Days #201-202 Writing Through COVID-19: Memories and Memory

I played online Bridge with my dad on Saturday and Sunday. We lost miserably Saturday (It was our computerized online partner's fault!), but we played two hands competently on Sunday, earning back seven of the nine IMP points we lost the day before.

Playing online Bridge is of late the highest quality time I spend with either of my parents.

Gone are the leisurely summer breakfasts, discussing books and poems and the movies my parents had watched the night before. 

Gone are amiable afternoons with the three of us hovered around the Ping-Pong table, working on a puzzle, delighting in each successful placement of a piece. 

Gone are the surprising moments I'd glance out my kitchen window and see opalescent bubbles floating by, then walk onto the deck and shout happily to my parents on the lawn below as they waved their bubble wands.
-------------------------

While they lived with me, I discovered ways to engage my parents in meaningful conversation by sharing a poem or a story. The three of us would often talk for an hour or more, sharing insights and memories. 

Those conversations are now in the past.

On the phone, or on Zoom, we manage decent 5-minute exchanges. I tell them about my day or show photos of Wolf. But the opaque veil of technology and distance now prevents us from gliding into the effortless conversation we knew last summer. 
----------------------

So I settle for Bridge. 

When my dad and I play, we are again equals. He knows the game; I remember the bid. Our conversation is genuine as he talks through which card to play and I agree or challenge him. He explains his choice, and I usually acquiesce. (He does know the game.) 

Yesterday, after I painstakingly logged him onto Zoom, guided him through (We do this every time!) turning on his mic and camera, helped him adjust his chair so I could see more than just his forehead, we began our game. 

Then we played another. Good times. 

I was ready to log off when he brought up Saturday's hand. He recounted the dissatisfying bidding sequence, the failure of our computerized partner to respond to our bid, the unfortunate opening lead...

I was stunned. This man, who can barely remember a four-digit sequence, who needs remedial instruction to "click on the red M on the white box that looks like an envelope," who can no longer remember how to delete emails, somehow remembered our Saturday game of Bridge in vivid detail.
-------------------

My freshmen students last week watched TED talks and discussed learning/grading/schooling. A recurring theme in their observations was that it is much easier to learn when the content is student-selected or relevant to their lives and experiences.

I think my dad's memory functions under similar pressures. He loves Bridge. I'm sure he spent considerable think-time after Saturday's Bridge game mulling our mistakes, reconsidering our plays. He thereby logged it into his memory.
-------------------

Tonight I wrote about the connection I've been able to maintain with my dad by way of Bridge now that he's back in Fort Dodge. 

I need to write about my mom. But it will be harder.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Endnote:

Harrison invited me to join him on his dog-training walk with Waylon tonight. All I had to do was walk alongside, carrying an empty shotgun. Beautiful evening. 

“How we spend our days is of course how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour and that one is what we are doing.” --Annie Dillard

How ridiculous is it that we are BOTH on our
phones as the other took the photo? Sheesh.