As we waited in our designated pick-up spot on the side of Walmart yesterday, we watched about fifteen seagulls fight over a slab of mystery meat. Was it a mouse? Something that dropped out of a grocery bag? It didn’t matter. We were watching Seagull Soccer and Banjo Man was highly entertained (the above photo was taken befire the game started).
I now have the Walmart Grocery app on my phone. After I pressed the “On My Way” bar, it tracked the progress of my car via a map.
Such is the world now.
The process went smoothly. All of the cars that were parked in their numbered spots had their trunks or back doors opened and waiting, like baby birds in a nest. When it was our turn a young man (not wearing a mask–go figure) approached the car and asked for our name. Then he disappeared into the store and returned with a cart loaded with our groceries. There was no way to tip him, unfortunately. I realized too late I should have left a tip envelope in the back. Next time I’ll know.
They were out of yogurt and toilet paper, so we didn’t get our full order. But somehow we ended up with thirty lemons. Banjo Man suggested I make lemon chicken. I told him we had no chicken. In the process of trying to use what we already had in the freezer and in the pantry, we finished up all of the packages of chicken breasts.
If you have a recipe for lemon beans, please let me know.
Last Easter seems so very, very long ago. Here we are celebrating together at Ken and Ginny’s in 2019.
Ken showing Mom a picture on his phone.
Ginny’s Easter cake.
Oh, the food!!!
Such a gorgeous table.
That Easter morning I discovered I had a problem…and it was probably breast cancer.
Oh, what a year!
But I survived. My mother is now in a nursing home and suffering with dementia. Sometimes she doesn’t know who I am. But sometimes–while we are Face Timing on the phone–she does know me…and those minutes are precious.
And who could have predicted that the country would be in self-quarantine this Easter?
This morning is sunny, though only 30 degrees. We have defrosted a bag of pulled pork and a container of baked beans. I will make coleslaw. We’ll make a stab at fixing some kind of Easter meal. I will miss our friends and all of the “what have you been doing all winter” conversations.
Instead we will watch Andrea Bocelli’s concert on YouTube at 1 PM. And then we will drive to Walmart for our scheduled 3:00 PM “grocery pick up” time. Just the two of us. Wearing masks and gloves.
I have decorated my fireplace hearth with Easter eggs and forsythia. There are daffodils blooming outside. It’s a different, strange Easter but it’s still Spring. And one more step closer to summer.
Do you ever feel that if you step outside of your house you’re going to die?
Sigh.
We had to go to the Post Office yesterday–having been delaying it for a week–and it was as if we were risking our lives, going into battle, crossing a mine-laden field, wading through a muddy pit of alligators.
You get the picture.
Banjo Man wore a mask, gloves and goggles. He practiced “social distancing”, the good ol’ SD we have come to know so well. He said it went well.
I waited in the car. We wiped everything down with our travelling Clorox wipes when he returned. Radioactive, you know. Or something.
Another brush with certain death was the bank’s drive up window. Who knows how many infected hands have touched the tube that zooms back and forth to the teller? Oh, how we wiped it all afterwards! I cleaned my reading glasses, my sunglasses, my pen, my hands, the keys, the window switches, the steering wheel and the gear shift.
I’d spent most of the day making face masks for the Texas kids. It had been a long and frustrating process. How many YouTube videos on mask-making can you watch without foaming at the mouth and falling off your chair?
Don’t ask.
Given the stress of mask-making, I skipped listening to all news reports and the constant stream of press conferences on the news channels. I absolutely could not hear one more devastating statistic or catastrophe-predicting “model”. Between John Prine and Andrea Bocelli, I kept myself from worrying about the world as much as I could.
I made six–complete with a pocket in which to put a filter of some kind (coffee filter, paper towel)– only to realize that because I hadn’t stocked up on cording (really, who knew there would be no cording and no elastic available to buy?) the masks’ “easy on” advantage was compromised. To my disappointment, it didn’t work with ties made from one of Banjo Man’s t-shirts.
So I had to go to Plan B and start sewing pleats in them instead, then stitching the ties on four corners. I sent three different designs to Son #2 Will, who is right in the middle of a growing hot spot in Austin. His work hours have been cut significantly, but although he is very tired of his own cooking–which leans heavily towards chili and eggs–he is doing fine and being very, very careful. But he definitely needs masks. Which was the main reason we went to the Post Office in the first place.
The other three masks will go to Ben, Amber and the Funny Grandson (doing well and practicing strict isolation, along with online learning) just as soon as I can gear up to (a) finish them and (b) go to the Post Office again.
As our sanitized selves were driving away from the bank and back to isolation, I told Banjo Man that I was going to support the local economy and ORDER TAKE OUT. He could join me or not, but I absolutely could not eat another bowl of squash soup (I don’t know how much squash soup I froze in 2019 but it must have been gallons).
I informed him that I was ordering a burger and fries. Yes, FRIES. This former speakeasy in the woods a few miles north of our house has the very best french fries in the state.
Banjo Man shuddered. “I don’t want any fries.”
“Do what you want,” I said, in a less than loving tone, I admit. “But I’m calling in an order. They have curbside pick up. I don’t even have to wear a mask.”
A couple of hours later we were on our way to the Rathskeller. We’d ordered two fancy burgers, fries, a beet-and-goat-cheese salad and chowder. Sure enough, a table had been set up at the edge of a sadly empty parking lot for pick ups. Right at 6 PM a guy ran out, called my name, and dropped the bag on the table before running a safe distance away. I hopped out of the car and thanked him, left a tip on the table under a rock and we hurried home.
It was so easy. Not like wading through a pit of alligators at all.
And the car smelled so darn good.
Once home I removed all the food from its containers, tossed the containers in the trash, washed my hands and wiped down the counter. Just in case.
We turned on THE WIRE (season 3) and oh-so-cheerfully settled ourselves in front of the television.
And of course Banjo Man ate his share of the fries.
I’m in a slump. Along with the rest of the world. I try to fight it, but there are times when I give up and sit at the computer and play Solitaire.
That’s so depressing.
We’re finishing up four weeks in the house and there are at least three or four more to go, but we’re able to order groceries and we’re healthy and the internet still works. That’s what counts.
In an attempt to fight inertia, my friend Ruth and I text each other pictures of what we accomplish each day. It helps keep us away from our computers. So here’s what I sent her last night:
I washed my hair.
I made baked beans. From scratch. And threw some hot dogs in for dinner.
I finished nine more blocks.
And have eight more in progress.
I’m also spending an hour a day going through my mother’s clothes, etc to decide what to do with her things now that she is in a nursing home. It’s amazing how much can get done in an hour.
Note: I do not know what to do with the dolls she loved so much.
And then I get on the treadmill. Not that I want to, but it makes me feel less like the slug I know I am.
What are YOU doing to keep busy? I’d love to know.
I’m not sure where you are and whether or not you’ve tried “online ordering” from your local grocery store, but let me tell you: it’s an adventure.
The first time we received our delivery, a young couple employed by Instacart shopped for us. While they were in the store, they sent me texts to ask if they could replace what I’d ordered with something else. There were quite a few things that were not available. It worked great, despite the gaps. They wore gloves and were very careful to leave our groceries in the driveway while we watched from eight feet away.
Last week we tried again. I carefully checked the “No Replacements” boxes on the things I was particular about.
That didn’t make any difference to “Kenneth”, who arrived gloveless and maskless and in old overalls. He was cheerful as he stumbled to our door but didn’t seem to understand the “social distancing” part of the directions. I backed up into the house and he dropped the bags by the door.
“Dropped”, as in two dozen eggs. He opened them to check they hadn’t broken. He touched my eggs with his bare fingers.
This means I will have to wash my hands after cracking every egg.
He replaced my Twinkies (do not judge–they are for emergency meltdowns) with purple “Snowballs”. He replaced our bags of Brussels sprouts with those with cheese sauce. He replaced spinach and broccoli with assorted frozen mixed vegetables. He did this all without asking/texting. And I was stuck with it.
The Snowballs went into the trash. We’re eyeing those cheese-sauce-coated vegetables with suspicion, but they’re in the freezer. We cleaned every single thing Kenneth brought us with Clorox wipes.
This week we finally scored a spot at Walmart for “pick up” (which took two days of trying). I’ve ordered the basics: lemons, oranges, yogurt, potatoes, frozen blueberries, onions, butter and an UNO card game. They are out of lemons and potatoes, but we’re not discouraged. On Sunday afternoon we’ll head to Walmart at 3 PM and see what we get.
We’ve been religiously practicing self-quarantining for four weeks. FOUR WEEKS! So we are healthy and safe.
And no matter what weirdness ends up in our grocery bags, that’s all that matters.
When I get to heaven, I’m gonna shake God’s hand
Thank him for more blessings than one man can stand
Then I’m gonna get a guitar and start a rock-n-roll band
Check into a swell hotel; ain’t the afterlife grand?
And then I’m gonna get a cocktail: vodka and ginger ale
Yeah, I’m gonna smoke a cigarette that’s nine miles long
I’m gonna kiss that pretty girl on the tilt-a-whirl
‘Cause this old man is goin’ to town
Then as God as my witness, I’m gettin’ back into showbusiness
I’m gonna open up a nightclub called “The Tree of Forgiveness”
And forgive everybody ever done me any harm
Well, I might even invite a few choice critics, those syph’litic parasitics
Buy ’em a pint of Smithwick’s and smother ’em with my charm
‘Cause then I’m gonna get a cocktail: vodka and ginger ale
Yeah I’m gonna smoke a cigarette that’s nine miles long
I’m gonna kiss that pretty girl on the tilt-a-whirl
Yeah this old man is goin’ to town
Yeah when I get to heaven, I’m gonna take that wristwatch off my arm
What are you gonna do with time after you’ve bought the farm?
And them I’m gonna go find my mom and dad, and good old brother Doug
Well I bet him and cousin Jackie are still cuttin’ up a rug
I wanna see all my mama’s sisters, ’cause that’s where all the love starts
I miss ’em all like crazy, bless their little hearts
And I always will remember these words my daddy said
He said, “Buddy, when you’re dead, you’re a dead pecker-head”
I hope to prove him wrong, that is, when I get to heaven
‘Cause I’m gonna have a cocktail: vodka and ginger ale
Yeah I’m gonna smoke a cigarette that’s nine miles long
I’m gonna kiss that pretty girl on the tilt-a-whirl
Yeah this old man is goin’ to town
Yeah this old man is goin’ to town
Better late than never. This was a huge HBO hit from 2002-2008.
HBO is giving free access to many of its hit shows during the pandemic, and THE WIRE is one of them. You can check out HBO NOW to stream it.
We’re in the middle of season 2 and we can’t get enough of it. It’s a stressful show to watch (sort of the anti-Hallmark Movie Channel) but we love the characters. I worry about everyone, from my favorite policemen drinking too much to a beloved drug addict to the strangely sweet and brutal character who robs drug dealers for a living.
I have to remind myself they’re not real people and I don’t have worry about them, but it’s not easy.
We are so glad we don’t live in Baltimore.
We are glad we’re not dock workers, drug dealers, kids growing up in the projects, or policemen.
We are glad we live in the country and can go outside without worrying about bullets or car thieves or trash.
And..we’re learning a new language. When we hear a particularly intriguing and colorful statement from one of the drug gang, we repeat it to each other until we get the accent right.
And because we’re quarantined, and because the threat of the Evil Virus hovers over our lives, repeating strings of X-rated language in the privacy of our own living room is highly satisfying.
Emails, conversations and texts with my friends have begun to center around food.
Several friends have sent me pictures of their loaves of homemade bread. I love pictures of bread.
I have also received photos of masks. And they have been impressive. Everyone is making them and each day online there are more patterns, more innovations, more solutions to the shortage of elastic and cording. I saw a great tutorial this morning and I’m going to find that football-themed fabric I tucked away and make masks for my four Texans.
I am going to cut up one of Banjo Man’s t-shirts to make ties, because the world is out of elastic and soft laundry cording.
On Saturday I started my own mask project by cutting up a new cloth diaper. I overcast the raw edges, but that was as far as I got.
My enthusiasm for mask-making is very, very low despite the encouragement of the friends who are producing them at a rapid pace.
I look at these rectangles of organic bamboo cotton and I feel nothing but despair.
We aren’t going anywhere to get groceries or prescriptions, but we do need to drop some things off at the Post Office today. Good thing we still have some paper masks. Banjo Man will wear his goggles. He won’t go inside unless the parking lot is fairly empty (it’s a very small Post Office).
I’ve put off going to the bank for necessary financial transactions for my mother, but it has to be done. So one of those diaper masks will be crucial, according to the experts.
In Rhode Island we are being bombarded with “models” and “predictions”, almost minute-by-minute. Are 324 of us going to die in April? Or do you believe the newest model that predicts close to 3000? Will the virus peak on April 15 or April 29 or mid-May?
Nothing has hit me harder during this time of the corona virus than the news that John Prine was in the hospital with the virus. John Prine is very ill and in the ICU for what may be his 10th day on a ventilator. He has pneumonia in both lungs but, according to his wife Fiona, his condition has been upgraded from “critical” to “stable”.
I check her twitter account every morning, praying under my breath that he is still alive and still fighting.
I found this on Fiona Prine’s instagram page. I absolutely love it.
I’m playing a lot of John Prine lately. Trying to send all those healthy, healing thoughts to one of the best songwriters of our time.
May all the angels, from Montgomery and elsewhere, watch over him.
Yesterday was a Big Event here in the Land of the Evil Virus.
Banjo Man loves the sourdough bread from Panera’s and buys a loaf every Saturday, after his weekly trip to the dump.
Oh, how we’ve missed it! Our local Panera Bread is closed, but I discovered that some of the stores around the state are open for online ordering and parking lot pick-up. I put in an order (two loaves of sourdough, one focaccia and one ciabatta) for Saturday morning at 10:30. It had been almost a month since we’ve had a loaf of Panera’s sourdough.
I will try to describe how exciting it was to leave the house, but you all have most likely experienced the same joy.
We showered. We put on clean clothes. I put on make-up, a necklace and earrings. I even wore a bra.
Banjo Man shaved and looked quite spiffy. We looked like we were going out to a special lunch…and sadly, of course, we never got out of the car. But the thirty-minute ride was a thrill. I pretended we were actually going somewhere nice, where we could eat lunch and then go buy stuff.
Once in the near-empty parking lot, I texted a code to Panera and within minutes a woman came across the lot with our bag of bread. We rolled down the back window and she set it in the back seat.
We drove home slowly. There was nothing much to look forward to now. We talked about having bread and olive oil for lunch, but clearly the thrill was gone.
Remember the Narragansett sea wall I’ve blogged about? A great place to walk and enjoy the ocean air?
Here it is now:
If you live nearby, you can walk on the sidewalk. But no one can park. I have very mixed feelings about this. On one hand, it’s hard to “social distance” on a sidewalk when you pass each other, but people need fresh air and the comforting view of waves and ocean. We need exercise. Beach parking lots are all closed, so no one can walk on the beach unless they live nearby or have someone drop them off.
We keep hearing that in these next two weeks the infections will peak and Rhode Islanders will be experiencing our own version of hell. I pray that everything we’ve done will “flatten the curve” and the rate of infection won’t be nearly as devastating as expected.
Are we–as a state–prepared? I don’t know. It depends on which politician or which radio station I listen to. Testing finally began Friday. A little late, in my opinion. How can you have accurate infection numbers if you’re not testing?
Supposedly we will hit the “peak” on April 19.
Until then we will enjoy our bread and continue to have our groceries delivered and take walks around the driveway.
is there any more pie? 