All You Need Is Sgt. Love

The news this morning included yet another video of police brutality. There's no point in me detailing it for you. You've probably seen it. Or maybe you're still comfortable under that rock. And I'm not going to rag on law enforcement. I have a beloved nephew who served for decades as a state trooper. You must know good cops, too. But this latest incident caused me to reflect upon an encounter I had with law enforcement many years ago.

It was the spring of 1983, nearly four decades ago. I was at a crossroads in my life, eager to put my fear and sadness aside and embrace the possibility of some kind of renewal. I'd just begun a low-residency graduate writing program in Vermont. I'd also begun dating the man who would, a year and a half later, become my husband and father of my three children. (Of course, I didn't know that at the time.) Thanks to the generosity of the Superintendent of Schools where I'd been teaching for ten years (and at his suggestion), I took a half-year sabbatical and decided to spend it driving cross-country, writing my poetry along the way. I packed up my 1979 Plymouth Horizon, said so long to the man I was falling in love with, and headed west. I'd planned my route based on the locations of friends and relatives I could visit along the way. Consequently, out of the two months I was on the road, I only stayed in a motel three times.

On day one, I drove across the state of Pennsylvania, crossed into Ohio, and spent a couple of days with my college roommate in Massillon. Her husband gave me a road atlas, which came in helpful. (I only had a notebook with addresses and handwritten directions. GPS? Not in 1983! Cell phone? Nope. Just me and my bad sense of direction.) My next stop was Chicago, where I stayed with a friend of a friend. Marsha had adorable twin boys, with whom I fell in love. But during the day, I was on my own to explore the Windy City, visiting the Art Institute, checking out Frank Lloyd Wright buildings, and having lunch at the top of the Sears Tower, then the tallest building in the country. (I recall having to stop to buy a pair of comfortable shoes, as my fashionable high-heeled boots were killing me. I've never traveled without comfortable footwear since.)

After a couple of days, I said goodbye to those sweet little boys and headed out of town. And that's when it happened.

Dismas Bonner was a Franciscan priest and a bad driver. He side-swiped me (his fault), damaging my Plymouth to the point where it would not be safe for me to drive it. He seemed embarrassed when we spoke, but admitted no fault. Sgt. William Love of the Chicago Police Department arrived on the scene, assessed the situation, and announced that neither of us would be ticketed for the accident. Having to choose between a priest and a 33-year-old school teacher in high-heeled boots must have been a head-scratcher for Sgt. Love. Dismas, whose car suffered only a few scratches, drove off, leaving me and Sgt. Love to figure out my next move. Would it surprise you to learn that I broke down in tears? I told Sgt. Love about my planned road trip, deciding that it wasn't meant to be, and I would be heading back to New Jersey.

And this is the part that I will never forget. Speaking slowly and thoughtfully, Sgt. Love suggested that I might regret giving up this dream, and in his opinion, I should continue on. I wasn't immediately convinced, but considered his advice. And then Sgt. Love told me to follow him. He took me to a repair shop owned by a friend of his where he arranged for enough repairs to be done to make the car safe to drive. And then Sgt. Love drove me back to the home where I'd been staying. The boys were happy to see me again.

The next day, Sgt. Love picked me up and took me to the repair shop where my car was waiting. I told him I would be continuing my journey and thanked him for his help and advice. And then I was on my way. It wasn't until I was driving through Normal, Illinois, that I felt that I was making the right decision. Oklahoma City, here I come!

During those two months, I spent time in Dallas, El Paso, San Antonio (with a day trip to Nueva Laredo, Mexico), Tucson, San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Salt Lake City, Boulder, and Charlottesville. There's a story for each of those visits, but I think my encounter with Sgt. Love in Chicago gave me a life lesson I have never forgotten. Since then, I've tried to live my life with no regrets. And even when I did something that, in hindsight, I wished I hadn't, there was a life lesson to be learned.

When I was back home, planning for a future with that man whose absence had made my heart grow fonder, I wrote a letter to the Chicago Police Department. In it, I told my story of Sgt. Love, expressing my gratitude for the way he helped a single young woman pursue a dream. And Sgt. Love wrote back to me, thanking me for my praise! I wish I still had that letter.

I'm not sure this fact should have a place in this story, but in light of the recent news stories in which Black people suffer at the hands of white police, I'll point out that Sgt. Love was a Black man, as was the man who repaired my car. I'm a white woman.

I googled Sgt. William Love with no success. But I did learn that Dismas Bonner died in 2011. And so it goes.

Boulder

You might think we'd be used to this by now. There have been 103 mass shootings in America since 2013. (A mass shooting is defined as "a shooting incident which results in four or more casualties excluding the shooter.") Maybe 103 doesn't sound like a large number, so let's look at another statistic: since 2013, the total number of "gun violence deaths" in America is 9,535. And obviously, these mass shootings did not begin in 2013. In my memory, it was the Columbine killings that brought us to our knees. That was in 1999. The year 2012 gave us the Aurora, Colorado murders. In that same year, 26 people were murdered by a disturbed 20-year-old man with a "scorn for humanity" and a gun. That mass killing, at Sandy Hook Elementary School, claimed the lives of 20 children between the ages of six and seven. Wasn't that the one that we thought would finally inspire changes in America's gun culture?

Columbine. Aurora. Sandy Hook. Charleston. Parkland. Atlanta. Those names are forever connected to horrific mass murder. And now Boulder.

The attached photo was taken in November 2018 on Pearl Street in Boulder. That's me and my daughter Jenna, posing with the bronze buffalo statue designed by Stephen LeBlanc. Jenna lives in Boulder, a bucolic small city on Colorado's front range. It is home to the University of Colorado, a charming downtown, more than a few aging hippies, and a peaceful attitude. Yesterday's murders took place two blocks from the apartment Jenna first lived in when she moved there.

Jenna is safe.

I'm having a hard time. Aren't you?

The night before yesterday's murders, Ed and I watched the HBO documentary on QAnon. We couldn't even see it through to the end, in such despair over this growing dysfunction in America. We are a country rife with mental illness and more guns than common sense. Add a pandemic to the mix, and it's hard to maintain perspective on the meaning of life.

I grew up in a house with guns. My father was a hunter. Memory tells me that his rifles were housed in a gun cabinet that he, a woodworker, built. Whether it was locked or not, I can't remember. I may or may not remember where in the house the gun cabinet was located. What I do remember is that guns were for hunting, and despite my distaste for venison, I have never held any prejudice against those who choose to kill their own game. My son and his wife hunt, as does Jenna's soon-to-be husband. Some of us in my family are vegetarians. To each his/her own.

But I have never been able to wrap my head around America's obsession with guns. I hate the NRA. I continue to be angered by those who misinterpret the Second Amendment to justify their "right" to accumulate weapons. And how many does any one person need? Seriously.

Thoughts and prayers. Yeah, that works. 

Four and Twenty Simple Simons

It's National Pi Day, and I got nothin'. Well, maybe some questions. Like why in hell would anyone bake 24 blackbirds into a pie? Would they de-feather the birds first? And who would eat it? And why couldn't that pieman give a simple dude like Simon a taste of his friggin' pie? And which one is your favorite on Thanksgiving . . . apple or pumpkin? And why did we stop ordering a pizza pie and instead start ordering a pizza? Or just a pie? And what percentage of humans have a clue as to what 3.14159265359 even means?

Back in the 50s, there were not 37 pizza joints in any small town. But in my county, there was one place in a nearby town which was called The Central Hotel, and there was an Italian restaurant there. They had pizza! And lucky for me, my parents were friends with the owners. Louie Nazarro was my sister's godfather, which made me very jealous, because MY godfather lived out on Long Island, and I'm pretty sure he forgot he was my godfather about a week after the baptism. There was never a birthday card or a Christmas present or any acknowledgement at all that he had signed on to look after my religious training and spiritual growth. But Louie Nazarro! He acted as godfather to both my sister and me. I still have the doll crib he gave me for Christmas 1955, the same year my Aunt Georgie gave me my Ginnie Doll. (And yes, I still have that, too.)

My family rarely went out to dinner; that was a luxury my parents could not afford. But a few times a year, we would drive over to Sparta to enjoy a pizza at The Central Hotel. Louie would come over to our table and chat with my parents, and then he would instruct our waitress to treat us to tortoni for dessert. I can still see it and taste it in that part of my brain that is reserved for treasured childhood memories. Add to that the drive home. My sister and I would lie down on the back seat of the Buick and look up and out the windows, watching the streetlights and telephone wires zip on by against a starry sky. There was something other-worldly about that, a peek into the mysteries of the universe. Well, that's how my sheltered five-year-old brain reacted to it.

Tonight, I will make my own pizza pie for dinner. The frozen sauce that is thawing now on the counter is made up of roasted tomatoes, garlic, basil, oregano, and thyme, all organic, all from my summer garden. Roasted and frozen to be enjoyed long after the gardens have been put to bed. You'll forgive me if I claim that it is the best pizza sauce. Because it is. For me, anyway.

So Happy Pi Day, whatever that means to you. Let me offer one other "pie story." My daughter and her fiancé just headed back to Colorado after spending two weeks with me. The day before they left, I baked an apple pie for us. Not being great at pie crusts, I opted for the Betty Crocker Impossible French Apple Pie. Connor ate half of it, and Jenna and I had a slice, and there was enough left to offer to my man, who loves apple pie and drove down to see me this weekend. I enticed him with, "I have pie!" I seemed to have forgotten that the "streusel" that tops the pie contains walnuts, a tree nut to which he is allergic. So, yeah, I inadvertently tried to kill my man with pie. I will obligingly eat my humble pie now.

Wherever Hugo . . .

One of the first things I did when I became a snowbird was to find a park where I could do my five-mile thing. And I found a beautiful one, hidden away, full of so many birds . . . and the occasional armadillo. It came complete with a resident alligator and a pair of sand cranes. The park adjoins a recreational spot where grown men fly toy airplanes, and I always offered a peace sign in lieu of a wave when they passed by on their way to their playground. I think they know me as "that woman that gives the peace sign when you drive by."

But a few years ago, a couple of the old guys stopped to chat, and we became friends. Bill and Hugo.

Bill is almost 89, but he still drives and is, as they say, "sharp as a tack." I always think of him as being much like Woody Allen . . . before we hated Woody Allen. Bill is from New York (complete with that Brooklyn accent), and has a storied past. He tells me about the restaurant he frequented in the Village where Bob Dylan was his waiter. He makes slight references to his service in the Korean War, but like many veterans of war, he does not like to talk about it in detail. He does let me know, however, how that experience helped to form much of the way he looks at life. For instance, today he was telling me about a friend of his who got his first COVID vaccine shot and suffered a side effect of shaking. And yet, he was still trying to fly his little plane. Bill suggested he go home instead and take a long nap. "Take a dump and hug your old lady," Bill told him. I like Bill a lot.

But I met Hugo before I met Bill. Hugo would stop his little red MiniCooper in the middle of the road to have a morning chat with me. He and his wife were from Argentina, but they'd been in the States a long time. A couple of years ago, they were able to visit their homeland, and Hugo looked so happy when he told me about it. A year later, when I posted pictures of my trip to the Galapagos Islands, Hugo told me they inspired him to put the Galapagos on his bucket list.

Most mornings when I visit this park, I am the only person there. A few years ago, I had a sobering thought: what if I fall? What if I feel threatened by an alligator or an armadillo? Or worse yet, a creepy stranger? So I asked Hugo if I could have his phone number to put in my contacts, just so I could have someone to call if I ran into trouble. I'm sure he and the other toy plane pilots would do whatever was necessary to assist me. And of course, Hugo obliged. I am happy to report, however, that I never needed to call him.

I last saw Hugo last year, before the pandemic messed everything up. I've visited the park a few times since I've been back down here this winter, but I have not run into Hugo. Today, however, I saw Bill. He stopped to chat, and the first thing he told me was that Hugo died. Bill said he'd had bypass surgery and was in the hospital for six days. On the seventh day, they let him go home . . . where his heart gave out. 

Hugo had a big heart.

Of course, I didn't know Hugo the way we get to know some of our friends. I never met his wife or his kids or his grandchildren. But I have a feeling that Hugo is going to maintain residence in my heart for a good long time. He was that kind of person. Right now, my heart is hoping that Hugo is island-hopping in the Galapagos.

And as for Bill, I hope he hangs around for awhile longer. He, too, has a big heart. And a lot of wisdom. I mean, who else is going to advise you to "take a dump and hug your old lady"?? Wise words.

Tax Returns and Road Rage

For most of my adult life, I prepared my own taxes. But things got complicated after my husband died. A few years later, I was putting my kids through college, further complicating things. So I started using a CPA to prepare my return for me. One less thing I had to deal with. This went on for several years, and each year, the fee was a little higher than the year before. Meanwhile, my kids had flown the coop, and my financial life became much simpler. But it took me until this year to return to doing it myself. (It's so, so easy to become spoiled!)

I follow rules. I don't cheat. (Well, maybe I've broken a rule or two, like wearing white after Labor Day. And I admit to looking in the back of the crossword puzzle book for the answers on occasion.) I am terrified of getting into legal trouble. Someday I'll tell you about the time I got kicked off a plane. Or the time the DEA came knocking on my door. (I was innocent both times.) But I don't want the Tax Man coming after me for tax fraud. I forced myself to put my paranoia into my pocket and get on with the job.

I am very proud to tell you that, as of today, both my federal and state returns have been e-filed! Was it fun? No. Was it easy? Well, it wasn't as hard as I'd expected. Did I save some money? Yes, about $350.

And what the hell does road rage have to do with this? That's a different story:

Last Friday, I was all packed and ready to drive north to my significant other's place for the weekend. (We were both scheduled for our second vaccine!). Suddenly, it started to rain. Now, in Florida, a rainstorm can make roads dangerous in a nano-second, so I decided to wait until the shower had passed. I texted Ed at 1:10, informing him of this delay. By 1:30, the skies had cleared, and I was on my way. A 20-minute delay.

As I was driving north on I-95, I saw a couple of bulletins stating that I-95 was closed up ahead. But everyone else was still motoring on, so I did, too. Until the exit for Donald Ross Road, where we all had to creep along at 4 mph. I spent 45 minutes in this logjam, with no idea what was going on. And then there was a complicated exit from the highway and some decision-making on how to bypass whatever was holding things up in order to get back onto I-95. I successfully navigated the U-turns and ramps and continued on my way.

It wasn't until the next day when, while reading the paper, I came upon the reason for the hold-up. Road rage! According to the article, there had been a minor collision on the road. Both drivers pulled over to the shoulder. And then one of the men was shot! He died at the scene. There was a picture of him in today's paper, along with a request for witnesses to contact the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office with any information. The dead man was 29 years old, the same age as my son. Oddly enough, the other man was questioned but not arrested. Surely, there's a story to be discovered here.

Anyway, I did some rough math in my head and realized that, had rain not delayed my drive, I might have been one of those witnesses. Timing is everything, isn't it? Hell, I could have been the driver who got side-swiped! There but for fortune . . . 

So how do income taxes and road rage connect? It's simply this: I'm grateful that I am alive and here to do my tax returns. Amen.

Block This Caller

I doubt that I'm the only one who's noticed that the volume of spam phone calls has increased during pandemic. I guess the spammers think the general population is more susceptible to falling for their ruses? Unfortunately, that's probably true.  I cannot begin to articulate how this infuriates me. Who are these people? Or these robots? More importantly, do they really have car warranties to save us from certain bankruptcy?

I've been blocking spam callers for years. Seriously, how many phone numbers are available in this universe? Block two, and five more show up. I have an advantage . . . the area code for my cellphone does not match the one where I live. So I immediately know that the phone call is NOT from someone in my home county. And so, I don't answer. And then I jump through the hoops necessary to BLOCK THIS CALLER. I think I could do it in my sleep. But I've noticed of late that spammers are now able to text their evil, and those are a bit more confusing to block. (BTW, does anyone else get text messages addressed to "Antoinette" as I do? WTF?) Oh, and raise your hand if you've gotten a spam call FROM YOUR OWN NUMBER! Next election, I will vote for the candidate who presents a plan for eliminating spam!

The other day, I got a voicemail telling me that a new iPhone12 had been purchased on my account and was being mailed to an address in Tennessee. My guess is that the spammers are counting on recipients to contact them to dispute this, and then somehow, they would get credit card info from the person who'd been spammed. So effing clever.

But wait! There's more! While I'm on a rant, can we just quit with the surveys regarding recent purchases?  I recently got one from Staples, asking "How did you like your cyan ink cartridge?" Seriously? This is ridiculous! It's a friggin' ink cartridge! Am I supposed to award it five stars for being what it's supposed to be? But the bigger question here is this: who actually answers these surveys? And who actually reads them? I will confess, once I did respond to a survey regarding a purchase I'd made (again, from Staples), stating my disappointment with the product. Do you think I heard back from them with an apology? An offer to replace the order? No. Crickets.

And while I'm on a roll here, let me just offer my two cents about commercials. When I was in high school, I took a course in "Advertising Arts." I wanted to go to art school and work on Madison Avenue in advertising! (Confession: I became addicted to the Mad Men series a few years ago, so maybe there was still a residual fascination with the field of advertising.) These days, I watch very little television, but enough that I've had to suffer through some of the worst advertising ever. Those people that get off on the smell of their laundered clothes annoy the hell out of me. But local advertising is the worst. These people may be talented in cleaning out your gutters or changing your oil or performing your colonoscopy, but they are NOT talented in performing in front of the camera to hawk their talents. Am I right? And please, someone explain to me what a guy in a yellow shirt with a pet emu has to do with Liberty? Who in hell came up with "Limu Emu and Doug" for selling insurance? Okay, so the Aflec Duck was somewhat lame, although I actually didn't mind the Geico Gecko. (I liked his accent.) But I will be grateful when that annoying emu and his equally annoying partner, Doug, have been deposited into the trash bin of has-been advertising icons. I ask in earnest: When there's a need to purchase insurance, does anyone actually think, "I want the one with the emu in the yellow shirt!" OMG, what have we become?

(Don't answer that.)

Glad That's Over!

I know you're agreeing with me before you even know what I'm referring to. While I look forward to the day when we can say "Glad that's over!" about the pandemic, I seem to have no trouble finding other things to want to be done with. Am I a certifiable Debbie Downer? Or is there just too much bad stuff happening around me? Maybe if I write about it, I'll get it out of my system.

So . . . 

Glad Valentine's Day is over! I'm no longer big on holidays (except maybe for St. Patrick's Day when there's beer), but Valentine's Day is one I particularly dislike. And it has nothing to do with the fact that my father (who was born on Columbus Day) was named Valentine. You see, my birthday is the day before Valentine's Day. So going out for the traditional birthday dinner in a restaurant was never a good experience, especially if those days fell on a weekend. I don't mean to sound sexist, but I think there are a lot of men out there who fulfill their romantic obligations once a year when they treat their woman to dinner out on Valentine's Day. So restaurants are crowded (at least when there's not a pandemic out there). And the hearts! Everywhere hearts! Why hearts? Why not brains? Was I misinformed when I was told that the brain is the most powerful sex organ? I know you're thinking that brains aren't particularly attractive, but neither are hearts! You know that particular organ has been stylized to serve as a symbol of love. And if you want to argue with me and say that Valentine's Day is about love, not sex, then how come so many people have birthdays in mid-November? Huh? Think about it! Anyway, maybe you enjoyed your Valentine's Day, and I'm happy for you, but I'm glad it's over. 

Glad my birthday's over! Yep, you saw that coming, didn't you? You can reread the above paragraph for some of the reasons that I don't particularly like having a birthday in February, but wait! There's more! While I will admit to having had some lovely birthdays, especially ones where I was somewhere else, like the Bahamas, there were twice as many bad ones. Some of them even occurred on Friday the 13th, like when I turned 26 (2x13) and 31 (13 backwards). For how many of my birthdays do you think I was snowed in? More than I want to remember. But one stands out. Turning 21 is a big deal. You get to go into a bar and order a beer and proudly show your ID. When I turned 21 in college, all the bars were closed because of a storm. And it was a Saturday night! Someone in the dorm had a bottle of Cherry Kijafa, and so we had to make do with that. I've never had Cherry Kijafa since. But the main reason I dislike birthdays is because they come with expectations. Like how many cards will I get in the mail? How many presents? Will there be a surprise party? And these days, how many FB "Happy Birthday!"s will I get? Now, at my age, I've been able to let go of those expectations for the most part, but there's still some anxiety leading up to the "big day." It's akin to "Who loves me?" and I hate that insecurity. So, yes, I'm glad my birthday's over.

Glad that impeachment trial is over! Now I know that some of my readers dislike when I get political, although it's hard not to these days. After the election, I was going to ease off the attention I'd been paying to all things political. Then January 6 happened, and I was back in front of the TV way too much. And after that coverage eased up a bit, along comes the Senate trial. We knew how it would end, but some of us kept hope alive. (We still do.) Anyway, it was good theatre, it was bad theatre, and it was all-consuming. And then it ended the way we expected it to, despite the reality that there should have been a different ending. (See McConnell's speech after the vote.) Let me take this opportunity to highlight something that continues to bug me. There are many who think that the acquittal means that he was not impeached. That is wrong. He remains impeached - twice! - but not convicted. I don't want to go any further with this topic because what's the point? I'll just say that I'm glad it's over.

Glad that I'm still kicking. Yeah, here's the result of my ranting about those things. The realization that I'm still here to bitch about them. There are good reasons for me to stay hopeful and positive. I may be 71, but I'm in relatively good health. There are people who love me. There is renewed hope for this country. There are vaccines. (I get my second dose this weekend.) I have my first grandchild to love (even if it's remotely for now). By mid-July, all three of my children will be married and on their own journeys, likely giving me more grandchildren, grand-dogs, and grand-cats. There is a man who loves me (and does NOT buy me stupid chocolates in a heart-shaped box, but instead sends me a copy of John Fowles' The Magus because he's pretty sure I will like it). I can honestly say that, despite all the bad stuff, life is good. And I'm glad it's not over.

Between a Rock and a Kind Place

For many of us, this pandemic has brought out some latent talent (OMG, OMG, look! Those two words are anagrams!!) that we'd been neglecting during the time when the world was normal. My friend Shelly has rediscovered her affinity for painting rocks. She gifted this one to me (mostly because I made a shameless plea for her to give it to me). Truly, I love this rock as much as I love my friendship with Shelly.

So the main point of painting rocks is to mark them with words (or pictures) of kindness and then leave them in places where unsuspecting wanderers might find them. I guess at that point, the finder can either treasure the gift and keep it to remember kindness . . . or hide it again for someone else to find. Yeah, I'm just going to be selfish here and keep Shelly's rock for myself. Because I love it.

The rock is painted in shades of blue, purple, yellow and green. It features only palm trees and sun. But for me, the message is one of hope, that the world is, indeed, beautiful, whether it's a tropical paradise or a snow-covered mountain or a field of corn. It's a simple reminder to look for what is beautiful in your landscape and to worship it. My rock will now live on the nightstand next to my bed, so that every morning when I awake, I will remember to look for the beauty.

In "researching" the origins of rock-painting, I happened to find that painting and depositing rocks in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park is illegal. Really? I've been to the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. There are a lot of rocks there. Lighten up, Tennessee.

In composing this blog post, I couldn't help but recall a story my son told me several years ago. He was still in college, and he and some friends hiked up a nearby mountain . . . in an altered state. He told his sister about the experience, in which he found a rock on a bench in one of those hiking shelters. The rock had his name on it. Even though he thought he was imagining it, he nonetheless put the rock in his pocket. His sister, prolific writer that she is, used the story to create a poem, which I happen to love. Here it is for your reading pleasure:

Altitude

At twenty-two you will take magic mushrooms

and ascend Mount Mansfield alone. You will

breathe deep at the summit, the very air

hallucinogenic, at the thin panting place between

the real and the fantastic, you will find a rock 

with your name etched in its surface

And this, I'll say, is when you have to choose:

paranoia, coincidence, or sign.

But you'll say the stone at the summit

is meant for your pocket, and just before

fate forces a choice, you'll take it with you

in your measured descent

ready to reveal your name or nothing

when you finally come down.

(The rock really did have his name on it.) And the rock Shelly gave me has my name on it. The name is "Peace, Love, and Understanding." (Credit: Elvis Costello)

Namaste.

Liquid Nails, Covid Arm, and a Map of the World

I buried the main topic of this post in between two other subjects of no great importance. I didn't want to alarm you. You can chill now.

Yes, I have "COVID arm." It's not like "COVID toes," not at all. Covid toes is a symptom of the coronavirus. Covid arm (I'm going to stop capitalizing it) is a side effect of the vaccine. I'm going to tell you about it as a Public Service Announcement. To start, let me say that research shows that Covid arm affects 2% to 9% of people who get the vaccine, and they're mostly women. (Lucky me!) Anyway, it's not a big deal.

After getting the first shot of the vaccine, it's normal for you to see a slight swelling at the site of the injection, red and warm. It usually kicks in the next day and is gone within a day or two. So yeah, I had that. Covid arm kicks in several days later, usually on Day 8. Covid arm is a rash, hot and itchy, which can "grow" to 5" long! Mine started out (on Day 8) about the size of a clementine, grew to the size of an apple, and was morphing into a small eggplant when it decided that it had tormented me enough. Today (which is Day 12), it's hardly visible and no longer itches.

So here's the thing. A couple of days before my rash made its appearance, I'd read an article in the morning paper about Covid arm. At first, I thought it was about that normal next-day swelling at the injection site, but when the article said it usually kicks in on Day 8, I realized this was something else. I filed that information into my pandemic brain and moved on. Two days later, I started itching!

I recalled the article in the Post, but I couldn't remember what issue it was in. So I started googling "Covid rash" and found nothing. An archive search on the Post directed me to the article I'd read, in which it was referred to as "Covid arm," and so I then googled that. I found a few articles that assuaged any worry I had about the rash. They all pointed to the same thing: if you develop Covid arm, it's a sign that (a) you have a good immune system and (b) your body is doing what it's supposed to be doing. And just like that, my worry turned into a big, fat "Phew!"

Since googling "Covid rash" gave me no information, I wanted to alert you to the term "Covid arm" in case you develop such a rash after you get the vaccine. You're welcome.

As to Liquid Nails, I spent a few hours with that amazing adhesive today to complete a home improvement project. It does the trick. I also completed a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle of a map of the world today. I patted myself on the back when I knew where to direct the various pieces, but I also mourned this pandemic curse on travel. There are so many more places I want to see!

So, to tie it all together, let me just say that like Liquid Nails, I'm stuck here with my Covid arm, wistfully studying a map of the world. (I heard that groan.)

No Regrets?

I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels like she's aged ten years in the past year. The side effects of a pandemic life are many and varied, but for me, one of the harshest is the onset of what I call "pandemic dreams." My nighttime theatre has taken on a new kind of loneliness, despair, confusion, and most notably, regret.

I'm not going to bother you with the details of last night's dream production, simply because nobody really wants to hear about someone else's dreams. But I will tell you that it featured long-dead loved ones, fear, disloyalty, homelessness . . . and ultimately, regret. I mean, the regret was visceral and lingering, enough so that I thought I should confront it in a blog post.

For decades, I have believed that the main goal in this earthly life is to arrive at the end of it with as few regrets as possible. And for the regrets that refuse to disappear from memory, to have learned something valuable from them. Sometimes that's easy, like my regretting that as a child, I used to pick my nose at night and wipe the boogers on the wall. What did I learn when my mother discovered this? Perhaps the wisdom of keeping a box of tissues next to the bed? And I surely regret (at around age 10) smearing hot tar from the newly paved street onto my best friend's bathing suit, a terrible deed for which I have no explanation. A lecture from her mother chastened me, but the fact that I still remember this lapse of judgment from about 60 years ago tells you something about the power of regret. When I was a teenager, I shoplifted a package of hair ribbon bows from a local store. Despite my attempts at assuaging my guilt in the confessional closet and obediently reciting my Hail Marys at the altar, I have carried that regret with me forever. But I learned something: don't friggin' shoplift!

Some regrets don't involve others at all, but that doesn't lessen them. I never learned to swim. And that may be my biggest regret. I've collected quite a laundry list of reasons why I never learned, culminating in a fear of deep water, but I also know that had I confronted this liability head-on many years ago, I would not have the regret now. Instead, I've lived with it, missing out on pleasures and adventures too numerous to list. But I can assure you, my three kids learned how to swim early on, with one of them spending her summers lifeguarding for several years. Yes, I've snorkeled on the Great Barrier Reef and in the Galapagos Islands, but it was scary as hell for me. The only reason I was able to survive was that people who love me encouraged me, gave me lessons, and swam by my side. But the regret lingers. Maybe I'll be a sailor in my next life.

I've hurt people. I've hurt people I loved. Can any of you say you have never done the same? This life is messy, isn't it? Certainly, I regret having hurt anyone, but perhaps that is counteracted by having helped some others along the way? Forgiveness and redemption, two graces that are hard to achieve, but assist in healing our fragile countenance.

In the song "Title and Registration" by Death Cab for Cutie, lyricist Ben Gibbard sings, "And here I sit where disappointment and regret collide . . . " With apologies to Ben, I'm going to end this post with this:

And here I sit where acceptance and regret collide.

The Truth As You See It

I've been in my South Florida home for a month now, and today, I finally got to the beach. What took me so long? Weather, of course. But today was hot (89 degrees!) and sunny and a perfect beach day. I wore a mask and walked quite far until I found a relatively isolated piece of beach. Spent a couple hours reading and staring at the ocean. It was all perfect . . . except for the plane that flew by with a banner that read "Best President Ever . . . Donald Trump." Okay, so some dude with a plane and a lot of money got to advertise his political preference for all to see. I convinced myself to not let it get to me. And then he was gone. Sort of like the president he was celebrating.

I am not a swimmer, but I am a beacher. (Auto-correct wanted to change that to "teacher," which was also true, but not anymore.) I was quite content with my 100% whole wheat Sun Chips and my water and my book. Okay, I'll be honest here . . . I also had a cold can of Goose Island "So-Lo," a 98-calorie IPA, which I bought by accident . . . last year. I guess canned beer cannot hold up over a year of refrigeration. When I opened the can, I got quite a shower of beer head, enough so that I had to travel down the hot sand to the water and clean myself up. And a low-calorie IPA? Bad idea! What was I thinking?

But the book I'm reading is quite compelling. My Name Is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok. My friend Shelly recommended it to me. Years ago, I read The Chosen by the same author, so I figured, okay. Now, I'm not that far into it yet, but I am definitely into it. Topic? Joseph Stalin's persecution of Jews in Russia. But it's never that simple, is it? Asher Lev, the young narrator, has artistic talent, which is not honored by his father. As a character in the story tells Asher, "As an artist, you are responsible to no one and to nothing, except to yourself and to the truth as you see it."

So I've been contemplating that wisdom. I have always known that my sanity relies on my inspiration, my accessibility to materials, my desire to BE CREATIVE. I need a project. That can be a blog, a poem, refinishing furniture, painting a room, even doing a jigsaw puzzle. For Shelly, it's painting. Rocks, canvas, it doesn't matter . . . she's painting, she's creating, she's responsible to the truth as she sees it. It grounds her.

And so that begs the question: what if you don't have the means to express yourself creatively? I've often thought about young people who don't have access to a piano, a guitar, an array of paints? What if they possess an amazing talent, but never have the means to discover it? It's a heartbreaking thought.

So crochet your afghans, paint your landscapes, write your poems, build your picnic tables, play your guitars, bake your casseroles, sing your songs, decorate your homes, plant your gardens, compose your memoirs . . . do whatever it is that you can do, and know your truth. Namaste.

A Shot in the Arm

Being born in 1950 offered the benefit of always knowing how old I was in any given year. No math involved, as there is for those born in a year that ends in a 3 or a 7. Go ahead, throw any year at me, and I can tell you how old I was. Did you say 1987? I was 37 years old. How about 1991? I was 41 years old. I will admit, it got a bit harder when we entered a new century. I mean, there was some math involved, like adding 50 to whatever year it is. It is now 2021. I am fast approaching the age of 71, and grateful to be alive.

And I want to stay alive. More on that later.

One of my earliest memories of growing up in a small town in the 1950s is that of a woman named Fran who lived up the street from me. She was a wife and a mother to three children: Gary, Carl, and Nancy, who was just a year younger than I. Fran had polio, and although my tiny brain was not able to understand what that meant, I knew it was something to be afraid of. When Fran died, her children moved in with their grandmother who lived across the street. Mrs. Stanton raised them as well as any parent could. I cannot ever recall Nancy talking about her mother; perhaps she was too young to even remember her.

In 1955, Dr. Jonas Salk was responsible for creating a vaccine against polio. His name was celebrated everywhere. Somewhere around 1961, Dr. Albert Sabin came up with a better idea. Instead of receiving four injections of Salk's killed-virus vaccine, children could get a live-virus vaccine, usually given by droplets on a sugar cube. I swear to you, I can still picture my 11-year-old self standing in a line of children at our local high school, eagerly holding out my tongue for my sugar cube. (I loved sugar! Don't even ask me how much I snuck onto my morning Rice Krispies!) And just like that, we were all safe from polio.

But before the polio vaccine, there was the smallpox vaccine, which was given by injection into the arm. I don't know how old I was or what year it was when I was vaccinated, so I'm guessing I was just a baby. What I do remember is the scar that the vaccination left. As kids, we would compare the round scars on our left arms to see whose was bigger. (That scar made it easier to determine left from right for those of us who were - and still are - directionally challenged.) Guess what? I just checked, and that scar is still visible on my almost-71-year-old left arm! Smallpox was eventually eradicated, and the smallpox vaccine was stopped in 1972. (I was 22 years old. See how easy that is?)

Fast forward to today. I am currently hiding out in my winter abode. Florida is home to a gazillion senior citizens, and we are all at the top of the list to get vaccinated for COVID-19. It's a shit-show. For several weeks now, my guy and I have tried multiple ways to get in a line for the vaccine with no success. Until yesterday, when my resolve to stare at a computer screen paid off. I got in! (My guy did not.) I was able to schedule appointments for both of us, one at a time. So what if our appointments are not on the same day? We got in!

And this morning, I got my first shot of the Moderna vaccine. As of this writing, about five hours after the shot, I have no pain, no swelling, no rash, no nothing . . . except the comfort and satisfaction of knowing that I am on my way to a normal life again. I can put my fear aside a bit and dream about future happy hours and live music and road trips and flights to wonderful places. I can visit my children more, especially my newly-married California son, whom I have not seen in a year. I can hold my brand new granddaughter and sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" to her. I can make the most of whatever time I have left on this planet and never take my breath, my heart, my mobility for granted.

I have a better shot at staying alive. A shot. Amen.

New Morning

I didn't realize the weight until it was lifted. But this morning I could breathe, I could run, I could sing, and although no one was watching, I danced.

The park I love, the place where you can find me some mornings before sunrise, was asleep under a blanket of fog when I arrived. Shivering in the early chill, I diverted my attention to the music playing in my ears. "Harmony Hall" by Vampire Weekend:

    "Anybody with a worried mind can never forgive the sight

    Of wicked snakes inside a place you thought was dignified

    I don't want to live like this, but I don't want to die."

 The insurrection at the Capitol was one of the ugliest sights I've ever seen in the seven decades I've been alive. It is not one that can be easily erased, and it probably shouldn't be, despite the weight of it. But I don't want to continue here with graphic descriptions of something you've all seen. You already know how frightening, how ugly, how effing unbelievable it was. It will take a long time to move it back from the front row of memory.

I turned my focus to the birds that inhabit my park, trusting that I could remember all their names. Boat-tailed grackle, Florida parakeet, pileated woodpecker, anhinga, ibis, and all the varieties of egrets and herons. They were all there, welcoming me back.

I turned a corner from a shaded grove to an open field. The fog was lifting, the sun was rising, and all perspective shifted in that moment. It was, indeed, a new morning. The sun rose on the day that I have been waiting for . . . January 20, 2021. Have you been waiting, too?

And so I danced. No one was watching. But despite that, I knew that I was not the only one. America exhaled, and our collective breath promised a return to dignity and truth and compassion.

It's good to be back.