Pandemic Halloween
November 1, 2020
On Facebook, members of my New England community have squabbled over whether we should cancel Halloween. People posted ways to make it safe, people argued there was no way to make it safe. People with small children asked for addresses were families were giving out candy, people with large children reminded each other the numbers are climbing. More than once, parents were strongly advised to stay home with teenagers to watch Hocus Pocus while sipping juice boxes. Or bake.
Katy, my seventeen year old, doesn’t like Hocus Pocus. She has a boyfriend, and about five friends she’s spent time with since June. So I negotiated with her to host a Halloween party outside with, (I don’t want to use the word pod,) her people. They decided to dress up as characters in “Among Us,” a game they play on their phones. The characters look like spacemen, and it is free. That is all I know.
Then there was snow. Our table was broken by a run away umbrella, our backyard was as muddy as spring. We thought about cancelling because we’d have to move it indoors, and we didn’t. These kids had been inside our house a week ago making their costumes.
Rachel made caramel apples and I burned my finger tasting, just like I did forty years ago. Her mom brought mountains of naked wings so that Jared, whose allergic to dairy products, could eat them- her primary ingredient in buffalo wings is butter and I wouldn’t let her leave until she promised to make some for me next week. The kids ate wings, mountains of nachos, pizza and brownies. Jared was happy we had coconut ice cream, because naked wings alone for dinner is kind of sad.
Raphael, Katy’s boyfriend, took a nap; he’s exhausted from rowing crew, zoom, and life. They watched movies, and had meaningful conversations when they weren’t arguing over whose playlist was best, and played Cards Against Humanity.
They made Lisa and I go Abby Park for dinner, so this is what Katy told me after everyone left at ten.
We were cleaning the kitchen, and “Blue Moon Revisited” by the Cowboy Junkies came on my radio station, 92.5 The River. I told Katy to stop what she was doing, (she wasn’t doing much, mostly offering moral support,) and just listen. We stood there, while the sad voice of Margot Timmons spilled out of the radio. When melody of the original “Blue Moon” crept in, Katy sighed. I loved that album in the eighties, and I tried to make at least twenty people listen to that song. Katy, on this pandemic Halloween, might have been the first one who did. She added it to her playlist, and felt a small tear.
Afterwards, we sat in the living room, and talked- about Raphael, her friends and first kisses, the baby she’s taking care of today, the kalimba she’s learning to play, daylight savings time, and whether she misses her brother, Colin. We talked about whether I miss Colin, and to be honest, that answer is different right now than it was last night.
It was not the spookiest of Halloweens. For the most part, we were with the people we are closest to, friends who do not surprise us, but know us well and love us anyway.
This year’s Halloween was a respite from the fear of 2020. Over the next few days, the goblins and gremlins will do their work.
Please vote.
Happy Mother’s Day
May 11, 2020
At this point, we’re all taking care of somebody, whether it’s your fish or your dog, your kids, your mom, or a friend, your heart, your waistline, or your health.
I couldn’t sleep this morning. Since I became a mom almost twenty years ago, this day feels like a low-key, brunchy, Christmas. I remember the handmade cards, the scary looking eggs, the Mother’s Day at First Parish that always began with me trying to get them awake and out the door by 7 am, dangling the words “it’s Mother’s Day” like a threat.
My seventeen year old Colin recently decided to quarantine with a friend, and Katy will probably sleep until eleven. That’s fine.
They couldn’t be more different.
Colin makes choices that make me mad, crazy, sad, and defeated. He values sneakers more than books, smells like weed most of the time, and eats so much takeout, he should buy his own landfill.
He is also funny, generous, and kind. He is my boy, though he has forced me to accept he is does not belong to me anymore, and never did.
He smiles and my heart falls out of my chest. He sounds worried, I want to gather him into my arms, and make it better. I can’t.
All I can do is love him. So I do that, even when I want to smack him in the head.
Katy has been the light of my quarantine, which was not what she wanted for her sixteenth birthday. Every day she teaches me patience, while I wait for her to finish her room, her homework, her conversation. She says she learned this from me, and I tell her I’ve earned the right to keep her waiting. She thinks that’s funny, and goes back to whatever she’s doing, but does it more slowly.
Katy was thrilled to put time limits on Facebook on my phone. She worries about the cost of everything, but vegetarian sausage, because she says that’s worth it.
She is careful, uses actual measuring spoons, understands chemistry, saves her money, and doesn’t care what people think. Except me, she cries when I snap at her.
I need to remember that even though she may seem like a remarkably mature thirty-five year old, a mother’s words have the power to sting like they did when you were six and in trouble for eating all the Oreos.
She listens when I speak, as long as it’s not too early, and I’m surprised and thrilled by this. (If I’m giving the lecture about being on time, or clean clothes, or dirty clothes, she pretends to listen, if she’s feeling kind).
Katy reminds me a lot of my mom.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
You tell me often how proud you are of me, and between you and me, I’m a bit of mess.
I’m still working out what I want to be when I grow up, my daughter acts like the parent half the time, my cabinets are more disorganized than Trump’s, and I know absolutely nothing about retirement plans. (I do have a good recipe for chicken thighs with artichoke hearts for the NYTimes I’ll send over later.)
If you say I’m amazing, I must be. You’ll always be the smartest person in the room, (with Katy right behind you.)
I love you,
Julie
Day Fifty Seven- I’m not sure whose counting anymore.
For weeks after my braces were. removed, at random times, I would run my tongue along my teeth. The enamel after three years of metal and rubber bands felt glorious and unexpected
Ever since the words quarantine came into daily conversation, I’m constantly checking my mood like I used to check my teeth.
I ask my daughter- she says I get way too close, and sound scary serious- “how are you handling everything?”
She usually says fine, but sometimes, she actually answers the question with more than two syllables. It’s best to catch her right before bed and never before 9 am.
I’m fine, mostly.
I’m depressed, miserable, elated, grateful, lethargic, whiny, goofy, tipsy, manic, sad, silly, sleepy, mean, petty, joyful, and mellow.
I’m lonely; I’m enjoying the time with my daughter.
I’m missing my job; I’ve wandered the woods at Ponkapoag on Friday at 11 am. I’ve read eight books, played my flute, and bundled up three bags of shirts for Goodwill.
There is a lot of talk about recognizing the difference between knowing what we can and can not control.
I’ve learned I don’t control a damned thing but whether or not I’m going to stay in bed, or get up with the morning.
I’m getting out of bed.
If I’m sad, I’ll move through it, with a little help from my friends.
Time to stop counting the days, recognize the privilege of a slow morning under blankets while coffee drips, and get on with the rest of my life.
I’ve got work to do.
Stay strong,
Jules
Where I landed on Day Fifty Two
May 10, 2020
Where I landed at the end of the day (Day 52?)
This morning, a friend texted me about a meteor shower tonight. It was around ten am, I’d just had coffee, I was walking the dog.
I mentioned this to every person I saw as I walked Sophie around the block.
I called my mom and told her. I woke up my daughter and didn’t even bother to whisper the news.
I’m not someone that follows astronomy. I think I might have seen a falling star, once or twice, out of luck, not from looking.
When I read those words, I could see me, in my blue and white flannel pajamas, sitting on the stairs in front of our house with my daughter. Sophia is lying in the grass, her leash looped ’round my ankle. There’s a glass of buttery chardonnay, half full, and Katy and I are looking up at the sky, our bare feet touch, just barely. There is the presence of neighbors, on porches, or lingering on sidewalks. I could hear their voices, soft and wonderful, and make out their profiles, just barely, heads tilted up to gaze at the night sky.
When I got home, I dug the beach chairs out of the shed and dusted them off. I put a bottle of good wine on ice, and found an old pair of binoculars in Colin’s long retired desk.
Around four pm, some clouds rolled in. The forecast said it will be overcast until morning.
Katy and I had a disagreement over hair elastics; this afternoon I did zumba alone.
I received a letter from the office of Unemployment that directed me to visit my online account immediately because I had a time sensitive notification. It took me an hour to locate the time sensitive notification, figure out I had to download Adobe to read the document, locate the letter,and make sense of it.
It indicates I have nothing to do unless I need to make changes, which would need to be made immediately.
Nothing has changed, but I’m working on it.
So instead of tacos for dinner, we had takeout, and they forgot the rice.
I’m at the table, scowling at the computer, wondering if it’s too late to bother Katy.
This is where my evening landed, somehow.
I had a vision, and it got lost in clouds and glitches. It was a once in a lifetime kind of night.
For forty-five minutes, I’ve been glaring at my laptop, missing a time that never happened. I haven’t even looked outside.
I need to find the dog, and my daughter, and we will go sit on the steps in the dark.
Maybe, there will be moonlight. Maybe there will still be blossoms on the magnolia tree, or a family will walk down the middle of the street, pushing a carriage holding a sweet baby, wide awake and laughing at her toes.
Maybe Katy won’t come downstairs, I’ll end up sitting alone, and the rain will come.
Goodnight, my friends.
If you’re in New England, and you’re heading outside, wear a sweater.
Love,
Julie
Day Thirty Five-
April 18, 2020
My friends post funny stuff, important information, photos, questions, sometimes, just check-ins or asks for recommendations about restaurants, learning at home, or where to find toilet paper.
There are sad stories of loss, and warnings from people working on the front lines who know far more than I, and deserve more than a sentence.
There are the people announcing the loss of someone they loved.
There are inspirational quotes, and old wisdom, and poems that steal my breath and give it back.
Some offer glimpses of family life- descriptions of walks in the park, cooking dinner, and video clips of first steps or birthday cakes.
Some are just a sentence or two, stolen from someone else, posted during a commercial or while waiting for someone to make popcorn. We don’t all have the same same of humor, but mostly we do.
I just post.
My updates are glimpses into moments, conversations, temporary revelations, offering tactics that seem to help me cope. I don’t think anyone’s coping. But I leave a lot out.
I’m okay. I have a home, groceries, friends, books, Spotify.
My daughter and son- I already talk about them all the damn time. Remember, you are only hearing my point of view.I don’t agree with all of their choices, but that’s not a blog, that’s a miniseries.
Today, at Tedeschis, I embarrassed my daughter by lingering at the counter, to talk about the fact we were buying instant coffee for some challenge on Instagram.
There were people behind me, I’d left some of my cash at home.
But I was so happy to speak to the woman at the register about this silly internet recipe for Folgers crystals. Katy almost died, but recovered by the time we got home.
When I write my daily reflections, I am selective. I don’t want to bring anyone down, overwhelm, I try not to seem smug, whine, or linger on what seems to be evident. I choose not to be political because I am angry, and leave it to those who are more informed than I.
FYI- Sometimes, I spend hours on Facebook reading reviews for products I’ll never buy.
Lately, I shower every three days, my eyebrows are a mess, and not in the supermodel way. They are a hirsute jungle of proof I don’t care.
When I brag about cleaning, I clean. This translates into I wipe the counters with a dirty sponge sprayed with a product that smells good and cost too much at Whole Foods.
I cried in the morning for a half an hour for something I’m not going to tell you about, but I moved on in an hour because it was tiny, in the wake of everything.
I never liked Whole Foods, and I miss it so much.
Afternoon of Day One Corona Virus Milton Massachusetts
March 21, 2020
Afternoon of Day One-
A sock project created havoc in our schedule, but I can say with confidence, our socks all match.
Swaddled in layers, with a lunch bag of hand sanitizer, lysterine, and wipes, we went back over the beach and then the Marina.
Tonight, there are vegetables roasting in the oven, for vegetarian enchiladas. I’m washing my walls, and waiting to call my mom for the third time. I’m hoping Colin will call, and really hoping he’ll talk to me about more than whether or not I’ll wash his sneakers. I will wash his sneakers, but I like to keep him guessing.
I want to turn this time for reflection into something more than the opportunity to try out new mindfulness apps, more than frantic walks down the beach, dragging Sophie, who has had enough walks for the next six weeks, and field trips to the grocery store for honey and chicken.
I want to find a way to slow down, to settle in to our space and the state of things. It is time to be still.
Still is hard for me.
I think still is hard for all of us.
That is why I will start the day again tomorrow with a meditation.
I will put my phone away by 8 pm.
I will take Sophie around the block, and hike up a mountain.
I will recognize these are guidelines, and that things change.
I will recognize that when one is told by the universe to slow the #$$%^^ down, one gently applies the brakes.
There’s time to practice.
julierichmond 