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What you don’t know, until you’ve scored the last 18-roll Mega pack of Charmin on the shelf at your local HEB, is how divine a pandemic shutdown will be. For the mathematically challenged, a Mega-pack is the equivalent of 72 regular rolls, which haven’t been available for purchase since 1983. But no matter. For introverts like me, the toilet paper quest notwithstanding, early and heroic efforts to waylay Covid-19 via barricading myself behind a tower of Clorox Wipes canisters and a double-bolted front door proved oddly invigorating. I don’t mean to minimize a ghastly disease. Even when the virus isn’t lethal, lingering effects are pernicious. Coronavirus doesn’t respect where you fall on the extraversion scale. At the same time, I reveled in all that sudden quiet. I realize I’m fortunate in that I have a front door to double lock, no job to truck to, and I was sequestered with a couple of companions: my husband and our canine fur factory. I did miss indoor visits with our son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter, a half-hour’s drive away, but we managed backyard visits when the weather cooperated. I can’t recommend conducting the annual gift exchange amidst the wafting automotive smells of the garage on Christmas morning, masked and six feet apart, but the red tablecloth and miniature Christmas tree on the air hockey table was a nice touch. We’re a creative family; we found ways to be together. I’m fortunate in other ways, too. My extravert friends suffered from in-person interaction withdrawal that didn’t afflict me. Instead, we connected digitally. One close friend refused to communicate outside two-hour telephone conversations—an introvert’s kryptonite. The rest, all residing in other states, settled for shorter virtual gatherings. For a somewhat obsessive, solitary-minded brooder like me, in between enjoying brief congenial exchanges, I was free to create my own diversions, on my own timetable. As 2020 dragged on, additional areas of advantage presented themselves as well.
Despite unexpected bonuses of the Covid pandemic, and post-vaccine, I’m eager for the freedom of ordinary comings and goings. I sincerely want this virus vanquished. Nevertheless, I’m grateful for the reflection time and accomplishments the pandemic bubble afforded. This introvert will miss social distancing from strangers. I’ll miss mumbling softly into my mask as I recite my grocery list and wander the aisles (one way) at H.E.B. without self-consciousness. I’ll stock up on Charmin while I can and prepare myself for the end of this semi-solitary interlude with resignation and guilty regret. --Janice
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I’d like to start with just part of a poem by Amanda Gorman, young, intelligent Black woman, wrote this for Pres. Biden’s inauguration ‘The Hill We Climb’ When day comes we ask ourselves, ‘where can we find light in this never-ending shade,’ the loss we carry, a sea we must wade? We’ve braved the belly of the beast. We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace, and the norms and notions of what just is isn’t always just-ice.
I grew up in the Episcopal church, so I was baptized as an infant and only allowed to take communion after confirmation at about age 12. There were classes led by the priest in preparation, and a catechism to memorize. Finally the day came, and the bishop came to our church to confirm us and serve us our first communion. I remember that he was in robes of gold and white, that he had a booming voice (like I imagined God’s voice to be), and that there seemed to be a light shining all around him as he approached. We knelt at the altar, and as he served communion to me I experienced a transcendent moment. It was as if the angels were singing all around and God had touched me. I don’t know to what extent God was actually involved in all of that. I was of an age and temperament where I could have easily produced that entire event internally and convinced myself it was true. But I don’t suppose it matters. It was significant to me and I remember it clearly 55 years later. In the Episcopal church Jesus was thought to be present in the bread and wine in some mystical manner. Communion was a sacrament, “an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace,” according to the catechism. I always experienced it as such. Later, as a young adult in a different kind of church I was taught that communion was a memorial to Jesus and a reminder that he had died to save us from our sins. And a good thing he did, or we would all be headed for hell. I was quite thankful during communion at this stage of my life. Now I think about a lot of things differently. I do not believe that Jesus died to prevent me from being sent to hell as I deserve. That entire theology of atonement is abhorrent to me. For me now, communion is a reminder that Jesus literally gave his body and his blood, but he did it to demonstrate something about God. God stands in solidarity with those who are suffering. Communion reminds me that we are called to give our bodies (and sometimes even our blood) to stand with them as well, and to extend the love of God to them. --Terese I've been in the throes of a couple of obsessions lately, so I've done what I most enjoy doing and tried to make connections between my obsessions. It took me a while. After all, my latest project raising Monarch butterflies and the plight of Afghan women/girls don't seem to have anything in common. But one of my assignments in the creative nonfiction class I'm taking is to write a braided essay. A braided essay takes two or three or more threads of meaning (usually which aren't obvious at the outset) and braids them together. It's a form that can be very creative when it works. Unfortunately, one of the examples our instructor provided just left me scratching my head. I understood what connection was intended, but it was so disjointed I got bored and quit reading. I'm hoping to create something a little better with my butterfly-Afghan essay. As I thought more deeply about both obsessions, it occurred to me that what is common to both populations at the moment is migration. Both Afghans (primarily women) and Monarch populations depend on migration at this point in order to survive as a group or as a species. That's the braid I'm working on, and it's both challenging but exciting to see where the threads go and how they interact. I'll likely add some elements of our recent "migration" to Texas as well. I know I'm weird, but this kind of challenge excites me. There's not much better, in my opinion, than transforming ideas from your head into words on paper to see where you end up! --Janice I moved into this house 11 years ago almost to the day. When I arrived it had one straggly rose bush, an ugly pine tree and a nandina. I decided I would start to change things. I started by breaking my wrist trying to plant a Cleveland pear and getting someone to plant crape myrtles for me since my wrist was broken. Since that time, I have planted numerous flowering plants and trees. I started with peonies and azaleas. Sadly, the azaleas bit the dust this year, but peonies and I do very well together. Now thanks to generous friends and more talented gardeners, I am ready to downsize the beds I created. I plan to begin that when it cools off. What I was thinking about earlier today is the dramatic change in how the yard looks from the 108 degree day when I moved in. There was no shade in any part of the yard. Now there are 6 trees of various sizes, three of which shade the house which was the reason for planting them. That has created another issue. Now I am trying to find shade plants and ground cover in the shaded areas. My neighbor across the street has a shaded yard so she was generous with Hostas which I am happy to say are doing well. The area under the tree in the front of the house is now bare because the Bermuda grass won't grow. Last summer my neighbor said I could have ground cover from her. I found some more when I was out dropping political literature and from Cynthia when she cleared hers out. With rain and fairly bare soil, it has been a challenge. It's such fun though to walk out and watch the progress. Where is has looked like nothing is happening, now things are happening and I see progress. I may get more plants when the weather is a bit cooler, but it is fun to see things take shape. Growing up we never had a garden, which I don't understand because my dad was raised on a farm and I know my mother had a garden to tend with my grandfather. Just doing this much with my yard and now two years of success with tomatoes has been a fun adventure. I still plan to downsize as I have decided it is too much to maintain. I will dig up what I don't care for or that seems to take over. That means there is stuff to do this fall. --Carolyn Not the sort of topic one thinks about very often; kind of random actually. But the idea that I ought to have been or could have been, come around occasionally. Then I think about what kind of turtle I might want to be presents itself. Have you seen the very small, creek dwellers that are soft shelled turtles? They are a bland gray-green, not much bigger that a half dollar coin. The nose is long and flat on the end. It is not an attractive little beastie. I would not want to be one of that tribe. Another sort is the box turtle. This is the one kids find in fields and crossing roads. Sometimes, if a kid is lucky they find an empty turtle shell, preserved by nature. The Native Americans used these to make rattles for dances. It's a nice turtle, not aggressive or bad tempered and makes a good pet. They have the added benefit of not becoming too large and like to hibernate in the winter if it lives outdoors. I don't want to be one of those either. 2020 taught me I would not make a good hibernator. In my younger, angrier, years when most of my life was fueled by fear I would have made a really good snapping turtle. My disposition and defensiveness would have loved having a really long neck to reach around behind me, with my very sharp beak and snap whatever was bugging me! It's kind of a Calbin fantasy, very satisfying! Thankfully, life taught me that anger and fear do not make for a good life. So with lots of working on my brain, I got kinder. Now I feel like I am a big old tortoise. Not unhappy, in fact content most days. I'm solid, strong, no longer given to big emotions or flights of fantasy. Doing the work that needs to be done, making some art, keeping us all fed, and in clean underwear. Seeing to it that our ship stays afloat and no one gets lost. Walking through our days, with as much gratitude and joy as I can muster and always thankful for the blessings of my life now. --donna I just read an interesting article that scientists have discovered 3 things that are common to geniuses (not smart, but genius.) They are: 1) left-handedness or ambidextrous. This is because geniuses' brains are more well balanced than the rest of us. That is not necessarily good, because it can also cause mental retardation and/or mental problems. We know that many geniuses had mental health problems, but didn’t know it had to do with a balanced brain. We righties have an unbalanced brain that allows us to differentiate better. 2) Sense of humor. They gave many examples of this from geniuses. They also said, think of that quiet person who says funny things while no one listens to them. Often this is what they called black humor, and they credit it to geniuses seeing the world more accurately than others. 3) Laziness. Seems funny, but they say that geniuses can spend a lot of time just thinking about their own thoughts. Da Vinci took 15 years to finish his greatest work. Bill Clinton was always late, and did everything at the last minute. It says that many geniuses never accomplish anything because of this characteristic. Wow! I am definitely NOT a genius! I love humor, but I’m not that clever. I am almost early. And I am right handed. How about you? I'd rather be a normal person, and not be at risk for mental illness. I am happy to laugh at other’s jokes. And maybe in retirement I might learn to be a little late. --Cynthia Last spring, I purchased a large packet of seeds labeled "Butterfly Mix." It included at least a couple dozen species of host plants and nectar plants for butterflies in one of two raised beds in our back yard. Then we had Covid shutdown, sizzling heat, and little rain for the next four or five months. A few plants thrived, and I was able to put lovely Cosmos, Zinnias, Coneflower, and Snapdragons into vases all summer and into early fall. But the milkweed didn't sprout, and no butterflies came. Not even the two parsley plants in the other bed attracted the Swallowtails that I'd shared my parsley plants with in Broken Arrow. Then we had an epic ice storm in February. I decided we weren't destined to attract butterflies--few of our neighbors have flowering plants, and there are few trees on our end of the street. I decided to plant only the zinnias that give me long-lasting cut flowers all summer. If I can't have butterflies, I reasoned, at least I'd have nice bouquets. The parsley plants had overwintered (a first in my experience, and a surprise, given the single digit temperatures), and while they were spindly, they still produced plenty of leaves for cooking. By April, it was apparent that a few flowers from last year had come up from the seeds they dropped last year, along with the zinnias I planted. But along with, and throughout the bed popped up the milkweed I'd planted in 2019! In abundance! A couple of months later we had several Monarch caterpillars, though I'd never seen an adult butterfly in the garden. The parsley, now gone to seed, was also full of Swallowtail caterpillars! I pulled out the butterfly enclosure from my teaching days and ordered a bigger one so each species would have their own enclosure. In the past couple of weeks, we've had a few failures. One Monarch was apparently diseased and wasn't ever able to fully eclose from its chrysalis. But the other two in the enclosure were fluttering strongly and beautiful! We invited several neighbor children to come help us release them, and it was fun to share their enthusiasm, but a little sad to see our babies fly away. A day or so ago, one Monarch was spotted hovering around the new tropical milkweed I just planted, but I think it's too late in the season for her to lay eggs. We'll see. Meanwhile, the Swallowtails are taking their sweet time. One has formed a chrysalis, and we lost a couple others inexplicably. Two other cats are still munching on the organic parsley I picked up for them at Whole Foods last weekend (there's really no homegrown parsley left), but they're not making their moves yet. I've read Swallowtails often overwinter in their chrysalides, so we might have these until spring. Hopefully, I'll be better prepared earlier in the season next year and can nurture these guys more effectively. It's really been a fun experience to watch these little creatures grow and then to send them on their way. Only about 1-2% of butterfly eggs make it to the butterfly stage in nature, and I'm just helping to increase their odds and enjoying the little bit of beauty they bring into my life. --Janice |
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