It Could Have Been Otherwise

I have long loved Jane Kenyon's poem "Otherwise." Read it here. 

Kenyon catalogs the simple actions of an ordinary day with sensuous imagery. She stands on "two strong legs," eats a "ripe, flawless peach." At noon lies with her mate, eats dinner "at a table with silver candlesticks."  

Her poem is both a study in the pleasures of the moment and--in the final line--a gut-punch reminder of life's brevity.
---------------------

I thought of Kenyon's poem as I biked home from my mother-in-law's on this perfect September afternoon, reflecting on the chamois soft satisfactions of the day.

Kathy, my neighbor and dear friend of 37 years, stopped for coffee. We shared video clips of our grandbabies' antics. We commiserated over our farmer-husbands' similarities. We laughed aplenty.

After an indulgent Saturday nap, I played online Bridge with my dad. It went much better than last week, when his increased confusion dragged the single hand to nearly 90 minutes of struggle. Today we kept the game to 30 minutes. A win.

I then set my timer to commit to 20 minutes of school work. I clicked "reset" two more times to clock a rock-solid hour of tending to my grade book. I made a notes chart for my freshmen's writing strengths and weaknesses.

It then took me two minutes to tie my shoes and strap on my helmet. I rode my gravel bike to Dan's mom's house for accordion practice. Two years ago, we practiced with the goal of care-center concerts. The polkas we're now perfecting are for our ears only. 

Tonight Dan and I tidied up a little to drive into town to eat at Rancho Grande. 

We're now easing into the close of day. Dan's dozing in his chair. I'm on the sofa, reflecting on the satisfaction of a most uneventful day. 

It could have been otherwise.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

"How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives."

--Annie Dillard 

Lucky to get even one snap with Dan. No re-takes with this photo hater.

Writing Through COVID-19: One Year Ago Today

A year ago, I wrote about the first significant COVID outbreak in Cass County: 12 positive cases in a single day, the highest number since the previous high of four. The uptick included students, which sent the volleyball team into quarantine. The county's total number of cases at the time was 74. 

Today, 1522 of our county's 13,091 residents have tested positive. That means at least 11.6% of our population has had the virus. 

Fifty-five people have died.  That's one out of every 238 people in our county. 

--------------------------------- 

Enough of the stats.

In talking with a teacher friend yesterday, we agreed this August feels like a repeat of last year without the can-do adrenaline surge. We are faced with the reality that, at least for the foreseeable weeks, our schools will again be destabilized by the unknowns of COVID. 

The second time around, we know some shortcuts, which is good news! I, for one, will forego the face-shield and nurses' scrubs that I wore for much of the 2020 fall semester. Was it overkill? Yup. But I was trying to establish a level of protection that allowed me to teach with confidence that I was not in the direct line of infection.

This year, vaccinated, I will still mask and maintain distance as possible. I'll still wipe down the desks between classes. (I might do this until I retire. I was surprised to see how grubby the desks were when I cleaned them each hour last year. Who wants to sit at a desk that a previous student has snotted on?)

I'm awaiting protocols for the sharing of equipment, spacing students, and managing online learners. 

I'm meanwhile considering what parameters to set within my own classroom if my district does not re-assert last year's COVID mitigations. Should I allow vaxed/unvaxed/masked/unmasked students to mingle for group work? Without a school-wide policy, the hour my students spend in my room may be their only "safety-zone" hour of the day, in which case my protective efforts are for naught. 

(This is the point at which everyone shouts "Gee! I want to teach in Iowa!")
----------------------------------

When banning mask mandates and vaccine passports, Governor Kim Reynolds has repeatedly said "Iowa stands for freedom, liberty, and personal responsibility." I'm not sure what this means. 

Does "personal responsibility" apply only to oneself (emphasis on the PERSONAL)? Or does it include one's children? The neighborhood? The community at large? Is Ms. Reynolds asking us to step up and responsibly get our vaccines and wear masks? If so, why doesn't she expressly say it? Instead, her message is clouded. Why do I suspect she is using the phrase "personal responsibility" to mean "do what you please"? 

Responsibility is easy if you are only responsible for your own single self. As you extend responsibility to loved ones, and then to people you know, and then--even! unthinkable!--to those you DON'T know, the weight of "responsibility" increases.

Kim Reynolds, are you asking Iowans to be responsible only to themselves? That seems to be a narrow and dangerous call.

Enough.

Let's look at Wolf: 

Be well.

Write.

Allison

Writing Through COVID-19: Outbreak, School, & Sweet Corn

My parents' care center notified us today of their first COVID outbreak in months. After one resident tested positive, all residents and staff were tested. Four additional residents and five staff then tested positive. This tallies 10 current cases in a facility that has logged a total of 159 infections in the 17 months since the pandemic began. 

For the time being, indoor visits and resident activities have been suspended. Families are asked to cancel all non-essential outings with their loved ones. Residents have been asked to stay in their apartments.
----------------------

Three students met me in the Journalism Lab today to work on our final pages of the yearbook. I wore a mask. The students did not. 
----------------------

Our local paper ran a story today explaining that our school district will follow the Iowa Department of Public Health guidelines for COVID-control in the coming school year. Of course, the IDPH is hogtied by HF 847, which outlaws school districts' right to set masking guidelines as they see fit. So much for local control.

Read the document summarizing Iowa's plan for COVID control this fall here. 

Or if you'd rather, scan my favorite lines. My editorializing is in bold:

• While not required (!!!???), vaccination for everyone who is eligible continues to be the most effective way to prevent COVID-19 illness and stop the spread of COVID-19. 
  
  
• HF 847... prohibits a school district from adopting or enforcing a policy that requires employees, students, or the public to wear a mask while on school property....[M]asks must be optional for students, teachers, and visitors. (Local control was once a pillar of Republican politics.)
  
  
• IDPH is not currently issuing isolation and quarantine orders for COVID-19 positive or COVID-19 exposed individuals. (Freedom.)
  
  
• LPH (Local Public Health? This acronym is not identified in the document.) cannot require schools to perform case investigations or contact tracing.
  
  
• (In case you didn't get it the first time...) HF 847, signed by Governor Reynolds on May 20, 2021, prohibits a school district from adopting or enforcing a policy that requires employees, students, or the public to wear a mask while on school property.
  
  
• Schools should allow students, teachers, other staff members, and visitors who want to voluntarily continue to wear a cloth face covering for reasons that make sense for their family or individual health condition to do so. (Why, thank you.)
  
  
• The CDC issued an Order effective February 1, 2021, imposing a requirement for persons to wear masks while on public transportation conveyances, and in its Frequently Asked Questions document accompanying the Order the CDC indicates that “passengers and drivers must wear a mask on school buses, including on buses operated by public and private school systems, subject to the exclusions and exemptions in the CDC’s Order." (Children will be masked on busses, but only on busses.) 
  
  
• HF 889, signed by Governor Reynolds on May 20, 2021, prohibits the mandatory disclosure of whether a person has received a COVID-19 vaccination as a condition for entry onto the premises of a governmental entity. (Right. Obfuscation has always been the best policy for building trust.

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

Happy notes:

On July 16 I posted a photo of the season's first sweet corn to our family group text and declared it the first of 30 days of sweet-corn supper. Palmer's boyfriend asked if we really ate sweet corn for a month straight. 

"Yup," she said. 

We really do.










This evening I harvested what I insist will be my last sweet-corn haul of the season. My oldest daughter mowed down her final Corn 4 a Cause rows a few days ago. Harrison's yard plot is looking sketchy. But I was able to gather 30 ears tonight, cooked some from supper and some to bag, then declared my season OVER. It wasn't 30 days, but 25 is close. Yum. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

  

Writing Through COVID-19: Day 507 - Cancer and Cows

I drove to Iowa City Friday for my annual mammogram. It was 16 summers ago that I had a mastectomy after a breast-cancer diagnosis. I was 45. My youngest children were 11 years old. At the time, I hoped to survive 10 years to see them into adulthood.

Yesterday before my appointment, I was asked to complete a survey about my cancer anxiety levels and offered services of support if my diagnosis was causing me distress. As I clicked through the list, I realized how far my cancer worries have receded. On a scale of 0 to 10, how much worry is cancer causing me? Zero. Ahhh.
--------------------

EVERYONE at University of Iowa Health Care was masked. (One woman in a waiting room had removed her mask and a nurse immediately instructed her to put it back on.) Entrance to the facility was limited, and patients were not admitted without proof of appointments. 

In other words, the University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics are aware that the COVID virus is alive and thriving in Iowa. 
--------------------

En route to and from Iowa City, I found the rest of the state to be less aware. I was in the thin minority wearing a mask when I stopped to fuel up or grab a snack.

In March 2020, I felt tense and self-conscious as I entered stores as one of the few masked shoppers.

In August 2021, I feel resigned. Weary. A little irritated.

I'm sad that my weeks of unmasked normalcy were so brief.
---------------------------

This evening a colleague texted to ask if I'd be masked on our first day back, Aug. 18. She said she would be. "Here we go again," she texted. 

Indeed. 

But we have an additional layer of concern here in Atlantic. Our district's middle-school building sustained extensive water damage after a roof-top fire 11 days ago. Staff and 330 students have been displaced. The sixth- and seventh-graders will be housed in the alternative-school building. The eighth-grade students will be in our high-school building. This means adding 120 bodies to our building just as the CDC recommends we mask and distance K-12 (while Governor Reynolds has forbidden mask mandates). 
-----------------------

Something positive? My grandson Wolf knows the answer to the urgent question: What does the cow say? 

Mooo.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Writing Through COVID-19: Visiting the Parents

I attended an English teachers' workshop on Tuesday. When we planned it in May, the Iowa Council of Teachers of English was excited to host our first face-to-face event in almost two years. COVID was on a steep decline, we were vaxed up and ready to mingle!

When we met in Cedar Falls Tuesday, the rules had whiplashed. We were indoors. No one knew the vax status of the others in the room. (I think we should wear buttons, "I Like Ike" or "Nixon Now" style. The vax status can proclaim our political alignment and COVID transmissibility simultaneously.) I'd guess that six or eight of the 40 of us were masked. I ate my lunch on the patio where I could feel the breeze.

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

On my way home, I went through Ft. Dodge to visit my parents. They have moved into a two-bedroom apartment and one of my sisters is now living with them. It's not ideal. Is any elder-care setting ideal? But I was glad to see the three of them genial, safe, and hungry for sweet corn. 

I brought them a fresh batch from our field, and we enjoyed husking it on their patio. When we finished, I tossed the husks into the plastic tub I'd brought the corn in and said I'd take the husks home to my compost bucket. 

"Let me help you!" my mom chirped. 

I did not need help. The container plus husks weighed perhaps two pounds. But before I could dismiss her offer, she'd hoisted the tub onto her walker's seat and begun pushing it toward the door. 

My initial impulse was to refuse her "help." But by the grace of the pot-bellied gods, I kept my mouth shut, and my mother happily rolled my husk tub on her walker out to my car. 

She walked briskly, hands poised confidently on the walker. As we made our second turn, I wondered if she'd find her way back to her apartment; I flung prayers into the void. 

When we reached my car, I thanked her for her help. I hugged her birdlike bones against my chest. 

It was on the drive home that I started to sort out the poignancy of her helpfulness. My mother has spent her life helping, teaching, giving to others. I understand that age can rob us of our health, our mobility, our memories, our strength. 

But as my mom bustled the corn husks to my car, I saw something else. My parents have fewer and fewer opportunities to feel helpful, to be of use. 
------------------

Time, you thief, who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in!

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Writing through COVID-19: Day 504

I took a few months off. 

After blogging through a year of COVID, by March 2021 I had returned my parents to their care center, my students and I had clawed our way through the school year, my dear ones were vaccinated, and the virus was receding in the rearview. It felt like time to wind up the blogging-through-COVID experiment.

Ahhhh. I stopped wearing a mask. I almost threw my (dozens of) masks away.

Harrison's fiance Maria's
bridal shower 

I ate in restaurants. I attended a bridal shower and a family reunion. I invited friends into my home and returned to theirs. 

I began planning for the coming school year, and how I would hold onto the positive things I'd learned about myself and my students during the COVID challenge while welcoming back the group and partner work that was out-of-bounds last year. 

I visited my children in Utah and Montana. We began counting down the months to 2022 when we hoped New Zealand would be vaccinated and let us come see Wolf (now one, walking, giving kisses, and making lots of word-like bossy sounds). 

Wolf is walking!

Life was easing back to life.

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

And then Delta.

You'd think by the third wave we'd be ready; we'd know what to do to stop the virus in its tracks. But as cautious as I was through the first year of COVID, it took me several days to reluctantly heed the CDC's July 27 advice and return to masking indoors.

I'd say I'm angry. We would not be HERE again if eligible people had been vaccinated. And many of those refusing the vaccine are the same people who last year let the rest of us carry the brunt of slowing the spread through layers of caution and sacrifice. 

But I'm too tired to be angry. 

I'm mostly sad.

Last year it had to be like this.
This year it doesn't have to be like this.
And yet it is.
---------------------

Today I went into the high school to work with students on the yearbook and attend a meeting with two colleagues and a person from the community. As luck would have it, the Southwest Iowa Marching Band was also in the building, preparing to march in the parade that kicks off the Iowa State Fair on Aug. 11. 

This meant 100? 200? (a lot) of unmasked kids (and adults) were in AHS today, blaring on trumpets, laughing and learning, while inhaling clouds of each other's breath. At one point, I turned a corner to face a gauntlet of musicians, lining both sides of the hallway, blasting away. I simply could not walk down that phalanx, even masked. I ducked away and found another route to my room.
---------------------

My room. 

While I only worked with three students today, not all were vaccinated. 

So I wore my mask. 

I do not know which of the people in my colleague/community meeting today were vaccinated, so I wore my mask there as well. 

I might call myself the Lone Masker.
----------------------

My reputation precedes me: my school knows I took COVID precautions seriously last year, so no one raised an eyebrow to see me masked again today. If they grumbled about my Chicken Little behavior behind my back, I didn't hear it. 

And I'm thankful for that. 
----------------------

I have more to tell you. 
I'll write again soon. 

But for now

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

The Last Day of School 2021

I'm thinking about the Halloween blizzard of 1991. I'd been married for seven years. I had three small children and a fourth on the way. The sleet and ice brought down trees and powerlines. We were without electricity for days--which, on a farm with a well, means we were also without water.

At first, it was a little exciting. Storms rush the adrenaline in the Midwest!

But days in, food rotted in the warm refrigerator or froze if we set it outside. Our neighbors a mile over had a wood-burning furnace, so the kids and I hunkered there for a time while our bundled farmer Dan thawed the hog waters with a propane blow torch. 

I can still smell sour milk and feel the bone-deep chill. Mostly I remember the waiting--and the waiting--for reprieve. 
----------------------------

Why do I remember that ice storm now? 

Because Thursday was the last day of my 2020-21 school year. 

And teaching during the COVID pandemic had the feel of enduring a 9-month ice storm: exhausting in the demand to constantly re-think how to do even the simplest task. 

In an ice storm, the tiniest motions, like flipping a light switch, running a warm bath, or toasting an English muffin are stopped short. We have to stop and think, then search for a flashlight, put on more deodorant and a sweater, eat some crackers. 

Teaching in COVID was the ice storm.

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

Before COVID, my classroom furniture was all sofas and upholstered chairs. The soft seating contributed to my room's identity as a place of welcome and comfort. 

Then, last fall, all cloth surfaces were replaced with laminated desks, spaced six feet apart, all facing the same direction.

My small-group interactive teaching style was proverbially unplugged. I had to re-think not only the physical aspects of my classroom, but also my teaching philosophy.

This was hard. I normally incorporate movement and dyad conversations into every lesson. I normally sit side-by-side with my students for writing conferences. I normally prioritize students talking to each other instead of to the teacher at the front of the room. 

This year, I reverted to survival mode. I was cordoned off at from the class (within the Zoom camera's capture zone), and my students were positioned 6-feet apart and facing the same direction. 
---------------------------------

In an ice storm, we don't worry about the nutritional balance of meals. We're just happy if we have enough canned tuna and marshmallows to keep everyone fed.

Same was true for my teaching this year. Were they reading? Writing? I'll call that good enough. 

I cut my lessons to the bone. I minimized homework, understanding that my students' home lives were every bit as disrupted as our school life. 
---------------------------------

A blizzard cuts frivolity out of the picture. No one can bicker about which show to watch. Boredom gets a whole new definition. Keeping one's hands warm demands attention. 

I saw this in my COVID classroom. Our routines were COVID-centric: the first student entering the room grabbed the disinfectant bottle and spritzed all the desks. The subsequent students paper-toweled their desks. Multiple wastebaskets allowed students to toss their wipe-towels while still social-distancing.
-----------------------------------

With the fog of COVID worry hovering over all of us, my discipline issues were minimal this year. Maybe no one had the energy to disrupt. Maybe the smaller classes helped. Maybe students saw me (a masked, distanced, 61-year-old teacher) as a vulnerable population and mustered a little sympathy. 

Whatever the reason, I was grateful for a low-drama year in terms of student conflict and agitation. It seemed we were all moving through a fog. This isn't what I wish for us, but a survival mode made us all a little tougher--and for the most part lower maintenance.
------------------------------------

The year is over. 
It was rough.
The toaster didn't work.
The toilet didn't flush.
The switch did not turn on the light.

But most of us got through it.

Still, I am exhausted by a year of adjusting my every natural teacher move to a COVID-compliant substitute. 

Get vaccinated so we can turn the electricity back on.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

The Sad Parade

The small towns of Elk Horn and Kimballton embrace their Danish roots and host Tivoli Fest on Memorial Day weekend, a celebration that includes a 5k race between the towns' iconic Danish windmill (Elk Horn) and Little Mermaid fountain (Kimballton); aebleskiver feed at the fire station; Viking reenactment, Danish dancing, and--of course--a parade.

Tivoli Fest 2021: My teaching colleague dancing,
my 5k t-shirt, Harrison eating aebleskiver,
and Dan watching the ill-fated parade.

This was the 41st year of Tivoli Fest after last year's event was COVID canceled. I've been attending since I married my Danish Iowa farmer Dan 37 years ago. I ran the 5k for what must have been my 25th time, and I came in first among the six women in my age division by lumbering along a few paces ahead of my fellow sexagenarians. 

But it's the parade I want to talk about.

Dan and I settled our lawn chairs on the hill north of the fire station to watch the antique cars, local service organizations, and family hayracks roll on by. The air was cool, but the sun was warm. I settled into the benign pleasure of a small-town parade. I clapped as the saddle club rode by, then for the Class of '56, and a float announcing a Father's Day breakfast in a neighboring community.
----------------------

Parades are a funny thing if you stop and think about it. Ninety-five percent of us line the streets to watch the other five percent puff their feathers for our entertainment. It's a fine way to spend thirty minutes.

Usually.

Yesterday an episode tainted the experience.

It began with a cluster of children dashing into the street for candy. Yes, this can be expected at a small-town parade. But we also (used to?) expect parents to corral their kids back to the safety of the curb and admonish them for darting too near tractor wheels for Tootsie Rolls. 

Saturday's children within my line of sight were Artful-Dodger spunky, puppylike in their exuberance. But their parents seemed oblivious as the children inched ever closer to the floats and tussled with increasing ferver for each box of Dots.  

And then:

An eager candy grabber--maybe 6 or 7 years old--en route to a knot of bubblegum, blindsided a toddler and knocked her over. 

What happened next surprised me because it was unexpected and yet, in retrospect, predictable:

The mother of scooped up her toddler, then turned with Jerry-Springer rage to admonish the older child. She gestured dramatically toward his mother and shrieked that he had "knocked over my baby."

Yes, this was unpleasant. The unrestrained boy was, yes, at fault. But the cussing mother of the toddler didn't help matters.

And then:

The mother of the boy rose up with fury in her eyes. Each woman shouted in defense of her child. Yet neither seemed to consider the role-modeling she was doing for her dear ones in the moment.

I elbowed my husband to warn him I was primed to jump up and break up a fight (the teacher in me), when, thankfully, the women were drawn back to composure by their families and friends. 
-------------------------

This was unsettling on various levels. First, it was simply unpleasant to be accosted by such anger in the midst of a holiday parade. Second, I was dismayed at how willing people were to shreik at each other.

As I considered it later, I wondered: Were these mothers perhaps energized by the adrenaline rush?  Excited by a chance to publicly display anger and threat? Invigorated by asserting their defense of their children to a crowd?

It's probably a stretch to blame politics or social media for a small, nasty parade scene. But I have seen too many videos of anger-filled tirades (Hmmm...Jan. 6? "Karens" confronting store personnel when asked to wear masks? News commentators shouting over each other without compunction?) to be surprised when incivility slimes its way into our face-to-face interactions. 

I do not know who the people fighting at the parade voted for in the last election, or if they even voted. But I do know that alongside the American and Danish flags that traditionally line the Elk Horn streets, Trump flags are still flying in this deep red county. And all of us have watched the line of acceptable behavior inch closer to what we used to call despicable.

There is anger bubbling at the surface in small-town Iowa. And it seems we now have tacit permission to let it loose.

It sort of ruins a parade. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Credit for Breathing

This afternoon a John Deere mechanic named Brandon came out to the farm to work on Dan's sprayer. He asked if I was still teaching. Dan said I was and asked if he'd had me for a teacher. 

Yes, Brandon said, "She was basically the reason I graduated."

Brandon (class of 2008) had been my student in sophomore English and Interpersonal Communication, but he relayed a specific memory from Creative Writing: One day during class we had a fire drill, and I'd brought my laptop out to the parking lot. While we waited for the all-clear, I'd asked Brandon to take a look at his grade with me.

"It was a B- or a C+," Brandon told Dan. "I asked her how I could possibly have that grade when I'd done nothing all semester. She told me she sometimes gave credit for breathing."

Brandon laughed, then nimbly finished the adjustments to the sprayer.

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

Dan told me the story this evening happily. But I felt a familiar mix of teacherly chagrin, exasperation, and disillusion--mixed with a scoop of reality that reminds me to also be a little proud. 

I didn't remember Brandon's story explicitly, but it rang true as something I might have done.  Sometimes my role as a teacher has been to nudge and push and cajole a kid through a semester. Sometimes I've had to hoist the kid onto my shoulders and carry him over the finish line. 

I'm not sure I did right by Brandon, I said. Dan countered, reminding me that Brandon is thriving as a mechanic and remembered my class as a positive force in his life. 
----------------------

School has become increasingly automated through online courses and packaged curriculum. This might assure more universal criteria for passing Creative Writing. But it takes away the musician's touch that teaching craves: the crescendo, the fermata, the grace note. 

I'm not sure I taught Brandon anything about creative writing, but I might have taught him to breathe.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Writing Through COVID-19: An Attempt at Some Closure

Last Friday I wrote about my second day in quarantine, but I haven't posted since.

In my past year of blogging through COVID, I've written on 252 of 365 days, which is 70% productivity, or roughly five days a week. 
----------------------

But I've spent the past week avoiding this space. My excuses don't hold up because for the past 51 weeks I pushed past those same excuses and simply put my fingers on the keyboard, narrowed my focus to the smallest moments of the day, and wrote. 

Tonight, as I compose what will be the final entry of this year-long writing project, I realize my avoidance of blogging this past week has been the avoidance of closure itself. 
--------------------------

I'm not good at goodbyes. 

I shy against the emotion and instead make jokes or redirect. When I think back to dropping my children off at college--quintessential goodbye moments--I see scraps of chaos (scolding 9-year-old twins climbing on their oldest sister's dorm bunk) and forced levity, laughing too loud, executing a quick, perfunctory hug rather than holding the child and risk feeling the full weight of the moment.

I'm not good at last days of school. I prefer to keep everyone busy right up to the bell, then rush them out the door with overly cheerful "Have a good summer!" and without meeting anyone's eyes. 

I know a teacher who retired at the end of last year and said she missed the goodbyes and proper closure of her career when schools slammed shut on March 15. When I think of my own retirement, I envy that leapfrogging over all the faretheewells. I'd like to slip out quietly, unseen. Ghosting.
------------------

This blogging project gave me a reason to practice what I preach: That writing enriches life. First, while planning to write, you will pay attention to life's small moments: a hand on a puzzle piece, a stumble on a step, the dog's baby tooth on the sidewalk. 

Second, as you sort thoughts on the page, you begin make sense and order of what the day has offered. 

Third, if you share your words with readers, you re-experience your life as people share their encouragement, connections, and response. 
----------------

This past week:

Sunday Adrienne and I taped the second episode of our oral history project with our parents. This week we recorded our mother's childhood memories, capturing her early stories as well as her current state of mental deterioration. 

In the evening, Harrison and Maria facetimed us to announce their engagement--a joyful, welcome call.

The photo on the left was taken moments after Maria
said "Yes!" Shot with Waylon taken the next day.

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

I spent Monday and Tuesday at home as required by quarantine, reading a good book, playing ping-pong, and writing poetry, as I do five days each month with teacher-poets on Ethical ELA. 

Wednesday, having received my second NEG Covid test, I returned to school and was surprised in the warmest way when colleagues greeted me with concern about Dan (he's fine) and relief that I hadn't contracted the virus. I was given pause. Too often take for granted the good people I work with. I must do better. 

After school I received my second dose of the Moderna vaccine.

Thursday was rough in the Journalism lab as the broadcasters struggled through completion of a show that was already late. Thursday was also great in the Journalism lab as the broadcasters struggled through completion of a show that was already late. Sometimes good learning is not pleasant. 

By the end of the day I was chilled and achy, reacting to the previous day's vaccine. I went home and slept hard.

Friday, I awoke a new woman, rested and symptom-free. I verily skipped through the day. In the evening I began this blog post but couldn't seem to end it.

Today is Saturday, March 20, 2021. Stuart said Nali is nearing her end. He plans to put her down on Monday, when both he and Harrison have the day off and can take her to the vet together. 

I will play some Bridge online with my dad tonight. In two weeks I'll be able to visit them face-to-face. I'll take some bubbles along, some Klondike bars, a poem.

Maybe if I just keep clicking at this keyboard I won't have to say

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

William Wolf Hoegh, 8 mos.

Day #360 Writing Through COVID-19: Quarantine Day #2

I'm negative!

My results came via email this evening. I was surprised at how nervous I felt clicking on the link, then surprised again at the leap in my heart when I saw the word Negative. 

Avoiding COVID is not a matter of strength or moral superiority. A negative test is no reason to be proud of myself, any more than I should be proud that a deer ran in front of a neighbor's car instead of mine. I suppose I could claim my caution contributed to my luck, but in fact, COVID (and Iowa deer) strike even the careful ones. 

I'm mostly just relieved that I'm one step closer to sidestepping the hassles and dangers of a POS result.

I'll test again on Monday, and provided I see another NEG in my email, I'll return to school on Wednesday. I will also then be cleared for my second Moderna dose. 
--------------------

Dan thinks his throat is feeling better. His COVID did not prevent him from beating me in Ping-Pong tonight 21-15. 

His mom Janet received her second vaccine dose today. Our neighbor Kathy, a retired nurse who has been volunteering at our community's vaccine distribution, drove her to town. They arrived early, and the scheduled nurse hadn't arrived yet. So Kathy rolled up her sleeves (as did Janet!) to deliver the injection herself! 

On the drive home, Kathy talked Janet through the possible reactions she might feel. They discussed worries that come with aging and ways to lift low spirits. 

In other words, Kathy stepped up as my mother-in-law's chauffeur, nurse, therapist, and life coach this morning. My gratitude is deep.
--------------------

The news is packed with "one year ago" stories today, as March 12 marks one year for our nation's full alert. On March 13, 2020, my broadcasting students threw together (at my insistence) a video of students talking about the impact the first days of COVID had had on their lives. This was the last day of school for us, although we did not know it when the video was filmed. 

It's almost quaint to watch a year later:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pcJ3RfukHXs

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

TEETH (and drool on the bib)

Day #359 Writing Through COVID-19: Day #1 in Quarantine

I feel fine.

Dan's throat is a little sore, but he's also fine, using a slightly wider definition of the term.

Despite our fine-ness, we spent the day obsessing over each minor ache or weary moment as possible COVID confirmation. 

I wish my students would examine complex texts with half the scrutiny Dan and I gave to our every breath and sniffle today. 
------------

I spent the morning online scheduling my COVID test, questioning (and then rescheduling) my second vaccination, and making arrangements for my mother-in-law to proceed with her second vaccination dose without me on Friday.

Let me pause here to tell you about Kathy. She is my country neighbor and dearest friend. Thirty-six years ago I met her at a neighborhood bridal shower (mine!) where Kathy held her shy 4-year-old on her lap while dabbing at her own dripping nose with a tissue. Her authenticity and humor magnetized my affection. Clicking at my keyboard tonight, I realize I have a million words to write about Kathy.

What I'll say now is that she is a recently retired nurse. She has had both of her vaccination shots. She is in the volunteer team that is vaccinating our community. 

When I called her today to ask her to take Dan's mom in for her second COVID vaccine, I knew her answer before she picked up the phone. Iowa Neighbors.

--------------------
I had long happy phone conversations with Stuart and Palmer today. I ran three slow miles on a trail where I would not contaminate anyone with my potential (?) COVID germs. I used the Hy-Vee curbside grocery pickup service and was giddily impressed. I may never go back to RL shopping!
--------------------

One last thought: Today my students carried on with their learning in my absence. They edited videos, designed yearbook spreads, practiced poster presentations, and dug into the background reporting for news stories. Part of me wishes they'd missed me more, that they couldn't function without me. That would make me feel needed! But most of me is super proud that they are independent, capable, and eager to produce even in my absence. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write. 

My heart.

Day #358 Writing Through COVID-19: Dan Tests Positive

Yup.

I was on the final mile of my COVID marathon. I could see the finish line.

Then someone (my husband) stuck his big old farm boot out and tripped me. 
------------------------

Dan's fine. Just an odd-feeling sore throat.

I'll stay home for the next two days. I'll also get a COVID test. 

I'll keep you posted.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #354 Writing Through COVID-19: Sun, Vaccine, Obituaries (and Wolf is standing!)

What a beautiful day on Eagle Avenue! I ran three miles on the gravel with a 2-mph SE wind and a perfect 50-degree temperature. 

After lunch, it warmed up to 63. I sat in the sun reading for an hour. 

I don't want to think that my happiness is weather-dependent, but I must say I felt a lift in my spirits. I smiled all day--until Dan beat me 2-1 in Ping-Pong tonight.
-------------------------

Our county's public health system was not able to schedule enough eligible people for its upcoming Monday vaccine distribution, so they opened up a back door to "non-eligible" folks willing to fill up the empty slots. Two of those will be my daughter who lives in Des Moines (and works in Cass County) and my husband Dan.

This is happy news for my family, but I can't help but think the vaccine roll-out favors those with internet access, connections, and wherewithal to track down vaccine opportunities. 

No one wants the vaccines to go unused. And I know eligible people who for various reasons are declining the vaccine. (A 74-year-old friend of ours says he wants to wait for the one-dose Johnson & Johnson version. His diabetic wife is allergic to eggs and fears she won't tolerate COVID vaccination.)  

So while I am glad that two more of my loved ones will be COVID protected, I am concerned that many in my community are missing out on or refusing the vaccine.
-------------------------

A few days ago, my sister Adrienne suggested I write our parents' obituaries. She explained that doing it now will be less difficult than when stung by grief. We'll only need to make small edits when needed. 

This is a good idea. But I can't begin to outline my parents' lives' trajectories, accomplishments, and milestones, let alone know what to prioritize. This circled me back to an idea I thought of months ago when I took part in an Oklahoma State oral-history project.

Oral-history projects record conversations with people who have lived through a range of experiences. My reliance on Zoom during the past year of COVID has given me the skills to do this!  

So tomorrow at 1 p.m., Adrienne and I will log onto Zoom with our parents to record our dad talking about the early years of his life. The plan is that over the next several weeks we will visit with both parents about their lives and record the videos for posterity. 

Their stories, in their voices, will chronicle their lives for their grandchildren and beyond (and help me write their obituaries).

When I called my dad today to explain the project (sans the obituary dimension), I asked him if he was willing to talk about his childhood tomorrow. 

"Oh my, yes!" he said. I heard sunshine in his voice.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Screenshot from a video of Wolf pulling
  himself up to standing. <3

Day #352 Writing Through COVID-19: Fitness

The thermometer hit 60 today, and I was there for it.

After school, I headed to the rock-quarry trail and logged my first two outdoor running miles of 2021 at a don't-write-home-about-it 11:25 pace. Neither the distance nor speed warrants notice. But the fact that I ran at all after a day of teaching and before Emma's cycling class deserves a can-do cheer.
----------------------

At 61, I am not yet in the grave. But for each day my body cooperates to give me 30 minutes of running or a good sweat on a bicycle, I am thankful.

Tonight, when I beat Dan in Ping-Pong 21-19, I marveled not so much at my win as at our sexagenarian coordination, eyesight, and balance!

Fitness was once in my life a given, then a choice, and now a gift. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

This boy! My heart!

Day #351 Writing Through COVID-19: My Son and His Dog

 

Nali and Stuart, heading west

My youngest son Stu, 26, headed west four years ago. He's worked temp jobs to support his trout fishing and mountain biking, bear hunting and rock climbing. He moves around a lot to maximize opportunities to bow hunt elk, mule deer, whitetail, pheasant, bear. He writes about his outdoor pursuits at Iowa Slam. (A slam, he's gently explained to his non-hunting mother, is achieved when a hunter bags every hunt-able animal in a particular area).

Stu currently shares a single room in an AirBNB in Utah with his twin while they're working the ski season at Sundance.
-------------------------

While out west, Stu has holed up in various (shall I say?) holes. He's lived in basements and trailers and, for extended periods of time, in tents and out of his car. 

With him for the past five years has been Nali, a black lab named after Mt. Denali, the highest peak in North America, which hovered above Stu the summer he worked in Alaska as a fishing guide. 
------------------------

My son is what my husband and I call "a thinking kid." This label is both an attribute and a burden. Stu thinks hard about his decisions, his actions, and his words, which can be a heavy load. 

He structures his time to prioritize a balance of physical health, mental health, service to others, financial responsibility, and of course hunting. Recently, when he lost a decent-paying job he had (reasonably) enjoyed, he reminded me that his entire identity was not lodged in his job; many aspects of his life were going well.
-------------------------

I've spent too many paragraphs introducing Stuart because I'm resisting this next part.

One of the things Stuart prioritizes each day is his work with his Nali. She is an amazing hunting dog, trained to serve as Stu's right-hand she-dog on his countless expeditions. More than that, she has been his constant companion during his time out west. 

Recently Nali has been sick. She's been lethargic. Blood in her urine. Seizures. The vets ran tests, prescribed medications.  Stu adjusted her diet. 

I think you know where this is going.

It isn't a kidney infection or a UTI. It isn't the dog version of epilepsy. 

The mass revealed near her spine in ultrasound was biopsied and confirmed to be advanced cancer. 
-------------------------

Our family has loved many dogs. This means we have also known profound sadness.

These next weeks will be hard for us. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #350 Writing Through COVID-19: Klackers and Tape Recorders?

This afternoon, as I arrived at the YMCA for spin class, I wound my way through a cluster of sixth-graders. It was a beautiful near-spring day, 54 degrees. A few kids were masked. A few bared their noses but masked their mouths. Some wore masks under their chins. 

I almost used my teacher voice to tell them to mask up. But they were outside. And fairly distanced.  Frankly, at this exhausting point in the pandemic, I no longer know what the rules for masking are when 12-year-olds are arguing (or was it flirting?) outside the YMCA in balmy(?) weather.
--------------------------

When I was 12, in 1972, the fad was Klackers. This noisy, semi-dangerous toy was soon banned when too many Klackers shattered and injured Klacking children. 

Klackers were a significant part of my life for about a year. I don't think about them often. But I remembered them tonight when I saw the kids outside the Y. Will the 12-year-olds of 2020 remember masks as "that thing we did for a year" in junior high?

I also remember from that era the early tape-recorders. Once my dad brought one home from his office. It was the size of a suitcase. It had two plate-sized reels and a tape (literally!) on which magical sound was recorded. (Tape! Record! Tape-recorder!)

Klackers dissolved into the past. Tape-recorders evolved into the future, becoming tighter, improved versions of themselves. We now press a single button on our phones, record anything, edit effortlessly, and share it anywhere. 
---------------------------------------

Will masks go the way of Klackers? Remembered only in the recesses of the internet and Grandma's stories? Or will they stay with us, like the tape-recorders, evolving and improving and melding seamlessly into our lives?
--------------------------------------

I thought I was going to write about cycling class tonight.

I guess I wrote about Klackers. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

My son Max with his son Wolf, on the job in NZ

Day #349 Writing Through COVID-19: What probably isn't COVID

This evening Dan said his throat is a bit sore. 

I whisked the temple-thermometer off its prominent place at the kitchen desk and recorded his temperature: 99.4.

Next, we Googled temperature as COVID indicator and learned that contrary to Jeopardy and Trivial Pursuit, 98.6 is only a "very crude estimate" when determining a fever.

"Fever" is, in fact, considered to be 2 degrees above whatever your own personal baseline is (which in Dan's case, and in mine, is not known).

Dan said he'd had a long day outside in the wind. Can wind cause fever? 
---------------------------

In pre-COVID days, my husband would not have mentioned the hint of a sore throat. One of us would need to be bathed in sweat and nearing convulsions before the other would start hunting for a thermometer. If we were lucky enough to find one, it would not have functioned.

But COVID has its own set of rules. 

A scratch in the throat, a drip of the nose, the itch of a cough: high alert! 

Dan thought back to his proximity to others yesterday at church. He realized that when he'd helped our neighbor with a truck problem today, neither had worn a mask. 
----------------------------

Despite (or because of) his early COVID scare last June, Dan has been named our family's "head of the snake." He seems to be the weakest link in our chain of COVID precaution. Time and again he forgets his mask, or ends up shaking someone's hand, or (afterwards) realizes he hadn't distanced himself. 

That said, he has come a long way from his early days of the pandemic, when I had to beg him to wear the mask he abhorred.

I get it. Masks are uncomfortable and eye-glass fogging. And in the early days, their use seemed to broadcast fear and/or rigidity. Had it not been for my insistent daughter in Spain begging us all to take the damn pandemic seriously, I might not have been a mask "early adapter" myself.
----------------------------

I am 2.5 weeks past my first COVID vaccine, so I feel pretty safe against the virus even if Dan has brought it into this house. 

Tonight, using nothing but my unscientific intuition, I'll guess Dan's COVID  probability at 20%. 

We'll see what tomorrow brings.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #348 Writing Through COVID-19: Communion and Monopoly

This morning as I logged my dad onto Zoom for his Sunday School class, he said, "Did you remember today is Ade's birthday?"

"Yes!" I said. What I didn't say was I was surprised he had remembered too.

Happy Birthday, dear Adrienne!

I'm still distancing as much as possible, so Dan went to church alone again this morning. He said it was "full," meaning that most of the un-blocked-off rows had at least someone in them. The service is now a full 15 minutes shorter than pre-COVID. A drop-box has replaced the passing of the offering plates, and communion is now a simultaneous opening of individual wafer-and-wine packets. Both of these adaptations save time!

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

This evening my kids and I played Monopoly on a phone app. Harrison's girlfriend Maria introduced us to the digital version of the game. We open a Zoom room while playing, so our chatter and facial expressions complete the money-grubbing tight-fisted capitalistic-greed experience. Those of us striving to drive our opponents into bankruptcy tonight hailed from Florida, Des Moines, Atlantic, Denver, and Salt Lake City, yet it felt like we were all wheedling and conniving in the same room!
---------------------------

As we ease out of COVID's grip over the coming months, I wonder which aspects of our pandemic-inspired adaptions we'll retain. 

The ritualistic aspects of a church service, such as the repeated murmur of communion (Body of Christ, broken for you; Blood of Christ shed for you) had a hypnotizing, calming rhythm that I doubt will be permanently replaced by the quick crinkle of COVID Lunchable-style communion packets. 

But Monopoly across time zones? That's a keeper.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #347 Writing Through COVID-19: Countdown

The one-year mark feels like the right time to wrap up this chapter of blogging.

I have 19 days to go.

My COVID blogging project has given me purpose during a time that has otherwise often felt like treading water. 

We all put classes, weddings, concerts, travel, holidays, and funerals on hold, while elevating the ordinary motions of shopping and dental appointments to stressful, planning-heavy challenges. 

Yet because I was blogging, I was able to coat the day's difficulties (and ennui) with a dusting of opportunity: Yes, it wasn't good; but I could write about it.
--------------------

Now, on the cusp of March 2021, I'm tired of seeing Day #---- Writing Through COVID-19: at the head of every post.

I'm ready to move on.
----------------------

My Writing-Through-Covid project re-taught me the regimen of daily writing. When I returned to teaching 17 years ago, my writing dropped off precipitously. I excused myself by claiming that lesson-design drained my creative energy. 

It's true, planning lessons is composition, and it does demand creative energy. But this project reminded me that creativity is not a finite commodity. Using it does not consume some limited allotment. It can, in fact, feed itself.

Furthermore, this project gave me permission to explore small moments of joy while blowing bubbles and of frustration when confronted by maskless Covid-deniers in public spaces
-----------------------

Writing invites me (and you) to experience life twice: first by living it, then by making sense of it in words. I can understand that people may wish they hadn't had to endure 2020 once, let alone twice. But for me, coming to the page to reflect and talk about my day has given me permission to distill 24 hours of uncertainty into 600 words of...words. That's something.

Thank you for keeping me company during this uncertain, terrifying, boring, frustrating, liberating, paralyzing time. In these next three weeks, I'll keep my focus on the virus. 

But come March 18, 2021, I'll say 

Enough.

Be well.
Write.

Allison

William Wolf Hoegh, 7 1/2 months

 

Day #344 Writing Through COVID-19: Say Something Nice.

Today in Yearbook class K said she hopes she's as fit as I am when she's my age. It was such a lovely compliment (especially considering a student called me "Grandma" earlier this week). I told her that I, too, have admired "old people" for a range of reasons and thought "I want to be like that when I'm that age."
-----------------------

As compliments are wont to do, K's words made me determined to live up to her perception of me today.

I attended Game Club after school. While I usually gravitate to chess, a decidedly sedentary choice. But some kids were playing "Let's Dance" on the Wii, so I got in line and gave it a go. I came in third out of four. Let's log that as a win.

Next, I headed to cycling class at the YMCA for the third time this week. Our fearless leader Emma built the workout around chronologically arranged Taylor Swift songs. Emma even wore the French braid. We rocked it out and biked it hard!

When I got home, Dan was in the basement finishing his old-man evening lifting/biking regimen. He agreed to a game of Ping-Pong, and I beat him 21-17.
-------------------------

K is a compliment-generous person, as am I. I get a buzz from inviting people to glimpse their potential or see themselves through the eyes of someone (me) who appreciates their gifts. 

Has anyone researched the idea that bestowing compliments on others might, in fact, be a key to happiness?

Asking for a friend.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Just a sleeping angel. 

Day #343 Writing Through COVID-19: Happiness

For the past 343 days, I've trained my eye on the pandemic, determined to chronicle whatever COVID-19 brought my way.

During the first months, the shift to masking, distancing, protecting loved ones, and adjusting even the smallest of life's routines provided a deep pool for reflection each night.

Add to that the unexpected re-homing of my aging parents in my basement, then the birth of a first grandbaby I have yet to see.  

When school resumed and COVID peaked in Iowa, the pandemic glowed like a hot coal in the center of my days. 

We muddled our way through distanced holidays, then reeled from the storming of the Capitol on Jan. 6. Tensions across the world are stretched to the breaking point. The promise of a vaccine hovers on the horizon: surely when the pandemic subsides, the bludgeoning disappointments and anger that have defined the past year will also abate. Or so it's tempting to believe.
------------------------

One of my students is writing her research paper on happiness. While helping her with finding sources, I came upon an article on how bad we are at predicting what will make us happy. We think aging will make us less happy, it said, yet the opposite is true. We mistakenly hold out weight-loss or job promotions or new relationships as keys to happiness.

This got me thinking. Am I romanticizing the fantasy of my post-pandemic life, unrealistically believing the "if it weren't for COVID" fallacy? I do not want to neglect opportunities for joy in the present by choosing instead to push all of my hope for happiness into a future space.
-------------------------

You'd think a cancer diagnosis at 45 would shake a person into a habit of living in the NOW, whatever that is, even a COVID now.

And you'd be right. It did. For awhile.

But embracing the now, the here, the today is an ongoing effort. I'm glad my student's research project brought this back into my viewfinder.
-------------------------

Here and now:

• Cycling for a second day with Emma gave me an endorphin rush that (for a few hours) convinced me I was superwoman.
• My yearbook staff engaged in a thoughtful discussion about (surprise?) happiness today. A poster in the hall proclaimed: Choose Happy! K wondered aloud if we can, in fact, control happiness. She said she sometimes just feels sad and cries. G talked about introversion. H said her "happiness" is sometimes totally fake. M suggested that we CAN choose positivity, and that might, in turn, increase the possibility of happiness, but we can't beat ourselves up when we're not feeling happy. (Yes, this conversation happened while we were  designing the yearbook cover.)
• Tonight I spent an hour on a Zoom poetry reading organized by the Iowa Poetry Association. I was uplifted by beautiful poems flung into the world by brave and eloquent (if not all happy) writers.

Enough.
Be well.
Write a poem.

Allison

It's summer in NZ! 

Day #341 Writing Through COVID-19: Self-Care

I'm not into self-care.

That is, I don't think self-care should be one more thing we pencil into our already packed lives. If we have to set aside special time to stop beating ourselves up, if our miserable lives need to schedule a few minutes to soak our feet, we are doing something terribly wrong. 

I prefer to live in an ongoing state of self-care. Call it selfish. Call it 61-year-old wise. But if what I'm doing is causing me distress and exhaustion, I change what I'm doing. 
---------------------------

Teaching in a pandemic is challenging, to be sure. I've redesigned countless lessons to keep kids masked, distanced, and connected online. But when things get hairy, I am this year tapping gently on the brakes, which I find preferable to revving my entire classroom's engines into burnout.
---------------------------

Then.

Our district scheduled a Self-Care day today for all staff. Students stayed home while teachers were on contract from 8-3:30 with the directive to Care For Ourselves.

At first thought, I wanted only to stay home (which was not an option). Waking at 6 to plow through unplowed roads felt like the antithesis of Self-Care.

But as the day unfolded, my attitude shifted.
-----------------------------

I spent the first 20 minutes of the day having coffee with a co-worker who I knew needed to unload some recent frustrations. While education gives lip service to the value of teamwork among colleagues, the reality of our jam-packed schedules leaves only fleeting minutes to listen to each other. 

Next, I worked in my classroom before heading to the YMCA for an all-teacher yoga class, followed by an invigorating cycling workout. These were the most public activities I've engaged in since March 2020. I wore a mask and distanced myself, wiped the mats and the bike with disinfectant, used a tissue (per the posted instructions) to press the water-fountain button. 

I think I was pretty COVID safe. 
------------------------------

Upon my return to school, I ate a delicious salad catered by a local restaurant, paid for by (??school funds??) not me!

Since August, I have sacrificed the colleague camaraderie of lunchtime in the teacher workroom for the hyper-vigilant COVID precaution demanded by my children.

Again today I picked up my lunch and returned to my room to eat alone. 

But I'd no sooner opened my styrofoam box when Rebecca knocked at my door. "Can I join you?"
--------------------------------

Rebecca is young enough to be my daughter. She teaches Family Consumer Science while I teach English. Yet we recognize in each other passions and humor. To have her join me (distanced!) for lunch was delicious self-care. 
--------------------------------

I squeezed in a little more school work before meeting up in Brandon's classroom to watch a film Randall worked on in 2010. Before becoming a teacher, Randall worked in film. He joined our staff three years ago, and we've said again and again that we'd like to watch one of "his" movies. 

Today--Atlantic Community School District Self-Care Day--finally allowed us time and space to do it! The film was a psychological thriller, made even more interesting as Randall explained camera shots, production decisions, and anecdotes of working with the cast.
--------------------------------

Today I felt productive, relaxed, strong, sated, engaged, stimulated, and appreciated. 

I didn't realize how much I needed self-care.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #340 Writing Through COVID-19: Old and Precious

I was glum after the strange, short phone call I had with my dad yesterday, so this morning when I talked him through logging on to Zoom for Sunday School, I asked if he'd be up to Bridge later in the day. He said he'd like that.

This afternoon we played a hand. It was not our best, in part because we played poorly, but also because our opponent had such unusual cards: two singletons! (Call this rationalization.)
---------------------

After our game, I asked if Mom was sleeping. "I think so," he said. "She sleeps a lot unless we are reading to each other."

Just then my mom called from the bedroom: "I'm awake!"

"Come out and see Alli," Dad said. 
--------------------

I asked no direct questions and instead guided the conversation gently: "I had Adrienne bring you Klondike Bars because I remembered how much we enjoyed them in the evenings watching movies when you were at my house," I said. This phrasing invited her to chime in without putting her on the spot with direct questions such as "Did you like the Klondike Bars?" or "Remember when we watched movies in my basement?"

"Some of the movies were better than others," I offered, and my mom gamely rejoined: 

"But the Klondike Bars were always good!"
----------------------

Such exchanges--when she's interacting with humor--are puffs of joy to me. They let me feel her intelligence and joie de vivre, characteristics I rarely appreciated when we were locked in constant battle during my teen years, and then beyond. 

It now seems like such a loss, at age 61, to realize the dominant dynamic of my relationship with my mom was honed during a mere four years of adolescence. That difficult time cemented us into years of division and quasi-estrangement.

Part of this, I'm sure, is because of our genuine differences in how we interact with the world. 

But as I experienced during our COVID time together, we have deep affection that might have been tapped years earlier, had we not been chained to expectations welded during those few fraught teenage years.
-----------------------

As painful as it is to think of the years we lost, it astounds me to realize that--at ages 89 and 60--in the crevices of a pandemic, my mother and I found a way back to healing.
------------------------

This afternoon Mom sat in the chair in front of the computer, which was angled awkwardly, cutting her off below the nose while scalping my dad who hovered behind her.

We talked about New Zealand and the handmade children's books she constructed. 

I told her that Palmer will call me one day to tell me how brilliant her students are, then call the next to tell me they know nothing! We shared a hearty teacher laugh. 
------------------

My parents are, like antiques, old

and precious.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #339 Writing Through COVID-19: Bye, Dad.

My sister Adrienne in Ft. Dodge served as our parents' most constant contact during the past several years of their increasing need. When they relinquished their driver's licenses, she transported them on errands and to appointments. She joined them weekly for Trivia and shuffled them from the care center to her house to include them in her family's holiday celebrations. 

When our parents moved in with me last March, Adrienne wrote them hand-penned letters five times a week. 

Since they returned to Ft. Dodge in August, she's re-shouldered the family role of most-visible and helpful child (despite, I might add, having had hip replacement surgeries in October and again in December).
--------------------

My parents' current meal plan at Friendship Haven provides breakfast and lunch each day. They prepare their evening meal themselves, often using leftovers from their noon meal or concocting a healthy fruit salad. 

Adrienne had been the one to taxi our mom to Fareway for the past several years, helping her take advantage of the damaged produce and day-old bread. (Our mom loves a bargain.)

With our parents' mobility curtailed by COVID, Adrienne now does their shopping herself, delivering their humble order each Saturday.

Today, at my request, she included Klondike Bars as a surprise.
----------------------

My dad called a little before noon.

"Alli?"

"Hi, Dad."

"Did you send us Klondike Bars?"

"Yes! I did. Did Adrienne bring them to you?

"She did. Thank you."

I expected at least a short conversation. But I sense my dad is having a harder and harder time keeping up his end of our phone chats. He's now employing strategies our mother uses to minimize attention to her failing mental acuity.

"Bye now," he said. 

Bye, Dad.

Enough.
Be well.
Write. 

Allison

Little Prince on his new throne.

Day #338 Writing Through COVID-19: Is Anybody Listening?

My mother-in-law Janet spent two nights in our basement before returning to her home when the temperature reached a balmy -3 degrees.

She was a lovely guest.
------------------

I'd developed routines for tending my parents during the first four+ months of the pandemic, and I drew on that experience to feel instantly comfortable hosting Janet.

But the similarity of experiences also highlighted the differences.

The first day Janet was here, she ran a load of laundry in the basement, unassisted, reminding me of my mom's confusion in her first days last March. 
--

I handed Janet the wifi password on a post-it note, and she took it from there, logging onto her laptop to send emails, watch (church service) videos, and Google her way through any question the day might raise.  

I contrast this to my dad's dwindling facility with technology. He still valiantly logs onto Zoom each Sunday morning as I feed him the instructions to click on "join" and type in the access code he's written on his notepad. It helps if I repeat the code two digits at a time as he muddles along. 
-- 

Janet whipped through three or four saccharine middle-grade books from the basement bookshelf and continued her close reading of the Psalms during her 72-hour stay. In contrast, my dad read Roosevelt biographies and dense non-fiction while my mom read short children's books and the dictionary. 
--

These comparisons highlighted my mother's struggles with dementia, Janet's amazing tech skills, and my dad's continued appreciation of erudite reading. 

But Janet's visit also showed me her loneliness.

Dan's dad died almost 10 years ago at age 92. Janet, 10 years his junior, has lived independently since then. 

While she is an introvert, she is self aware enough to know too much alone time is soul crushing. Pre-pandemic, she drove to the Elk Horn care center each day to visit residents and play the piano for chapel services. In this way she could satisfy her urge to uplift those in need while hedging against her inclination to avoid social contact. (Like many introverts, Janet is most at ease when she has a task in front of her. At Dan's brother's wedding, she hid in the nursery tending to grandchildren rather than mingle with guests as mother-of-the-groom.)

Since last March, Janet has been to town maybe five times: to the dentist, the doctor, the pharmacy, and--last week--to receive her first COVID shot. Instead of visiting the care center, she has written hundreds of letters. She sews and studies Spanish and keeps her day busy.

But when she was here in our basement, I realized her aloneness in a new way. My parents in this space were not in constant conversation. But if one spoke a thought aloud, there was another person there to hear it. If Janet has a idea, she can write it in a letter, or save it to share when I come by to play the accordion. But the easy lobbing of a thought to the person across the room is missing from her life.
--------------------

Here in our empty nest, Dan and I rattle around in a companionable mix of sharing and silence. "Hearing" Janet alone in the basement increased my appreciation for Dan across the room or down the hall. If I toss out a thought, there is someone there to catch it. 

Hearing him crunch his ice here next to me is an irritation, yes. 

But it's also a comfort.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Facetime with Wolf continues to
sustain me. He's wearing the Valentine
jammies I sent him.

Day #334 Writing Through COVID-19: A new basement guest

At 8:35 a.m. Friday I receive my first COVID dose.

"Done!" the nurse said.

"Are you sure?" I asked. I had felt nothing.

The next day when I pressed the shot spot, I could feel a slight tenderness. Otherwise, Dose #1 was a glorious non-event.
-----------------------------

My mother-in-law Janet (pronounced the Danish way, Jeanette) received her first Covid vaccine alongside me. The night before, she waffled: maybe it was too cold to go outside. I refused to take no for an answer. I would drive her to town (in a warmed car) I explained, and Dan would follow in his (warmed) pickup and take her home as I proceeded to school.

Janet is, at 91, sharper than many of us in our 60s and 70s. But she is sensitive to the societal ageism that diminishes her intelligence and value. Many people she encounters expect her to be confused, forgetful, or befuddled, and these expectations then cause her anxiety. Will people judge her every question or smallest misstep as evidence of an "old" person, ready for the boneyard? 
-------------------------

On Friday, Janet was a winner. She pushed back her fear of the cold, her fear of the vaccine, and her fear of interacting with the public during the pandemic. She got the vaccine.

By evening time, she said she felt "an awareness" of her vaccination spot as she reached for a can on a shelf but nothing more.
--------------------------
--------------------------

It's Monday evening now. Last night, with cold-weather warnings closing schools, we moved Janet into our basement, where my own parents lived for nearly five months at the onset of the pandemic. 

Janet's farmhouse, a mile from ours, is more than 100 years old. We protected her north windows with plastic wrap in October, but the house is a skeleton: It's just too hard to keep it warm in -20 temps. 
-------------------

So yep! I have a new nonagenarian in my basement! We both mask up when I come down to deliver meals, conversation, or accordion practice. 

She has her laptop, logged on to our Wifi. 

She's mending Dan's shirt and doing her own laundry. 

She's read two books since she arrived yesterday. 

I'm joyfully surprised at how familiar it is for me to create a well-balanced meal tray and deliver it with Valentine chocolates or a pretty napkin to make my basement guest feel welcome. 

Enough. 
Be well.
Write.

Allison 

Look who's 7 months old! <3 Wolf!