. If they’re lazy and not contributing, why are they at work? Why are they graduating from high school and college? And why isn’t the so-culpable media calling out this obvious conflict with ICE’s story? 

Some days, when I’m supposed to be working on my story revisions, I’m so frustrated with the ill-behavior of my words that I find other things to do. I can be very disciplined but I can also be very UNdisciplined. These past few weeks, it has been far easier for me to write 10,000 words for a CNF piece than to work on the novel. I think it’s because I can be angry when I’m working on the CNF but I have to be funny in the novel. I can do funny, usually. Right now, though, I’m feeling angry and aghast and…well, ANGRY. It’s easy to be snarky when I’m angry but snarky isn’t necessarily funny, especially when it’s directed at another person.

I woke up thinking about my grandmother. She’s been gone for more than 40 years, though I think about her often and often. I don’t know what, in particular, I was thinking about her – she was simply on my mind when I returned to consciousness. So, indulge me for a moment, while I share a story that started with her and ended with an … experience. 

When I was maybe 10 or 12, my parents, sister, grandmother, and I went to my dad’s favorite fancy restaurant. We rarely – and I mean rarely – ate out. He always said that because he ate lunch out every day, he wanted to eat dinner at home. This was a disappointment for my mother, who, as a result, never ate out but always had to cook because … that’s what women did. My dad didn’t learn to cook until he had to live alone. And then, he became one of those people who thought they discovered cooking. LOL 

Anyway, for some very special reason that I no longer recall, we went to The University Club for dinner. It was one of those places – lobster on the menu, drinks before dinner, candles on the table … blah, blah, blah. NOT my scene, and I remember with a child’s clarity that, every single visit there, my sister and I hoovered up the crackers on the table because we were starving by the time the before-dinner drinks had been consumed. 

By the end of our meal, the adults at the table were a little tipsy, some more than others – yes, including the driver. We were all draped on the fancy sofas in the entry room – maybe it was a bar area, I don’t remember – waiting for bathroom trips to be over when my mother told me to follow Grandma into the restroom because Grandma was pretty tipsy from all the Manhattan’s she’d downed. (Grandma was MAYBE 5’ on tall days, in heels and standing on tiptoe.) 

Of course – because my mom had some weird sixth sense about things – about 10 seconds after I entered the restroom in my fancy childhood sandals, my grandmother fell and I had to run for my mother. Grandma’s necklace had caught on the toilet paper device – a weird accident that caused her to hit the wall, hard, and cut open her face. She went by ambulance to the hospital with my mother while my (inebriated – don’t tell anyone that I initially spelled that inebrie-ated, yes, like the cheese and then giggled aloud SMH) father dropped us off at Grandma’s apartment. This is where things get crazy. 

Let’s paint the scene – my grandmother lived in a fancy old, old, old building. She’d been there for, maybe, 5-ish years. I loved it, with its antique-y furnishings and funny smells. She wasn’t, probably, so happy there and even less so when Gannon University started using it for student housing. Do you already know where this is going? Believe me; it took me a LONG time to figure it out. 

For those of you who haven’t quite got it yet: I’m sitting in Grandma’s living room. I think my sister is trying to nap in Grandma’s bedroom. We’re there for what seems like days but is probably just a couple hours. There’s nothing to do. It’s too late for television because, of course, in those days, television went off the air. I don’t have a book so, basically, I’m just staring out the small, basement-apartment window when I hear a woman scream. I sit BOLT UP, wondering if I’d dozed off. It happens again. But this time it’s more like a cry or moan. Oh my gosh. Someone is dying. I run into the bedroom to ask my sister if she can hear it. Maybe she’s less naive than me because she doesn’t seem to care. I go back into the living room and – not realizing it – listen to two people having very loud sex, while thinking that a woman is in agony. I was several years older before I figured that memory out. Haha

Grandma was fine, by the way. She got stitches but didn’t even have a concussion. Unrelated to the injury but not to the loud sex, she moved out of that building into a new senior high-rise that she absolutely loved and ruled like a benevolent dictator, if that is actually a thing. She was quite a powerhouse who made everyone love her, at least from my very not-objective childhood opinion. I am pretty sure, in hindsight, that, like my father, one either adored her or absolutely despised her. Of course, I adored her. 

Perhaps it will not surprise you that this post is a meditation on the companionship of grief. Occasionally, someone new to it will ask me if “it” gets better. There’s a lovely poem, “We grieve But We Do Not Drown,” by scar_poetry that answers that question particularly well. I don’t know scar_poetry’s given name but you can find her on social media, particularly Instagram. I recommend that you listen to her read the poem, as her inflection is, itself, a gift.

Much love.

Aisle 10: Between Cackles and Loud Sex

Still Coughing After All These Years

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

Years ago, when a friend and I were discussing religion, my friend asked me, and I’m paraphrasing here: What’s the point? She was asking me what’s the point of life if one doesn’t believe in God. This, I told her, this moment is the point. This time that I spend here, each moment, is exactly the point. We all get these moments, whether we believe in an afterlife or not. Sometimes, though, we forget to appreciate them.

Recently, I’ve had quite a lot of time to reflect on that and a variety of other memories that have visited and then flown from my brain. It’s easy to find time for silence when you can’t, in fact, do much speaking. I’ve been sick for nearly two weeks now, bacterial pneumonia, again, to the chagrin of myself and my children. We’ll see if the treatment is effective this time. It hasn’t always been in the past, though I have a lengthy infection to thank for my quick cancer diagnosis and treatment. And for that reason alone, I would be loath to complain this time.

Coughing is the problem. I’ve got fairly broken lungs – as any CT scan will prove – and there’s nothing like a good lung infection to kick off an extended coughing journey, one that often lasts for several weeks. My mother-in-law, one of the nicest people you could ever hope to encounter, absolutely could not bear to hear me coughing. Her beloved older sister, Mary, died of tuberculosis when my MIL was just 10 or so. It was 1935-ish and their family of 10 lived in a tiny apartment in NYC. Mary was 19 and tuberculosis, although on the decline, was an epidemic in the poor, overcrowded neighborhoods of NYC. Treatments weren’t cheap. Margaret’s father, Giovanni, cooked in a restaurant kitchen for 12 hours a day to earn enough to pay for Mary’s treatment. Unfortunately, he put his trust in a shyster who took the money without treating the TB. Mary spent the last year of her life in the girls’ shared bedroom coughing herself to death and Margaret, my sweet MIL, sat at her bedside, powerless to have any impact. 

Of course, with that kind of experience in her formative years, it’s no surprise that my coughing – pleurisy as some of my friends jokingly call it – would send Margaret into a spiral of despair. She never, ever stopped grieving her beloved Mary and hearing me cough regularly made her cry. If she were alive today, she’d scold me even now, while I ingest cough medicine and antibiotics. “Bella,” she’d say, with a sigh. She called all of us bella. Most of her conversations were sprinkled with Italian phrases like scungilli or scocc (from scocciari), which Google would tell you are insults. Coming from Margaret, with a twinkle in her eye and her finger gently shaking at you, being called a sea snail or a pest was loving and we all knew it. 

Anyway, she’d say, “Bella” or “Bella girl. You work too hard.” It wouldn’t matter to her that I’ve been sitting in this darn bed for 10 miserable days now, leaving it only for two doctor appointments and one essential visit with friends. She’d still scold, tell me to eat – like Mrs. Claus scolding Santa on the days before Christmas, “Eat, Papa. Eat.” – and ask me to rest more. I can’t imagine what she must have experienced as a small child, listening to her sister cough until she wretched. 

My grandfather also had tuberculosis around the same time. He was, however, a well-educated man in his 40s, living in Erie, Pennsylvania, rather than a child of Italian immigrants whose knowledge of English was poor, at best. Grandpa – Charles Park, or just Park, to most of the world – was sent to a sanatorium, like the one in Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain, although Grandpa’s was definitely less mountainous. 

My grandmother, Marion, became a woman of business, definitely out of desperation but also with a surprising acumen. Two relatives – I believe a great-aunt and my grandmother’s grandmother – moved in with my grandmother and her four children and somehow they made ends meet. My grandmother continued to work after my grandfather returned from the sanatorium. They needed the money. He was trained for the church, not much use if you’re trying to feed four young children, but he knew everyone, was kind and competent in his own quiet way; and he eventually found work making prosthetics and durable medical equipment. Because of his TB, he was never able to get life insurance, which they all laughed about because he lived into his mid-80s, far outstripping the actuaries’ expectations. 

My mother and MIL tested positive for TB their entire lives, though neither ever had symptoms. Perhaps their physical health wasn’t impacted but both of them lived with the emotional consequences of their encounters with TB. How could it not be so? Because of my own family history, I’ve been planning to read John Green’s new book, Everything Is Tuberculosis, but now doesn’t seem the most apt time for me to pick up a book about coughing. 

In other news, one of my darling nieces introduced me to a new song, “Word to the Trees,” from which I fear I will never recover. It is an absolute delight of a song, by whatever mike (yes, that’s the band’s name), and now has an important position in this girl’s writing playlist, though, so far, I’ve stopped writing to sing every time it starts playing.

It occurs to me this Memorial Day weekend that Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address should hold renewed meaning for us all as we, in this country, stand more divided than anytime since the Civil War. Perhaps, as we honor those who “…gave the last full measure of devotion,” now is a time to remember the rest of Lincoln’s speech and consider whether “…government of the people, by the people, for the people” can survive this current test of our own devotion or whether it will, inevitably, “…perish from the earth.”

Much love.

Still Coughing After All These Years

Welcome to May

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Maestro, the Great Pyrenees, just passed the coffee store with his owner, a very elderly woman who has dementia. She walks him nearly every day, sometimes multiple times a day, up and down Walnut Street. He’s a welcome sight for most of the pedestrians, a gentle giant of a dog with heavy white fur and a sweet face. His owner is equally sweet and fiercely protected by her son and her caregivers. I worried for a bit when she invited me and my daughter to drink wine on her porch. We don’t even know her name and thought that she could easily be taken advantage of. Our concern was needless. Her son takes good care of her in a way that allows her to continue her walks safely.

Things are gradually returning to normal after the catastrophic storm of Tuesday evening. I believe about 150,000 people are still out of power, down from the 250,000+ of Wednesday morning. The east end of Pittsburgh, where we live, was particularly badly hit, trees and lines down on nearly every block. Don’t worry, though. The wealthiest area was mostly unaffected. Their power lines are underground. 

Wednesday was a strange day in the community. I walked to Walnut Street, expecting that the area had power. Strangely, although some of the shops did, my preferred coffee shop did not. I went to Starbucks, a place I generally avoid because of their anti-worker policies. Apparently, when the going gets tough, I compromise my principles for iced tea and a place to work. 

The Starbucks was packed, forcing people, who definitely would prefer otherwise, to share tables. I asked a young woman if I could sit opposite her and she REALLY did not want to let me. Very reluctantly, she said, “Okay.” However, she did not move at all to accommodate my presence, which meant I had about 6 inches for my computer. That was not going to work so I waited for another seat to open up and took it quickly. My old seat was immediately snagged by a young man who did not tolerate her space-hogging. She left. I guess she wasn’t feeling the vibe. I can respect that. It’s like being a regular gym user who has to put up with all the new-years-resolution visitors on January 2nd. 

Last week, I bought a brand-new Ryobi lawn mower at auction for about $60, on behalf of another person, who shall remain a mystery. The mower arrived yesterday, still in the box, as expected. Unfortunately, once transported to its final location and opened, we discovered that it was missing a battery and charger. Auction items can’t be returned. They’re purchased as-is, where-is, which, in this case, turned out to be an annoying lesson learned. I immediately bought a battery and charger. Problem solved. Some of us easily moved on from the ‘trauma’. Surprisingly, it is I who have yet to move on. I feel so annoyed by the response of the recipient that I am questioning my urge to help, you know? I probably definitely need to chill. I would like to be a person who works for the benefit of the recipient, not for the possibility of praise. Good deeds are good regardless of recognition and perhaps more good with no recognition at all, particularly important to remember for those of us who don’t believe our good deeds are a path to heaven. 

Although I haven’t mentioned not-my-Aunt Ginny recently, I have been to see her. She’s well, if more crotchety. When I arrived last time, she was missing from the lunch table so I went to her room to persuade her to go to lunch and, when my persuasion skills failed to achieve their intended purpose, pushed her wheelchair to the lunch room anyway. 

She should have agency but often, as people slide into more severe dementia, it’s difficult to ensure that they are consulted and that their wishes are respected, primarily because their wishes are not necessarily beneficial to them. Not-my-Aunt Ginny prefers isolation, which is the worst possible thing for her. So, I took her to the lunch room. She had a great time. We lingered over her meal while I dodged her attempts to feed me and chatted with the other women at the table. They, by the way, are delightful: Older women whose minds are still intact as their bodies fail. They tease Ginny gently and talk to me about the lives they used to lead. It’s both significant and bittersweet. If I could be closer without moving there, I’d visit every week.

Much love.

Welcome to May

Scanning The Future And Maybe The Past

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , 2 Comments

Driving across the state at this time of year, the hills are dotted with color, white and pink blossoms and the soft green of spring. I left the turnpike around Carlisle, Pennsylvania and drove through small towns with remarkable names like Jim Thorpe and Zooks Corner and acre after acre of farmland, lush with early growth. The hillsides here are dotted with cows, sheep, horses, and the occasional goat. With my air conditioner issuing only an unenthusiastic whisper of warm-ish air, I’m relying on vintage, 4×65 air conditioning. It’s mostly effective, cooling, if also fragrant with the earthy smells of animals, not the least of which was the 18-wheeler filled with cattle, their large noses pressed through the grates like dogs hanging out the car window.

When I lived in Florida, my car didn’t have AC. I’d get in and, first thing, wind down the windows – yes, with a hand crank – before going anywhere. Even if I was driving the mile and a half to the Piggly Wiggly, the windows had to be down. It was so hot in the car that, no joke, my camera tripod handle warped and it wasn’t even in direct sunlight. The 4×65 air conditioning didn’t exactly work. The breezes were mostly warm, smelling of asphalt and fumes. My roommates laughed from their white, AC-equipped cars but I didn’t care. I was 20 years old and living the dream, as they say. 

Back then, I had only an AM radio but now I listen to audiobooks while I drive. This time it was Dragon Day by Bob Proehl, a fictional oral history by survivors of dragon attacks. It was immensely enjoyable, though its audible and goodreads reviews are rather middling. I joke – often – about reading books with dragon sex (yes, they exist), but I generally prefer my literary entertainments sans dragons. This, however, is worth a listen. 

My quarterly scans were this morning, scheduled early, allowing me to visit a favorite breakfast spot as a little post-scans celebration. The tests are a love/hate experience but the after-scans breakfast is a way to honor being here for another day, something I might not have except for that life-changing CT in December 2023. If this feels like a nudge, it is. YOU too probably need preventive care that you’ve been putting off. 

I’m writing this from another hospital, where I’ve spent my afternoon, acting as the patient support for someone getting their preventive colonoscopy. There was just a code O in obstetrics, which made me worry for strangers in the way one does at a hospital. As another patient once reminded me, very few of the people at a hospital are there for happy reasons but I always think of obstetrics as being one of the exceptions. Until that code O. 

An accordion-playing busker in Squirrel Hill has garnered much attention during his performances. He was good enough for me to cross the street to throw some cash into his open case. I’ve looked for him since and regret not asking his name. Buskers are frequent throughout the city but good buskers are rare. Years ago, there was a great singer, in our Oakland neighborhood, who could stop traffic. He busked in the late 80s, his voice deep and rich as he sang gospel, swaying to and fro on his flipped-over milk crate. I looked for him — a big, stooped-shouldered man with a tangle of black hair and dirty clothes — long after he stopped busking on the sidewalk near the McDonalds.

Much love.

Scanning The Future And Maybe The Past