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.

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.

Back in Time

I’m rewarding myself this upcoming weekend with a road trip with my oldest friend back to the place we went to college. It’s been a trying last couple of years and I deserve this time away to focus on my own happiness. Selfish maybe?

We’ve made some tentative plans with a friend who still live in the area. Other plans may develop, or not. I plan on an early morning walk around campus and see what’s changed. I haven’t been back on campus since the year after I graduated 20 odd years ago and I’d like to see if I can find my old dorm. I think it’d be a trip to visit the painting lab. Maybe we’ll have breakfast at Mike’s Cafe or some late night cheese balls at Perkins. I’d even drive out to Trailways if it was still open.

Also, the agenda is some Chicken Connection. I don’t know how long this place has been around and if I had to guess I’d say its near forever. Its a simple place that serves basic fried chicken with a side of broasted potatoes with the most delicious sour cream/onion dip. I’m drooling just thinking about it. Simple, inexpensive but tasty college fare. I still dream about those broasted potatoes.

Later on our way back we’re planning to stop and visit other college friends (one of my closest friends and her husband) at their home for dinner. It’s been too long since I’ve seen those two beloved people. I hope to stay better connected with them and all the others who mean so much to me.

It will be a good weekend, no matter what’s accomplished.

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.