Day #256 Writing Through COVID-19: Gladys and Howard

Saturday was lovely, so I headed to the T-Bone trail where I ran six slow miles and greeted my nameless friends. We see each other regularly, shout "Nice day!" as we pass. 

I am always happy to see these trail regulars. Dan asks, "Did you see anyone on the trail?" and I say, "Yes! My friend with the German shepherd and Boston terrier!" 

She has no name, but we are friends now.
------------------------

Saturday I also saw a well-bundled woman who said "Allison?"

It was Maxine, the mother of Stacy, a 9th-grader in my first year of teaching who went on to become the West Des Moines Valley High School drama teacher, garnering countless accolades for her fabulous teaching as well as award-winning speech and drama productions. 

That alone would make Maxine dear to my heart. But her in-laws were Gladys and Howard, the loving "grandparents" who cared for my little ones when I was teaching as a young mom. 

Gladys and Howard lived across the section from us. They were retired from farming; Gladys had worked at the I-80 Exit 57 Stucky's, known for its pecan rolls.
--------------------

When I hear about young families' difficulty in finding reliable, loving, affordable childcare, I almost feel guilty for the soft nest of love and kindness I plunked my chicks into each morning when I headed off to teach. 

Gladys and Howard greeted my children with breakfasts of warm oatmeal. They took them into the farmyard to feed the chickens. They sang to them, rocking on the front porch swing.  

In other words, Gladys and Howard gave my little ones days padded with gentle love. They were "the village" that helped raise my children while I encircled others' children in "the village" of high school.

It doesn't take a village. It takes villages.
-----------------------------

Yesterday on the trail, Maxine said she had seen photos of Wolf on Facebook. 

"Gladys would have loved those pictures," she said. "Wolf looks just like Maxwell." 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Wolf

Maxwell

Day #254 Writing Through COVID-19: Sympathy

I did not intend to shop on Black Friday, but I guess I did.

I'd gone to town for a pre-op checkup in preparation for minor eye surgery a week from now. Dan asked me to pick up sympathy cards, so I stopped by Walmart without thinking about what day it was. 

I walked in behind an un-masked shopper, right past the wear-a-mask sign. The store wasn't packed, but it was busier than usual. I rounded my way past Black Friday displays to get to the greeting-card section. 
------------------------

I don't like sympathy cards. I really don't like messaged cards in general.

But these cards were for Dan's family friends. There's no way he's going to sit down and craft thoughtful, tender messages on his own, and it is not my place to do it for him. 

So I tried to find cards that were less objectionable than others. 

Cards proclaiming the power of happy memories to overcome grief don't strike me as particularly helpful. Likewise, sending religious messages requires the card-sender to make assumptions about people's beliefs that I have no right to make.

So while my task of selecting sympathy cards was already weighted by my own personal over-thinking baggage, the difficulty bumped to a new level when I saw the thin sympathy-card rack. 

Sympathy-card section at Walmart,
Atlantic, Iowa, Nov. 27, 2020.

 

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

I suppose there are non-COVID reasons sympathy cards are depleted in Cass County today. Maybe people are stocking up. Maybe local stocks are low because of high demand across the country (though this explanation provides cold comfort).

My personal observations dovetail:

~~ I have never before shopped for FOUR sympathy cards at once.

~~ Cass County, population 12,930, recorded 214 COVID cases and two deaths as of Oct. 9, seven months into the pandemic.

~~ Then in the past six weeks, we've added almost 600 cases and 19 deaths.

~~ At least three nearby care centers are in COVID outbreak status.

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

I darted in and out of Walmart as quickly as I could, buying four bland (ugly) cards and circling wide past unmasked co-shoppers. 

Besides that unpleasant COVID-centric interlude, my day was happy:

I ran.
I read.
I napped.
I ate delicious leftovers.
I played accordion Christmas carols with my mother-in-law.
I played (and won!) Bridge with my dad. 

Tomorrow Dan and I will mail sympathy cards.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison 

Day #253 Writing Through COVID-19: Thankful for a Good Enough Day

I spent the morning preparing a traditional Thanksgiving meal that I then divided into thirds and delivered around the neighborhood: to my mother-in-law, still living independently at 91; and to Harrison and Maria in the old house. 

The tastes and smells felt like Thanksgiving, even if not much else did.
-----------------------

Five of our six children made it to the family 11 a.m. Zoom call. (It was 6 a.m. in NZ, so Max and his little family slept through it.) 

Eloise and John in Florida Zoomed in from their kitchen where they were thankful to be back in the U.S. after John's deployment to Spain last year. 

Brigham and Cameron Zoomed from the sunny east side of their Des Moines home, thankful for their dogs and cats, including S'more, who made a dramatic upsidedown appearance climbing the window screen.

Harrison and Maria were thankful to have so far avoided COVID, Zooming in from 1/2 mile down the road. 

Palmer joined us from Denver where she was making dinner for a friend. She is thankful for the self-awareness and self-care that have her feeling healthy and capable. 

Stuart called in from his pickup in Montana where he was pheasant hunting with his lab Nali this morning. He said he is thankful for Wolf, a sentiment we all embraced. Stuart had planned to come back to Iowa for the holiday until last week when I put the kibosh on that idea. He said his Thanksgiving meal would be more pheasant. 

It is said that a mother is only as happy as her least happy child. I was sorry he was alone today.

Dan is thankful for his lovely wife (well, he should be). I'm thankful I learned to play Bridge and rediscovered running this year. 
------------------

In the afternoon my siblings and I Zoomed with our parents. I'm sure my mom and dad enjoyed seeing us, but as we logged off, I was sorry we hadn't engaged them in the conversation very much. Instead, we talked among ourselves. 

Then I think about how much I enjoy listening from the sidelines as my kids talk among themselves.
------------------

It was a pleasant day.

That's good enough.

Be well.
Write.

Allison

2020 Hoegh Distanced Thanksgiving

Day #252 Writing Through COVID-19: Mr. Borszich

Mr. Borszich was my high-school Brit Lit teacher. 

At the time, I had no idea I'd become an English teacher myself. 

Rather, I was a highly distracted, social, goof-off of a student. For me, classes filled the yawning maw between passing periods, when all the good stuff happened: stolen nicotine puffs, flirtatious overtures, clandestine planning for weekend shenanigans. 

I only remember two of my high-school English teachers. One was my creative writing teacher who passed me with a mercy D- after I failed to turn in most of my assignments.

The other was Allen Borszich. 

It was in Mr. Borszich's class that I read my first Shakespeare play: Macbeth. I loved it. 

As a teacher who now teaches Shakespeare myself, I am awed that Mr. Borszich was able to somehow wrangle the attention of my 17-year-old mess-of-a-teenage self.
--------------------------

Forty years after sitting in his classroom, I have only hazy memories of the lessons, but my sustained emotional memory of Mr. Borszich's class is positive.

Let me share one vivid memory:

I had Brit Lit right after lunch. Back in the day, watching a film meant pulling down all the window shades and firing up a clackety reel-to-reel movie projector. 

A full stomach, a dark room, and soothing white noise combined for the perfect napping atmosphere. 

One day at the end of class, I awoke with a pool of sleepy drool on my desk. Mr. Borszich asked me if I'd like him to bring me a pillow. 
----------------------

Honestly, I loved Mr. Borszich's response to my REM time on film days. He used humor to work us past what other teachers might have turned into an unneeded battle. 
----------------------

My own teaching has been molded by the few and precious teachers who recognized my "misbehaviors" as cries against boredom, as my flighty inability to organize my thoughts in tidy, school-friendly ways.

Mr. Borszich was one of these few teachers. He made me feel smart and valued despite my sleeping in drool puddles on movie days.
---------------------

Tonight when I read his obituary, I realized that when he was my teacher, I thought he was an old man. He was, in fact, 41. 

He died at the age of 84.

He died of COVID-19.

His obituary closes with this:

In lieu of flowers or donations, please take a moment and reach out to a dear friend or relative. Read a book together, discuss some philosophy, play a card game, or enjoy a nice beverage. Al loved simple things and we know this is what would make him happiest.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

My wonderful newspaper team captured our masked
final class period with MH, who is moving to Illinois. 

Day #251 Writing Through COVID-19: Optimism and Memory

My son in New Zealand sent an excited message to our family group chat this evening:

"There's an end in sight for the coronavirus. Before the end of the year, over 12 percent of Americans could get their first dose of the vaccine. That could happen within 3 weeks of the vaccine being authorized. Has the school talked to you about you being vaccinated, Mom?"

My daughter in Florida chimed in:

"It might work in your favor that they're not letting you work remotely because the CDC recommends vaccinating essential workers who can't work from home before ppl who can."
---------------------

Tuned in daily to NYT, WHO, and the CDC, my dear children know more about the vaccination progress and process than I do. In a way, this reminds me of 15 years ago when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I felt okay, but the people who loved me were in pieces. It was actually easier to be the one with the disease than the ones watching.

Here in COVID-land, I just keep getting up in the morning, driving to school, hiding under my mask, spritzing down the desks, slapping on the hand-sanitizer, and teaching English (kind of).

But I hope my kids are right. I told my son my goal is to make it to NZ by next summer. "Maybe as soon as March," he said.

That feels dangerously optimistic to me, like back in March 2020, when we hoped this virus was a short-term deal.
------------------------

Some people, pessimists, like to hunker down with worst-case thinking so they can be pleasantly surprised when their dire predictions don't materialize. 

Some people, optimists, like the balm of positive thinking to get them through the days, even if they're at times knocked sideways by cruel reality. 

I am the latter. I've been smiling all evening, thinking I might spend spring break in New Zealand, vaccinated, with Max and Andrea and their beautiful boy (and the doggos).

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

My mother-in-law messaged me tonight to declare a "night off due to fog" cancellation of accordion practice. In its place, I played Bridge on Zoom with my dad.

He can't remember if he should click "Share Screen" or "Join Meeting" after opening the Zoom icon. He can't remember more than three digits in sequence as I read him the meeting ID number. He can't remember how to position his computer to capture more than his forehead on video. 

But when I asked him if he wanted to play Bridge tonight, he unleashed his critique of our game four days ago: We would have won if we'd remembered the Ace of clubs had been played! 

How can he forget so much and remember specific tricks played last Saturday?
--------------------------

Unfortunately, we were not dealt good hands tonight, and we did not play well.

Pretty sure he'll remember this.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Max and Wolf loving on Goose.

Day #250 Writing Through COVID-19: Pandemic Perks

250 days. That's eight months and five days now we have been slogging through COVID-19. 

This morning I parked in the school lot, then leaned over to grab my school bag. I somehow smashed my lip on my steering wheel. I tasted blood on my tongue and knew my lip was swelling. My first thought? Well, no one will see my fat lip behind my mask!

Who says there aren't perks to this pandemic?

1) Masks hide facial imperfections. They also filter coffee breath.

2) Who knew? I really don't need to stop by the grocery store five times a week.

3) Those people who stand awkwardly close in conversations? I can now demand some distance in the name of health.

4) I bought the smallest, cheapest Thanksgiving turkey in 35 years. Cha-ching.

5) In eight months, I've put barely 3000 miles on the car. Cha-ching.

6) Scrubs are cheaper than dresses. More cha-ching.

7) I have nowhere to go, so no plane tickets, no hotel stays, no restaurants. Cha-cha-ching. (Whimpers.)

8) I got to watch the high school musical from the comfort of my couch.

9) I'm cutting myself slack, reminding myself to be gentle and forgiving in these hard times. Maybe this self-grace should be the norm. 

10) Living in COVID narrows the viewfinder. It separates the wheat from the chaff, and there was a lot of pre-COVID chaff.

Many of the past 250 days have weighed on us like a heavy burden, forcing us to learn new ways to simply get from sunup to sundown. We are all so tired of this. We are all so BORED with the reality of an uncontrolled pandemic. 

Hang in there. Vaccines are on the horizon. I tell myself that I might get to meet Wolf in person as he turns one in the summer. 

In the meantime, enjoy the perks.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

It's springtime in New Zealand!

Day #248 Writing Through COVID-19: Times of Our Lives

Saturday. 

My sister texted to say our mom has lost two fillings and needs to see the dentist, but COVID restrictions in Webster County prevent this right now. 

Our dad said, "I guess she isn't having pain, and she isn't having trouble eating. She should wait until it's safer to go. But the real problem is she forgets this every day and keeps asking me when she's going to the dentist."
-------------------

My mother-in-law, Janet, and I put our beloved accordion practices on hold in August when I returned to school.  On Nov. 9 I suggested we resume practices with extra precautions. We should both wear masks; I would touch only my own music stand and chair. We would sit on opposite sides of the room. 

I told her I didn't want her to feel pressured, but I thought we might like this small reclaimation of an activity that for three years has given us considerable joy. 

She didn't think long. When I stopped by the next evening, she had made duplicate copies of our sheet music and set up two music stations.

I plunked myself in my chair and we wheezed out old favorites: "Wait for the Wagon," "Blue Skirt Waltz," "Pennsylvania Polka."

When we used to play side by side, we could hear each other's instruments. Now distanced, we only hear ourselves. We sometimes end a song two measures off! Add to this Janet's hearing loss: if I lose my place and need to start over, I must shout and wave my arms to get her attention.

It is, as all things COVID, less than ideal. 

But it's better than nothing. We are grateful for our distanced, masked, discordant practice.
-------------------------

Tonight when my dad and I played online Bridge, neither of us could remember if the ace of clubs had been played. The memory lapse cost us the game. 

My dad's passion for the game unleashes a youthful enthusiasm. But this also means he takes our losses hard. He's also frustrated by his waning ability to remember the cards that have been played. I have very little identity invested in my Bridge capabilities, and at 60 I'm not yet beating myself up for memory slips; I lose insouciantly. 
------------------------------

My mom made a brief appearance on Zoom to say hello tonight. A few days ago as we visited about her time at my house last summer, she said, "That was one of the best times of my life." 

I can't imagine that living in a basement during a terrifying pandemic with increasing dementia and decreasing physicality could possibly earn "best time of life" status. 

Still, who can accurately compare what it was like to be ten, climbing a tree; to 27, nuzzling the baby against the cheek; to 40, thriving in our work; to 90, blowing bubbles under a blue Iowa sky?

If my mom, in the moment, considers her time flying kites and sharing poems a "best time," I won't argue. 

Last summer might have been one of my best times as well.
----------------------

I ran on the trail today. I swept out the garage. I helped Dan park the harvest machinery in the shed. I cooked a pork roast in the crockpot. I finished reading a good book.

“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives." --Annie Dillard

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Beautiful Wolf in his sloth
sleepsuit from Aunt Eloise.

T-Bone Trail, Exira, Iowa, Nov. 21, 2020

Days #245-246 Writing Through COVID-19: Things Fall Apart

Tuesday 17 of my journalism students met in Room #408 for an all-day workshop to learn the Scrum system of work-flow organization. Our Area Education Agency provided the training via Zoom. Lead editors from the website, broadcast, and yearbook branches of our program participated.

We had a day of firehose learning, punctuated by several interactive games.

I would call it a success!

But as I told the hosts in our debriefing, my classroom COVID protocols FELL APART.
------------------------

I want to say this:

Good teaching is never easy. Even on the "easy" days, I often feel like I am conducting a 7-hour orchestra performance. 

COVID means I am now conducting the orchestra in the midst of a raging forest fire. I can conduct, or I can put out the fire. But I can't do both.
-----------------------

My students kept their masks on all day. 

But several slipped below the nose.

My students remained distanced. Kind of.

Except during the much-needed breakout activities.
-----------------------

Two of our activities required us to touch shared objects (PingPong balls and Legos). We used hand sanitizer before and after. 

But despite our good intentions, I came away from the day's workshop feeling that I'd failed to maintain the mitigation protocols I've worked so hard to establish over the past three months.

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

Governor Reynolds' messaging throughout the past eight months has echoed Donald Trump's. Iowans who have followed her guidance may or may not have donned "personal choice" masks. They may or may not have followed "suggested" social distancing and handwashing. 

Her tone since Monday has been a little more pleading: C'mon, guys, let's be more careful! 

Yesterday at Casey's I was surrounded by Iowans going about their business protected not by masks or distancing, but by their confidence in the leadership(?) that is bringing our state to its knees. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

For reference: Nov. 19, 2020
73 of Iowa's 99 counties are above the uncontrolled-outbreak level of 20% positivity average in 14 days of testing.  No county is under 10% positivity this morning.

Cass County has had 669 cases in its population of 12930 (5%) 

18 people have died.

 

So grateful for Whatsapp!
Wolf and I like to look at each other!

Day #244 Writing Through COVID-19: Venting

After a long day at school, I shouldered my way through crowded Hy-Vee shopping. The check-out lines were three deep. Few people seem to understand what six feet is. 

I was about to begin transferring my groceries onto the belt when a woman from behind said, "Excuse me! May I slip in ahead of you?" She held up her two items and gave me a cloying shrug. 
---------------------

I have many times noticed people with only a few items behind my overflowing cart and invited them to go ahead of me. I am, on my better days, a fairly nice person.

But I was tired. I wanted to get out of Hy-Vee every bit as much as my fellow late-Monday shoppers. 

Still, I might have responded graciously. I want to think I would have. 

But she wasn't wearing a mask.

This boiled my blood. She was asking me to do a small thing to make her life easier (let her go ahead of me in line), while refusing to do a small thing (wear a mask) to make my day less tense and our community safer. 

This struck me as incredibly selfish. 

As she checked out, she turned to me twice to deliver a cheerful (unmasked) "Thank you!" 

I stepped back and turned my face away. My eyes were not smiling. I was not my better angel. 
--------------------------

Driving home I was angry. Yes, at the woman's behavior, but also at her exposing of my failure of equanimity. These days are hard on all of us. We have to dig deep when our wells of goodness are frankly quite dry. 

I do not want to feel an us-vs-them mentality in combatting this virus, but that's exactly what I felt tonight. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Little Wolf man and his pretty mama
on their South Island adventure.

Day #242-43 Writing Through COVID-19: Thanksgiving Canceled

I have to cancel our family's favorite holiday.  

I hate to do this.

My far-flung children are in modes of young adulthood that crave social interaction. Three of them are unmarried twenty-somethings, which I think might be the demographic hardest hit by the restrictions to contain the epidemic.
----------------------

My kids have been on the safe end of the COVID-cautious continuum. They wear masks. They limit social interactions. They're not mingling in large groups or intentionally balking at mitigation recommendations.

But this morning Stuart in Montana called to say he'd be meeting up with two friends and his twin Harrison in South Dakota to hunt pheasant before coming home for Thanksgiving. 

Harrison has been in Utah for a week of pre-season training for the ski-rescue (as of yet not canceled) season at Sundance. He'll be back in Iowa a short time before returning to Utah.

Their sister Palmer in Colorado doesn't want to miss out if her brothers will be home for Thanksgiving.

As I visualized my children traveling from state to state, then converging at my table, my gut clenched. Even with their best intentions, their movement is what the scientific community is warning against. 

My daughter Eloise was in Spain when that country was brought to its knees with the agony of overrun hospitals and sobbing healthcare workers. She keeps reminding us that the virus is always three weeks ahead of us. We will not control it until we change behavior BEFORE we think we need to.
---------------------- 

Of course I wish I could welcome my children home for Thanksgiving. Our gathering would be well under Iowa governor Kim Reynold's magic number of 25 requiring masking.

But I also can't give my own family a pass while expecting others to sacrifice to bring this unrelenting virus under control. 

So it goes.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Soapy little man Wolf.

Day #241 Writing Through COVID-19: Two Tracks, Revisited

Yesterday I wrote about how my life seems to be moving ahead on two parallel tracks. The contrast was stark again today: 

COVID warnings are dire. Tonight only five Iowa counties are under the 15% positivity rate. Yet the unmasked custodian who worked in my classroom this evening told me he has strong antibodies and won't get the coronavirus. 
-------------------------

On the parallel track, my broadcasting students launched their new (much improved!) video news show today. I'm proud of their work!

My yearbookers took their first look at the 2020 annual they finished this fall under crazy, difficult times. We are proud of what we produced under restrictions, cancellations, and (yeah, you know).

The AHS news site team continues to post a strong mix of informative and entertaining stories. My days fly by with the energy and excitement of so many high-school journalists!

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

But then I look at this: 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Breathe.

Allison

Look who's loving his visit to the South Island, NZ!

Days #239-240 Writing Through COVID-19: Two Tracks

The numbers tell me I have been blogging through COVID-19 for 2/3 of a year. 

Yet we are currently seeing our nation's highest numbers since the virus brought us to a halt in March. ICU beds are filled to near capacity across the Midwest. 
----------------------

My life progresses on two parallel tracks:

On one, I am happily greeting a new batch of students eight times a day. We are exploring profound poems. We're revamping our video news program, and we just earned our third Badge of Excellence for our website. Our 2021 yearbook is well underway! 

This track feels happily normal!

On the parallel track, I am consumed by the staggering rates of COVID in my state and country. As I type tonight, my face still feels chapped from its day behind a mask. 

I log onto the Iowa Department of Public Health each morning and sometimes again at night. 
----------------------

These parallel tracks mess with my mind. 

I want to put COVID worries aside, stop being such a Debbie Downer.

But then I remember that letting my COVID guard down is precisely what has brought our country to this frightening vortex. 
----------------------

Meanwhile, in New Zealand, my son's young family is thriving. Andrea and Wolf headed to Christchurch yesterday to visit a friend. With the virus firmly under control, they were able to fly without restrictions (within the country) and share close, happy, un-masked time with friends. 
-----------------------

Unrelated but truly happy news: 

The AHS student who was severely injured in an accident almost three weeks ago has taken huge steps toward improvement during the past 48 hours. His family shared videos today of his progress: responding to questions, giving "thumbs up" and even pursing his lips for kisses to his family. This boy named Steele is proving his mettle. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write. 

Allison

Wolf reading a book while he awaits his first
airplane ride to the south island

Days #235-236 Writing Through COVID-19: Connectivity Unstable

My dad's internet is unstable, says ZOOM as it kicks him off again. He has contacted tech support at his care facility, and we're hoping to resolve this soon. We can't play Bridge until then.
--------------------------

Meanwhile at school, our tech team is a host of angels: patient godsends at the ready when frazzled teachers call with wifi trouble, missing passwords, microphone and server issues. They gently ask if we've tried restarting our computers. This fixes 50% of our problems. 

As challenging as it must be to help teachers with tech, I can only imagine what it's like to guide nonagenaries through their computer woes.
--------------------------

A few days ago I had to talk my dad onto his Gmail account after Google changed the "Look for the red M on the white box!" to its new multi-colored logo.

I myself have had to rescan my open tabs because my reptilian brain keeps searching for the red M on the white envelope. I do think I'll survive this change, but I'm not sure my dad can make the leap. 

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

My parents made a valiant attempt to learn the new technology of the Internet in their seventies. Like my mother-in-law, they fought past fear of change to learn computer skills when many of their peers simply bowed out.

But 15 years in, these determined lifelong learners are struggling. 

My mother no longer uses the computer at all. My dad calls her over to the screen when we Zoom. I then ask him to adjust the angle of the computer camera so I can see more than just my mom's forehead. He struggles, but manages to do this. She looks happy--and surprised--when we see each other.

Meanwhile, my mother-in-law continues to email and use search engines deftly. She has not advanced to the Zoom world, but this is due more to her phobia of looking at herself in photos or on screen than because of tech deficiency.
----------------------------

When I took my mother-in-law to the dentist for root-canal a few weeks ago, I was unnerved by how the doctor talked to her as if she were a child, with a cloying tone and slow, simplified language. Fortunately, he caught on quickly that the woman in the dental chair maintained her faculties and could handle an adult conversation.
--------------------------

When I talk to my dad, I do not treat him as a child. But when I am moving him through tech instructions, I simplify everything; I slow my pace. I add a conscious layer of patience. 

I can do this because I am his daughter. I know the person he is now may be befuddled and slow. But that person also houses decades of decency, intelligence, and patience with others. Whoever he is now still deserves respect. 

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

Until this year, I have not thought deeply about geriatrics. Frankly, I didn't think much about aging at all, except in that mildy narcissistic way of wishing my eyebrows wouldn't sprout wild gray hairs. 

My COVID months with my parents have me reconsidering life's waning years. I have new appreciation for the cultures that honor the elderly and elevate them for their cumulative life's contribution.

How do we treat people in their final years of life? What does that say about us?

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Andrea is taking Wolf on his first

airplane adventure to Christchurch to

visit her dear friend Grace. 

NZ is a world model of COVID control.

Days #233-234 Writing Through COVID-19: Just a Report

So I'm blogging through COVID-19. I want to look away. We're all exhausted by this never-ending story.

Yet eight months in, Iowa's numbers are out of control, higher than they've ever been. 

Only 15 of Iowa's 99 counties are reporting 14-day rolling average positivity rates under 15%. Only one is under 10%. Fifty-one are posting averages in the "uncontrolled outbreak" level of 20% or higher. 

For the past several days I've (cheerfully?) Tweeted the daily numbers to Kim Reynolds @IAGovernor each morning. They're not hard to find. She has yet to respond, nor do I expect her to. But Iowa is in a whirlpool of COVID, and I feel like no one's paying attention. Tweeting the numbers may be shouting into the void. But it feels better than saying nothing at all.
----------------------------

On a personal level: this morning I learned one of my colleagues in the Iowa Council of Teachers of English was killed by the virus over the weekend. This woman was a vibrant, loving teacher and friend to many. I am heartbroken that COVID-19 cut her life short, and I am bubbling with Vesuvius anger at those who will dismiss her death as tolerable because of her "pre-existing condition." Yes, comorbidities increase the virus's danger. But they do NOT decrease the value of the person. 
-------------------------

More personal levels: My inbox binged repeatedly today as my church sent prayer requests. First for the family of a long-time member who recently moved to a care center in a neighboring town and who died over the weekend. No mention of COVID, but one wonders.

Next, prayer requests for a member diagnosed with COVID.

Then prayer requests for a husband-wife pair with COVID. He is hospitalized. As of now she is at home.

What will tomorrow bring?
------------------------

Our school musical has been postponed a week. No official reason why yet, but there's plenty of talk.
-----------------------

Cass County 14-day average positivity rate is at 19.5%. 
-----------------------

That's the report.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

From New Zealand:

Day #232 Writing Through COVID-19: This Day

I was on the trail this morning when my daughter's text dinged my phone at 10:26:

"They called it
Kamala first woman vp!!"

I finished my run with a spring in my step, then topped off the hour with a celebratory spin on the uni.

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

This afternoon when I visited my mother-in-law, I brought her new undergarments and a soft bathrobe. I asked her if she would be willing to restart our accordion practices if we could keep ourselves safely distanced.

In August when I returned to school, we moved our visits outdoors and put our accordion practice on hold. As the weather cooled, we moved our visits back inside, but we are both masked and sit across the room from each other.

But I miss the accordion. 

Today I suggested we resume our lessons by using two music stands while maintaining distance. I will monitor myself for even the slightest of symptoms.  I will wash my hands. I will not touch my mask. She will not touch my music stand.

I don't want to pressure her. She worries about COVID contamination. (She worries about everything.) I asked her to think on it and let me know if she's comfortable with my offer. 
------------------------

I tried to play Bridge with my dad. There are now 9 active COVID cases in the assisted-living sections of my parents' care center. They are restricted to their small rooms, so a game of Bridge was a welcome blip of activity in an isolated day. 

But his internet was spotty and kept freezing up and kicking him off Zoom. At last we gave up. I finished the hand of Bridge without him.

I lost.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

My son Max with his son Wolf.

Days #229-231 Writing Through COVID-19: Distractions

Wednesday night, Nov. 4, 2020. 

Our nation awaits election results and braces for the upheaval that may follow. 

I was determined to keep myself focused on HERE and NOW today: My broadcasters shot B-roll; the yearbookers designed layouts; my freshmen dug into the vocabulary of Robert Hayden's "Middle Passage"; one journalism class practiced the rule of thirds (photography) while the other class worked on opinion writing.

I made it through the day with relative calm. I only checked my newsfeed during my prep period. (And then every three minutes after school dismissed.)
--------------------------

Thursday:

My sister in Davenport sent me a text asking me to explain why rural Iowa voters support Trump.

I haven't heard from her in months. She has layers of issues (as do I). We are not close. 

I chose not to respond.

But this is what I might have said: "I don't know why rural Iowa continues to support Trump. I was relieved that my conservative husband chose to write in John Kasich in 2016 rather than vote for a reality TV guy. Watching my husband's transition to Democrat over the past four years gives me hope that thinking, empathetic people who have previously aligned as Republicans will not sell their souls to the devil."
-------------------------

Thursday night, Nov. 5, 2020. 

We are all waiting, waiting, waiting. I'm grateful school demands my concentration for hours at a time. 

After school, I Google "Pennsylvania" and "Georgia." I think of beautiful story problems:  If Candidate A has 49% of the vote and Candidate B has 49.2%, how many of the remaining 6% of the uncounted votes are needed for each candidate to claim victory?
--------------------------

Friday, Nov. 6, 2020

Times today I did not think about the election:

• During a laughter-filled film session with broadcasting students as we experimented with mics.
• While experiencing multiple frisson moments as freshmen shared their poetry.
• When listening to my student newspaper editors argue about...everything!

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

Iowa's COVID levels are out of control. 

• Tonight Jones County is posting a 14-day testing positivity rate of 40.6%.
• Anything over 20% is considered an uncontrolled outbreak.
• 29 of Iowa's 99 counties are above that 20% threshold tonight. 
• 76 counties are over the 15% point at which schools can request to move online to slow the spread.
• Only two of Iowa's counties are under 10% positivity.
• ZERO counties fall under 5% positivity (the safe zone).

Meanwhile, Governor Kim Reynolds held a press conference Thursday and claimed the 2020 election validates her (non)response to the pandemic. In the same presser, she said she will embark on another ad campaign to urge Iowans to "double down" to contain the virus. Still no mask mandate. No muscle to close spreading events. 

This feels to me like a big shoulder shrug from Reynolds delivered with a half-hearted "Hey, try harder."
------------------------

My parents have spent the past week isolated in their tight living quarters as their care center logged another seven COVID cases.

My dad said he and my mom feel fortunate to have each other during lockdown. Eighty percent of residents live alone and are now in isolation alone. 

"It's great to have someone to argue with," I said. We all laughed.
------------------------

When I called last night, my parents were reading a book together. One would read the right page, the other would read the left.

"What book?" I asked.

A biography of George Bush.

"I hope Mom gets to choose the next one."

Enough.

Be well.

Write.

Allison

Who slept 11 hours straight?

Days #227-228 Writing Through COVID-19: Water

Has COVID simply become my way of life? Am I the fish, no longer aware of the water I'm swimming in?

The realities are miserable:

• I had new students out for quarantine today. 
• I had Remote Learners missing class and (hours later) claiming bad wifi connections.
• Last night the lead videographer of our school news program said she'll be out for quarantine (if not COVID itself) for at minimum a week. She's wondering how she can help put the show together remotely without access to the videos stored on our server.
• My face feels masked even when it isn't. My lips are chapped.
• Today fifty-five of Iowa's 99 counties were above the 15% danger threshold set by Governor Reynolds in August as the point at which schools could request permission to move to online learning. 
• Our neighbor's dad died of COVID two days ago.
• My friend's mother-in-law (age 95 in a care center) was diagnosed today.

Yet this strangest of times has begun to feel normal. The mind has a way of scabbing over as a means of protection. Raw awareness, day after day, is unsustainable.

So even while this pandemic is raging in my county (including three care center outbreaks), and even as my parents' care-center in Webster County retreated today to its highest level of lock-down in response to its facility outbreak, I am benumbed.  

How long can a person confront an abnormal condition before the abnormal becomes simply the new normal? 

Seven months, I'd say.
--------------------------------

What in March and April felt like odd COVID awkward, hyper-aware actions have now become simply what I do:

I slap on the mask that hangs on a chain around my neck when anyone nears my space.

I distance, plus a few more feet.

I don't touch people.

I worry.
----------------------------

When does new water become simply water? 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Andrea says Wolf is giggling now.