Today on Zoom: one child curls up and sleeps comfortably in cozy purple sheets, one child sucks on a lemon and proceeds to tell me after directing the lemon toward the camera, “This is a lemon!’ Another child with a heavily bandaged hand, eats a large piece of pizza and informs me through yet another child translating, that she fell off a chair and ripped off a fingernail. The bandage and pizza appear to be falling all over each other. The final child in this class never does turn on her camera so it’s possible she may not be there. So we’re right on track for a Wednesday…

Overheard on Zoom…’He’s been in darkness all morning’. I wonder to myself…darkness. Spiritually? Metaphysically? Psychologically? Zoom camera malfunction? Things to ponder…

To toggle. Having toggled. I have toggled. I will toggle. I will have toggled. I would have toggled, had I known how to toggle. I had had to toggle before I knew how to toggle…and yet, yet…couldn’t I just say that I switched screens? Things to consider…

Quote of the afternoon: ‘After today we don’t have school and then after today we don’t have school and then after today we STILL don’t have school?’ I’m thinking we need to work on a few more phrases such as: ‘the day after’ or ‘the next few days’…

I dreamt badly last night. I have no idea why; only that a pattern of difficult dreaming tends to occur in the wintertime for me. This accelerated after the onset of Covid. I was unsettled when I awakened and in the early morning, I read back through my notes finding the following which was written two years ago after our initial lopsided adjustment to the world slipping slightly off of its axis.

‘I dream a lot these days. It’s an attempt to keep sorting out where we are, I suppose. A most tiring aspect of Covid…might be the slippery beginning to all of it. All grey and grasping and ‘what is happening?’ and no time. There was no time. Like a house on fire, we ran to get out, to re-group. We looked around and got to guessing, and we keep doing it. This is a long time for a house to be on fire. I line things up. I build. I set my jaw, my mind. I plan. Then it gets slippery all over again. The restaurants are open, now closed again. I drive by a local favorite and see that they are once again ‘take out only’. My Mother wants to go in the restaurant to sit and chat and eat. There was no time. I, we, all of us stepped off into air on a Friday afternoon. I wish I had known it was the last day. I exited a building where I worked for almost twenty-three years; the sound over the public announcement…’be sure to take home your laptops’…ringing in my ears. I remember what jacket I wore. I remember having a deep foreboding, a sense that ‘the jig was up!’ I wish I had looked around more carefully. I exited that building and bid immediate farewell to a way of life.

Now, I’m in another place, but only through the lens of the computer. I’m not really there. It’s slippery like that. I’ve worn orange masks and blue medical masks and now I’m wearing black cloth masks. Probably three or four times a week, Eli looks out the window at the neighborhood cul-del-sac and announces, ‘there isn’t a soul out there’.

Yesterday, I stepped out on the porch and walked to the edge and looked at the street. I noticed a neighbor wrestling his garbage bins into the garage. I yelled loudly, startling myself with the volume of sound after so much timid silence. ‘Hey, Frank! Hey!’ He turned away from the bins and looked over toward our house. ‘Oh, there you are!’ he bellowed. ‘I wondered where the voice was coming from!’ He waved briefly and turned back toward the garage entrance. I re-entered the house. ‘Why are you yelling?’ Eli asked. ‘I’m talking to Frank. It’s too silent’. He in turn returned to his phone where someone, a lonely soul on the other end of the line, desperate to change the trajectory of his life, spoke rapidly in Spanish; a lifeline through the cell wires into Eli’s ear.

It’s just all too slippery. There was no beginning, no platform from which we jumped. We just jumped wildly into air…and everything changed.

I exited a local candy store tonight and noted the line of people waiting to be allowed to enter. Five customers at a time, as the store is a tiny one. ‘Could I please just step into the foyer and wait inside because it’s so cold?’ asks an older woman who waits. ‘I’m so sorry, it’s social distancing…’ says the owner with a mournful face. The conversation fades as I head across the street to my car. It’s really slippery when an elderly customer can’t go inside…’

January days are the color white; the depletion of the past two colorful months. January is the slumber allotment…the month of putting away, pondering and reflecting. It is the time of white lights and leftover chocolate…the electric blanket and a stack of unread books…the month where I don’t let things get to me…

‘Why are you wandering around the hall?’ I hear this question minimally fifteen times a day. Why is anyone wandering around the hall? Avoidance. Pure and simple. I will fall off my chair the day I hear a student answer honestly with the simple answer, ‘Avoidance’. I’m waiting…

Here’s my recipe for a Jackson Pollock kitchen. First, spill a full pan of chicken broth everywhere. Then, forget about a large pan full of bright red tupperware placed temporarily in the oven. Next, turn on the oven to pre-heat for the baking of a chocolate cheesecake. Wait awhile…then open the door and discover a gorgeous swirl of red and white plastic spread beautifully over a bent silver cake pan…and the bottom of the oven. So of course, I lick the orange cheesecake batter out of the pink mixing bowl. It’s the month where I don’t let things get to me…

I love purple. In the winter months, I often wear an old purple mohair shawl which was woven in Scotland. I inherited it from my seventh grade Sunday School teacher upon her death and I think of her every time I wear it.

She remains in my memory as an indomitable character; a woman by the name of Anne who was given to side quips, declarations about beauty and station, endless questions and admonitions about art, gracious living and most continuously, commentary on flowers. Her beloved wild flowers rested every Sunday morning in plain glass vases on her teaching desk in one of the cold, darkened basement rooms of our church. The floors were deadly slippery, made of darkened squares of tile; one corner of melting snow from someone’s boot in winter or rainwater from an umbrella in spring was all it required to send some poor soul to the floor.

In the coldest months, she adorned her table with arrangements more suited to the snow and winds which raced around the corners of the building; holly berry and evergreen, dried eucalyptus and pine cones. She adored wild flowers and her home and yard were my first introduction to the concept of ‘the English garden’. This form of gardening was slightly shocking for those of us used to the structure of manicured and mowed lawns, trimmed hedges, the flower bed. What appeared to my novice eye as utter chaos, unkempt straggling wild flowers, bright yellow ragweed, reedy strands of growth with eye popping tiny bursts of color running up and down the stems, the chocolate brown and slightly terrifying bull rushes standing side by side with Chinese lanterns ; later proved to be the concept of ‘wildness within structure’. There always needed to be structure, form and order. Within that was where the most glorious wildness could thrive, bloom, spread.

She was a true character; unafraid to command her world, in some of the oddest ways at times. She always referred to her husband as ‘Jo’; the Scottish term for sweetheart. As a child, I thought his name was Jo, but it wasn’t. His name was Charles.

One Sunday morning, she inquired of our class whether or not we were content to remain ‘namby pamby milk toasts’. I confess that at this time in my life, I probably answered in my head, ‘Yes, I am most content to remain in this state. I shall remain a namby pamby milk toast.’

The wild, in order to prosper requires the form and structure. The obstreperous seventh graders in that class, myself included required the strength of odd character, the imposing yet gracious figure in a purple shawl. I remain thankful for the ‘characters’ who shaped and pummeled me into much of what I am today…

During these long, cold winter months, when the crisp fall leaf underfoot and the pull of the August ocean pass, when the un-iced walkways around the neighborhood and the dappled sunlight pouring through an early morning window, fade to grey and wind and thought, I am thankful for the sense of smell.

I walk into a room and I stop suddenly because the scent is identical to my grandparent’s home in Aberdeen, South Dakota. I hold my breath because I can scarcely believe how real it is. Cigars, ash, old wood, cookies and orange chocolate doughnuts and cold soda pop bottles on blistering days, along with a collection of a thousand memories dating from the year of our Lord 1914, stretch forward…resurfacing one hundred and nine years later somewhere in New York.

I am suddenly twelve years old, but I’m not…but I am…the sheer magic of re-vibrating collective cells, wind and the hand of God…

‘I want my mug for tea. Where’s my tea mug?’ I stare at him. ‘What tea mug? You drink tea?’ ‘Yes, yes…where’s my mug? The white one with the blue on the inside?’ I continue looking at him. I know my mugs. I know them well. There is no white mug with blue on the inside. There’s a blue mug with white on the inside, but not the other way around. I know my mugs. ‘Um, I don’t know’. He’s frustrated. ‘The big one. All white on the outside and all blue on the inside!’ He’s waving his hands. I think that the wild waving of hands will not make any difference. I do not say this. He bends over and begins rummaging around on my desk. He moves over a stack of books. ‘Oh, here it is!’ He shows me proudly. ‘This one!’ I examine the mug. It has a floral pattern covering the entire outside. It is…a pale purple on the inside. It’s sat on my desk behind those books for a number of days.

I say, ‘Oh, there it is. I’m glad you found it.’ He heads off eagerly to make tea. I breathe deeply, sit back in my chair and look at the disrupted desk top. I think to myself, ‘This is why women generally take care of ordering and maintaining the fine bone china. This is why women take care of and maintain the tea and coffee mugs. This is why women generally arrange and polish the dinnerware’. I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. I’m still very much surprised he drinks tea.

‘You took my mug? You took my mug!’ This time I am looking for my large mug…the hand crafted one from North Carolina, large enough for a whopping two full cups of hot spiced tea, a helpmate through endless Zoom meetings. ‘I need that mug’. Again with the mugs. He looks up from his stack of mail he’s reading through at the dining room table, responding with a quick shoulder shrug. ‘I needed it this morning and I’ve already put tea bags and cinnamon in it’. The very mug I’m seeking rests heavily on a coaster by his left arm. This is his explanation; there’s already tea bags and cinnamon in it.

I stride over to the cupboard and pull out another mug; the one he declared last week to be blue on the inside. I look down into the mug. Nope. Still purple down in there. ‘I’ll take this one’. I pour in water from the faucet, place the mug carefully in the microwave and wait for the tea to heat up. ‘I’m the king!’ he joshes. He’s trying to make it up to me. I look at him. ‘I’m the queen!’ I retort. He grins. ‘Yes, but I can send the queen off to be decapitated!’ He laughs a hearty laugh. I look carefully at him again. I hear the familiar ding and I remove my mug of steaming tea. I tread quietly out of the room. As I turn the corner I announce, ‘Yes, but I can have the king poisoned’. I head back up the stairs. ‘Yes, there is that’ I hear him say from the kitchen.

‘Teacher! Teacher!’ I hear a small voice screaming through the wind and across the parking lot as I exit my car. I turn around. I see him, this chunky wonderful little boy on his bike. He wobbles and propels himself forward on his machine. The bike is a bright green hornet shine. He is using training wheels; a third grader with training wheels but he is new to all of this. He’s landed here in the stranger world of Campbell Street and chaos; from far, far away. So far away.

His father, small and bent over his phone and up against the wind, this man who only recently lived in mountains and wind and sky and a thousand years, looks up and greets me carefully. ‘Good morning!’ I hold my breath as the little one teeters on the edge of the sidewalk, getting too close to the edge where cars slide by. They see him but it’s still unnerving to watch. He speeds up and careens into the parking lot. Now he’s on my right and I get a better look at him. He’s wrapped up well against the cold. He’s wearing trendy sneakers, a down jacket and riding a cool bike. They are blending quickly for survival. ‘Hello again!’ I say. ‘Is that a new bike?’ He looks at me. ‘Yes!’ ‘Well, I really like it!’ ‘Thank you’ he says. So we’re making some progress.

I look back, as I step up onto the sidewalk in the front of the entry door and I wave to his Dad but he is still hunched over his phone; this man from the mountains and a thousand years. The boy turns left with the bike and drives in the direction of the fence which opens onto the playground; so close to where there was a deadly shooting over the weekend. ‘See you later, alligator!’ I yell against the early morning dank and cement and wind and the empty playground with the swings. He’s silent. His Dad is silent. ‘Why would the teacher be talking about an alligator?’

Piles of woolen coats and silk scarves lie lazily over the chair and ottoman. It is a gentle afternoon spread out with cups of tea and a huge kettle of Cuban rice simmering on the stove along with a freshly baked apple cake resting on the counter. It might soon snow buckets, for all we know about the home town. A large flock of black crows fly in a cold cloud rapidly passing the window; heading off to find shelter from the rain. They too wonder about Rochester’s weather as they flap vigorously against the wind.

A murder of crows. A company of parrots. A convocation of eagles. I wait for the parliament of owls to rule on what our winter weather shall be.

The annual ‘all socks on notice’ speech fell from my lips last evening. Attention! All dress socks have until ‘Three Kings’ Day’, which is this Friday to locate his or her mate. No location is off limits…make it happen. All white sport socks have until tomorrow to find his or her mate. Your boss and owner has lost her patience. No collective bargaining. No appeals. No discussion.

Sincerely,

Head of Laundry

Shocking amounts of rain, when there should be astonishing amounts of snow. At the edge of rain, voluminous rain…on this long road back to Bethlehem, I am astounded by flooding waves of grace. Grace. Reigns. Everywhere.

As penned in my journal the first few days after the death of my beloved Father, it rained and it rained. And there was grace. I wrapped up tightly in a large, candy apple red fleece blanket and sat looking out at the rain which was supposed to be snow. And there was grace, indeed.

And now, six years later, there is grace again as rain pours down when there should be snow. We are experiencing what we laughingly refer to as ‘fool’s spring’. The whims and vagaries of the Great Lakes keep us guessing. Just a few days before Christmas, Lake Erie joined forces with various potencies, spitting out wicked white snowy venom, burying the Queen City in record breaking piles; wicked delicate white snowflakes. With the spatter, came disruption, wrecked holiday travel plans, trapped cars; death. An hour down the road, Lake Ontario sat empty and bored. Rochester temperatures dropped. With increasing winds, we entered bitter hours and frostbite; but Ontario remained generally unmoved; yawning at the fuss and motion.

The day after my Father’s death, a long standing appointment resolved. The artisan hired to refurbish the piano, their beloved Steinway…arrived at the house and carried it away. Lacking and off-kilter; that is how the whole thing felt…as if the air around us kept jumping…electric and unsettled. January folded into the rest of winter and we reached a kind of holding space. We waited and phone calls were made. Spring threatened and then the rains came with humidity and the new sounding board fought the damp and the glue and we waited. Summer languished just a touch and suddenly there was August heat and the first signs of harvest and in the end, for eleven months we watched the empty space in the music room. A space that rich cannot remain empty and it slowly filled up with grandchildren toys and a chair or two…and of course, stacks of music. The furnace eventually started blowing hot air and the turkey was slain and then…eleven months to the day, the piano made the long journey home and settled back into that space.

Everyone breathes a sigh of gratitude. They say that old sins have long shadows and I believe it. But rivers of joy run deeply so we light candles instead of cursing those shadows and we surge ahead…

…and it was the long day to disappear. Leaving the latch fastened, the blinds drawn, and all that was undone, simply undone. Padding around in toasty slippers on this second day of the New Year…a tired mingling of the old and new. Piles of ribbons, discarded chocolate bling-a-lings and bits and pieces…and we find ourselves back at the beginning of the strand.

…air, thick with gingerbread memories and peppermint soaps, winter fig candles and eggnog coffee…the hibernation season beckons, come and stay indoors just a bit longer, relishing frozen silence..as chords drift languidly out over frozen New York ground.

…afternoon stirs and stretches…heating up with lemon tea, shrimp and garlic, and the tangy promise of a Merlot. The plow comes and goes…others will work today as we linger in notebooks, novels and lists…for we are in no hurry to take apart the carefully woven joys of December…for an untried and snow covered path.

…revel in this strange in-between time…the twenty-four hours of neither here nor there…for the old ways and days are gone…and the cracked door is not yet fully opened…not yet flung wide with frosted portals. This is a snowflake day…no hurry, no flurry, just carved silence…for the mail is not delivered and the cupboards are full. We eat from the larder and avoid the television. No news…is good news.

…the longest of cords, a woven rope of memories of Christmas past, stacked boxes and crispy pies…the apple porch stuffed with all things good…gifts delivered long ago…

…creeping in under the door, the season of white…robes and towels, snow drifts and pearls, soaps and doves…ice and white leather. January drains the red and green with bitter winds…the twining and twisting continues from the womb, winding around countless trees and snow mounds and in and out of seasons, and cake plates and cookie tins and porch doors…

…I follow the pearls out the iced portal…only…tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow…not today. For today is the snowflake day and we are surrounded in memories , candles and the stillness of ginger. Cold and ready for what lies ahead…basking in the final strains of Celtic music and Spanish guitar wafting out over crystal barren plains and the breath on the window pane…on a frozen New York day.