Side Hustle Intellectual

Last week I was dogged by a head cold for the first time since 2017. Somehow, in my personal accounting of health and illness, that stomach flu in December 2019 doesn’t count as “sick,” since those symptoms don’t mimic the actual plague.

I only vaguely knew about the at-home antigen test kits, because, as my children are fond of reminding me, I live under a rock. Which is true. I work from home and minimize my outings. I never stopped wearing a mask, and when I do go out, I double it up. I socialize unmasked with only one family aside from my own. It did not occur to me that I could even contract a cold, nor that I might want to keep a home test kit on hand.

So as soon as I started feeling punky, I looked for an appointment at a drive-through CoVid-19 test site. I had to wait three days for the earliest opening and another three days for the results.

In the wee hours of Thursday morning, it finally came through: Negative.

I let my children know that we were on for Family Dinner Night on Saturday, and I alerted the pals I’d seen in person in the last few weeks. The post-nasal drippage and ear congestion were distracting, but the vague sense of unease about the possibility of putting people I love at risk for the plague…. Ugh. Concentrating on my work, on anything, was challenging.

On Wednesday I canceled an in-person appointment because that result was not yet in. One appointment. How do people who are working out in the world, facing this unease every single day—how do they do it?!

One of my chums said something about paranoia having its place in the world, but that it’s good to have resolution. (I am assuming he did not mean actual paranoia. Because, rude.)

Somehow, that little exchange reminded me of a story my dad told us ages ago. He flew for United Airlines “when they didn’t suck,” from, I think, the 1960s until his early retirement in the 1990s. I’ve been thinking about my father, generally, because my son just started his job as a commercial pilot, days before his birthday—so the theme for our October Family Dinner Night was full-on airline.

By the time he was a senior pilot, my dad flew the Seattle-Hong Kong flight a couple times a month. The runway, if I recall correctly, ran parallel to the bay and next to a mountain—so the approach was risky. One time my dad had to land that beast in a typhoon. (Was it a 777? A 747? No idea. My son would know these details, but they drop out of my brain.) I distinctly remember that my dad’s face turned grey as he told us about it.

“That sounds absolutely harrowing!”

“It was. I just kept thinking, I will not be responsible for the deaths of 387 souls.… I will not be responsible for the deaths of 387 souls.…”

Okay. That number is wrong. But he did say a precise number, and I wish I could remember it. The specificity seems important. Despite his many flaws, my father took seriously the fact that it was up to him to keep those people alive.

Few of us are responsible for the lives of hundreds of people on any given day. Health care workers, maybe? Pilots, yes. Me? No. Also: How I could be the child of an airline pilot and have birthed one is beyond my comprehension. Shoot. I don’t even like to be a passenger, and the thought of actually flying one of those tubes in the sky…. No, thank you. I prefer to travel at walking pace—bicycle if I’m feeling wild.

And Mortal Peril, the only time I’ve been truly at risk of actual death—those blood clots were generated by my own body. Not contagious.

Although there are no guarantees, and we all meet the same ultimate fate, I’ve lived a relatively risk-free life. I am responsible mainly for, as my son used to say, my very own self. Last week made me realize that despite the fact that my connections are few, we are still and always connected. And I would be very sorry, indeed, if I had spread the actual plague to anyone I love. After several days of pondering the nature of paranoia versus that general unease of not knowing, plague or not-plague, I’ve landed here—concern for loved ones is kindness.

Family Dinner Night was loads of fun. I found the dusty LEGO airplane out in the garage, still mostly assembled but the engines and front wheel had fallen off. Inside, we found tiny passengers, still snapped into their seats, twenty years later.

“Worst flight ever.”

Sort of like this plague.

Let’s keep each other safe, okay?

Last week my older son came down from Seattle to help me get started painting the garage, and while we were running errands the conversation turned to what we were reading. As it will do. He mentioned that he hadn’t been able to get into Jesamyn Ward’s Sing Unburied Sing when he was reading with his eyeballs. But reading with his ears, the elegance and poetry of her writing came alive. When I read it with my eyeballs I was absolutely captivated. But I wondered, what if I’d listened instead?

Sing Unburied Sing is one of the books I read around the time of my health crisis, and, surprisingly, I remember quite a bit of it—most of what I read and did during that chunk of time is utterly lost. A few of Ward’s other books were in a care package some friends sent, but by the time it arrived, I had already sunk deep into my obsession with A Gentleman in Moscow. Later, I associated those printed copies of Ward’s books with the dark time, so I never got around to reading them. Might give them a whirl with my ears.

Generally, audiobooks are my preference, because I can “read” while doing chores—important if you don’t share household chores with a chum. My favorite audiobook series is by Elly Griffiths, the Ruth Galloway books. When I listen to those stories, I sink into that world, and the characters are believable as real people we might know. But not all of the books are available in audio format, so last week when I read with my eyeballs one I’d missed, I was shocked and disappointed to find it so unsatisfying. The writing is so clean and concise, so efficient, that it’s over too quickly. I did not expect this at all.

It is probably unfair to compare Jessamyn Ward and Elly Griffiths, but it was curious to me that wildly different stories can be made or broken depending on how we experience them.

And speaking of broken—I also read, with my ears, Mozart’s Starling by Lyanda Lynn Haupt last week. But I cannot recommend the audio version, for two reasons. I believe that something must have been done post-production to eliminate all the natural pauses that readers would usually make between sections, making the narrator sound like a robot. Distracting.

The reader, as a reader, is skilled, but she mispronounces a staggering number of words, including, but not limited to: Kant, Thomas Mann, Papageno & Papagena, recitative, Messiaen, and presage. At first I just noticed, but then I started tracking them, because, Jiminy Christmas!

For the painting project last week, I moved on to Harry Potter, en Français. Let’s talk about that next time.

Which books have captivated you recently?

The other morning I was just settling in with coffee and my work when I noticed a mother and a toddler walking by. Well, Mom was walking, carrying a squiggly child dressed in violent pink, and pushing an empty stroller—which is how it generally went for me with my stroller hater.

These two were checking out the chickens in my front garden. Every day the same neighborhood children stop and greet the hens, and I love to watch them. But this was the first time I’d seen the pink pair—and the first day of school. I wondered if they’d just delivered a sibling.

When my older son was in kindergarten at the school just a few blocks away, his dad would drop him off in the morning, and I would hang with baby Seth. We only subjected children to half a day of K back then, so at lunchtime, Seth and I would bundle up to collect Eli. Some days we’d take the stroller, but most days I’d carry him in the backpack. I’d set the pack on the front stoop, strap in the chunk, then sit on the freezing concrete to hoist.

I remember this procedure for two reasons. First, the mitten struggle—which ended suddenly on the first bitter day. Seth had ripped off the mittens, per usual, lighting fast. As soon as we stepped outside, he gasped at the cold and began to fat-cheeked-baby-focus-focus—parents know this look—to get the mittens back on. I watched in astonishment. You’re a baby! You’re not supposed to be this self-aware.

I also remember because he said his first “word” during the hoisting operation. We had a large rocking horse at the time, plastic, suspended on a metal frame with giant coils. Eli would ride like fury, shouting like a banshee. Or, you know, like a cowboy. One day I had strapped Seth into the pack and during the hoist he shouted YEEE-HAW! Great. So I’m the horsey in this scenario.

We have a first day photo of the E-Man—just one. Kindergarten, because I didn’t know the momming rules back then. And social media hadn’t been invented. And there are no first day photos of Seth, because he never went to school. I pulled Eli out after fifth grade.

The other morning, seeing the flood of first-day pictures on Facebook and watching that mom carrying the pink toddler, I messaged Seth to reminisce about the mornings when he was a bit older and we had taken over drop-off duty. When the weather was fine, we’d swing by the fancy-pants grocery store where I always felt underdressed. We’d get an apple fritter and sit outside looking at our library haul, trying not to get the pages sticky. Or we would simply enjoy watching the world go by.

And after reminding him of those days, I sent another message, laughingly apologizing for not having known to take any first-day pictures of him.

He LOL-ed right back. He’s in flight school right now and didn’t think to take a first day snap back in July—but that would have been so excellent! He sent me photos of himself in his uniform, instead. “Please do not share.” Dang it. What’s the point if it’s not shared on social media?!

Ah, well. My children may not have first day photos or high school diplomas, but between them they have four college degrees.

Until I was in college myself, school was torture. I feel no nostalgia. But my grandmother apparently did. Or, at least, she talked about her school days often. She was a terrific storyteller and a terrible singer. But she would croak out a “tune” or two sometimes, which is the only reason I know the old ditty, School Days, School Days, which my brain radio is cruelly playing nonstop this week. When I was a teenager and young woman, my grandmother’s stories of school in the 1920s and 30s seemed as alien and remote as another planet.

And during this global pandemic, it is equally impossible for me to imagine what school must be like for parents and teachers and children right now—alien and remote and yet, right there, walking by my garden. My own children’s school years seem remote, too. “The oak’s an old chestnut now.”

Ordinary life involves so much emotional whiplash these days. That was a normal scene, the mom with the stroller and pink child. Relatable, as the kids say. For the teeniest-tiny second there is balm in those moments.

Until I remember that the experience of dropping off and picking up and being in school—is utterly changed. Normal, but not. How stressed the families must be, sending unvaccinated children to school. Nightmare.

But then yesterday I saw Lily walking home from second grade with her weary mother. I sometimes leave the girls treasures or notes on the chicken coop, and Lily and her sister reciprocate with thank-you paintings. Lily was chattering away, as she does, looking merry in her purple glasses that match mine, skipping and swinging her mask. 

What a world.

On this day in 1977 we were on an outing that took us across the Connecticut River. I remember the sun on the water, the bridge, my blue sundress and white sandals—I remember it all distinctly, because, as a child, the grating resonated at a frequency that absolutely sent me. I also remember because the radio was on, and at the end of a tune, the announcer guy said in his somber, announcer-guy voice, “Elvis… is dead.”

My mother threw back her head and a sound emitted from her body that in a novel would be described as inhuman, a shattering wail. As soon as we were entirely off the bridge, she drove right off the road and slumped over the steering wheel, sobbing.

Now, my mother is musical. She can yodel, no kidding, and her singing is clear and lovely. Her speaking voice, too, is melodic and can change dramatically, quickly, unexpectedly—something I think may perhaps be linked to dissociative or borderline personality disorder. (I could be wrong here, because dammit, Jim, I’m a storyteller, not a psychiatrist. But the phenomenon, when you hear it, is startling.)

In retrospect, I realize that we children were at once inured to the histrionics and alert to these vocal changes. The wail, then, in this context, was both hilarious and terrifying. Was this more acting or genuine distress? I remember very little from my childhood, but darn straight I remember this.

Over the years my mother has sent random Elvis-related texts, like today, that he “was a good gospel singer.” Or, once, on her birthday, she left me a long phone message about a biography she was reading, and “oh, jeez, Coley, he died of constipation!”

(He totally didn’t.)

I have a grumpy musicologist pal who taught a course on Elvis, so I get it that he, Elvis, was important, culturally and musically. I get it on a more visceral level that something about him touched at least one woman, based on her roadside meltdown. But a generation and mental illness separates me from getting it. 

Once I laughingly mentioned to a therapist that, parenting-wise, I had no idea what I was doing, not having experienced supportive parenting myself. “But look at your boys,” he said. “You’ve been spinning gold out of nothing.”

I think about that every day.

When those boys were small, on an out-and-about sort of day, we were crossing the Hood Canal Bridge, which is also grated. And naturally I remembered and shared the Elvis story. Which meant that ever after, crossing a grated bridge, someone in the car would whisper or wail or moan ELVIS IS DEAD. And always, the moment the tires hit the grating, a delicious, palpable suspense, a delight, would well up as we all waited for the line. Or! There might be an intake of breath from one and then a pleading from the other, “Please. Don’t. Not this time.” And always, laughter.

Spun gold, baby. Actual Graceland.

Yesterday evening after my swim, I was luxuriating in the shower—as one does when one is not directly paying for the water—when I heard some grunting and moaning on the other side of the curtain. I wondered about this. Am I hearing grunting? What is happening? And then I had flashbacks to seminary, where a student would masturbate in the corner unit, the only one that had been outfitted with a massager shower head.

I was brushing my teeth the first time I heard her. I knew what was happening, but I was thrown off by the murmurs of I love you! I love you! I was young and we didn’t discuss these things in the olden days. I spit out the toothpaste, grabbed my things, swung open the door, and there was Denise in the hallway. 

I gestured behind me and mouthed, What is happening?!

“Oh. Yeah. She does that. And everyone is too embarrassed to say anything. How hard is it?” Then she hollered past me. “HEY, YVONNE! ARE YOU OKAY?!”

*silence*

Denise shrugged.

Anyway, I had forgotten about Yvonne, which is obviously not her name, as I had forgotten that, too. But that communal bathroom scene was suddenly vivid in my mind.

This sound was coming from the changing area just adjacent, not in, the actual showers. I cannot see much without my glasses, but through the crack at the edge of the curtain, I thought I made out stretching. And who doesn’t enjoy a little moaning and grunting at the end of a workout? It feels good to celebrate our muscles.

When I stepped out of my stall, yes, it was stretching. Most women are smaller than I am, but this miniature Asian woman was about half my size. And she had an absolutely enormous voice.

“HOOO-BOY! HOT-HOT-HOT OUTSIDE!” She shouted, whipping off her top.

“It is!” 

In fact, we’re having a heatwave, something that used to be rare.

“I WAKE UP THIS MORNING AND LOOK AT THE WEATHER REPORT AND SAY TO MYSELF, HOW YOU GONNA STAY COOL TODAY, LADY?!”

“And it’s supposed to be hotter tomorrow!” Already I love her, and wonder how she answered herself. 

“OH, YAH. TOOO HOT.”

“The pool is lovely,” I ventured. 

It was colder than usual, a pleasant surprise. 

By this time, I was wringing out my suit in the noisy whirring machine. I could still hear her.

“YOU STAY COOL, HONEY!” 

“You, too!”

Yesterday I used the adult-women-only locker room at the Y—up a long stairway and around a corner. I hadn’t bothered before, because the family changing room was closer. But with the littles and the Delta, it seemed a good idea to minimize contact with other breathing creatures. Goodness groceries! It is super-fancy-pants up there! Luxurious. And mostly empty, aside from the grunting woman and a cleaner, who was masked. 

At the beginning of the pandemic I would put on my running shoes in the morning and putt-putt-putter along for hours until I felt a smidge less crazy in the head. Then, a year later, this past April, plantar fasciitis.

One of my chums asked, “Plantar fasciitis? What is that? It sounds like Mussolini’s garden.”

Even a fascist’s garden would be preferable to not being able to stand or walk without pain. Running was out of the question. 

By mid-June my weight and resting heart rate were up, and I realized something had to be done. So I joined the Y, which, in itself, was a leap for me, a whole thing. But that is a story for another day. The first week I swam every day, and my mood, weight, and heart rate all improved, hallelujah.

Until last week. I learned too much about the Delta variant and children, and I was angry. A different order of magnitude, all-consuming sort of WHAT-IS-HAPPENING?!

Because for a hot minute earlier this summer, vaccinated, I had eased up, felt hopeful, and, somehow, curiously, forgotten much of the loneliness of that first year. The human mind and heart—mysterious. Now I am waking up, again, to the reality that this is only the beginning. It did not have to be this way, and yet, here we are. I ate a lot of ice cream. Because this is happening.

Before yesterday’s swim, I had been considering giving up my membership and buying new running shoes with that cash instead. Because it felt like we would need to minimize contact with others, even if the governor didn’t mandate closures or such like. (Surely I won’t be living in Mussolini’s garden forever?!) But that brief encounter with a naked lady made me realize that even introverts like me need other human beings. So. Crossing fingers the Y goes back to some of the safety strategies they’d had in place before July 1, when the state “opened up” again.

How are you coping, friends?