Growing up—and bored—in the time of quarantine

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These pictures were on Facebook, with lots of comments about the difference a year makes, so it seems redundant for me to say that. Except to say Jacob also now has a deep voice—and a new mullet haircut that he really likes. For an only child, he’s been remarkably understanding about the quarantine. We got past “It’s annoying” rather quickly, and now he seems to grasp the importance, and he follows the rules. He and his parents have been playing card games late at night, going for walks and drives, and I truly think this has brought them closer together than if he had gone about the normal business of being a teenager. And I have to add that of the two pictures, I think Christian looks better in the new one—he’s lost a bit of weight, his color is better.

That said, I know nothing else to say about the day. I wondered this morning—and still do wonder—why if you’re self-isolating and self-employed Saturday seems any different than any other day. And yet it does. I woke with no ambition this morning, and it was almost noon before I got myself together to do much except piddle. I did finally buckle down and work on a newsletter to my fans—you know, all three of them—and was overwhelmed by how much work it took to pull it all together. What I have so far, late at night, is the roughest draft I’ve ever seen.

It’s that Puritan work ethic again—I think I should write and accomplish and achieve every day. That I don’t have to do that is a lesson I’m trying to learn from the pandemic. But it nags at me that I did not write word one on the new mystery today. Maybe the Lord or the fates or whoever is telling me I don’t quite have the next plot step in my mind, and I need to think more about it. I confess I do some of my best creative thinking in bed when I’m dozing—half awake, half asleep. The subconscious is a marvel not to be underestimated.

The Burton family is out tonight—dinner on the lawn with friends. Jordan assures me they will all stay six feet apart. So I fixed myself a good solitary supper—beans on toast and spinach. The beans were canned pintos left from the night we had taco salad—I didn’t do them quite right. I should have softened some butter to spread a thick layer on the rye toast. I thought sautéing the beans, with celery, onion, and garlic, would be enough, but that mixture soaked up all the butter and there wasn’t enough to soften the toast. Still the beans were delicious. The spinach—straight out of the can with a little salt and butter—was as good as always. It’s a throwback to my childhood, when my best friend and I waited for my folks to go out to dinner so we could split a can of Spaghetti-O’s and one of spinach.

Once, my parents took us on Dad’s business trip to Kalamazoo, Michigan (yeah, we hit all the high spots). Mom took my friend Eleanor and me to lunch in the hotel cafeteria, but she noticed Eleanor wasn’t eating her spinach. Knowing how much she liked it, Mom asked what was wrong. “I think it’s fresh,” Eleanor whispered.

I look back on those days with fondness. I had a good childhood, but I am not necessarily of the school that thinks kids today should be raised as we were so long ago. It’s a different world, with different opportunities and challenges. The thing I find most encouraging today is that young people, like my grandchildren, are listened to. They have more of a voice in family affairs and in their own lives. I don’t think we are necessarily setting a good example for them, but perhaps they will learn—especially from the pandemic.

But none of my kids or grandkids will eat canned spinach. Oh, well.