Here we are, staying in place, trying our best to keep the corona virus from finding us. In my sci-fi addled brain, COVID-19 is a monster lurking in the internal organs of some stranger’s infected body, awaiting an opening, perhaps a sneeze or a cough, to propel him into the next host.
Monster Zodiac—Libra
And that host could be me, or worse, someone I love.
Yes, I know that in most cases of the virus the symptoms are mild—barely noticeable in some instances, but those that are bad, are scary.
BUT! Nature doesn’t give a flip. These past few days have been gorgeous here in Florida. Sunshine and temperatures in the 80’s. And in some parts of the country, snow is falling like crazy. The monster keeps on creeping, but nature doesn’t care, and that comforts me.
I hope all of you are safe and healthy and able to appreciate whatever nature is sharing with you today.
Right off the bat this morning, even before I’d gotten out of bed, Studly Doright said, “I think you need to take my temperature.”
Alrighty then. Nothing like that kind of request in the middle of a global pandemic to get one’s heart racing and one’s feet moving. I immediately went to our thermometer drawer (which is also our band-aids and q-tips drawer) and fished out both of our thermometers, knowing that neither had been used in ages and were likely in need of batteries and also knowing I didn’t have any batteries on hand.
I sanitized the one that was most likely to be working, and stuck it under Studly’s tongue. His temperature registered at 97.4. I knew that wasn’t right—he’s always a predictable 98.6. Tried again just to make sure and got the low reading again. The other thermometer wouldn’t even turn on.
Now, using the Mommy Method of temperature taking, aka kissing Studly’s forehead, I was certain he wasn’t running an elevated temperature, but he was adamant that I locate a thermometer. After going to seven stores in three different communities I found just one thermometer, a fancy one that works with an iPhone app. I bought it, but can’t find the lightning charger that came with my iPhone, and the thermometer requires that for set up purposes. #%*€£#%.
I also found a battery at one of the stores, though, they were in short supply, as well. After fumfering around with the fancy thermometer I gave up and installed the battery in our old, cheap, run-of-the-mill thermometer. Voila! Why didn’t I just do that first?
Inserted the thermometer into Studly’s mouth, and in less than a minute it beeped. He does not have a fever. The Mommy Method was accurate, after all. He also has none of the other symptoms of COVID-19, but his stomach is upset. He stayed home from work today—something he NEVER does, and is snoring loudly on the couch—something he does frequently.
Here’s hoping all of your thermometers are in working order and that if you need to find your lightning charger it’s close at hand. Mine sure wasn’t.
My mother told me repeatedly when I was small, and again when I was a teenager, and yet again when I was grown that I was much too restless for my own good. “You don’t have to be going somewhere, doing something, all the time!” She’d say, or something similar.
To Mom, my need to be doing something or going somewhere, was probably my biggest character flaw—along with my disinterest in keeping a clean room and having a smart mouth. The triumvirate of failings. I suspect that right now she’s looking down on me and laughing her ass off. I don’t do well when told I can’t just get up and go where I please.
Now, I don’t think I’m particularly hyperactive. I can sit for hours reading a good book, or watching a movie, but if I’m unable to leave if I want to, I start feeling trapped and go a bit bonkers. I’m sure my two children are thankful that they are grown and don’t have to share space with me during this time.
My heart hurts, though, when I read of the people in Italy who are unable to attend the funerals of loved ones. People are being buried with only a member of the clergy and perhaps a funeral home employee in attendance, as their surviving family members are prohibited from leaving their own homes. If those grieving families can stay put, then I can.
Thank goodness for FaceTime, books and movies, social media, my renewed interest in finishing my novel, and for plenty of sunshine here in Florida. Maybe I’ll emerge from this experience with a new outlook on being still. Mom just fell off her cloud laughing. Oh, and when she stopped laughing she’d tell me to go clean my room and “don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady.”
Most, if not all festivities celebrating St. Patrick’s Day in the U.S. have been cancelled. I’m sure children who remember to do so will still pinch their unsuspecting parents who’ve forgotten to wear green, but hopefully from a safe distance after which they’ll vigorously wash their hands (front and back—not just the fingertips) while singing “When Irish Eyes are Smiling.”
I do not look great in green, so I was always the pinchee and seldom the pincher. When I taught, I made sure to wear a sprig of green on my blouse lest I risk my arms being pinched black and blue by day’s end. Little darlings who caught me unprepared paid for their cheekiness when grades came out. (Not really. I’m not vindictive in that way.)
St. Patrick who, legend has it, drove the snakes out of Ireland, could certainly help us out today, if we could only persuade him to drive the current ‘snake(s)’ out of our lands. COVID-19 needs to go, along with several people whose names I need not mention (one rhymes with Tronald Dump).
Maybe if we all wear green, forgo pinching one another, and wash our hands relentlessly, good St. Patrick will save the day, but we might have to suffer awhile longer.
A friend posted this on Facebook, and as a former teacher of fourth graders, I thought it was absolutely true and hilarious. If we can’t laugh right now, we’ll go crazy.
How did I get here? In search of an estate sale in north Tallahassee, I missed a turn and ended up on a narrow dirt road in my effort to find the way back. My gps has a weird sense of humor sometimes.
It was a pretty shortcut; although, the track grew a bit too narrow in places for my liking.
Where I’m Going Where I’d Been
And my little Chrysler really isn’t an off-road vehicle. A couple of times I wondered about turning around and going back the way I’d come, but there wasn’t an opportunity to do so.
After all my travails in the wilderness, the estate sale was disappointing. It’s as if I’d been lost on the Oregon Trail and there was no gold when I reached California. At least no one died of dysentery.
It’s 5:30 on a Saturday morning. Scout, the alarm clock cat, decided it was time for Studly Doright to get up and tend to her needs before heading to the golf course. I’m still in bed reveling in memories of a night of extraordinary (for me) sleep.
A few minutes ago I realized that the post at the foot of my bed resembles one of the Moai statues on Easter Island. I’ve captioned the photos, below, so no one confuses my bedpost with a moai.
Bedpost Moai
Saved myself a few bucks and hours of travel, now didn’t I?
(Seriously, I’d still like to see the real moai in person)
Yesterday afternoon my good friend, Flo, called me. She had a story to share and gave me permission to share it with you. Let’s see if I can tell Flo’s story properly.
First, let me tell you a little about Flo. She’s an angel. That’s not just my opinion, several people I know feel the same way. Flo is a retired hospice nurse who brings loving attention to everything she does. She is, in popular parlance, “mindful.”
Recently Flo spent several weeks providing her particular brand of expertise to support mutual friends of ours in Tennessee, and currently she’s helping out at her daughter’s home in South Carolina. An angel.
After dropping one of her granddaughters off at school on Thursday morning, Flo came to an intersection. She could either turn right and go back to her daughter’s home where she’d be by herself until the end of the school day, or left, to explore unknown territory. She turned left onto Mason Boro Loop Road and then onto the Carolina Beach Highway that took her into the town of Kure Beach.
Flo said that finding the town, located on Pleasure Beach, North Carolina, felt like discovering the real America. She parked for free and walked through the quaint town, stopping for lunch at the Kure Beach Cafe where she had a view of the waves meeting the beach, taking sand out and depositing sand in its place.
After lunch, Flo strolled out on the pier, visiting with fishermen and enjoying the mild weather. I imagine gulls wheeling nearby, even though Flo didn’t mention them. Maybe even a few pelicans were present, diving to pluck a fat fish from the water. I do love pelicans.
Flo is always interested in people, and when I say she visited with the fishermen I mean she likely had full blown conversations. The first one she encountered had a couple of fishing poles with lines dangling in the water. They spoke about his luck so far that day before she moved on to another fisherman a bit farther down the pier.
This man was watching over six poles, three on the south side of the pier and three on the north side. Flo asked him why he’d split his equipment up rather than just having it all on one side. He said the fish migrate—something Flo wasn’t aware of, and that in the spring when fish are moving north, the best fishing is on the southerly side of the pier. In the fall, it’s best on the northerly side.
She told me, “I’m in my sixties and I learned something brand new. I had no idea that fish migrated.”
(I deduced that since the man had poles on both sides, he was hedging his bets.)
Leaving the pier to walk on the beach, Flo encountered a man about her age who was looking for shells.
“I’m looking for sea glass,” she told him. He had no idea what that was. She explained how glass thrown overboard or washed out to sea becomes weathered and sculpted over time by the waves, the sun, and the sand, to transform into treasures for people to discover on the beach.
Flo was delighted with the way her day had gone. She both learned something new and taught someone something new. Isn’t it lovely to know that even in our sixties we can still do both?
Some dreams don’t need monsters, ghosts, aliens, or haunted houses to be labeled nightmares. Sometimes all they need is a little anxiety and a wild imagination.
A couple of nights ago I had a dream in which characters from the book I’m trying to write interacted with some of the characters in the book I’m currently reading. So, my sweet and sassy Texas gals and their friends somehow got mixed up with Peter F. Hamilton’s space-faring characters who are attempting to protect humanity from being possessed by restless souls from a Purgatory-type beyond.
Ludicrous, I know, but I awakened from the dream in a panic. How were Paula Jean Arnett and Cassie Campbell going to keep from succumbing to possession? Would Joshua Calvert fly in on the Lady Mac in time to save them?
Fortunately the dream faded, and when I sat down to write yesterday morning the possessed from Hamilton’s “The Night’s Dawn” series were nowhere to be found. Of course, that’s how they get you….bwahahaha.
Praying for Eyebrowz 