Ambition

My fairy-tale-princess origin story: the first daughter after three rambunctious boys, my dad rushed out and bought the frilliest dress he could find. A beginning that promised fabulous success and blessings.

I grew up with an ambition to exceed expectations. A burning desire to do the best, be the best, and a deep fear that I couldn’t keep up.

With three older and stronger brothers, I couldn’t keep up. Like Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, the other reindeer wouldn’t let me join in any reindeer games. At most I could play nurse to their soldiers, sitting in the medic tent (beneath a large lilac bush) while they fought with guns and nerves of steel. I threw ‘like a girl’ and could never play in their baseball games.

At school I found something I was good at. More than academics, it was pleasing grownups. I wasn’t the strongest nor well-coordinated, but I was the most attuned to adult expectations in the classroom. I strove, incessantly, to live up to them.

But, I wasn't always the best. I remember boasting with bravado to my junior-high friends that if I couldn’t get an A, I wanted an F. I'd always gotten As, I declared.

But one day I found a cache of old report cards in my dad's desk. My fourth-grade report card had all Bs and Cs. I was horrified. My self-image tarnished, I strove ever harder to pile on the As and bury that shameful past.

Speed Scrabble

 I’ve always enjoyed the board game Scrabble, though sometimes I’ve become impatient at its slow pace and drawn-out finish. Nowadays, Jim and I (and some of our kids when they visit) play ‘Speed Scrabble.’ Like the board game, each player initially receives seven lettered tiles. Instead of creating one large crossword on a board, each player creates an individual crossword in front of them. Every time any player uses all their available tiles, everyone picks another tile until they are gone. Then the first person to complete their crossword using all their tiles wins.

The last few weeks of working on my memoir have been stressful. Initially, I was weaving a tapestry of my personal narrative. Then I read Bill Stride’s memoir of schizophrenia, Voices Inside Me and realized I needed the recollections of people around me to balance my own distorted perceptions. In my manic mind, everything I thought and did was completely rational, until I was injected with a powerful anti-psychotic, slept for a day and a half, and woke up in a sane mind and shattered heart.

I imagined weaving these recollections into my story, intermingled with my memories for a richer, fuller tapestry.

But the two interviews I’m processing this month point in totally new directions. It’s overwhelming. How can I pull apart this tapestry I’ve woven and start fresh?

Then this morning I thought of Speed Scrabble. In that game, it doesn’t matter at all whether you have ever created words with all your tiles in any of the turns. Only the last round matters, finishing a crossword using all of the tiles in front of you.

Sometimes when I play, I create a beautiful, elegant, long word (maybe even with an X, J, or even Q) and build my crossword around its perfection. Then comes a crisis point where I simply can’t fit more tiles onto the existing structure. With great reluctance, I dismantle my work and start fresh. But it’s not like ripping a tapestry apart or knocking a house down. It’s just playing around with the tiles, experimenting with new combination of letters to form a complete crossword structure.

Realizing that this morning helped me over the latest panic. I don’t have to destroy what I’ve made. I just need to play around with the pieces and discover new connections.

Self-care and smarts

 I’m working steadily on my memoir of my experiences with manic depression (bipolar to those of you under age 40. Have I told you how much I hate the term bipolar?)

Swimming in the memories, processing them in new ways, listening to interviews of Jim, my kids and siblings and in-laws, I’m struck with many things.

One is my ‘recovery’ after my third manic episode in 2003. After seven years of faithful, consistent lithium-taking, I stopped, without benefit of medical advice. No, that’s not accurate: after leaving a voice message at the clinic declaring my decision, I received a reply voicemail, telling me, begging me, to take the medication. I blew off the communication with predictable (though not to me) and disastrous results: a psychotic break and a slow and painful return to the land of the sane.

While in the hospital, I listened carefully in the group therapy sessions and took active part, motivated to glean any wisdom the psychiatric profession had to offer. The sunroom where we met had a miniature greenhouse. I asked permission to take cuttings and brought home three: a variety of Saintpauli (African violet) I’d never seen, with small pointed leaves and delicate lavender flowers, a tradescantia zebrina with dusky purple-and-silver striped leaves, and a purple passion plant. (Note the color theme.)

I brought the plants home as a reminder to take care of myself.

Over the years, as the plants got woody, overgrown, and unmanageable, I would pinch off ends with my fingers, place them in a glass of water on the windowsill, wait for roots, and plant the new slips.

Now, 19 years later (the psychotic break was in January 2003), one variety remains: I have three clay pots of purple passion plants.

But when did my striving for self-care supersede my ambition to remain mentally sharp and smart?

My four surviving siblings graciously agreed to be interviewed for my memoir. There were three things they all mentioned as notable: how big an influence for good our brother Michael was on our family culture and on each of us individually, what a big deal my epic cross-country trip was, and how smart I was as a kid.

I was driven to succeed in academics. I desperately wanted to please my research-chemist father. I took Advanced Placement classes in high school and earned a semester’s worth of college credits at Bryn Mawr College, one of the selective Seven Sisters.

But for years I have struggled to remember things I read when I have the bandwidth to read at all. I’ve taken to listening to audiobooks, which helps, but retention is poor. After a few months I don’t remember what I’ve heard.

No one would call me smart now, not at the level, the caliber, of my early, promising years.

I’m not whining (I hope), just trying to get the facts down. Fact: as attested to by each of my surviving siblings, I was the smart one in the family. Fact, I did very well at an academically competitive college. Fact, I’m nowhere near at that level now. When I started taking psychiatric medications, I noticed a dulling, a dimming of my intellect.

When did self-care overtake smart? When smart was no longer an option. I made no conscious decision to give up, but as the years have passed, so has my intellectual sharpness and edge. So it is. 

What will you be when you grow up?

Recently I attended a Relief Society class at church on the story of our lives. The teacher told how her dream as a young woman was to sing on Broadway and drive a pink Cadillac. Now she sings to her two toddlers in a tiny apartment and drives a Toyota.

 

She asked what we had thought we’d be when we grew up. For me, I wanted to be a nun. I explained that they were the rock stars of my childhood in parochial school, at least to me. And they were good role models: smart (they were schoolteachers and knew a lot more than me) and articulate.

I’m still adjusting to being 65. It’s just a number, I say to myself, rather unconvincingly. You’re as young as you feel has no comfort in it: I’m not feeling very young tonight. But I did do my Nerd Fitness workout today. It's okay to feel a little weary at 10 p.m.

The longest autumn

This autumn has been the best birthday present of my life. Walking home from the library in late September, I said to Jim, I think this is my favorite part of fall, the bright reds and oranges in the tree crowns above the dark green. He replied, you say that every year, as if you are just discovering it.

What I actually discovered lately, was that raspberry canes shouldn’t be cut down until early winter. Research conducted at Cornell University found that the dying canes continue to send carbohydrates to the crown and roots well into winter. I found it fascinating to learn that the canes were still nourishing the roots so late in the year. The raspberry leaves don’t lose their green color because they are still working.

My favorite part of autumn lingered for weeks this year. The ‘peak’ foliage, when most of the leaves have changed from green to red, yellow, and orange, happened near the end of October, two or three weeks later than usual.

The week before Thanksgiving there were still tenacious leaves scattered among the bare limbs: amber, wheat, butterscotch, bronze, cinnamon, and ginger. They remind me of making my famous Conference ginger snaps: ground ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves scattered on top of the flour.

Even today, the last of November, the tawny remnants of leaves are seen amidst the trees.

Marilyn Foley Jodoin

Last night Marilyn Foley Jodoin died. I was privileged to be her friend for nearly thirty years.

 

Before the local church boundaries changed a dozen years ago, Marilyn and I were in the Arlington Ward together. A few years before my mighty cross-country trip, I was the president of the children’s organization (Primary) and she was my counselor. She was always high energy and enthusiastic. She loved the children.

 

For a summertime activity, Marilyn organized a water fun afternoon for our Primary. A contractor-friend of hers lent us two (40-50 feet, maybe?) pieces of clear plastic sheeting to erect a giant slip-and-slide outside of the chapel. We laid them on a long, grassy hill and installed garden hoses at the top. Then we all lined up and slid down, over and over again. The day was warm and sunny. Of all the kids there, Marilyn enjoyed it most. She had a blast.

 

Marilyn had many hard things in her life, but she chose the joy.

 

How can I express my sorrow to her husband and her children and her grandchildren? Her daughter’s posts have been loved and commented on by hundreds. As many have said, Christmas just won’t be the same without Marilyn’s low husky voice singing, "Mary Did You Know?" while strumming her guitar. 

A year of Nerd Fitness

 This month I turned 65. It hit me like a ton of bricks, to use a cliché (which I’ve been informed GREAT writers never do.)

I’ve always laughed at birthday numbers. I’ve proudly announced my age: 40, 50, 55. But 65 has thrown me for a loop. (Oops, another cliché. Must be losing my stuff.)

Growing up in America, age 65 has been the official commencement of old age since July 30, 1965, when President Johnson signed Medicare into law. I was eight years old. A presidential signature. 65? You’re old.

I subconsciously put it off. I didn’t sign up for Medicare until 12 days before I turned 65. I had vaguely heard the advice to sign up three months in advance of my birthday, but I didn’t do it. I don’t recommend the ‘head-in-sand’ approach. (Another cliché)

It all worked out. I’m officially on Medicare and working on understanding what that means.

I’m also working on overcoming my dismay at being officially old.

Please don’t comment with ‘you’re as young as you feel,’ or any such pep talk. Let me wallow in my self-pity for a post.

A year ago, on December 1^st, I joined Nerd Fitness' one-on-one coaching. My first coach resigned (I’m not taking it personally: she bought a farm with her husband and was expecting a baby) and Coach Sarah and I have been working together since February. She’s a weightlifter in Ohio and has a pet duck.

Lately I’ve been skipping workouts, feeling old and worn out. Writing this, I’m suddenly reminded of the night before Peter was born (our second child). It had been lightly snowing and I was in very early labor all day. Since our doctor was in Indianapolis, an hour north of Columbus, Indiana, where we lived, we decided to drop Rachel (now R’el) off at our friend’s house for an overnight while we went to a Red Roof Inn in Indianapolis. Our kids can explain to you what a big deal that must have been. I won’t regale you with the whole story, but after a whole movie in a theater (Tootsie with Dustin Hoffman) sans contractions, I was awakened in the Inn at 3:30 a.m. with powerful ones. I told Jim I didn’t think I could handle this and he gave me a firm coach-to-pregnant-woman-in-labor lecture: basically, buck up. (Well, what else could he offer?) That helped, a lot. He was a fantastic childbirth coach for each of our six births. I’m grateful he was there by my side, helping me through contractions, one at a time.

Fast-forward 38 years: yet again I’ve got to buck up. I’ve now spent enough time whining about being old. I was appalled the other day when my nearly-four-year-old granddaughter said, as she took off running, I’m faster than you! It was true.

I can only go forward. Hopefully I can maintain strength, maybe improve a bit. It is a big challenge. Back to those Romanian Deadlifts.

Not much of a housekeeper

 My ambition is to publish a memoir on my experience with manic depression (a.k.a. bipolar disorder). I’ve read over a dozen mental illness memoirs. I’ve realized that each memoir is written exclusively in the first person. While that is an important part of the narrative, for me it is imperative to hear from other voices, loved ones who watched from a vantage of sanity. When I’m manic and psychotic I am convinced that I am thinking clearly, more clearly than ever in my life. More clearly than anyone in the world. Only when I recover do I realize how distorted my thinking was, to put it mildly.

So, I have hired a skilled interviewer to talk to those close to me, they who have seen me in my mood swings. I’m in the process of watching these recordings and transcribing them. I will incorporate their insights into my memoir.

One of my brothers said, “She’s not much of a housekeeper.” This took me aback (be careful what you ask for). I’ve pondered his statement many times. It stings, but he’s absolutely right.

Of course, “not much of” is a pretty loose term. I’ve been in houses with more clutter than I can imagine accumulating. But the comment is a fair assessment.

It reminds me of a slumber party my mom threw for me when I was in fifth grade. I bought fancy pajamas with a matching sleeping cap and cloth boots from the Sears catalog and invited a few girlfriends to sleep in our living room. Dark-haired Rosemary, who was very proud of her Italian heritage, complained that her mother scrubbed the kitchen floor every week on her hands and knees. I laughed and said my mom hardly ever mopped the floor and never got down on her hands and knees.

After the party I told my mom about our conversation. She was mortified that I would admit such a thing to anyone, but especially to a girl with a mother of such habits. At the time, I wondered what the fuss was about. It never occurred to me that the floor was excessively dirty. Now I sympathize with my mom.

As may be typical of manic depression, my housekeeping reflects my moods. When I’m in an elevated mood, the house nearly vibrates with clean. Jim can sense it as he enters the house. Other times it’s much too much effort to keep up. Dishes pile up; the floor doesn't get swept much less mopped or scrubbed.

I’m grateful for my brother’s honest comment. It’s so easy to maintain a fantasy self-image. It’s good to look in the mirror and really see what's there. What everybody else sees in an instant.

The Longest Day

 Eight years ago, on June 21, our son Matt sent an email “The Great Gatsby,”

"Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it?  I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it."

Over the years, Matt occasionally resends the Daisy quotation and I usually realize I’ve missed the day.

But this year was different. On June 20 I searched and found that the summer solstice would arrive at 11:32 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time. But which day would be the longest? Turns out three days straddling the solstice are of equal length: June 19th, 20th, and 21st. In Lexington on those days, sunrise occurred at 5:07 a.m. and sunset at 8:25 p.m. 15 hours and 18 minutes of daylight.

So Daisy actually had two or three days to succeed. She gave up too soon.

Here in Lexington, for the past several days, sunlight has streamed through the small octagonal front window every morning, my personal Stonehenge.

On Monday, after noticing the sunshine in the hallway,  I went back to bed and watched the sun traverse our northeast window. I closed my eyes and sunbathed. No sand, no heat, no sticky sunscreen, just pure sunlight on my closed eyelids. Luxurious. Restorative. Nourishing.

The first hug of covid!

 Friday evening Carri, a friend of ours (and my ministering sister for those of you fluent in LDS jargon), hosted a farewell party for a mutual friend. We met in her backyard and ate hot dogs and watermelon.

Carri walked over to greet me and gave me a big hug. It felt good but strange to have physical contact with someone outside my family.

Two days later, I saw Carri at church and told her that I was reminded of the children’s picture book, Polar Express. A young boy takes a mysterious train to the North Pole and meets Santa Claus. He is chosen to receive a gift and requests a silver bell from a reindeer’s harness. Santa smiles and an elf tosses a bell to him. Santa holds it high above his head and declares it “the first gift of Christmas!’

In the churchyard, I raised my hand high in the air and declared, “The first hug of covid!”

I’m finding it psychologically challenging to venture out into the public. Last night Jim and I went to another farewell party, held outdoors at Kimball Farms ice cream stand in Carlisle. We ordered our frozen delights and mingled and talked for over an hour and a half. As dusk fell, we returned to our car. Jim said, “That was nourishing.” Yes, indeed. Worth the anxiety.

The Bees' Knees

 Exactly three years ago I wrote an elbow-appreciation post. I had weeded in short sleeves and developed painful poison-ivy rashes on both inner elbows. For several days I couldn’t bend my arms. I realized I had taken my arm joints for granted for 61 years.

Now I must discuss knees. On Memorial Day I worked creating a raised garden bed with Conor, the teenage boy I’ve hired as a gardener, and Caleb, Jim’s nephew. We worked for over four hours, digging trenches and installing a border of pavers. I was in constant motion, kneeling and standing back up. By the end of the session, my left knee, a problem since high school, could hardly tolerate weight and I limped into the house.

For the next several days I rested, careful not to twist the knee. I took the stairs one step at a time. My mom taught me the drill: down with the bad, up with the good. (This puts all the stress on the healthy knee.) But then I got careless and on Friday I was in worse pain than ever.

Monday was frustrating. I had to go up and down two flights of stairs multiple times with laundry baskets. It was so tedious. But I stayed true to my resolve to care for my knee. Down with the bad, up with the good. The tedium paid off: today I have no pain. I even ventured out for a two-mile walk on the Battle Road in Lincoln.

Speaking of the Battle Road (preserved in the Minuteman National Historical Park in Lexington, Lincoln, and Concord): on April 19th, Patriots' Day, I completed my walking Paul Revere's ride (having walked from Paul Revere's house in Boston to Lexington the Saturday before). That Monday I started at Lexington's Hancock-Clarke House, and followed Mass Ave to the old Battle Road. There's a curving stone wall at Revere's Capture Site, where Revere was nearly shot and the British patrol confiscated his borrowed horse. From there, in the early morning hours of April 19, 1775, Revere walked back to the Lexington Green where the Battle of Lexington was about to erupt. He walked in the pre-dawn; I walked at dusk. I'm grateful for knees.

Bird nests

 A few weeks ago, Jim and I were having a ‘homework party,’ where we share his office together, each working on their own projects. I saw a flash of orange and brown outside and realized that a robin had just flown to the second-story window ledge. I had seen a nest a few days earlier, from the driveway, but I couldn’t see inside.

When the mother bird flew away, we went to the window and saw four ‘robin’s-egg-blue’ eggs nestled in the grass and twig nest. It brought back sweet childhood memories of my dad lifting me up with his strong arms so I could peer into a nest and marvel at the tiny blue eggs.

Jim was concerned we would frighten the mother, so he put a packing box on the floor and later closed the blinds. We worried that she would abandon the nest, but next day I saw her again. Some days later Jim peeked around the blinds and found an empty nest. We can only guess that something attacked the nest.

A few days later I was looking out my bedroom window at the three-story evergreen tree next to the house. I saw a blue jay nesting. I was shocked: I’d never seen a blue jay’s nest. It gave me a warm feeling about blue jays.

I haven’t always had a warm feeling about them. I’ve always enjoyed their bright-blue plumage. But I had an encounter, probably 25 years ago or more, that left a bitter taste in my mouth.

A friend of ours from church had ‘rescued’ a nest of  three baby sparrows which had dropped out of a tree in her yard. She didn’t have a safe place to put it, so she asked me to foster the birds. I put them in our enclosed front porch and we watched them. As they grew feathers I knew it was time to let them fly. I took the nest out to our yard and watched. One of the fledglings jumped out of the nest and soared away. A second followed suit. But one sat on the ground.

“Go on!” I urged, to no avail. It sat in the driveway, inert.

Then a blue jay swooped down and caught the tiny baby. Shocked, I shouted and shooed it away, but the damage was done: the little sparrow lay dead on the asphalt.

Determined not to reward the jay for its cold-blooded greed, I got a garden spade and dug a hole near a tree where grass doesn’t grow.  I cried bitterly as I dug the grave and gently lowered the bird down. The blue jay had been so cruel, so heartless.

But here, outside my bedroom window, I saw a blue jay lavishing maternal care on her three babies. The day that it rained all day I saw her on the nest, keeping the nestlings dry.

Watching the babies grow has been delightful. A few days ago I looked out and saw a flash of wing, with the distinctive white and black markings on grey instead of blue. The baby nearest my window was stretching halfway out of the nest and spreading its grey and white wings. His nestmate followed suit. I wondered if they would fly away, but it was just a test run. They soon settled back into the nest.

Yesterday morning the heads and chests were well above the top of the nest. They were growing fast. I could see that soon flight will be imperative: they wouldn’t fit in the nest. Just two days ago only their heads were visible. They sat perfectly still, each looking out in a different direction.

This morning the nest was empty. I checked during the day, but they are gone.

Having a tiny blue jay family outside my bedroom window heals my heart of bitterness. It is part of nature, of the environment we cherish, to have predators and prey. If every songbird baby survived, the earth would soon be filled to overflowing and the food supply would run out. Birds by the thousands would die of starvation. Nature has built in restraints: food for the sparrow, blue jay, hawk, owl, and eagle.

Congregational singing

 Jim’s nephew, Caleb (David and Michelle’s oldest), flew in last Saturday night to spend the summer with us. He has an internship in Boston. The job is remote, but he is hoping to be able to go into the office at some point and see his co-workers. And I think he just wants to live in the Boston area (who wouldn’t?).

Sunday morning Caleb said he wanted to attend church with me. Attendance is capped, so I had to check with the executive secretary, who said there was a built-in cushion and it shouldn’t be a problem.

For the second week in a row, we were allowed to sing with the organ, albeit with masks on. Last week I could barely sing, a combination of a very rusty singing voice and the emotion of savoring an activity we haven’t been allowed to enjoy for fourteen months: congregational singing. This week my voice was a little stronger, but holding the cherished green hymnbook and singing still brought tears to my eyes.

Church attendance has been a constant in my life, my whole life. The first time I attended church in person during the pandemic, it felt strange and isolating. No hymnbooks and only every third pew occupied. Twenty-five people spread out in a seemingly cavernous chapel. Now every other pew is used and soon the attendance cap will be raised.

Asking permission for Caleb to attend highlighted the wonderful religious freedom I have enjoyed all my life and taken for granted until last year.

The weather was gorgeous, so we were able to meet outside and chat after sacrament meeting. I’m fully vaccinated, so I’m no longer worried about infection. The soul-numbing isolation is coming to an end. Hallelujah!

Dumb Thing with a Dumbbell

 Wednesday morning I did a dumb thing. I had just finished a bicep exercise with my 10-lb dumbbells and turned to look at my Nerd Fitness app to record my reps. I put the dumbbells on my straight-back chair and, you guessed it, one dumbbell came crashing down on my toe. It hurt! I squeezed the toe and after a few moments moved it gingerly, hoping no shooting pain would telegraph a report of broken bones. I was assured the damage was not great, but my workout was done for the day.

Replaying the event, I realized that my second thought (after the “This hurts a lot!”) was that I had put the dumbbell down carelessly (true) and that it had rolled off the chair. But that’s not possible: the dumbells have a hexagonal shape and can’t roll an inch. I had nearly missed the chair entirely in my thoughtless movement.

Rest assured the damage was minor. I cancelled my three-mile walk and didn’t even go out for a 5-minute one. I carefully arranged my feet as I got into bed.

The miracle occurred the next morning. Sleepy from the alarm interrupting my slumber, I walked into the bathroom and only later realized I hadn’t thought or needed to favor the foot. My body had started its natural healing process. I sport a lovely dusky bruise and the second joint is slightly swollen and tender. Yesterday I did a 3-mile walk.

The body’s healing doesn’t always prevail; David’s death is the most readily available example of that. But my dumb dumbbell incident highlights its wonder.

Grand Night for Singing (Notes from the Field)

 May 1st Jim and I headed out on the road. We drove straight through to Chicago, a thousand-mile drive. We spent four days with Jim’s nearly-ninety-two-year-old mother. Jim focused on helping her sort photos for inclusion in her life history. I made a delicious (and I do say so myself) carrot cake and took a walk around Hyde Park one day.

We’re both fully-vaccinated and today is Day Fourteen for me. I’m gradually getting used to the idea that I could be out in public without a mask and not inwardly cringe when someone invades my six-foot bubble. I still wear a mask when I see non-family members, to comply with regulations and show solidarity.

After enjoying a two-day ‘getaway’ to Antietam Battlefield and Harpers Ferry, where we walked a tiny bit of the Appalachian Trail across a railroad/pedestrian bridge, we came to southeast D.C. to spend time with our youngest son, Sam, his wife, Savannah, and dear little Eliza and Link.

I’m sitting out on their backyard deck, listening to a bird “who is bound he’ll be heard…throwing his heart at the sky!” The trees are in full leaf. The cherry blossoms are long gone and the last of the azaleas are browning while the roses open up. In the distance I hear the sounds of the highway, DC-295. Many years ago I was camping next to a rushing stream in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. The water ran all night, of course, and sounded a lot like constant highway traffic. When I returned home the sound of Bedford St out my bedroom window took on a soothing character.

I’ve always been aware that Washington is at least a month ahead of Boston in spring. In the nineties, when our children were all at home, I would drive to suburban Maryland to visit my oldest brother, Steve, during April vacation. When we lived in New Hampshire, we would leave a landscape that had barely emerged from winter and as we drove south the signs of spring appeared along the roadside: yellow forsythia in Connecticut, flowering trees in New Jersey and a riot of azaleas, red, white, and pink, in Maryland. The reverse trip at the end of the week rolled the film backwards, but in New England once again, I had hope that spring was coming: I’d seen it in the south.

With vaccinations going apace, I have hope that things will be different this summer from last.

I remember my anxiety on March 12, 2020, wondering what a ‘lockdown’ would look like. Would we be required to stay inside? What about grocery shopping? As it turned out, we had it relatively easy. I could go on walks and hardly encounter anyone. My garden never looked so good: I hired a teenager and three of his younger sisters to work with me. And the lockdown was an opportunity to test our food storage. Based on counsel from our Church leaders, we’ve stored food since we were married. Our basement has a year's supply of calories: various dried beans, rice, wheat, flour, and canned goods. We lasted six weeks without a trip to the grocery store. I was pleased.

This afternoon on the deck is restorative. I don’t often make the effort to sit outside. I haven’t spent the time just sitting: I’m too restless for that. But I have looked up from my computer from time to time, soaking in the deep green foliage and the songbirds.

Early Rising

I’m a columnist for the Cannon Chronicle, a semi-annual newsletter of the descendants of Alan Munn and Mary Parkinson Cannon. I’m married to the editor of eight years, so I’ve got this plum job.

My recent column focused on meditation. Since the pandemic began I have attended a weekday meditation circle on Zoom, led by Khare, a dedicated DBSA Boston (Depression Bipolar Suport Alliance) facilitator and student of meditation. With few exceptions, I’ve been at my computer at 8:30 a.m. every weekday since April. I’ve seen great strides in my ability to sit still and be present.

In my column, I sheepishly admit that 8:15 a.m. is early to me these days. Then I defend myself: I’m retirement age, why not sleep in?

Early rising is a complicated issue for me. Much like my desire to take as few medications as possible, I’ve always seen it as a moral issue. “Early to bed and early to rise,” Benjamin Franklin wrote, extolling the virtues of early rising.

As a child, I loved to get up early. I remember in second grade getting up at 5:30 a.m. to go to morning Mass with my dad. Then I’d sit on a bench at the bottom of the stairs, navy-blue beret jammed on my white-blond head, and ferociously read Robinson Crusoe. (I was an aggressively good reader from a young age.)

When I was around 14, I would get up early on summer mornings and ride my bike all over the south side of Westfield, NJ. The smell of the fresh new day thrilled my heart and I reveled in enjoying a morning that everyone else was sleeping through.

Having manic depression (bipolar 1), I find myself always second guessing myself. Is my early rising virtuous or is it a harbinger of mania? Certainly a symptom of hypomania, that delicious state ‘below’ mania, is a lessened need for sleep. How does that work? Days and weeks of 6, 5, 4 hours of sleep with ever-increasing energy. A pretty stupendous crash at the end, but a crash of the mind, not the muscles and organs (aside from the brain).

So, there ‘tis, to quote the emperor in Amadeus. The virtue of my youth slams up against current medical advice. When I wake spontaneously at 5 a.m. these days, within seconds I have three thoughts: Did I take my meds? Do I need more? Can I handle this myself without meds?)

 

Patriots' Day 1775

Our missionaries asked me to write up a description of Patriots' Day for their Church of Jesus Christ Cambridge Facebook page.

At about 10:15 p.m. on the evening of April 18, 1775, Paul Revere left his home in the North End of Boston and walked to his rowboat, hidden under a wharf. With muffled oars, two co-patriots rowed him across the harbor to Charlestown, within sight of the British Navy’s warship, The Somerset. He had earlier instructed another patriot to hang two lanterns in the steeple of the Old North Church: ‘two if by sea,’ after he learned from an informant that the army was planning a surprise assault that night. In Charlestown, Revere borrowed a horse and set off on his main objective: to warn Samuel Adams and John Hancock in Lexington that the ‘Regulars’ were marching to Lexington to capture them (and have them hung for treason.) Revere would never have cried out, “The British are coming,” he and the American colonists considered themselves British and were fighting for what they believed were their rights as English freemen.

 Revere was nearly captured by two ‘regulars’ in Charlestown. He successfully eluded them and changed his course to ride through modern-day Medford (Mystic) and Arlington (Menotomy). He reached Lexington without further incident, woke Hancock and Adams, and headed to Concord to warn the townspeople that the army’s second order was to capture the hidden munitions in their town.

Outside Lexington, Revere was surrounded by ten armed officers.

 “If you go an inch further you are a dead man!” one man cried.

The redcoats took Revere’s horse and left him to walk the three miles back to Lexington.

 

In Lexington, the redcoats arrived at dawn and were met on the Green (now known as the Battlegreen) by Lexington militia, armed and ready to bar their way. A shot went off, to this day it is debated by whom, and the tired redcoats started firing without orders. The militiamen returned fire and when the smoke cleared, eight colonists lay dead.

 The regulars continued to Concord, where the sought-for munitions had been carefully hidden among the houses of the town. About 100 regulars met an armed band of about 400 militiamen at the North Bridge. A firefight ensued and the redcoats fell back from the bridge to rejoin their main body.

 All day long, militiamen streamed towards the retreating army, coming from towns as far as forty miles away.

 Arriving back in Lexington, having endured attacks by militiamen all along the road, the beleaguered army met Lord Percy and reinforcements from Boston. From there, fierce fighting continued on the long march back to Boston. The troops were exhausted from their thirty-mile midnight march through a hostile countryside filled with ringing church bells, alarming the inhabitants of their ‘secret’ mission. Boston lay another ten-mile march away. In Menotomy (now Arlington), 5000 minutemen met the retreating troops. Lord Percy ordered a house-to-house search for snipers and the regulars ransacked houses and set some on fire.

  After the redcoats arrived back in Boston, militiamen successfully blockaded the narrow neck of land that connected Boston to the mainland, effectively laying siege to Boston and the occupying army. Less than a year later, the British army and navy left Boston peaceably on March 17, 1776. To this day, Boston schoolchildren enjoy a holiday, not for St. Patrick’s Day, but for Evacuation Day.

 

Boston saw no further action in the ensuing war, though many of its militiamen joined the Continental Army and fought valiantly for their independence.

Walking Paul Revere's Ride

    The other day, Jim walked to his barbershop in Lexington Center. He stopped at the Visitors’ Center and bought some history cards and a map of Paul Revere’s ride.

I had noticed that map last fall on a visit and was thrilled with his purchase.

Monday, Jim left for a 12-day road trip with his brother Jeff. Jeff’s wife, Nelly, died November 28. Jim and Jeff are both vaccinated, so the planned road trip (Salt Lake City to San Francisco and Seattle) commenced.

That afternoon, I walked the Minuteman Bike path to the historic Bedford Depot. I wandered around, finding the trailhead of the Concord Reformatory Trail and the Small-gauge Railway to Billerica. I passed by the Bedford Flag statue, my friend Brian's favorite monument.

In all, I walked 9.27 miles in under 3 hours.

I had spent Monday morning planning a bigger adventure: walking the length of Paul Revere’s ride. Tuesday morning I took an MBTA bus for the first time in well over a year, and the Red Line subway to North Station. I walked to Rachel and Paul Revere’s house in the North End and struck out for Lexington. I kept a comfortable pace, just under a 3-minute mile, and stopped for pictures of historic markers.

A detour to “Grandfather’s House” in Medford was delightful. It's a large Greek Revival house with imposing white columns. Tufts University owns the property and, yes, it is right on the Mystic River. There are even a few trees, though I'd hardly call it a woods.

I accidently got off High Street and walked over a mile longer than Paul’s ride. I’m usually a stickler for detail, but when I discovered my error, nearly 10 miles into the trek, I decided to press forward. Luckily I wasn't responsible to alert the residents of Medford's High Street between Woburn and Playstead Streets.

It was a delightful day, overcast and cool (48 degrees) to start, but the clouds lifted and much of the way was in complete sunshine. By walking, I got a real sense of the land and what Paul would have experienced (or rather, what the borrowed horse did).

The toughest section was climbing the glaciar-created Winter Hill in Somerville. The drumlin (an egg-shaped feature shaped by clay mounding under a glacier) has changed little since the 1630s, when Winter Hill Road was established (now called Broadway). Little geological change, but very different habitations and businesses.

    I saw no evidence of the “Winter Hill gang,” which was established in 1955 and, according to Wikipedia, is active in organized crime to this day. One of its most infamous members, Whitey Bulger, went into hiding in 1994 and was apprehended in Santa Monica, California in 2011. He was convicted of many crimes, including complicity in 19 murders.

           My feet started to get pretty sore around mile 13. A half-marathon is 13.1 miles and I've walked that distance many times. Last April 18th, I walked 16.59 miles in a 'virtual' half-marathon: a circuit to Bedford, Concord, Lincoln, and Lexington, including about 8 miles on the Battle Road in Concord.

    Now I've done 17.

Cocktails

 I just discovered something about my psychiatric medication regime. I take a cocktail.

Years ago, when I began attending DBSA Boston (Depression Bipolar Support Alliance) during the day, I heard about cocktails. “I take six different medications, a cocktail” someone would say. I would be grateful I wasn’t doing that.

Why was I against taking a cocktail of medication? For one thing, I’ve never really adjusted to the fact that I take any medication every day. “Better living through modern chemistry” has never been a motto of mine.

I’ve always assumed that it was somehow virtuous to take the fewest medications possible. I often wonder if I really need to take exactly what I do. The cocktail treatment is experimental, as far as I can see. I’m not aware of double-blind studies of the efficacy of any of the myriad combinations of psychotropic drugs. How could there be; there are so many possibilities.

Recently, at DBSA, I asked, “What exactly is a medication cocktail?” Several people assured me that two drugs taken together constitute a cocktail. In that case, I first took a cocktail back in 1996, when my psychiatrist added an anti-depressant to my lithium. And since 2003, I’ve been having cocktails every day: three drugs. Who knew?

Oma Duty

 For the past thirteen days, our big house has been blessed with additional occupants: three-year-old Eliza and twelve-week-old Link (Lincoln) (he was ten weeks old when he arrived) and their parents, Sam and Savannah. As I discovered last summer, when Eliza stayed with us for ten days while Sam and Savannah drove from California to D.C., tending young children is exhausting at age 64. Sam and Savannah have been working everyday (the only way this visit has been possible is with remote employment) and we've watched our young charges each afternoon.

At first, Link was evidently not happy with the level of care, and I put an emergency call out to my trusty Relief Society (our church's women's organization): baby swing needed!

The swing has made a huge difference to my sanity, just as when we had babies back in the eighties. Swings have changed over the years. Our lime-green thrift-store special sported a hand crank, four long, thin aluminum legs.  and a vinyl sling for a seat. The swing we borrowed takes two people to move and must be rated to withstand a magnitude five earthquake. It's electric and has settings for various sounds and music (who knew a child needs to hear "Greensleeves" in the first year of life?)

Link can get very hot and bothered, but when he's calm, it's magical. His dark blue eyes, startling under the mop of dark brown hair, sparkle and he chortles with glee. My heart melts. Every day he changes, a little more interactive, a little more in control of his body.

Eliza is a self-possessed young girl. I'm delighting in sharing my favorite children's books with her. Today it was Hey Al by Arthur Yorinks, illustrated by Richard Egielski. In 1986, it won the Caldecott Medal for illustration. She loves it as much as I do.

Piercing the windowpanes

 The late-winter sunshine continues to enchant me. It pierces the windowpanes and falls on the oak floorboards.

A friend of mine commented that the days will get longer in two weeks. Of course, the clock change doesn’t make the days longer, but sunset will suddenly be an hour later.

I remember how devastating daylight savings was all those years when I drove our high school students to early morning seminary class. Through January and February the sunrise gradually came earlier and earlier. Then, with an abrupt brutality, the clocks were set forward and our risings were plunged into darkness again. Then, as the equinox passed and Helios moved towards the summer solstice, the sun would rise over Route 2 again.

With the pandemic, I spend more time in my house, but I’m more in tune with the sun and seasons than ever. Last year I was out and about, rushing to appointments and in perpetual danger of being late. This year I watch the sun rise out my window and feel its energy at midday.

Fierce February Light

It’s dreary and cold, but at least it’s short.

That sums up my attitude towards February. The lights and sounds and smells of Christmas have faded and spring won’t really arrive until May (in New England). The only good thing about February is its length: 28 days. Four weeks: I can get through that. March will be spring in name only, but the days will be warmer and the nights shorter.

Two weeks ago, a fierce February light shone into my staircase window. Staying home last fall, I appreciated my maple trees more than ever, watching as their colors changed every day, from the lightest yellow-green of spring through many gradations until the yellow leaves fell in October. This month, I watch how the sun out my south window traces a higher arc than in December. The sunlight seems brilliant white, intense, and pure.

When we moved to New Hampshire in 1985, I reveled in the fact that I got to live in a place that other people only visit on vacation. For the last 29 years, living less than half a mile from the Lexington Battlegreen, I’ve seen tour buses three seasons of the year (most years and hopefully again soon). For me, it doesn’t matter when the fall color ‘peak’ happens; I’m here for the whole show.

I just learned what February means. It’s named after Februa, an annual Roman festival of ritual purification and cleansing. In Old English it was often called Solmonath, mud month, and less frequently, Kale-monath, cabbage month. By February cabbage would be the only green vegetable available. (Thank you dictionary.com)

We’ve stayed at home (mostly) for the past 11 months. I’ve watched the seasons revolve out my office window while sitting in my diagon alley. For all my life, February has been my most underappreciated month. This year, I’m savoring it.

 

Clean Sidewalk

 Last Tuesday we got another two or three inches of snow. After dusk I walked to the post office, enjoying the crunch of the snow beneath my boots and the near-empty streets. After posting my package, I took the circuitous route home down Winthrop St. Ahead of me I saw a neatly cleaned stretch of sidewalk and heard the scrape of a snow shovel. A middle-aged man with his back to the street was shoveling his front porch steps. I thought I’d pass by silently: somehow the pandemic has made me shy of people, but decided to take the chance to have a connection. “Nice sidewalk” I shouted. “You are welcome!” he called back. The simple exchange warmed me as much as the aerobics of trudging through the snow.

Half a mile later, I saw a man and a dog at the bottom of Belfry Hill. After I had passed, I heard the dog rushing up behind me. As it hit my knees, I screamed, but kept my balance. The man yelled at the dog and the dog retreated. “Sorry!” called the man. I thought about calling out angrily: the dog had really frightened me and in that situation it’s no good the dog owner saying, “He’s harmless.” If he were so harmless, he wouldn’t have chased me.

But I just walked on. That was as charitable as I could manage. I didn’t feel like calling out, “That’s okay,” or “No harm done,” or “I’m sure he meant well.” But I could manage not criticizing the man. There are leash laws in Lexington: the dog should have been leashed.

I had a vague idea that Lexington has a ‘leash law,’ so I Googled it:

No dog owned or kept in this Town shall be allowed to be off the premises of its owner or keeper except in the immediate restraint and control of some person by means of a leash or by effective command. The owner or keeper of any such dog that is not restrained or controlled off the premises of its owner or keeper shall be punishable by a fine of up to $50 or the maximum permitted by Section 173A of Chapter 140 of the General Laws, whichever is higher.

I suppose the man thought his dog was restrained by effective command, but, in my book, any dog who rams into the back of my legs is not effectively controlled.

If I were more charitable, perhaps I would have turned and smiled, said good doggy or the like. But at least I didn’t lash out. He probably didn’t expect any pedestrians on a snowy evening: there were no other pedestrians and hardly any cars out even.

Sunday, Jim went with me to in-person sacrament meeting. Quick waving of the hands (I suppose we can see each other's smiles behind the masks) and a short conversation or two out in the parking lot. Not satisfying, but better than nothing.

Yesterday we called a house painter, Marcio of Souza Painting, for some house projects that have languished for years. We made a list and Marcio and I walked through the house and outside as I explained the jobs and he made comments and notes. After we were done, Jim came down and we chatted for a few minutes. After seeing our library, he told a funny story about his relationshiop to a very thick book a customer gave him. (He took it on a 9-hour flight back to Brazil, but it stayed in his bag.) Have you read every book? Well, maybe parts of most of them, between the two of us.

It felt so good to have a normal conversation with a great guy. (He refinished our deck and coach house stairs a few years ago and they still look great.) He cheerfully helped Jim carry an IKEA bookcase in a box up to David's room. We've calculated that we can keep buying books, at a moderate rate, for the rest of our lives if we purchase about three more bookcases. I told Marcio that owning books was a hobby: Some people collect sportscars; we own books.

Reward and Loss

 

December 1^st I signed up for Nerd Fitness One-on-One Coaching. I had stagnated in my fitness goals and needed some outside help. Frankly, aging is encroaching on my resolves.

              This isn’t going to be a post bemoaning lack of fitness, but suffice it to say that over the last 18 months I’ve gained over 25 lbs. At that rate, I soon would be at risk for serious health consequences.

              My new Nerd coach, Heather, suggested I start by simply logging my food intake and giving her access to my data. She reviews it, without comment. I thought that would clinch it: the motivation of knowing someone, even a very sympathetic someone, was reading my log. But it didn’t.

              I asked her about motivation tips and she suggested a non-food reward system. As I considered it, I couldn’t think of anything I wanted (besides ice cream and skittles: I have very simple tastes). I enjoy wearing old clothes, have frugal habits, and these days, with college tuitions behind us, if I really want something, I buy it.

              I mentioned the problem to my psych. nurse practitioner. She suggested finding a therapist who could help me work through the issue. Duh! I’ve had a therapist since my last psychotic break in 2003. Oh, right, she said, of course you do.

              When I saw my therapist, David, two weeks later, I presented my dilemma. What he asked in response took me aback.

What losses have you experienced during the pandemic?

    My immediate reaction was: I haven’t had any significant losses. I haven’t lost any loved ones in the pandemic (my parents died six and seven years ago), I can freely take walks in our leafy ( currently snowy) suburb of Boston; my grandchildren (and children) have been able to visit and enjoy our ‘grandchild magnet.’ But David just sat patiently as I processed his question and I did finally offer that I’d lost the ability to travel freely, attend musical concerts, and meet with people.

              He asked what my church congregation was doing and I admitted that although the in-person meetings were better than nothing, they were highly unsatisfactory: the 30 or so participants sitting in every third pew, unable to congregate, chat, and catch up before and after sacrament meeting. Sunday School and Relief Society are exclusively on Zoom.

    We left it there: the hour was over, but I continued to ponder his question.

    A reward system, as I have always practiced it, is actually a punishment system. My focus has always been giving up something pleasurable unless I straighten up and meet a goal. Similar to lugging books home from college, in my reward system I'm always behind, always inadequate, always falling short.

    Do I really need to punish myself in this time of loss? No, I don't. I've always considered myself an introvert, but even this introvert misses the face-to-face contact, the ability to give and receive nonverbal messages, the immediate feedback which prevents the common talk-over of Zoom.

    Pondering David's inquiry hasn't solved my overeating, but it is giving me a window into my interior world. That's the first step.

Childhood revisited

 I continue to work on my memoir. On November 9th I sent it to my sister Maggie to read. (Thank you, Maggie!) She planned to return it before their Thanksgiving trip to North Carolina.

But they cancelled their trip, Thanksgiving came and went, and she didn’t send it back. Then Lincoln was born and Jim and I drove to D.C., stayed ten days, then drove to Chicago and spent a week with his mom.

Without planning it, Maggie gave me an incomparable gift. From November 9th to January 8th, I entered a magical state of childhood. Each break during college: Thanksgiving, Christmas, even summer, I would cart a heavy suitcase of books home to study. I rarely opened any of them, but the psychic weight was heavier than the suitcase. By the time I graduated from college, the mental habit of always feeling underprepared and inadequate was firmly entrenched.

My third psychotic episode was in 2003. Shortly after I returned home from the hospital, I enrolled in a creative writing class. I dreamed of writing a memoir of our 1995 cross-country trip. Some years later, my focus turned to my manic depression (bipolar). My inaction fed a constant undercurrent of anxiety.

But when I clicked send on November 9th, I was suddenly on vacation. A true six-years-old-and-nothing-to-do-but-ride-my-trike freedom. I couldn’t work on it: it was in Maggie's hands. The weeks stretched on, and I basked in the tranquility.

Is this an indication that I really don’t want to do the project? I don’t think so. I needed the breathing space, the luxury of having nothing to do. The ability to pick it back up on my own terms.

Holiday Weekend

 The weekend with Andrew and Victoria went better than I dared hope. They are wonderful houseguests. They told us the next day that they had cried in bed Saturday night, after we had sung them good night. But Victoria’s report Monday evening to her mom was that she didn’t miss her because she was having a great time. It was an immersion experience. I had decided not to fret about undone work and just enjoy creating a wonderful holiday weekend for our grandchildren.

Friday evening, Peter and we met in front of the Town Line Diner in Rocky Hill, just south of Wethersfield, Connecticut. Wethersfield has been a source of romance for me ever since falling in love with The Witch of Blackbird Pond in fifth grade. Back in the 1600s, Rocky Hill was part of Wethersfield.

I’ve been driving up and down I-91 for 36 years, going to New Jersey to visit my parents, D.C. to visit the temple (before the 2000 opening of the Boston Temple, which reduced our temple trip mileage 100-fold, from 450 miles to 4.5.) I’ve seen the highway sign for the historic Wethersfield ferry, but never stopped to investigate. Service began in 1655, making it the oldest continuously-operated ferry in the United States.

When Peter got to the parking lot, where we would ‘exchange prisoners,’ we proposed a birthday supper at the diner. I've loved diners longer than Blackbird Pond. I had moussaka and asked the waitress if she was Greek. No, Albanian. We were nearly the only customers and she treated us royally. On Monday, when we met Xiomara at the same parking lot (it’s within two miles of being halfway between our homes), we talked her into a meal there as well.

The weekend felt so spacious. We planned our last day, Monday, on the white board: playground, fly Andrew's drone, foosball, cotton candy, go home.

As the slogan says, “If I’d known grandkids were so much fun, I would have had them first.”

Pizza and plans

 Jim cleared his closet last week and I put all the discarded shirts and pants into two large black garbage bags and searched the web for a place to take them. Many are quite a bit past the ‘gently used’ stage: I didn’t want to burden a charity with textiles they will lose money recycling.

I found Helpsy. No donation boxes in Lexington or Arlington, but several in adjoining Burlington, including one in the parking lot shared by Blaze, a pizzeria doing for pizza what Qdoba does for Mexican food: all the toppings included for one base price. (My pathologically-frugal self was tempted to ask for every topping, but I forbore.)

Over a year ago, when Blaze first opened, we came, coupon in hand, but the doors were locked, with employees seen through the window. The manager answered our knocking, came to the door, and explained: a food shipment had failed to arrive and they were out of dough for their grand opening.

Last night there was plenty of dough and plenty of seating. (We were the only dine-in customers.) As we enjoyed the delicious pizzas, Xiomara called. Our granddaughter, Victoria, had been cajoling her all day, insisting on calling Oma and JimDad to see if she and Andrew could visit alone during the upcoming holiday weekend. We had offered Peter and Xiomara a reverse get-away: we’d entertain the kids at our home (a.k.a. grandchild magnet) and leave their apartment kid-free.

By the time Victoria got on the phone with us, she had changed her tune. She only wanted to stay two days. But Xiomara was firm: you wanted to call them all day; you’re going.

My parents invited grandchildren to visit for a week, once they turned eight. (At the time, one of my kids proclaimed that he would spend a week with them until he was thirty.) I’ve often thought that they were wise to set that age limit: by eight years old homesickness is often curable, especially when there's ice cream on your cereal every morning.

Andrew is nearly eight, but Victoria is just five. A year and a half ago, she sat, ramrod straight on top bunkbed, refusing to be comforted until her parents came home from their night out with their siblings. I found the show-down exhausting. I didn’t cave and call her mom, but it took a lot out of me. When I expressed my trepidation towards this proposed visit to Jim, he said, “I’ll be alright.”

I suppose I will be also. Check in with me next week.

Ring in the new

I often grumble about New Year’s Eve and pretend to hate the Roman holiday. I try to be asleep before midnight: I actually accomplished that this year: Jim and his mom had to crack open the non-alcoholic sparkling Rosé without me.

But really, I fall for it every year: hook, line, and sinker. Like a lawn covered in a pristine blanket of new snow, the fresh calendar inspires thoughts of and hopes for new beginnings.

Fun trivia fact: Great Britain and its American colonies started their new year on March 25 until 1752. I like that: new beginnings should start in the spring, when the days grow from the spring equinox to summer solstice and spring planting has started (south of New England, at least).

On December 1st, I hired a Nerd Fitness coach and rang in the new year with exercise, nutrition, and lifestyle goals. I even wrote a (bad) haiku:

Awareness increased

Incremental is the key

Open to the world

 

I've written about Nerd Fitness before:

Phyz Ed

Self-help Junkie

Nerd Fitness

My Nerd Fitness ‘Big Why’ (written in May 2020)

I am engaging in Nerd Fitness Academy because I want to have a healthier body with the strength and energy to enjoy life. I want to continue to garden, keep house, enjoy my grandchildren, walk long distances, and serve other people.

I want to be a seventy-year-old woman who seems to be fifty-five. Yes, fifty-five will be my new normal.

I’m not sure this is attainable, but I’m going to give it my best shot.

Welcome, 2021.