Reflections on the week, May 23 – 28, 2022

On Tuesday, David and I set out to drive the truck to Spokane with the car seats that needed to be reupholstered for the restoration of the Thing.   It is 80 miles of mostly double-lane divided highway to Spokane, and on the trip up, we saw this apparition flailing its way toward us — turned out to be a woman on the road’s shoulder pushing a shopping cart with her worldly possessions thrown into it, and as she pulled it along with one hand she flung her other arm out to balance each step’s effort.  She was going one way and we the other, so we went ahead and did our business in Spokane, had a leisurely lunch, got chicken food and started for home.  Further toward Pullman than when we first encountered her, but still in the middle of nowhere, we again saw the apparition.  Couldn’t go without trying, so David took the first U-turn option and drove back to see if we couldn’t pick her up, now that we and she were aiming the same direction. 

As in all situations that call for diplomacy and might be responsive to sweet-talking, David set me to do the talking, as she might feel threatened by a man.  She was a young woman, attractive and wirily built, and at least we spoke the same language, but I was not able to convince her that we could help her.  We have Quaker friends who provide an informal shelter for abused women and we could have gotten her there, taking the grocery cart with her things up into the truck, but she would have none of it — she wasn’t wild-eyed crazy, but more like a dog that has been abused and won’t trust you — she pushed the cart around the truck and kept going.  If the Good Samaritan attempt hadn’t come out better than this, it would never have made it into the Bible!  When I described this situation while operating our Tasting Room today, our local man of farming stock turned mechanic had this to say about this misadventure:  “Cull” was his response.  “Of no redeeming value to the herd.”  A harsh evaluation, but one that nature has to live with all the time. 

The school shooting in Texas has dominated the week’s news, deepening the tragedy with revelations of how poorly the situation was managed.   The automatic rifle’s potential to destroy a town’s fourth-graders and the continuing reluctance to address the problem of guns in this country reveals once again the true nature of our bought-out Congress and our country’s wild west mentality.  The NRA says we have to put up with these tragedies for the sake of a misinterpreted “right.”  Our poor country is sick unto death!  Just glad that my mother didn’t have to experience this, as a teacher who loved her country!

One redeeming thing about the trip to Spokane:  This is the time of year when a flower blooms that gives the Spokane region its name: The Camas Prairie.  The flowers are a bluish purple and cover the land like a shallow lake reflecting blue sky — they were blooming on both sides of the road and it took your breath away.  The Indians dug the camas root in a way that thinned and managed the crop so that it thrived.  The round bulbs have to be baked in hot coals until they turn from white to black — they were a staple food crop, although they are not very popular among young members of the tribe on those occasions where frybread, pannikin and other traditional dishes are served.  

Marianne Moon Sunderlin-Moffett

Dear Marianne Moon,

Welcome to the wonderful world of trees and vines, flowers and fungi, caterpillars, birds and butterflies, dogs and cats!  We feel so lucky that you have joined us in this world!

I am your Grandmother Moffett.  Your mother Rosalie and I have shared many experiences of gardening and cooking and have been blessed with a closeness that binds a lucky mother and daughter.  This is a treasure that runs in the family, because I was very close to my own mother, Frances Sweeney Brandon, and she was close to her mother, Eustashia Ellis Sweeney.  My mother and I created fun times and laughed hard and hugged closely, and loved, loved, loved. 

From my mother I learned about what her life was like growing up.  Her very happy childhood that reached back to a time when life centered around gardens, milk cows, and horses rather than stores, cars or airplanes; when plumbing meant having a well and outhouse, and when there were many obstacles to realizing dreams, if you were female.  Mother never got to join a circus or dance professionally, but she was determined to pursue her dream of teaching and sharing art, music and language and her love of nature with her classes, and of course, also with her children.  My father loved growing things and carving wood sculptures, and together he and my mother made a wonderful world for me to grow up in, full of magic and challenges as well as security, and offering me almost unlimited opportunities.  Always, there was art and music, drama and books, poetry and flowers, and of course, dogs.  My mother said, “I never met a dog I couldn’t love.”

For many years after I went off to graduate school, my mother and I lived in different places, sometimes far across the country from each other, but we stayed in close communication by writing letters.  This started long before the internet made sharing pictures and messaging possible.  Your grandfather Moffett, my husband David, thought that my mother and I could communicate by telepathy, because we were “on the same wavelength” and seemed to anticipate each other’s responses. 

When David and I began to have children, we first got two boys, your Uncle Howell and Uncle Benjamin.  Two children is a standard family for people concerned with the impact of overpopulation on the environment, but we loved having children and decided that we would have a third child, knowing that we might get another boy or a girl – either would be welcome, as we were so loved our two boys and they were as different as could be, so another boy would have been fine – but we were delighted when we learned that we would have a daughter, your mother, Rosalie.  This allowed the close bonds between mother and daughter to be added to the family tradition.

Marianne, like your mother and father, you were born into a household that wanted you very much, and across the country from you, your cousin Octavia was born to your Uncle Howell and Aunt Melinda.  I hope that you and Octavia can share adventures and get to know one another well, and I hope that both of you will form close bonds with your mother and father.  When people are young, they don’t know how important family ties are.  They more important than people realize until they are older, so it is important to understand this and build strong ties with your family while you are young.  These will be your support system in the challenges that life is sure to send your way.  Best wishes and lots of love,

Grandmama Moffett

What the Child Never Wondered

As I review my life from the vantage point of my seventies, I appreciate the patterns I observed in my grandparents’ lives.  From the age of four until I was nine or ten I spent the weekends with my maternal grandparents.  I was a self-contained guest who simply fit into their lives, observing everything and capable of entertaining myself.

I would arrive there Saturday morning or afternoon.  At first, we lived within walking distance of my grandparents, but when I was five, we moved across town, and it was a two-bus trip, with a transfer in downtown Nashville.  At first, my mother went the whole way with me, but I quickly learned to take my transfer slip from the first bus driver and get off downtown where I would catch the second bus.  The second bus, Porter Road, ran less frequently, and so there was sometimes as long as a half hour’s wait before it came along.  The transfer spot was by a Catholic Church, with high wrought-iron spiked fence guarding the property, which had crabapple trees that sometimes dropped some fruit over the fence where I could get it.  Most of the bus riders were Black, with many children on a Saturday.  I sat anywhere in the bus, as my mother actively disregarded the white line, although I had no idea we were doing anything out of the ordinary.  The Black riders always greeted us cordially when we sat near the back.

One Saturday, however, I waited and waited for the Porter Road bus.  It was getting chilly and I was dressed in a light cotton dress.  Other riders were able to get on the bus they needed but I scanned the oncoming bus names in vain — there was never a Porter Road bus.  The shadows were getting long before I summoned the courage to climb back on my West End bus and ask the driver why there were no Porter Road buses any more.  I recall how warm the bus felt.  I don’t think I was crying or tearful, but the driver quickly grasped my destitute state.  He took my transfer, which had long since expired, gave me another, and told me to take a seat and he would show where the Porter Road bus could be caught.  Unbeknownst to my parents, the Nashville transfer site for all routes had been consolidated into a square near the capitol.  There, I was indeed able to get a Porter Road bus, and when I got off on Eastland Avenue, my grandfather took my hand and carried my little suitcase, and as he walked me home, I told him what had happened.  I was not privy to the concerned phone calls that passed back and forth as my arrival was unaccountably delayed, but I was aware that my grandfather called my parents to report my safe arrival.  I am sad that the world has become so much more dangerous that sending a six-year-old across town alone is considered reckless endangerment for which parents might be prosecuted.  I was perfectly capable of negotiating the trip until the system was changed, and there was never a thought that I might be at risk of any harm.  People were trustworthy and I am glad to have lived in such a world.

Once at my grandparents’ home, I fell in step with whatever was going on.  If my grandmother needed to go to the grocery, I was included in the trip.  It never occurred to me to beg her to buy anything for me.  Adults, in my eyes, were all-knowing gods whose decisions were never to be questioned.  One time, Grandmother Sweeney was entering the checkout line when she remembered that she had no sweet milk for me, so she sent me back to get the milk.  I dashed to the dairy isle and grabbed up a familiar half-gallon of milk and rushed back, only to see the concern in my grandmother’s face before she sent me back to get a quart carton.  When I returned with it, Grandmother was counting out the money from her coin purse to pay, and I realized that she might not have been able to pay for the larger quantity of milk.  I didn’t know it then, but my grandparents were just able to get along financially.  My grandfather was still the principal of East Nashville High School, but they had to watch their costs to be able to put aside money for trips, and after my grandfather retired, they supplemented their income by taking in boarders to live in the three upstairs bedrooms.

My grandmother had beautiful tea roses in the backyard, along with spring bulb flowers and fragrant bushes, and she always grew asparagus, not to eat, but for its lacy foliage that combined well with roses.  She had studied flower arranging and I am conscious to this day of the rules of proportion that she taught me.  I recall the cut flowers “resting” in a deep bucket in the laundry room prior to having their stems pressed into the sharp prongs of a “frog” that kept them in the precise position in the vase.  When she went to the garden club meetings, I would be left with my grandfather to share his preferred lunch, which was sardines, crackers, cheddar cheese and coke.  I was fascinated by the sardine can, which was peeled open with a little key, revealing the little whole fish lined up in their oil.  I didn’t really like them, but I would never have hurt my grandfather’s feelings by saying so, because I sensed that this was a very special treat for him.

My grandfather and I would water the roses and other flowers together.  His hose didn’t have a nozzle like the one we had which could be turned to a fine spray that could catch a rainbow.  Instead, he just used his thumb to direct the stream of water into the dirt basin encircling each rose bush.  I knew that the roses were my grandmother’s but I learned that my grandfather loved them also.  He knew all the names – I loved to smell Mr. Lincoln and I vividly recall being led out into the backyard to see the first bloom of the Peace rose, which Grandad pointed out resembled a sunrise. 

We would often sit in the sling-back canvas chairs under the dogwood tree, which was beautiful when blooming and also in autumn when the pointed red berries attracted birds.  My grandfather  was at heart an outdoorsman and especially loved songbirds.  He could recognize all their calls and answer with a whistle.  He also planted a service berry tree to attract birds, and one of the things we always did when we watered the roses was to fill the birdbath, where robins and cardinals loved to take baths.  Another thing we might do mid-afternoon was to go down into the cellar, which smelled of the coal used to stoke the furnace, and get a few walnuts from the gunny sack full of them that my grandfather bought every year at the Farmer’s Market.  These were black walnuts, which called for a hammer to crack, and we would go to the special spot by a tree stump at the back of the yard where we would share the nuts, a treat unparalleled because of the love that went into the sharing.  When June bugs were buzzing on the summer breeze, my grandfather might catch one in his hat and let me hold the iridescent, clawing insect, while my grandmother came up with thread for the tether.  Grandad looped a slip knot around one strong back leg and the June bug could fly out in circles at the end of the string.  We always freed it when it was time to go inside.

 In the lazy afternoons my grandparents typically took a nap and I, never a napper, would sit in the music room, an alcove off the living room which had my grandmother’s Schiller piano and a special velveteen love seat and matching upholstered rocker that belonged to my aunt.  I would look through my grandfather’s subscription to Field and Stream and study my grandmother’s rose catalogs.

My grandmother cooked Southern style.   The vegetables were seasoned with bacon and the meat was always accompanied by gravy to go on the biscuits.  She made the best macaroni and cheese I’ve ever eaten, chicken dumplings, pies and cakes.  Often there were her own pickles or, in the winter, a small serving of canned tomatoes would go in the pretty brown-patterned bowls from the set of dishes my grandfather gave my grandmother when my mother was a child.  Mother recalled asking him what he was getting grandmother for Christmas and he just would tell her it was brown, which didn’t sound pretty to a little girl, but she came to love those dishes, the remnant of which I still possess. Sometimes my grandfather would cut up onion and cucumber slices and place them, alternating, in an oblong pottery dish with two green rings around the edge.  These would be topped with salt, pepper, and sweetened pepper vinegar.  I was a picky eater, but I liked eating at my grandparents’ table, and I don’t recall ever having any issues over what I ate or didn’t eat.

After dinner I would help to clear the table, but washing the dishes was something my grandparents did together.  My grandmother would fill the two-basin enameled sink, hot water and soap in the left basin and warm water for rinsing in the right basin.  She would wash in a sequence, glasses first, then cups, then serving bowls and finally the plates and silverware, transferring them to the rinse water where my grandfather took over, towel in hand.  I would sit in one of the big, white kitchen rockers and watch them while they worked, side-by-side, except when my grandfather would cross the kitchen to put each item on the shelves.  They did this every night, and it provided a quiet communion as well as a chance to discuss issues that might have come up during the day.  I now understand the devotion that made my grandfather want to share the task with my grandmother, his childhood sweetheart from the adjacent farm and lifelong partner.

Once the dishes were put away and the stove and countertops wiped clean, we would turn off the kitchen light and go to the living room.  The day’s light would be failing and two lamps were turned on, one for my grandmother to use while she worked on the day’s crossword puzzle, with occasional questions aimed at my grandfather, and another for my grandfather to read the rest of the newspaper.  I loved those lamps, which were converted kerosene lamps with pretty ceramic shades painted with flowers.  My grandfather read aloud items of interest, including the report that a living fossil, a coelacanth, had been discovered.  Once a story about a woman who was killed by a car included the comment that she had just been to confession.  My grandfather, the gentlest soul, revealed his Irish Protestant biases by making fun of the conclusion that she would be fine getting killed because she had just confessed.  I didn’t understand the point he was making, since I knew my mother had Catholic friends and had taught me to respect their religion.  Years later, my mother once remarked that it depressed her to see him turn to the Obituaries first, but he was of an age that his many acquaintances were dying, although I don’t recall that he discovered that someone he knew had died, but I might not have noticed.

Often, my grandfather would play games with me in the evening.  When I was very young, the game was Hully Gully, a game designed to be played with similar-sized pebbles.  Each player started out with a dozen or so pebbles and the trick was to listen to the other person shaking some of the pebbles and guess how many from the sound.  The shaker would say “Hully gully, hands full, how many?”  If you guessed correctly, you got all those pebbles to add to your own pile; if you were wrong, the number by which your guess was off must be given up from your stash.  My hands were very small for this game, but it was a good one to teach counting.

Once I was old enough, Grandad taught me Chinese checkers.  He had a brown wooden board with holes bored for the marbles and a can of marbles.  He would count out my marbles, in the color I chose, and a contrasting color for himself.  I am sure that in the early stages he managed to let me win, but it called for detecting visual patterns that my eyes quickly learned, so I became a worthy opponent.

These times shared with my grandparents were invaluable to me.  I was treated as a worthy, valuable member of the family, talked to as an adult, and that solidified my sense of self-worth.  My grandparents had raised three girls, and I think they must have missed having girls in the house and enjoyed having me around.  My parents must have enjoyed the time with each other, although they still had my baby brother to care for.  I never asked why this arrangement was hit upon, but I now suspect it was as much an arrangement that pleased my grandparents as a service to my parents.

David and I are now looking forward to becoming grandparents, and I regret that we are so old before this became a possibility.  We both benefited greatly from our relationships with our grandparents and would like to be able to forge a similar relationship with our grandchildren.  We have mellowed into grandparent-type people in the last few years, and I have been struck by how much we have fallen into patterns that remind me of the glimpse I had into my mother’s parent’s lives.

We stay very busy with the animals, the vineyard, the gardens, and the demands of the winery.  We don’t have the energy we had when we were both working full-time and building the house, planting trees, vines, and a garden and caring for the children, dogs, goats, chickens, turkeys or ducks.  We heat with wood and feed ourselves sustainably.  Planting the garden and fighting the invasion of noxious weeds and the encroaching blackberries is an insurmountable task, so by evening we are tired and there is a truce on undertaking major projects.  We have settled into a comfortable routine which pleases us and our habit-appreciative dogs.  We typically have a book that David is reading aloud to me.  I have read widely despite the fact that I am dyslexic and read very slowly, but David likes to supplement my perspective by reading his favorite classics, histories with particular relevance to the times in which we live, and books recommended to us by friends.  We often read while sitting on the deck of the winery, where our two dogs sit between us on the swing.  We drink in the beauty of the place where we live, looking out over the hillside at the evening sun brightening the dried grass and watching insects and hummingbirds visit the honeysuckle, wisteria and soap flowers.  When the light fails, we return home and sit around the dining table and play rummy, with the dogs both occupying their own chairs.  Then we may soak in our outdoor hot tub, with spectacular views of the stars and the occasional meteor.  After that, we repair to bed for lovemaking. Comparing our evening activities with those of my grandparents, I have come to wonder whether, while I slept on the daybed in the dining room of my grandparent’s house, my grandparents were making love in their back bedroom…

Octavia Frances Biernacki-Moffett

This is your book.  I am your Grandmama Moffett, Stacia Brandon Moffett, and I will start this book off and then turn it over to your parents, Melinda and Howell. 

First of all, everyone was so happy when you arrived December 17, earlier than expected, but in perfect shape.  You are a blessing, a wonderful gift.  You are lucky to have such wonderful parents.

I want to tell you about your middle name, Frances.  There is a connection with your Grandpa Biernacki, because his middle name is Francis, the male spelling of Frances, and your father and Grandaddy Moffett both have a related name, Franklin, for their middle name.  However, it is your paternal greatgrandmother, whose name was Howell Frances Sweeney Brandon, for whom you are most closely named.  She was my mother, so I want to introduce you to her.

Like you, my mother was born early and weighed very little.  She was so small that she was carried around on a pillow for many weeks, but like you, she was strong in important ways.  Her parents had lost two boys before she were born, and her father was particularly heartbroken at the death of the sons he had hoped would be his companions for hunting and fishing, so my mother understood very early that she needed to fill in for the missing boys, so she became good at the fishing and bird hunting that her family used to supplement their diet.

Howell was a pretty hefty name for a little girl.  It was also her father’s name, so everyone called the little girl Frances.  When she was in school, some of her friends called her Fran and some even called her Frank; her sister Gayle called her Francois, after taking a class in the French language, and when Frances grew up and married my father, Morris Brandon, he called his wife Fran.  She grew from a small girl into a small woman.  She weighed around 99 lbs. as an adult, which some call “witches’ weight,” but she was more like a fairy than a witch, with magical powers.

Fran loved dancing and her Irish uncles could do a jig, so even though the family was very “proper,” the love of music and dancing was always present.  She always wished that she could have taken dance classes, but she was naturally flexible and acrobatics was what she studied when she got her first job and could pay for the classes, and she remained a dance lover all her life.  When the circus came to town, my mother saw the acrobats performing on the backs of horses and on the trapeze, and she very seriously considering running away to join the circus, because she knew she could learn to do that kind of performance, but she didn’t run away because she knew it would break her mother’s heart.  (In those days, women associated with the circus or theater were looked down upon by “proper” ladies.)  She did get to take piano lessons as a child and she played the piano all her life for events or just for the entertainment of family and friends.  Frances had two sisters: Gayle was a lover of biology and the youngest girl, Anita, was a singer. 

Frances’ father, Howell Fields Sweeney, was a teacher.  Every week day, he would go off to his teaching job.  Frances asked him many questions about it and decided that she should be a teacher.  Before she started school herself, she would pull her mother’s pots of red geraniums into a row on the front porch, give each plant a name, and then pretend to be the teacher and ask them to recite their lessons.  She grew up loving English and, of course, became a teacher.  She liked teaching second grade best because the pupils were beyond having to have their noses wiped and their shoes tied and could enjoy learning all about dinosaurs.  (The names of dinosaurs are spelled as they are spoken, so it was good training in phonics, and very impressive for grown-ups to have children knowing a lot about creatures like stegosaurs.)  Frances was a very caring teacher and made the difference in the lives of many children, because she believed in them.

Frances was always a dog lover.  When she was little, her mother, Eustashia Ellis Sweeney, learned that the gypsies, who had camped in a field at the edge of town, had left behind a white poodle, probably because she was ready to have puppies.  At that time, people in Tennessee were somewhat afraid of gypsies or Roma people, because there were rumors that they might kidnap children, but the abandoned mother dog was adopted by someone in the little town of Una, just outside of Nashville.  When the puppies came, my grandmother got one for Frances.  That dog was named Rodney, and he was known all over Una as the dog that did tricks.  In those days, people produced a lot of their own entertainment, and kids would put on plays that were attended by their families and neighbors in Una, and Rodney always had a part in the plays.

There were always dogs when I was growing up – Pekingese and miniature poodles, but the first dog that chose me was Jeff, the big collie who belonged to my father’s family.  My parents and I lived on a farm the first year of my life, because my father’s father, George Brandon, needed help with running the big Tennessee farm.  My parents and I lived in a small house my mother named the Gun Barrel, because its rooms were all in a row, with a porch-like opening called a dog trot that stretched across the middle of the house from front to back.  The house had a well but no electricity and was built, like most houses in the South, with the corners supported on stone blocks, so it was possible to crawl under it.  When my parents arrived to live there with a young baby, Jeff took charge of guarding me.  Every night, after he ate his dinner, he would trot down the hill from the big house, where my father’s parents and sisters lived, to crawl under the Gun Barrel.  He could smell through the floor where the baby cradle was, and he slept directly under me each night for the entire year we lived there.  It wasn’t something he was told to do, but he added it to his farm duties and was my first loyal dog companion.  There were many other wonderful dogs that my family had while I was growing up, but Jeff was exceptional in his recognition of a need that he could fill, to protect me when I was most vulnerable. 

I said your Great Grandmother Frances had magical powers.  She had empathy, a powerful intuition which made her very sensitive towards others.  She described it as having a “good fairy.”  Sometimes she would do things when she didn’t know why, like make a phone call or put a cheery card in the mail, and it would be just what someone else needed.  Sometimes her fairy would advise her to do things, like make a batch of cupcakes, which would turn out to be just what was needed when friends or family dropped in unexpectedly.  She was sensitive to when someone needed encouragement and she welcomed new-comers to town by inviting them to tea or to join us for a meal.  I remember one woman who was so very pleased to get a big paper bag of chicken manure from our henhouse, because she was trying to grow flowers in a new subdivision where the soil was very poor.

Your Great Grandmother Frances loved to make parties.  We would put a special tablecloth on the table and maybe candles and celebrate not only birthdays but a good grade on a school assignment, a completed art project or mastery of a piece of music or arrival of a letter from a distant cousin.  We might have cookies or hot chocolate in special cups that were reserved for special occasions, but she was generous with the use of crystal or china.  Life was full of something to celebrate!

Your Great Grandmother Frances also saw ghosts and got to know spirits.  She could always know if a house was inhabited by a ghost, and whether the spirit was distressed or at peace.  She had many friends and wrote many letters, sent pretty cards, and kept in touch with a large number of people because she knew instinctively how to be a good friend.  She and I were very close and loved to laugh at silly things together.  We were often on the same wavelength and would know what each other was thinking.  My husband David called it our “sixth sense.”

Octavia, you also have a dog friend, Pixel, who welcomed you home from the hospital.  You have parents who love the outdoors, and you will get familiar with the beauties of the world through many outings.  You will grow strong and sensitive to beauty.  We realize that the world you were born into is being threatened by the actions of people who cannot look beyond their concern for personal profit.  It will be up to you and your generation to live bravely in the world you will inherit, and I wish you strength and courage to be equal to the demands you will face.  You have many strong and compassionate people in your lineage who will come to your aid, and one of them is represented as your namesake, so I wanted to tell you about her.

With love and best wishes!

Grandmama Moffett

Mother’s Day, 2021

Delightful wake-up with David, as usual. But especially wonderful! Then, while I lay in luxury, he let out the dogs, heated the croissants and coffee and brought up a tray with coffee, oranges, croissants, butter and cherry jelly. When we opened to door, there was an orange-red poppy peeking out on the far side of the hot tub, waiting for us! I immediately thought of my mother, who declared that house plants or rose bushes always bloomed for special occasions, and who delighted in the miniature iris bouquet my brother and I always put on her Mother’s Day tray. All around, clouds floated over, and pink petals swirled through the air from the crab apple tree. Bird songs and busy bird activity in the winter honeysuckle and snowball bushes entertained us. Life is good in Wawawai Canyon!

Surprise Poppy

Two good dogs:

Ramona and Adelaide, May 9, 2021

Survival Garden

At the top of the canyon, I broke down.  Here we were, so close to the end of our long ordeal.  Even if we ran out of gas, the car could coast the five miles home.  I bent over the steering wheel, my eyes swimming with tears.   We’d traveled over two thousand miles, eluded armed mobs, hidden out on back roads, skirted roadblocks.  If it hadn’t been for the sympathy people felt when they saw the baby, we probably would have been waylaid.  Tolls on some roads and exorbitant prices for gasoline had taken all the cash we’d been able to pull together, and in some cases, we’d bartered food and blankets for fuel or access to a stretch of road. 

I could hardly believe we’d made it this far.  We knew fuel availability would be a problem so we’d modified our bike rack to hold two gas cans, our pitiful hedge against running out of fuel, and they had been drained twice.  In Oregon we’d lucked up, refilled the cans and the car’s gas tank, and now we were so close…  Patrick reached across the sleeping baby’s car seat to squeeze my shoulder.  Through my tears I reached for his face, his beard, his lips. 

“Honey, you’ve pulled this off.  Congratulations.”

“I’m scared, Patrick.  Afraid of what we’ll find.  What if armed bands like we saw in Texas and Idaho got here first?”  We’d seen desperate men that travelled from town to town, took what they needed and left people terrorized.  No one could tell us what was happening in the countryside or burned-out towns.  Long stretches of road were totally empty and we learned to travel at night to avoid interactions.  We had had no map, since the internet mapping systems had replaced paper maps, but road signs mostly still marked the towns and we had driven across the country before.

My parents always said that if civilization broke down, we should join them in the canyon in Eastern Washington, where they had carved out a largely self-sufficient life.  We had jokingly referred to such an occasion as Jampocalypse, in gentle ridicule of my mother’s canning activity, which stocked the storage room with enough jams, jellies, sauces and pickles to fend off a disaster.  Now we were driven by hope that the canyon could sustain our lives.  Patrick responded to the baby’s fretful whimper at the fact that we were stopped, so I restarted the engine and shifted into gear to drive down the grade. 

The canyon walls were stunningly green in the late March sun.  A hawk flew above us, circling higher and higher as it rode the thermal updraft into the intense blue.  I knew every curve of the road but I took it in slow motion.  The asphalt road followed the creek, the ribbon of water we could see on the right side, which had cut through the rocks and silt to create the canyon.  Willows, wild rose, sumac and blackberry brambles were budding yellow, red and green.  Swallowtails lilted across the road.  Life was confident as far as the wild things were concerned – maybe they were even better off, with fewer humans around.  Our dog Klemper spoke from his traveling cage and we reassured him that we were almost there.

I rubbed my eyes and blinked back the tears to manage the winding road safely.  The path down the canyon dropped us a thousand feet to the Snake River, and probably the baby was feeling the pressure in his ears.  Patrick adjusted his car seat and dangled his plastic keys.  The road had crumbled off toward the precipice in several spots and it was apparent that a tree had fallen across it and someone had put effort into clearing one lane.  We were beginning to see the few neighbors’ houses near the bottom, all deserted.  Finally, there was our mailbox, its door hanging open. 

Taking a deep breath, I turned into the drive.  The path was overgrown with weeds, wild rose and syringa.  Would the house be there?  Would Rob be waiting for us? 

Everything looked deserted.  The wild plum trees across the drive were beginning to bloom, thick clusters of early jonquils welcomed us, and the pussy willow was buzzing with bees. 

“Hey, listen to those bees! You think the hives are still inhabited?” asked Patrick.

“These bees live in the canyon – in the hives or some hollow tree.  If we have to, we’ll lure them back.”  I thought of how good my brother was with the bees…

Joshua, our two-year old, was beating with his keys, calling “Get out, get out.”  Patrick lifted him up out of the seat and set him on his feet.  “Joshua, you are now in Washington State.”  He turned to get the complaining dog from his travelling cage.  The ecstatic dog had difficulty remembering his training to hold still for Jacob to clip on his leash and I was no help.  I just sat in a daze, looking at how green everything was, listening to the creek.  Meanwhile, Joshua bent over, sat down abruptly, and began to pick up rocks from the driveway.  Patrick grabbed him up again and brushed off his hands over loud objections. 

“Let’s see if we can get in.”  I closed the car door and led the way to the house.  Patrick carried Joshua and dragged Klemper.  The door slid open easily.  My mother’s lifetime collection of potted plants, all dead, lent a bitter, toasted odor to the warmth of the sunroom.  In the far end, a mouse scuttled off and Klemper strained at the leash to pursue it. 

The daylight from the sunroom revealed two hospital beds in the long living room.  I turned away in horror and Patrick put Joshua down to take me in his arms.  That was when we heard the rooster.

“Well, listen, it’s Lucifer,” he said.  In the summers we’d spent here, Patrick had always loved taking a basket out to collect the hen’s eggs, and he had named the rooster.  “Joshua, let’s go see if that rooster has any hens.  Come on, you’ll feel better outside, Lorena.”

We left by the door at the other end of the sunroom and searched the tall grass of the meadow until we began to see chickens.  Patrick punched my shoulder and pointed as a large buff-colored hen lead seven chicks, all colors, across the drive.   He grinned.  “That’s a good sign, Lorena.  Look, Joshua,” he said, putting our son down.  “See the baby chicks?”

Joshua’s arms went out in delight as he started toward them.  The mother hen clucked loudly and hurried her retinue away as Joshua stumbled and landed on his bottom.  A path led from the driveway toward the hoop house.  We waded through tall weeds to reach the plastic-shelled Quonset hut my parents used for season-extension.  My hands trembled as I unzipped the door.  Immediately, the odors of dill, purple-tinted mustard, and arugula swept over us.  Towering spring salad greens and the weeds my mother tolerated for their early provender had self-seeded and taken over.  Along one side, the first vivid green nasturtium leaves were interspersed with thistles that would have to be pulled up.  I covered my face with my hands and cried.  Mother had always declared that the garden wanted to feed us – and here it was, doing it.

“Momma, Momma!”  Joshua toddled over to me and I hugged him close. 

We unpacked the essentials from the car and forced our way into the dusty, cobwebby interior.  Patrick’s allergies were worse than mine, so it would fall to me to clean the dust that covered everything.  I turned my back on the hospital beds and wiped the table to make a place to spread out our meal. 

With no power, the well-pump wouldn’t work, but we had water in the car and could boil the spring water with our propane camp stove when that ran out.  A desperate family had taken the balance of our food at one of the last roadblocks, so the pickings in the ice chest were slim. 

Surveying the food dilemma, Patrick picked up Joshua.  “I’ll see if Josh and I can hunt up some fresh eggs for dinner. You keep Klemper with you, Lorena.  I don’t trust him to not terrorize the chickens.” 

I took the leash.  “Klemper, let’s go,” I said, making it sound like an adventure as I headed back to the hoop house to collect purslane, mustard greens, dill and green garlic leaves.

I set up the camp stove on the open porch and soon we were piling mustard-greens/scrambled eggs into Joshua’s tin cup and onto my mother’s Willowware plates.  I wouldn’t have been surprised to find the china and silver candlesticks pillaged, but the farm’s isolation and the rumors of deaths in the canyon apparently kept potential looters away.  Those candles and the kerosene lamps will come in handy, I thought.

The sun was down and it got dark fast in the canyon, and chilly.  We got our sleeping bags from the car.  At least we could put them on a real mattress tonight.  I carefully folded the dusty bedding off the bed in the downstairs guestroom and opened the window, letting in a cool breeze.  

When Jacob came in with another load from the car, we rolled my mother’s grand piano away from the bookcases so that we could push the hospital beds behind it.  Matters must have been breaking down pretty badly for the hospital beds to have been abandoned here.  I ached to know what had happened to my brother – the internet and phone services had collapsed but he got messages through to me twice, first the news of my parents’ devastating fight with covid-19, when the hospitals were overflowing, then the message that he had gotten the hospice people here.  Where did he go?  He was already ill himself.  Who was left to care for him?  If he was alive, why wasn’t he here?

Jacob was changing Joshua’s diaper.  What a great poppa he was!  I looked around the room and settled on the face of the silent grandfather clock.  I resolved to start it up in honor of my father, so I opened the door, pulled the weights up and slowly ran the clock through the intervening hours to the correct time.  Joshua was delighted.  He wanted to grab the pendulum and the pretty weights, so I closed the clock door, set him on my lap, and told him about his Grandad’s clocks, pointing out others around the room.  They were one of my father’s hobbies, but this grandfather clock was always running and was probably chiming while my parents were lying on those beds from hospice. 

Patrick went out to the car for Joshua’s blanket and called, “Lorena, come see.  There’s an owl in the walnut tree and he’s after those baby chicks.”

I peered into the bare branches to see a large bird with horns that looked like a black cat silhouetted against the darkening sky.  I had loved calling back and forth to them, so I gave a call that was a pretty good imitation of a Great Horned Owl, which caused him to fixate on me.

“That was effective – do it again,” cheered Patrick.  “The hens were running for the hen house – that’s how I noticed the owl.  I just checked — the mother hen has led all her chicks into the house, but he’ll probably be back.”

I hooted again, to Josh’s delight.  He clapped his hands.  I wondered where that behavior came from – was it inborn? 

In the house it was almost dark, so I lighted the candles and we explored the upstairs, looking for the large cradle which we found in my old bedroom, full of pillows and stuffed animals.  I chose a raccoon toy for Joshua that was less dusty than those on the surface.  My father had made this cradle for my brother and me, and when I became pregnant, he and Momma had wanted to visit and bring it to us in the truck, but by that time, travel was forbidden because of the pandemic.

We carried the cradle down the stairs with Joshua in it, which he loved.  I wished my parents could see Joshua, enjoying the cradle, discovering that he could rock himself, which he continued to do with delight until he fell asleep.  Jacob and I soon collapsed on the bed and slept as if we had been drugged.

It was the birds that woke me.  Their rising chorus began as the sky lightened, reached a peak of many voices and then fell silent.  The canyon’s wild fruit, bushes, and weeds attracted many varieties of song birds.  Water and trees were rare in the prairie of Eastern Washington, where dryland crops of wheat, garbanzos and canola depended on the winter’s soil moisture, and in that climate my mother had struggled to grow the kind of garden she had known in Tennessee.  The hotter summers and warmer winters of the canyon were different from the more uniform heat and humidity of the South, but using the hoop house, my mother could grow plenty of ripe tomatoes, eggplant, hot peppers and okra. 

In the early light Joshua looked cherubic in the large cradle and Patrick was handsome with his long hair strewn out on the pillow.  How I loved my family!  Joshua was holding the stuffed toy.  I had only been able to bring a few of his toys, but he was content when we made it clear that Klemper was going and it would be an adventure. 

My parents had so much wanted to share the farm with their grandchildren.  We moved there when I started the fourth grade, so I had hiked the steep canyon slopes and explored the creek’s mysteries, but growing up there would have been wonderful.  We’d visited the property for a couple of years to plant fruiting bushes, vines and trees and build sheds and collect basalt stones for the foundation of the house.  When we finally moved in, the house was not finished and my mother’s mother was living with us.  The downstairs bedroom we were sleeping in now had been her room, with the walls painted this light sky blue, her favorite color.  Grandmomma had been a real trooper, pointing out that inconveniences like hugging close to the kerosene heater until we finished tiling the fireplace and washing the dishes in the bathroom sink were like camping – which she loved.  When she died, the family had come together to create a memorial service that did my grandmother’s life justice.  No such celebration of my parent’s lives had been possible…

I swung my feet onto the cold terra cotta floor tiles, and recalled working with my mother to install the tiles over the poured concrete floor, starting first in that bedroom, extending out from there to the bathroom, living room, and kitchen.  This house was designed to stay comfortable despite the canyon’s heat, with the lower level partly earth-sheltered and the sunroom sited to provide winter solar heating.

Klemper wanted to go out, so I clipped on his leash.  Living in a city, leash walking was all he had known, and I didn’t trust him to not get some scent and take off.  When we got back in I could hear Jacob responding to Joshua, so I surveyed the prospects for breakfast.  Jacob took Joshua to look at the chicks while I set the camp stove up on the porch.  Eggs again, and crackers with a jar of blackberry jelly was all we had for now, but I found flour and cornmeal, baking powder, oil, and sugar in the kitchen cabinets, so I resolved to cook pancakes on our camp stove, maybe for lunch. There was just enough milk for Josh, so I explored the cabinet, which was bountifully stocked with powdered milk and evaporated milk.  The virus had forced buying food in bulk, and it occurred to me that this was far more valuable than the china and silver candlesticks.

They burst back into the house, bringing warm, newly-laid eggs, brown, blue, and green.

“Chickens! chickens!” crowed Joshua.

‘Joshie, come give Momma a hug.”

“We watched the hens go down to the creek for water – there’s a path, and I found a nest under the hen house, where the hen may have brooded her eggs,” said Patrick.  “You should see him call Rooser! Rooser!  Joshua really wants to pet that rooster!  It’s a new one – pretty exotic.  I tried to explain that the rooster has an important job guarding his hens and he might not understand that Joshua isn’t going to steal them.”

“Maybe we can borrow one of the chicks for him to pet.  We should tame them now or they’ll grow up wild.  Give me those eggs – the griddle’s hot.  I’ve put on water for tea.”

“Watching the hens drinking at the creek gave me an idea,” said Patrick.  “You said the garden would have to be watered bucket by bucket unless we can rig up the solar pump.”

“Yes, I was depending on my brother’s help with that, Patrick – I’m so worried he’s dead too.”

“Poor Rob.  We sure could use his know-how.  Anyway, I thought I’d use your father’s brush hook and clear a path down to the water, and maybe do a little revising of the flow like your brother did, to make a deep pool to dip from.  The flow is great now, but later in the summer it may taper off.”

“Good idea.  I want to plan the garden next.  I thought about it so much on the drive, to keep myself distracted.  I have the seeds we had left over from our planting, but I’m counting on Momma’s supply of seeds in the storage room.”  Tears filled my eyes.  “Pat, the only reason I can face this is because I know Momma and Daddy wanted us to get here.”

He moved behind my chair and leaned over to hug me.

“We’re going to make it, Lorena.  Self-sufficiency is what your parents had in mind when they bought this place.  We’ll start with the garden and study the Foxfire books and learn to do lots of things.  Josh wanted to go back into the hoop house.  I think he’ll be a natural.”

Klemper led the way to the garden.  I opened the gate and unclipped his leash and he rushed in.  Dead tomatoes trapped in their cages rose amid a riot of weeds, but kale was blooming on the far side.  The cornstalks were broken, their tattered leaves rustled in the breeze and the exposed corn cobs were picked clean by birds and mice.  Skeletons of squash and pumpkin vines draped over the fence.  It didn’t look as if the late garden was harvested at all.  I couldn’t help it – I broke down again and cried. 

“Lorena, I know it’s hard, but I’m taking it as a good omen that the chickens survived.  You’re familiar with all this gardening stuff and you know I’ll work with you.  I plan to cut the path down to the creek over there,” he pointed as he jollied Joshua.  Klemper came up, sat down next to me and leaned in.  Both Klemper and Joshua were worried about me, so Patrick set Joshua on his feet and held both of us close, and I held out a hand to scratch Klemper’s head.  “We’ll get it going again.  We’ll make a garden your parents would be proud of,” he whispered.

I tried to pull myself together.  “It’s just so hard, to see all the effort and know they’re gone.  We never got together on this like they wanted us to!”

Klemper was digging under one of the tomato plants, throwing clods of dirt and leaves in a cloud.  “Klemper, come here!” called Patrick.  “Maybe he’ll be a good gopher dog.”

“After I get it planted, we’ll keep him out of here, or he’ll dig up everything.  Call him off that hole.  This is a boundary we’d better start enforcing.”

A Canyon Wren lighted on the gate post and then dipped inside the hole where wrens had nested for many summers.  “Mother wrote me about that wren! – it was her gardening companion!”

“They’re good insectivores!”

“Let’s go in and sort through the seeds we have and draw up a plan.  It’s too late to start seeds inside but I’m sure we’ll have volunteer tomatoes in the hoop house.” 

Back in the house, I broke up cobwebs to get to the candlesticks and matches.  I lighted the two candles and gave one to Patrick while Joshua looked on, fascinated.  We entered the cellar chill of the storage room.  “Watch Josh – there’s lots of breakable things here,” I said.  The shifting light of the candles illuminated shelves along the back wall loaded with quarts of tomato sauce, salsa and canned peaches, jars of honey and more jelly, pickles, and preserves than anyone could imagine eating.  There was a modest wine assortment and Joshua discovered the English walnuts in open boxes and sat on the cold floor to play with them.  Behind him, I noticed paper bags with potato sprouts projecting from them – a bonanza. 

I turned to the cabinet where Momma kept her seeds.  Candy and cookie gift tins labeled Squash, Okra, Cucumber and Melon, Greens, Root Crops, Flowers, were stacked on the shelves.  I pulled out the metal bread box labeled Beans and Corn.  On top of it were two whole ears of corn, enough kernels to plant an entire garden.  Under the corn was a sheet of paper.  I unfolded it and in the flickering candlelight I could make out my mother’s handwriting.

My hands were trembling.  “Let’s go out where I have light to read this,” I suggested.

Patrick picked up Josh and some of his nuts and we went to the table where the light was good.  I read:

Dear Lorena,

I trust in my heart that you will find this letter, soon.  This place is yours and Rob’s heritage, and the hope that sustains us is that you will get here and be able to take up what we have started.  I hope your brother lives to join you.  He supported us in so many ways.

I didn’t know whether seeds will be available from seed companies in the future, so I collected every kind of seed for you.  The seeds of tomatoes, snow peas and sugar snaps are varieties we have been growing here for years – they call them Land Race, because they are adapted to this site.  There are all the kinds of pole beans and bush beans you will remember.  I hope the lettuce seeds are good.  I tied the lettuce heads up inside paper bags to keep them from crossing with the ragged lettuce weeds – commercial lettuce seeds are not much good after a year.  Spinach does well from saved seed, as do the melons, squash and okra. 

Your father repaired the gardening tools you will need – he put new handles on the orchard hoe and my favorite shovels and on the larger pruner.  He left the ammunition for the shotguns and rifle hidden in the box under the bed in your room upstairs and the guns are there, too.  We hope you know how to use them if rattlesnakes have a den close to the house.  Above all, take care your precious Joshua.  We so wanted to welcome him here – please bring him up to know us, as best you can.

 Lorena, you and Patrick are capable of making this thing work.  It will be a struggle, but I hope that eventually you will also have time for your writing.  Someone has to record this time for future generations, and I trust there will be future generations to love this land and care for it.

Your father and I love you so much! – Carry on and make a life here, and know that we go on loving you and wanting the best for you – that is all that parents can do, and now that you are parents, you will understand.

Momma. 

Life at Serenity Hills

Blood trickled across her wrist, but she quickly smeared it around to hide the injury inflicted when the attendant banged her into the wheelchair.  She leaned back as she was pushed to the Commons room for dinner.  Her long plait was white and her skin was fragile, but Callie didn’t need a wheelchair – she could walk perfectly well.  At first she had resisted, but they had raised the specter of another fall, another broken hip.  The fact was, it was easier for the staff to transfer the independent living residents to the dining room using wheel chairs.  Eventually she quit objecting, but she had resolved to walk secretly in her own room to keep up her strength.

Callie was looking forward to seeing Marie, her friend who really did depend on her wheelchair.  With her big brown eyes and animated way of talking, you forgot Marie wasn’t able to jump up and kiss or throttle you.  Callie scanned the sad cluster of residents at the other end of the long table.  In their wheelchairs, they didn’t look independent, but many carried on with clubs, church, civic, and political activities.  Their number had dwindled and several that Callie and Marie counted as friends were missing.  Rachel died two weeks ago – that had been expected, and her family had been with her.  Callie grieved for Rachel and for their shared love of dogs.  Two days ago, the real exodus had begun, including Jane and Laurence, the couple she and Marie often played bridge with.  Many permanent residents and some from the surgery recovery unit had been abruptly removed by their families.  The departures left the remaining residents rejected and despondent.  The staff also showed the stress.   

The Commons room was a pleasant-enough space with natural light, cream-colored walls, and living potted plants.  In the Commons room they celebrated resident’s birthdays, did crafts and chair yoga, watched TV, and played games.  Whenever family or visitors of the independent living residents joined them for meals and game time, it brightened the day for everyone – seeing young people running, playing the piano, singing, or showing off special clothes or toys made everyone feel connected with the outside world.  Now the facility was locked down, with even close family members barred from entering.  Fred and Jane waited helplessly in the Commons room while the staff bungled everything, stripping the wrong room of possessions in their rush to pack up their things. 

The moves were hard on those left behind because everyone knew that families were taking residents home after a night shift worker had tested positive for the Corona virus.

The virus dominated the evening news, and the staff joined the residents to watch.  The staff talked in whispers and texted incessantly on their cell phones.  They sniped at one another as they mopped the halls and floors with disinfectant until the entire facility reeked – Marie told Callie it reminded her of the pine sol smell in the girl’s restroom in grade school.  The day Jane and Fred left, the staff had taken to wearing handmade masks.  The brightly colored masks contrasted with the anger in their voices, but they rarely addressed the residents.  Some of those residents were now straining to hear what the staff said to one another, and the masks made this harder.

Dinner was being pushed out and Marie was still missing.  Callie became anxious.  She had been looking forward to commiserating with Marie over the departures.  She spun her wheelchair around to watch the hallway.  What was keeping Marie?  Maybe it was something having to do with Jerome…  Marie’s pet bird Jerome was unpopular with the staff because seeds and little feathers collected by Marie’s bed, but Jerome had become the focus of Marie’s life since her daughter brought him here three years ago.  Callie also loved birds and always looked forward to the report of Jerome’s antics.  She thought, three years – has it been that long?  Time ran together, each day like the last, for weeks at a time. 

Masked and gloved attendants were distributing the food.  Callie had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she told herself that she and Marie would make fun of the food together.  They often compared recipes and shared memories of being “chief cook and bottle washer” for their own families, when they each had grown big gardens and cooked three meals a day.  But where was Marie?  

Callie’s wheelchair was grabbed with a jerk and pushed without comment next to some residents she didn’t know well. 

“Excuse me, please.  Could you tell me where Marie is?  Does she have a cold?”

The attendants looked at one another and shrugged.  Callie wasn’t sure they understood English.  An alert resident raised her head from her chest and said, “Wasn’t that the little lady with the bird?  Her son came to pick her up this afternoon.  There was quite a lot of noise when that bird went by my room.”

Callie’s heart sank.  How had she missed that?  Marie gone — without saying good-bye?  The room went dark for a chilling moment as Callie absorbed the information.

“It’s just us with no family, now,” commented the elderly man at the other side of the table.

Callie’s eyes flew open.  She looked at the food that had been placed in front of her, the mound of meat balls, the big too-green peas, the bowl of applesauce.  Something inside of her seem to explode.  “No!”  She pushed it onto the floor.  “I won’t eat this!  I won’t eat any more!”

“Hush, hush, dearie,” said one attendant.  “Look what a mess you’ve made!”  She took off for the kitchen and the door swung back with a bam as an orderly pushed his way through the flapping doors with a broom and dustpan.  The peas had rolled far and wide but the plastic plate hadn’t even broken.  Callie wished that it had.

The dietician followed the orderly from the kitchen.  Glancing up quickly, Callie grimaced at the white-coated man wearing a mask over his beard.  He surveyed the spilled food with poorly controlled irritation.  “Had a little problem with your dinner plate?  How about we butter your bread and let you just take it back to your room…”  He picked up the piece of white bread and began to spread margarine.

“I won’t eat that bread.  I won’t eat anything ever again!”

“Now, now.  Having a little temper tantrum, are we?”  He looked around for help.  The residents were eating and paying no attention, the orderly had taken the dustpan with the peas and meatballs away, and the servers were hanging back in the kitchen.  He turned to Callie and noticed that she was crying.  “There, there.  Don’t you worry.  These things happen.”

“Life is what happens,” blurted Callie.  “I’ve had quite enough of it!”

The nurse came bustling in.  “Why Callie, I’m surprised at you.  This was such a nice meal Gregory prepared for everyone.”

Abruptly, Callie wheeled around to face her.  “You can eat my portions from now on.”

 “What’s the matter, Callie?  You can tell me.”

“The matter, in case you hadn’t heard, is that we’re locked in like prisoners attended by bank robbers, but it isn’t innocent play-acting – it’s sinister.  We hear the news.  We know what’s happening in Kirkland, and we know it’s here, too.  I guess I’m glad Marie’s family came to get her, but there’s nobody gonna come get me.  I don’t want to die like an animal in a trap!”

The other residents were beginning to pay attention.  Gregory signaled to the nurse to lead her away.

Among the undercurrent of murmurs around the table, Alex, a retired minister, was inspired.  “Nobody dies alone, Callie, if they’ve found God.”

“You can have Him!  I found God and then I lost God, for good, after my Charlie died.”

“It’s never too late to find your way back to Him, Callie.”

“You busybody, go to hell,” retorted Callie as the nurse wheeled her out of the dining room.

********

Back in her room, Callie was helped from the wheelchair onto her bed.  She rolled over to face the wall.  Sobs racked her body, but she made no sound.  The nurse backed out of the room.

 “Janice,” she said to the nurse’s assistant, “we can’t have this.”  “She’ll get the other residents stirred up.  Callie’s aware…  We may have to isolate her.  I’ll get something to help her sleep.  Maybe by morning it will all blow over.”

Straining to hear their conversation, Callie caught the word “isolate.”

“Yes ma’am. Callie’s always been compliant.  I’m sure it’s because Marie left this afternoon.  I thought at the time we should give them a chance to say good-bye.”

“You know that was quashed by the Director.  She said she didn’t want any emotional leave-taking,” said the nurse.

“Oh no, oh no – we can’t allow any emotional leave-taking.  It isn’t as if we’re taking care of people who have feelings….”

When the pills arrived, Janice rapped on the door.  “I’ve got something that’ll give you a good night’s sleep.”  Callie knew what was coming and was determined to outwit her. 

Bustling from dresser to the bed with night clothes, Janice kept up a banter, and when Callie failed to respond, she said, “Callie, dear, I’m real sorry.  I know you and Marie were real close.  Her son said she’d be going home for just a few weeks and then she’ll come back.  You’ll see.  Now let me help you take these pills so you can sleep.”

Callie rose a bit, propped on one elbow.  “Thank you, Janice.  I can take the pills myself, just help me sit up.”

The nurse put the little white cup on the night table.  Callie eyed the flat white pill and long blue one with distrust.  While Janice was distracted by finding a bandage for the scab on her wrist, Callie grasped the pills deep in her gnarled hand and went through the motion of tossing them back in her throat, followed by drinking water from the paper cup.

“That’s a good girl. You take those pills like a champ.  You’ll feel much better in the morning.  Can I bring you a cup of clear soup or juice?”

“No, thank you.  I’ll be fine, now.”

The door clicked shut.  Slowly, Callie slid her hand out.  She had gripped the two pills so tightly that her hand was cramping and she had to use her other hand to loosen her fingers.  She studied the pills.  There were sure to be more if she continued to make trouble.  Keeping residents quiet was a priority of the staff.  If she staged a few more scenes and saved the pills up, she would be in control of her future, at least.  She opened the bedside table’s shallow drawer and rummaged among the contents until she found her coin purse.  She dumped out the few coins, slid the pills inside, and clicked the purse shut.

Callie sank back into the soft bed.  She was wide awake and it was ridiculous to be put to bed before the evening news.  She lay there, thinking about Marie.  She and Marie always sat up in the Commons, watching and then talking.  News each night had gotten steadily worse.  The virus had been detected in a long-term care facility in Kirkland and the first death in the nation had been reported.  Nobody could imagine that the tragedy in Italy could happen here, but a hotspot was developing in New York.  Callie and Marie had seen the nurses and doctors appealing for masks, gloves, respirators, and tests for the virus. 

To Callie and Marie, the future looked bleak.  They had known privation and limitations, but their worlds, their long lives, had been bolstered by belief in their country and optimism about the future.  The Depression shaped their world and left them forever inclined to scrimp and save, but somehow, the country had pulled together and triumphed.  These days, most people seemed to have lots more of everything than Marie and Callie had ever wanted or needed, but instead of prosperity there were drug overdoses, homeless families, hungry children.  Now, this new tragedy was blotting out the future. 

Callie and Marie had been friends for years.  Marie’s children had chosen Serenity Hills, and when Callie visited her, Marie had encouraged her to move in.  Callie had been living alone since her husband Charlie died, and had assumed she would go on doing so.  Charlie had taken care of her after she broke her hip – Callie pursed her lips at the memory of his patience and love.  When it had been his turn to suffer, she had cared for him.  Their home was comfortable, and she loved it, but then she had a real scare.  Just walking across the dining room, she’d caught her foot on the rug and the fall had knocked her unconscious.  When she’d finally come to, the house was dark.  She’d been able to feel her way to turn on a light, and although her head was still spinning, nothing was broken.  Callie never told anyone about this fall, but took it as a warning.  She put the house up for sale and completed the application forms herself.  That had been three years ago.  

Callie moaned, missing Marie.  This was too much.  She felt the depression that had nipped around her ankles ever since Charlie’s death creeping back.  She knew what it was like to lose control of her mental activity and sink into dismal thoughts, but she had formulated a secret remedy: she could escape into memories of her childhood.  She did this regularly, and had found it a good way to fall asleep happy.  Now, as the light faded in the room, she closed her eyes, a child again, setting out on a family camping trip. 

The two vehicles, loaded to the hilt, would drive out into the country and then rumble over uneven ground along the river bank, on land owned by a family friend, to set up camp.  There was always much tramping around to discover a level space for the tent and the right stone to put under the iron stove to serve for the one missing leg.  Her mother was very particular that the stove be level, as she would be frying and baking for the extended family.  Callie’s sister Margaret was her mother’s right-hand helper.

Callie, a tom-boy, worked with her father to bait the hooks for the trotlines in the river and she waded in along the edge as he swam out to secure the line on the other side.  Then she and her brothers usually helped her father and uncles erect the tent while her sister helped her mother lay out the dinner.  The long table was made of planks laid on saw horses and soon the old tablecloths were covered with a fragrant dinner of bacon, sliced tomatoes, freshly baked biscuits and the roastin’ ears they’d stopped and picked from a roadside corn patch – counting on the give-and-take that country people practiced. 

Callie listened to the roar of the water and felt the comforting presence of her sister’s heels against her back – she and Margaret slept head-to-toe in the broad camping cot with the covers pinned around the center.  Then she recalled the time the blind white horse, grazing without knowledge of day or night, stumbled into their camp and tangled with the tent’s guy wires.  In panic, he pulled the heavy tent down around them all.  She could still hear how her mother had laughed!  Her father and uncles lighted a lantern and worked to calm and free the terrified horse.  Callie never forgot sleeping the rest of the night in the open, dazzled by the stars.

Callie found herself giggling at the chaos as the tent was pulled over.  Then she had an idea — that box of Girl Scout cookies she had bought from the Night Clerk’s daughter… 

With delight at the secret, she swung her feet off the bed and went to her chest of drawers. The box was easy to open and two thin mints slipped into her mouth together.  Their impact filled Callie with guilty pleasure as saliva threatened to run out the corners of her mouth.  She grabbed a Kleenex and wiped her hands, then her face.  She wadded it carefully so that the chocolate smudges were hidden.

As Callie sat on the bed and licked the tips of her fingers the sensation morphed into Charlie gently sucking her fingertips. Over the years, he had learned to give her pleasure in many ways, gently adoring every part of her body.  She had lavished devotion on him, as well, learning what he most craved.  They were so close that sometimes when they lay in bed thoughts seemed to travel between their heads.  They had built a life together, first constructing the small barn and then utilizing what they learned to build the house, digging trenches, mixing cement, setting posts, meanwhile living in a tent while they planted the gardens and the orchard and cared for the animals. 

Callie squeezed her eyes tightly shut, as if that could block memories.  Every time she remembered Charlie’s touch, his last days of suffering rushed in.  Charlie had endured so much – he withdrew as the pancreatic cancer slowly killed him.  Callie would never forgive that doctor – supposedly a man who cared for her husband, his own doctor of many years, who had abandoned them when the pain was too great to bear and the end so near, finding it inconvenient to come by the house to give the morphine injections Charlie needed.  A chill passed over her as Callie recalled her helplessness in the face of his pain. 

She had tried to carry on alone, as Charlie made her promise to do, but living alone had left her half a person, and all her thoughts of their life together ended this way.  The retired minister’s words about God came back.  She muttered, “If there was a God in Heaven, He wouldn’t have let poor Charlie suffer that way.  No! – there’s no God looking after us and no reward in a life after death – there’s just what we have right here on this earth – and I’m trying to live the little that’s left me, carrying on as Charlie wanted me to – but now, Marie, who made life in this place bearable, has been taken away!”

She thought again of the pandemic, the Corona virus that seemed to target the elderly – just clean us away, us old people — we’re no good any more – we don’t make things or pay taxes – that’s all society wants of anyone.   We’re just a burden… Callie recalled the shared moan that had risen from the residents when the data about risk factors was discussed.  Marie had been particularly indignant at being a target for the virus – “What did we do to deserve this?”  A teacher, she had raised a family and written children’s books on the side.

Marie had loved the story of Callie’s pet crow.  Her brothers found the half-drowned nestling when a tree blew over in a rainstorm, and with her mother’s help, Callie raised the crow, feeding it boiled egg and scouring the woods for worms, grubs and grasshoppers.  For many years that crow was her secret confidant.  Callie recalled following her grandmother to the rose bush to see the song sparrow’s nest with tiny eggs inside, comparing it with the cruder mud-waddled construction of the robin’s nest in the eaves, and the woven hanging nest of the oriole – Callie pictured her frail grandmother who had meant so much to her – she would be a target of this virus!  Callie viewed her own arthritic hands, so like her grandmother’s, with a shock of realization.

********

Overnight the routine of the nursing home changed abruptly.  Independent living residents were confined to their rooms.  Callie peeked out her door.  At the end of the hall, the Commons room had been emptied of the long dining tables, couches, and card tables.  Curtains supported on tall racks were being wheeled in to create private spaces around hospital beds.  I wonder what they need them for, when so many of the residents have gone home?

The masked and gloved woman with red hair who brought Callie’s breakfast was new. 

“Thank you – that looks good.  Where’s Lacey?” asked Callie.

The woman was heavyset, with a ruddy complexion that went with her hair, and, above her mask, her eyes were wide and merry.  “Someone in Lacey’s home has the virus.  I think they said her mother.”

The woman gazed around.  “Good view of the rhododendrons.  Seems like a real nice place.”

“Better than living on the street.  Serenity Hills is a fancy jail for white-collar criminals…”

Sandra checked the door for Callie’s name.  “Mrs. Callie Alcott… May I call you Callie?  Callie, these days we all need to think positive – that’s what I told my family when they got wind of my plan to go back to work.  They’re short of staff here, so I signed on as a temp.  I worked at nursing for 17 years, but just burned out on the insane schedule, I guess.  Gained some weight in the meantime – my uniform would hardly button,” she laughed, indicating the bulges that strained against her nurse’s uniform. “Times are changing, though,” she said soberly, “and I think I’m needed.  Also, we need the money because my husband is laid off.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Callie. “Have other staff members had to go into quarantine?”

“Hell yes, half of ’em are out.  Kitchen staff’s really low.  That’s why breakfast is late.  Do you need anything else?”

“My best friend was taken to her son’s home yesterday – that’s why I was so critical of Serenity Hills.  I miss her and I’m lonely.  I’d appreciate it if you’d come back and talk to me, if you have a chance.”

“Your friend got out of here just in time.  Now, nobody’s allowed in or out.  I had to agree to move in, and since I’ve seen the situation, I expect I’m in for the long haul.  Bye for now – they’ve got a lot for me to do, but I’ll be back when I can.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sandra – Sandra Meldrum.”

Callie eyed the breakfast.  The cinnamon bun smelled good.  She’d had to reconsider her decision to starve herself to death when she recalled the promise she’d made to Charlie.  He’d said, You are brave, Callie – I’ve seen that so many times, how brave you are.  I want you to fight.  Promise me that you will fight.  It’s a losing battle, but what’s important is how you fight back.

So Callie must fight this virus.  She thought about masks.  Maybe she should be wearing a mask too?  On the TV news, they showed everyone wearing masks in those Asian countries.  Why didn’t they issue masks for the residents – was it because they didn’t have enough?

Callie moved the tray aside – she hated eating in bed.  She could clear a space for the plate on her little dresser.  She was working on that when she noticed her sewing box under the dresser.  Delighted to have it, she dumped the contents out, searching for the notions stored under the bottom insert – the tag ends of packets of hooks and eyes, bias tape, lace, and yes, the elastic tape she needed.  She opened the drawer that held her lacy handkerchiefs, some with flower prints and others with embroidery.  She unfolded two, stacking them squarely on one another, and refolded them in half, making pleats with her fingers at the sides.   She held the fabric up to her face.  It was soft and light, but surely it was as good as the new-fabric masks the staff had been wearing.

Callie needed her reading glasses to thread a needle, so she went to the bedside table.  The unfinished breakfast tray lay on her bed.  She picked up the cup of coffee – at least they allowed her to have coffee, but what awful coffee!  She stuck her tongue out at the burnt flavor.  She bit into the sad-centered cinnamon roll and put it down, disgusted at the doughy texture.  She and Marie had wanted to teach those cooks a thing or two.  For an instant, Callie pictured herself and Marie helping out – putting on big aprons and rolling up their sleeves and getting to work….

Returning to the dresser, she sat on the cushioned bench and focused on threading the needle.  She bit and re-bit the end of the thread, trying to get it to extend with a stiff point into the eye of the needle.  Finally, it went through.  She secured the pleats and began stitching the sides.  Attaching the elastic required her to use a thimble to force the needle through the thick layers.  She measured elastic for the ear loop.  Wouldn’t they be surprised when they came for the breakfast tray!

When Callie finished the first mask, she put it on, determined to begin her personal protection program immediately.  She knew Charlie would approve. 

The door banged open – the staff had always made a point of knocking before opening, but this was another person Callie had not seen before.  He was young – maybe a college student – and he greeted her with, “Up and about today?  Are you finished with breakfast?”

“Yes, thank you.  How do you like my mask?”

He seemed to really look at her for the first time.  “Well, now.  That’s pretty – looks good on you.”

Callie’s eyes sparkled.  She loved compliments, even from a man young enough to be her grandson.  To her, he looked like a Greek god, with his wavy blond hair and athletic build.

“I was wondering when the residents would be supplied with masks, too.  We’re all supposed to be wearing them, you know.”

“Yessum.  I’m getting used to mine.”  He tugged at it a bit to straighten it on his face.  “You need anything else?”

“I suppose you’re very busy, but that coffee was abysmal.  I don’t suppose you or another staff member would have time to share a cup of coffee with me?”

He hesitated, appraising her, thinking of the grandmother who’d taught him to play checkers and couldn’t resist letting him win.  He was surprised at how appealing the invitation was.  “I’d like to do that, but it’s pretty hectic around here because the North Wing…” 

“What’s this about the North Wing?  Can you tell me why the Commons room has all those beds in it?”

“It’s to space the residents out.  Get the North Wing down from two and four patients per room to single occupancy.”  His buzzer sounded and he waved as he backed out the door with her tray.

Callie went back to her sewing.  She’d applied for and waited until a private room became available so she would have space for her handmade dresser, books, photographs, and the trusty sewing basket.  The second mask pleased her even more than the first, so she put it on.  The third mask was underway when she heard gurneys being rolled into the Commons room.  The voices of residents rose above the transit noises, calling for help, objecting to being moved, moaning.  Callie imagined the strong young man transferring bodies from gurneys onto the beds.  Many residents in the North Wing were demented, and getting them to accept change was a challenge.  Both she and Marie had had friends who had “lost their marbles” as they put it, and though they had joked about it – because what else could you do? – they both feared similar losses and had clung together precisely because this threat was constantly around them.  Now, even that fear had been replaced by the virus.

Callie put the third mask on the dresser.  She punched the needle in the pincushion and swept the sewing supplies together.  To see how she looked, she headed for the mirrored door of the bathroom.  She felt like laughing at the thought that she was equipped for a genteel stick-up.  In the background, calls for attention and incoherent misery rose above the din of the squeaking gurneys.  Someone was crying as if her heart was breaking, and Callie listened in sympathy. 

“I’m going to get dressed,” she said aloud.  “Don’t want to be mistaken for those poor souls that don’t know what to fight against!  She viewed her clothes, and with sudden inspiration, pulled out a full-sleeved white blouse and long gathered skirt, the outfit she used for story time at the local library.  She’d loved the grandmotherly role, surrounded by the circle of children, all sitting cross-legged, captivated by the book she held up to show the pictures.  I can quiet the bedlam in the Commons room by telling stories! 

She opened her door, letting in the cries, and looked critically at the scene in the Commons room.  Yes, this was something she could do!  She began marching and swept into the room, clapping her hands in a steady rhythm.  She pushed her mask up onto her forehead and began singing:

 The more we get together, together, together,

The more we get together, the happier we’ll be –

Cause your friends are my friends and my friends are your friends,

And the more we get together, the happier we’ll be. 

There were a few voices joining in, so she sang another verse as she surveyed the stack of chairs at the front of the room where the TV had previously sat.

Callie grabbed up the edge of her long skirt and stuffed it in her mouth, scaled the tallest stack of chairs, and turned around triumphantly to seat herself.  She certainly had their attention.  There was a scattering of claps.  Everyone could hear her and many could see her.  Some were strapped in.  As Callie looked across the anxious, searching faces of the residents, a lump rose in her throat, but she managed to swallow it and announce, It’s “Story Time.”

Once upon a time, Farmer McGregor had a very fine garden, his pride and joy, which he cared for every day, hoeing and pulling every weed and even setting up a scarecrow to frighten the birds.  Callie addressed the residents: “Now, like me, many of you know how much work a good garden can be, but what a joy, also.”  There were nods of agreement.  Callie continued:  The garden had everything a garden should have — lovely lettuces and the fringy green leaves of the broad carrot row, tomatoes, onions, a fine corn patch and bush beans and oh, the cabbages – the very sweet cabbages that Farmer McGregor was known for… 

But Farmer McGregor was not the only one who cared about his fine garden…”

The bedlam had quieted as Callie launched into The Tale of Peter Rabbit. Three heads peeked through the kitchen door and then pulled back into the kitchen to confer:

“She’s doing a great job.” 

“What about liability?  How’d she get up on that stack of chairs?” 

“She’ll break her neck – talk about negligence — we don’t need another ambulance pulling up here!”

“I say wait until she’s finished.  Then we’ll help her down.  She’s the only resident I’ve run into who made a particle of sense,” said Sandra. 

Callie had moved on to Three Little Kittens Who Lost Their Mittens, finishing up with “Now you shall have some pie!”

“I want pie,” came a call from one of the residents.  Seizing the opportunity, Sandra strode to the front of the room to stand beside Callie’s stack of chairs.  “We’re serving pie to everyone as soon as they bake.  Gregory’s working on it right now.”

From her perch, Callie returned to singing, acting out the parts with animation:

“The king was in his counting house, counting all his money,

The queen was in the parlor, eating bread and honey.

The maid was in the courtyard, hanging out the clothes –

 Along came a blaaa-ack bird and snip-ped off her nose! 

Four and twenty blackbirds baked into a pie…

Gregory set the oven to preheat on his way to the walk-in freezer – “All hell will come down on me if we don’t serve pie.”

Sandra waited patiently as Callie inserted cheeps and squeaks for the crying birds which turned to singing in authentic whistles as the pie was presented to the king.  She said, “Let’s thank Callie for her good story time.”  Some clapped, one man whistled, and others knocked against the metal rails of their beds.

Sandra held a hand up to Callie, but she turned around, held the brightly flowered skirt in her teeth, and backed down.  Turning to her audience, she waved brightly, and the residents knocked on the rails.

When she had Callie back in her room, Sandra said, “Well, you’re a firecracker, aren’t you?”

“Somebody had to do something about those poor souls – they’re disoriented, that’s all.  Hate anything changing.  Didn’t anyone try to explain?  Is there really going to be pie?”

“Callie, I saw they had those individual pies in the freezer.  I’m sure Gregory will get right on it.  You and I could whip up some really good pies, I bet, if they’d give us a chance!”

Callie looked at her with sudden interest. “Marie and I wanted to take over the kitchen,” she said.  “Has there been any word from Marie’s family?”

“Honey, I don’t know this Marie.  Is she in the North wing?”

“Oh no, she was here in the South wing with me before her son came to get her.”

“Oh, yes, you told me about her.  She’s lucky.  I’m not supposed to go into the North Wing, but things are really bad over there.”

“As bad as Kirkland?”

“You know about that?  We’re supposed to prevent residents from getting news, but family members are tying up the phone and the website trying to get messages to them.  My daughter keeps texting me to get out of here, but she doesn’t know I’m here for the duration.

Her buzzer went off and Sandra jumped up – “I bet they need me to help with serving – you’ll get your pie, soon – you sure did earn it!”

Callie looked out the window as an ambulance maneuvered to the side entrance.  She gripped the windowsill as a gurney was wheeled out and attendants in moon suits guided the body into the ambulance.  The face was covered.  Callie bit her lip.  Strong, be strong, she told herself.   

Sandra knocked and entered.  “I brought your coffee.  Dan said that’s what the little lady wanted.  He worked part of the morning fixing the coffee pot.” 

“Is Dan the nice young man who took away the breakfast tray?”

“Dan’s our knight in shining armor.  He can do anything!  On top of all the moving and cleaning, he found out what had clogged the coffeepot and cleaned it with vinegar.  He said you hadn’t eaten breakfast and wanted some good coffee.”

“That’s kind of him.”  The wails from the commons room reached a new pitch and Sandra hurried to close the door. 

“There’s a lot of unhappiness…”

“Now don’t you leave this room, you hear me?  There’s germs out there you don’t want.”

Callie’s hand went up to her mask, still perched on her forehead.  So this was going to be the same as the Kirkland nursing home… “Sandra, I saw an ambulance, but…  Why aren’t they taking sick residents to the hospital?”

“Don’t you worry your head about that, Callie.  We’re doing our best to keep ahead of it.  Here, I’ll put your coffee on the dresser and you come sit on the bench.  This is such a pretty piece of furniture!”

“Charlie made that dresser and the matching bench.  He cut and dried the cherry wood and put so much love into the work – Callie ran her hand along the edge.  I can almost feel his hands, stroking and sanding the wood.”

“Isn’t that sweet.  All I hear from home is how everything is going to hell.”

“What’s going on, Sandra?”

“It’s the physical confinement.  Jack can’t go to soccer practice and Alice can’t swim laps and they got so rebellious that Bob sent them to stay in their rooms.”

Sandra helped her make a place at the dressing table.  The coffee was better than at breakfast.  As Callie sipped it, there was a knock on the door and Dan peeked in.  “Thought I’d find you here, Sandra.  Callie’s room could become our refuge.”  He held a plate.  “Isneaked off with these — Didn’t know if you’d prefer the cherry or the lemon, so I brought you some of each.”

 “Thank you, Dan – I like cherry and lemon.”  Callie was hungry and the commercial fritters were better than she expected. 

 “Good coffee, Dan.  I understand you fixed the coffeepot,” said Callie.

“I like fixing things,” said Dan. 

He turned to Sandra, “You tell her she can’t go out again?”  

He addressed Callie, “South wing residents are supposed to be isolating in their rooms.”

“So we’re really prisoners, aren’t we?”  Callie consumed the pies, wiped her lips, and took a last sip of the coffee.   “That was very satisfactory.”  She pulled her mask back over her face.

“That’s a good girl.  Now you just sit tight.  You’re a bandit, too.  We’ll be back when we can, but there’s a lot of demands on us – you understand?”

Callie nodded.

They exited and she heard the click as the door was locked.

Callie closed her eyes.  “Charlie, if you can hear me, man, tell me what to do.  I’m trying to be brave, just like I promised you. Charlie, but I didn’t expect this kind of thing!”

From the Commons room the calls and moans quieted as the pie was distributed.  Callie heard the mop bucket being rolled by her door and soon the odor of Lysol seeped into her room.  They aren’t short on cleaning products in this place, Callie thought.  A little more compassion for those poor people in the Commons room would do wonders.

She stroked the edge of the dresser with trembling fingers as she pushed herself into a standing position.  She looked for relief from the familiar four walls.  I guess I’ll lie down…

Below her window she could hear another ambulance backing into the side entrance.

Callie slept, but she had no idea how long.  When she woke, she was clutching the brooch pinned to her blouse, a happy owl with a smooth, glazed body.  The children had presented it to her and she had immediately pinned it to her storytelling blouse.  Now, the owl was a comfort, and she allowed herself to slide back into happy memories of story time sessions.

There was a muffled knock on the door and the click of the lock being released.  Bright light streamed in from the hall.  Dan flipped the light switch and pushed a tray into the room. “It’s a late dinner, Callie.  Sorry.  We just keep putting out fires around here, and there’s nobody but me and Sandra left, I’m afraid.  Gregory came down with symptoms and went home, so there’s only the kitchen assistant and the two of us for this wing and we’re run ragged.  I guess you heard the buzzers going off.”

“Who’s taking care of the North wing?” Callie demanded.

“The Director left this morning and there’s only some cleaning staff with Roy and Marta.  Marta said the rest of the staff called in sick.  Roy and Marta are live-ins like Sandra and me – we’re here 24-7.  Guess that was the manager’s one stroke of luck, locking us in.”

Callie searched the worry lines around his eyes.  “Young people can have a hard time, Dan, but it’s old people with pre-existing conditions that’s dying, right?”

“Old is bad, pre-existing conditions are bad, Callie, but it’s unpredictable.  Furthermore, it’s inhumane, what’s happening here.  I had to help Roy – wasn’t supposed to go into that wing, but he had to have help.  It’s terrible over there, Callie.  Nothing we can do.”

“Dan, do you have folks at risk?  How about your family.  How are they doing?”

He took a deep breath.  “Callie – I’ve been estranged from my family for over a year.  Ever since I let them know I was gay – they threw me out.”

“Dan, that’s sad. Family members need to support each other.”

“Guess you can understand why I signed on for this job.  I’m an EMT, so they snapped me up.  I tell you, the condition in the North wing is worse than any accident I ever had to deal with.”

He turned to the desk.  “This where you want to eat?”

Callie swung her legs off the bed and got up stiffly.  “Yes, that will be fine.  Maybe I can adopt you as a grandson, Dan, how would that be?  I’m going to quit feeling sorry for myself, knowing that you and Sandra have more important things to do than come around to entertain me.” 

She seated herself at the dresser and looked up at the handsome man who had brought dinner.  “I do have one request.  My radio is on the top shelf of the closet.  I depended on seeing the TV news with my friends, but lacking that, I think I’d like to have the radio for company.”

Dan raised his eyebrows.  “The director said residents shouldn’t get news…”

“And does that strike you as justified, Dan?  You said this director’s gone, anyway.”

Dan rummaged among the boxes at the top of the closet until he located the small radio.  He pulled it out and set it on the bedside table, stooped to plug it in, and dialed in local national public radio.  Terry Gross was interviewing a musician.  “How’s that?  Or do you prefer Rush Limbaugh?”

“That’s an insult, and you know it, Dan.”

Under his mask, Dan smiled.

“Gotta get back or Sandra will be all over me – both of us wanted to be the one to bring your dinner tray.  By the way, do you take any medications that I should be bringing you?”

“No medications.  Used to have asthma and take albuterol, but Charlie convinced me to give it up – he’d read that it was creating a problem for me, and he was right.”

“Charlie was your husband?”

“Best husband any woman ever had!”

“Then you were lucky.  Bye for now, Grandma.”

The click of the lock irritated Callie but the radio was some comfort, and it tended to block the sounds from the Commons room.  She ate with more enthusiasm than the quality of the food warranted because she was hungry.

********

Callie woke in the night from a wonderful dream.  Charlie was there with her – his warmth was palpable, and finally, she felt at peace.  He had somehow gotten free to join her, the pain was gone, and they would face this thing together…

Callie luxuriated in the feeling of wholeness the dream had bestowed on her.  Earlier the constant series of buzzes and calls had troubled her, but now all was quiet.  Then a buzzer went off.  She localized it to a room down the hall.  One of the independent living people needed help.  She thought of Sandra and Dan, stretched to the limit.  I bet they’re sound asleep, dead to the world.  If only they didn’t lock me in, I might help out… But she heard footsteps in the hall, a door being unlocked, and some conversation she couldn’t make out.  I hope it’s an easy fix, she thought.

Callie settled back into the spell of the good dream.  In the four years since Charlie’s death, thoughts of him had been dominated by his suffering.  Now, it was as if a cloud had lifted.  All that pain was washed away and he was with her again…

Callie heard the door close, the lock click, and steps recede down the hall.  That’s Sandra, she concluded.  She snuggled into the bed, hugging herself and almost melting with pleasure at the closeness she felt to Charlie.

********

Breakfast was late.  Callie had turned on the radio and was getting brought up to date on the Corona virus outbreaks throughout the world when Sandra unlocked the door.

“Honey, you slept in your pretty skirt?  Here, let me help you change clothes…That’s not the sort of thing Dan would have thought of.”

“Don’t you go to blaming Dan, Sandra.  I told him I’d be fine.  Then it just didn’t seem very important to change.  Maybe that smock and some slacks?”

“I’ve got them for you.  Want help to the washroom?  What are you learning on the radio?”

“Things are really bad in New York.  The hospitals don’t have enough of anything and they’re talking about setting up a place for hospital beds in Central Park!”

“Really?  It’s worse than here in Washington?”

“Sounded that way to me”

“We did our best with the eggs but they may taste scorched.  None of us had ever cooked these eggs out of a box.  The assistant dietician is coughing so bad we told her to lie down, but the coughing didn’t stop, and her forehead is hot.  I’m really worried.”

“Must have the virus.” 

“She’s telling us she doesn’t dare go home so we’re trying to take care of her here.  Her father is diabetic and her grandmother lives with them.”

“She’s been coughing all over you and Dan?”

Sandra turned to stare at her.  “We’re scared stiff what will happen if Dan and I can’t carry on, and the same with Marta and Roy in the other wing.  We have bed changes and bed pan calls and medication lists, the laundering, and now the food prep, and Marta has tried to deal with the office work, making the necessary calls out, but phones are ringing all the time with family members trying to get through.  She asked me for help but I can’t get anyone who’s supposed to be in charge to respond.  We don’t know what to do…There’s nobody keeping records…This morning poor Marta comes to the kitchen door crying – seems she didn’t get back around to check on the residents in the Commons last night, and this morning, she found that another had died.”

“Another?  The people I told Peter Rabbit to?”  

“I shouldn’t have said that,” said Sandra, covering her mouth.

Callie hugged Sandra.  She knew how difficult it was to communicate with the people in the North wing, even in the best of circumstances, and she knew their care was very demanding.  They were lying flat on their backs, already suffering from bed sores and compromised respiratory function.  Many couldn’t communicate with you and how would you know if they were having trouble breathing when there was little time to spend with each of them?  Callie said, “Sandra, I heard the buzzer go off in the middle of the night and you responded.  There has to be some night shift people that can be sent in, even if they’re in the National Guard!”

“You’re right, we’ve got to have help.  The hospital sent over some more masks and gowns – see what I’m wearing now? – and we did send sick patients and they tested them – all were positive.  I’m afraid it’s going to spread to everyone in the Commons room, and they were the strongest residents from the North wing.

“Can I get tested, Sandra?”

“Honey, don’t you get sick!  We’re told nobody should be tested until they’re showing symptoms, and anyway, we don’t have the test kits.  You just stay here, keep your mask on, and listen to the news.  You asked about the night buzzer – that was Mr. Bradshaw, and he was demanding to be tested – there in the middle of the night.  I took his temperature and did some patting on the back, but it was a panic attack, and that’s bad at 4 AM.  I hope he got back to sleep – I was so dead tired I can’t even remember how I got back to bed.”

Callie nodded.  “I wanted to help.”

“You just sit tight.  You have water in the washroom – keep yourself hydrated.  We get so busy with emergencies we can’t get around to the patients as we should…”

The scorched scrambled eggs were really disgusting, but Callie made herself eat two bites.  The coffee was good.  On the radio, the commentators were reporting Trump’s latest gaffes, including the recommendation to drink disinfectant or inject bleach.  She shook her head.  Still no tests for anyone who isn’t dying of the virus, and no help for the overworked staff!  She opened the packet of grape jelly, recalling the many kinds of jelly she had put up each summer for their winter toast.  She communed with Charlie over the dismal meal, so inferior to the tasty eggs from their free-range hens.  For dinner, they often sat down to an entire meal they’d grown themselves, eating at a table Charlie had built and sitting on the chairs that Callie had helped him re-cane, weaving the rough strips to create a pattern strong enough to sit on. 

Days passed with a sameness that deviated only in the details of the irregular meal service.  Often Callie heard people upset at being moved and making impossible demands of the caregivers.  Knowing there was nothing she could do made Callie miserable.  Radio coverage of the pandemic had her breathing deeply and testing her sense of smell with the bottle of scented lotion in the bathroom – she’d heard a chef on the radio describing how she lost her sense of smell as the first symptom that had tipped her off that she was getting the virus.  Breathing deeply sent Callie into a fit of coughing, so she stopped it.  You’re turning into a hypochondriac, she reproached herself.  

Sandra knocked and then entered the room.  She closed the door and leaned against it, her hand across her forehead.

“Now I understand.”

The dejected slope of her shoulders was new. “What, Sandra?”

“Remember when Marta asked me to get help?  I thought the director would know who I should contact, so I kept trying to get in touch with her.  Guess what I just found out – she died of Covid 19 two days ago!  As a business, this place is already filing for bankruptcy!”

“This is an emergency, Sandra!”

“So?  Do I dial 911?  How far would that get me?  That director wasn’t any older than I am, Callie!” 

“Does Dan know?”

“He’s too busy.  We haven’t gotten any meals out yet and it’s already 2 PM.”  She pushed herself into the room. “Here, I’ll take that tray. Sorry about the scorched eggs.”

“A minor thing.  Carry on, Sandra.  I’m pulling for you.”

********

When Dan brought the tomato soup and the bowl of crackers he had no time to talk, so Callie ate her meal listening to All Things Considered.  Again.  She took some deep breaths to check on lung function.  It seemed fine.  They hadn’t ruined the soup and she ate every cracker.  No beverage, so she went to the bathroom and got a glass of water.  What if I had to be waited on hand and foot, Charlie? – the way I was after I broke my hip?  You cared for me so tenderly.”

The day was cloudy.  Another ambulance pulled in and Callie talked it over with Charlie.  Finally, she took a nap.  She woke in a darkened room.  The radio’s digital clock read 8:49 PM.  Callie remembered the Girl Scout mints.  As she rose, the floor came rushing up to hit her.  She lay there, stunned.  So fast, she had fallen — on her face!  The door opened and Dan rushed toward her. 

“Callie – Hey, Grandmother, I heard you fall — what happened?”

Callie was hurt.  It was hard to pretend otherwise.  Still, she tried.  “I just blacked out for a few seconds, there.  I took a nap and was standing up…”

Dan checked her eyes and turned her neck gently from side to side.  Wiggle your toes, he ordered, and when she did so, he lifted her onto the bed.  “Can you move your arms?  Anything feel broken?” 

Callie’s hands went to her face.  She wanted to say yes, she was broken, but she suppressed the impulse.

“I’m going to get an ice pack for your face – there’s already swelling.  Be right back.”

Sandra came back with him.  “Poor lady, you’re probably famished.  Nothing since that bowl of soup.  Oh, Dan, we can’t keep this up – we’re failing to take care of the few that are still OK!”

********

  Callie had joined the ranks of those flat on their backs.  Getting up to go to the toilet was painful and she needed Sandra or Dan to steady her.  Her head hurt and she didn’t know if it was the virus or the fall.

“Miss Callie, you may have some bone fractures, but there’s nothing to be done about that now except we’ll try to keep you comfortable.” 

Callie grimaced. 

“And what does that face mean?” he asked. 

“Everything hurts, Dan.  I feel like I’ve been run over by a bulldozer.”

“That’s a good one.  I’m going to remember that line…”

“Seriously, Dan, I think I better be trying to sit up.  I need to do some breathing exercises and I don’t seem to be able to do them lying down.”

“Callie, you know we have a nick-name for you?  Sandra started it and it fits – we call you Miss Firecracker!

Callie looked at him and tried to smile – it proved easier than the grimace, and seeing his eyes smile back, she reached out her hand to him, and he swiftly raised it to his mask-covered lips.  “Don’t you tell Sandra about that!”

He searched around the head of her bed and located the crank.  Slowly, the head of the bed began to elevate.  When he got it to a good angle, he stopped.  Callie was amazed.  “I didn’t know this bed could do that!”

“I’m going to bring you a malted milkshake.  You may find it suspiciously rich, but these are pretty good.  We need to feed you up, and with your spirit, I know you’ll drink it for your own good.”

“I got the message.  Ensure, is it?”

“I knew we couldn’t pull the wool over your eyes.  You need it, though.”

********

From her bed, Callie could reach the bedside light and the radio.  She slept with her mask on and pushed it up on her forehead to eat or drink.  Sandra and Dan were very solicitous, cranking her bed up and down.  She heard no more news about what was happening in the facility.  The noises coming from the Commons room gradually diminished, and when she asked, Sandra said that they had been moving residents back to the rooms.  Callie did a quick calculation of the number of beds that had been in the Commons Room.  “That means that twenty or so residents died?”

Her lips tight, Sandra just nodded.  “We’re doing our best, Callie.”

Callie nodded.  She reached into her pocket.

“Here, I have a surprise for you – You’ve been wanting to be tested.  We finally got tests for everyone.”  She unwrapped the kit.  “Now lean back.  This isn’t much fun, but I’ll try to not give you a bloody nose…”

********

Callie worked hard to regain her mobility.  She moved to the dresser for lunch.  That morning, Sandra had given her the news that she, along with many of the independent living residents and the staff, had tested positive for Covid 19.  Callie had had a long talk with Charlie about that.  When she finished eating, she heard fumbling at the door.   It opened and Dan stood in the entrance.  Callie hadn’t seen him for days.

“Come in, Dan.  I’ve been missing you.  We’re all in this together, now.  I suspected you were staying away trying to protect me because you had symptoms.”

“I wanted…” he began coughing and braced himself against the door facing.  When he regained control, he said, “I had to see you, Callie.”  He mustered his strength – “It meant so much…” he choked, then half-squeezed, half coughed out, “offering to adopt me… as your grandson.”

“It’s a solid offer, Dan.  I plan to defeat this virus.  Not all old people die, you know.”

“Oh, Callie!”  Dan gripped a sheet of paper in one hand and he tried to extend it.  “My grandmother.  It’s her address.  I think you’d like each other.”

His head fell forward and he slid to the floor, slumped within the door frame.

Sandra appeared in the hall behind him.  Together, they eased his body onto the floor.  Sandra tried to take his pulse, and a low noooo escaped her.  “Breathe, Dan.  Breathe for me.”

His chest rose but a series of coughs racked his body and his head banged against the floor.  Callie went for her pillow to cushion his head. 

“Sandra, why didn’t you tell me?”

Sandra’s look was beseeching.   “Callie, he begged me not to worry you.  Two days ago, he came in the kitchen and sat down, huffing and puffing so badly I thought it was a joke.  Then I got a look at his face and knew it was for real.  His lips were purple!  He wouldn’t lie down. He’s driven himself beyond his strength.” 

“Poor, sweet fella.”

“I’ve wanted him to go to the hospital, but he’s afraid they’ll put him on a ventilator.  I said, well, if you need it… but he said your whole body goes to rack and ruin on those machines – said he’d seen it.  Said under no circumstances does he want to end up alone at the hospital.”  She squeezed her eyes tight and grimaced as she stroked his face.

“Dan, you’re young and strong – you don’t have to suffer this way!” said Callie.

We’ve known it was coming, Callie.  “This morning we gathered at the prep table to open the test results.  His and mine were both positive, as we expected, but when he saw your positive result – he broke up.  He fell to coughing so hard it took him forever to get it under control.  It seems like he has this dream.  He finally managed to tell me that he wants you to meet his grandmother.  She lives in Indiana.  But then he went back to saying he thinks he infected you, and he’s furious at himself.  I sent him to bed, but he insisted on seeing you…”

Dan made an effort to get up, half rising to a sitting position before slipping back, his eyes closed.

Callie stroked his head.  “Dan, just you rest — you’re going to get better.”  To Sandra, she whispered:  Let’s get him to the hospital – can’t they do something?”

“Callie, he made me promise to not let them put him on a respirator.”

The buzzer in Dan’s pocket went off and his eyes flew open. 

“Damn that thing!”  Sandra dug into his pocket to retrieve it.

Callie knelt by his head.  “Grandson, you’ve been a good boy.  You’ve done your best and I’m proud of you.  I’m going to look up this grandmother of yours and tell her what a fine boy you are.  I’m looking forward to it.”

Dan searched her face and his eyes filled with tears.

Sandra tousled his hair.  “We love you, Dan.  You’ve been a good partner.”

Dan’s chest rose, and with a sputter, he collapsed.

Callie kissed his forehead.  Sandra listened to his heart for a long time.  Finally, she sat up and shook her head sadly.  “He’s gone, Callie. Our sweet Dan is gone.”

Callie and Sandra hugged for a long time. 

“Callie, I’ve got to make some calls.  Let’s get you and me to the hospital.  Just to have them check us out.  Dan wanted you to survive this – you’re our firecracker, and he was counting on you, so you owe it to him to do your best.”

A writing sample: The first chapter of my memoir, A DOG LOVER

MEMOIR OF A DOG LOVER
Chapter 1 – My First Year
It never occurred to anyone that a babe in arms would interest the farm dog, but Jeff had a mind of his own. From the first day the young couple and their baby moved into the tenant house, the collie had a new charge, and he took his role seriously. That evening, after his dinner had been put out for him, he trotted down the trail from the Big House to the little cabin supported on limestone blocks, and he disappeared under the house. Sniffing up though the floor boards, he located the baby’s cradle and curled up right beneath it. He followed that pattern every night of the year we lived there, always on hand for his farm dog duties and always returning to sleep under the cabin. Jeff was as true a guardian as anyone ever had, the first dog who chose me.
My grandfather favored collies for the farm dogs. There had been one exception, when my father was a boy, my grandfather had been tricked into taking a miniature collie puppy when a replacement dog was needed. I don’t know if this was a joke meant in fun or malice – the family had a reputation for being “stuck up.” Whatever the intention, my grandfather was so disgusted when the pup didn’t “size up,” that he shunned it. Laddie nevertheless tagged along with him when he went into the fields, and my grandfather complained about that worthless dog.
Then there came the day my grandfather was crossing a field that held a bull with a very bad reputation. Sure enough, the bull charged him. He set off running to across a distant fence, but before he could reach the fence, the bull was upon him. That miniature collie was right there with him, as always, and rushed in between and fiercely stood off the surprised bull long enough for my grandfather to get over the fence. Ever after, my grandfather couldn’t say enough good about him, and Laddie was loved and appreciated by everyone. When he got into some poison late in his life and was dying, my grandmother baked lemon pies for him.
I was born in 1946, on the leading edge of the baby boom that reflected the wave of relief that swept over people yearning to get on with their lives. My parents moved to my father’s home place in West Tennessee in response to urgent appeals from my grandfather. Every one of his five sons had pursued education and then careers, leaving him to manage the farm alone. Despite his degree in Art, my father’s heart was really in the land, and perhaps he was the best of the sons to return, but there were probably good reasons the other brothers fled the family’s links to the land, as ensuing events revealed.
The spring my parents moved to the home place, it rained and rained. The fertile bottom land was routinely flooded each year by the Tennessee River, but that year the water was slow to recede. Finally, the corn and the cash crop, tobacco, were planted when the clay soil dried enough for plowing, but then, it flooded again, and the seed and tiny tobacco plants washed away. The corn was replanted, with the same result, and finally, planted a third time. By then, it was so late in the summer that the crop could not possibly mature before frost, but only be harvested as green silage for the hogs.
Of all this, of course, I had no idea. Now, having at last resumed an agrarian life myself, I can understand something of the tenor of that dismal year. My life and my parents’ life might have turned out quite differently, had that spring been a good one.
The thousand-acre farm had been in my father’s family for generations, from the settlement of Tennessee and through the period of slavery. I’ve seen pictures of the house where we lived, and it could have once been a slave cabin. My mother named it the Gun Barrel, because it consisted of three rooms in a row, linked by an open region called a dog-trot. At night, mice walked across the sheets in my cradle, leaving dirty footprints. Mother always made very sure I was perfectly clean when she put me to bed, so no milky drops would tempt the mice to nibble.
Conditions were primitive, but that was nothing new for my parents. During the war, they had lived in Louisville and near-by Indiana. My father, ineligible for the draft because of a heart murmur, had been assigned to a crash course in explosives chemistry at Vanderbilt University, and before he succeeded in getting the last Nitrogen on the TNT, he was sent to take a job at the DuPont munitions plant in Louisville. Housing was in short supply, and for a couple of years, my parents were stuck in a tiny one-room apartment with a Murphy bed. Mother got a job at the Airfield, tuning the signal tones that guided bombers to their targets in Europe; she and one other woman had the competence in math, musical ears, and very small bodies that allowed them to work in the bomber’s cockpit.
Miserable in their cramped quarters in the city, my parents began scanning the newspapers for farm property. Finally, their real estate agent came up with a piece of land the owner was eager to sell. My father said they wanted the forty acres, even if it was standing on its side. At the realtor’s suggestion, he withdrew cash from his bank account so the realtor could riffle through it during the negotiations with the owner. They bought the land for a song. It had a crude cabin and a well with a bucket you let down on a rope, fruit trees, berries, and blue birds. Of course, this meant my father had to commute, but they had an old truck he was able to keep running, and my mother was in heaven, gardening and canning jam on the wood stove.
That gives you an idea of what they were willing to put up with, so the Gun Barrel wasn’t so bad, and a wooden washing machine, hand-cranked by my father to turn the wooden paddles, was moved from the Big House down for my mother to use for my diapers and other washing. Banty hens roosted in the trees and laid their eggs there, too, and my mother, who weighed maybe 90 pounds then, nimbly climbed the trees to get the eggs.
Under my grandfather’s stern management, no income was expected until the crops were sold. I have the ledger in which my mother recorded every purchase they made that year — every can of evaporated milk, new item of clothing, box of matches, shoes. Mostly, they made do. A playpen was dragged out of storage at the Big House for me, and when it was put in the yard, so that I could be close to my mother when she was gardening or washing, I could reach out and gather gravel. Mother said that sometimes she would find me with a full mouth, and she would have to ream out the gravel and grit, including fossil crinoids so common in that part of Tennessee. (I now appreciate that that gritty exposure to nature was far better for my maturing immune system than a sterile upbringing would have been!)
My parents worked hard, but they knew how to enjoy living off the land, which included picking berries or fishing. They would take me along in a basket on their expeditions. I heard the story of how an enormous river turtle, the sort called alligator turtles, was peering into the basket at me when they discovered it. Luckily for me, their quick actions were able to drive it away, as such creatures were reputed to be able to bite a broom handle in two.
But I should return to the rains. For the adults, that year was terrible, and the reverses were compounded by the fact that my grandfather suffered from manic depression, a condition undiagnosed at that time. My mother described what the dinners were like when he was in his manic phase. My grandmother would have prepared the big meal of the day and my father’s sisters and hired hands and any traveling salesman might be present. My grandfather would hold forth on some topic of literature or history, like the classically educated gentleman he was, and everyone was expected to keep up their end of the conversation. The meals stretched on for hours. Family members were used to these trials, but Mother, although she was quick-witted and an English major, found it incredibly pretentious, and longed for the interminable meals to be over. Finally, after the heat of the day had dissipated, the men returned to the fields and the women could clean up and go about their work.
Manic was bad enough, but the depressive phases were worse. The dismal prospects for the year’s harvests fell most heavily on my grandfather, and as the summer wore on, he sank into deep depression. He had threatened suicide, many times, actually, but people believed that those who threatened it would not actually do it. When the rain was long forgotten and the days gave way to scorching hot, the drought shriveled the late-planted corn.
It was only when I was looking through my parent’s papers after they both had died that I found documents which showed how my father had had to take over as the man of the house after my grandfather killed himself with his pearl-handled revolver. There had had to be an autopsy, and the one thing it revealed, aside from a perfect set of teeth, were calcifications surrounding tuberculosis bacilli in my grandfather’s lungs – evidence that his body had been able to fight off the disease. Perhaps it was a displacement activity, a way for my grandmother and aunts avoided facing the grimness of the future by launching into hysterical burning of bedding, anything that could not be sterilized – behavior which possibly would have been appropriate if an active case of TB had been discovered.
As a child, I never put the tales of Jeff and the chasing of the hogs and the big turtle together with my grandfather’s suicide. In fact, the death was never referred to. I recall asking why we didn’t stay on there at the farm, and my father replied that he wanted me to be in a good school system – which didn’t explain why we were back in Nashville the next year. My grandmother and her three spinster daughters stayed on at the farm, tended by Jeff, and my father managed the contracts with neighbors to farm the land. One of the sad letters I found among my father’s documents was a tenant’s request to discontinue the contract, as he had not been able to make any money.
We got on with our own lives, which included the first dog purchased for me, a blonde Pekingese called Boo-Boo, which I always called D-Boo, for reasons my parents could never get me to explain. I scribbled her name, D-Boo, in my Winnie the Pooh book, and with her wide brown eyes on me, she listened, just as my Raggity Ann listened, and all dogs up to the present have listened.

A Real Winter, for a Change…..

Hot tub with a wood-burning stove insert (see the stovepipe on right?) Shown in the earlier snow, before the real winter hit……

Here in Wawawai, we usually have milder weather than the surrounding prairie land known as the Palouse Prairie, and the last few winters we have only had a few cold snaps interspersed with relatively mild winter weather — so much so that we were concerned about insect pests and associated diseases moving in from milder climates. Well, this winter will keep them at bay — we have close to a foot of snow, some places drifted much deeper, and it has hovered between zero and 10 degrees F. at night for over a week. I suspect that this cold will kill the fig trees back to the roots, so they will have to sprout out from the ground and probably won’t have a crop next year. We hope the grapes will fare better than figs, but that will be determined when we start pruning. My other “weird” plants such as the medlar and pawpaw trees and the Goumi berry bush will have to show what they can stand.

Because we heat with wood, there has been a lot of hand-to-mouth provisioning, including cutting from our “wood lot” along Wawawai creek, followed by splitting (when the tractor can be coaxed to start, to drive the hydraulic splitter), and hauling wood in, and ashes out. The house, more designed to resist the canyon’s heat than for cold weather, is minimally warm no matter how hot the Russian stove is kept, so we dress warmly and keep close to the stove whenever we need a really warm place to comfort us.

The hot tub also has to be fed wood to keep it hot, but there is nothing to beat the pleasure of being in over 100 degree F. water when it is snowing, and in the single digits or teens (from the head up). For our New Year’s celebration, we had champagne and Triscuits with brie to accompany our soak.

Now that we are well beyond the solstice, the chickens are again laying plenty of eggs and the gardening catalogs have piled up. A sense that we have had about enough of winter is creeping into our consciousness. Snow is pretty, and David has made a few rounds of the place on skis, but there’s plenty to do that will be easier after the snow has left us……

I killed my computer!

I was entering data into the Business Reports for the year-end filings on employees, wine production, excise taxes, etc. and it was the second time that day that I had spilled a cup of coffee, but this time it was a direct hit on the keyboard. Called our son Ben for advice. He said to take the battery out and put the computer in a pillowcase with white rice for a couple of days to try to dry it out. The coffee had milk but no sugar in it, so there was a chance…..but no, it was dead. Perhaps it can be opened up and cleaned, and perhaps the information can be accessed by professionals — at this point, I don’t know, but I was lucky to have already purchased an Apple computer, and had to slog away at the filings due by January 15th. I am not familiar with the Apple, and fairly frustrated about losing the easy access to stored files that were on the other computer, but I’ll get over it. Have resolutions about not mixing drinks with computers — hope they will last!