Day #137 Writing Through COVID-19: For My Parents Leaving (or I See Cowboys)

We did it.

By packing last night, we'd hoped to get on the road by 9 this morning; we were satisfied to roll out at 9:45. 

One of the reasons for our delay was my inability to find the right poem for our last breakfast together. My searches for good-bye poems led me down rabbit holes of poems about breakups and divorce. 

Then my daughter and her boyfriend stopped by to say goodbye to Grandma and Grandpa, so I abandoned the poem search, telling myself we'd satisfy our daily poem quota by reciting "Kentucky Belle" on our drive to Ft. Dodge--which we did. (My parents also recited "Thanatopsis." I really do want that final stanza read at my funeral. By you, Emma Bireline.)

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It is hard to allow myself to feel the full emotion of an experience when that emotion is woven of loss. Ending is loss. My parents could not live here forever. I think one of the reasons I could enjoy them so fully was because I knew it was temporary.

Yet their leaving, at the same time corn tassels are browning and the temperature took an unexpected dip, filled me with that autumnal sense of time moving on. As time does. It is a losing; it is a letting go; it is a loss.

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When my sister's granddaughter was four or five, she went through a time of intensely fearing death. My sister was able to offer her some solace by explaining we are people who take turns on the Earth. We are here for a time, and then we move on. It is Wolf's turn now.

Most days we don't dwell on this. But today I did.

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After leaving Vern at Critter Camp, where he'll stay for two weeks while my parents are in quarantine and cannot leave their rooms, we dropped off trousers to be dry-cleaned, and then picked up my dad's pre-ordered books at the library. We then drove through McDonald's and found a shady spot on the Iowa Central Community College campus for our picnic. 

My father's Big Mac dripped on his pants, and we mused that we'd need to make another pass by the dry-cleaners. My mother said no one makes a hamburger like McDonald's. 

It was then time to return to Friendship Haven.

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The drop-off was slick. The masked staff was conscientious and kind. They lifted my dad's heavy scooter from the vehicle, and a darling girl (nametag: Andrea) jumped on it to bring it into the building. When she hit the joystick and the machine lurched forward, she yelped with surprise, and we all laughed. I told her I'd done the same thing the first time I drove it! 

A multi-person crew unloaded Vern's dog cage, a dozen puzzles, a box of fruit and cereal, the library books (as well as a pile from my house), a stack of Sunday School materials, wool socks, cards for Bridge, my dad's laptop (bookmarked for ZOOM), my mother's journals, their small assortment of hygiene items, two canes, one walker, and some bubbles.

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My parents answered questions about their health and then had their temperatures taken. We asked a nurse to take our picture. I hugged their brittle bones goodbye. 

My mom and I were both a little teary, a little scared, a little sad, a little brave. 

As I drove home, I thought of the poem I should have shared with them this morning. It is the one my mother gave to me on the day I left for college. Despite our fractious relationship at that time, I read the poem over and over. 

I'll share it with you here:

"For A Child Leaving" By Marjorie Lederer Lee

Go now: I shall open the door for you.
Everything is in store for you.
There is a room beyond this room;
beyond the circle of my arms and voice,
a further warmth, a further sound.
Rejoice: the world, my Sweet, like any other womb, is round!

Go now: you are ready to go.
I know - leavings are lonely.
But look: going is only a larger kind of living; and I swear:
tomorrow will be better.
(Take your sweater.)

Nothing stays: the ways of love are always moving;
loving itself is a growing being as spreading as pain.
Go now, while there is still light for seeing.
(Take your rubbers. It might rain.)

Good-by now; and remember what I've said to you;
Be nice to those who asks you in;
they love you, too.
When given a gift smile;
say thank you; even send a card.
(Little things like that make life less hard.)

Come on now: nothing is really so bad.
Think of what you've had;
it's all there - among your packed belongings:
the rightings and wrongings of years.
No - please. No tears.
You are Old Enough: the time to leave is how old Old is.
(Drink lots of orange juice. You know how common the cold is.)

Go now: only in part will I be left behind.
We have shared one heart and one mind.
No one ever goes alone through any door.
Yes, yes - I shall miss you!
(Wait. Surely there is a minute more. I forgot to kiss you.)

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My father called this evening to say they'd forgotten their clock, the one that tells them the day, date, time, and orients them to morning, afternoon, or evening. I will mail it tomorrow.

A few hours later I called him back to ask if he'd been able to access the "Oklahoma!" musical I'd flagged for him on Youtube. He could get to the video, but he couldn't get any sound, despite nearly 10 minutes of me saying "Hover over the lower-left corner of the video. Not the whole computer. Just the video."

"I see cowboys," my dad would say, "but I can't hear anything."

I then thought I could fix his volume issue if I could see his screen, so I sent him a ZOOM link. A few missteps later, we could hear each other, he could see me, but I couldn't see him. Ever the good sport, my dad would likely have kept hovering and clicking at my direction well into the wee hours. But I sensed we'd tried hard enough for one day.

Since they could at least see me, I walked my laptop around my dining room where my mother's cup and saucer collection is displayed on a cup rail. I pointed out favorite cups I knew she'd remember. It was a happy ending to an otherwise disastrous ZOOM chat, and a soothing ending to an otherwise wistful day.

Enough.

Be well.

Write.

Allison

Wolf and his lovely mama.

Day #136 Writing Through COVID-19: Last Day on the Farm

This morning, I'll drive my parents back to Ft. Dodge. Until COVID-19, they hadn't visited me in years, and since relinquishing their drivers' licenses and giving my sister their car, their travel is limited. Add to this the COVID constraints on care centers and the confusion my mom experiences with a change in location, and you get the picture. Odds are they will not see the farm again. 

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I grew up in Ft. Dodge, an ag-dependent city of about 25 k. I happily ignored agriculture until I met and married farmer Dan. 

But after living in rural Iowa for 36 years, I cannot imagine who I would be without these views, this space, the planting-growing -harvesting rotation. I think only Grant Wood came close to expressing how I feel about life in these rolling hills.

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That said, my father grew up in poverty on a farm near Buffalo Center. The farm was something to escape from. 

My mother's family moved to a farm when she was 14. Her father had been the school principal, promised the superintendent position, and then passed over for the promotion. He resigned in protest and moved his unhappy family to the farm. This was during the Great Depression.

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So if my parents' feelings about farming are if not outright hostile, they are at least conflicted. 

As I grew into my farming identity over the past decades, I would from time to time talk to my dad about Dan's progress in the field. My mother would ask questions about monocots and dicots, designed to spotlight her own vocabulary rather than authentically engage my farmer-husband in conversation.

Then my parents arrived on March 21. The land was gray from winter. Over the next month, they watched the lawn begin to green. On April 20, Dan began planting soybeans. 

Soon we could see the tips of green corn over the terrace, then we could see rows. 

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Each morning my mom reports on the glorious sunrise that has greeted her eastern view. 

My parents have come to think of our rural lawn as their personal Eden. 

During the past few weeks, my dad's been driving his scooter to the edge of the cornfield, then (treacherous!) hobbling into the corn to pick an ear and observe its progress toward harvest. 

Harvest.

I am sorry my parents will be abandoning the season at its apex. Harvest has its own piquancy. 

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Why am I obsessing about the farm and its seasons this morning? I think it is a metaphor.

My parents and I have spent almost a half year together. We began with bare ground after our relationship had lain fallow for years.

But this spring offered us--as spring does--a fresh start.

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Yesterday my parents and I played Bridge for nearly two hours. We vociferously defended our bids, howled with pleasure as tricks fell our way, and moaned in dismay when we were set. 

Because we played 3-handed, one of us always had to move from the dummy position to take up the other hand. My mom said, "It's hard to tell who are your enemies and who are your friends!"

I agreed: "Especially when they all look like relatives!" 

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I do not remember the final time I held both my toddler twins, one on each hip. I am relieved I did not know the last time I set them down would be my last. I could not have borne such a profound moment of letting go. 

I have likewise been spared the memories associated with the last time each of my children nursed at my breast. 

These moments of letting go would have been my undoing if I'd realized them at the time.

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Yesterday.

We played our last Bridge game.

I served up the last supper.

We packed the car.

I brought my mom her meds.

Klondike bars.

A movie.

I kissed them both goodnight, and told them how glad I was we had this time together. 

My dad said, "This really has been nice."

Enough.

Be well.

Write.

Allison

Wolf is milk drunk.

Day #135 Writing Through COVID-19: Nervous Hostess

The central event of Wednesday was a visit from my sister and her husband Randy, who was hospitalized and intubated, yet survived COVID-19 back in April. He has regained some hearing in his left ear, which had lost function during his illness. His right-hand index finger cannot pull into a fist position. Again, this lingering ailment of his ordeal might seem minor--unless you are a  guitarist, like Randy. He is exercising daily to rebuild muscle and stamina, yet he's often tired and naps frequently. He hopes to return to work on August 9.
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My sister had asked if they could come for an outdoor, masked visit before my parents returned to Fort Dodge where they will at least for a time be restricted on visitors. We thought we could make this work. I guess we did?

Unfortunately, we miscommunicated on their arrival time. In the basement at noon, my mom had her table set for lunch--while upstairs I was preparing my parents' tray--when the doorbell rang. Our guests arrived almost two hours before we expected them.

I pointed them to the shade of the front porch, then ran downstairs to tell my parents of the change in plans: lunch on the porch!
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I have learned in the past four months to expect a mental lag in response when I need my parents to shift gears. But I didn't have much time to work with. I was scheduled to be in town at 1:15 for a sweet-corn drop before donating blood. I was still wearing sweaty running clothes. "Just go up to the front porch," I said. "I'll meet you there."
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I then ran back upstairs, wiped down the dusty outdoor table, and brought out their meal (five food groups!)--just as the nonagenarians toddled around the north side of the house, my dad on his scooter and my mom dragging Vern by his leash. Both of them carried a precarious stack of dishes. These dear ever-helpful people were trying to move their basement table settings up to the porch.
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My sister and Randy wore face masks. My parents wore see-through face shields. Afterward, my dad said eating was hard. He kept forgetting about the shield and whacking his fork against it.
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Later, my dad said that while he'd enjoyed the visit, my mom had been nervous and confused. She repeatedly invited the guests into the house. My dad then had to correct her, and she in turn responded with anger, embarrassment, or a combination of the two.
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My Mom is at her best when she's relaxed. When she's pressured, she shuts down or spirals into one of her jags. Today that jag was the repeated invitation to come inside.

As I shared this with my dad, I told him that during my visits to Fort Dodge over the past few years, I often felt Mom was stressed. She said little and deflected questions.

Yet after the first couple of weeks here on Eagle Avenue, she relaxed. When feeling calm and unpressured, she chats and laughs with magnetic goodwill.
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When my parents spent two weeks Newton, I always asked to talk to my mom when I called each day. I did not want to lose the familiarity we had established through our unpressured days together.
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As I look to Friday, when I will re-home my parents to Ft. Dodge, I am afraid my mom will lose the trust she has built with me during this precious interlude.

I will call, and I can zoom. After two weeks, I can visit them outdoors with masks and face shields.

But from a distance, we will not likely be able to sustain the easy comfort together that we have today.

Today. Hold it tight.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Who might this beautiful baby be? Wolf's
hand-knitted sweater was made by
the NZ grandma of his mama's dear friend.

Day #133 Writing Through COVID-19: Birthday #90

Last night after settling my parents in with their Klondike bars to watch a French documentary about mentally ill criminals (they'll watch pretty much anything at this point), I hugged my mom and told her I loved her at 89 and looked forward to seeing her at 90 in the morning.
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Because I had four hours of Google Classroom training at 8 a.m., I delivered breakfast at 7:15. I served the (same old) English muffins on a red "You Are Special Today" plate, hung the birthday banner, and watched my mom unpack her birthday basket: Lindt chocolates, a(nother) 300 large-piece farm-scene puzzle, and a party-pack of bubbles.
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Three of my siblings checked in with our mom via phone or ZOOM today, and the fourth is coming from across the state for a masked front-porch visit tomorrow.

My mother was pleased to hear from all of us, but she wasn't keeping a tally. Her own birthday-remembering record is abysmal.

She marked my first two children's birthdays with gifts of books, but (who can blame her?) fell off a bit when I had children #3, #4, #5, and #6.  I resent this a lot less today than I did at the time. My kids didn't need the books, but each time she let a birthday slip past without acknowledgment, I felt a prickle of rejection.
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I've mentioned before my past difficult relationship with my mother. I remember several (adult) birthdays when my parents didn't call. It wasn't unusual for us to go months without talking to each other at all. Some years I made a deliberate choice not to call them on holidays. Was I trying to punish them? Or was I simply trying to create enough padding between us to cushion myself against pain of rejection?

I do not have to pull back many layers before I again feel the raw abrasion of my mother's personality rasping against my own. From about 12 years on, I sensed I was was not the person she wanted me to be. That created a painful dissonance: If the authentic me did not meet my mother's approval, I could either transform myself to be closer to her vision of me, or I could reject her version altogether.

I rejected her version.

But it wasn't easy. I felt my mother's disapproval for years. I was over 40 before I realized I could be a good person even without her validation.
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Today, I find myself in a place where I am not only NOT resenting her, but I am actively seeking ways to awash my mother in happy memories and good feelings. Furthermore, I'm doing this not because I'm trying to win her approval, but because during these 4+ months together, I have been if not her "only child," certainly her most present child. 

In the past 133 days, I believe my mother has come to love me, and I have come to love her, with fewer conditions than we have in 60 years.
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After birthday cake and Kondike bars, I hugged my mom tonight.
"I love you even more at 90 than I did at 89," I said.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Day #132 Writing Through COVID-19: Pulling a Thread

Last night instead of blogging, I watched "Inherit the Wind" with my parents. Throughout the movie we wondered aloud about what liberties were taken in turning the Scopes trial into the fictionalized film.

So this morning I'll do a little research and our morning poem will instead be a history lesson!
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I woke up today with thoughts of school and the associated sinking feeling in my stomach. Last night another colleague contacted me with her concerns that our school is telling her she cannot require masks inside her own classroom.

Think. About. This. As teachers, our classroom is our domain. We make decisions about the use of cell phones, allowing food or drink, seating charts vs. free-range seating, late-work policies. But evidently, a mask is a bridge too far.

I'm anxious about how this will play out.

And if I tug that anxiety thread, my lip starts to sweat and my entire fabric of calm unravels:

• How can I simultaneously teach online (for students at home) and in person?
• How can I recraft my curriculum (heavily based on group and partner work) for 6-ft distancing?
• Do I dare send student journalists into classrooms to take photos? (I think not.)
• Do we dare share cameras? (I think not.)
• Where will I eat my lunch? Alone in my room :'( 
• Who will wipe down desks during our three minutes of passing?
• How can my students select books from my classroom library without mingling and touching the books? (I've got an idea for this...not a great one, but it's a start...)
• Passing time looks to me like a giant stirring of the petri dish.
• How many students and teachers will get sick before we move to online learning?

So much feels out of my control right now. And as we inch toward my parents' return to Friendship Haven at the end of this week, my worry skein in that category unwinds as well:

• Has this 4.5 month intervention been for naught if I'm returning them to a county that today shows 582 cases? Cass County is at a mere 36, although that is up by 50% from the 24 we were at on July 6.
• How confused will my mother be?
• Who will help us unload my dad's scooter (wheelchair) upon arrival?
• What groceries will my parents need to get through their required two-week quarantine?
• Will my mother remember how to do her own laundry? (Wait! She won't have access to the laundry room for two weeks.)
• How will I close this most precious, unexpected chapter of my life?

Enough.

Be well.

Write. 

Allison

My dear friend Kathy of Flowers for You brought my parents their
birthday bouquet yesterday. <3

Day #130 Writing Through COVID-19: Great Grandpa Learns to ZOOM

I'm teaching my dad how to participate in the video chat application ZOOM from his laptop. When he and my mom return to Friendship Haven next week, they'll be quarantined for two weeks. To attend Sunday School, they'll have to run ZOOM without assistance.

As with all learning, my dad needs to work through four stages of acquiring a new skill:

1) AWARE: In this case, his awareness began when in April I introduced him to the application for Sunday School. He knew it existed.

2) AWKWARD: This is the phase when a learner tries the skill but fails frequently. Unfortunately, we often rush students in this phase. In my classroom, I like to say "Let's celebrate awkward!" as we give ourselves permission to make mistakes during new learning.

3) SKILLFUL: At this point, a learner can, if concentrating, demonstrate the new learning with frequent success. I tell kids this is when you're driving with the driver's ed teacher. You have to really pay attention, but you're doing it!

4) INTEGRATED: The final stage of learning is when a skill becomes automatic and the learner performs well consistently. This is like the person who no longer has to stop and think if it's "the bell has rang" or "the bell has rung" (FYI, the bell has rung).

Since I began nudging my dad from aware to awkward with ZOOM earlier this week, we've had multiple practice sessions. He took detailed--albeit shakily unreadable--notes for each step:

• opening his email
• finding the link
• clicking the link
• turning on his camera 
• unmuting the microphone 

We also practiced what to do when he invariably hits a wrong button and his screen disappears, how to change from speaker view to gallery view, and how to position the computer so that both he and Mom appear on the screen.

In other words, we've been celebrating the AWKWARD stage of learning!
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Yesterday, when we held his birthday party via zoom, I still had to run down to the basement twice to help him with the multi-part sequence.

But today marks a milestone: I was at my mother-in-law's (we're learning a new polka, definitely AWKWARD), when my sister called Dad and told him to open his email and log onto ZOOM.

He did it! With just a few pointers from my sister over the phone, he was able to get on ZOOM and enjoy a face-to-face conversation!

When he told me about it, you'd think he'd just maneuvered a level five whitewater.

My son Harrison (red helmet) guiding whitewater rafters
in Colorado a few years ago. I'll guess this was a level 2.

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At 91, my dad felt the surge of joy that comes from learning a new skill.

Tomorrow he'll log onto Sunday School ZOOM without my assistance. I'll be upstairs if he needs my help.  We'll keep practicing this throughout the week, with the hope that he'll be solidly positioned in the SKILLFUL zone by the time he returns to Ft. Dodge.
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I enjoyed more Bridge with my parents this afternoon. I'd like to think I'm inching toward SKILLFUL, but I'm not opposed to celebrating AWKWARD.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

We are on day four of our all-sweetcorn summer diet!
My daughter's business is Corn for a Cause. For every dozen
purchased, the non-profit donates a dozen to the Iowa Food Bank
or local food pantries.  💛💛

Captured during a video chat today: Andrea's thumb (left), Max's hand
on baby's forehead, Grandma Oooohing in the corner, and
Wolf looking calm and wise at two weeks old.

Day #129 Writing Through COVID-19: Good Gossip

My dad turned 91 today. I tried to make it special in the mild, simple-pleasures way of life we aspire to out here on the farm: I hung the birthday banner where he could see it while eating breakfast. I served cheesecake at lunch, and presented him with a new jar of bubbles.

In the afternoon my three available children joined us from Des Moines, Colorado, and 1/2 mile down the road for a ZOOM birthday party. We sang (I played the accordion), then counted aloud to 91 while doing jumping jacks, pushups, and wild dance moves.

Next, my kids answered trivia questions about their grandpa. When they knew the answers, he was pleased. When they missed, he was even more pleased because he got to tell the stories behind the trivia.

One of the questions was "When were Grandma and Grandpa were married?"

Palmer guessed August, which was correct, but no one knew the day or year. My dad said, "We'll celebrate our 64th anniversary on August 18!"

"Wait!" I interrupted, "Weren't you married in 1955? That means this will be your 65th anniversary!"

We paused the party to do a little math. I was right. He'd lost a year somewhere.

Don't we all?
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Our final birthday game was Good Gossip. I was raised with this game, and it was a staple for my children's birthdays. I've even played it with my journalism students.

HOW TO PLAY GOOD GOSSIP

One person (in this case my dad) leaves the room (on ZOOM this means I moved him back into the digital "waiting room") while everyone says one positive comment about him.

When he returns, he asks someone, "What did you hear about me?"

They answer with one of the comments that had been shared.

The task is for the person to guess who said what about him.

If he guesses right, the person says, "Yes! I said that! I also heard..."

If he guesses wrong, the person says, "No, I didn't say that. But I did hear..."

This goes on until all of the gossip has been attributed to the right person!
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Yes, the game is sappy, but its structure gives us permission to shower a special person with words we don't always say out loud:

"I heard you're funny."

"I heard you are kind."

"I heard you are a great story-teller."

"I heard you're good at Bridge."
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After the ZOOM party, Harrison and his girlfriend stopped by for a distanced outdoor ice cream treat. On the shaded side of the house, we enjoyed chocolate-almond Häagen-Dazs ice cream bars. My dad held and petted Harrison's kitten. He then used his new bubble wand to send orbs of opalescence into the Iowa sky around us. It was lovely.
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Before supper, my parents and I played a game of Bridge. My dad won, which he deserved to do on his birthday; nevertheless, my mom and I groaned when he pontificated on his excellent play.
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Tonight when I hugged my dad good night and told him how glad I was he has lived so long, he called me a "sweet girl" and thanked me for making his day special.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

At 12 days old, Wolf is thriving. But his mama's breasts are sore, and she is a bit teary. Today she had to watch her best friend's wedding via ZOOM rather than be there as maid of honor as originally planned. Our pre-COVID plans were that I'd be in NZ right now. If only....

Day #128 Writing Through COVID-19: Letting Go

My friend's mother died Tuesday. Like me, my friend had brought her mom into her home when COVID hit. Two weeks ago, her mother's cancer outpaced the COVID concerns, and her mom moved back to the center for nursing care.

How do we let our parents go? Throughout my life, I have loved, and felt loved by, my dad. But it is only in sharing the past four months so intimately with my mom that I have come to love her with an authenticity I haven't known since young childhood. I will pay for this experience with heightened grief when she dies. This is the price for the unexpected chance to mend our relationship with laughter, poems, bubbles, stories, puzzles, forgiveness, and Bridge.

My friend said her mother is at peace. I wish my friend such peace as well.
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Yesterday I met on ZOOM to discuss our high school's plan for returning to teaching/learning during the pandemic.

The teachers in the meeting asked questions about the logistics of social-distancing 400 students, scheduling additional lunch periods, supervising shared spaces during morning hall duty, accessing hot water for hand-washing, and checking out library books (to name a few).

While the bold strokes for starting school are in place, many specifics of HOW are yet to be determined.
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Last night the school board discussed the Return-to-Learn plan. The meeting was live-streamed via a  local radio station. The board asked questions about the availability of PPE, how teachers will manage students distanced across two classrooms (plus online), how we can prioritize masking even if not mandating it, and what cleaning protocols will be in place.

I feel the heavy weight on our school board's shoulders. I could hear it in their voices. They are ultimately responsible for the decisions that may lead to illness or even death in our district. Unless they want to resist through legal recourse as some larger districts are doing, they are pretty much forced to keep putting one foot in front of the other as we march, lemmings, to the sea.
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Today I stopped by Central Office to talk to the superintendent. I was relieved to see people in the front office wearing masks, and the superintendent had his meeting space re-configured to allow for good distancing as we talked. These small actions increased my confidence in my district. This doesn't mean I think no one will get COVID when we re-open. (My bets are on a COVID shutdown by Oct. 1.) But I did not know what to expect when I entered; masks and distancing helped lower my heart rate a little.
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I thanked the superintendent for wearing a mask during the graduation ceremony last Sunday. I'd seen photos of the event, and while several people on stage were unmasked, the superintendent modeled responsible masking. He said he wears a mask in stores as well.

This is good. In a small town, school administrators, and even teachers, have leadership roles. We are not invisible, and our actions send messages.

Next, we moved to the reason I was there: I had questions about his attribution in the previous night's board meeting. (The CDC recommends masks in schools; it is the Iowa Department of Ed's directives that contradict this.) While this may feel like quibbling, I do not want my district to lose credibility with our community by failing to accurately attribute the guidelines we are following--especially when guidelines conflict--which they do.

We talked briefly about teacher trainings offered over the next two weeks, before a brief sidebar to praise the journalism department's student leadership lined up for the coming year.

I left feeling a little calmer, and a little more positive about the coming year.
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It's sweet corn season, so life is good.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Wee Wolf in a nappy.

Day #126 Writing Through COVID-19: Where Is the Joy?

This month I am participating in an online writing group that is focusing on joy. Today's prompt included the admonition to grab joy. We may experience joy passively when we unexpectedly see five wild turkeys walking across the lawn, as I did this morning.

But we can also grab joy. That is, we can intentionally seek it out, claim it.
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As I wrote about this, my thoughts turned to school. (Actually, school never leaves my thoughts these days.) I am worried and fearful about returning. And fear and joy are on opposite ends of my teetertotter.

Can I be an active joy-seeker while maintaining a guard of caution and safety? I do not want to be a can't-do sort of teacher. I've never been that.

But while I'm eager to try new technology and think I could be a positive leader in online teaching, I'm not so sure about the face-to-face option.

I wish I felt I could trust the systems--the federal government, the state of Iowa, my school board and administrators--to keep me and my students safe. But right now I'm nervous.

What do I need from these systems in order to trust their leadership?

1) Honesty. Make sure that policy and recommendations line up with facts.
2) Modeling. Walk the walk of responsibility. Wear masks. Model social distancing.
3) Adherence. Follow CDC recommendations for re-opening.

I am truly in a place of cognitive dissonance. I have to reconcile my enthusiasm for teaching with my uncertainty of what lies ahead.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

P.S. If you've read through this dismal blog post, you deserve to see something lovely.

Wolf (nine days old) and his mama. 

Day #125 Writing Through COVID-19: On Complaints (or Cut Out My Tongue)

I could not have survived nearly five months with my parental house guests if they were not so cheerful and agreeable. They do not complain. Their first response to my delivery of lukewarm coffee or a frozen pizza is to thank me as if I'd rescued them from a desert island.

Note to self: If I live long enough to be dependent on the care of others, cut my tongue out. I do not want one word of criticism to pass my lips.
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That said, today after washing my parents' bedding, I asked my mother to help me make the bed. Since March, this is something we've done together every two weeks. Until today it was one of our "be of use" activities that was pleasurable in our shared effort.

But today when I enlisted her help, she harumphed, "This is the HARDEST bed to make!"

"It's easier with two of us," I cajoled.

We put on the sheets and a light blanket, but then I noticed the top quilt (which on non-washing days she always places smoothly over the bed herself) was folded against the footboard.

"Should we leave this top quilt off?"

"YES. I HATE that quilt! It's so heavy! It's horrible!"
------------------

After four+ months she tells me she hates the quilt?

The thing is, my mom's complaints about making the bed might actually be remnants of memory from other beds she's made, some of which have--no doubt--been the HARDEST!

I do not think she connected her fussing about the quilt in any way to the hostess who had provided it.
-----------------

These days, loving my mother means granting her a wide swath of grace. I refuse to take her complaints today as anything other than annoyance at the life chore of bed-making.

Instead, I will find a bit of joy in her saucy attitude.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Wolf finds his thumb.

Day #124 Writing Through COVID-19: The Risk of Joy

I ran six miles this morning. This makes me happy, but I don't know why. They were slow miles. And nobody cares.

It seems my life has truly shrunken in upon itself. I run. I read. I write.

Between that, I call my sister, visit my mother-in-law (her only faced contact with the outside world), play Bridge with my parents, and tend to the unending mundane tasks that keep a home running but that are startingly undervalued. How is it that meal prep, laundry chores, and general housekeeping are at once our most basic needs and our least valued contributions to the world at large?
---------------------

I did ask my mother today about her journals. "Would you like me to read them? I offered.

"You can have them when I die," she said promptly.

"I'd like that."

"I'm very honest in my journals, Sometimes I write about what makes me angry."

"Oh, I'll love reading that!"
--------------------

My mom went on to explain that lately she uses her journal to keep her mind working. She writes down things she wants to remember. "It might not be very interesting," she said.
--------------------

This afternoon I went downstairs, masked, and asked my parents if they wanted to play Bridge. I told them I would wear a mask, wash my hands well, and refrain from touching my face, but I totally understood if they preferred I stay away. (I have not had any reason for concern beyond my Saturday-morning sniffle.)

Maybe I shouldn't have given my parents a choice.  Maybe I should have just stayed upstairs. But the eagerness with which my dad accepted my offer reinforced the reason I'd asked in the first place: joy matters.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Wolf with his mama, visiting with Granny this evening. 

Day #123 Writing Through COVID-19: COVID Alert, Masks, and Journals

I woke up with a tiny sniffle on one side of my nose.

COVID ALERT!

I decided to wear a mask and face shield while delivering my parents' meals today and forgo any Bridge lessons or conversation under 6' or longer than 15 minutes.

I figured it would be good practice for going back to school. Teacher in-service begins one month from tomorrow.
-----------------------

For the past ten weeks, I have been wearing a mask for 30-40 minutes a day when practicing accordion with my 91-year-old mother-in-law who lives a mile from us. One of the things I love about our accordion duet time is that it's impossible to fret (or even THINK) about anything else while pushing buttons with one hand, keys with the other, huffing the bellows, and reading sheet music. Even a facemask disappears when the mind and body are so fully engaged.

I've also been wearing a mask during all of my town errands.

But when school starts, my masking will go to another level. I know healthcare and many factory workers get used to masking. I can too. But I will be practicing in the weeks to come. I don't want my first day back to be the first time I've tried to use PPE for an extended length of time.

I won't say today was great. I had to repeat myself when my words were muffled by the barriers. And I had to exert my voice. Communicating masked will be tiring. But it wasn't impossible.
-----------------------

When I made my breakfast visit downstairs this morning, my mom was writing in her journal. "I need to know my address," she said, "or they'll move me to another building."

She was worried about the cognitive test and evidently had forgotten she'd already taken it. (And passed?)
----------------------

I want to read my mother's journal. I know bits of what she writes because she tells me, and I'll admit that when it's open my eyes do a bit of wandering. But it is her personal book. She never invites me to read it.

I journal too.

She has journaled for years, but she does it only for her own exploration of thought, never with the intent to share. She's told me that she journals when she's angry or worried. I think she also journals simply to make sense of her days--which is what I do here with blogging.

I think her journal--as a woman experiencing increasing dementia--would be fascinating to read. She has always been uncompromising in her candor and dexterous in her language choices.

I'm a proponent of writing, whether that be letters, blogs, emails, or more formal essays and books. Writers give the world windows and mirrors, while giving themselves a reason to live richly, examining feelings and experiences at a micro-level.

My mother's journals likely provide a record of her mental decline. I might ask her if I can read them. If she says no, I think I'll ask her to will them to me.
--------------------

My grandbaby is one week old today (in NZ), tomorrow here. This is confusing. Max said Wolf will grow up understanding timezones better than any of us.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Wolf is ready for his first jaunt around the paddock.

Bundled up--It's winter in NZ.

Day #122 Writing Through COVID-19: Dementia Test Results & Governor Reynolds

This morning when I came downstairs my mother was journaling.

"I forget so much," she said. "I used to know my children's birthdays, but I don't anymore."

She had written our names, and I helped her with the dates to complete her little chart.

I then told her that yesterday Dad misspelled my name as Allyson.

"At least I know how to spell your name!" she laughed. She doesn't want my dad to lose his wits, but it helps to not be the only one with mental skips and gaps.
---------------------------

At 11:30 the representative from the care center called to administer my mom's cognitive test.

Mom said "4" instead of "14" when counting backward from 20 by threes, and then jumped from 11 to 9 before finishing with a decisive 6, 3, 0.

She peeked at the day/date/time clock when asked what day it was, and she looked around a bit when asked where she was. She said, "In the living room. At my daughter's house." Close enough. It's actually the basement, but it serves as her living room (with a Ping-Pong table).

I heard my mother's hesitant and defensive voice, and I felt it too. I wish there were less humiliating ways to measure a person's need for additional care.

All in all, she did well in answering most questions. My dad patted her gently on the back and said he was proud of her. She looked sad--but relieved.

I want the world to know that when I read her Roald Dahl's "Cinderella" this morning, she gobbled its macabre humor heartily, laughing and interacting with the poem, my dad, and me in a way that by all measures proclaims this woman is still contributing, sharing, and enjoying her life.
--------------------------

Governor Reynolds announced this morning that schools will open with face-to-face learning across Iowa next month. Schools will not be allowed to use the online or hybrid models they developed (at her request, by July 1) unless she signs a proclamation allowing remote options.

Iowa teachers are furious. Schools spent precious resources of time and manpower to develop three plans, with an understanding that they would then decide what was best for their communities. Districts that are proactive have already made decisions about hybrid and online options. They have begun teacher training and worked out complicated scheduling, policy, and contingencies, only to now have that work dismissed.

Furthermore, the governor's action limits local control over re-opening, which flies in the face of Republican policy to honor local control and decisions.
---------------------------

I sense my hypocrisy here. I would like the governor to step in and mandate state-wide mask requirements, or state-wide mandates that would mitigate the virus. But when she makes a state-wide determination to open schools, I shout: local control!
--------------------------

Yes, teachers are angry. But this anger is fueled at least in part by fear. We're fearful about stepping into the line of fire. We're worried about the health of our students, and we're worried about the health of ourselves and our colleagues.

But we're also worried about how we're going to juggle in-building students with our online students who will be zooming in from home for quarantine or by choice.

We're anxious about the big questions:

• How will 400 students socially distance during our packed-hall passing periods? 
• How many classes will be quarantined if BillyBob tests positive on Tuesday after milling through eight class periods on Monday? 
• Where will we find subs?

And the small ones:

• How will my students browse my 1000-book classroom library? 
• Will my school provide hands-free door openers for our classrooms? 
• Can I safely sit next to a student to discuss her writing if we part before the magic 15-minute window closes?

--------------------------

Last evening I met with fellow English teachers for an online book club. As we filtered into the room, we talked about our districts' plans. Most of us do not know with certainty what our days will look like five weeks from now.

One friend, a fellow journalism teacher, said she knew the year would need to be documented by the yearbook, but she hoped it wouldn't be a book of memorials. 

-----------------------

Oh, I wish this pandemic were over.

But it's not.
------------------------

Tonight Andrea, Max, and baby Wolf called us for a video chat. I took a screenshot of three generations of Hoegh men.

Wolf, Max, and Dan Hoegh

During our conversation, Max asked me if I'd considered taking a leave of absence this year.

I have not. I love teaching, I want to teach, and as an optimist with only minimal comorbidities (over 60, barely, and having had cancer), I think I would survive COVID.

But so help me, if I return to the classroom, get sick and die, and miss watching Wolf grow up in Andrea and Max's loving care, I will not be happy--from the grave.

Do you hear me, Governor Reynolds?

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #121 Writing Through COVID-19: Cognitive Testing (and yes, more COVID)

Did you come to my blog just to see a picture of Wolf? You're in luck!

Wolf, four days old. The flax string is
a muka, the Maori method of tying
off the umbilical cord. He is a wee kiwi!

The photo is a screenshot during a WhatsApp video chat. This realtime video option is saving me.

Because of our time difference, I go to bed when it is about 3 p.m. in NZ (tomorrow, but who cares?). If I'm lucky, I will wake up to find that Max or Andrea has sent me a video to tide me over until they wake up (3 p.m. Iowa time). Such is the life of a half-world-away grandma.
---------------------

My sister Adrienne called this morning to tell me our parents are scheduled for a (phone) cognitive test tomorrow in preparation for their return to Friendship Haven at the end of the month.

I understand the responsibility of care centers to assess and accommodate their residents' deteriorating mental capabilities.

But I also see that my parents are thriving (quite) independently in my basement, despite the fact my mom might not know what day it is or who the last president was.

My mom was working on a puzzle when I joined her and casually mentioned tomorrow's test. My dad grabbed a pen and paper and began writing down the questions he remembered being asked the last time they were tested, six months ago. Day and date. Place of birth. Current address. Count backward from 20 by threes...

My mother, at my side, forcing the wrong piece into the puzzle, was silent. When he asked her a direct question, she answered curtly. As my dad wrote down the answers, she said, "Isn't that cheating?"

My mother: a stickler for rules.

Why do I think all care-center residents cram for their cognitive tests?

As both of my parents struggled to remember their multi-part address at Friendship Haven, I thought of how many ways they are vibrant, creative, interesting people.

"I hope they ask you to recite the final stanza of 'Thanatopsis,'" I quipped.

Without missing a beat, my mom said, "So live, that when thy summons comes to join the innumerable caravan..."
----------------------

"Where were you born?" my dad asked.

"St. Clair Shores, Michigan. My father delivered me."

"Keep going, Mom!" I said, "When they ask you these questions, tell them the WHOLE story!
----------------------

"Who is the current president?"
"E-gads, do I have to say Trump?"
"Yes," I said, "but you may say it with disdain."
----------------------

"Who was president before Trump?"
"Theodore Roosevelt."
"Yes, he WAS a president before Trump, but we're looking for the most current one."

Neither of my parents, die-hard Democrats, could come up with "Obama" without clues.
----------------------

For kicks (?) I pulled up "dementia questions" online.

"How many nickles in 60 cents?" I asked.
"That depends on how many pennies and dimes you have," my mother replied. I laughed as if her answer was intentionally clever.

But I'm not sure.
-------------------------

This evening I was messaged by a friend who just learned her grandson (age 9) received a positive test result for COVID, and her daughter (age 36, the boy's mom) is experiencing symptoms as well.

My friend has four children, varying in their diligence to COVID safety measures. The family that is now sick has been lax on social distancing and masking. The daughter does not want to be tested because a positive result would increase "the numbers."

I feel such a wave of empathy for my friend. Very few of us live in a single-party bubble. Instead, we have family and friends and colleagues across the political spectrum. We love people who do not agree with our politics, and somehow response to this virus has become political.

I will be rubbing the bellies of all my little pot-bellied gods tonight, as I wish swift and complete recoveries for the boy and his mom, and peace for my friend.

But is it too much to ask us all to just wear masks for awhile?

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #119 Writing Through COVID-19: To Teach or Not to Teach, That Is the Question

W. Wolf Hoegh, 3 days old

My sweet grandbaby Wolf was all wrapped up in his caterpillar suit, ready to head home to New Plymouth, when the nurses broke the news that he'll spend one more day in the hospital because he's a bit jaundiced. My son Max thought the best solution was to just get the little guy out in the sunshine and fresh air, but he and Andrea have since accepted one more day of rest.

My parents meet Wolf.

Here is Wolf's first visit with his great-grandparents (in my basement) via WhatsApp today.
--------------------

This morning I toggled between my parents' ZOOM meeting with their financial adviser in the basement and my own ZOOM meeting with fellow English teachers upstairs.

My parents have always lived frugally and made enough money to prepare adequately for retirement. Modest investments provided income to cover living expenses--until a year ago when my parents moved into a higher level of nursing-home care.

At that point, their nest egg began to dwindle, but not precipitously. They still have enough to live out what they expect to be only a few more years.

But who knows? Even with his feeble heart, my dad has genetics shared with a sister who lived to 104.

My mother, from the neck down, is nimble and strong.

If, in several years, my parents are still living and run out of funds, the care center's policy is to continue their care without payment. My dad is worried about this. He doesn't want to be a drain on the care center.

I've tried to assure him that the nursing home fees take into account the fact that some residents will run out of money before breath. If my parents outlive their funds, they will have already paid for their "extended time."
------------------------------

In my ZOOM with fellow teachers, we spent the first 15 minutes exchanging how our schools planned to open. Just here in Iowa, our plans varied widely.

None of us spoke with confidence in our districts' plans and leadership.
----------------------------------

Later in the day I talked with a fellow teacher and friend.

She told me she feels she must resign. She is the mother of four young children who will attend school in a 2-day, 3-day pattern, while she teaches in a district that is determined to return to full-face learning five days a week.

She sobbed through our entire 20-minute conversation. This woman is weighing her career--which she loves, and at which she excels--against the wellbeing of herself and her family. It is likely she will resign her teaching position. I asked her to hang on for a couple of weeks and see if there is a change in plans from the state.

If Iowa is determined to open schools during the second upswing of our first pandemic wave, I will support my friend if she decides not to teach this year.
------------------------

Enough?
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #117 Writing Through COVID-19: We Welcome Wolf

I'd like to introduce William Wolf Hoegh, 7 lbs. 11 oz., our family's first New Zealand citizen.

William Wolf Hoegh

Wolf arrived a bit before midnight Iowa time, a bit before 5 p.m. in Taranaki. His parents are "besotted," says his Irish mother--as is his extended multi-continent family. 

William is the name that has been passed down to the men in Andrea's family for five generations. Like the Williams who have preceded him, he will go by his second name. "Wolf" comes from the Harland and Wolff Ship Builders of Belfast, where Andrea grew up. (Yup, they built the Titanic.)

The H&W cranes are a dominant skyline feature in Belfast.

Max and Andrea dropped the second "f" from "Wolff" because they liked the canine version. It suits their dog-happy family. This evening while talking to Dan, I called the baby Hawk by accident. At least I didn't call him Shark.

------------------------

This evening I was able to video chat with Andrea through WhatsApp. I was driving home from Hy-Vee when she called, and I pulled into a farmer's lane to "meet" my grandson.

Wolf smiles at me (okay, he was sleeping) in our first WhatsApp video chat.

I am so grateful for the technology that lets me have these "almost there" moments. I'm grateful for my blog readers who indulge my need to revel in this experience. 

---------------------------

Meanwhile in my basement: My parents' adjustment BACK to my home is much smoother than their initial move here four months ago. It's funny how the asparagus patch, the mailbox, and their living space now give them their bearings and a sense of normalcy, when only 100 days ago these same things exacerbated their confusion.

---------------------------

This morning when I brought down their English muffins, my mother had the table set with full place settings. I had to break it to her that we do breakfast lite on Eagle Avenue: cereal or a bagel, yogurt if you please. The waffles and aebleskiver buffets are served in Newton. She laughed and assured me cereal was fine. 

But she did have one concern: Where did all her silverware go? 

I'm sorry I keep writing about silverware. I'm sorry my mother keeps obsessing about silverware. My latest theory is that she has opened the silverware drawer in her kitchen hundreds of thousands of times in her life. The drawer was always large-family full. Even when her kitchen was shrunken to kitchenette a year ago when they moved to a higher level of care at Friendship Haven, she still kept enough utensils to feed a family of seven. 

I explained (again) that I would make sure she had enough silverware to set her table for each meal. She nodded.

But minutes later she was ready to clarify her need: "If you have enough, could I have silverware for four place settings? This way I'll have enough if we have company. Or if I can't do the dishes right after the meal because I'm busy."

I did not tell her I am the only company she has, and I eat upstairs with Dan.

I did not tell her she has nothing on her calendar, nothing she has to do. Sheis the poster child for "not busy."

Instead, I said said, "Absolutely."

And then I went upstairs and did what I said I'd do weeks ago: I pulled out a box of utensils I never use (why hadn't I sent them to GoodWill? We'll save that for another day--) and procured my mother's requested utensils. 

I brought them to the basement (casually, jauntily) and left them in my mother's dishwashing basin. 

-----------------------

I'm not sure if the silverware battle was lost or won. But it's over. I think.

Enough.

Be well.

Write.

Allison

Day #116 Writing Through COVID-19: Grandbaby Day!

It's almost 4 p.m. in Taranaki, New Zealand. Andrea and Max have been at the hospital for a little over 12 hours, birthing my first grandbaby. Max has called throughout the day, sounding mostly upbeat, once a bit discouraged (only 3 cm dilated!), then better again after he and Andrea had been able to catch a little nap.

Almost two hours ago Max texted to say Andrea's now fully dilated and beginning to push. We're getting close! (Notice I've included MYSELF in that pronoun, though I'm literally 8000 miles away from the action.)

TBC!
--------------------

When I arrived in Newton this afternoon to retrieve my parents, my dad was in his third straight game of chess with my niece. My sister and I loaded the car and met under a shade tree on this killer hot day to discuss THE PLAN for August 1st.

By all accounts, my parents' visit to Newton was a success. What my parents and sister sacrificed in privacy and space, they reaped in Pictionary, Chinese Checkers, puzzles (of course), Chess, and nonstop conversation.

But the set-up is not longterm sustainable. Too many people in too small a space. With my niece working in Cedar Rapids come September, the barriers to COVID would likely be weaker than those established by the nursing home.

It feels like we're inching toward my parents' return to Friendship Haven.
--------------------

My sister claimed to see a significant decline in my mom's functioning since she saw her last at the beginning of March. She also said Vern is on his last legs and needs to be put down.

Maybe I am not a good judge to measure my mom's (or the dog's) decline: I'm a certifiable optimist.

Also I, unlike my sister, had not been interacting with my parents on a close and regular basis prior to March 13. I spent the first three weeks of their time with me trying to figure out how much independence they could handle (and reminding my mom why she was here). After she settled in, I grew comfortable with her benign forgetfulness and enjoyed--at last!--sharing love and laughter with a woman I'd fought with most of my life.

My sister, on the other hand, had until March been visiting my parents weekly to help them with their finances and sundry errands. She likely has a better handle on their mental functioning than do I.

That said, she and I view the world through different lenses.

I see Vern as a happy (if slow) dog, living out his final months (years?) in relative comfort with equally happy and slow caretakers. My sister sees a miserably crippled dog, ready to meet his maker.

When she says our mom is also "miserable," I think: By whose standards? She seems happy enough to me!

My bother too accuses me of Pollyannaing my way through life. He considers my sanguine style a shortcoming; I consider it an asset.
----------------------

Do others who are monitoring parents alongside siblings find these alternate perspectives perplexing? Here we are, trying to make group decisions about what is best for our parents, and we are each filtering the evidence informing our opinions through our personality- and experience-driven lenses.

We're trying to come to a consensus when we don't even see the same world.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.
(Give birth!)

Allison

Day #115 Writing Through COVID-19: Big Day Tomorrow

Big news on two fronts tonight:

1) Dan's second COVID test came back negative tonight. When I told our son Harrison "Dad is negative" he said "About what?"

I will head to Newton tomorrow and bring the nonagenarians back to Eagle Avenue for the rest of July.

I texted with my niece today who said my mom has continued to have a lot of confusion during her stay, especially at night. She wakes at 5 a.m. to take the dog out, at times without much clothing on. If she did that out here, I didn't know about it. She was always dressed by the time I came down with breakfast at 8. Also, our nearest neighbor is 1/2 mile away. Wandering the yard in underwear is no big deal in rural Audubon County.
--------------------------

My siblings and I are having conversations about August 1, the date my parents will move out of my home as my school duties rev up. My sister and brother that are least capable of caring for them in their homes are also the most resistant to returning our parents to Friendship Haven.

A decision with a clear solution is not really a decision at all; it's just doing the obviously right thing. Tough decisions demand an ability to analyze multiple perspectives, weigh unequal factors (physical safety, emotional wellbeing), anticipate results, and choose a path forward.

When I tell my students that learning how to analyze is not merely for English class, but for lifelong decisionmaking, I'm not kidding.

TBC...
----------------------------

2) Andrea and Max's baby is almost here! At 3 p.m. today (8 a.m. tomorrow in NZ), they called to tell me about signs of early labor. Twenty-minutes ago (1:30 p.m. NZ) they called to say they have more indications we're nearing baby time. Hoegh Baby is on his way and should be here within a day or two!

In the hours between their first and second calls today, Andrea moved a pile of firewood into the house. It's winter in New Zealand, and she'd been asking Max to do it, but he was out trapping possums. I think this is Andrea's take-no-prisoners style of nesting. I told them to remember to include this heroic feat by his mom in their son's birth story.

Max and Andrea Hoegh, soon-to-be parents of my first grandbaby.

Tomorrow will likely be a big day in several ways!

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #115 Writing Through COVID-19: Friday Worries

After Wednesday night's board meeting, I spent yesterday trying to visualize what my teaching will look like come Aug. 24.

I feel the usual surge of adrenaline when I look at my fall class lists: I love the beginning of a new school year.

But I also feel a tightening in my chest. The unknowns are rife.

Our administrators were not ready to roll out details Wednesday, but hopefully if we are now agreed to return in person, we can move forward with the logistics of how we can do this safely. (Wait. Is "safe return to in-person learning" is an oxymoron?)

Here are the changes and plans that spun through my head yesterday:
1) I've contacted my eye doctor about getting contacts because of the fogging/misfit of a face shield with my glasses.
2) The custodial staff is removing my many sofas and chairs from my "soft" classroom and replacing them with desks that can be wiped down and distanced.
3) I'm checking into plexiglass dividers to place between the computers in the journalism lab.
4) I'm wondering what passing time will look like.
5) Will we use block scheduling to limit the contact students have with others on a given day?
6) Will we be able to find substitutes to come into the school to teach when teachers take the required two weeks off after exposure?
7) How will I prepare for and teach the students in front of me as well as those who will be taking classes online (by choice or because of quarantine after exposure) without additional prep time?
8) How will I teach if I can no longer walk all over the room? I'm going to have to wear a leash and nail it to the front wall.
9) How can I restructure writing conferences so I'm not sitting beside a student as we discuss her writing?
10) What will lunch look like?
11) How can I run a broadcasting lab while keeping students distanced and not touching common surfaces?
12) Are face-to-face interviews a thing of the past?
13) What do my discussion-based classes look like when students are all facing forward instead of looking at each other's faces?
14) Will we have hot water for handwashing?

AHSneedle.com Editorial Cartoon by Kaylee Pappal, 2016. "Students are encouraged to keep a positive attitude at AHS, as the many posters around the school attest. With this in mind, we can tell ourselves the cold water in the bathroom sinks is warmer than…ice."

-------------------------

Yesterday our administration sent out a survey about faculty wellbeing and emotional health, asking if we had strategies to deal with stress in our lives and support people we could talk to. They also asked "What are some things your building teams could do to help foster connections between staff?"

I'm concerned about this one. Will we be a split staff, with some prioritizing COVID-responsible behavior and others--like a lot of our community--ignoring safety recommendations? 

This is what I wrote for my answer:

"Encourage everyone to wear masks. Leadership wear masks. This is not a political issue; it is hygiene. Our relationships will be stronger if we look at one another and know we are easing each other's anxiety and caring for each other's physical wellbeing by wearing a mask."
-----------------------

I think I'm fighting a losing battle on masks. "We won't be wearing masks" was one of the first things the superintendent said in unveiling the plan Wednesday. Even if there is a groundswell of concern and support for masks by teachers, parents, and the school board, if the administration is not enthusiastic about this safety measure, there is no way it will be enforced with fidelity.

We can look at the current mask/unmask chaos in our country for what this looks like when leadership is not united on a coherent policy.
---------------------

Dan had his second COVID test yesterday, 15 days after his exposure. He feels fine, and we're expecting a negative test result. As soon as we get that, I'll retrieve my parents from Newton for three more weeks in my basement!

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison