Nevermore, The Covid-19 Effect

Unsung             

04/20/2020

Outside my mother’s assisted living here in Charlevoix are signs that say, “Heroes Work Here” I noticed them set up like the old Burma Shave signs along the busy highway as I turned into the parking lot.

All of the doors are locked now at American House. An Alexa Ring door alert blue-lighted iris circles the clear lens of the camera watching the entry. A warning sign cataloging the restrictions is fixed to the door. Pressing the doorbell, a merry chime sounds.  The wait is indeterminate. “Keeper of the gate” is a duty added to the already busy staff.  The heavy door clunking open always startles me.  A hand sanitizer container stands silent century while my temperature is checked and paper work attesting to the lack of any symptoms is filled out and signed.

Once inside, I am reminded of an empty church or funeral home without mourners or the smell of flowers for the quiet yet pregnant silence.

Today, Leslie is my admitter.  She is the activities director of which there are none.  Most are cancelled. No bingo, or outings, the dining areas is closed while residents are served meals in their rooms and eat alone. Leslie and I exchange pleasantries, we are both “fine.”  Only our eyes are visible above our masks.   Mentioning the hero signs out front, she glumly replies, “I don’t feel like a hero.”  Leslie went her way and I went mine, to room number 4.  It’s shower day for my 95 year old, wheel chair bound mother.  I’m a nurse, who happens to be a family member.  That’s my lucky ticket in to an environment where people have not been allowed visitors in weeks. 

At 10:30 there’s a knock on my mom’s door and it’s Leslie.  “Janet, time for exercise.”

Residents move to chairs outside their doors and safe distances from each other.  Leslie starts into the arm exercises with weights in a drill sergeant voice.  She’s at the end of the long hall with a microphone and speaker.   The short session ends with leg marching and singing Oh, When the Saints Go Marching In.  I come close to crying with the irony of it all.

Heroine implies heroics, brave action in a time of need.   However, unsung reminds me of the question, “If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?”  Unsung, unrewarded, unrecognized.   This pandemic has an army of souls who risk their lives, some because they have chosen but more because they must.  It is the job that feeds their families and pays the bills. It is a profession or career chosen while never imagining the danger.  Hired as an activities director, now Leslie is the resident life guard for her beloved residents.

Yesterday, a Raven dropped down like a black parachute to the ground beside the bird feeder visible from my kitchen window.  This was the first time I had seen a raven so close.  A black beauty, sleek and gleaming in the morning sun strutted, pecked and tilted her head in silent queries before taking off in graceful flight, body tilting through the close stand of pine.  In the reverie of the moment, I thought of Edgar Allen Poe’s poem and the Raven’s reply, “Nevermore.”

Nevermore will the world be the same.  Our unsung heroines such as Leslie are reluctant heroes caught in something new and bewildering but requiring brave action or brave forbearance or brave imagining.    Nevermore will I sneeze or hear a cough and not think of my own mortality.

Tomorrow, I will thank Leslie. And all the unsung heroes that walk and breathe and work among us; the transit workers, health care professionals, clerks at pharmacies, hardware stores and groceries, police and emergency responders.    

How will it end?  When will it end?  How will we all be different or the same?  When Leslie said, I don’t feel like a hero, her eyes were weary as if they could see a long difficult road ahead.

Pink House Dream

    This is the house I remember from the earliest days of my childhood.  Grandpa and Grandma Bell lived here.  The small cottage size house had a clear view of the St. Clair River flowing with water, boats, lake freighters, summertime inner tube float downs and winter ice flows.  Grandpa had a small dock and fishing boat.  M-29 separates the house from the River with a steady stream of traffic.  

    I never questioned the color, watermelon pink,  for a house.  It was simply grandma and grandpa’s house, a house that announced itself boldly, though it was tiny.   As freighters from the Interlake Steamship Company passed going up and down, it was easy to pick out retired Chief Engineer Chester Bell’s house for the greeting salute of a long and two shorts from the steam whistle.  I’ve never seen any other watermelon pink houses.  Grandma had her house painted her favorite color.  

     

                                          

Some Thoughts on Roe vs Wade

 Pro-life, anti-abortion, Pro-choice,  Pro-safe, legal abortion, a woman's right to choose are all 

words that

entangle our society in an emotional and often violent tussle for a permanent solution. 

What does it mean to be pro-life?  If a person also believes the government has the right to send men and women to war, to use war strategies that give a high probability of civilian death, or deal the death penalty to convicted men and women for crimes even though some may be innocent, they are merely anti-abortion.  Those who are pro-life respect all life and the commandment, though shalt not kill.  This includes war, the death penalty, assisted suicide.  What about the agents of death such as social decay,  violence in our families and culture and environment, the availability of lethal weapons of mass casualty and a willingness to make profit the bottom line driving our economy?

A Pro-life commitment does not mean just being anti-abortion.  Think of the environment where the seeds of Roe vs Wade were planted.  Women have always born the consequences of  sexual encounters.  A man can walk away and perhaps be totally unaware that a life has been created.  Uncommitted or committed relationships have no bearing on this biological fact.  Most stable cultures created elaborate social structures and courting rules that encouraged marriage commitment prior to sexual intercourse.     Pregnancies that occurred prior to marriage or worse as a result of casual encounters or forced sex either by situation or physical strength or plain ignorance of bodily function happen every day.  Under the beating heart of a woman, a new life is created in the warmth and protection of the womb another heart begins to beat.  Bringing love and kindness to both will raise up all.  May we move toward a pro-life society that protects the body, mind and soul of she who holds the miracle of  two beating hearts.

Childhood Unsupervised

 “I think that I shall never see...’’ begins one of the first poems learned as a child.  It resonated deeply with my experience.  On this Earth Day I am remembering the poplar trees.  They grew at the edge of a hardwood forest near our beloved crabapple tree.  I was with a friend, free ranging the neighborhood. Standing in front of this slim stand of trees, we each grabbed hold of a tree and started climbing.  The alternating branches, although slender held our little bodies.  Up, up into the narrowest, tip top of the tree we climbed until our weight made the tree begin to sway downward.  Once the elasticity of the tree equaled our weight, we joyfully pulled up.  To my surprise we became pendulums swaying in increasing arcs of joy, wind blowing in our hair.  Blessed be Mother Earth’s children who can play unsupervised.

I’m Not Dead Yet, Janet Survives the Pandemic

     “I can see everything except what I’m looking at” is a pretty good description of the effects of macular degeneration.  I once took a small paper plate and put it in line with the focal point of  my vision to see what was left of my vision without moving my eyes.  Try it.  Many activities become impossible or difficult, driving, reading, pushing buttons on phones and screens, identifying faces to name a few.

    One problem was retrieving phone messages on her cell phone and charging her cell phone.  The cell phone has voice commands but first one has to push the proper button.  This became a major frustration for Janet and her children and twelve grandchildren who keep in touch with her regularly.  

    The solution came in the form of a land line in addition to the cell phone.    That left the problem of receiving messages.  It is important to be able to leave loving messages to listen and re-listen when someone special has called.  

    I bought the simplest answering machine I could find to plug into the land line.  Unfortunately,  it still contained numerous buttons.  Also, it could fall off the desk.  I taped it securely to the desk and covered all of the buttons, except the one to push to receive messages.  We recorded a greeting after numerous tries, a cheerful, “Hello, this is Janet, leave a message.” 

    During the Pandemic, I was granted daily access to my mother, a blessing that few relatives of those living in group settings had.  I was designated a caregiver, doing showers, walks and meds.  The first few months were particularly hard because residents could not congregate with each other for activities.  This made the telephone vital for human contact.

   About a week after setting up the greeting my sister called, alarmed by Mom’s phone greeting.  I called while she was out of her room.  When the greeting came on I heard,  “Hello, this is Janet, I’m stiiiillll aliiiiive,” in a voice alarmingly, sounding just barely alive.  How did she do that?  I still have no idea.  I used my phone so Mom could listen to her greeting.  After a good laugh, we recorded another greeting.   Mom didn’t know how or when she made the new greeting but it was surely worthy of pandemic times.

    Restrictions are relaxing, meals are in the dining room. Residents gather for activities.  Recently, weather permitted a visit from great-grandchildren outside with a violin concert by Greta.

 All residents are vaccinated and life is returning to normal.  It was a difficult year for many  and I attended just a couple of the “pity parties” as mom would call them.  Then, like a passing storm, her sunny disposition would return.  She is a joy to me, her fellow residents and staff.  So, if you’re not dead yet, be kind and enjoy the day. (Advise from a life well lived)

Confessions of a Never Trumper

I do not know when I first became aware of Donald Trump, possibly in the 90’s in glitzy photos, always with some “Trump brand” object large or small, building, plane, tie, wine, steak.  It could have been one of his divorces or affairs or when he took a full page add condemning the Central Park Five or his bankrupt Casino.  Maybe I was flipping through the channels and saw him on his TV show the Apprentice.  In every incident the same feeling came to me…. What an arrogant self-absorbed con-man/sleezeball.

When he started talking about running for President in the 90’s, I chuckled at the absurdity that anyone would fall for this egomaniac.  He changed his party affiliation from Republican to Independent to Democrat and back to Republican.  His “Birther Movement” was political genius that finally found traction over a large swath of angry voters in American.  From there he fed the flames on immigration, job stagnation and rust belt and coal country rot.  He fed the narrative of Christian Conservatives that they were the real victims of Liberalism.  Spreading fear of having guns confiscated, immigrant invasion, multiculterism and US global involvement.  He embraced Right to Life, I believe, because he saw the importance to Evangelicals and Catholics not because of any moral imperative.  

I began to wonder what my father, a Union man and factory worker would think or say about Donald Trump.  In my mind, he wouldn’t have liked him.  He had a well-developed bull-shit-o meter.  He was also a dyed in the wool Democrat.  He stood on the principles of honesty and his word was his contract, not to be broken.  He held us to the same high standards and was stingy with praise.  Dad would never tell somebody what he or she wanted to hear just to get what he wanted.  He was generous with his money even though we didn’t have a lot.  I never wondered if he loved us even though he rarely said it.  He was everything Trump is not.

When he famously came down the escalator and announced his bid to a mostly paid crowd, I was amused.  There was such a strong field of Republican candidates, I thought, this shouldn’t last long.  But it did, excruciatingly.  I had my favorites in the crowd.  I wanted to feel good, no matter who was elected.  I was not a fan of Hillary.  She had her faults.  Bernie’s Socialist agenda was popular with a minority.  One by one, the Republican candidates lost ground to Trump and his puffery, The Republican Convention rolled around and crowned him king.  His face glowed like the Harvest Moon with a wisp of cloud passing over the top.   I was suspicious when the Republican Platform on Ukraine and the Russian was changed at Trump’s request, less support for Ukraine and less criticism of Russia for invading Crimea was hard to understand, especially from Republicans.  It was odd and dark.  Then there was Trump asking Russia to go after Hillary and the Democrats and crowing about WikiLeaks.  

Still, no one believed he could win, including Trump himself.  

 

Visit: Current Events on Big River

St. Clair to Courtright, Ontario Ferry  1950's

  

  My mother and my aunt cooked up this great adventure for my cousins and me.  Our grandfather, a Chief Engineer, was on one of his last trips on the Great Lakes with the Interlake Steamship Company.  On a warm sunny day, Grandpa's boat would be heading up river and passing our home town, St. Clair, MI.  The plan was for my cousins and siblings to accompany my grandmother who would board the freighter from Marilyn M out in the channel of the St. Clair River just as the freighter passed St. Clair.  It was the custom that the Captain and the First Engineer could have visitors on several trips.  You'd think they'd board while the ship was docked, but no, it happened in the middle of the River and we would bear witness. 

The Marilyn M was a working ferry but her captain had accommodated the Great Lakes captains and Chief Engineers through many summers of this tricky maneuver.  The anticipation of waiting in the park was almost unbearable but soon we saw Grandpa’s freighter rounding the bend,  black smokestack with orange stripe puffing smoke from the engine room.   Shouting and cheering, we scampered to the ferry dock to climb aboard the Marilyn M.

 With the auto  tow barge detached, we motored into the current. The river smells, blue water and roaring engine adding to the anticipation as our hair caught the breeze and spray.   The SS Frank Purnell was headed up river as we went down with the current to meet our grandfather.  The Ferry boat made a wide 180 turn bouncing off the wake of the Great Lakes Steamship vessel.  Gunning the engines, the Marilyn M came along the huge sidewall of the freighter like a newborn calf swimming beside a behemoth mother whale.  All we could see was rusty colored metal.  For a moment it seemed as if we stood still as the Marilyn M matched the speed of Grandpa’s freighter. I noticed the water below rushing through the several foot gap between the Marilyn M and the Freighter in a wild torrent erasing the illusion of stillness. A ladder appeared hanging down the side of the ship.  First spit-shined shoes appeared, then pant legs and then Grandpa in full dress uniform for the occasion.  To me, he was a Dwight Eisenhower look alike.  His cheer spread around as he hugged and kissed my cousins, siblings and me.  We were all beaming basking in the thrill of this unusual moment in time.  The Marilyn M had to return to service.  No time to dally.    Kisses goodbye and then as if in a nonsensical dream, I watched as first my grandfather and then my grandmother in a dress disappeared up the side of a moving freighter on a ladder.  The Marilyn M pealed away and quiet revelry filled the passenger space behind the captain. Bouncing our way through the freighter’s wake, we returned to the dock. The whole experience probably took only 15 minutes but is branded indelibly in my memory.  When I asked my sister and cousin about their memories of the event, my sister,  said she was mortified to see Grandma’s underwear as she ascended the ladder.  Cousin Joe says he was terrified Grandma would fall.  

  Years later, in my twenties when dear Grandpa Bell died, I imagined a ladder coming down from the clouds and a voice saying, “Come on board, Chester, a life well lived!”