mental health

With Great Power….

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

We all hold such power–to make someone smile, to destroy someone’s confidence, to heal, to injure. During my training at Disney World about a million years ago, we were reminded over and over again that we had an incredible secret power; we could make or ruin a person’s day. I have so many wonderful memories of working there, of making people laugh, of helping parents find their lost children, of recommending activities, places to eat, overlooked treasures. I’m in hundreds of thousands of pictures that I’ll never see. I promise you, though, that I’m smiling, laughing, talking to strangers in every one of them. Sometimes, I am sure, I was caught mid-silly dance or goofy face at a child. 

Disney taught me how to recognize that secret power and how to wield it for good. The corporate world beat me up, encouraged–NO, expected–me to lean into the negative. When I walked away from corporate work, I shed all that with relief. Being mean is a heavy burden (and so aging). It’s so much easier, and so much more fun, to be kind. 

Kindness lifts people up. It also has the weirdly reciprocal effect of making the giver feel good, too. Last summer, a young woman sitting near me at the coffee shop was wearing a charming skirt. I told her that. She thanked me and said, “It’s vintage!” She was so proud. It still makes me smile to think of that three- or four-second interaction. I have many of those. 

I read something recently about the uptick of ChatGPT use by, primarily, men. The article suggested that men are more susceptible to the manipulation that can exist behind flattery because women, from an early age, learn to recognize it, whereas men are compliment-starved. I tested that theory, very unscientifically, on my children and discovered that they concur. My eldest even said that he can remember the last time he received a compliment from someone (other than me, of course), six weeks ago, and it was about a shirt he wore. 

When I give compliments, which I do readily, I’m always interested to see the different ways people respond. Last week, I complimented a woman’s outfit. She laughed, grabbed my arm, and thanked me with a big smile. The last time I complimented something about a man, he blushed, absolutely astonished by my comment. Here’s the most important thing, I NEVER, NEVER, NEVER tell someone that they’re beautiful or handsome. I pick out something I like and I tell the person. It’s easy. Your hair looks great. I love your shirt. I would die for those shoes. Your outfit is chef’s kiss. You should do an insta shoot with KeepPittsburghDope. I love your laugh. Your joy is making me smile (I said that to a group standing together, laughing).

Sometimes–well, usually–I’m incredibly awkward but that doesn’t stop me. Better an awkward compliment than a missed opportunity to be kind. 

Yesterday was a terrible, horrible, no-good day. Looking back, I can recognize that, in fact, 19 of 20 things went really well. Like many humans, though, I find myself focusing on the one thing that did not go well and that it is 100% my fault that it didn’t. The worst part of it going wrong, though, is that it went wrong in front of a man who smugly told me that it wouldn’t go right, as it was going wrong. He was so…mean. It’s rarely necessary to be mean (except to billionaires, whose money-hoarding is destroying the lives of millions who are barely surviving–but we’re not talking about that right now). That man was so pleased to announce, over and over, that I was wrong. And I was, which just makes his unkindness more bitter. He could have been not-a-dick. He could have been but he chose to lean into being mean. We both knew he was right. I acknowledged his rightness with a smile, my jaw clenched so tight it could have held back the Colorado River. I was gracious, even apologetic. He was so mean. So mean. It ruined my day. Yes, I am well aware that I gave a stranger power over me. See the first paragraph. Total strangers have that secret power. You have it. I have it. 

So, here’s my advice, which you didn’t ask for but I promise is actually easy to follow: be nice. There’s a great poem “Watching My Friend Pretend Her Heart Is Not Breaking,” by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. ‘There are a great many reasons to treat each other with great tenderness.’ All of us…I’ll say it again for those who are skimming…ALL OF US are going through things.

Use your secret power well.

Much love.

With Great Power….

A Million Years Ago….

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A million years ago, I had the very great pleasure to spend time with a team of 25 Indians who traveled to the US to work on a project. Today, I was ordering pastries (at a Paris Baguette) from a young Indian man and he did something that made me feel such melancholy for that team from so very long ago. The work? I don’t give two hooey’s about that anymore, though at the time we were making history. Today, I miss the people on that team. 

So, what did that young Indian man do? Well, it’s a little hard to describe but basically it’s a head motion common in India, a sort of head nod/shake. The first time you work with a large group of Indian men, you’ll wonder why they appear to be shaking their heads in a sort of “no” gesture when you’re talking to them. They aren’t, in fact, saying “no.” They’re telling you to continue, that they’re with you, grasping what you’ve said. 

When that young barista did his nod/shake, I had to hold in the outpouring of *something* that tried to spew forth in a glory of half-sentences and laughter. Yes, I did, in fact, keep it to myself. As memories go, it’s a little inexplicable, a memory that one holds close because no one else will really understand. I doubt that I’ve thought of that head shake movement in ten years but today, in a second, I was transported right back to a huge room at the top of Highmark’s Pittsburgh building, leaning over a table as I tried to convince one of the men that I was right about the enrollment process. I did not win that argument.

Have you read Project Hail Mary? I’ve been having difficulty finding time to sit down with a book but I was on a longer drive recently listening to it. And I’m speechless. It’s that good. I’ve only cried twice but there’s still three hours left in the book so, you know, plenty of time for more tears.

 I spent a good part of two days in the company of a person with cognitive decline. They were having some work done in the house but sometimes can’t remember the work that’s being done and can’t answer questions about the work. So, I’m there, keeping them company, and providing support when there’s a question. It’s exhausting. Part of it is answering repeatedly the same question without getting annoyed. When I was in training at Disney World, our trainers would remind us that we could never be frustrated over the number of times we answered a question–about the time for the next show, the location of the bathrooms, why they couldn’t bring their ice cream into the theater, why they couldn’t take their beer from the building–because, as the trainers said, that was the FIRST time that person had asked ME that question. 

What, however, does one do when the same person asks the same question or a variation thereof about 16 times in an hour? Well, one still cannot get frustrated because the cognitively declining person thinks they’ve never asked that particular question before. Mostly, frustration isn’t the issue for me, to be honest. Coming up with interesting distractions IS. My daughter gave me a big container of buttons–yep, buttons–and suggested that, as a project, this person might enjoy sorting the buttons by color and putting them into another container (with compartments) that Haley also thoughtfully provided. It was great. Worked like a damn charm. They found it soothing. I had a solid 30 minutes of peace to just take a breath. I owe my girl BIG TIME for the idea. 

On the flip side of cognitive decline symptoms, I was visiting my not-my-aunt Ginny and she decided AGAIN that we needed to make a break for it. She concocted several very elaborate plans to get us out of the facility and into my car. The woman can’t walk anymore but she’s somehow maneuvering herself FASTER THAN I AM toward the exit. I keep trying to turn the wheelchair but she’s digging in her heels. How is she this strong?! 

Feeling rather melancholy recently in the run up to the quarterly scans, I decided it would be a good idea to think about all the strong women in my family who have left this earthly existence. There are so many. I don’t know if that means I got more than my share or if, more likely, we all have had strong women in our lives that we just, maybe, didn’t realize were so amazing because we were children at the time. I was calling on them, I guess, to give me strength, lift me out of the doldrums, who knows…. The mental exercise accomplished none of those things but did make me miss them more than ever. 

Scan-wise, I have no updates to share. Scans were December 1st because nothing says “Happy Freakin’ Holidays” like starting the month by checking one’s body for bips and bops that don’t belong. I follow an author, breast cancer remission, who, this week, talked about the cruelty of the wait. She has a mass that might be nothing or might be something. She has a biopsy in two weeks. When she said that, in her Insta reel, I felt that same stomach drop that I get every single time I have scans. Disease takes normalcy as well as health. It steals peace and quiet moments of joy, if it can. 

I know the strategies of distraction and mindfulness but I am also deeply familiar with the anxiety of the wait–for news, for treatment, for results, for appointments. Even when the news is good, there is regular checking for the possibility of new bad news. GAH. It’s a relentless battle. And then well-meaning scientists conduct a study to see if cancer patients are more likely to be depressed than healthy people…. I’m sorry. Was that a question? What could their hypothesis have been other than–OBVIOUSLY? What are they going to do with those incredibly obvious results in a grotesquely under-funded mental health industry? 

Anyway, happy December to all who celebrate the last month of the year. I’ve always thought that the end of the year should come with a sticker, like a checkmark or a big smiley face, and then we should get recess. Instead, we start the year with taxes due, a new deductible on our health insurance ($9,100 for me), and debt from holiday extravagance. I’d much rather have the recess, thank you.

A Frank Nowalk original is up for auction this week. I desperately want it to be purchased by someone who will love it as much as he loved making it. It’s an incredible homage to Pittsburgh and currently has NO BIDS on it.

Also, if you look at the rest of the catalog, you’ll find some Ed Eberle art. If you don’t know who he is, check him out!! The Eberle Gallery is still in Homestead and very active in supporting growing artists. 

Musical interlude–”Christmas Time Is Here” by Bela Fleck and the Flecktones. The whole Jingle All The Way album is delightful. New takes on familiar music. Lots of banjo, some didgeridoo, and more. You won’t be sorry. And if you buy now, you’ll get this set of steak knives, sharp enough to cut through this can of cranberry sauce. 

Much love…and maybe some good luck?

A Million Years Ago….

Sky Blue Eyes

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I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of agency. One of the things I’ve struggled with the most since I lost Ken is my own agency. At first, after he died, I lived within the construct that was already established, long established, during and by our relationship. 

Over time, though, that construct started to crumble. I’ve mentioned before that a few months after Ken died, a doorknob fell off a door. (Apparently, Ken tightened doorknobs regularly and I just didn’t know or didn’t notice.) Instead of reacting as things happened to me, I needed to start acting — making choices and decisions about where to spend time, where to spend money. 

Maybe that’s a big DUH moment for all of you but for me it was both endlessly freeing and terrifying. Children in abusive households choose their survival strategies … stay with me here. I’m saying that, as a child, I had to decide whether to capitulate or fight. That wasn’t a conscious choice obviously and it wasn’t a single event. I usually chose to fight, which is probably not a surprise at all to people who know me well. And it’s not some bullshit humble brag either. Choosing violence in a violent household is a survival strategy, not a Tiktok video made to gain followers.

Anyway, the point is that AGENCY, the ability to act independently and to choose freely, is not something emphasized in abusive households. Since my husband was also raised in an abusive household, I think we probably unconsciously just leaned into each other’s survival strategies. Therefore, I didn’t have to learn to think and act independently until my husband died. GULP.

So, here I am, older than sliced bread, learning to make decisions for myself. I am living proof that old bitches (I will not call myself a dog and I will own the use of bitch as applied to myself and it’s amusing that it’s a bit of wordplay — HA!) …  can learn new tricks.

I’ve been sitting on the porch steps, listening to the baby birds in the nest above our back door. The parents were so discreet that we didn’t even realize we had bird neighbors until we heard the babies yelling at dad — more food please! — yesterday morning. Now, there’s a cardinal calling. I can’t see it — it’s perched in our enormous honeysuckle — but its call is loud and clear, standing out from the cacophony of early morning tweets and chirrups and cackles. 

The gift of our little backyard — watching a bird slip into its nest in the neighbor’s eaves, listening to the squirrel scolding the dog barking next door, sitting in the silent peace of a sunny afternoon — is a pleasure that makes me hope fall never comes. 

Yesterday, the sky was so intensely blue that looking up was like looking directly into my mother’s eyes (I looked up into my mother’s eyes the depth of the morning sky). My daughter was snoozing in the shade. My neighbors sat under their umbrella listening to pop music in another language. I could tell that it wasn’t English but I don’t hear well enough to know what language it was. They’re Scottish and Syrian so it really could be anything, including Donna Summer, Five For Fighting (yes, even THAT song which is a little surreal), classical, opera, folk music (mostly middle eastern). 

A couple weeks ago, they were listening to French pop music, deliberately loud in order to drown out my other-side neighbor who is also HOH but does not use headphones for her Zoom calls. Until Isla and Dan put on the French pop, we were all listening to a very explicit discussion of treatment options for a high-risk pregnancy. 

I wouldn’t say that I like listening to French pop but I like it a lot better than listening to analyses of transvaginal ultrasounds. Nothing against transvaginal ultrasounds other than that they’re extremely uncomfortable to receive (speaking from experience) but it does seem intrusive to listen to doctors talking about someone else’s. You know?

In other news, this week, we’ve been exploring lavender — lavender sugar, lavender lemon cake, lavender cream (in coffee). I don’t drink coffee so I can’t comment on that but the lavender lemon cake was delicious. And there’s an added bonus that the whole house smells great.

My saucy protagonists found something disturbing on their walk yesterday. They’re still processing it (and so am I) but it seems likely that they’re going to need to be very clever to get out of this situation. I left them in the middle of the woods, panicking, so I think I should get back to terrifying those teenagers now ….

Be kind today. 

Unclench your jaw. Relax your shoulders. Take a deep, SLOW breath. Find something to laugh about … if nothing else, here’s a mental image for you of my 10 year old Maine Coon learning to wear a collar with two very loud bells. He hates it but the birds and I are very happy that he jingles with every step he takes. 

Much love.

Sky Blue Eyes

Monday Playlist

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I listen to music while I’m writing. Since I write for six or so hours a day, that’s a lot of music. This morning, my Spotify playlist selected “September,” a song you can’t listen to without getting a mood boost, even if you’re already in a good mood as I usually am. There’s nothing better than sitting down at the computer and fighting with my characters while listening to Earth, Wind, and Fire. 

As I’ve said before, I no longer experience that late Sunday dread that used to ruin half the weekend. Monday is, as it should be, just another day marking the Earth’s rotation around the sun. This particular Monday is cloudy and springtime-warm. My windows are open and birdsong intermingles with the music. 

While out to do the shopping last week, I took some baked treats to my son’s apartment and put them on the porch, wrapped in Clorox wipes. He came to the door and for just a moment, he stood there, while I stood in the street, and we talked — not close enough but almost too close for safety. 

In the early days of quarantine, there was a frantic feel to shopping. Many people were over-buying, their voices shrill with fear. Last week, it was different. The shelves are mostly still empty and there are only a few people in the store. Costco limits the number of customers now so I waited by a cone they used to mark proper distancing until I was offered a sanitized cart. 

In the refrigerated section, a very confused man was trying to select a container of milk from the cooler while his unmasked partner berated him from behind the cart. “The one with the BLUE label, Bill.” She coughed into shared air space several times while I watched from a safe distance, waiting for my turn to get milk with the blue label. She saw me watching her and coughed into her elbow.  

“OH MY GOD, Bill, what’s the problem?” She looked at me. I think she wanted to bond over her shopping partner’s stupidity but I was — and still am — totally team-confused-guy. Not getting the response she wanted from me, she walked around the cart, coughed onto the glass cooler door and picked out a bottle of milk, while making tsk noises at her poor partner. 

“Oh,” he said. “I couldn’t tell which one was the blue label.” I’m still wondering if he’s colorblind or if he didn’t realize that he was in the cooler section where there are ONLY blue-labeled bottles. Did she confuse him by insisting that he get a bottle with the BLUE label when there was no other choice available to him? 

Although her cough was decidedly smoker-ish, with an abundance of caution, once they had passed, I selected my blue-labeled milk from a different cooler. 

Leonard Cohen, “Who by Fire,” just started playing. He was once described by Scott Simon on NPR as having “a growl of a singing voice that seems to simmer and grumble up through the chords, almost like an earthquake.” Isn’t that lovely? 

The rain has started, quieting the birdsong but creating its own accompaniment to my playlist. The sound also reminds me that there’s a clog in one of the gutters. I can hear the splash of water overflowing onto the patio. Either I need to borrow the neighbor’s 30-foot ladder or call someone to clean out the gutters. I hate to put the neighbors to additional risk, which is the only reason I’m not automatically doing it myself. I’ll have to enter their house to get the ladder because they’ve reached the point where it’s too heavy for them to move. I know this because I borrowed the ladder last spring to clear away the ivy growing up our back wall.

Back to the shopping:  They have a table on their porch where I’ll leave food treats (she loves cookies but doesn’t bake much anymore) but when they see me, they insist on opening the door to come out and talk. Inevitably, their older spaniel bolts out the door and drops on his back for a belly scritch. He’s a cutie but I feel like I should stay back to keep them safe. 

When I do their shopping, they’re supposed to text me the list (she’s an enthusiastic texter) and sometimes they do. She’ll text me, out of nowhere, something like “white flour no hurry,” which makes me laugh. It reminds me so much of text conversations with Ken. He used to text a single word and allow the recipient to build the meaning.  

Anyway, last week she insisted on giving me a handwritten list, wrapped in a clorox wipe. Have you ever shopped for someone else?  I used to get a list from my mother-in-law but I’ve fallen out of practice. Last week, I made the mistake of accepting the list without review but of course there were questions: 

  • 2 pizzas. You know exactly what to do with that if you’re shopping for your own family but what kind of pizza does your 90-year-old neighbor like? “No pepperoni” was the texted answer. Turns out there wasn’t much selection left, just lots of pepperoni (stuffed crust, extra cheese, etc) or the last two vegetarian pizzas that weren’t on a cauliflower crust. 
  • 2 apples. First, apples don’t seem to be a big quarantine staple. The store had an abundance of Fuji, Red Delicious, Macintosh, Granny Smith, Yellow Delicious, Kante, and Gala. “Gala,” she answered after a lengthy delay. 
  • Small dog bisc. I almost bought Milk Bone without asking which would have been a big mistake since she wanted no-dye biscuits which I took to mean no red and green Milk Bones. Even so, I definitely got the wrong brand but she texted that Busby is enjoying his new treat.

She says that she too is enjoying her new food experiences. Her poor, long-suffering husband — who she is definitely going to murder before quarantine ends — was apparently in a food-buying rut. Regarding the flour situation: although there’s no flour at our Giant Eagle (Well, that’s not entirely true. You can still buy Quinoa flour. Hehe.), Costco offers a 25 pound bag for about $6; she took 10 pounds of it off my hands. 

That huge bag in my pantry makes me hear my mom’s voice in my head — “Add bay leaves,” she’d say. “They’ll keep the bugs out.” We’ll probably use it all before summer but I’ve already added bay leaves just to be safe. The food shortages have been interesting to watch — I know, I know. Everyone is saying that it’s a distribution problem, not a food shortage problem. You say toMAYto; I say toMAHto. Whatever the reason, the end result for the consumer is lack of product on store shelves.

Anyway, the first week or so of quarantine, there was no ice cream in the store. The next time I shopped, there was no bread, no jelly, no eggs, no packaged luncheon meat/cheese, no frozen dinners, no flour or yeast. Now, there’s no pizza, no fresh lettuce, no meat or chicken, no flour, six packets of yeast(!), very little dairy, but they have ice cream.

Cars lined up to receive fresh produce, frozen food and dry goods from Greater Pittsburgh Community Food Bank April 6, 2020. Photo Credit: KDKA

If you’re poor, the distribution problem can be life-threatening. Our food pantries and food banks are amazing but it can be hard to connect to people who don’t have access to a vehicle to wait in an hours-long car line for food. I’ve been thinking about the woman I’ve talked about before, the one who showed up as we were cleaning up a food bank distribution years ago. She was late because she had to borrow $2 so she could buy a gallon of gas in order to drive to our distribution site. How is she managing now? Even if her situation has (hopefully) improved, there are many whose situations went from precarious to catastrophic.

Spotify has now served up some Aretha Franklin, “I Say a Little Prayer,” a solid way to end this particular post. If you live in a walking neighborhood, like I do, I encourage you to take a walk around. It’s okay. You’re allowed to go for walks. Look at the empty storefronts of the little businesses in your community — the pizza shop, the movie theater, the diner, the consignment store, the neighborhood bar or coffee shop.

Look at the signs on the doors; as I’ve said before, some will not recover. Believe me; these places are, for some, their family business, their lifelong dream. They’re going to try to be there when this is over.

Those small business owners are losing sleep, just like the furloughed workers. They’re wondering whether they can continue to pay the bills while there’s no money coming in. That cruise line, that airline, that major hotel chain — they’ll be okay. But your neighborhood is going to be forever changed by the loss of the businesses that define it. 

Please be patient. 

Wear a mask if you’re going to encounter other people.

Stay home. Stay safe.

Monday Playlist

Isolation Birthday

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Send help. We’re baking too much. Our neighbors can only eat so many baked goods. We’re in isolation: I can’t go out and buy larger pants!

Seriously, though, we (when I say “we,” I really mean my daughter; my only job here is taster) … anyway, “we” have made macarons with blackberry compote for the filling , banana bread, and chocolate-dipped shortbread cookies just in the last 5 DAYS. That’s in addition to all of the delicious savory dishes we’ve been making. I made a pot roast with lots of root veggies. She made stuffed pork chops. I grilled a flank steak. She made spicy baked chicken (with lots of garlic). It’s been fun and one of our biggest successes in all of this has been learning to cook smaller so we don’t have a lot of leftovers.

We’ve spent a few evenings playing scribble.io, an online version of Pictionary that allows you to create a private group. Since one of the family lives in an apartment, we can’t be together physically but that hasn’t stopped us! Because we’re also a gaming family, we put on our gaming headsets, create a group call on discord, and set up a private group on scribble.io. For at least an hour, we talk, tease, connect, and draw (some of us — me actually — quite badly).

If you are struggling to connect with family or friends, I recommend trying an online group game/tabletop simulator. Physical distancing may be a hellscape but technology does enable social connection in a variety of healthy ways beyond skype calls. Let’s all acknowledge here that Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok are not included on any list of healthy ways to connect.

This is the first time we’re going to mark a birthday without being together physically. I KNOW that many people are struggling with loss and distance. Missing a birthday together is part of my personal grief. It doesn’t dismiss the devastation felt by the first responders and health workers who encounter the virus and counsel the families and transport the sick and dying. It doesn’t devalue the grief and loneliness of the isolated, especially those who are alone and elderly. It doesn’t reduce the struggle, as real and relevant as anyone’s grief, of our extroverted friends who find ALONENESS as difficult as some find togetherness. Most of us are struggling. As some Twitter-stein said, “It’s okay not to be okay right now.”

So, what will we do to celebrate the 14th year since my son’s birth? I think we’ll have a meal he likes and a treat of his choice that we can make at home and for the rest, we’ll see. There will be no stress, though, no virus talk, no discussion of risk models and vaccines.

We’ve been taking more family walks, looking for good rocks, bird feathers, acorns, blossoms, and other hidden treasures. On Friday, we were walking our three dogs down a less frequented path in the neighborhood when we discovered a bird trapped by a fallen snow fence. I would have taken a picture except that I held all three dogs’ leashes while my daughter released the bird and the dogs tried desperately to .. er, help?

After I finish writing this afternoon, we’ll probably take another walk and then I’m going to work on my new backyard project. I’m dry-laying a brick raised bed garden. There are approximately sixteen gazillion (just an estimate) bricks all over our backyard from some long-ago project of a previous owner. (He also left approximately one and a half gazillion golf balls). After some planning (and stalling), yesterday, I broke ground, hauled a small fraction of those bricks (I’m hoping that I hauled the heavy portion yesterday and that all the other bricks are lighter), and then, started the work of removing roots and digging trenches. It’s great fun. I have an extra hoe if you’d like to come over and try it at a safe distance. In fact, just to be sure we’re appropriately distancing, I’ll stand inside the house and watch, while you’re digging.

Stay safe. Stay home.

Isolation Birthday

Fon-DO!

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 1 Comment

We have a routine — not perfect — that keeps us mostly on track, appropriately fed, and somewhat active. Every day, my son has his first call at 9 or 9:30. We get together after that to check Google Classroom for upcoming assignments and plan his day around his schoolwork. He has a daily video conference from 12-2 (all of you adults who video conference know how hard THAT is) and then we break again, take the dogs outside, and eat a light lunch (peanut butter jelly time, peanut butter jelly time!). 

Monday Fondue

Yesterday, I was feeling a little peckish at like 4 and had a snack epiphany. Several years ago, as a joke, I got the kids fondue mugs (“personal fondue” if you’re looking on Amazon). They’re fun for an occasional small treat (each mug holds maybe a half cup of fondue). Yesterday, I pulled them out of the cupboard, melted a little chocolate and ransacked the pantry for a handful of dippables — Ritz crackers, chocolate chip cookies, marshmallows, pretzel sticks, potato chips, strawberries. It was a fun, silly break. One of these days, we’ll try cheese instead of chocolate. 

Dinner explorations continue. A couple nights ago, we had flank steak and home fries. Last night, it was chicken and a lovely salad with field greens and some of those fondue strawberries. Late yesterday, I grabbed a couple small roasts (BOGO!) while I was out picking up a prescription at our local grocery store. We’ll probably make one of those tonight with some po – TAY – toes and carrots. 

Meat and potatoes was a standard meal at our dinner table growing up. I have a vague memory of my mom browning the roast before putting it in the oven with potatoes, carrots, and little white onions. Did she season it? I don’t remember, honestly. It was delicious though; and then, a couple days later, since this is all before microwave ovens made leftovers tasty, my sister and I would “get” to put the remainder through the meat grinder and we’d have hash with a runny egg for dinner. 

Peach tree is blooming!

Most nights, we play a game together after dinner. We aren’t tired in the same way, now, but we are tired of the monotony already. We stayed outside as long as possible over the weekend. The weather was lovely and we puttered in the backyard, sat in the sun, played with the dogs. I could hear the birds and the neighborhood kids squealing in their yards. Once I heard an airplane and, while I had noted their absence, I was startled by the sound of one, which tells me they are becoming rare. 

I’ve seen some jokes about what dogs will do when we get back to life after quarantine. But I worry more about what WE will do after quarantine. Do we have enough mental health professionals to treat the healthcare workers suffering from PTSD, the family members whose loved ones died in isolation, the service workers whose jobs don’t return, the small business owners who lost their dreams to quarantine (I hear a poem, do you?)….

We act like we’ll just return to life pre-quarantine as though it’s the day after vacation but that’s not reality. Think about the places you visit in your communities. Which of those won’t survive or will be drastically changed? The breakfast places, the independent booksellers, that hole-in-the-wall bar or pizza place, or the little DnD store. Those owners, right now, are trying to figure out if they can re-open, if they can re-hire their staff. Our communities are going to be forever changed by this pandemic and by the way our state and federal reps, governors, mayors, and … yes, president … manage through it. 

Who knew pancake mix and syrup are quarantine staples?

I’m not being political here. This is just truth — look at New Orleans (or Puerto Rico) and my comment in an earlier blog. Some places will never recover. Oh, sure, Target and Walmart and Starbucks will probably be fine but will Ritter’s re-open? How about D’s Dogs n Suds? Or Cafe on Main? Our communities are bound up in these places. If we lose them, we’ll lose a part of ourselves. I can’t help but wish that our economic focus was on saving our communities rather than the cruise industry. 

What are you eating? How are you managing?

Fon-DO!