Days Like This

I’d love to say that I’ve been in a warm southern destination for the last four days soaking up the sun while handsome bare-chested male waiters fed me fresh fruit and Margueritas. Alas, that would be a stupid choice right now. 

The closest I’ve come to being waited on in the last five weeks of the “stay at home” rules is when my cat, King Louis, plunks down in the middle of the kitchen floor licking his butt as he “waits on” me to give him treats. 

Easter weekend provided a four day reprieve from work and I can’t remember the last time I’ve had that many days off in a row and stayed home for all of them. I loved it. 

Of course I say I loved staying home, as parents of young children who’ve been together 24-7 for the last five weeks have discovered broom closets double as escape pods for adult sanity.  

Over my four day weekend I baked bread and hamburger buns and apple tarts, barbecued a steak, grilled a burger, broiled shrimp, popped popcorn, had brownies with my coffee each morning, snuffed down more than a few snacks of cheese and crackers, and cooked up homemade chicken vegetable soup worthy of first prize. 

In other words, I did nothing but prepare enough food for a family of six and ate it all myself. Oh, yes, I did get out for a walk to stretch my legs and give my heart something to thump about besides the excitement of second helpings and the joy of binge watching Season 3 of ‘Ozark’ on Netflix. 

When I was thinking too much and feeling sorry for myself, I perseverated about physical touch. (No, not that kind of physical touch) - I mean the hugging kind, the warm fuzzy long embraces of wrapping arms around a loved one and just “being” - the same warm hearted gesture I suddenly realized happened every five minutes in every movie I watched this weekend. “Smite me, oh mighty Smiter!” I moaned. 

I even went so far as to leap on an idea one of my friends had for those of us who live alone during the “stay at home” festival. Hug a tree in place of a human. How brilliant is that! 

I rigged up a platform outside for my iPhone in the evergreen forest, set the camera timer for 10 seconds and hugged a tree repeatedly for 25 minutes until I got the shot I was looking for. 

I texted the picture to my family members with love and hugs and I felt better - until Daughter #3 reminded me of a clip from the 1999 movie “Superstar” involving a tree and the main character, Mary Katherine Gallagher (Molly Shannon) hugging and kissing it, and carrying on a naughty conversation with the tree bark.  Thankfully I’m not quite THAT desperately lonely yet. 

Nonetheless. I am reminded of American writer Dave Barry who penned, “Magnetism is one of the six fundamental forces of the Universe, with the other five being gravity, duct tape, whining, remote control, and the force that pulls dogs toward the groins of strangers.”

In my world, Magnetism is that man, Mr G, whom I haven’t been able to lay my hands on in more than 30 days. I miss him very, very much.

Yet in light of such mind-boggling Covid 19 statistics on this April 13th evening of more than 1.9 million cases worldwide, U.S.A. tipping the scales at 582,000, and Canada at nearly 26,000 cases of its own, I cannot possibly snivel about having to stay home and stay safe - because right now I am grateful for my health and for the health of my loved ones, and I pray the same for the entire Borderland area in which I am privileged to live. 

Above my writing desk is a framed verse that reads: 

“There is a destiny that makes us brothers,

None goes his way alone. 

All that we send into the lives of others, 

Comes back into our own.”

Gratitude for the small things. Sometimes it is enough to get us through. 

Six Feet of Separation

Up and down. Maybe the best three words I could come up with to describe my mood. Covid 19 - the new era of abnormal. Like you, I’m trying to file off the “AB” to make these times feel like a new normal. Sometimes I do it well, sometimes I do it appallingly. Up and down. 

Sometimes I just want to crouch down and put my hands over my head as the surge comes. I wonder if that’s how people of the village of Pompei felt in 79 A.D. as Mount Vesuvius spilled its guts.  They knew what was coming and they could do nothing but close their eyes and crouch under the bed and wait. 

But all is not lost. I’m a stickler for the rules of the day that involve physical distancing. That rule and keeping our hands clean and away from our face are our best weapons. I’m doing a pretty good job on the hand versus face thing, which is really hard when you’re old like me because I’m always massaging my eyelids when I’m tired- and I’m notorious for picking my nose. Yes folks I confess I do that once in a while when no one is looking. Talk about mining a vessel for the virus right?  But yes, I’m doing my due diligence socially and keeping my hands washed and my fingers away from my face.  

And I when I’m not at work I go home and I stay home. I work in healthcare and while I am nowhere close to being a frontline healthcare worker (those are the heroes of our time) I do my job and then I go home. 

I haven’t been able to be with my daughters, my grandchildren, or my parents, in about four weeks. The lovely gent in my life, 'Mr. G,' lives in the U.S. town across the mighty Rainy River and with the border closed indefinitely, I haven’t had a hug in weeks, and I love to hug. However I’m all for the border closure because it’s a necessary defence mechanism in this viral war, BUT physical distancing has new meaning when you live alone in times such as these. Sure there’s “simulated togetherness” places to meet - ‘FaceTime’ and so on - but if you are reading this and you’ve been isolating with your spouse and your children for a time, and even though you could pull your hair out and run screaming room to room staying home 24-7 with each other - you have the opportunity to hug and kiss them every day, and wake up next to someone you love - so please appreciate the blessing some of us do not have right now. 

Thankfully "Me, Myself, and I" get along really well together. I’m a poster girl for “on solo” - mostly because I talk to myself a lot. I discuss the news, swap ideas with myself, answer my own questions, argue with my decisions, and laugh at my own jokes. I talk to my little farmhouse as if it was a friend and oh, of course I have ‘Alexa’ in every room and she’s a good go-to when I get bored of my own voice. I’ve also heard that Samuel L. Jackson is to be the next new voice of ‘Alexa’, and when that happens, look out. 

As a “Solo Me-O,” if I start feeling like a “Dorothy Downer,” I  just cook myself a really good meal and have a glass of wine, maybe three, and I’m fine.  Ha.  Who am I kidding.

As long as I don’t run out of rice and flour I’ll be good. I had some foresight to prepare my food pantry for these coming rollercoaster weeks and months, but then again I live alone so I don’t need 150 boxes of Kraft Dinner and 200 rolls of toilet paper. 

In fact, I had a great idea on how to solve the toilet paper crisis in my neck of the woods. I purchased a Bidet. Best idea ever. I installed it successfully by myself, plumbing and all. I tested the spray button before I sat down, unaware that the water sprays straight up in the direction of “the behind.” I had the lid up and nearly lost an eyeball - ducking just in time as the water shot out of the toilet and all over the bathroom wall. 

Since my Bidet moved in, I’ve not used “TP” in three weeks. I can hear you asking, “How does one wipe after using a Bidet?” I won’t go into detail. There really is such a thing as too much information. Let me just say I have everything in hand. Well, not really “in hand,” but anyway, a Bidet has given me a way to win against the empty store shelf.

In these times of great distress and anxiety and worry and fear of the one thing we cannot see, a little dose of humour and laughter is a good bandaid. 

I look forward to the day when my grandkids can finally come over, and to the first one who uses my bathroom - and with the toilet seat up wonders, “What does that button do?”

Ha. 

30 days back to now

I wrote this column on the last Monday evening in May. I was going to recycle it completely until I reread it and realized a few things were worth revisiting. 

The apple blossoms aren’t on the breeze anymore. Back then the scent of new blooms drifted on the wind pleasing my nose. I still hear the moan of the lawn tractor belonging to my neighbor. The growing madness grows on. We are all in the timing race to catch the next cut on just the right day, at just the right length, and before the rain. 

At the end of May my flower bed at the back door was teeming with all manner of colorful flowers, thanks to my eight year old grandson, Charlie, who chose all the red, pink, and orange ones on our trip to the local nursery—and also instructed me on how to plant, “Straight in a row, Granny.”

Today I look upon my flowerbed and see sheared off plants, nibbled to their ankles by a deer. Rosemary, petunias, strawberries, portulaca, and yes, even marigold blossoms, and the pungent herb rosemary weren’t spared.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

Despite my deer-loathing disposition right now, there’s still only one creature I’d like to catapult into the lava spewing Kilauea volcano in Hawaii. I say that as I see a large black spider running at top speed towards my dangling foot. I stop typing, it stops running. I move my foot, it jousts to the left. I stomp my foot, it runs towards me like a steak dinner then drops out of sight under the area rug. 

Yet it’s not that hairy little arachnid or the wolf spider that lives in my basement, nor the pesky squirrel that continues its valiant attempts to get into my garage. Nor is it the geese and goslings who poop-ulate my backyard.

My nemesis remains the oily skinned, nocturnal, buck toothed beaver.  I thought it was kind of cute the other day when I stood watching him swim out of the creek, loaf up onto shore at my neighbor’s place and haul away branches from a downed tree. It was all fun and games until I looked around my own domain and spotted a grandiose patch of bark missing off one of my lovelies. On closer examination I realize I’ve been bark robbed, with buck toothed etchings in the meat of the tree and a trail of shavings.

Yet as much as I would like to stake out a blind at twilight with my slingshot and pop Mr. Beaver as he swims by, Father Time beckons me to choose otherwise.

At the end of May I counted 27 sunsets to come before the longest day of year. Those sunsets passed over me like a Learjet because I too busy squinting at the creek at dusk.

Let’s remember that as we tag one another in the rat race of life, time does not wait and the sunsets we miss are sunsets we miss. Slow down and enjoy the now. 

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Ode to the days of spring

I am writing while outside on a beautiful late May afternoon. Apple blossoms are sending their sweet scent across the wind breeze. In the distance I hear the faint moan of the lawn tractor belonging to my neighbour. Like me, he’s mowing grass twice a week this time of year to keep ahead of the growing madness of spring. 

My flower bed at the back door is teeming with all manner of colorful flowers, thanks to my eight year old grandson, Charlie, who chose all the plants on our trip to the local nursery and instructed me on how to plant them, “Straight in a row,” Granny.

I think spring is my favourite time of year and I feel about it the way I do of small puppies and kittens, and small grandchildren. I wish they could stay just as they are for a very long time.

Despite my love for spring, it comes with its creature features and of all those great and small that pass through my farmyard this time of year, there is only one I’d like to catapult into the lava spewing Kilauea volcano in Hawaii. 

I say that as I see a large black spider running at top speed towards my dangling foot. I stop typing, it stops running. I move my foot, it jousts to the left. I stomp my foot, it runs towards me like a steak dinner then drops out of sight between the porch deck boards.

Yet it’s not that hairy little arachnid or the wolf spider that lives in my basement, nor the pesky squirrel that continues its valiant attempts to get into my garage that I despise today. Nor is it the geese and goslings who poop-ulate my backyard, or the flock of pigeons that fly through cracks in the siding of my old barn and sit up in the rafters of the hayloft and make deposits everywhere.

My current nemesis is the oily skinned, nocturnal, buck toothed beaver.  I thought it was kind of cute the other day when I stood watching him swim out of the creek, loaf up onto shore at my neighbour’s place and haul away branches from a downed tree. In fact I admired the beaver’s determination to carry off the feat. 

It was all fun and games until while admiring my own yard I look out and spot a grandiose patch of bark missing off one of my lovelies. On closer examination I realize I’ve been bark robbed, with buck toothed etchings in the meat of the tree and a trail of shavings.

Yet as much as I would like to stake out a blind at the edge of creek at dusk with my slingshot and pop Mr. Beaver as he swims by, Father Time beckons me to choose otherwise.

The last I counted we only had 27 sunsets left before the longest day of year is upon us. Now I think we’re down to 24. 

Let’s remember that as we tag one another in the rat race of life. Slow down and enjoy the lingering evening light while you can. 

The funnies of spring

Have you packed up your winter clothes yet? I have!  

Out came the storage bag and the clinging dust bunnies from under my bed. I’d washed and folded all my summer stuff last October, jammed everything in the bag and shoved it in amongst all the other stuff I’ve got stashed under my sleeping palace. 

Have you ever opened a bag of summer clothes, pulled stuff out, cocked your head and wondered why you would ever wear that? I have. 

By the time I was done sorting things out I had five good summer pieces left and a big bag of good will. Then I spent a half hour trying to justify why I just couldn’t keep wearing that big old sweater and comfy heavy sweat shirt just a few more months, so that I wouldn’t have to go shopping for new clothes.

Have you ever gone shopping for clothes after a long winter’s hibernation of feeding on chocolate and cinnamon buns in order to keep that layer of fat in place during the bitter cold months and then spend an entire day wondering why nothing you like in the clothing stores will fit? I have.

Have you started using your treadmill again and counting calories? I have, too. 

And then there’s that spring-cleaning thing. I’m still out flying a kite and thinking on that one. 

Walking across the yard to go fly my kite, I’m sure I can hear the grass growing, pushing dandelions up into my world where eventually they will take over my lawn every day for the next four months.  

Have you ever wished you had a gardener, a weed man, and a landscaper? Oh, I have. 

I spent Saturday working outside like a fiend. I started it by pouring myself into a pair of jean shorts two sizes too small, slipped on my flip flops for the first time in nine months and believed for about five hours that I was 21 years old again. Sure, I got a lot done. I piled some wood, pruned some trees, raked leaves, made 16 trips with the wheelbarrow bursting with organic matter to the field dumping spot. My muscles pulled their weight, as I knew they would, and by quitting time I’d made some impressive headway in my neck of the woods.

Have you ever looked in the mirror after that very first long day of yard work, six seconds before you pass out from fatigue, and said in your Meghan Trainor voice—with a flat stare, “You must have confused me with someone else?” I have.  

I could not bend over for fear of never standing up straight and I couldn’t sit down because I definitely would not have got up again—and the skin between my big toe and the second one on both feet felt like I’d taken a lit match to it after squeezing those digits around the flip flop toe band.  

Have you laughed hysterically, feet on fire, fingernails dirty with Mother Earth and your whole body in need of a good hot soak in the tub, convinced that you’re getting too old for this? Me too.

But like the sign says, “I’d stop eating chocolate, but I’m no quitter.”