Day #19 Writing Through Covid-19: Smartest Man In The World

I grew up believing my dad was the Smartest Man In The World.

Probably because he told me so. With a wink and a grin, he'd declare: "S-M-I-T-W" when for one reason or another he was called upon to dip into his bottomless well of knowledge to identify who wrote "House of the Seven Gables" or name the capital of South Africa. He was a pre-internet Google search. He simply memorized everyone's phone numbers rather than writing them down.

The "S-M-I-T-W" acronym came from my father's childhood. "S-M-I-T-W" he'd taunt each time he out-smarted his older sisters. It became the gloating response we used within our family when one of us felt we'd outwitted the others: S-M-I-T-W!

Tonight when I brought my mom her meds, I asked Dad if he wanted to watch a movie. Yes, he said, he'd been trying to get one started but was having trouble with the remote.

In the 17 days they've been living here, he's learned to turn on the TV, and I think he can change channels. But navigating the second remote to access Amazon Prime is tricky.

I offered to guide him through the process (again). He held the remote and pressed the buttons as I talked him through:
Home button.
Down, over- over-
Enter
(Whoops)
Home
Down, over--
Repeat

It was a struggle, but his fumbling fingers finally got to the BBC's "Taming of the Shrew." He relinquished the remote sheepishly when I offered to set up the subtitles.

My dad is still very much alive. He converses quite well, as long as you aren't in a hurry. His pauses to find words can stretch out for seconds. Sometimes I offer the word I'm anticipating; sometimes I don't. Is it better to help him along (set up the subtitles) or pretend the waiting isn't a bother (and it isn't...what else do we have to do)?

My dad's days as S-M-I-T-W are, frankly, behind him.

But when he hugged me with his bony arms tonight, I almost told him S-M-I-T-W: Sweetest Man In The World.

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison

Day #18 Writing Through Covid-19: Back to School and Puzzles

We started back to school today. That is, after the go-ahead from our principal last Friday, our English department began hosting daily Zoom classes to offer (ungraded! not required!) reading/writing/speaking activities.

The state of Iowa has given schools three options: 1) hold mandatory online school, 2) offer non-graded/optional learning support, or 3) do nothing and make up the missed days in some future time/space.

Many schools like Atlantic, with a number of students lacking reliable internet access, are selecting option #2.

Of the 400+ students in our building, 25 showed up on our first day to help us experiment with the platform. We spent five minutes of our time together trying to help a student access her "gallery view." We then sunk another 10 minutes into a mass-frenzy of experimenting with virtual backgrounds. During our final 10 minutes, we read this poem and four students piped up to explain their interpretations and analyses.

Was it learning? In some ways.
Was it of value? Maybe.

These are the questions teachers ask ourselves every day during our planning and reflection. And if we're honest, our answers are often: "In some ways" and "Maybe."

I do believe many of the students who showed up today felt welcomed, encouraged, and valued.

The AHS English Lockdown Classroom opens today.

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Day two of a 500-piece bird puzzle with my mom.

We were making good headway! We had fewer than 50 pieces to go when I left for a run to town.

When I got home, I brought down Vern's dog food and glanced at the Ping-Pong table where we'd been working on the puzzle.

Nothing.

"What happened to the puzzle?" I (kindly) shrieked.

"Oh! It was finished, so I put it away," my mother explained. "I thought you knew it was finished!"

Pause.

The only reason we were working on a puzzle in the first place was to offer my mom a distraction from the nothingness that stretches out before her each day. Whether or not I saw the complete puzzle did not matter in the least. Then why did I feel wronged?

This is a puzzle.

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison

Day #17 Writing Through Covid-19: Windows and Face Masks

This is my 17th consecutive day of blogging through Covid-19.

In non-Covid time (remember that?) I often felt I had nothing to write about. Nothing in my hum-drum ordinary life demanded to be pegged to the page.

So it's ironic that now, when my life has closed in upon itself, shrunken to the bare essentials of getting through another stay-home day, the smallest moments feel note-worthy.

With the warmth of the sun today, my mom and I got back to our window-washing project. Because we only wash one window each day, the job feels like a treat, a special event. We look at our clean window; we preen and glow. Who knew window washing could offer such satisfaction?

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My daughter Palmer, self-isolating in Colorado, is worried about her 91-year-old grandma (Dan's mom) who lives a mile from us. Although about the same age, Janet is stronger physically and mentally than my parents. Not only does she live independently, during non-Covid time when I'm teaching, she drives to my house each day to run laundry, start the dishwasher, wipe down the counters. (Pretty sure I just heard you sigh with envy.) Janet and I have also been learning to play the accordion together for the past three years. Our nightly practice is our shared joy, and we don't want Covid-19 to stop us.

But Palmer asked me to please wear a mask while visiting Grandma Janet. So guess who made my mask? The same amazing woman who trimmed down one of my tablecloths so it would fit my parents' small table in the basement (and then sewed napkins from the trimmed fabric): Janet.

Tonight she presented me with four masks she had made: two with ties of varying widths, two with elastic.

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When everything else has come to a standstill, small gestures of helpfulness and the simplicity of kindness rise up like monuments. Blogworthy.

Facemask by Janet

Palmer (and Willet) in Colorado today.

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison

Day #16 Writing Through Covid-19: Laundry and Funerals

This afternoon I went downstairs planning to check the closet under the stairs for another puzzle. But my mom met me with a complaint: "He wants me to do the laundry," she said, glaring at my dad.

"Oh, I can help with that," I said, as I've been taking care of their small laundry needs for two weeks now.

My mother huffed into the bedroom and my dad motioned me to follow him into the bathroom where he explained that my mom had been having a confused time, hyper-focused on the non-issue of laundry.

It took only a few minutes for me to solve the laundry crisis by gathering their few soiled items, stripping their bed, and starting the wash cycle. But my mom did not look happy.

So I turned a 60-piece children's Rapunzel puzzle out of its box and asked her to help me with it. By the time we finished (five minutes later), her spirits were moving upward.

Next, I asked her to help me with the day's JUMBLE puzzle in the newspaper. Then I brought out the Methodist hymnal and asked her to leaf through the hymns.

When I mentioned one of my favorites, "This Is My Song," sung to "Finlandia," my dad said he wants that one played at his funeral. "Me too!" I said.

My mom laughed and said we could simplify things by having a double-funeral.

My dad then read the verses aloud, and we three church-going quasi-atheists, alone together in the basement, amid Covid-19 isolation, shared the hymn that will, hopefully, someday be played at our funerals.

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison

Day #15 Writing Through Covid-19: What Matters?

What matters:
The English muffins were warm with honey butter.

What doesn't matter:
I did not shower. All day.

What matters:
My mom and I laughed 100 times during our game of Dominos.

What doesn't matter:
Dominoes is such a lame game.

What matters:
Harrison knocked on the window and waved to his grandparents this afternoon.

What doesn't matter:
The weather.

What matters:
Handwritten letters from my sister every day.

What doesn't matter:
The Ft. Dodge Messenger arrives 48 hours after its print date.

What matters:
Little things.

What doesn't matter:
Everything else.

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison

My parents (and Vern) at breakfast this morning. 

Day #14 Writing Through Covid-19: Is This Thursday?

Whew. Long day here.

This morning when I checked on my parents, they were both still sleeping.
But greeting me were two dog turds on the carpet.

I am a mother of six. It takes more than a couple of turds to derail me.

But later when my mom woke up, I told her Vern had had "an accident" in the night.

"Oh yes!" she said cheerily. "He does that!"
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This evening I asked my mom to set the table, which she does for each meal.
"Do you want plates?" she asked, as if we hadn't set plates for each of the previous 40 meals (who's counting) since they arrived.

Then tonight she said, "There's a big black dog in the yard!"

The dog is Rex, the same dog my mother invited into the basement as Vern's new best friend three days ago.

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My mother and I started a new 300-piece puzzle yesterday. She finished it around noon today. This afternoon I saw that she had already boxed it up.

"You put the puzzle away!" I said.

"Yes. I finished it a few days ago!" she said.

I'm afraid we have all loosened our grip on time. I'm thankful my parents have a dementia clock. It tells them the time (a.m./p.m.), the day, the year.

I think, vaguely, this might be Thursday.
.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Day #14 Writing Through Covid-19: Happy and Fulfilled?

Today is April Fools' Day. When I was a child, my mother would make a Greedy Goat Pie on this day (pie crust filled with sticks and leaves or cookie cutters or something ridiculous). She would set our table with pots and pans, ladles and asparagus tines. We ate our meal with hilarity.

I thought about doing something similar for my parents, but the day got away from me. Frankly, it seemed in questionable taste to play pranks on people who are already a bit rattled.

In the evening I pulled the car out of the garage to slip over to my 91-year-old mother-in-law's house for our evening accordion practice. The average age of the four people I have contact with (including Dan at a mere 61) is 82.75. 

As I backed into the driveway, I suddenly saw my dad in my side mirror, standing on the parking, a few feet away from the car. He had walked up and around the house for a bit of exercise and was crossing in front of the garage just as I was inattentively backing out. I gasped; my dad laughed. I shuddered to imagine telling my siblings I'd run over my Covid-19 house guest.

I am participating in Ethical ELA's #VerseLove by writing 30 days of poetry during National Poetry Month. 

Today's prompt was from Sarah J. Donovan, who hosts the website and dreamed up this glorious idea a year ago.  She asked us to consider what our credo might be and guided us through pre-writing with questions including

• What do you believe is the purpose of life? What helps you experience a sense of purpose and meaning?
• When do you feel most happy and fulfilled?
• What generates in you a sense of wonder and awe about life and the universe?
• List some basic core beliefs or simple truths that you live by. 

Tonight I asked my mom when she feels most happy and fulfilled. She was quick to answer: when she's completed a big project. For years this woman organized conventions for United Methodist Women (which is why she missed my twins' births), church rummage sales (which explains her unusual sartorial choices), city-wide efforts to bring learning extensions to impoverished neighborhoods, and Thanksgiving dinner for the community's mentally ill. 

She planned and executed the most creative themed birthday parties for her five children: Japanese Party, Pirate Party, Native American Party (pretty sure we called it an Indian Party--). The themes have not aged well, but 50 years ago they were planned in a spirit of education rather than cultural appropriation. There was no Pinterest; she designed and sewed the kimonos herself.

So when she said she felt happy and fulfilled by finishing big projects, I knew what she meant. 

Here are the projects she's tackled in her 12 days here with me:

• Washing windows in the basement. We've finished eight and have four to go.
• Putting together a 500-piece puzzle.
• Remembering where we are, and why we're here. 

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison