It’s been a busy morning reading the news, riding my bike through London on Zwift, eating breakfast with Chip,
listening to the radio news, texting the kids, reading the news, walking the dogs,
checking the updates on the virus, calling my friend Betty over at Haines Assisted Living, brewing some tea, calling my dad, answering emails while trying not to check the news, gasping, and then quietly emailing back a friend whose brother-in-law has died of the virus, and just now, thank goodness, FaceTiming with JJ and Emilia,
We filled each other in on what’s been going on since we chatted last night. I told her that her father is still working everyday at the lumberyard, and that’s a concern, but he promises they are being careful, keeping six feet apart, and not letting anyone in the store, rather loading up customers in the parking lot only, and that yesterday I ventured out for the first time since returning from Juneau 15 days ago ( there is a mandatory 14 day quarantine in Haines for anyone who returns to town from a place where the virus has been and Juneau now has ten cases.) I know it is okay to drive, but it felt weird. I did not get out of the car, but just cruised through town to see what Sheltering in Place looks like. There is one of those big highway signs on a trailer in front of the Fire Hall and Municpal Building that is flashing “Stay Home” “Save Lives.” My reaction startled me. I tried not to cry. Usually, when we have a crisis, we gather together. Is this real or a scary movie?
But that is not a helpful thought is it? I do not want baby Emilia to hear my concern through the screen.
And Haines is doing well. We are staying home and so far, virus free. Keeping away from each other is the right thing to do. Absolutely. At Tuesday night’s virtual town hall meeting, the Emergency Operations Commitee reported on local actions and preparations regarding Covid 19. We have a terrific doctor who is the volunteer medical officer, and he is married to a flight nurse that is also on the committee. They outlined medevac procedures, and clinic readiness ( we have two ventilators), and emphasized staying home, and washing hands. The manager explained the local distancing efforts and quarantine supervision. The governor closed down schools, bars and restaurants, public gatherings two weeks ago and just extended them. The Canadian border is closed to non-essential travel, ” I hope it’s enough…”
“Mom, it’s National Poetry Month!” JJ said, changing the subject. “I figured you’d be all over that.”
How did I miss that? (Checking the news is how. Sheesh.)
One poem that matches my mood today is Passengers by Billy Collins. It’s about being on a jet and looking around at all the people, strangers, crew, pilots, squeezed tightly together while zooming through the sky about 25,000 feet up, and trying not think of that or “the secret parts of engines, and all the hard water and deep canyons below…” and concluding:
“I just think it would be good if one of us
maybe stood up and said a few words,
or, so as to not involve the police,
at least quietly wrote something down.”
That’s what writers do. We look around, think about what’s happening, what we feel, come up with a few worthy words, and write them down to share later (or sooner), with you. Ever since I read that I say ” a few words” to myself every time a plane I’m on takes off. It helps.
Then, as I was putting the book away, I noticed the inscription:
Billy Collins himself wrote “Heather, Feel Better–” and other actual writer friends chimed in with more kindnesses. They had sent it from the Kachemak Bay writers conference in Homer, the year I was runover by a truck (and Billy Collins was the guest big wig. I have never met him.) I cherish it.
The bike/truck collision happened April 7, 2005. That May my first book, If You Lived Here, I’d Know Your Name was published. My happy plans for that spring, summer– year- changed fast. I survived, with a lot of help, and am better now. And I have nine grandchildren that weren’t even sparkles in their parent’s eyes yet. I’ve lived a lifetime since then. I also learned a few things during that unfair, and hard time, that I think might be worth repeating. Luckily, since I’m kind of distracted at the moment, I wrote about it in my next book, Take Good Care of the Garden and the Dogs. (2010). I’ve been inspired by Mary Chapin Carpenter’s informal kitchen concerts, and so I am going to spend the rest of my day (in between walking the dogs, calling/texting friends and family, raking the snow out of my yard, and trying not to check the news again), figuring out how to invite you over here so I can read it to you, a little bit every day from my kitchen, living room or deck (if it ever warms up and stops blowing.) It will help me, and maybe you, to get through this April at home. How does that sound?
