Sunday, May 31, 2020
Day #76 Writing Through COVID-19: Bad Movies; I'm Her Daughter
When my brother-in-law was waking up from his COVID coma, he mumbled something about "Pocketful of Marigolds," the nurse said. My niece did some research and found a movie called "Pocketful of Miracles," and figured that must have been what he meant. So last evening Randy's family in Eastern Iowa invited us to watch the film "with them" from across the state, via Amazon Prime. We did.
It was a comedy, set at the close of prohibition, and filmed in 1961. Frankly, a lot of the humor has not aged well, such as the scene in which the love interests fight in a hotel room, tearing each other's clothes off before falling behind the bed for some passionate makeup sex. Not a lot to laugh about.
This morning I found this text from my sister:
"Sorry. I didn't know anything about this movie when Randy came out of his coma and started blabbering about it. I didn't realize it was about bootlegging, alcoholism, deception and mobsters. This must not have been enjoyable for Mama. Please convey my apologies. I guess I won't try this again."
I assured her I, too, have made some not-great choices over the past 10 weeks while trying to drum up entertainment for the parents: puzzles with too many pieces, inscrutable poems, that god-awful Scabble game, movies with more violence and cussing than they appreciated.
If the past 10 weeks have taught me anything, it's that even the best intentions do not always hit their mark. My parents' mental and physical limitations prevent them from making many of their own daily choices. And they need a little prodding. So I make suggestions: walk down to the terrace and pick asparagus, take the electric wheelchair around the house and smell the lilacs, notice how tall the corn is getting in the field across the road, blow some bubbles, play this game, watch this movie.
I remind myself that I am bringing to their care more devotion than even the most attentive care-center employees can offer on their time-constrained shifts. And my parents are blessedly not a complaining sort of people.
But frankly, some ideas are better than others.
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In Moby Dick, Ishmael marvels at how cozy he and Queequeg are under warm covers:
"We felt very nice and snug, the more so since it was so chilly out of doors...The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. "
I've remembered this passage since first reading it in college. If all our moments are equally pleasant, we erase all contrast, and thereby all quality.
A bad movie helps us enjoy the next good one.
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Tonight as I laid out my parents' dinner, my mother laughed and said, "Sometimes it's hard to remember you were my child. I look at you and think 'she looks like me,' and then I remember you're my daughter!"
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Saturday, May 30, 2020
Day #75 Writing Through COVID-19: Letter to My Students
Each week when school is in session, I write a letter to my English 9 students and their parents and guardians, sharing highlights of the week and plans for the days to come. During the past nine weeks I wrote intermittently. Tonight I wrote my closing missive. Because it reflects another aspect of my COVID experience, I will share it here.
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Good evening. Had we not been interrupted by COVID-19, I would have closed my classroom yesterday. You don't need me to tell you how strange this all is.
But I do want to share with you some gleanings from the past nine weeks.
1) I understand that for many, many reasons most students did not participate in the non-required daily English classes hosted on Zoom by the AHS English department. The students who did join us grew visibly in their writing and grammar, as well as in their articulation of ideas in group discussion. I will carry what I learned through the Zoom class into my teaching next year. #ShoutOut to all of you who attended at least occasionally, and especially to the kids who came daily.
Let me share some of the comments from student reflections from the final week of class:
"I would love to do more creative writing...When we do creative writing activities ideas seem to come more naturally and I have fun writing them with the company of others. My favorite activity we did this year in the zoom class was just listening to the silent orchesta." (This student is referring to John Cage's 4'33", which we experienced and discussed together.)
"I enjoy the comfortable atmosphere given to the 'classroom.' Each individual teacher and student bring their own personality into the mix and help form a coherent and wonderful system of learning. To improve, I would probably just split into 2 groups."
"I have learned little grammer tricks that are totally helpful. I also have learned a few things from all the Thursday videos. I liked having this last opportunity to get some english in and still having some human connection."
"I feel that my writing has improved immensely. With all the practice in creative writing and all the grammar lessons. I really enjoyed the video days and talking about them. I love to hear other people's opinions and different outlooks. I also liked the creative writing days too! I don't think there is anything to improve. It was fun, personal and I do learn a lot."
"I really enjoyed how personal this class was. It was a lot easier to learn with this small group dynamic than in a larger class setting. I don't have any suggestions. I really thought that it was enjoyable and a great way to spend my time!"
"Oddly enough, I found English Lockdown to be one of the best english classes that I ever took. I feel that I was helpful to split the days up and work on different skills on a separate day that to do everything all at once. I also found the discussions to be the best part about the Lockdown Class.
"Since there was only a handful of people, I feel it was easier for everyone to share what they thought about the videos we watched. I also liked that since we all want to be here, the class seemed more enjoyable to be in. I wish we are able to have more classes like this next year! This class was definitely one of the highlights of my Quarantine."
"in the time we have spent together one thing i have learned is that when you watch a movie pay attention to so the small details in a scene because it could mean something about the character or what may happen in it." (This student is referring to a character analysis we did after watching the opening scene of "Baby Driver.")
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2) PLEASE keep reading daily this summer. I understand the public library will be opening soon with social distancing guidelines in place. If you have a book you're dying to read, let me know! I'll find it and have it delivered.
3) Nothing will improve your writing as much as (wait for it...) WRITING. I started keeping a journal in the eighth grade. When I look back on it, I realize that by going to the page and trying to translate my thoughts into words, I was learning to write. Nothing teaches writing...like writing.
4) Please wear a mask and follow social distancing guidelines. Some of you may know my brother-in-law contracted COVID-19 in early April, requiring four weeks of hospitalization and two more in a care-center for rehabilitation. He is still incredibly weak and lucky to be alive.
Also, I moved my 89- and 90-year-old parents out of their care center and into the lower level of our house to minimize their exposure to the virus. I am also caring for my 91-year-old mother-in-law who lives 1/2 mile down the road. When you see me in public, I will be wearing a mask. I will stand six feet away from you if we stop to chat. Please know that it is not hard to get used to wearing a mask. I am grateful for every person who has the courage to wear a mask. Thank you.
5) I wish you all a healthy, happy summer. I hope to see many of you in journalism classes this fall. If you are not taking journalism, be sure to stop by for a Lemondrop from time to time. I will always have a book to recommend. I will always be your advocate.
I will close by sharing the poem I wrote for you on our first day of class together. I hope your memories of our time in Room #408 match the poem's promise. I loved being your teacher this year!
-----------------------
Good evening. Had we not been interrupted by COVID-19, I would have closed my classroom yesterday. You don't need me to tell you how strange this all is.
But I do want to share with you some gleanings from the past nine weeks.
1) I understand that for many, many reasons most students did not participate in the non-required daily English classes hosted on Zoom by the AHS English department. The students who did join us grew visibly in their writing and grammar, as well as in their articulation of ideas in group discussion. I will carry what I learned through the Zoom class into my teaching next year. #ShoutOut to all of you who attended at least occasionally, and especially to the kids who came daily.
Let me share some of the comments from student reflections from the final week of class:
"I would love to do more creative writing...When we do creative writing activities ideas seem to come more naturally and I have fun writing them with the company of others. My favorite activity we did this year in the zoom class was just listening to the silent orchesta." (This student is referring to John Cage's 4'33", which we experienced and discussed together.)
"I enjoy the comfortable atmosphere given to the 'classroom.' Each individual teacher and student bring their own personality into the mix and help form a coherent and wonderful system of learning. To improve, I would probably just split into 2 groups."
"I have learned little grammer tricks that are totally helpful. I also have learned a few things from all the Thursday videos. I liked having this last opportunity to get some english in and still having some human connection."
"I feel that my writing has improved immensely. With all the practice in creative writing and all the grammar lessons. I really enjoyed the video days and talking about them. I love to hear other people's opinions and different outlooks. I also liked the creative writing days too! I don't think there is anything to improve. It was fun, personal and I do learn a lot."
"I really enjoyed how personal this class was. It was a lot easier to learn with this small group dynamic than in a larger class setting. I don't have any suggestions. I really thought that it was enjoyable and a great way to spend my time!"
"Oddly enough, I found English Lockdown to be one of the best english classes that I ever took. I feel that I was helpful to split the days up and work on different skills on a separate day that to do everything all at once. I also found the discussions to be the best part about the Lockdown Class.
"Since there was only a handful of people, I feel it was easier for everyone to share what they thought about the videos we watched. I also liked that since we all want to be here, the class seemed more enjoyable to be in. I wish we are able to have more classes like this next year! This class was definitely one of the highlights of my Quarantine."
"in the time we have spent together one thing i have learned is that when you watch a movie pay attention to so the small details in a scene because it could mean something about the character or what may happen in it." (This student is referring to a character analysis we did after watching the opening scene of "Baby Driver.")
-----------------------
2) PLEASE keep reading daily this summer. I understand the public library will be opening soon with social distancing guidelines in place. If you have a book you're dying to read, let me know! I'll find it and have it delivered.
3) Nothing will improve your writing as much as (wait for it...) WRITING. I started keeping a journal in the eighth grade. When I look back on it, I realize that by going to the page and trying to translate my thoughts into words, I was learning to write. Nothing teaches writing...like writing.
4) Please wear a mask and follow social distancing guidelines. Some of you may know my brother-in-law contracted COVID-19 in early April, requiring four weeks of hospitalization and two more in a care-center for rehabilitation. He is still incredibly weak and lucky to be alive.
Also, I moved my 89- and 90-year-old parents out of their care center and into the lower level of our house to minimize their exposure to the virus. I am also caring for my 91-year-old mother-in-law who lives 1/2 mile down the road. When you see me in public, I will be wearing a mask. I will stand six feet away from you if we stop to chat. Please know that it is not hard to get used to wearing a mask. I am grateful for every person who has the courage to wear a mask. Thank you.
5) I wish you all a healthy, happy summer. I hope to see many of you in journalism classes this fall. If you are not taking journalism, be sure to stop by for a Lemondrop from time to time. I will always have a book to recommend. I will always be your advocate.
I will close by sharing the poem I wrote for you on our first day of class together. I hope your memories of our time in Room #408 match the poem's promise. I loved being your teacher this year!
Sonnet to My Students on the First Day of Class
Come in and make a mess with all your thoughts.
Here shake them loose and spill them on the page.
Then push them, pull them, tie them into knots.
Your words are laughter, questions, hopes and rage.
The writing in this room will echo, pound
against our heads and hearts: cacophony.
Then crash of who we are creates a sound
From which our hearts rise up: a symphony.
For mess and noise and joyful chaos reign
In space where all experiment and try.
To set you free, I loose you from the chains,
Release you to explore your inner eye.
So, welcome. I invite you to a year
Of messy, joyful learning without fear.
Your teacher,
Ms. Berryhill
------------------------
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Allison
Friday, May 29, 2020
Day #74 Writing Through COVID-19: Surprises in the Sameness
"The Ballad of Father Gilligan" by William Butler Yeats was a much-improved poem choice this morning. I summarized the plot before I read it (an overworked priest falls asleep and fails to care for a dying parishioner; when he wakes and dashes to the man's house, he discovers God had sent an angel in his likeness). I think that helped my mom track through the storyline.
The poem includes this line:
“Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died,
While I slept on the chair.”
The word "mavrone" drove us into another dictionary dive, where we learned the interjection is an Irish cry of anguish or dismay, meaning "my grief."
My mother then wanted to figure out if "Maverick" is pronounced with two or three syllables. We learned the word is eponymous: Samual A. Maverick was a Texas rancher who didn't brand his cattle. Of course we then looked up "eponym."
All of this dictionary tripping looped into a conversation about the alphabet; soon we were singing "A, You're Adorable" horribly off-key.
"That was terrible!" my mother laughed. And it was!
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COVID-19 has blurred my days; a sameness blankets the hours. This is even more so for my parents, who no longer have their Bridge group or shopping trips to break up their week. Zoom Sunday School and church is the only thing on their calendar. So when my sister called last night to schedule an evening of shared movie-watching with her family and my parents (everyone watching from their own homes), I was happy to tell my parents they have an event scheduled. They'll watch "Pocketful of Miracles" Saturday at 5 p.m.
-------------------
Last night I offered my mom a frozen lime fruit bar for dessert, which she accepted with delight. "I've never had one before!"
Life still holds surprises.
Thursday, May 28, 2020
Day #73 Writing Through COVID-19: The Wrong Poem
This is the 68th morning I have brought my mother a poem with her morning meds.
Some days I wake up with a poem in mind; some days I get sucked into poetryfoundation.org or poets.org where I lose all track of time, reading dozens of poems to find one that fits both my mood and my mother's disposition.
This morning I wandered into poems about childbirth, at last settling on "Delivery Rhyme" by Dora Malech. It uses delightful internal rhyme but is not bound to a rhythm pattern. It is obscure in places, but also contains the amazing metaphor and wordplay of a newborn baby girl "unfold(ing) all those origami limbs to test the inevitable debutante bawl."
I thought it was worth a try.
My mistake (in addition to poem selection) was not measuring my mother's confidence and cognizance before reading the poem aloud. I glance up after the first stanzas and saw her scowl, darkening as I plodded to the finish.
"That one is beyond me," she said, lips pursed.
"There are lines I don't understand," I coaxed, "but I like how she expresses the cell division as the baby grows:
'the subcommittees met:
made merry in duplicate, triplicate
and so on, much of themselves, divided
and defined and concurred.'"
She shrugged, stood up, and said, "I'll get a spoon," then returned to the table with--inexplicably--a spoon, two bowls, and a plate.
------------------------
My most successful poem selections are ones my mom has read before, snippets of which are tucked into her once steely-sharp mind. When I read "Annabell Lee" or "Ballad of the Harpweaver," she chimes in, reminded of the time in her life when her brain was her favorite part of herself.
Today's poem did the opposite. It reminded her that her mind no longer allows her to juggle new sounds and images with dexterity and satisfaction.
------------------------
We somehow extricated ourselves from the failed poetry moment and moved on to discussing last night's movie: "Escape from Alcatraz." My dad said he'd liked it and retold what he found to be the most exciting scenes.
My mother did not seem to remember watching the film. She sat silently, eating her Corn Chex from her bowl without milk, without a spoon.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Some days I wake up with a poem in mind; some days I get sucked into poetryfoundation.org or poets.org where I lose all track of time, reading dozens of poems to find one that fits both my mood and my mother's disposition.
This morning I wandered into poems about childbirth, at last settling on "Delivery Rhyme" by Dora Malech. It uses delightful internal rhyme but is not bound to a rhythm pattern. It is obscure in places, but also contains the amazing metaphor and wordplay of a newborn baby girl "unfold(ing) all those origami limbs to test the inevitable debutante bawl."
I thought it was worth a try.
My mistake (in addition to poem selection) was not measuring my mother's confidence and cognizance before reading the poem aloud. I glance up after the first stanzas and saw her scowl, darkening as I plodded to the finish.
"That one is beyond me," she said, lips pursed.
"There are lines I don't understand," I coaxed, "but I like how she expresses the cell division as the baby grows:
'the subcommittees met:
made merry in duplicate, triplicate
and so on, much of themselves, divided
and defined and concurred.'"
She shrugged, stood up, and said, "I'll get a spoon," then returned to the table with--inexplicably--a spoon, two bowls, and a plate.
------------------------
My most successful poem selections are ones my mom has read before, snippets of which are tucked into her once steely-sharp mind. When I read "Annabell Lee" or "Ballad of the Harpweaver," she chimes in, reminded of the time in her life when her brain was her favorite part of herself.
Today's poem did the opposite. It reminded her that her mind no longer allows her to juggle new sounds and images with dexterity and satisfaction.
------------------------
We somehow extricated ourselves from the failed poetry moment and moved on to discussing last night's movie: "Escape from Alcatraz." My dad said he'd liked it and retold what he found to be the most exciting scenes.
My mother did not seem to remember watching the film. She sat silently, eating her Corn Chex from her bowl without milk, without a spoon.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Tuesday, May 26, 2020
Day #71 Writing Through COVID-19: Bridge!
My dad has had a love affair with Bridge for the past 65 years. Recently he told me how he learned the game. In med school, over his lunch hours, he and his classmates would eat in 15 minutes to then play Bridge for 45. "When we were playing Bridge, it was totally consuming. We didn't have to think about our studies or anything else."
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----------------------
-----------------------
---------------------
Stay well.
Write.
My mother eventually learned enough of the game to play in couples' Bridge, but on a scale of 1-10, her enthusiasm for the game never surged past 6, while my dad's is at 11 even at his worst days.
At Friendship Haven, my dad organized the twice-monthly duplicate Bridge tournament that drew 8 tables, entertaining 32 players from the care center and community. In this leadership role, he shared his passion for the game, notified players of their results, and reminded them of the upcoming gatherings.
If you ever meet my dad, he will likely bring up Bridge within the first 15 minutes. My siblings and I roll our eyes at this obsession. None of us glommed onto his love of the game. Still, he never tires of talking about it.
Since my parents have been in my basement (67 days), they've played a few hands of a two-man game they call Honeymoon Bridge. I don't think my mom has the short-term memory to be much of a competitor anymore. I knew my dad was missing the game, and I thought if I could bring it back into his life, it might be a small way to help his displacement feel less lonely.
So a couple of weeks ago I got online and found FunBridge, which offered 50 free deals. I figured if he played one hand a day, he could get to August before we'd have to pay anything.
What I didn't figure was how much I'd enjoy the game.
I sat next to my dad as the computer dealt the first hand. I had to stay nearby to help him use the touch-pad to maneuver the mouse, orient him at the "table," show him where to click to make a bid, how to see the last trick.
FunBridge is set up to teach you how to play, so it provides explanations of moves and terminology. While sitting by my dad's side, I was learning more than I expected to.
When we finished our first game, we could see how we'd performed against other players: 78th out of 100. Not great. But we could also click on other players' games and review their bids and how each trick was played.
This was Duplicate Bridge at its finest. My dad loved it. He grew animated as he explained various choices players had made. I asked a lot of questions, and my dad did a lot of explaining. The ridiculous overflowing terminology has provided ongoing vocabulary lessons.
Each day when I bring down my laptop (the old desktop computer I set up for his email can't handle FunBridge graphics), my dad and I pull up to the table for his deal. The next thing I know, I'm asking him to explain his bid, or I'm arguing for a different bid. I am his headstrong student. He is my patient teacher.
I did not plan to learn Bridge at age 60. I have no one to play with if I ever do achieve a passable degree of competence over "vulnerability," "finesse," "courtesy bids," and "double" (and to emphasize how hard all of this, I will post a definition):
DOUBLE. A call that increases the scoring value of odd tricks or undertricks of an opponent’s bid. A double can be made only over the opponent’s last bid with only passes intervening. Double has many meanings in today’s modern bidding beyond penalty.
I told my sister how much fun I was having learning/playing the game with Dad. "Great," she said. "I just don't want to hear about Bridge in every conversation."
Enough.
Allison
x
At Friendship Haven, my dad organized the twice-monthly duplicate Bridge tournament that drew 8 tables, entertaining 32 players from the care center and community. In this leadership role, he shared his passion for the game, notified players of their results, and reminded them of the upcoming gatherings.
If you ever meet my dad, he will likely bring up Bridge within the first 15 minutes. My siblings and I roll our eyes at this obsession. None of us glommed onto his love of the game. Still, he never tires of talking about it.
Since my parents have been in my basement (67 days), they've played a few hands of a two-man game they call Honeymoon Bridge. I don't think my mom has the short-term memory to be much of a competitor anymore. I knew my dad was missing the game, and I thought if I could bring it back into his life, it might be a small way to help his displacement feel less lonely.
So a couple of weeks ago I got online and found FunBridge, which offered 50 free deals. I figured if he played one hand a day, he could get to August before we'd have to pay anything.
What I didn't figure was how much I'd enjoy the game.
I sat next to my dad as the computer dealt the first hand. I had to stay nearby to help him use the touch-pad to maneuver the mouse, orient him at the "table," show him where to click to make a bid, how to see the last trick.
FunBridge is set up to teach you how to play, so it provides explanations of moves and terminology. While sitting by my dad's side, I was learning more than I expected to.
When we finished our first game, we could see how we'd performed against other players: 78th out of 100. Not great. But we could also click on other players' games and review their bids and how each trick was played.
This was Duplicate Bridge at its finest. My dad loved it. He grew animated as he explained various choices players had made. I asked a lot of questions, and my dad did a lot of explaining. The ridiculous overflowing terminology has provided ongoing vocabulary lessons.
Each day when I bring down my laptop (the old desktop computer I set up for his email can't handle FunBridge graphics), my dad and I pull up to the table for his deal. The next thing I know, I'm asking him to explain his bid, or I'm arguing for a different bid. I am his headstrong student. He is my patient teacher.
I did not plan to learn Bridge at age 60. I have no one to play with if I ever do achieve a passable degree of competence over "vulnerability," "finesse," "courtesy bids," and "double" (and to emphasize how hard all of this, I will post a definition):
DOUBLE. A call that increases the scoring value of odd tricks or undertricks of an opponent’s bid. A double can be made only over the opponent’s last bid with only passes intervening. Double has many meanings in today’s modern bidding beyond penalty.
I told my sister how much fun I was having learning/playing the game with Dad. "Great," she said. "I just don't want to hear about Bridge in every conversation."
Enough.
Allison
x
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---------------------
Stay well.
Write.
Day #70 Writing Through COVID-19: What Does the Dog Say?
Yesterday's morning conversation:
Good morning, Mom. What are you reading?
The dictionary! I'm a terrible speller!
What word are you looking up?
Die.
"Die" like we're all going to die, or "dye" like dye your hair?
Both!
---------------
I brought you a poem about fairies by William Shakespeare.
(We read the Fairy's song from "Midsummer Night's Dream.")
I didn't know Shakespeare wrote poems. (She used to.)
Yep. Mostly sonnets. Here's one of my favorites.
(Sonnet 130, "My Mistress's Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun.)
(Laughing) She looked terrible!
(We next read a poem/passage from The Tempest that includes these lines:)
Hark, hark!
Bow-wow.
The watch-dogs bark.
Bow-wow.
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.
A dog's bark doesn't sound like bow-wow.
(I perform some very dog-like bow-wows. My mother laughs. She's such an easy audience.)
Ducks don't really say "quack" either.
(I'm quacking now, and the barnyard sounds wake my dad who ambles out of the bedroom, ghostlike in white longjohns. My mother is back to musing on the question we've all been pondering since babyhood: What DOES the dog say?)
I think a dog says "Grr!"
Let's see if that's in the dictionary.
(I return to the American Heritage, open to "die" on the sofa. "Grrr" is not listed, but I wonder aloud about who decides which words are accompanied by illustrations and which ones aren't.)
The nouns get pictures!
(My eye lands on a sketch of a thin pioneer, standing by a tree.)
Who was Johnathon Chapman? (My parents love a good trivia question.)
(From deep within my mother's brain)
Of Johnathon Chapman
two things are known
that he loved apples
And he lived alone!
(I look up Jonny Appleseed Ballad and read it aloud. My mother chimes in on the final stanza.)
Consider, consider,
Think well upon
The marvelous story
Of Appleseed John!
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Allison
Good morning, Mom. What are you reading?
The dictionary! I'm a terrible speller!
What word are you looking up?
Die.
"Die" like we're all going to die, or "dye" like dye your hair?
Both!
---------------
I brought you a poem about fairies by William Shakespeare.
(We read the Fairy's song from "Midsummer Night's Dream.")
I didn't know Shakespeare wrote poems. (She used to.)
Yep. Mostly sonnets. Here's one of my favorites.
(Sonnet 130, "My Mistress's Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun.)
(Laughing) She looked terrible!
(We next read a poem/passage from The Tempest that includes these lines:)
Hark, hark!
Bow-wow.
The watch-dogs bark.
Bow-wow.
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.
A dog's bark doesn't sound like bow-wow.
(I perform some very dog-like bow-wows. My mother laughs. She's such an easy audience.)
Ducks don't really say "quack" either.
(I'm quacking now, and the barnyard sounds wake my dad who ambles out of the bedroom, ghostlike in white longjohns. My mother is back to musing on the question we've all been pondering since babyhood: What DOES the dog say?)
I think a dog says "Grr!"
Let's see if that's in the dictionary.
(I return to the American Heritage, open to "die" on the sofa. "Grrr" is not listed, but I wonder aloud about who decides which words are accompanied by illustrations and which ones aren't.)
The nouns get pictures!
(My eye lands on a sketch of a thin pioneer, standing by a tree.)
Who was Johnathon Chapman? (My parents love a good trivia question.)
(From deep within my mother's brain)
Of Johnathon Chapman
two things are known
that he loved apples
And he lived alone!
(I look up Jonny Appleseed Ballad and read it aloud. My mother chimes in on the final stanza.)
Consider, consider,
Think well upon
The marvelous story
Of Appleseed John!
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Allison
Sunday, May 24, 2020
Day #68 Writing Through COVID-19: Foggy Mornings
My mother is more disoriented on foggy mornings than sunny ones. My sister reminded me that this is also true in the dark of night. I think sunshine and daylight help keep us clearheaded.
Today I delivered my parents' breakfast after early-morning thunderstorms. The gray seeped in through the windows.
"We have blood tests this morning, so we can't eat breakfast yet," my mom announced as I set her morning tray on the table.
"As I understand it, your doctors say we don't need to worry about tests for now," I said, guiding her back toward the here and now. "Staying put is the most health-conscious thing you can do during the pandemic."
Just then my dad came out of the bedroom, so she turned to him. "We have lab tests today," she said.
My dad deals with my mom's confusion more than I do. He's usually patient, but this morning he was blunt: "We don't have blood tests today. We're in Atlantic. With Alli."
"But I told you they called," my mom argued, "and you said all right."
"I was sleeping," he said.
Within a few minutes, they were seated at their table, and my dad sipped coffee and ate his banana. I thought I had coddled them over the rocky start to their day. But my mother had not yet lifted her spoon. "If we eat this now," she said, "who will eat the breakfast they bring after our tests?"
I assured her we could handle any difficulty that comes our way. "If anyone brings you breakfast," I said, "They'll have to come in through the front door, in which case I'LL answer the door, and I'LL eat the breakfast!"
My mother laughed and picked up her spoon.
----------------------
Twenty minutes later I adjusted the laptop and logged onto Zoom so my parents could participate in Sunday School class with their Ft. Dodge friends. We've done this weekly, and we've also used Zoom for a couple of family events. I didn't realize I needed to re-explain the program's synchronous nature.
"Good morning," their teacher Jim said.
"Good morning," my dad answered.
"Jim has blood on his ear!" my mother said cheerfully--and loudly.
She was right. He did have blood on his ear. Maybe he nicked himself while shaving.
I reached over and hit the mute button. I didn't want to embarrass her, but I also needed to prevent my mom from saying things while thinking others couldn't hear.
"When I turn on this button," I said, "Everyone on the screen will be able to hear what you say."
My parents nodded blithely, so I hit "unmute" then dashed upstairs so I wouldn't have to hear what happened next.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Today I delivered my parents' breakfast after early-morning thunderstorms. The gray seeped in through the windows.
"We have blood tests this morning, so we can't eat breakfast yet," my mom announced as I set her morning tray on the table.
"As I understand it, your doctors say we don't need to worry about tests for now," I said, guiding her back toward the here and now. "Staying put is the most health-conscious thing you can do during the pandemic."
Just then my dad came out of the bedroom, so she turned to him. "We have lab tests today," she said.
My dad deals with my mom's confusion more than I do. He's usually patient, but this morning he was blunt: "We don't have blood tests today. We're in Atlantic. With Alli."
"But I told you they called," my mom argued, "and you said all right."
"I was sleeping," he said.
Within a few minutes, they were seated at their table, and my dad sipped coffee and ate his banana. I thought I had coddled them over the rocky start to their day. But my mother had not yet lifted her spoon. "If we eat this now," she said, "who will eat the breakfast they bring after our tests?"
I assured her we could handle any difficulty that comes our way. "If anyone brings you breakfast," I said, "They'll have to come in through the front door, in which case I'LL answer the door, and I'LL eat the breakfast!"
My mother laughed and picked up her spoon.
----------------------
Twenty minutes later I adjusted the laptop and logged onto Zoom so my parents could participate in Sunday School class with their Ft. Dodge friends. We've done this weekly, and we've also used Zoom for a couple of family events. I didn't realize I needed to re-explain the program's synchronous nature.
"Good morning," their teacher Jim said.
"Good morning," my dad answered.
"Jim has blood on his ear!" my mother said cheerfully--and loudly.
She was right. He did have blood on his ear. Maybe he nicked himself while shaving.
I reached over and hit the mute button. I didn't want to embarrass her, but I also needed to prevent my mom from saying things while thinking others couldn't hear.
"When I turn on this button," I said, "Everyone on the screen will be able to hear what you say."
My parents nodded blithely, so I hit "unmute" then dashed upstairs so I wouldn't have to hear what happened next.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Thursday, May 21, 2020
Day #65 Writing Through COVID-19: Randy Is Home!
If you have been reading my blog, you know that my 65-year-old brother-in-law, a nurse in Davenport, contracted COVID-19 in early April. He spent more than two weeks in an induced coma on a ventilator before his doctors gave him serum with antibodies from a recovered COVID patient. Shortly thereafter, his oxygen levels began to improve. At last the ventilator was removed.
When he awoke, he could not speak or swallow. He could barely move. He was disoriented. After another week in the hospital, he was released to a COVID floor of the same care center that employs him, where he spent another two weeks in intensive physical therapy.
Yesterday he was released to return home. When my sister pulled up to the facility, the nuns and the nurses lined Randy's route from the door to the car and cheered him as he headed out.
My sister, who is a retired physician, explained (I hope I'm translating this accurately) that although Randy is still testing positive for the virus, they do not think he is contagious; rather, bits of the virus in a broken-down form in his body cause him to test positive, even if he is no longer in an active virulent condition. I continue to be boggled by how little is known about this illness.
-----------------------
Today I needed to work at school. I used the side door, plenty of hand-sanitizer, and avoided coming face-to-face with anyone.
But Farmer Dan also asked me to pick up parts while I was in town, which I thought I could do while still distancing. When I pulled up, I saw their front door was propped open--which I took as a positive indication they were aware of recommended safety measures.
I stood six feet away from the counter, wearing my mask, and said I'd come to pick up Dan's order. The un-masked parts man picked up the box and headed my way.
I expected him to put the box down and back away, but instead, he brought it right to me, breaking into my 6-foot bubble.
I don't want to be histrionic. And I do believe the parts man was trying to be courteous. Still, I cannot, knowing what I do from Randy's experience, let my guard down.
---------------------------
Many people are behaving as if we all just pretend the virus isn't here, it won't be. Because I live in a rural section of the state, we hunkered down for two months with virtually no cases.
Cass County did not report its first COVID case until April 12, a full month after we had closed our schools. The second case was not logged until May 12.
But four days later, on May 16, we saw case #3, then two days later, #4. Today Cass County announced two more positive tests, bringing the total to six.
Should I graph that?
-------------------
I know that Randy's experience affects how I perceive the virus. I also know that housing my parents in my basement and tending my 91-year-old mother-in-law down the road magnifies my virus awareness when I go out in public. But I do not want to bring it home to Eagle Avenue.
Meanwhile, today Governor Reynolds announced more openings: bars and swimming pools, school summer sports, movie theaters and wedding reception venues. Cheers.
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Allison
When he awoke, he could not speak or swallow. He could barely move. He was disoriented. After another week in the hospital, he was released to a COVID floor of the same care center that employs him, where he spent another two weeks in intensive physical therapy.
Yesterday he was released to return home. When my sister pulled up to the facility, the nuns and the nurses lined Randy's route from the door to the car and cheered him as he headed out.
My sister, who is a retired physician, explained (I hope I'm translating this accurately) that although Randy is still testing positive for the virus, they do not think he is contagious; rather, bits of the virus in a broken-down form in his body cause him to test positive, even if he is no longer in an active virulent condition. I continue to be boggled by how little is known about this illness.
-----------------------
Today I needed to work at school. I used the side door, plenty of hand-sanitizer, and avoided coming face-to-face with anyone.
But Farmer Dan also asked me to pick up parts while I was in town, which I thought I could do while still distancing. When I pulled up, I saw their front door was propped open--which I took as a positive indication they were aware of recommended safety measures.
I stood six feet away from the counter, wearing my mask, and said I'd come to pick up Dan's order. The un-masked parts man picked up the box and headed my way.
I expected him to put the box down and back away, but instead, he brought it right to me, breaking into my 6-foot bubble.
I don't want to be histrionic. And I do believe the parts man was trying to be courteous. Still, I cannot, knowing what I do from Randy's experience, let my guard down.
---------------------------
Many people are behaving as if we all just pretend the virus isn't here, it won't be. Because I live in a rural section of the state, we hunkered down for two months with virtually no cases.
Cass County did not report its first COVID case until April 12, a full month after we had closed our schools. The second case was not logged until May 12.
But four days later, on May 16, we saw case #3, then two days later, #4. Today Cass County announced two more positive tests, bringing the total to six.
Should I graph that?
-------------------
I know that Randy's experience affects how I perceive the virus. I also know that housing my parents in my basement and tending my 91-year-old mother-in-law down the road magnifies my virus awareness when I go out in public. But I do not want to bring it home to Eagle Avenue.
Meanwhile, today Governor Reynolds announced more openings: bars and swimming pools, school summer sports, movie theaters and wedding reception venues. Cheers.
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Allison
Wednesday, May 20, 2020
Day #64 Writing Through COVID-19: Wrong Words
On Saturday I greeted my parents with a breakfast tray and the announcement that they'd been living with me for eight weeks.
I thought this was a milestone to celebrate. We've had eight weeks of health and (dare I say) happiness.
Two months ago, when I delivered their first meals with extraordinary care (all the food groups, color variety, pretty dishes, special treats) I wondered if my enthusiasm for meal presentation would wane. But it really hasn't. My parents are the perfect patrons: they praise each meal; they wash their own dishes.
We have had daily poetry readings; reflective, honest conversations; much generous laughter; many shared movie nights.
We have not fought. We have irritated each other only minorly. None of us has been unkind, short-tempered, or impatient with each other. This is remarkable in that during my final three years in my parents' house I was perpetually unkind, and we were all impatient and short-tempered.
So when I announced our 8-week success, I did so happily.
But my dad misunderstood my message. Later that day he contacted two of my siblings, concerned that he and my mother had overstayed their welcome, wondering when they could return to Ft. Dodge.
I was floored. I couldn't figure out why my dad was trying to arrange to go back when my perception was that we were thriving.
So I asked him.
Yes, he admitted he'd thought my "eight weeks" comment was to say their visit had gone on too long. He thought I hadn't bargained on them staying into the summer.
When he told me this, I teared up. While I understand that my "Can you believe you've been here eight weeks!?" might have been interpreted as "too long," hadn't my daily actions and words assured my parents of their welcome?
As we talked, I believe I was able to patch over my morning's mistake. He agreed he preferred to stay here as long as Friendship Haven is still restricting residents to their rooms for health safety.
-----------------------
Communication can be treacherous. My blithe words (Eight weeks!) had missed their mark. But it was a trust in communication that allowed us to reset, and in fact, come to a clearer understanding of each other's hopes and fears.
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Allison
I thought this was a milestone to celebrate. We've had eight weeks of health and (dare I say) happiness.
Two months ago, when I delivered their first meals with extraordinary care (all the food groups, color variety, pretty dishes, special treats) I wondered if my enthusiasm for meal presentation would wane. But it really hasn't. My parents are the perfect patrons: they praise each meal; they wash their own dishes.
We have had daily poetry readings; reflective, honest conversations; much generous laughter; many shared movie nights.
We have not fought. We have irritated each other only minorly. None of us has been unkind, short-tempered, or impatient with each other. This is remarkable in that during my final three years in my parents' house I was perpetually unkind, and we were all impatient and short-tempered.
So when I announced our 8-week success, I did so happily.
But my dad misunderstood my message. Later that day he contacted two of my siblings, concerned that he and my mother had overstayed their welcome, wondering when they could return to Ft. Dodge.
I was floored. I couldn't figure out why my dad was trying to arrange to go back when my perception was that we were thriving.
So I asked him.
Yes, he admitted he'd thought my "eight weeks" comment was to say their visit had gone on too long. He thought I hadn't bargained on them staying into the summer.
When he told me this, I teared up. While I understand that my "Can you believe you've been here eight weeks!?" might have been interpreted as "too long," hadn't my daily actions and words assured my parents of their welcome?
As we talked, I believe I was able to patch over my morning's mistake. He agreed he preferred to stay here as long as Friendship Haven is still restricting residents to their rooms for health safety.
-----------------------
Communication can be treacherous. My blithe words (Eight weeks!) had missed their mark. But it was a trust in communication that allowed us to reset, and in fact, come to a clearer understanding of each other's hopes and fears.
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Allison
Monday, May 18, 2020
Day #62 Writing Through COVID-19: The Challenge of Balance
This is my 48th post in 62 days, which for me is pretty solid.
Saturday marked eight weeks of my parents living in my basement. We celebrated by playing a game of Suspend, which is a cross between Pick-up Sticks, Jenga, and constructing a DIY mobile for the baby's crib.
I'd say the game was a 7 on our 1-10 success scale.
To position his game pieces, my dad had to reach both hands up above his shoulders, which required physical exertion and concentration. He was motivated through his competitive nature. As we played, I thought about how the occupational therapists at care centers invite residents to join in activities that call for stretching and dexterity. The game met this goal.
I also enjoyed watching my parents think through the positioning of each rod. I watched the thinking on their faces as they anticipated the physics of each move. They grinned when they placed pieces without toppling the suspension.
-------------------
My mother and I spent a good chunk of the morning on (what has become) our daily puzzle, this time a beehive scene. The sunflowers were a challenge, as were the multiple yellow hives. "Each piece we fit in is one less piece to go!" my mom said. Then said it again. And again.
It was the third time she said it that her benign comment struck me as ridiculous.
It was as if the puzzle was a chore we had to push through to finish. Each piece placed moved us one piece closer to release from the task! And yet when we finish a puzzle, we'll start another. What is the difference between a chore, a diversion, and entertainment?
The three seem to blend here.
I brought down laundry, warm from the dryer, and asked my mom if she would fold it for me. I thought she might enjoy this little chore. It could be a diversion while serving a helpful purpose. It might break up her day in a not unpleasant way. Can folding warm laundry count as entertainment?
Even if I could provide non-stop high-quality entertainment--a juggling act? standup comedy?--at some point a firehose of fun and games is overwhelming. We need to ask the jester to go away for awhile so we can read or rest or be alone with our thoughts. We need to wash dishes or pay a bill, dust a shelf, take a shower.
Because I am their only artery to the outside world, I feel responsible for managing the flow of stimulation and idleness into my parents' sheltered lives. They never refuse my offers to play a game or read a poem, blow some bubbles, check the asparagus patch. They are so acquiescent that I'm left wondering if they're desperate for any small diversion or if they're wishing I'd give them a break and let them rest a bit.
It's a balancing act; we are in suspension.
Saturday marked eight weeks of my parents living in my basement. We celebrated by playing a game of Suspend, which is a cross between Pick-up Sticks, Jenga, and constructing a DIY mobile for the baby's crib.
I'd say the game was a 7 on our 1-10 success scale.
To position his game pieces, my dad had to reach both hands up above his shoulders, which required physical exertion and concentration. He was motivated through his competitive nature. As we played, I thought about how the occupational therapists at care centers invite residents to join in activities that call for stretching and dexterity. The game met this goal.
I also enjoyed watching my parents think through the positioning of each rod. I watched the thinking on their faces as they anticipated the physics of each move. They grinned when they placed pieces without toppling the suspension.
 |
| Suspend, half game, half exercise. |
-------------------
My mother and I spent a good chunk of the morning on (what has become) our daily puzzle, this time a beehive scene. The sunflowers were a challenge, as were the multiple yellow hives. "Each piece we fit in is one less piece to go!" my mom said. Then said it again. And again.
It was the third time she said it that her benign comment struck me as ridiculous.
It was as if the puzzle was a chore we had to push through to finish. Each piece placed moved us one piece closer to release from the task! And yet when we finish a puzzle, we'll start another. What is the difference between a chore, a diversion, and entertainment?
The three seem to blend here.
I brought down laundry, warm from the dryer, and asked my mom if she would fold it for me. I thought she might enjoy this little chore. It could be a diversion while serving a helpful purpose. It might break up her day in a not unpleasant way. Can folding warm laundry count as entertainment?
Even if I could provide non-stop high-quality entertainment--a juggling act? standup comedy?--at some point a firehose of fun and games is overwhelming. We need to ask the jester to go away for awhile so we can read or rest or be alone with our thoughts. We need to wash dishes or pay a bill, dust a shelf, take a shower.
Because I am their only artery to the outside world, I feel responsible for managing the flow of stimulation and idleness into my parents' sheltered lives. They never refuse my offers to play a game or read a poem, blow some bubbles, check the asparagus patch. They are so acquiescent that I'm left wondering if they're desperate for any small diversion or if they're wishing I'd give them a break and let them rest a bit.
It's a balancing act; we are in suspension.
 |
| A fairy note, delivered with morning meds in a tiny teacup. |
Friday, May 15, 2020
Day #48-49 Writing Through COVID-19: On Puzzles, Yogurt, and Marriage
My sister sent my mom six beautiful large-piece jigsaw puzzles for Mother's Day. On Wednesday my dad tore himself away from his book long enough to join my mom in constructing the outside flat-edge frame of a farm scene. When I came downstairs and saw their progress, my mom praised my dad as if he'd designed the Sydney Oprea House.
Same for yogurt. The first time I served it, my mom said, "Your father didn't like yogurt, but now he does!" as if he'd discovered King Tut's tomb. She repeats this with the same adoration each time I serve yogurt on the breakfast tray.
I am happy that my mom thinks my dad is wonderful. But her mental slippage causes her to repeat herself. Hearing that my father is Man of the Year because he joined her for 10 minutes at the puzzle table was a little cringy. But by the third time she said it, I was crawling out of my skin. Since when is eating yogurt a labor of Hercules?
I know my father also loves my mother very much, but the gushing cheerleader role is mono-directional.
-------------------
The power dynamic in any marriage is enigmatic. All couples bring a complex amalgam of traits to the relationship. Financial contribution is, for better or for worse, often the starting block. In my parents' case, my dad's breadwinner role gave him about a two-lap lead on my stay-at-home mom before the race had even begun.
My mother is (was) every bit as smart and capable as my dad. She is (was) a make-things-happen sort of person. Had she been a man in 1955, she would have been en route to a position of leadership: a superintendent, a CEO, or a Methodist bishop.
Instead, she resigned from teaching, as was expected, when she became pregnant with her first child. She then stayed home and poured her mental and creative energy into what every stay-at-home mom knows is a whirlpool of tedium and self-doubt. How can raising children feel simultaneously indispensable and meaningless?
My parents' marriage is more egalitarian than many of their generation. More so in some ways than my own.
My dad admits that his faltering heart will likely give way before my mother's sturdy body does. And he says his only fear of dying at this point is my mother's mental deterioration and how she would cope without him near. This devotion is powerful.
They both love each other very much.
But only my dad is praised for eating yogurt.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Same for yogurt. The first time I served it, my mom said, "Your father didn't like yogurt, but now he does!" as if he'd discovered King Tut's tomb. She repeats this with the same adoration each time I serve yogurt on the breakfast tray.
I am happy that my mom thinks my dad is wonderful. But her mental slippage causes her to repeat herself. Hearing that my father is Man of the Year because he joined her for 10 minutes at the puzzle table was a little cringy. But by the third time she said it, I was crawling out of my skin. Since when is eating yogurt a labor of Hercules?
I know my father also loves my mother very much, but the gushing cheerleader role is mono-directional.
-------------------
The power dynamic in any marriage is enigmatic. All couples bring a complex amalgam of traits to the relationship. Financial contribution is, for better or for worse, often the starting block. In my parents' case, my dad's breadwinner role gave him about a two-lap lead on my stay-at-home mom before the race had even begun.
My mother is (was) every bit as smart and capable as my dad. She is (was) a make-things-happen sort of person. Had she been a man in 1955, she would have been en route to a position of leadership: a superintendent, a CEO, or a Methodist bishop.
Instead, she resigned from teaching, as was expected, when she became pregnant with her first child. She then stayed home and poured her mental and creative energy into what every stay-at-home mom knows is a whirlpool of tedium and self-doubt. How can raising children feel simultaneously indispensable and meaningless?
My parents' marriage is more egalitarian than many of their generation. More so in some ways than my own.
My dad admits that his faltering heart will likely give way before my mother's sturdy body does. And he says his only fear of dying at this point is my mother's mental deterioration and how she would cope without him near. This devotion is powerful.
They both love each other very much.
But only my dad is praised for eating yogurt.
 |
| My mom finishes the farm puzzle while my dad eats ice cream (not yogurt). |
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Tuesday, May 12, 2020
Day #47 Writing Through COVID-19: Fun and Games
My parents hail from the diehard daily-newspaper generation. For decades they have used newspapers to calibrate their lives: Des Moines Register at sunrise; Ft. Dodge Messenger at 5 p.m.
Now here in rural Audubon County, the papers' arrival at noon is a highlight of their day. They pore over each page, reading passages aloud to each other, and to me if I'm in the room.
So I had good reason to think my father the newshound might enjoy the NYT Friday news quiz I play online.
What I failed to realize was how little of the news he now retains.
I knew my mistake after the first few answers: Prime Minister Narendra Modi of India, Hubei, The Defense Production Act. He looked at me blankly. But I couldn't think of a way to gracefully exit the quiz. We plodded on: Malaria, Loss of smell, International Olympic Committee (a lucky guess).
With each question, my dad grew more befuddled, and I more embarrassed that I'd suggested this painful game.
By the end, he had answered two of the 12 questions correctly. "You did better than 0% of those who took the quiz. 0% of quiz takers got the same score as you" the site proclaimed helpfully.
That was March 27; the news quiz went the way of Scrabble.
---------------------
But last evening I pulled out my phone and invited my parents to play a Penny Dell Crossword, EASY level.
The first clue (base of caviar) gave my mother the opportunity to pipe "ROE!"
We were off!
I read the clues and typed in the words as my parents shouted out the answers. My mom has pretty good vocabulary recall, despite not knowing if she fed the dog ten minutes ago. My dad's word recall is sometimes halting, but he is not as generally confused as my mom. Together they were a good team. They laughed and, as always, thanked me for the good time.
W
ENOUGH
L
L
W
R
I
STAY
E
Now here in rural Audubon County, the papers' arrival at noon is a highlight of their day. They pore over each page, reading passages aloud to each other, and to me if I'm in the room.
So I had good reason to think my father the newshound might enjoy the NYT Friday news quiz I play online.
What I failed to realize was how little of the news he now retains.
I knew my mistake after the first few answers: Prime Minister Narendra Modi of India, Hubei, The Defense Production Act. He looked at me blankly. But I couldn't think of a way to gracefully exit the quiz. We plodded on: Malaria, Loss of smell, International Olympic Committee (a lucky guess).
With each question, my dad grew more befuddled, and I more embarrassed that I'd suggested this painful game.
By the end, he had answered two of the 12 questions correctly. "You did better than 0% of those who took the quiz. 0% of quiz takers got the same score as you" the site proclaimed helpfully.
That was March 27; the news quiz went the way of Scrabble.
---------------------
But last evening I pulled out my phone and invited my parents to play a Penny Dell Crossword, EASY level.
The first clue (base of caviar) gave my mother the opportunity to pipe "ROE!"
We were off!
I read the clues and typed in the words as my parents shouted out the answers. My mom has pretty good vocabulary recall, despite not knowing if she fed the dog ten minutes ago. My dad's word recall is sometimes halting, but he is not as generally confused as my mom. Together they were a good team. They laughed and, as always, thanked me for the good time.
W
ENOUGH
L
L
W
R
I
STAY
E
Monday, May 11, 2020
Day #46 Writing Through COVID-19: School Daze
The AHS English Lockdown class meets weekdays at 1 p.m. on Zoom. On a rotating basis, three colleagues and I act as lead teacher for lessons on analysis, writing, grammar, discussion, and reading. The class is open to all students in our 420-student school.
Because the class is not required or graded, it is something of an experiment in students' intrinsic motivation to learn. Our discussions have recently focused on self-control and delayed gratification; how schools at times inhibit learning; and Friday, how authentic learning requires a willingness to try, fail, and try again.
We've had as many as 28 students attend, but as the quarantine has dragged on, our numbers have dwindled. We now have about 12 kids who come daily; our teacher to student ratio is 1:3.
On Friday Mr. Simpson asked the students point-blank: Why do you come to this non-required class?
One boy said it was part of the "school day" schedule he agreed on with his parents. Another said her mother told her she had to, but she "didn't mind."
Most said they attended because they like it. One said "we get to dig deeper "and another said "it's not rushed like school."
------------------------------
On the one hand, I am mortified by how few students attend. It's humbling to realize I've overvalued my teaching in the grand scheme of my students' lives.
And yet I know students are not avoiding the class as a personal affront to me. This strange spring has tugged all of us at the seams. Who knew which seams would hold, which ones would give?
My guess is that most AHS students are not deliberately refusing to learn during this time; rather, they are experiencing a mix of snow-day freedom and let's-all-take-a-break ennui. I doubt they believe their growth and future success is linked to a 30-minute optional class on Zoom.
And they're right.
But where do we go from here? I refuse to follow the slippery slope from "1 p.m. Zoom doesn't matter" to "this spring doesn't matter" to "next fall doesn't matter" to "school was just babysitting anyway."
The other slope--albeit less slippery and uphill--is that 1 p.m. Zoom matters...as does this spring...and next fall...and school as a whole.
Students and teachers and administrations and the country will need to re-think education in the wake of this experiment. If our schoolhouse has burned down, what will we rebuild in its place?
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Because the class is not required or graded, it is something of an experiment in students' intrinsic motivation to learn. Our discussions have recently focused on self-control and delayed gratification; how schools at times inhibit learning; and Friday, how authentic learning requires a willingness to try, fail, and try again.
We've had as many as 28 students attend, but as the quarantine has dragged on, our numbers have dwindled. We now have about 12 kids who come daily; our teacher to student ratio is 1:3.
On Friday Mr. Simpson asked the students point-blank: Why do you come to this non-required class?
One boy said it was part of the "school day" schedule he agreed on with his parents. Another said her mother told her she had to, but she "didn't mind."
Most said they attended because they like it. One said "we get to dig deeper "and another said "it's not rushed like school."
------------------------------
On the one hand, I am mortified by how few students attend. It's humbling to realize I've overvalued my teaching in the grand scheme of my students' lives.
And yet I know students are not avoiding the class as a personal affront to me. This strange spring has tugged all of us at the seams. Who knew which seams would hold, which ones would give?
My guess is that most AHS students are not deliberately refusing to learn during this time; rather, they are experiencing a mix of snow-day freedom and let's-all-take-a-break ennui. I doubt they believe their growth and future success is linked to a 30-minute optional class on Zoom.
And they're right.
But where do we go from here? I refuse to follow the slippery slope from "1 p.m. Zoom doesn't matter" to "this spring doesn't matter" to "next fall doesn't matter" to "school was just babysitting anyway."
The other slope--albeit less slippery and uphill--is that 1 p.m. Zoom matters...as does this spring...and next fall...and school as a whole.
Students and teachers and administrations and the country will need to re-think education in the wake of this experiment. If our schoolhouse has burned down, what will we rebuild in its place?
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Friday, May 8, 2020
Day #45 Writing Through COVID-19: Let's Ask Randy
After two consecutive negative COVID tests, my brother-in-law Randy is at last preparing for his release from the hospital where he has spent the past four weeks. He is scheduled to move to the same longterm care facility he worked at prior to contracting the virus, where one floor is now dedicated to recovering COVID patients.
Understandably, Randy would rather go home. He is having difficulty processing why he can't be with his family. His care level is still high, and my sister is not physically equipped to care for him until he is able to ambulate. But Randy is still healing mentally as well as physically; his thinking is not yet clear.
Last night on a Zoom committee meeting, a colleague from NW Iowa mentioned his relative's weeks on a ventilator and slow recovery. It was not unlike Randy's journey. The numbers posted on the IDPH site do not tell the full story.
Numbers tested, hospitalized, and released do not express the dire experiences of many who contract this virus. Randy and my colleague's relative haven't died, so are considered success stories. Yet they have suffered terribly, and their families have sustained misery as well.
---------------------
Early in the days of COVID, my husband made a passing comment that he'd just as soon get the virus, get over it, and get back to work. Our up-close view of Randy's experience makes get-it-get-through-it look like a terrible option--even if you could guarantee survival.
Gov. Reynolds is loosening Iowa's restrictions this week in an effort to re-normalize, even as no cure, no vaccine, no reliable/accessible testing, and no expert-approved protocols are yet established.
We have worked too hard to flatten the curve, to protect ourselves and our community from the contagion, to now move to a slow-drip model of "manageable" numbers of COVID-19.
Manageable COVID is an oxymoron. Ask Randy.
Understandably, Randy would rather go home. He is having difficulty processing why he can't be with his family. His care level is still high, and my sister is not physically equipped to care for him until he is able to ambulate. But Randy is still healing mentally as well as physically; his thinking is not yet clear.
Last night on a Zoom committee meeting, a colleague from NW Iowa mentioned his relative's weeks on a ventilator and slow recovery. It was not unlike Randy's journey. The numbers posted on the IDPH site do not tell the full story.
Numbers tested, hospitalized, and released do not express the dire experiences of many who contract this virus. Randy and my colleague's relative haven't died, so are considered success stories. Yet they have suffered terribly, and their families have sustained misery as well.
---------------------
Early in the days of COVID, my husband made a passing comment that he'd just as soon get the virus, get over it, and get back to work. Our up-close view of Randy's experience makes get-it-get-through-it look like a terrible option--even if you could guarantee survival.
Gov. Reynolds is loosening Iowa's restrictions this week in an effort to re-normalize, even as no cure, no vaccine, no reliable/accessible testing, and no expert-approved protocols are yet established.
We have worked too hard to flatten the curve, to protect ourselves and our community from the contagion, to now move to a slow-drip model of "manageable" numbers of COVID-19.
Manageable COVID is an oxymoron. Ask Randy.
Thursday, May 7, 2020
Day #44 Writing Through COVID-19: Wait for It...
We've been on a narrative poem kick of late: "Pied Piper," "Annabelle Lee," "Hiawatha." Yesterday's poem was Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade." I don't remember reading the poem before, but my parents knew it and our discussion led us to a history lesson by Siri to learn which battle it commemorated.
My dad then said, "Do you know the last lines of this poem...?" But then he paused.
We waited.
He wrinkled his forehead.
We waited. And waited.
---------------------
Waiting is not especially hard. COVID-19 is slowing everyone's pace. I go to town every 8 to 10 days, where I move foglike through Hy-Vee's one-way aisles. We shoppers silently agree not to rush each other, not to push past as the woman six feet in front of us decides between boxed cake mixes. We have all the time in the world.
Patience is a virtue now, not merely as a kindness of spirit, but as respect for each other's wellbeing.
---------------------
"What poem are you thinking of?" my mother asked mildly.
"I can't remember," said my dad.
"It will come to you," she said.
----------------------
We had a good day. My dad is enjoying the increased correspondence that the new (old) computer provides.
My sister called to say Randy is wondering why she can't visit him in the hospital, which indicates he is still confused, but he is talking and asking questions, and the nurses are working to help him swallow, which would allow the feeding tube to be removed.
A big box from the Puzzle Warehouse arrived with five puzzles. My mom and I made good headway on the first one which depicted cats perched on tree limbs playing musical instruments.
I taught my classes.
My dad read his book on Lincoln.
My mom walked Vern and wrote in her journal.
And when I brought down slow-cooked barbecue ribs and corn casserole for supper, my dad emerged from the bedroom reciting without a pause:
"So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams."
My dad then said, "Do you know the last lines of this poem...?" But then he paused.
We waited.
He wrinkled his forehead.
We waited. And waited.
---------------------
Waiting is not especially hard. COVID-19 is slowing everyone's pace. I go to town every 8 to 10 days, where I move foglike through Hy-Vee's one-way aisles. We shoppers silently agree not to rush each other, not to push past as the woman six feet in front of us decides between boxed cake mixes. We have all the time in the world.
Patience is a virtue now, not merely as a kindness of spirit, but as respect for each other's wellbeing.
---------------------
"What poem are you thinking of?" my mother asked mildly.
"I can't remember," said my dad.
"It will come to you," she said.
----------------------
We had a good day. My dad is enjoying the increased correspondence that the new (old) computer provides.
My sister called to say Randy is wondering why she can't visit him in the hospital, which indicates he is still confused, but he is talking and asking questions, and the nurses are working to help him swallow, which would allow the feeding tube to be removed.
A big box from the Puzzle Warehouse arrived with five puzzles. My mom and I made good headway on the first one which depicted cats perched on tree limbs playing musical instruments.
I taught my classes.
My dad read his book on Lincoln.
My mom walked Vern and wrote in her journal.
And when I brought down slow-cooked barbecue ribs and corn casserole for supper, my dad emerged from the bedroom reciting without a pause:
"So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams."
"Thanatopsis!" he grinned. "William Cullen Bryant!"
----------------------
It was worth the wait.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
It was worth the wait.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Wednesday, May 6, 2020
Day #43 Writing Through COVID-19: Letters and Forgiveness
My sister Adrienne writes to my parents daily: good old-fashioned hand-written letters in stamped envelopes delivered by the noble USPS. These letters arrive at noon, filled with details of her day: her grandbaby has learned to shake his head yes and no; she saw cardinals out her window; she remembered a song my mother used to sing.
Handwritten letters are something of a motif in my mother's life. When she was in college, her English-teaching mother would correct errors in my mother's letters and return them to her. (Not a happy letter memory, but a lasting one.) My parents' courtship inched forward week by week through letters between Michigan and Iowa. In the '00s, my mom was slow to accept email, which she saw as a pernicious attack on the merit of handwritten missives. We children would send her email; she would answer via snail mail.
So the daily letters from Adrienne are a gesture of honoring something my mother has valued, not unlike me bringing my mother her meds in a tiny teacup. We are trying to tell her we have noticed and absorbed small treasures of her life.
But because my sister writes daily, the letters are piling up! My mother tucks them neatly back into their envelopes, then stacks them on the TV console, or the ping-pong table, or the bookshelf.
I thought a three-ring binder could organize the letters and allow my mom to leaf back through them at her convenience. I gathered the letters and made quick work of stripping off their envelopes, sorting them by date.
"I had them all in order," my mom said quietly.
I barreled on: "This will help you keep them all in one place!" I was so busy being pleased with my own idea, my mother needed to repeat herself to make her point.
"I had them in order. I wanted to save them so Adrienne can have them when I die."
"Oh yes! That's why I'm putting them in this folder!" I stammered.
"I had them all in order."
-----------------------------
It was too late to stop my runaway train. The grand letter-reorganization was nearly finished.
But my mom was sad, and that made me sad too. I had good intentions, but sometimes that's not enough. I should have just provided her with a shoebox, or better yet, ASKED her if she wanted help storing the letters in one place.
I reached out and put my hand over hers.
"I was trying to help," I said, "I'm sorry."
She lay her hand over mine. "I know," she said.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Handwritten letters are something of a motif in my mother's life. When she was in college, her English-teaching mother would correct errors in my mother's letters and return them to her. (Not a happy letter memory, but a lasting one.) My parents' courtship inched forward week by week through letters between Michigan and Iowa. In the '00s, my mom was slow to accept email, which she saw as a pernicious attack on the merit of handwritten missives. We children would send her email; she would answer via snail mail.
So the daily letters from Adrienne are a gesture of honoring something my mother has valued, not unlike me bringing my mother her meds in a tiny teacup. We are trying to tell her we have noticed and absorbed small treasures of her life.
But because my sister writes daily, the letters are piling up! My mother tucks them neatly back into their envelopes, then stacks them on the TV console, or the ping-pong table, or the bookshelf.
I thought a three-ring binder could organize the letters and allow my mom to leaf back through them at her convenience. I gathered the letters and made quick work of stripping off their envelopes, sorting them by date.
"I had them all in order," my mom said quietly.
I barreled on: "This will help you keep them all in one place!" I was so busy being pleased with my own idea, my mother needed to repeat herself to make her point.
"I had them in order. I wanted to save them so Adrienne can have them when I die."
"Oh yes! That's why I'm putting them in this folder!" I stammered.
"I had them all in order."
-----------------------------
It was too late to stop my runaway train. The grand letter-reorganization was nearly finished.
But my mom was sad, and that made me sad too. I had good intentions, but sometimes that's not enough. I should have just provided her with a shoebox, or better yet, ASKED her if she wanted help storing the letters in one place.
I reached out and put my hand over hers.
"I was trying to help," I said, "I'm sorry."
She lay her hand over mine. "I know," she said.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Monday, May 4, 2020
Day #42 Writing Through COVID-19: Small Entertainments
Last week I navigated my parents through their first Zoom Sunday School class with their house-bound classmates in Ft. Dodge. Although attended by only one other woman and the leader, my parents were pleased. My mom repeated her fascination with Zoom technology throughout the coming days. My parents have been watching their home church's services each week since Palm Sunday.
But yesterday morning, at a few minutes after 8, when I trundled down the stairs with their English muffins and morning meds, I found my mother agitated, waiting at the foot of the stairs.
"Church has started!" she said, "I can hear it!"
"That's the radio you hear upstairs. It's not your church service," I explained. "I'll get you set up for Sunday School, and then I'll help you switch over to the service."
What I wanted to say was "Do you really think I'd forget your church service? Your care and tending are the bones around which I build my days. I won't let you miss church."
---------------------------
After lunch, my parents sat in the lawn chairs under the miles-wide Iowa sky while Vern sniffed about. It was kite-flying weather again. This time I got the kite aloft, then handed it off first to my mom and then my dad, as they remained seated. When the kite began to falter, I'd grab the string and run a bit to send it soaring again.
When we tired of this, I tried to roll in the kite without letting it touch the ground--which is a bit of a trick! I nearly made it when the kite took a mad hawk-like swoop toward my mother's head, adding gleeful laughter to our small entertainment.
Throughout the day my dad read his huge Abraham Lincoln book and my mom and I finished a 550-piece puzzle. They both took the scooter out for a spin around the yard. My son brought them their beloved Sunday Register from town since their subscription has still not kicked in.
My dad tinkered with gmail on the computer.
My mother set the table and washed the dishes.
In the evening we discussed their movie options and settled on "A Theory for Everything," the bio of Stephen Hawking. We'll discuss it this morning after we watch the sunrise and share a poem over morning coffee.
---------------------------
This morning (Monday) I woke to a text from my sister in Davenport. She wondered if our parents are adequately stimulated. She suggested I find small tasks for them to do, like peeling vegetables, or maybe I could find a way to hook up a computer to allow them to watch their Ft. Dodge church service.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
But yesterday morning, at a few minutes after 8, when I trundled down the stairs with their English muffins and morning meds, I found my mother agitated, waiting at the foot of the stairs.
"Church has started!" she said, "I can hear it!"
"That's the radio you hear upstairs. It's not your church service," I explained. "I'll get you set up for Sunday School, and then I'll help you switch over to the service."
What I wanted to say was "Do you really think I'd forget your church service? Your care and tending are the bones around which I build my days. I won't let you miss church."
---------------------------
After lunch, my parents sat in the lawn chairs under the miles-wide Iowa sky while Vern sniffed about. It was kite-flying weather again. This time I got the kite aloft, then handed it off first to my mom and then my dad, as they remained seated. When the kite began to falter, I'd grab the string and run a bit to send it soaring again.
When we tired of this, I tried to roll in the kite without letting it touch the ground--which is a bit of a trick! I nearly made it when the kite took a mad hawk-like swoop toward my mother's head, adding gleeful laughter to our small entertainment.
Throughout the day my dad read his huge Abraham Lincoln book and my mom and I finished a 550-piece puzzle. They both took the scooter out for a spin around the yard. My son brought them their beloved Sunday Register from town since their subscription has still not kicked in.
My dad tinkered with gmail on the computer.
My mother set the table and washed the dishes.
In the evening we discussed their movie options and settled on "A Theory for Everything," the bio of Stephen Hawking. We'll discuss it this morning after we watch the sunrise and share a poem over morning coffee.
---------------------------
This morning (Monday) I woke to a text from my sister in Davenport. She wondered if our parents are adequately stimulated. She suggested I find small tasks for them to do, like peeling vegetables, or maybe I could find a way to hook up a computer to allow them to watch their Ft. Dodge church service.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
 |
| Sunday, May 3, on Eagle Avenue |
Saturday, May 2, 2020
Day #41 Writing Through COVID-19: Poems and Newspapers
On Thursday my brother-in-law Randy was given two units of blood to counter his severe anemia that likely resulted from the blood thinners used during his induced coma. His hemoglobin has since stabilized and he is feeling stronger. He is still hospitalized but no longer in the ICU.
------------------
After last night's rant, I prioritized housekeeping today. I washed the bedding and vacuumed and even ran vinegar through the coffee pot. I'd give myself a solid C+ in Basic Living today.
Because my dad is reading a 600-page tome about Abraham Lincoln, I selected Whitman's "Captain, My Captain" for our morning poem--our second Whitman poem in as many days. Last night they watched "Death of a Salesman," so at breakfast we had that classic to discuss as well.
My parents are an English teacher's dream: they love literature; they're eager to discuss what they have read or watched; and (bonus!) they do not have SnapChat or TikTok as constant distractions.
Spending the first hour of my day drinking coffee and discussing "The Old Man and the Sea" or "When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer" with thoughtful, pleasant people gets us started on the right foot.
But like most days, we also had missteps today.
It was the newspaper. Again. I delivered my parents' mail at lunch but had to tell them their papers hadn't come. I gave them (another!) letter from my sister Adrienne, who has written to them daily since they moved in.
But my mom wanted a newspaper. I weakly offered her my thin Atlantic News-Telegraph.
An hour later, I'd lain down for a nap when my doorbell rang. It was my mom at the front door.
"Our newspaper hasn't come!"
"Our newspaper hasn't come!"
"Right," I said. "It didn't come today."
"Why not!?" She was ticked.
"Why not!?" She was ticked.
"I don't know. It usually comes. Today it didn't."
My answer was inadequate. I tried offering her old newspapers, the ploy I used successfully last week to distract her from the non-existent Sunday Register. "I don't want to read old news," said the woman who can no longer read a novel because she can't remember what happened in chapter one by the time she reaches chapter three.
------------------
It is puzzling and fascinating, but also sad, to watch my mother talk thoughtfully about a poem, laugh quickly at a joke, engage fluently in some conversations--and then (hijacked!) spin off on a day-long jag about the missing newspaper!
When I called the Register to check on the status of their Sunday subscription, I was routed through a series of voice prompts before hearing the "Due to COVID-19..." message that ended with a disconnection.
Tomorrow will be my parents' seventh Sunday here on Eagle Avenue. When I invited them in, I didn't know what to expect. I've been surprised at how loving we are to each other. I'm cherishing the hours I spend in their company. I had no idea how much reconnecting to my parents at this stage in our lives would mean to me.
But I also didn't realize how missing newspapers would come to dominate my days.
Enough.
Stay well.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
Friday, May 1, 2020
Day #39-40 Writing Through COVID-19: Confessions
My sister Adrienne texted tonight to scold me for not blogging since Wednesday.
I told her I was lethargic. Who isn't?
I'm missing Jamie, who in non-COVID-19-times rescues me from myself every Tuesday by whipping my house back into shape. She comes in like the famed white tornado and leaves my home shiny and smelling nice.
However, for the past six weeks, I've been on my own. Each morning I wake up determined to vacuum a floor, dust shelf, or scour a sink.
Each evening I go to bed vowing to do better tomorrow.
This is a hard confession. Keeping one's living space tidy is the first step on the flow-chart of basic human functionality. Can you shut a drawer? (Me: Oops! Guess not.) Can you sweep a floor? (Me: Um, nope.) Can you keep a flat surface clear of clutter? (Me: Absolutely not.)
Multiplying my housekeeping woes are my parents' (non)housekeeping habits in the basement. I've told you that Vern is the un-brushed house-pooping elderly dog that moved in with them six weeks ago. He sheds. He smells. He doesn't like to be brushed--or frankly, even petted. Yet my parents dote on him. Their shrunken lives deserve the happiness Vern brings them. I know this. But jeez, he's not helping my housekeeping woes.
Six weeks ago I purchased elevated toilet seats and a shower chair for my parents. My sister suggested I ask our mom to keep them clean, as her spirits are lifted when she has contributing work to do. (She whistles while washing the dishes after each meal. She is happy to make a fruit salad. She marches to the mailbox several times a day as if it is she alone who is braving the snow and rain and heat and gloom of night to bring the day's newspapers and thin correspondence to our door.)
But wiping down a toilet seat is evidently out of her milieu. My dad, meanwhile, read 160 pages of an Abraham Lincoln biography today. He also took his scooter out for a spin, and tonight he was happy to settle in and watch "Death of a Salesman." But I do not think this nonagenarian has ever held a toilet brush and I doubt he will anytime soon.
----------------
Today I managed to submit another yearbook spread and tracked down several missing senior photos. Fourteen students showed up for our (not required) English Lockdown; one student joined me from 2-3 p.m. to work on the yearbook.
----------------
Tomorrow is Saturday. It will be in too many ways a repeat of the weekdays. But I might get a floor vacuumed. I might change the lightbulb that burned out last week.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
I told her I was lethargic. Who isn't?
I'm missing Jamie, who in non-COVID-19-times rescues me from myself every Tuesday by whipping my house back into shape. She comes in like the famed white tornado and leaves my home shiny and smelling nice.
However, for the past six weeks, I've been on my own. Each morning I wake up determined to vacuum a floor, dust shelf, or scour a sink.
Each evening I go to bed vowing to do better tomorrow.
This is a hard confession. Keeping one's living space tidy is the first step on the flow-chart of basic human functionality. Can you shut a drawer? (Me: Oops! Guess not.) Can you sweep a floor? (Me: Um, nope.) Can you keep a flat surface clear of clutter? (Me: Absolutely not.)
Multiplying my housekeeping woes are my parents' (non)housekeeping habits in the basement. I've told you that Vern is the un-brushed house-pooping elderly dog that moved in with them six weeks ago. He sheds. He smells. He doesn't like to be brushed--or frankly, even petted. Yet my parents dote on him. Their shrunken lives deserve the happiness Vern brings them. I know this. But jeez, he's not helping my housekeeping woes.
Six weeks ago I purchased elevated toilet seats and a shower chair for my parents. My sister suggested I ask our mom to keep them clean, as her spirits are lifted when she has contributing work to do. (She whistles while washing the dishes after each meal. She is happy to make a fruit salad. She marches to the mailbox several times a day as if it is she alone who is braving the snow and rain and heat and gloom of night to bring the day's newspapers and thin correspondence to our door.)
But wiping down a toilet seat is evidently out of her milieu. My dad, meanwhile, read 160 pages of an Abraham Lincoln biography today. He also took his scooter out for a spin, and tonight he was happy to settle in and watch "Death of a Salesman." But I do not think this nonagenarian has ever held a toilet brush and I doubt he will anytime soon.
----------------
Today I managed to submit another yearbook spread and tracked down several missing senior photos. Fourteen students showed up for our (not required) English Lockdown; one student joined me from 2-3 p.m. to work on the yearbook.
----------------
Tomorrow is Saturday. It will be in too many ways a repeat of the weekdays. But I might get a floor vacuumed. I might change the lightbulb that burned out last week.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
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