Roving coyotes scream and howl,
Terrorizing shrieks bounce
Above the trees and across the fields,
Shudders slither up my neck,
I imagine unwary prey ambushed
In the crisp star-studded navy night.
Soulless slayer brays and boasts,
Across networks and through the nation,
Blatant lies boldly broadcast
Treachery thwarts my rhythm,
I grieve for 200,000 innocent souls
Needlessly dead on the autumn equinox.
Earlier this summer a lone dark-gray wolf appeared in the field behind our son Reed’s house. Wolves typically function in a pack. Within the pack a distinct hierarchy exists in each gender. An alpha male and an alpha female dominate the average pack of six. Between the alpha, the strongest and wisest, and the omega, who ranks last, wolves establish order among themselves. Pups and yearlings remain subordinate for about 2-3 years when they leave to find another pack or start one of their own. During our 50 days of sequestering with Reed in Canada I have observed just how the pack phenomenon works in human families.
Number one necessity for any pack is the food. Canadian wolves prey on caribou, elk, white tail deer, and moose. Our Canadian pack simply shops at the No Frills market. Fully committed as a contributing member of this pack, I volunteer to do the grocery shopping. But I prefer to shop at Metro. The pups quickly discern the difference in brands of fudgesicles, ice cream, tomato sauce, and even bread. Complaints are aired.
Reed, the residing alpha male, shakes his head in wonder that I only purchased two packs of chicken and burger, and one bag of milk. Yes, milk comes in plastic bags that fit into small pitchers. The corner of the bag must be cut with scissors in order to pour the milk. I still work to master the perfect snip. Paul compensates for my inadequacies by stocking the garage fridge with frozen treats and root beer. He keeps a basket full of snack-sized chips. Paul rises in the hierarchy.
As the alpha, Reed takes responsibility for the pack’s meals. He does his cooking on the weekend, a protein, a starch, and roasted vegetables. After work during the week, he can heat his own meal and prepare whatever the pups prefer with little fuss or mess. At my own house I was the alpha female of the kitchen. With all good intentions I now assume weeknight cooking. It soon becomes apparent that I use four times as many implements as Reed. For one vegetable I might use a colander, a pot, a serving dish, and a storage container. If we have three or more courses, dirty pots and pans litter the countertops. Now that we are five for dinner, more dishes, flatware, and glasses fill the dishwasher. Unfamiliar leftovers jam the fridge. A phrase comes to mind: pack disruption.
The division of labor defines our new ranks in the Canadian pack. Just as he has in other summers, Paul mows the grass, hauls recycling to the dump, completes minor projects and repairs. Above all, he partners with Reed for musky fishing expeditions on the St. Lawrence. Where Paul once took the lead on tactics and tackle, Reed now dominates. Paul is the beta to Reed’s alpha. The beta, second in rank, shows commitment and loyalty to the pack, reinforcing the alpha’s decisions.
My responsibilities could be met by most teenagers. I clean up after myself, empty the dishwasher, do some laundry, play with the girls, make meals when necessary. The role of Delta wolf, third in command, might suit me. They are considered the messengers of the pack. Deltas require an even temper. They take charge of caring for the pups when the alphas and betas are busy. Most fun of all I spot the girls from the boat when they ride the tube on the river. I should accept my rank as Delta.
But my Sigma, tutor wolf, tendency emerges. I set up financial incentives to keep the girls reading over the summer. Outright bribery only works for Rayna, who values the cash. Britt, who just had a fabulously well-gifted birthday simply says no. My system only aggravates tension between the girls who both strive to be the alpha female. I feel myself sinking below Wiley, the family dog, as the Omega. Paul advises, stay in your lane.
Wolves are the top predators in their habitat. On rare occasions inter-pack conflict arises over territorial disputes Fortunately, Reed’s house is roomy. Paul and I can establish ourselves in peripheral locations. I occupy a cozy guest room that I call The Nook and Granny. Paul uses the Wink-Wink Apartment that was our initial basement quarantine space. Plus, we hang out as much as possible in the boat garage. I call it my office and have all my reading and writing supplies on hand. Around 3:00 daily Paul mixes me a vodka tonic at the fully stocked 40-Acre Shoal Bar. When the pups miss us, they come out for a snack. We use beer bottle caps to play Blackjack with Rayna. At least once a week we hold a picnic there and cook on the grill. In our boat cave we reclaim our ranks as alphas.
A wolf pack’s hierarchy promotes smooth functioning and social serenity. When members know their place, squabbles are few. Only when new members arrive does the struggle to establish rank occur. I expect plenty of families find themselves in a multigenerational home during this pandemic. Don’t become a lonely wolf. If you have been called to merge with another pack, use your strengths, find your place, and contribute to the common good.
Confinement hardly describes our 100-day shelter-in-place experience. Paul and I took regular outdoor walks. We made weekly trips to the recycling center, sometimes driving by The Korner’s take-out window for pizza. We used masks for monthly runs to Price Chopper and picked up prescriptions at Kinney Drugs drive-through. Zoom, FaceTime, and MessengerKids connected me with friends and the granddaughters. I appreciate the privilege to have had such an easy time. It was like riding a carousel, around and around, almost pleasant, but going nowhere.
In contrast, my emotions pitched high and low. Every time we neared the date for the border opening so we could reach our Canadian family, the date was pushed back. First May 21 to June 21 to July 21 to No Time Soon. Up and down, forward then backward, like a roller coaster. Reunion with American family is just as tentative. I cling to hope that I can attend my niece’s Pennsylvania wedding. My dad’s long-term-care facility remains in lockdown to keep him safe from the virus. A Findlan family fishing trip might go on without us.
I start planning 2021. The coaster clicks on the tracks ascending gradually. We will reschedule our Disney trip. I will take the train to New York City with the granddaughters. Visitors will come to our 1000 islands home. I make an itinerary for a Pennsylvania vacation. Without warning I hurl over the crest, then plummet downward. The velocity wrenches my neck. My stomach churns. Will we make it to next summer? Will I ever see my dad again? How does this end?
We get word that immediate family may enter Canada under restrictions. I head to the border. In summer, a line of 10-20 cars at customs is typical. Today I pull up behind one car and a Florida RV. Customs protocol is second nature. Windows down, sunglasses off, know my license number, hand over the passport opened to my picture. Today I wear a mask. Plus, I carry a letter providing my son’s address, phone number, and his permission to offer a place of quarantine. I have a picture of his permanent resident card on my phone, proof that he resides in Canada.
My on-line source painted a rosy picture of immediate families reuniting north of the border. Foreign nationals would be required to quarantine for 14 days. Nothing to it. But wait, that was simply the colorful façade of the funhouse. I bump through the doors where the unexpected waits to terrorize.
The scowling monster pops up first, a uniformed guard reluctant to hear my plea. I earnestly provide all the documentation. I tremble and perspire.
“Where are you going?” As if to imply his goal is to stop me.
“To my son’s in Gananoque.” Then I ramble about quarantine, how I live just a few miles away on Wellesley…
He interrupts, “Do you have your son’s birth certificate?”
“No, I don’t have that.” I am the child who is 48.5 inches tall standing against the attraction sign: You must be 49 inches to ride.
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” he demands.
“You just have to take my word for it,” I sob. My voice quavers, “We are used to crossing several times a week and I haven’t seen my granddaughters since March 18 when the border closed.” He is certainly aware of those dates. Not to offend I add, “As you know.”
Perhaps my graying hair and teary eyes soften him. He returns my passport with a printed set of instructions and issues a severe scolding over the birth certificate. I barely hear his admonishments except the part about the $750,000 fine and four-year prison sentence. I am intimidated and elated all at once. I accelerate out of the dark and into the sunshine on Canadian soil.
For thirteen days I ride the Ferris wheel. At the top of every revolution I get a glimpse of the immediate future. We will move out of the basement apartment (wink, wink) and into the main house with Reed and the granddaughters. Family activities can resume outside. Reed will take us boating and tubing on the St. Lawrence. At the bottom of every rotation I wrestle with the fact that each time we go home and return, we face a repeat of the funhouse quarantine. I cancel my trip to Holly’s wedding.
Amusement park rides have always given me motion sickness. The thrills and chills of the pandemic can hardly be characterized as amusement. But the coronavirus experience, like a bizarre Stephen King carnival, incites adrenaline rush and fear with spins, drops, acceleration, and reverse motion. My equilibrium is skewed. This requires something stronger than Dramamine.
Today marks day 75 of the shelter-in-place for us. I know that others are far more sequestered and for much longer. We have ventured out to the grocery store twice and to the drive-through pharmacy. Each of us has kept a medical appointment or visited a lab for a routine test. We are among the fortunate ones who have access to walking trails. But until we have the go-ahead to cross the Canadian Border to reunite with our son and granddaughters, we feel quarantined.
I’ve read that mood swings are normal in a situation like this. Some days I just wake up cranky. With the warmer weather I hear outboard motors on Lake-of-the-Isles. Our boat remains trapped in my son’s Canadian garage. I get ornery. Perhaps productivity could lift my spirits. Yes. Stain our decks. In normal circumstances, not my idea of entertainment. I call the local Sherwin Williams to arrange curbside pick-up. No semi-transparent base in stock. That sends me into a slump for two days. Just as quickly an unexpected call from a dear friend works like a winning scratch-off. I have the exuberance to take a walk.
One stable aspect of the confinement has been our food supply. Paul became the procurement tsar. Early March he stocked our freezer and pantry with meat and staples. To my great joy, he purchased two cases of wine and beer. Since then he’s ordered a powdered milk product as good as gold and bags of bite-sized candy bars. He opened accounts with Harry & David and Omaha Steaks. When we aren’t cooking steaks on the grill, we are roasting hot dogs over the weekly campfire. Our local orioles have never had it so good with a daily orange from Harry & David. I have used more flour and sugar for baked goods than any time in my forty-four-year marriage. For these 75 days we have relished delicious food and drink.
Paul got us a subscription to Misfits Market. Fresh produce, rejected because of its shape or size, will come to our door every two weeks. The first shipment arrived. Red-skin potatoes, green peppers, onions, and apples. For the first time I’ll cook an acorn squash. The best surprise, limes, for a vodka tonic. Oh yes, Paul had six-packs of tonic and Coke stashed in the garage as warm-weather mixers. The kale and mangos will challenge me. With Misfits Market you don’t make selections, you just take what comes and make the best of it. How apropos.
Today’s breaking news destroys all optimism. Amid the dysfunction of our country’s pandemic response, another disease that we never healed erupts. Racism. When I emerge from this cocoon I will participate in the human rights movement.
I go to my 1976 recipe box to find a restorative recipe because food really does comfort. There it is, Wacky Cake. A dear friend from my writers’ group passed away last year, but not before we had a chance to savor her recipe that calls for 6 heaping tablespoons of cocoa and a double-chocolate coffee frosting. A scratch cake, which I have never made. But I’m taking cues from the current situation. Now is the time to start from scratch and make something good.
Who can argue that we are learning difficult lessons in this pandemic? I’ve always been an advocate for word consciousness, so the vocabulary lesson interests me. What we have learned in just two months’ time is astounding.
Consider this. Mastery of a new word takes more than a dozen meaningful repetitions. Children learn basic words through family and social interactions. More advanced vocabulary develops as children enter school and become active learners. The most difficult words to master and comprehend are those that come from sophisticated technical fields. Technical words that are content specific comprise the highest tier of word knowledge.
Yet, I think you’ll agree that many of us have acquired vocabulary in the fields of immunology, economics, and statistics. Just for the fun of it I decided to alphabetize technical vocabulary that has become quite familiar. For you educators, I’m sure you’ll recognize this as our unit word wall. Sure, some basic words I’ve known since childhood, but now they convey multiple new meanings.
A antibody, apex
B briefing
C cases, coordinate, correlate, curve
D data, deaths, distancing
E essential, epidemic
F facemasks, first-responders, flatten, furlough
G global, guidelines
H hoard, hospital beds, hotspots, hydroxychloroquine, hygiene
I immunity, infections, intubate, isolate
J
K key model
L labor-force, lock-down, loans
M mask
N n-95, new-normal, non-essential, novel
O open, outbreak
P pandemic, PPE, PPP, projection, protocol
Q quarantine
R rate, reagent, recovery, remdesivir, resources
S science, shelter, social-distance, spread, stimulus, supply-chain, surveillance, symptoms
T taskforce, telehealth, testing, tracing, trials
U unite, unemployment
V vaccine, ventilator, virus, vulnerable
W wave, W.H.O., workforce
X Xi Jinping
Y
Z zoom
Effective teachers design multiple opportunities for learners to interact with words. Dr. Anthony Fauci, Dr. Deborah Birx, Dr. Sanjay Gupta, and Governor Andrew Cuomo have proven to be masters at vocabulary instruction. It’s clear that when we have numerous exposures to a word that conveys a vital message, we learn that word.
Occasionally a certain catchword comes to my attention. When it does, I hear it everywhere I go and on everything I watch. A while back the word legacy dominated discussion following the retirements of renown sports figures. Lots of speculation occurred as to what impact an individual would have on those who followed. Automobile manufacturers often utilize the trendy terms, as Subaru did naming one of its models, the one I bought, Legacy.
Next, the oft-repeated word was innovation. Hard to believe that just a few years ago we valued innovation and its companions, ingenuity and invention. President Obama referenced innovation throughout his presidency. Innovation soon faded.
We entered a phase in which we couldn’t abide by anything average. Conversations and discussions only revolved around events described as epic. Successful individuals in their respective fields became icons. Eventually, catchwords lose their effect and fall back into the vocabulary pool. My word alert went into hibernation mode for a long time.
In February my sensors started to flash when the word momentum took over television. Starting with the Super Bowl I zeroed in on the word momentum. In talk of the National Basketball Association, on one ESPN show or another, momentum would be a factor in the discussion regarding playoff teams. Simultaneously, the country began to hold Democratic Primary Caucuses and Elections. I listened to quite a few political pundits and the word that crept up over and over was momentum. I watched as presidential candidate Vice President Joe Biden rode the wave of momentum.
I considered how I could use the physics of momentum in my life. I looked up the term and the definition that fit my need stated: Momentum refers to the impetus and driving force gained by the development of a process or course of events. I considered how I might energize a driving force to achieve my goals and become my best self. I would set aside time, I would prioritize my tasks, and I would focus.
I am aware of the almost inevitable circumstance, a shift in momentum. I have witnessed that shift in sports, in life, and in personal pursuits; the sudden reversal of fortune, when all the uncontrollable factors that work in one’s favor suddenly sway to the opponent. Momentum, then, is also measured in proportion to the force that can bring it to a halt. Momentum is the property of a moving body which determines the length of time required to bring it to rest when under the action of a constant force. In one month the deadly Covid-19 became the constant force, powerful enough to halt all forward progress of everything around the world. We have a seismic momentum shift.
Our governor has put our state on pause. What we now have is a moment of undetermined length. The moment belongs to each of us; in whatever way we are called to fill it. We fortunate ones follow stay-at-home directives or shelter-in-place in order to prevent spread of the highly infectious virus. Lonely and isolated from our loved ones, we accept the belief that our good health might reserve a bed or respirator for another.
Essential individuals continue to work, keeping all systems functioning, providing services and supplies. For those whose work has been halted, this is a distressing moment of financial hardship. What an agonizing moment this must be for the impoverished, those in abusive situations, and for women or men whose lifelines have dissolved while agencies meet critical needs related to the virus.
This is the moment Mr. Roger’s helpers rise to the occasion, neighbors who deliver meals, sew protective masks out of fabric scraps, or run errands for those who are house bound. This moment teaches patience and perseverance. Those whose work is caring for the sick have shifted into crisis response. They sacrifice their own health for the lives of their patients. Military terms suit this unprecedented catastrophe. Horrific casualties occur. This moment reveals the character of leaders. Heroes emerge.
In time forward motion will resume. We’ll reunite with our loved ones, attend weddings, rejoice in births, and sadly mourn deaths. Life will sweep us along. This moment of pause will be preserved in documentaries and individual accounts of courage. Praise and blame will be assigned with much inaccuracy.
In the meantime, it’s our duty to get the best value we can from this unexpected pause. Even if all we do is utilize the moment to know ourselves and cherish the unexpected gift of time. Let’s maximize this moment with the driving force of positive energy. When life accelerates once again, the momentum will be epic
I knew this was coming. Dire signs on wire posts rose above the snow along a commercial stretch of highway: The End of Windows 7. When my reliable laptop, Windows 7 version, failed me in 2016 during a writers’ event, I should have acted. The battery refused charging. I’ve relied on the power cord since then. Last month the warning popped up on my start-up screen: Support for your Windows 7 PC has come to an end. No security updates. No software updates. No tech support. Last week Staples Office Supply joined the alert: We will no long support Windows 7. Time was up.
It felt like a betrayal to use my beloved laptop to browse new computers. I clicked on HP models, at least I wouldn’t change brands. A sky-blue notebook recommended for home use caught my eye. It comes with a one-year subscription to Office 360. What? I never needed a subscription before. Things have changed. This model, called a Stream, is driven by an Intel Celeron processor. Those are the only specs I needed since the novel I plan to write takes place on a stream and Celeron happens to be a main character. I click Buy.
In the 80s we bought our first computer, an Apple IIe. Since then I’ve navigated Apples, Macs and PCs in the classroom and at home. But nowadays, aside from e-mail and online shopping, my computer serves as my typewriter. Thanks to Miss Cardamone’s typing class I’m adept on the keyboard. Still, I’m an immigrant to technology. Changing anything in settings is beyond my wheelhouse. I’ve always ignored instructions to download, upload, run, or install. How in the world will I transfer fourteen years of data from my old device to the new? I grew anxious.
Once the computer arrived, I let it sit in the box for two weeks before I opened it. I dreaded the learning curve. My new Stream is sleek and attractive, colorful and sexy. It responds quickly and balances lightly on my lap. It supports all the latest crazes in gaming, social media, and entertainment, applications I’ll never utilize. For me it’s a make-over. I feel trendy. I arrow and click my way to a blank document on Word. I bravely start writing a scene for my novel. A few applications have changed but I’ll catch on.
I felt melancholy about the old HP. It’s more like me, past its prime, slow to process, prone to aches and pains, yet fondly familiar. It holds pictures, essays, and poems that preserve a slice of my history, pieces that helped me make sense of life. I need those files for continuity. I’m told to transfer all the data with a wormhole connector. Both computers refuse to cooperate. Exasperated, I overreact. Near tears, I panic that my stories and pictures won’t be saved before Windows 7 disintegrates.
Here’s the real problem. My operating system, Cinda version 67, will soon be archaic. I haven’t quite figured out my own story. Gaps in my past must be filled before time runs out. To fully understand ourselves, we must understand our personal journey. Now, it’s my responsibility to pass on the wisdom and family history to my descendants. My stories might enlighten their journeys. Am I prepared? How much time do I have?
A week later I took both computers to Tech Tuesday at a local library. An expert helped me move documents and pictures to the new Stream. Plus, he assured me I could still download Windows 7 onto the old HP and install a new battery. My old computer will continue to function, as will I. It’s not the end of anything. I will become a wormhole, a link between generations.
“Sharing lives and stories is the essence of existence. It’s what makes life meaningful. It’s what connects us. It’s how we learn from one another,” (David A. Kendall, from his book When Descendants Become Ancestors, 2014).
January’s blog must be written today, the final day of the month. Deadlines motivate me. But my inclination to delay, detract, and stall is just as strong. That means I go to the fitness center first. Then I come home and make lunch. After that I am compelled to put on a load of wash. The fresh flowers in the vase must be trimmed and given fresh water. You can see why I chose “focus” as my word to live by in 2020.
Yesterday was a boon for avoidance. We arrived home following an overnight with the grand girls when a power outage occurred. I optimized the situation to avoid all the projects I am currently committed to. I could not paint because I had no way to heat the art studio. Writing was out because my thirteen-year-old computer has a dead battery and must always be connected to an electric power source. All nonsense. Instead I worked on the jigsaw puzzle. Here’s the most ludicrous…I sorted through the cards and clippings in my recipe box and discarded anything I had never made. I’ve been collecting recipes in that box since 1976 and never once sorted through them.
My next personal challenge still waits: publishing a book. I’ve already had five years retired from my former career. For the first two years I employed a stunning series of major detractors: selling a house, relocating, getting established, and enjoying family. Next, I played a huge avoidance card. Instead of writing an actual book, I started a blog. I committed to it every week for a year. Major writing challenge averted. Still blogging and claiming elder parent issues I have procrastinated another year.
The Heart of Winter Art Show is one week away. I intended to have a winter-themed painting ready, but just did the preliminary sketch last week. As expected I diverted my attention to the books to be discussed at book club. Predictably, in the same time frame I felt the urge to research for the manuscript. All while I simultaneously searched for a January blog topic. Somehow in the muddle I did write a poem for the art show just to forestall painting. I clearly recognize my weaknesses: avoid, divert, sidetrack. Why can’t I focus?
To avoid painting, I write. Or I paint to avoid writing. Reading preempts a number of tasks, primarily cleaning and cooking. If I’m frustrated with all of those, I prioritize time at the fitness center. Any combination of goal and detractor works. The cycle continues until at some point I cross an intersection when multiple projects come to completion. I’m just not always sure which success will happen and when.
Here’s another observation. The more inspired the goals, the more challenging the diversions I create. My greatest personal aspiration to date was to earn a doctorate degree. When I reached the most difficult stage, the research and dissertation, I elected to train for a 5K race. At fifty-years old I committed for the first time in my life to compete in an athletic event when I had the least amount of time. I never ran the race, but I did defend my dissertation. Some kind of strange physics occurs when I play the avoidance game.
The psychology of my behavior hasn’t crystallized. Perhaps I feel inadequate to my goals or have a fear of failure. For me every endeavor requires a contender, an equally inspired challenger. Each ambition propels the other to completion. I’ve always agreed with the adage that our greatest weakness can be our greatest strength. Maybe I have found my super power. Alternate evasion propels me. I’m an evador.
Last Saturday, the Lunar New Year, I made a firm resolve to focus on writing. Strangely, I’ve also felt an impulse to prepare for this summer’s Tibbetts Point race. Maybe something big is on the horizon or maybe I’ll try that scone recipe I found.
I’ve been reminded this month that if we are fortunate, day-to-day events follow a trajectory of highs and lows, moderate ascents and descents that we navigate with pleasure or annoyance accordingly. That’s how my December transpired. Good news and bad news.
Bad news. My dad had a fall and landed back in the hospital, followed by a stint in long-term care. We were warned once again that he can’t go home alone. This time we accepted that fact, but had no plan in place.
Good news. A local personal-care facility had one bed available exactly when we needed it for dad. It’s a homey place where he has independence. The coffee pot is on all day and three meals are served in a cheery dining room.
Bad news. We must now empty his apartment that remained furnished with all my parents’ antiques and collectibles, none of which had been touched since my mom’s death six years ago.
Good news. Every one of the grandchildren shows interest in taking the vintage furniture. Plus, a local antique dealer will take all the collectibles to an early January auction.
Good news. My dad settled in his new residence in time for Tami and me to enjoy our sister-getaway to Waverly, New York.
Bad news. Tami, who traveled to Waverly with sister-Kim and my niece Stevie, had a flat tire after dark near Olean, N. Y.
Good news. The local Walmart stayed open just to fix the tire. I arrived at the B & B earlier and met my other niece, Holly. We sipped wine and had a great one-on-one visit in front of the fire.
Good news. The holidays arrived with moderate temperatures. Tami arranged for dad to attend numerous holiday events.
Bad news. My dad wants to know when he’ll be well enough to return to his apartment.
Good news. Paul and I spent a fun Christmas with Reed and his daughters in Canada.
Bad news. Freezing rain halted our travel back to the U. S. from Reed’s house.
Good news. We stayed over and spent extra time with the grand girls.
Bad news. When we headed home the wait at the border lasted forever.
Good news. I studied our passports and found meaningful quotations recorded there.
Bad news. The ice caused a power outage.
Good news. The wait at the border delayed us long enough that the power was restored when we arrived home.
As adults we learn to deal with disappointment, solve problems, and take comfort when unexpected good fortune arrives. Analytics might reveal a median rendering of events and emotions. Highs and lows averaged as expected life experience.
I observe that some individuals traverse a course above the median, always appearing to thrive and enjoy thrill after thrill. Others I know appear to tread below the norm, facing more than their deserved share of struggles. Whether each life realizes a fair balance I cannot know.
As long as life’s graph peaks and dips within sensible parameters, people cope. What I can’t figure out is what happens when the life-line goes haywire, plunges to extreme depths, and people experience devastating loss. That has been the case for many. What long stretch of blessed events, good news, or future joy can ever bring a life back into balance?
I hope such sacrifice establishes a debt of joy owed these individuals beyond anything imagined. And that they might claim their happiness in due time rendering their expected life experience balanced at last.
PowerAgers 