Thoughts on masking--and nonchalance

My pity party is over. I’m thankful that such episodes generally don’t last long with me. Today I’ve been much more upbeat and busied myself with some household chores like laundry, getting rid of stuff for the party that wasn’t, etc. Jordan and I have sort of perfected our delivery system, which means a lot of trips between houses for her. Today we exchanged laundry, and I packed up the wine caddies and things for the party—emptied a wine box that was perfect for that—and set it outside.

Tonight I made an experimental dinner, took out a portion for myself, and put the rest on the doorstep for Jordan to take inside. It was inside one of my treasured Corning Ware casseroles—and when I set it down, even with the stool for help, the lid bounced off. I watched in horror as it crashed to the cement driveway, but miraculously it did not break. (More on the dinner in tomorrow’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog.)

I may be over self-pity today, but I have a healthy dose of anger, indignation, whatever. I vowed this year to be kinder, to think of the other person’s viewpoint, not to leap to conclusions, and—this is a weakness of mine—not to assume that I am right and the other person’s opinion has no validity. But then, today, I read an essay from The Atlantic, titled “Where I Live No One Cares About Covid.” The writer, editor for a Catholic literary journal and a contributor to The American Conservative, lives in rural southwestern Michigan, an area I knew well as a child. I suppose now it is extremely conservative—Michigan is such a teetering state with a liberal governor who is always under attack.

This writer seemed to think that concern over Covid was strictly an urban matter. In rural areas like his, he claimed, people go about their business as if it’s over. His children have continued to go to day care, unmasked, and to see extended family every weekend. The only time he has seen masks is when he went to D.C. and was astounded. Frantic concern over Covid, he writes, is a folly that urban elites are imposing on others. He believes sooner or later they will realize their folly

Part of my indignation was that he seems to nonchalantly overlook the deaths of nearly a million of our citizens (we are truly moving up close to that number), let alone the long-term effects of those who survive. We have the long-haulers, and we don’t even know what complications will arise in survivors thirty or forty years from now. I think of chicken pox, which I had at the age of six or seven (no, I won’t say how long ago, but you can guess—it was a long, long time). Last year I had a case of shingles, because that chicken pox virus hiding in my body all these years decided to make itself known. Similarly, polio survivors are having complications—muscle weakness, joint degeneration, etc.—some sixty or more years later. Who knows what Covid will do?

More than that, the writer seems to dismiss the anxiety many of us feel as bureaucracy instigated. He apparently doesn’t believe the CDC. He is not worried that he does not know one person who has had a booster (data has suggested that the booster makes the difference with the omicron variant), the controversy over masks is silly. And this, apparently, is an educated man with some intelligence. Although he writes for a conservative publication, I found nothing in his essay to indicate that his stance is politically motivated. So I am at a loss to understand it.

Meantime, tonight a friend in an assisted living facility says that today they are near lockdown. She can come out, but restrictions are severe. There is no communal dining; she must wear a mask at all times, until she is in her own apartment; no guests are allowed. Our county has high statistics of cases, though as is the case elsewhere with the omicron variant, deaths are not as high as with the original or delta strains.

I am angry that there are people in our country, even our world, who take this so lightly, ignoring the tragedy it has brought to so many families. Masks are not major protection, but they do help. I saw a chart recently that said if two people both have KN96 masks, it takes two and a half hours for the virus to transmit; if they are not masked, it’s something like ten seconds.

Me? I’m going to isolate and mask and wish the rest of the world did. If they don’t—and I truly mean this globally—we’ll never eradicate the virus or even tame it.

Stay safe, everyone.

Women and aging, and the mundane world

 

Sophie on her firs day with us--ten years ago.
Yep, both of us have aged since then.

Sometimes I’m a little slow about making connections, but an online review this morning caught my attention and gave me an “Aha!” moment. Stephanie Raffelock, a relative newcomer to a small online writers’ group which nourishes me, had a virtual launch of her new book last night. In reading a review this morning, I realized that Stephanie is also the author of A Delightful Little Book on Aging, which I heard a lot about last year. The premise is that older women are flourishing in entertainment, business and politics. Many of us--me for sure—feel that at heart we are still twenty. Okay, maybe thirty is my imaginary age, but of course I’m fifty years beyond that, and the physical effects of aging do show. But I am grateful to still have my mind and my spirit. Essentially, Stephanie used stories and essays to encourage women to celebrate every day and welcome aging. “Growing old,” she writes, “is a privilege.” She surely speaks for me in that.

But now to her new book, Creatrix Rising: Unlocking the Power of Midlife Women. Stephanie claims that women throughout history women have had three phases in life: maiden, mother, crone, the latter being an unflattering term which to me calls forth visions of the three witches from MacBeth, standing over their cauldron. But in the eighties, a new movement began which encouraged women to embrace the term crone. Some women even go through croning ceremonies, where they are formally welcomed into a group in a ritual that is sometimes solemn, sometimes light-hearted. But croning emphasizes that as women age, they develop wisdom, compassion, healing laughter, and even bawdiness. I don’t know about you, but I feel a lot wiser than I did at thirty. I won’t comment on bawdy, though my son criticized a word I used recently.

In her new book, Stephanie once again uses stories, essays, and personal experience to trace the way women have found their voice and their power in last fifty years. She proposes that a new archetype is emerging: the Creatrix, women who may well fulfill the prophecy of the Dalai Lama that women will save the world. I was reminded of the ancient Chinese saying that women hold up half the sky. These days I think we may have the larger half.

Both of Raffelock’s books are on my TBR list. Meanwhile back in the mundane world, it was a day of household chores, lightened by a visit from my Canadian daughter and her husband. (I’m waiting for cool weather to cook him stuffed eggplant—just sounds too heavy right now but he’s one of the few people I know who shares my love of eggplant.) This morning I made egg salad, put away the laundry that had been sitting on my bureau for two days, sorted recipes, ordered groceries, and tried endlessly to degrease the meatloaf pan that had lamb in it. My final recommendation was that it needs to go in the dishwasher. Tomorrow will be much the same, since I have promised to pickle a new batch of cucumbers and onions—no one but me eats the onions, and I want to holler at them that I deliberately use sweet onions, and once they absorb the vinegar seasoning, they are every bit as good as the cucumber. And then I am making dinner—one of those recipes I salvaged from my years of cooking for kids, this one involving chicken strips, tomatoes, and lime juice.

Sue emailed this morning to ask if I am receiving guests—she knows that I’m careful about covid exposure, but I assured her I would look forward to a visit. In truth, I had been thinking that maybe they had voted me off the island. Christian joined us, though Jordan was at a PTA meeting, and we had a good visit. It sure seems we all know a lot of people in a world of hurt in right now. Feeling blessed again.

Christian used his air fryer to make fish and chips tonight—delicious. I bought some malt vinegar, and he made a comparison I hadn’t thought of—Long John Silver’s. I had wondered if he’d use malt vinegar, but he said that was fine—and then when he mentioned the chain restaurant, I thought, “Of course!” We had one in the neighborhood when my kids were in high school—they used to eat the crispies—but it’s long gone. Now we know we can do it at home—with a lot less grease.

A good day. I’m ready to curl up with a book.

Of laundry and motherhood

Happy mom with her four children

I am growing weary of hearing about Amy Coney Barrett’s seven children. Some days I really wonder if she is being considered for Mother of the Year instead of a seat on the highest court of the land. In fact, I wonder if she’s such a dedicated mother how she will have time for the judiciary

Today I heard that a senator even asked her who does the laundry at her house. Are we kidding? And do we care? Truth we all know is that she has hired help to do the laundry, in spite of her proper reply that she encourages the children to each take responsibility. Can you imagine seven children fighting over whose turn it is to have the washing machine?

When my four (see I can understand her a bit—she just outdid me!) were young, they were on a kid’s TV program called “Hobab” which, so they told me, meant helper. The moderator asked each in turn what they did to help their mommy at home, and my little angels reported that they made their beds and picked up their clothes and did any number of other household chores.

Until the moderator came to Jordan, the youngest and then maybe four or five. She looked at her siblings with amazement and said, “The maid does all those things.” Then asked about the role of policemen, she brilliantly said, “Policemen are your friends. And if you don’t have a Cadillac, they will help you get one.” We have not let her forget those answers to this day, though she has had some hard lessons on who does the laundry and makes the beds and washes the dishes. And she now knows that policemen won’t get you a Lexus (today’s version of the Cadillac).

Last night a friend was telling about a woman who complained that she could barely raise one child, while my friend and neighbor made raising four look so easy. As the mother of four, I had the quick answer to that one: “Tell her that raising four is always easier—they entertain each other.” I didn’t add that with four you don’t have the time or energy to helicopter over one.

I have never forgotten the time a nursery school mother called me to ask if my oldest daughter was free a week from Thursday. I’m sure I gulped. Who in the heck knew? I wasn’t sure what the child was doing in the next ten minutes, and I surely did not keep a social calendar for her. When that same child was ready for pre-school—oh so ready!—she wasn’t eligible for the TCU pre-school where her brother went because of the way her birthday fell. So I visited countless pre-schools. What I found was that many of them specialized in pandemonium. I ruled those out right away—she had that at home, and I sure didn’t need to pay tuition for her to get that at school.

My four kids, the product of a rowdy, happy, childhood, have been known to say to me that they couldn’t handle more than two children. I look at them in amazement, but then each married people who were from two-children families. Is this some kind of conspiracy against big families? Those who married into our family are generally, I think and hope, delighted with our frequent (until pandemic and quarantine) family get-togethers. But occasionally I see one or the other off in a corner with a look on his or her face that clearly says, “How did I get into this situation?”

The other line from my kids which used to crack me up when the grandchildren were little was, “Mom, you just don’t understand how hard it is.” Oh, really? That’s when my thought that four is easier than one or two came roaring back.

Politics aside, I admire Barrett if she is truly that dedicated a mother. Two of her children are multi-racial and adopted (do I have that number right?) and the media seems to invoke sainthood for that. My four children are all adopted, a fact long since put in the past and never talked about because we are a family, a tight, close-knit loving family. And one child is multi-racial or whatever, although as his wife once said to me, “He doesn’t really believe that.”

I am the loving mom of four loving children, and I believe anyone can fill that role. Nope, Judge Barrett, I don’t give you any special chops for having seven children. And, seriously, I don’t think you’re the Mother of the Year.

Overcoming Inertia

 

Once I told a colleague that I usually got food for the cat while swishing mouthwash around in my mouth because who wants to just stand there for sixty seconds. She howled with laughter. “You of all people would not want to waste sixty seconds.” And that’s been the pattern of my life—maybe a little shy of OCD but not much. I’ve always kept busy.

Lately I’ve been troubled by a lack of energy, an unwillingness to do simple chores around the house, though I’m perfectly content to follow odd leads, read long e-mails, etc. at my computer. Is it the much-dreaded computer addiction? Is inertia a sign of aging? What happened to my ambition? It’s been worse, of course, since my swollen foot. I’ve written enough about that to last a lifetime, but I will say it’s better today—not perfect, but I’m wearing shoes and making a conscious effort to walk normally.

This morning I decided my project would be to dig in to the reader’s “points to ponder” in “Murder at Peacock Mansion”—they were all valid points that added depth to the manuscript, like a reference to Miss Havisham or the subtle difference between using “handgun” and “pistol.” Ten minutes later I’d taken care of all of them, so I decided I would read through the manuscript one more time before sending it to the editor.

About noon, while I ate lunch, I took a break and turned to the novel I’m currently reading. Didn’t take me long to decide my own manuscript was more interesting—is that ego or what?—and go back to editing. It’s amazing what you find even though you’ve read the darn thing countless times. Today I found a woman had two children on one page, one a bit later, and then four. Now she only has one—a spoiled diva of a young woman. I found on my own places where I could add a little depth of character, a little more sense of place—and I was having fun doing it.

Tonight I’m through—my mysteries are fairly short—and pleased with the result. One place I need to go back and tweet and then it goes to the editor. So maybe I’m past inertia. I also did two loads of laundry, tried on a new shirt I’d ordered and decided to keep it (it lay on the bedroom chair for several days), and managed to keep up with the kitchen—not hard when I’m home alone all day and a friend brings supper. But I’m going to keep working on this inertia thing—there are always little things to be done: the dishwasher should be run—it smells musty which may signal the end of my not using the hot-dry cycle; there’s a blue canvas bag on the dining room floor that belongs to a friend but needs to be safely stored for her; a few clean clothes to hang in my closet. Little stuff like that I once would never have overlooked and now I do. I have decided to tackle a bit of it each day.

Sweet dreams, friends.

 

 

 

 

 

Overcoming inertia

 Once I told a colleague that I usually got food for the cat while swishing mouthwash around in my mouth because who wants to just stand there for sixty seconds. She howled with laughter. “You of all people would not want to waste sixty seconds.” And that’s been the pattern of my life—maybe a little shy of OCD but not much. I’ve always kept busy.
Lately I’ve been troubled by a lack of energy, an unwillingness to do simple chores around the house, though I’m perfectly content to follow odd leads, read long e-mails, etc. at my computer. Is it the much-dreaded computer addiction? Is inertia a sign of aging? What happened to my ambition? It’s been worse, of course, since my swollen foot. I’ve written enough about that to last a lifetime, but I will say it’s better today—not perfect, but I’m wearing shoes and making a conscious effort to walk normally.
This morning I decided my project would be to dig in to the reader’s “points to ponder” in “Murder at Peacock Mansion”—they were all valid points that added depth to the manuscript, like a reference to Miss Havisham or the subtle difference between using “handgun” and “pistol.” Ten minutes later I’d taken care of all of them, so I decided I would read through the manuscript one more time before sending it to the editor.
About noon, while I ate lunch, I took a break and turned to the novel I’m currently reading. Didn’t take me long to decide my own manuscript was more interesting—is that ego or what?—and go back to editing. It’s amazing what you find even though you’ve read the darn thing countless times. Today I found a woman had two children on one page, one a bit later, and then four. Now she only has one—a spoiled diva of a young woman. I found on my own places where I could add a little depth of character, a little more sense of place—and I was having fun doing it.
Tonight I’m through—my mysteries are fairly short—and pleased with the result. One place I need to go back and tweak and then it goes to the editor. So maybe I’m past inertia. I also did two loads of laundry, tried on a new shirt I’d ordered and decided to keep it (it lay on the bedroom chair for several days), and managed to keep up with the kitchen—not hard when I’m home alone all day and a friend brings supper. But I’m going to keep working on this inertia thing—there are always little things to be done: the dishwasher should be run—it smells musty which may signal the end of my not using the hot-dry cycle; there’s a blue canvas bag on the dining room floor that belongs to a friend but needs to be safely stored for her; a few clean clothes to hang in my closet. Little stuff like that I once would never have overlooked and now I do. I have decided to tackle a bit of it each day.
Sweet dreams, friends.