The New Necessary

As winter approaches, we usually deposit a pair of gloves or mittens in the pockets of each coat or jacket so that we are never caught without them on cold days. Last evening, as we headed down the street to an outdoor birthday party for an 8-year-old neighbor,  I dug my hands into the pockets of my vest and was pleased to find the gloves I had stuffed in there last year. The weather turned a little nippy after the sun set, and who wants cold fingers at a party? 

It turned out, I didn't need them. There were a few logs crackling in a portable fire pit in the center of the gathering. What I did need, though, I didn't have. Despite keeping social distance of six feet, everyone was wearing a mask. I had a gaiter around my neck, and I pulled it up over my mouth and nose, but it was rather uncomfortable for the length of time we were there. 

It had simply never occurred to me to grab one of the many masks we have in a basket by the door; even after six months of masking, some part of my reptilian brain must still be in denial. 

But when I got home? You can bet I added some masks to the mittens in my jackets.

Another Sorrow

A good friend of my mom's passed away last night. June was 88, but more active than a lot of people 10 or 15 years younger. She was a part of my mom's gym and coffee group, and with their friend Barb, they traveled all over, most notably to Europe, and China, and Vegas, and Florida every February. The three of them had a standing date for the Minnesota State Fair the last week of every August, and until the last week of my mom's life, they emailed each other every single morning to check in and make sure that each of them was safe and sound and ready to see another day. My heart goes out to Barb; how empty her inbox must feel.

June had been feeling a little off and then progressively worse for months, but like what happened to my mom, her doctors brushed it off as one minor thing after another until she reached a crisis and went into the ER three weeks ago. There a CT scan suggested advanced cancer, a diagnosis which was confirmed a short time later. She spent her last days at home, surrounded by family and friends. 

As her daughter wrote this morning, "She had 88+ good years and three bad weeks," and when you put it like that? It's hard to imagine asking for much more. But she will be missed by those of us she leaves behind, one more loss in a terrible year.

Why I Can Never Have Chickens

"I'm thinking of making something with pumpkin for dinner tonight," I told Heidi this afternoon.

"Great," she said. "I'm sure it will be good if you make it!"

I walked over to the sideboard and looked at the 4 remaining pumpkins from our garden. "Which one should I cook?" I asked.

"Does it matter?" she replied.

"Not really," I shrugged, "but for some reason? I feel a little bad about chopping them into pieces, throwing them in the oven, and eating them!"

Blah-liday

 It was not a jolly holiday around here today. A muggy, overcast morning gave way to a drenching, tropical afternoon. After working for most of the gray, gray day, I had to get out of the house, so at 4:30 I pulled on some boots and my raincoat, leashed up the dog, and headed out for as brisk a walk as we could manage. Lucy is a sniffer, she never met a patch of grass or invisible trail along the side of a fence that she didn't long to lose her nose in. Such aromatic shenanigans make it challenging to maintain any speed, and so we traded off jogging and meandering, eventually compromising our way down to the local shopping district at the foot of the hill. I was surprised to see a few hardcore restaurant patrons sitting at somewhat soggy tables beneath dripping awnings, but aside from them, the sidewalks were mostly empty. Rounding the bend to the library square I did a double take at the Christmas Tree, all set up and decorated. And although Veteran's Day is mighty early for that kind of cheer, I do confess my spirits rallied just a bit at the sight. I snapped a quick selfie and then off we trotted toward home.

Small Victories

Today was the day when it finally fit in the curriculum to have the students enroll in the online app for writing skills that our school system subscribes to. It's not super complicated: I log in and create classes, and then the students follow a link to set up their accounts and join my class. 

And yet... 

Over the four years that we have been using this platform, even as I give directions and circulate throughout the classroom, somehow there are always one or two kids who get into the wrong class, or worse can't join at all, and I never know until the first assignment is due. So I was prepared for problems when I added this activity to my plans, and I built in some time to resolve them.

And yet...

This time

every

single

student

joined our class and started the assignment! 

Oh, sure, there were a few kids I had to talk through the process. Click on that big blue button under the pink person in the weird desk. Do you see it? Do you see it?  Now log in with your school Google. 

But at the end of the day, I gave the assistant in my class a virtual high five. "They are all in!" I told her. "That never, ever happens, even in person!"

"I know," she said. "We must be getting good at this stuff!"

Having Written

I have my writing group tonight. When we started 14 years ago, the four of us met every month, almost without fail. Back then, I was fresh from the National Writing Project Summer Institute for teachers where the writer within me had awakened. Having the chance to write every month for an audience was intoxicating and fun, and the food, wine, and company were just as potent. 

Since then, our meetings have become a little less frequent, perhaps six or seven a year, and of course this year, the COVID crisis has curtailed our gathering even more; we met once in February and were all set to meet at the end of March when social distancing and lock downs upended that plan along with so many others. We were able to find time to meet outside in late July, though, and this mild November weather has offered the chance to meet outdoors one more time this year.

Over the years, the food, fun, and fellowship haven't lost a glint of their luster, but writing? Well, that's a different story. Obviously, I write regularly, in a few weeks I'll hit 4,000 posts on this site. But while writing every day does build my fluency, I sometimes wonder what the trade off is, and I often ponder that very question in the days leading up to my writing group. The empty screen illuminates my doubts. Where's the passion? What's the point?

But tonight, after a nice dinner and a glass or two of wine, when I pull out whatever I bring to share with the group, and we all adjust the reading glasses that none of us wore when we started, I'll take a deep breath, start to read the words that I put on the page, and I'll remember.

Birthday Wishes

Twenty years ago , on Heidi's birthday, the election between Gore and Bush went into overtime. It was a first for modern history, and definitely nothing we expected as we celebrated both her birthday and what we hoped would be four more years with a president we had voted for. We left my brother's house that evening kind of stunned and unsure, and the disappointment with what happened several weeks later has hung vaguely over every fourth birthday for Heidi ever since.

All that was washed away yesterday afternoon when this election was called for Joe Biden. The birthday texts came pouring in, all with a similar sentiment. "Happy Birthday! Enjoy your new president!"

I think she will.