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