"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."
Matt’s email three days ago quoting The Great Gatsby, informed me that I again missed the longest day, because I was too busy living it. For several Junes since we read Gatsby for our family book group in 2013 Matt has emailed Daisy’s question.
Saturday, the longest day of my year, was spent with two adorable grandchildren, Andrew and Victoria. It was sunny and hot and we played in our wading pool. I had bought two spray nozzles and attached them to garden hoses so they could have water fights while I watered my rhubarb with a third hose.
As Xiomara and I sat in the sun-warmed pool late in the afternoon, she reminisced about her childhood in Honduras. They received just one pair of shoes a year, so they went barefoot most of the time, including to school and on their daily mile-long walk to the river to fetch water. Being the youngest, Xiomara only carried two one-gallon containers home: the older children carried five gallons on their heads. Her resourceful father bought an acre of land outside of town and planted mangoes, bananas, pineapples, and coconuts as well as beans and vegetables. As poor as they were, tropical fruit was cheap and plentiful. It's a stark contrast to the prices in New York.
My dad grew up in a ‘ranch house’ among the wheat fields of Montana with no running water. I remember using the outhouse the summer of 1965 when we flew to Montana for a reunion.
A few days ago, I planted several zinnia seeds in small pots and by Saturday they had sprouted cotyledons. (The embryonic ‘leaves’ that nourish the plant until true leaves can grow and start photosynthesis.) I gave one to Victoria to take home and today, by video, she proudly showed me her thriving plant.
Another botanical project is my Christmas cacti. My mom grew beautiful Christmas cacti (which aren’t technically cacti at all) and enjoyed collecting varieties. She had pink and white and even an orange one. They bloomed at Christmas or Thanksgiving or Easter.
My oldest cactus sat for years on our old piano; the brilliant pink blossoms cascaded down one side of the pot. This year I decided to take the old, lopsided plant in hand. I perched it on top of an overturned wastebasket in the kitchen and studied it for several days. I came to see that I could restore balance by pruning it severely. Two younger but also unruly plants needed a deep trimming as well. I filled several small pots and a large, shallow pot with soil and planted about 20 slips. I’d never thought to prune a Christmas cactus. A week after the pruning, all three plants are sending out fresh new leaves. I hope they enjoy their new state.
I got a haircut too, the first in twenty weeks. My hairdresser, Pauline, has rearranged her salon to allow for safe distancing. She's always been meticulous about cleanliness: the main change is the box of disposable face masks on her counter. I left about four inches of grey and white hair on the floor, just in time for the hot weather.
Showing posts with label face masks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label face masks. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 23, 2020
Thursday, April 23, 2020
Mortified
Some dear friends are leaving our ward. For the third time in two weeks, we participated in a ‘drive-by’. For an hour our friends were outside their house, receiving visitors at six-feet distance. It’s so sad not to be able to hug, shake hands, or show a smile.
They live in Arlington Heights, near the top of the town's highest hill. After our chat, Jim drove home; I walked. We've lived within five miles of Arlington Heights for 27 years, but I still don’t have a handle on it. No one I know has ever lived in the neighborhood I walked through, and I’ve never studied a map.
I stop several times, studying the tiny GPS map, trying to make out the pale lines of streets, follow the maze, and memorize the combination of turns that will get me to Mass Ave.
I talk to R’el until she arrives home. These days she walks home from Bellevue, which takes over an hour. Running with a face mask on is difficult.
As she arrives home, I see Trader Joe’s roof below me. Could my grandfather from western Nebraska imagine the scene? Houses stacked so that I gaze over the roof of Trader Joe's on Mass Ave from the street above? I’m in a Thomas Hardy novel. I'm Farmer Gabriel Oaks, looking down at the wagon where Bathsheba Everdeen is looking at herself in a mirror, revealing her vanity. Trader Joe is my Bathsheba.
On Mass Ave, my pace quickens. No doubt as to my route, the only navigation in the last three miles is to bear right around Captain Parker’s statue. I could do it with my eyes closed. So I start monitoring my pace electronically. When it rises above 16 min/mile, I speed up. I watch as it dips below 16, and occasionally below 14, when I push and the road is downhill. My first two miles were 18:53; my final half-mile is 15:13. I aspire to a mile at 14:59.
In five and a half miles, I see fewer than a twenty people, plus three bicycles. For the second time in my life, I’ve brought my mask. I tie it on and, when I can see no one, pull down one side below my chin. Whenever I see a person, I secure it over my nose before I get within 20 feet of them. A woman drives by with a mask on. A few people wear masks constantly outdoors.Some people wear no masks, but they considerately walk or run into the empty street to avoid me. Everyone I wave to (smiles are no longer an option) waves back, or smiles if they don’t have a mask on.
When I walked to Concord and back on Saturday (16 ½ miles), I passed within 12 feet (or more) of a woman. She shouted, You should have a mask on. I had one in my pocket, but at that point, 7 or 8 miles into my march, I hadn’t come within 6 feet of anyone. I shouted back (since she wasn’t close enough to whisper to), I’m not within 6 feet. Undeterred, she replied, You should consider other people.
I went on my way, but the conversation stuck with me. I like to please people; I like to be liked. I like to follow the rules, even if they are unnecessary. (I stop at stoplights in the middle of the night with no cars in sight.) I don’t like being told I am inconsiderate.
My son, Matt, tells me that when he runs, some others runners will disregard the 6 foot rule and even veer toward him.
Yesterday, Jim and I walked to the post office a half mile away. As we passed Stop & Shop, I saw a masked man several yards away. He had moved off the sidewalk into a driveway, obviously waiting for us to pass. I was mortified: I had left my mask at home. The day before was the my first venture into public for 41 days; I had no habit of mask wearing. Here we were, heading to the post office with no masks. I had pictured that we would use the automatic machine and not stand in line, but I realized that there was no guarantee that we could keep 6 feet distance: there might be a line for the machine; the machine might be out of order (a not infrequent occurrence). I decided to turn around and we walked home, then Jim drove there.
It’s a strange time. I can’t imagine how I could be infected. I literally had not been within six feet of anyone but Jim for 41 days. At the grocery store, I stayed a safe distance, wore a mask, and observed that everyone else had masks on. I understand the impulse to have everyone wear masks and I’m willing to do that, to learn a new habit. It’s a show of solidarity. There is no way for a stranger, or even a friend, to know what risk I pose. So I wear a mask. And I can’t smile at my friends as they leave, perhaps forever.
They live in Arlington Heights, near the top of the town's highest hill. After our chat, Jim drove home; I walked. We've lived within five miles of Arlington Heights for 27 years, but I still don’t have a handle on it. No one I know has ever lived in the neighborhood I walked through, and I’ve never studied a map.
I stop several times, studying the tiny GPS map, trying to make out the pale lines of streets, follow the maze, and memorize the combination of turns that will get me to Mass Ave.
I talk to R’el until she arrives home. These days she walks home from Bellevue, which takes over an hour. Running with a face mask on is difficult.
As she arrives home, I see Trader Joe’s roof below me. Could my grandfather from western Nebraska imagine the scene? Houses stacked so that I gaze over the roof of Trader Joe's on Mass Ave from the street above? I’m in a Thomas Hardy novel. I'm Farmer Gabriel Oaks, looking down at the wagon where Bathsheba Everdeen is looking at herself in a mirror, revealing her vanity. Trader Joe is my Bathsheba.
On Mass Ave, my pace quickens. No doubt as to my route, the only navigation in the last three miles is to bear right around Captain Parker’s statue. I could do it with my eyes closed. So I start monitoring my pace electronically. When it rises above 16 min/mile, I speed up. I watch as it dips below 16, and occasionally below 14, when I push and the road is downhill. My first two miles were 18:53; my final half-mile is 15:13. I aspire to a mile at 14:59.
In five and a half miles, I see fewer than a twenty people, plus three bicycles. For the second time in my life, I’ve brought my mask. I tie it on and, when I can see no one, pull down one side below my chin. Whenever I see a person, I secure it over my nose before I get within 20 feet of them. A woman drives by with a mask on. A few people wear masks constantly outdoors.Some people wear no masks, but they considerately walk or run into the empty street to avoid me. Everyone I wave to (smiles are no longer an option) waves back, or smiles if they don’t have a mask on.
When I walked to Concord and back on Saturday (16 ½ miles), I passed within 12 feet (or more) of a woman. She shouted, You should have a mask on. I had one in my pocket, but at that point, 7 or 8 miles into my march, I hadn’t come within 6 feet of anyone. I shouted back (since she wasn’t close enough to whisper to), I’m not within 6 feet. Undeterred, she replied, You should consider other people.
I went on my way, but the conversation stuck with me. I like to please people; I like to be liked. I like to follow the rules, even if they are unnecessary. (I stop at stoplights in the middle of the night with no cars in sight.) I don’t like being told I am inconsiderate.
My son, Matt, tells me that when he runs, some others runners will disregard the 6 foot rule and even veer toward him.
Yesterday, Jim and I walked to the post office a half mile away. As we passed Stop & Shop, I saw a masked man several yards away. He had moved off the sidewalk into a driveway, obviously waiting for us to pass. I was mortified: I had left my mask at home. The day before was the my first venture into public for 41 days; I had no habit of mask wearing. Here we were, heading to the post office with no masks. I had pictured that we would use the automatic machine and not stand in line, but I realized that there was no guarantee that we could keep 6 feet distance: there might be a line for the machine; the machine might be out of order (a not infrequent occurrence). I decided to turn around and we walked home, then Jim drove there.
It’s a strange time. I can’t imagine how I could be infected. I literally had not been within six feet of anyone but Jim for 41 days. At the grocery store, I stayed a safe distance, wore a mask, and observed that everyone else had masks on. I understand the impulse to have everyone wear masks and I’m willing to do that, to learn a new habit. It’s a show of solidarity. There is no way for a stranger, or even a friend, to know what risk I pose. So I wear a mask. And I can’t smile at my friends as they leave, perhaps forever.
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