Oil tanker or trim little schooner

The night before our Bahamas cruise, in our Tampa Bay hotel, we slept in a king-size bed. I have never understood the appeal. It feels like an oil tanker: I’d rather ride to sleep in a trim little schooner.

When we’d been married two years, Jim was offered a job interview with Ford in Detroit. We were such hicks then, even though Jim had grown up near the University of Chicago in Hyde Park and I in the sophisticated suburbs of New Jersey. Very budget-conscious, we packed canned food for the trip, bread and peanut butter and crackers, not expecting an expense account. The secretary in charge of reimbursements couldn’t believe we had spent nothing on food.

We chuckle about it now. We were such babes in the woods.

The hotel was fancier than any I’d ever stayed in, perhaps to this day. I felt bad getting cracker crumbs on the carpet. The bed was enormous. I suppose many people in America had a king-size bed, but it was new to us.

I still don’t like king-size beds. We started married life in a sublet studio apartment of a Princeton grad student. Our honeymoon trip, at Camp Liahona, the family campground owned by the Church, was kiboshed when our Nova’s water pump broke just outside of town. Back to the sublet we went, where we had a wonderful first week of marriage, soaking up reunion lectures at Jim’s alma mater.

In August we drove to Chicago and moved into married student housing at the University of Chicago. Jim’s dad had negotiated the purchase of much of the furniture of the departing tenant couple. A white vinyl pullout couch, four painted oak chairs, a drop-leaf table, and a double bed with wooden headboard and foot board. We were told that the mattress was old and needed replacing. They were embarrassed to sell it to us. We kept it for six years. When we did finally carry it out on the curb for trash pickup, it started to rain and as I watched out the window I realized with a pang that there was no going back.

Each of our six children was conceived between those head and foot boards and we still have the frame to this day, though I think we’re on our third or fourth mattress. (The current one is from Bed In A BoxBedInABox and came wrapped in strong plastic. When we unwrapped it, the foam unrolled and inflated as we watched. Within a month my chronic back pain had disappeared.)

The few times we have slept on king-size mattresses, when we stay at an upscale hotel, have left me mystified. What do people see in them? Perhaps because I have slept on a small bed for forty-four years, I’ve developed the habit of only inhabiting a few square feet of mattress. King-size beds are wasted on me.

And too, isn’t a point of sharing a marriage bed to be close to each other? There’s plenty of room in our bed for no-contact sleeping, but it always feels very cozy.

I mean no criticism to those who need more space to sleep. And it is fortuitous that I prefer a double bed. Our 1895 house was not built for king-size beds. To get even just the double-bed box spring up the staircase when we moved in in 1993, our friend, Marc Butler, had to remove the window frame at the stair landing. Four people were needed to hoist the box spring into the window from the garden and pull it through the window frame. If we ever do get rid of it, we’ll have to chop it up first.

 

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.

Nelly Elizabeth Fernandez Johnston (1955-2020)

 Nelly Elizabeth Fernandez Johnston died early in the morning on Friday, November 28. Her daughter, Carla, wrote a tender tribute on Facebook:

After a nearly two-year battle with lung cancer my mother, Nelly Fernandez Johnston, passed away early this morning. She was a vibrant, generous woman, always seeking to better not only her life, but the lives of all those she touched. She made so many courageous leaps throughout her life, including immigrating to Venezuela and later the US, joining the LDS Church, and living the fullest life she could with her friends and family these past two years. She peacefully leapt into Heaven, ready to meet her Savior and start her celestial work. I love you Mom.

The news was not unexpected; stage-four lung cancer is always fatal. But the finality still comes as a shock. She was sixty-five years old, the same age as Jim, a year and a half older than me.

    One day, when I was about fourteen, I lay sprawling on the blue-shag carpet in our living room, reading the local Westfield Leader. For some reason, an obituary caught my eye. How old was he? Mom asked. Old, I said, 62. That’s not old, stated Mom.

My mom was a wise woman, so I made a note, “62 is young to die,” although I didn’t believe it or understand her. As I’ve aged, however, ‘old’ has receeded. Now 62 is quite young to die. Not as young as 5, or 13, or 27, but young.

I think of David, of course. It’s been over five years since his death, August 12, 2015. He was buried exactly a month afterwards, since he had donated his body to the University of Massachusetts Medical School. They used his body to test a lung device. The head researcher told us that the team was very reverent and appreciative. Some of them were around David’s age and seeing his body was sobering.

At the cemetery on September 12, 2015, a small flock of wild turkeys ambled through the morning fog. A few of Jim’s business associates stood a little apart from our family and friends, reverently marking the event with us. An Army bugler played taps.

Incongruously, I was grateful for the large American flag covering the wooden coffin. We had picked the cheapest coffin the funeral home offered. It had always seemed a waste of good money and material to bury a fine piece of furniture in the ground. David didn’t care, did he?

But, suddenly I was intensely ashamed of my frugality. I’m sure no one at the service, all of whom loved us, judged us. But there it was, irrational and potent.

Peter and Xiomara and Andrew had driven up from the Bronx, one-month-old Victoria wrapped in a white blanket. I held her, just like my dad had held little four-month-old Andrew at Mom’s funeral two years before. Her warm little body comforted me, as did the basket of purple flowers our friends brought to the gravesite.

After the burial service, we piled into cars and headed for the Belmont Chapel. There we met the Massachusetts General Hospital bloodmobile for our first annual blood drive in David’s memory.

This year the blood drive attendance was the lowest ever. Because of the pandemic, MGH sent two bloodmobiles to maintain physical distancing. Everyone’s body temperature was taken and the standard covid questions were asked. Fortunately, it didn’t rain, so we were able to meet outside and chat with our friends.

Five years ago, Matt gifted us a photo of David, printed directly on glass. We lay it on the registration table. Our friend, Jen, touched it with her fingers and I realized that she was thinking of David, the little boy she watched grow up. Many young families in our ward come for schooling or first jobs and then move away. David hadn’t lived at home for a long time, before he got sick, so few church members knew him. It touched my heart to see Jen’s simple gesture.

Nelly will be sorely missed, by her husband, Jeff, and children, J.F., Carla, and Paul. She was outgoing, fun-loving, and compassionate and had more good friends than I have acquaintances.

She’s the second of our generation to die. My brother Mike, severely intellectually disabled, never married, so Jeff is the first widower. Is it morbid or just realistic to wonder who is next? That could come tomorrow or in twenty years. But it will come. Am I making the most of the time I’ve been given?

A Casket

August 31 was an odd anniversary: the day UMass Medical Center called Jim to say they were finished with David’s body and we could have it back. Jim and I were on a Boston On Foot walking tour of Beacon Hill in Boston. Jim took the call while we were outside the Statehouse.

In an immediate panic, I thought we had to answer them right away, make plans to immediately take possession of the body. Jim was calmer and convinced me that we could wait to respond until we did have plans in place.

Now, I realize there was no rush. The medical center must have a refrigerated morgue for such cases. I was badly thrown off: just as I'd gotten used to the idea that they might keep David’s body for two years, they were finished. I had struggled with his body being in some strange and unknown place, then suddenly had to deal with burial arrangements, 19 days after they took him away.

It all worked out. The burial was Saturday, September 12.

The morning of the burial, there was a heavy ground fog in the cemetery. As we stood near the open grave, a small flock of wild turkeys sauntered by. Some colleagues of Jim’s were there: I was touched. The Jones’ brought a small basket of purple flowers to decorate the grave.

Peter and Xiomara came from the Bronx. Victoria was exactly a month old and I felt joy through my tears as I held her. Andrew had played a similar role at my mother’s funeral, two years before. I remember my bereaved father holding his newest great-grandchild.

I have never wanted an elaborate casket. Funerals are for the living, and many people find comfort in choosing a beautiful hardwood casket with a satin interior for the body to rest in. I prefer a plain pine box. So I chose the most inexpensive casket available at the funeral home. At the cemetery, I suddenly had second thoughts. I was embarrassed at having scrimped on the casket. I was relieved that it was covered by the large American flag. (David had been in the army, so he had a military honor guard.) However, after the prayer, two soldiers stepped to the casket, removed the flag, and reverently folded it. They marched over and presented me with it.

Looking back, I’m sure no one was judging me and my frugality. I was among friends and family, who wanted to share this sad moment with us. They didn’t care what the casket looked like. They cared about us and mourned with us early on that foggy morning.

The Clean Plate Club

Red-letter day: I left a quarter-cup of rice on my plate at Thai E-Sarn restaurant in Arlington Heights at lunchtime.

I am a pathological member of the ‘Clean Plate Club’. It is painful for me to throw away food. I work hard to serve myself no more than I want to eat, but when there’s too much on my plate, I sometimes eat it all.

For years, our family budget was tight. We were raising six kids on one income and hoping to help each of them financially through college. I was conscious of the cost of every calorie.

One wintery February, in about 2005, I accompanied my dad to St. Croix. He always flew first class. The flight attendants brought us heated washcloths before take-off and served dinner on real crockery with metal flatware. Dad and I were seated in different rows, with a stranger sitting next to me. As is my wont, I ate every speck of food, even wiping the dish clean with a bit of bread I’d saved for that purpose. The man glanced over at my plate and said disdainfully, “Well, you must have liked that”. I felt like a unsophisticated yokel. I’m sure he’d never seen someone consume all the calories available  in-flight.

I still work really hard at serving myself modest amounts of food, consuming all the calories on my plate, or bringing home restaurant left-overs, but I’m trying not to be obsessive about it.

Did you know the Clean Plate Club was an actual, federally-sponsored organization? In 1917, Woodrow Wilson appointed Herbert Hoover to address World War I food shortages. Food rationing was implemented and voluntary 'meatless Mondays' and 'wheatless Wednesdays' were promoted.Hoover developed a pledge for schoolchildren:

“At table I’ll not leave a scrap of food upon my plate. And I’ll not eat between meals, but for supper time I’ll wait.”

The club was terminated after the war, but revived in 1947,  to address post-World War II food shortages. Elementary schools established local clubs and encouraged children to join. I remember my parents encouraging me to be part of my own Clean Plate Club. We certainly didn't throw much food away. It takes discipline to limit both waste and consumption. "Waste not, want not" combined with what my dad used to say, "Don't make your body a garbage can."

I feel a little sheepish admitting to the uneaten rice. Perhaps next time I'll ask specifically for a smaller portion.