The Strangest of Days

It was March 13, 2020, 3:00 P.M.

It appeared to be just like any other dreary March afternoon. I wished my last hour class a good weekend and gathered my things for home and what I hoped would be a quiet weekend. While I could not have predicted how rapidly and drastically things would change I had been struggling with a growing sense of unease. It was only a few days prior that the governor of Wisconsin, a neighboring state, had dismissed schools in an effort to control the spread of the Coronavirus. It didn’t take a genius to see what was in store for Minnesota. Still, I had no idea that this would be quite possibly the last time I would see my students. I never got to say goodbye.

That Sunday Governor Waltz announced that students would not be returning to school after Tuesday. The school district I work for took a very serious approach in keeping their students and employees safe in not opting to hold business as usual. Students were allowed come gather things from their lockers and desks. Staff was not required to report on Monday, but there was to be an all-district staff meeting on Tuesday morning in the auditorium where we could all sit far away from one another.

I opted to go in on Monday to gather things I thought I might need over the next weeks. I tried to grapple with how I was going to teach art ala Distance Learning style with students who may not have any art supplies at home. Walking into school that morning was surreal. The building was dark, eerily hushed. My co-workers, stuck to their rooms for the most part, gathering and dropping completed projects, folders, and student textbooks in the commons for students to pick up. We warily passed each other in the halls, sharing small, unsure greetings. The students who came were being told to clean out their lockers as if it were summer break. In hearing this, my heart broke as I cleared off my desk and completed grading whatever had been handed in. There were so many unfinished projects that would never be completed. The unease I felt earlier grew.

Over the next two weeks, I tried to come up with a feasible, flexible plan for Distance Learning. I’m not going to sweeten things. I absolutely hate it. I am doing everything I can for my students. It’s taken everything that I love about teaching; the personal connections with students, witnessing the a-ha moments, the flexibility to change a lesson that’s not working and has replaced what I love with endless hours of email correspondence, phone calls, video conferencing, grading and attendance. My body aches from sitting too much. My eyes are bugging out from being on the computer hours on end. When I’m not working on my work, which can often last until 10 at night, I’m guiding my daughter through her own Distance Learning. I am grateful to be employed but it is taking its toll on me.

Meanwhile, the world began the process of cancelling everything. Baseball’s Opening Day; postponed. The National Art Educators Association convention I was looking forward to; cancelled. The Laura Marling concert I had bought tickets for; postponed, then cancelled. My daughter’s 11th birthday party postponed for the foreseeable future. (I feel bad, last year after my Dad passed away I couldn’t get it together to get one organized for her. Now this year. Props to the kid though, she’s handled it with grace and maturity).

The news is grim. I don’t need to tell anyone that. Listening to the multiple daily news briefings leaves me angry, scared and sad. I feel myself clenching my jaw. My head hurts. There is a heaviness on my shoulders I’ve not felt before and I’ve had some pretty dark thoughts I dare not give voice to. (Nothing involving self-harm. I’m OK). Optimistically, I believe mankind will make it through this, but I worry about myself as a person who is considered high-risk. I don’t want to get sick. I don’t want to die and I want to keep my family safe. I’m pretty sure the same thoughts run through other’s minds. I am not complacent when it comes to social distancing and protecting myself and my family. The stress does get to me.

I try to do things that I enjoy and offer some sort of escapism. I go for walks, listening to music. I attempt my art. I have looked back through my journals again, looked through old photographs. Still, I’ve struggled with the stress and the fear.

A couple of weeks before some of my old Spine crew decided to meet up for the CD release party for the new Caroline’s Spine album. It was the best weekend I’ve had in such a long time and something I really needed. I got to see a couple of friends I hadn’t seen in several years. It was so good catching up. Laughing over old memories and creating new ones. I came away from that weekend feeling the most refreshed I had felt in ages. The show was good too. We always said that the shows were just an added bonus. The best part though was Jim ending the show with Rainbow Connection. A few tears were shed. When I try to explain to people what this song means to me I always find my explanation lacking, much like when I try to explain what those years were like and what magic they were. I guess you had to be there.

A few weeks later amidst all that was happening in the world, a friend shared the audio from one of the songs from the show. I asked if he had Rainbow Connection from that night. He did and shared it. The recording included Jim’s introduction. The message was meaningful and moving that night weeks ago, but it took on a whole different meaning after the stress and fear from the past weeks.

“So you’re gonna wake up…we’re all going to wake up tomorrow, right? It’s going to be Sunday. And all of our lives are a lot different than they used to be, right? But it’s still good to get together. So on Monday morning, I want you to think back to this moment, ok?”

So I did and for a little while, I felt the weight fall off my shoulders and that everything will be ok.

For me Rainbow Connection is a song of hope, dreaming of a better future. Maybe, just maybe, we could have that.

Song/Rant of the Week?

I am weary.

Was it only last week that there were three mass shootings within a few short days of one another?

A grown man attacking a child, cracking his skull, because he didn’t remove his hat during the national anthem. Assaulting a child, over a song?

ICE raids. Children coming home to empty houses on the first day of school. Parents just gone.

And that’s just headlines. Can’t forget about the continual investigations into possibly the most corrupt administrations in the history of this country, at least in my lifetime. And that’s saying a lot. The constant gutting of acts and laws that protect our environment other species that share our planet. Police brutality. Being Black or Trans or anything but a straight white male in America. The sickening news of abused children. Jeffery Epstien.

The incessant fighting over social media. No one’s willing to listen to each other. “It’s my right to own guns!”. Yes, it is, but what’s so wrong about some protections for me? The kids at my school? I don’t even know what it’s like to feel safe at my place of employment. Everytime I go to a public place I immediately scan for places to hide, to escape should I need to. Everytime I sit down to eat at a public restaurant I face the door so I can see whose coming. This weekend I went to an outdoor festival to see one of my favorite musicians and I spent more time looking for possible threats than enjoying the music. For nearly 25 years I’ve done this. Before Columbine. When some angry, troubled young man charged into the high school of the district I was then working in, with a list and his guns.

“We should help out our own citizens (or veterans, senior citizens, the words are interchangeable) before immigrants!” Ok, “Healthcare for all? ” “No! People should help themselves!” is the common retort. I don’t even know what to say anymore. No one seems to be listening. During the 2016 election I lost/was blocked by a longtime friend because I once said that though I liked the overall philosophy of the presidential candidate she loved, that he was still a politician just like the others and couldn’t really trust him. Since then I’ve pretty much kept my opinions to myself, and especially off of the social media where I socialize with friends and family. I don’t know if this is the right thing to do. I don’t want to get in fights with anyone, but…how can we expect positive change if we all can’t discuss our differences calmly and civilly?

So tired of all this bull. I’m not an overly religious person. In fact I’m a pretty poor excuse of a Catholic. But I have read the Bible. Cover to cover and more than once. Much of it is…crap, in that it is rules for people who lived a long time ago in a different world that they really didn’t understand. I got to say that there are some wonderful things to be taken from the Bible hat were not only good then, but today and quite possibly for all times. Matthew 7:12 is commonly known as The Golden Rule; Do onto others as you would have them do onto you. Be good to each other. (And if you look into all of the other major religions, they too have a similar rules). If only we could just follow this one simple rule, this one universal truth…

I’ll leave you with my song of the week. It came up on my randomized playlist while I was out walking the other day. It’s an older song (it came out during the years when George W. Bush our president), it’s still fitting and perhaps even more relevant today. Phil Marshall is a lovely man and and exceptional artist, not musician, artist. I saw him many years ago as an opening act and he quickly became one of my favorites. I probably have 90 different versions of this song, Energy, but this stripped down acoustic YouTube version might be one of my favorites.

Be good to each other people.

An Update of Sorts

“The past is done. The future is uncertain. All you’ve got is this one moment, right now.” – Dirty Like Zane Jaine Diamond

The quote above is from a Romance series that I discovered this past year by Jaine Diamond. Please don’t laugh too much. This quote is from one character speaking to another about addiction and finding sobriety, and while that’s not what this blog is about the quote still fits. I’ve been an avid reader the majority of my life, my favorite genres being Sci Fi/Fantasy and Historical Fiction, and I’m not referring to historical romance novels here. I’ve read my fair share of non-fiction and I do delve into classic literature that isn’t assigned to me to read by a college professor. The reasoning is because I needed to know things. Yeah, I was that girl who read Shakespeare’s The Tempest and The Holy Bible all because I wanted to. I’m a great big dorky nerd.

That’s not to say I didn’t partake in my own fair share of trashy Romance novels, or smut books as I like to refer to them, back in my youth. I was a big fan of the historical romance novels by Johanna Lindsey that always featured hyper-chiseled Fabio on the cover. I’m not going to lie and say that I read those books for more more than the sexy bits (or so I thought). They were predictable: Extremely beautiful innocent girl meets over-the-top handsome dude in some impossible situation, like being sold into his brother’s harem or being kidnapped by pirates. At first they hate each other, innocent girl loosed virginity to handsome dude and eventually fall happily-forever in love and live perfectly ever after. The End.

Sometime this past winter I accidentally fell back into reading smut. I had a hard time focusing on the current Fantasy series I was reading. I am not blaming the book, because it was well written and a great story but with everything going on around me in my real life I needed something that didn’t take much effort. Amazon has this great thing for their Kindle called Kindled Unlimited, where basically for a very small monthly fee you have access to more books than you can ever read in 20 lifetimes. One day I stumbled upon The Boy I Hate by Taylor Sullivan, which was basically what I know now as a second chance/best-friend’s brother/roadtrip romance with a HEA (that’s Happily Ever After). I thought, “What the hell?” downloaded it, opened it and got sucked into the tale of an awkward, not very self-assured heroine and a (seemingly) moody asshole hero who hated each other over a misunderstanding that happened way back in their youth. Much hilarity, more misunderstandings, steamy sex and heartache ensued before the two worked their heads out of their arses and found their HEA. Entirely predictable. Entirely certain and entirely what I needed at a time when in real life my Dad was dying from a terribly ugly disease and my husband’s depression/maybe borderline personality disorder was again in full bloom. My life was anything but happy and predictable. So I kept on reading those Romance novels to find the balance I was lacking.

(Side-note: Romance novels today are very different from those I read in my youth. There are so many sub-genres, some that intrigue me and others not so much. The heroes and heroines have faults, traumas and surprisingly there is not always HEA ending in sight. Not every book has a Fabio and super-beautiful innocent maiden anymore. I’m quite fond of the ones that usually involve some darker issue(s) but still have a HEA have a humorous streak about them, like the Cake novels by J. Bengtsson or the Dirty series by Jaine Diamond).

My life still is still full of uncertainty and it can be uncomfortable. But that’s life, isn’t it? Some seriously sorry stuff has happened over the course of this year; my Dad’s death and funeral, his younger brother’s death a mere 3 months later and the passing of two people who for a time where my surrogate parents. There’s been stress involving work and the ever present stress of my husband’s disease and what, if anything, he’s willing to do about it. I care deeply for my husband, but I’m not going to lie, this is very hard on a relationship, on me and the future is full of uncertainty.

I have made a concentrated and completely conscious effort this spring/summer to not let all the sadness consume me. I cannot let it. I went in search of finding some “joy”, sometimes by myself or with my daughter in-tow. I rediscovered my art, or rather dusted-off because I don’t think I ever really lost it. I brought music back into my life. I’ve made reconnections with old friends who I missed way more than I realized. Walking through my old college campus with two important people from that time was gloriously sentimental. Going to see my best friend from High School was the best medicine I could have asked for. We could still talk and confide in one other like we only seen each other yesterday, instead of over a decade. With other friends, forgiveness was given and received, which just might be the greatest feeling of all. I have great co-workers that make me laugh and value my quirky humor. The trip out East to see my beloved niece graduate and time spent with my family just…being, was greatly needed.

My life isn’t predictable, it never was nor likely will it ever be. Nothing is ever certain, but oh, there is happiness to be found. I didn’t end up with a HEA like they do in the romance novels and that’s okay. I had a stinking awesome youth and quite frankly a fun time trying to navigate through my 20’s and 30’s, even if I didn’t always seize every opportunity I coulda/woulda/shoulda. I can’t change any of it anyway. Predicting the future is something I cannot do, it’s uncertain, instead I’m going to do what I can today. Focus on the now.

I’m still going to read trashy romance novels however.

Seeking the Balance

I’ve been wanting to write this for weeks, ever since a talk I had with my friend weeks ago when we took our trip back to our old college town, but life happens. I can’t recall exactly what it was that directed out conversation onto this topic so perhaps the how’s and why’s aren’t so important.

The topic? Balance.

In all things…balance. You’ve got to take the ugly with the beauty.

There cannot be good without evil; order without chaos.

There is no light without the darkside. (Yes, that is a Star Wars reference. Apologies to Han, but I kind of have a thing for hokey religions and ancient weapons).

In order for one organism to live another must die. The balance of nature, the good old Circle of Life that Mufasa kept talking about.

I’m not an overly religious person. Spiritual, sure, with a heavy dose of agnosticism thrown in. I believe there is a higher power (for lack of a better word) but I don’t feel that it’s existence can, nor should be, proven. I was raised in the Catholic faith and while, I still go to mass and find a certain peacefulness in the ritual I feel that my personal beliefs are more in sync with some Native American cultures. (“God” is more of a force, an energy, that flows and ebbs through all things. Through the rocks, us, all living things…everything, making everything connected). There is a feeling of balance and harmony that I do not find within the confines of my Catholic upbringing.

For quite sometime my life has been way out of whack, the balance has been heavily leaning towards the negative. Much of it has not been in my control, and I acknowledge those bits I can’t change. Like a bear out of hibernation, I feel like I’ve awoken from a long nap, and I’m going to start finding my balance, my positive again.

In recent months I’ve lost my Dad, my Uncle and yesterday, a former student. My husband’s ongoing battle with depression has been stressful and often has left me feeling wilted and unhappy. These things are all horribly sad. They are also things that are beyond my control and they are not my battles to fight. It’s been a struggle at times, but through this darkness I have found my light. The balance I was looking for. It has always been there, its light dulled, but it has always been there waiting for me. I started painting again and it felt so good! I’ve reconnected with old friends that have brought so much joy into my life. Music has returned, bringing with it exciting new artists. I have a smart, fun kid who likes to hang out with me, even though enforcing the rules and boundaries set up for her, has earned me “The Meanest Mom in the World” title.

In all things…balance. Let me not forget this.

Wally and The Beav

Growing up I heard many stories about the adventures my Dad and his younger brother had as boys growing up in Des Moines, Iowa, such as the time they were playing on a trestle train bridge that spanned the river. They were in the middle of the bridge when they realized a train was coming and that the only thing they could do was to climb down and hang on to the trestles as the train rumbled over them. Once they caught a giant snapping turtle at Brooksie’s Lake and brought it home in the basket of my Dad’s bike. Grandma made them get rid of it. They would torment their older sister with garter snakes, once releasing a dozen of them near where she had to hang up the laundry. More than once Dad told the story about how they’d threw rocks at the bums by the river and once one of the men came after them with a knife. I’m not sure how embellished these tales were regardless they were full of mischief and one wonders how those two ever survived to adulthood.

My Uncle’s health hasn’t been good for many years but he always seemed to bounce back from whatever recent setback he had. I do not exaggerate when I say that it seemed like he had nine lives. We were relieved every time he bounced back.

The last two years were incredibly crappy for our clan. We lost my Dad to complications arising from his PSP and Lewy Body Dementia in March. My Uncle had made a miraculous recovery from his most recent health scare and was able to visit my Dad before the end, however shortly after my Dad’s funeral my Uncle health worsened and he could not recover from this most recent bout. He passed away this Friday.

I am sure that there are many, many stories of the adventures of “Wally and The Beav” that we will never know, but it is a comfort knowing that they are together now and probably up to no good.

Return to Sender

I’ve been away for the past couple weeks, finishing up school business and taking a much needed getaway to my niece’s high school graduation. With all that happened with my Dad’s illness and eventual passing in March my family needed something to celebrate. It was a busy time planning and getting ready for her Grad Party, East Coast style. No garage parties out there, that’s for sure! I’ve lived in the Midwest my whole life and I still cannot grasp why people through parties in dirty garages. I digress, my fancy party planning ideas aren’t what I want to talk about.

It was good to get away, be around family and partake in life’s fun like shop and take my daughter the highlights of the various Smithsonian museums on the Mall in D.C. The weather was so un-Virginia in June. Next to no humidity and cool. Even things like airplanes and airports went completely smooth and unexciting. As good as it was I was looking forward to my home, my own bed and my own space.

I arrive home, shuffle through the mail that arrived while I was away. Mostly junk mail and bills, a few thank you notes from my students and other graduates. Two red envelopes with Return to Sender stamped on them caught my eye. “Odd”, I think, I don’t remember sending out any envelopes of that color recently. I mean, Christmas, yeah. I picked them up to inspect them. They were addressed to the nursing home my Dad was living in, sent by me and my daughter. His Christmas cards, that apparently never arrived. I felt like I just got punched in the gut and overwhelmingly sad that he never got the stupid cards or the drawing my daughter made for him.

They are still sitting on my kitchen table. Unopened. I don’t know what to do with them. I can’t bring myself to open them. I certainly don’t want to keep them, I think, but it seems almost sacrilegious or somehow betraying my Dad if I throw them away. I really don’t know what to do with them. I could save them and hide them away, but then, I’ll come across them again someday and feel like complete shit again.

Ugh. Why couldn’t you have failed completely on this particular mission United States Postal Service? Then at least I’d never have to think about Christmas greetings that missed the mark.

Home

Home /hōm/ noun

the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.

I lived in six different places growing up. My family would relocate because of my Dad’s work. As a result the word “home” doesn’t represent a specific wooden or brick building filled with artifacts and memories of my growing up. Instead, home to me is simply the place where my family is at.

This past March my Dad passed away from a long illness. We had talked about burying him in the town my parent’s currently resided in. Even though my folks had lived there for 30 years the connections and ties to the town are few. It is possible that my Mom and youngest sister, who lived with my parents, will eventually move from town to places undecided. Burying Dad there, just didn’t seem right.

My Great-Grandfather Dr. George Allen “Dec Bebe” take around the time he graduated from the University of Iowa

For years we’ve known that there was an extra plot at the cemetery where my Grandparents and Great-Grandparents are buried. Decades ago my Great-Grandfather, “Doc Bebe”, had purchased a family plot at the local cemetery. I never knew my Great-Grandfather as he died while my mother was quite young herself, but I had heard many stories about him and I had already been a beneficiary of his foresight and generosity. Doc was a general practitioner of medicine in this small town in Iowa. He delivered babies, saved lives and even helped those less fortunate through the Great Depression. He and his wife built a lovely home there, in which my own grandparents moved into later in life. I have so many memories of the house and a connection to the town.

My Grandma, my great-grandparent’s only child, married my Grandpa who she met at the hospital where she was a nurse and he the patient. For reasons I won’t get into here, my Grandpa was an alcoholic with an abusive mean streak. (I have no memories of my Grandpa like this as he stopped drinking when I was 2). I think my Great-Grandfather always felt like he had to look out for my Grandma, my mom and uncles. After my Grandma passed away we were discovered previously unknown bank accounts in my Grandma’s name. With the money from the inheritance, Mom was able to pay for my two sisters and my college educations.

We thought that extra plot was the final gift from my Great-Grandfather, one last way of taking care of his family. We did some research and discovered that when Mom’s time came, she too could be buried in the same plot as my Dad, if they were both cremated. It seemed perfect. Then, after my Dad passed my Uncle was speaking with the cemetery caretaker about the burial we had some unexpected but not unwelcome news. Not only was there an extra plot, but there were 8 more plots! This man, my Great-Grandfather, who I never met, was still looking out for his family. It wasn’t long before my other sister and her husband announced that they too would be buried in these extra plots.

The day of my Dad’s burial arrived we drove down to that small little town in Iowa that I hadn’t been to for such a long time, yet it still was familiar. There is a new Casey’s gas station, but the same grocery store, no longer named Ernie’s, was still there, looking much the same. The stately Victorian houses that lined the streets for as long as I can remember still stood proud and beckoning of another time. I’m pretty sure that the drug store with the authentic soda fountain from the 50’s that my sisters and I would frequent when we stayed at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. I half expected some stranger to come up to me and ask if I were Ned’s granddaughter, as they used to. We even saw the old house, looking very blue and a bit worse for wear, but it still was there.

The cemetery was oddly welcoming. It was a sunny, but very chilly day. From the memory of my grandparents’ funerals, the cemetery was surrounded by corn fields, lonely and desolate. Generally I find cemeteries creepy, but today, though it was surrounded by new homes, peaceful. But this, surrounded by my family that have always loved me, both living and those who had gone before I felt at home. I felt a connection to a this place. While I don’t often think of my death or what will come after, I did, at that moment feel that this was where I should be when my it is my time. It felt like home.