Pandemic? Life Has Not Changed All That Much

Greetings from the couch

in the parlor

in the house 

on the mountain.

It’s spring here

just like it was last year 

and the year before,

bringing migrating birds 

and blossoms that may freeze 

or may not. 

It doesn’t matter all that much,

the deer eat the flowers anyway.

Two anomalies:

we have migrating Baltimore Orioles this year

and the oak leaves 

are over two weeks late.

But the frogs still peep.

The turkeys still gobble.

I still procrastinate.

Upon waking, 

I still pray the Lord’s Prayer.

For years we have joked 

that our home is the perfect place 

to hide out from the world.

It’s surreal to think that 

that’s actually what we are doing

because not all that much is different.

Our shelves have always been stocked.

We have extra staples

so we don’t need a trip to town:

flour,
sugar,
eggs,
milk, 

and dark chocolate almonds.

Eleven miles both ways saves a gallon of gas.

We already were hand washers 

and sometimes washed to the songs 

playing in our heads. 

For Denny it usually is Crosby, Stills, and Nash.

For me, today it was Bob Dylan’s
“The Times, They Are A’Changin’” 

but I don’t really like Dylan

so I switched to Michael Card’s 

“I Will Bring You Home.”

We were already unemployed 

and by that I mean retired.

The days of the week 

were already mostly meaningless.

Weather is more important in how we spend our days—

if it’s raining, 

we work inside.

Dry? 

Outside.

We already had relatively low standards of dress,

comfy and practical,

that prompt us to 

start pajama time in the late afternoon.

Masks do not bother us— 

masks are actually a relief 

because you aren’t expected 

to recognize people in masks,

a plus for people with prosopagnosia 

or “face blindness.” 

That would be Sue and Brad Pitt.

We are not dependent on beauticians.

Sue has cut her own hair for decades*

and often trims Denny’s hair 

and his eyebrows.

Denny would not need sunscreen 

if his eyebrows were allowed to run wild.

We were already receiving virtual hugs 

and video visits.

We can have LEGO adventures

with the grandgirls in Taiwan

without even bending over.

We still see a lot of friends on Sunday mornings, 

though now they sit in Zoom boxes 

instead of pews.

Gary Magee still makes us laugh.

We hear of people using pandemic time to clean closets;

Denny already cleaned his closet regularly

to make room for the wild comfy shirts

that Sue used to bring him on Mondays 

upon return from Goodwill.

Only 79c!

He is a zealous cleaner.

He even threw out Sue’s chicken suit.

“It was an accident.”

We rarely attended sporting events or concerts.

We already were spending too much time online.

We already distrusted governmental decision-making.

I had hoped that the current situation 

would help to develop a daily habit of flossing
since our dentist office has been closed 

but, alas, tooth maintenance hasn’t changed.

I do drive more slowly, though.

When you don’t get off the mountain often,

there is so much to see!

Every trip becomes a field trip, 

with detours for swamps 

and eagle nests 

and trilliums

and heron rookeries.

I also drive more slowly 

because of that whole “avoid the hospital” thing. 

(That was good advice 

even before 2020.)

I also keep hand sanitizer in the Jeep,

something I have never done before.

I am still theoretically against hand sanitizer, 

but it seems prudent currently.

Here on the mountain, 

we are hardly aware of inaudible crashings 

and foundational changes 

in the world as we knew it.

But we sometimes step in mudholes of grief,

stumble into ditches of fear,

take deep breaths that turn into sobs,

and get homesick for a lap to climb into.

Then we remember Michael Card

singing the words of God:

“In this fearful fallen place

I will be your home.”

We recommend finding a comfy couch,

settling in,

and listening to Michael’s comforting voice--

or you could go to a sink 

and scrub your hands.
When the music fades,
you will be clean enough for a snack.
We recommend dark chocolate almonds.

“I Will Bring You Home”

by Michael Card

 https://youtu.be/ZhWd2421Fpg

*Sue's haircut video may be seen on FaceBook, April 3, 2020

I Am Now an Old Woman

Last week, Denny asked if I wanted to ride along 

while he dropped something off for a friend.

“You bet!” I said. 

I grabbed a coat and ball cap 

and was glancing in the mirror

when it struck me:

I am now an old woman.

Not because of my grey hairs

or the wrinkles around my eyes

and lips

and chin.

Not because my neck could flap in the breeze 

like a bassett hound leaning out of a truck window.

Not because, due to my age, 63, 

I am considered high risk for COVID-19,

but because of what I was wearing:

a purple coat and a red hat.

Jenny Joseph’s “Warning” 

has been duct taped to a cabinet

in the basement for years, 

a reminder to embrace a life 

of serendipity

of adventure.

It begins 

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

Exactly what I saw in the mirror.

Except that red ball cap does suit me.

The brim gives shade and holds sunglasses,

the color is a bright spot on dark days,

the printing “Dead Horse Point”

reminds me of austere Utah beauty

(though it was sad about those horses). 

It covers my hair on bad hair days, 

heck, on good hair days too. 

I love my red ball cap.

The purple coat  

my friend Leslie and I found 

on a weekly trip to Goodwill.

It was long 

and washable

and cozy

and it fit me,

characteristics I admire in a garment. 

But it was purple—

I have never liked purple

except in sunsets 

and violets

and the lips of small children 

who insist on swimming 

at Parker Dam before August.

It also had a small burn mark on the sleeve. 

Leslie suggested that I could sew a button over the burn.

Hmmmm. 

And it was only 79c.

I renamed the purple “indigo," 

bought the coat,

and got out Grandma Maud’s button jar.

One lone button on a sleeve 

would look a bit strange,

but many buttons would be an Artistic Statement. 

I sewed a colorful chorus line of buttons up the damaged sleeve,

then added natural shell buttons,

number buttons,

armadillo buttons,

buttons marching in patterns

and buttons running amok,

with star buttons exploring the hem.

My purple coat won first place in “Button Craft”

at the Pennsylvania Farm Show,

the winnings paid the purchase price ten times over,

and now I have a cool prize ribbon 

living in the pocket.

Jenny’s poem continues

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

I noticed that many other lines were now applicable as well.

And I shall spend my pension...

Being recently retired, 

I now get a pension,

but I buy grapefruit juice 

and garden gloves

and Croc sandals

and butter because butter makes everything better,

Julia Child said so.

and press alarm bells...

Did you know that 

if you place your fingers just so 

that you can ring six doorbells at once in Lowes? 

Truth.

and make up for the sobriety of my youth...

Pretty sober! 

Baptist till eighth grade,

then Christian and Missionary Alliance,

then Wesleyan.

None of them smiled on alcohol or dancing 

and I had dancing in my bones,

skills itching to be developed.

In subsequent years,

the kitchen has seen some pretty creative moves,

and were it not for coronavirus

I’d be taking a clogging class.

And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens

And learn to spit. 

I have done both with the grandgirls.

You can wear terrible shirts 

and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

or a whole container of dark chocolate almonds

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes

and bird nests

and snake skins

and pottery bowls

and theater programs

and Hallmark reindeer that look like moose.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

The only person surprised was me.

You may enjoy watching Jenny Joseph read “Warning” here.

Sunrise

We started the jeep as the sun came up

and watched the sun rise three more times 

as we moved in and out of hill shadows.

The last sunrise was at Mount Joy,

at Denny’s parents' grave.

Denny’s major childhood Easter memory

is hearing his dad enthusiastically singing 

“Up From the Grave He Arose!”

and he wanted to spend Easter morning with Walt.

My own childhood memories of Easter 

involve Norman Rockwellian tables 

with tulip centerpieces at Grandma Maud’s House 

containing ham, 

scalloped potatoes,

and sour cherry pie,
which I miss immensely,
and also memories of wearing pinchy shoes

and uncomfortable slips, 

which I don’t miss at all.

One the way home from the graveyard

Denny and I recalled other Easter memories—

Sunrise singing with One Way Street 

on the ski slope in Treasure Lake.

A trip to Houghton 

when we had to pull over quickly for Luke, 

who had been sitting in the back seat 

eating every bit of chocolate from his basket.

Singing in a thatched church 

in a cornfield in Tanzania 

to the accompaniment of swishing feet, 

ululations, 

and percussion on a plastic bucket.

In Oxford’s University Church 

where one man’s “Whoopee!”

echoed in the cathedral.

To the list of memorable Easters,

we can now add 2020.

In social isolation, 

we Zoomed Sunday school,

sang duets online,

and listened to N.T. Wright’s sermon from 2019.

He was talking about some pivotal moments in history:

the Enlightenment in France,

the founding of America.

I pondered our present situation 

and wondered if the future will see 

this time as a pivotal point in finances, 

in government.

But nothing, NOTHING is as pivotal as Easter morning.

The stone was rolled away.

The veil was ripped from top to bottom.

Past and future both were fulfilled 

in one move from death to life.

The world is weirdly, wildly different right now, 

but each day the sun still rises, thankfully 

and, 

even more thankfully, 

the Son has risen,

is risen.

Indeed.

Coming and Going and Coming Again

At sunrise 

the snow was up to the chickedees’ knees 

as they waited for Denny to fill the feeder.

Every Friday that the feeder is full 

is a good Friday for them.

On Good Friday, 

we think of Jerusalem

and the rootedness of that place 

to the center of The Story.

We think of the fall of man

and restoration, the Messiah. 

Of shrieking defeat 

and incomprehensible victory 

in one weekend.

Of the ancient mysteries 

and the not-yet mysteries.

Travel is impossible now,

and we feel the uncomfortable chafing 

of being caught between 

the ancient 

and the not-yet.

Now it is afternoon. 

The birds go have come 

and gone 

and come again.
The raucous redwings
do not practice social distancing
and are wing to wing with the doves.
Peace.

I am couched, 

trying to ponder the holy 

and feeling inadequate. 

I struggle to hold my mind to task

and have recurring thoughts of cookies.

This very day eternal things are happening, 

spiritual, 

medical, 

financial, 

governmental,

things that are changing life as we know it.

Jesus seems like the birds,

coming

and going

and coming again.

When?

Feels like soon. 

Whenever, may we be ready, 

worthy because of the Good Friday sacrifice of Jesus 

and the daily grace of God.

I think I’ll celebrate with a cookie.

Palms and Prayers and Prickly Pears

My palms are almost back to normal.
A few days ago, celebrating the return of spring to the Mountain,
I neglected to put on gardening gloves
before cleaning the leaves surrounding
the prickly pear cactus.
Poor decision.
I tried to fix the painful situation.
I used a scrubbie on my palms,
tried to pull the spines out with tape,
then taped over my hands
to lessen the chances of moving the spines.
Later, while on Zoom for my Wildlife lab,
I set it to audio only
and, unseen by the prof,
multitasked by pulling at the spines with tweezers.
Yesterday we planted one hundred White Spruce seedlings
and most of the remaining spines came off
inside my leather gloves.



It was a beautiful day for planting.
Sunny sky.
Slight breeze.
Upper forties.
I carried a bucket of three-year-old seedlings
about twelve to fifteen inches high,
their hearty root systems soaking in several inches of water.
Denny would poke a hole into the ground with the spud bar
and I would untangle a seedling
and hand it to him.
He would kneel,
tenderly tucked the roots into the hole,
then use the flat end of the spud
to force the soil around the roots.
On to the next!
After watching Denny kneel with the first trees,
I decided his kneeling shouldn't go to waste.
"I am going to pray for people every time you kneel," I announced.
He chuckled. "You always need a system."
"Nevertheless!"
I started with immediate family members,
then extended family.
We worked our way through church pews,
the County Historical Society,
Denny's old teaching colleagues,
then mine.
After one hundred trees, we still had people left to pray for.
Luckily, there are more trees to plant tomorrow.



I have been thinking about prayer more recently.
(Pandemics are like that.)
For years, I have wanted to know how prayer works.
and hope "Physics of Prayer 101" is offered in heaven.
But recently I've wondered
what is the most effective way to pray regarding COVID-19?
Do we pray that the power of the blood of Jesus
will overwhelm the virus?
Do we ask for protection? Healing?
(For whom?
Ourselves?
Our family?
Our friends and neighbors?
Our nation?
Beyond?
I pray a five-year-old's prayer:
"God bless everybody in the whole wide world!")
Do we pray "Thy will be done"?
Do we ask the Holy Spirit to intercede for us when we can only groan?
Do we figuratively rest on Jesus
like a newborn sleeps on daddy's chest?
I have prayed all of these ways this week,
prayers that rise like incense to heaven.

If I am remembering Lloyd Alexander's Prydain Chronicles correctly,
(and I may not. It's been forty years.)
Taran, the protagonist,
meets creatures who are weaving his life story
into a tapestry.
He is unimpressed.
There are knots
and frayed yarn ends
and no design is evident.
He is disgusted
and wants to give up on his life
and on the creatures,
but then they tell him that
he is only seeing the back of the tapestry,
that the front is an exquisite work of art.
His hope returns.
I need to reread those books
and Psalm 23.
I will hold them with my mostly spine-free palms
and fall asleep on my Father's chest
knowing that I am only seeing the back of the tapestry.

"I have not forgotten you!
See, I have written your name on the palms of my hands."
Isaiah 49:15-16



Rest well, friends.