I have
been boldly saying that though I find much inconvenient about this quarantine,
one saving grace is that I am not particularly fearful. I think it’s because I
feel so isolated and secure in my cottage-cocoon. But recently some dreams have
made me aware that of while I am not consciously fearful, my subconscious is.
The other night I dreamt that a cataclysmic event had shifted the earth off its
course, and we all lived in terror of the consequences. Then I realized that we
had only lost a few minutes and life was going on as usual. When I woke, I
still thought that was true and had to convince myself that it was only a dream.
I’m not a sci-fi fan, so I have no idea where that came from.
More
realistically, I have twice dreamed that I was at a concert and someone coughed
on me. Note: I have never been to a concert (except the symphonic kind) in my
life, never to one of a major artist, though I have longed to see Joan Baez and
Neil Diamond in person (that dates me). But one night, Christian, Jordan, and I
were at a concert; another I was with my parents, and there was a great fuss
about getting me a handicapped seat—another note: I was never on a walker until
years and years after I lost my parents. Each time I had to convince myself it
was a dream, not reality.
I
talked with a friend the other day about this. She, some five years younger
than I, said she’s had a good life and isn’t afraid of dying. I wouldn’t say I’m
afraid, but I am not anticipating it with the joy of some. I know people who
think they are going to find streets paved with gold, but that’s not my vision.
My main thought is, fear aside, I don’t want to die. I like my life. I want to
enjoy my family, see my grandchildren grow and develop. I have things to write,
dishes to cook. I still have lots to do, and I’m hopeful that I’m contributing
a bit to the world. But the final thing I said to friend Jean is that I do not
want to die of COVID-19 because it is a miserable death.
On a
much cheerier note, I’ve been reading Minding the Store, by Stanley
Marcus. Probably should have read it years ago. I began it on a hunt for
mention of Helen Corbitt, but I ended reading it for itself. Marcus was a bit
of a formal writer, but he was also an accomplished storyteller, and he had anecdote
after anecdote about retail life. It was a great glimpse into a world that was
unfamiliar to me.
But
the part that most interested me was his account of the political atmosphere in
Dallas in the early Sixties, culminating tragically in the assassination of
John F. Kennedy. Marcus later said he had warned JFK against the trip to
Dallas, fearing he would be humiliated; he never thought he would be
assassinated. Marcus was an outspoken and courageous liberal who nonetheless managed
to be a civic leader in a highly conservative city. I was appalled at the
narrow vision of some in the city, including the city’s leading newspaper, and
impressed by Stanley Marcus, his insight, and his courage. There are so many
parallels to today’s political world, lessons I hope we all learn about
cooperation and working together. Not happening yet.
Outside
my window these days I see ornamental grasses. When the wind blows, they wave
and move like dancers in diaphanous gowns. I am fascinated by watching them.
Sometimes, when I am at my computer, I catch that movement out of the corner of
my eye and think someone is headed to the cottage. Sometime soon, pentas will
be planted along the front of the deck, covering up a bare stretch. Can’t wait
to have a flowering summer yard.
Today
was another chilly, drab day. Supposed to be eighty by Sunday, but then cooler
again with rain a possibility, sometimes slim, for the next few days. I could
feel the effect of the falling barometer on my disposition today and had to
work hard to overcome it.
How
about you? Does the weather affect your mood?
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