Day #13 Writing Through Covid-19: Love in the Time of Coronavirus

My mother dotes on my dad. It's both sweet and nauseating. She calls him "Berry" and tells (and retells) the story of how they met as camp counselors in Michigan.

My mother was 22 and married to Chuck. She thought my dad was about 19. She was irritated by how the camp nurse drooled over Leroy Berryhill. That fall Chuck died of sinus cancer; he and my mother had been married only two years.

The following summer my parents again both worked at the camp, my mother now single. When my shy father stopped by her cabin (I forget why), she was on the top bunk. "I suddenly realized how blue his eyes were!" She still nearly squeals when she says this line.

When he turned to go, Leroy asked Meredith if she'd like to go canoeing sometime. She said yes, but the flu then went through the camp, and my dad (who had only one year of medical school under his belt) was needed in the infirmary. The summer came to a close, and he asked my mother if he could write to her. They courted through letters, which they keep in a scrapbook. They finally went canoeing on their honeymoon--and named their canoe Homoca (for HOneyMOon CAnoe).

They are openly affectionate, often holding hands. Growing up, I thought everyone's parents shared a long, passionate kiss in the kitchen when the dad came home from work. When we were little, we liked to squeeze in between their embrace for a "sandwich."

My mother's middle initials are TMI, and over the years she has told me way more than I wanted to know about her sex life. I have a memory from when I was five, sitting on her lap as she explained that people "had intercourse" not only to conceive children but also for pleasure. I  scrambled off her lap in shock and disgust.

They still flirt shamelessly.

My own story of meeting my husband (inebriated, both of us following friends into a divorce party thrown by a woman neither of us knew) does not hold up well against my parents'. Nor do Dan and I make out in the kitchen when he walks in at the end of the day. Sometimes we say Hi.

Next week Dan and I will mark 36 years of marriage. We have six far-flung children and a life we've woven together from his serious warp and my giddy weft.  We are better together because I keep him hopping and he keeps me steady.

My parents have never been close to Dan. (Remember, I have not been close to my parents for most of my life.) To minimize germ transfer, I am the only well-scrubbed person who enters my parents' basement sanctum.

Dan is starting fieldwork (anhydrous, in case Tyler wondered, Missy). He is working 14-hour days while the price of grain hits staggering lows. He's kind of crabby. But tonight he told me he knows how hard I'm working to keep my parents fed and tended.

I needed to hear that.

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison

My favorite photo of Dan.

Day #12 Writing Through Covid-19: To Be of Use

Again tonight my dad asked if he could help pay for groceries. 

"Let me be your hostess," I said. "I'm pretty sure you've fed me a few meals."

My dad laughed, and let it go.

My parents are (were?) both so smart and funny. While they have different senses of humor (I favor my dad's), they are quick to laugh at themselves and at each other. 

A willing laugh is a gift. I know people (I might be married to one) who are stingy with their laughter. They hold it in reserve, as if to give laughter is to lose something. 

But back to the two laughing people in my basement: they do not want to be a burden. They have spent their lives on the giving end of the give-receive continuum. 

I am reminded of Marge Peircy's "To Be of Use" poem. We all need to contribute, to feel useful. But just how useful can two old people be? 

1) They feed their dog and take him for walks. (Reason #5485 everyone should have a pet.)
2) They set their table and wash their dishes. 
3) Today my mom helped me wash three more windows. 
4) They make their own fruit salad out of mushy grapes and spotty bananas. 
5) They walk their dog. Wait, I already said that. 

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison

My dad walking Vern, March 30, 2020

Day #11 Writing Through Covid-19: Who Let the Dog In?

Last night when I went into the back hall, I could hear my father's voice coming from the basement. He was telling my mother--again, again--that they are staying at my place during Covid-19.

I've been a good eavesdropper my entire life, but my mother's voice was in a higher register that wafted up to me in wordless mewls. I could only tell what she was saying from the context of my father's patient responses. 

--?
"We're at Alli's, in her basement, because our children don't want us to get sick."
--?
"Yes, we'll go back when the pandemic passes."
--?
"Well, we will probably be here for a couple of months."
--!
"I know." 
--!
"Yes, I understand."
--?
"Our children think this is best, and I do too." 

-------------
We fill the days with small misadventures. 

This morning our big, dirty coonhound was roaming the basement when I came down with breakfast. 

"How did Rex get in here?" I asked, sure he had pushed his way in through the door they'd left unlocked.

My mother explained that when she'd let Vern out for his morning BM (ACK! Mother! Stop saying that!), he and Rex were getting along so well she brought them both inside!

I shoved Rex out with my knee and reminded my mom that Rex is farm dog. His kennel is in the garage. I'm happy he's getting along with Vern, but he is not house-trained or welcome inside.

Why do I think this won't be the only day I find Rex inside?

-----------------
My mother and I washed three of the basement windows together today. It felt productive. My parents' view across the Iowa farmland is much improved.

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison

Day #10 Writing Through Covid-19: Bears in the Barn

When I was in high school, my dad's mom lived with us for a time: months? years?  She was a benign, incontinent presence in my self-centered adolescent life. (Remember, I was a hateful teen.)

Grandma Berryhill liked to play Dominoes and Probe, but she cheated, and everyone knew it. She also emptied the sugar bowl into her coffee, so my mother used a very small and near-empty sugar bowl. Our primary bathroom was occupied by this clunky commode that inconvenienced and disgusted me, the oh-so-busy la-tee-da teenager.

I have wonderful memories of my other grandparents, and I am now sorry that I have so few positive memories of Grandma Berryhill's time with us. I do remember her hands were softer than a puppy's underbelly. I must have touched her hands. 

At night Grandma Berryhill "felt mice" in her bed. She would call out to my mother across the hall, and mom would come strip down the sheets to prove there were no mice. Sometimes this happened several times a night.

One night Grandma cried out in terror: "There's a bear in the barn!" My mother tried to assure her the "barn" was our garage, and we were in a city far from bears.

------

This morning my mom said she'd had a rough night. "I kept thinking your dad needed a clean white shirt, and I couldn't find one," she said. 

A lost white shirt is not exactly a bear in the barn, but both women were crafting nightmares by drawing on the realities of their younger lives.

It makes me wonder what my eventual night terrors will be:

Raccoons on the porch.

Children in my bed.

Missing stacks of student writing.
My elderly parents, lost in my basement, needing care. 

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison

Day #9 Writing Through Covid-19: Gray Day

It's a gray day here on Eagle Avenue, my parents' seventh day living under my wing.

This morning I brought my mother an English muffin on a pretty blue-flowered napkin.

"I used to do what you're doing," she said.

"You mean making decisions about what to eat?"

"It's your turn now," she said simply.

----------

I want to please them.

I want to make them happy.

I want them to like me.

I was not an easy child to raise, and perhaps as a result, I have not been close to my parents in my adult life. After my adolescent years spent disobeying and disappointing them at every turn, my parents (justifiably) didn't like me much. Oh, of course they loved me, as parents do. But our relationship was forged in hateful fire, and by the time I became less hateful, I was busy with my own family, and they had several of my other siblings needing their attention.

So one week into this Covid adventure of housing these two, I'm questioning my motives.

Am I trying to be a hero?
Am I trying to ask forgiveness?
Am I, at age 60, still trying to win their approval?

Or maybe I'm just helping because I'm not such a terrible person after all. That would be nice.

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison




Gray Day on Eagle Avenue

Day #8 Writing Through Covid-19: Cracks in Our Fragile Teacup

The honeymoon lasted four days.

Since Saturday, my parents and I have tiptoed around each other, perfecting our roles as mellow guests and five-star hostess. They thank me profusely for each small kindness; I dream up small kindnesses like it's my job--which I guess it is.

But we are human, and yesterday I saw the first hairline evidence that our arrangement is not rock solid. How could it be? My parents really don't want to be here. A mere seven days ago a once-a-week phone call and a once-a-month face-to-face visit felt right to all three of us.

Now I am their lifeline to the world, bringing each meal, the newspaper, their medicine, their lone human contact. I am also the one (speaking for all their children) who said they needed to be here for now. How could then not resent me just a bit?

So yesterday I was more bemused than surprised when we hit some rumble strips.

First it was the coffee. I'd brought my dad a mid-morning cup, but he was napping, so I left it on the table hoping he'd wake up before it grew cold.

At lunchtime I asked if I should have woken him when I came down earlier. "Well," he said, "I don't like cold coffee." I registered the first tremor of irritability I'd heard since he arrived.

In the afternoon I found my mother in wandering mode. "I'm looking for another bathroom," she said.

I showed her again both bathroom options.

"I was hoping to find one with a taller toilet."

I told her (again) that I had ordered a raised seat and to be sure to use her walker to help her stand up until it gets here. She agreed (again) that should work.

But then I saw the damp towel on the bathroom floor and realized my dad had taken a shower, despite me asking them not to shower until the shower chair arrived. "I have a shower chair coming, too," I reminded him, "so you won't be as likely to fall."

"I STAND UP when I shower," he snipped.

What I refrained from saying was "You have terrible balance and I do not want to pick up your brittle bones from the shower floor."

Of course he wants to shower standing up; of course I want him to use a chair.

I said, "I'll take this towel upstairs and wash it."

----------
Later I offered to play accordion music while they ate dinner. I played "Blue Skirt Waltz" and "Little Annie Rooney." I made some mistakes. And that's okay.

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison

Day #7 Writing Through Covid-19: Isolated Extroverts or How Reading Will Save You

I am extroverted. I am too friendly, too out-spoken, too sure that everyone wants to know my every opinion.

But I also have an introverted dimension. I love to hole up on the weekends, putter from chair to couch, read a book, then a magazine, then a newspaper--without having to talk to anyone.

I do not dread the isolation of Covid-19. True, Dan is here, and we have children who check in daily. I have students I'm prodding with writing prompts and poems. I have friends in various crevices of my life. I have the best sister in the world, and we sometimes talk five times a day. So my aloneness is not being tested that much.

If you've read my past few posts, you know that my 89- and 90-year-old parents have moved into my basement. Both of these people led extroverted lives. They joined committees, served on school boards, led countless initiatives.

But they also were voracious readers and writers. They knew how to sink into themselves, their private sanctums, and I'm seeing the benefit of that now.

In the past, I may have felt dismissed when, after a Thanksgiving meal, my dad would find a chair and a book and excuse himself from all family interaction for a few hours. I also absorbed deep pain when my mom told me she wouldn't be able to visit my newborn twins because she was busy with her own plans.

My mother works on our puzzle while my dad reads.

But this past week, as my parents and I are choreographing our dance of support and independence, I am grateful they are introverted extroverts, or extroverted introverts.

They lived in the thick of the nursing home's activities, organizing the duplicate bridge tournaments and reading to residents with limited sight. My dad loved his Saturday morning men's coffee time. As of last summer, my mother still rode her bike and scoured the grounds to pick up litter on long walks. Their vibrancy has been good for both them and the people around them.

But today I'm happy they have strong interior lives as well. My mother has filled countless spiral notebooks with journaling for years. Twice yesterday I found her writing when I came downstairs. My father reads and reads.

They are cheerful and conversational when I visit throughout the day, but I know as long as they are surrounded with reading material and lined notebooks, they'll be fine for a few hours on their own.

Reading and writing for the win.

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison