100 Day Project - Day 9: Covid-Fear, Barbed Wire, and the Kindness of Strangers

In mid-May, 2020, when the Covid-19 hype was at its height in my neck of the woods, I had a little incident in my local Tractor Supply store.    It was a lovely spring day, and I had been out running errands and doing things with my mom for most of the morning.  Around mid afternoon, I went to Tractor Supply, to purchase some rebar stakes I needed to put up fencing around my garden beds.  I headed out into their outside areas the store where the fencing and pallets of other rugged items were stored.  I was loading the rebar stakes into my cart, when my stupid handbag swung down off my shoulder, and annoyed, I shrugged my arm up and out to hoist it back in my shoulder.  When I did, I SMACKED the top of my right hand, HARD into a spool of barbed wire just to my right.  My reward was a lovely puncture wound on the on the top of my hand, that hurt like a #@$@&!!  So there I stood, clutching my hand, and before it started bleeding, I was able to look right into the wound and see how deep it was.  Then it swelled up like an egg, started bleeding, and I thought, uh, I really should wash this off because you know.. CORONAVIRUS.  And then, Ugh, What if it bleeds all over my arm?  What do I do now?  I didn’t even have any tissues in my bag.  

**Interestingly, at no point, did I consider just leaving the store.  I’m not sure why.  All I know is that I was there to buy the stakes, and at no point did it even enter my mind to just WALK OUT.  Odd, I know.**  

So I grabbed my cart and started wheeling it inside so I could pay and leave as quickly as possible.  By then the blood was congealing into a big blob on the top of my hand.  I shook my hand and it spattered off onto the cement.  I pulled my sleeve down over my hand, figuring that the inside of my sleeve was probably pretty clean, and thinking it would also keep me from getting blood on anything else.  I pictured blood running down my arm, so I held my hand up, and wheeled the cart with the other hand.  Of course, when I got inside, there was a ridiculously long line, which I joined, and then realized that I was starting to feel a little...  off.  Have you ever passed out before?  It starts with a little bit of a woozy feeling... a kind of hot/cold/sweaty/weak feeling.  I was thinking of not passing out, but still dwelling on the GERM factor.  Could I get Covid from a cut on my hand?  Are these people going to FREAK OUT if they see my hand is bleeding?  I needed air. Would they freak out if I took my mask off?  I unhooked my mask from one ear and let it hang while I fanned my face.  I clutched onto each unit of shelving as the line moved forward, periodically balancing my arm on the shoulder height shelves but being careful NOT to look at my cut because I didn’t want it to freak me out.  What if it was really bleeding a lot?  I started to worry, what happens when I put this damn mask back on my face?  I got up to the counter, hooked my mask back on my other ear, and immediately started to feel shitty.  I thought, ok, I’ll just tough it out, but then the cashier started debating the price, calling over to another cashier across the way, and I thought to myself, ‘uh oh, I’m going down.’ 

The next thing I knew, I was feeling the cold cement of the floor on my cheek, and then there were a bunch of people around me asking me if I was alright. Was I diabetic, did I have high blood pressure, etc, etc.?  No to all of the above, but yes, it was possible that I didn’t drink enough water that morning.  I was so afraid that people would be afraid of me if I took my mask off, so I kept apologizing for that, but instead of being angry with me, they were so sympathetic. The ladies who worked there got me water, and asked me of I needed any food.  Was I allergic to anything?  No?  They gave me a candy, but it was a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup, and they kept asking me questions and it seemed that my tongue and throat were still somewhat asleep, so I couldn’t talk and eat at the same time.  They told me they were calling an ambulance, and I said, “Oh no, I really think it was because I worked myself up, and also because of the mask...” meaning, once I was worked up, the mask just made it worse.  

When the EMT showed up, all I remember were her big, black boots.  I was still sitting on the floor, and she came over and stood in front of me and asked me if I WANTED to go to the hospital, and I said no, I didn’t think it was necessary.  She clearly didn’t want to take me to the hospital, either.  She didn’t examine me, or ask me nearly as many questions as the cashiers did.  She said, “You might want to get a tetanus shot,” and I agreed that that was a good idea, and that I would get one, and then she left.  The cashiers asked me if I wanted them to call someone for me, and I said yes, please call my husband. I definitely didn’t think I should drive home.  They stayed with me, they checked on me, they told me to stop apologizing, it was ok, they were happy to help - it was no problem.  I was overwhelmed by their kindness.  So while the puncture wound was less than pleasant, their kindness toward me made a lasting impression.  Thank you again, Tractor Supply ladies.  You were awesome!       

100 Day Project - Day 8 WHAT are we Doing?

What are we doing??  That was my first thought when I saw this, in a Chinese restaurant near my workplace this past fall.  I'm showing my age, but this reminded me of a TV movie featuring John Travolta that I watched as a kid.  It was called The Boy in the Plastic Bubble.  John Travolta was a boy who had no immune system, so he spent his life in a plastic enclosure so that he wouldn't get sick.  I was overwhelmed by this monstrosity when I walked in the door of this place.  Is this really NECESSARY?  I mean, the plastic shield, the baby monitor for speaking, the little holes (with flaps) for money and the food, AND the hand sanitizer?  I took this picture so that when I got back to work, I could show my friend.  She was unfazed. "Oh yeah," she said, "They're all like that."   WHHHaaaattt?

Of course we should make some efforts to stop the spread of Covid, but when I see things like this, I can't help wonder, have we gone too far?  Must we completely alienate ourselves from each other in the process?  I don't know how you feel, but it feels to me like we're crushing our humanity in the process. 

100 Day Project - Day 7 There’s Nothing Like a Dog

I don’t understand people who don’t like dogs. Cats are amusing, entertaining, can be great companions and I do like them, but for me, there’s nothing like a dog.  A dog’s focus is you and your world.  They just want to be near you all the time.  If you’re a person who likes your space, this can be irritating.  My husband, for example, frequently gets annoyed by the fact that our two dogs often walk so closely behind him that if he stops short, they bump into his legs.  Most of the time, I just find this amusing.  

When you’re not feeling well, a dog is there for you, looking into your eyes adoringly, because you are the center of their universe.  “I’m here for ya, mom,” their eyes seem to say.  They will lie on the couch with you throughout your days of sloth or illness, play with you when you’re feeling peppy, and bring you a toy when they think you need a little fun in your life.  My only complaint about dogs, is they don’t live nearly long enough.  Like peonies, they provide us with so much joy, but their season is relatively short.  Luckily, I hope to have a lot more years ahead with this one, and my other girl as well.  When their times come, I'm sure I'll cry like a baby, but rest assured that I learned something about love through their presence in my life.  And even though their time on earth is so much shorter than I'd like, does that make them any less worth having?  

No. Way.     

 

100 Day Project - Day 6 (a little late) Something to Think About

I took this screenshot from a downloaded book called The Four Agreements: A Practical Guide to Personal Freedom by Don Miguel Ruiz with Janet Mills.  It reminded me of people I know who are involved in consistently challenging relationships.  "why am I being treated this way?" is their central question, and yet, they just keep taking it.  I had always been puzzled by the WHY of this, and then I read the circled passage.  I recognize plenty of times in my past when I have been my own worst enemy - harder on myself than other people were on me, so maybe when I was treated badly, it felt sort of... inevitable.  I've improved in that arena, though.  I've become kinder to myself, and maybe that's why I'm less tolerant of people who don't treat me very well.  I determined I would be my own advocate instead of my own critic.  Life is too short, and there are may opportunities for positive relationships out there. 

 

100 Day Project - Day 5 "Grandma's Bread"

As kids, whenever we went to my Italian grandparents’ house, they sent us home with a care package full of goodies...  lentil soup, fish that my great uncle had caught and my grandmother had filleted and frozen, and since we were a household with 5 women, coupons for Stayfree maxipads.  We girls didn’t care about any of that.  What we were most excited about, was the loaf of Grandma’s Bread.  

Grandma’s bread was a sweat, yellow loaf sprinkled lightly with raisins and candied citron, and the folding and turning of the kneeding process created a sort of whirled texture that you were able to peel off to eat.  It was buttery, yet light and airy, and when we arrived home from Grandma’s, we’d toast a few slices for a late evening snack.  I’d butter my slices liberally, then peel off the layers, eating them with a cup of tea, or a mug of hot cocoa.  

After my grandparents passed away, I searched for this recipe but I had no idea what I was looking for - I guess I expected to see a recipe in her cookbook entitled “Grandma’s Bread” but of course I didn’t.  Just this past Christmas, while perusing photocopies my mom had made of my grandmother’s recipes, I came to a realization...  The recipe I had been searching for was right there all along - the mysterious bread was an Italian panettone. It had the two types of raisins, the candied citron, and lots of egg yolks for the yellow color.  I’m no longer intimidated by bread recipes, so I’m giving it a try, and success or failure, I will toast and eat a slice in her honor when it’s done.  

100 Day Project - Day 4 An Armada of Parakeets

My son Connor has been harping on the idea of getting a pet of his own for quite some time now. He really wanted a dog... “I’m gonna get a golden retriever and name him Baxter.  I’m gonna take him everywhere with me.  He’s gonna ride around in my truck with me...  it’s gonna be great...”. Uh, not so fast, son. Baxter won’t be able to come with you when you go to work, and if he stays home with our two dogs, he’s gonna follow DAD around the house, not you.  So the Baxter idea got put on hold.  

When the kids were in elementary school, we adopted a guinea pig from a friend.  My two kids loved the little guy, and they named him Fluffy because he was really like a large ball of fur.  That is, balls of fur that also sported two additional, enormous balls of fur underneath.  Yeah, I said it.  Apparently my son was extra impressed with the size of the guinea pig’s gonads. He tells us now that whenever he described his pet guinea pig to his friends, he made sure to mention that Fluffy had some impressive anatomy.  But I digress....  Instead of getting another guinea pig, Connor thought he should change it up and get a chinchilla.  When we asked him, “Why a chinchilla?”  His answer was, “Why NOT?”  Why not?  Hmmm, they’re nocturnal, they require specialized diets, they’re quite likely to bite and they REQUIRE dust baths...  Ok, scratch that idea.

What he really wanted was a sun conure.  Google "sun conure" and see all the fun videos of these beautiful parrots playing, head bobbing and just looking cute sitting on the shoulders of their owners.  They really are beautiful birds - orange, yellow, red, with maybe some splotches of green.  But you can't take getting a pet like this lightly - sun conures live 15-30 years in captivity.  So if you get a sun conure, we told Connor, you probably won’t have to say goodbye to your friend for a long time, however, are you still going to be able to devote a lot of time to him when you have a girlfriend?  When you get married and have kids?  Hmmmm....  something to think about.  Did you know that a sun conure screech is approximately 90-120 decibels? And they DO SCREECH - apparently it’s “in their nature.”  “Nah, I’m gonna train mine not to screech.”  Haha, right.  “But, they SLEEP 12 hours a day!”  “Right, son, but they most like to screetch at dusk and dawn.  Dawn, you know, the time when the sun comes up?  Don’t forget in the summer time, that would be somewhere around 5 AM.  Your sister will kill you.”  We spent weeks debating this pet choice.  He loved the idea of a pet that would be around for a while.  He was picturing this head-bobbing, playful symbol of pirate-hood sitting on his shoulder for the next 30 years.  I suspect he considered buying an eye-patch and maybe a tricorn hat.  He imagined his friends yelling at him to “get that loud mouthed parrot outta here!”  We suggested a parakeet instead.  They’re smaller, they don’t live long enough for you to have to make accommodations for them in your will, and they’re not nearly as loud....But then sense intervened - sort of.  Connor sent me the text shown above:  “I’ve determined I’ll settle for parakeets only if I can have a small armada of them.”  Who refers to multiple parakeets as an armada?  My son, that’s who.  The only time I’ve ever heard the word “armada” in use, the word “Spanish” preceded it, and it was referring to ships, not birds.  I guess he wanted to make a parakeet statement.  Perhaps a parakeet kick line?  

In case you’re wondering about the outcome of this story, Connor got ONE parakeet a few days ago.  Connor named him Reggie, and he’s a cute little guy.  Still a bit unsure of his new surroundings, but sure to settle in.  And what about the armada?  Well, after Reggie pooped in Connor’s shoe, then tried to fly and momentarily got stuck behind the dresser, I’m thinking Connor will be ok with just one parakeet for a while.  Little Reggie can be an armada all on his own. 

100 Day Project - Day 3 Shoveling Meditation

Right now, a large portion of the country is complaining about shoveling snow.  Most likely, the amount of complaining you do will not in any way lessen the amount of shoveling you have to do, so I would like to suggest that you reframe shoveling and instead look at it as a meditative practice.  

The best kind of snow for shoveling is the light and fluffy kind.  If your snow is not the light and fluffy kind, let’s just pretend that it is, and take smaller scoops.

Now, let’s say that it’s evening, and the snow is gently falling.  The air smells crisp and clean, and flakes swirl gently around you as they float to the ground.  The sounds of the world are muffled; it is only you, and nature, and your shovel.  Stretched out before you, you view the soft, white expanse of your driveway (or sidewalk or whatever you’re shoveling).  Imagine it is a blank canvas, and with your shovel, you are about to color it the color of blacktop, paving stones, concrete or grass.  You set your shovel edge to the ground and scoop the powdery fluff, bending at the knees when you lift your burden... putting your whole body into it.  In one smooth motion, the shovel swings back, you turn to the side, and then the shovel swings forward, launching the snow to the pile on on your side.  

You repeat this shovel-dance, again and again, advancing across the space, painting the formerly white area with pavement, grass, or dirt.  Your muscles stretch, then warm.  Your mind clears. The cold flakes flutter across your lashes.  Puffs of your breath hover around your face at regular intervals.  Your whole body works in unison toward a common goal.  How can you not call this meditative? Especially since, when you’ve completed your task and you admire your handwork, you feel a certain... peaceful satisfaction at a job well done.  You return your shovel to its place, stomp off your boots and step back inside.  

Enjoy the snow.        

100 Day Project - Day 2 The Fuzzier, The Better

My daughter Alaina has loved fuzzy blankets ever since she was born.  I remember her in her car seat on the way home from the hospital, turning her head to the side and rubbing her cute, little, baby face on the fuzzy softness inside her fluffy hat.  It was obvious, even with her baby sensibilities, that she preferred some blankets over others.  

When Alaina got a little older, the blankets pictured above came out.  She LOVED them!  Every time we’d go to the store, she’d beg me to buy her another one.  She was on a perpetual quest for the BEST fuzzy blanket...  the softest, the prettiest, the most unusual color.  Before long, she had amassed quite a collection, but she loved every one of them, so it was quite a symbol of her love when, on the day our family cat died, Alaina chose to bury Foxy in her favorite fuzzy blanket. 

“Are you sure you want Foxy to be buried in this blanket?”  I had asked her, “Yes,” was all she said.  We sent Foxy into eternity wrapped in love and the very best of the fuzzy blankets.  Alaina had no regrets.

Years later, Alaina still stops to admire fuzzy blankets on every shopping trip.  Now there are not only fuzzy blankets, but fuzzy pajamas, fuzzy jackets, and assorted other fuzzy items to admire and collect.  This picture makes me smile because it reminds me of when she was a a little girl.  She still adds to her fuzzy collection, but she’s judicious about it.  There’s more to life than fuzzy blankets, but who doesn’t enjoy a throwback to a time when they felt swaddled, protected and wrapped in love? 

100 Day Project - Day 1 The Smell of Plywood

100 Day Project - Day 1

This is a picture of my dad, working on "straightening the walls" in my house.  If you don't know what "straightening the walls" means, well, that's a post for another day.  The focus here is on my dad's shirt.  When I noticed that it said, "I love the smell of plywood in the morning," I burst out laughing and thought, 'OMG, me TOO!'  The smell of freshly cut lumber reminds me of my childhood.  It had been by dad's dream to build his own house, and so he built ours one freshly-cut piece of lumber at a time (no, he didn't cut down and mill the trees also, but if that had been a practical option, he may have considered it).  Seeing something as important as a house taking shape before your eyes in your childhood influences your ideas of what you can do for yourself, and what you can create with your own two hands... anything.  I can build  anything.  

Family lore tells the story that I was barely a year old when my parents purchased the piece of land on which they built their house.  They were looking for land at an affordable price - a large enough piece to give them 'a little privacy,' so the neighbors couldn't 'see into their windows,' was how they liked to put it.  They were first attracted to a piece of land about a mile away - a small stream ran through the front yard of that piece and they thought, how charming! But that piece was out of their price range, so they continued looking and ultimately found the one they purchased - a two acre plot with a stately tree at the top of a hill.  We three ate a picnic lunch under that tree and soon after, construction began.  My dad worked on the house every weekend, and we kids spent summer days in the yard, playing in the sand unearthed by the excavation for the basement.  We kids built our own homes - forts cobbled together with small discarded pieces of lumber, cedar shingles, bent and dropped nails, and other assorted construction detritus.  Through it all wafted the scent of freshly cut lumber - pine 2x4s, cedar shake shingles, and plywood.  Other smells remind me of childhood, too.  Wet cement reminds me of when we mixed and poured the cement for the basement and garage floors; tarpaper reminds me of how we were never allowed to run around the house without shoes AND socks before my dad installed the flooring because the tarpaper on the sub flooring would turn our socks BLACK.  It's the smell of the lumber that I like best, though.  That's the smell that conjures up the start of the project; it symbolizes setting out on the path of your dream... the excitement and wonder are all head of you, and you realize that with your own two hands, you can do it.  

 

I'm Joining the 100 Day Project

I'm looking to establish a daily, dependable writing practice.  A while back I looked online for photo writing prompts.  I was sadly underwhelmed by what I found.  They were nice, but the photos didn't speak to me. Everyone's seen photos that call the phrase, "a picture is worth 1000 words" to mind, but where WERE those photos when I was looking for them?  

Then I discovered The 100 Day Project, and as luck would have it, it starts in just a few days.  I wanted to be a part of something that was "intended to awaken, nurture and sustain your creative spirit through the cultivation of small daily acts for 100 days!"  I wanted in!! But 100 days in a row of writing was kind of daunting.  Sometimes I can write 2 polished pages in a few hours, but normally, idea-to-finished-piece takes me at least a week.  I don't have time for a few hours every day, but could I write a few lines or a few paragraphs a day?  Probably - if only I had a source of at least 100 ideas, ready and waiting and tailored for me. And then I remembered my photo roll...

I have approximately 1300 photos on my phone's camera roll.  The oldest photo is from 2013, and the newest few were taken today.  I'm not saying these are pictures that are "worth 1000 words" but for me, they're worth at least a few lines, maybe a few paragraphs.  Some are the conventional "important occasion" photos; many are a sort of visual bookmark...  something I want to remember - and the photo is my reminder of it.  Who DOESN'T have such photos on his or her phone?    

So beginning on Sunday, January 31st and continuing for 100 days, I'm going to chose a photo from my cameral roll and write about it.  Some posts will be short and some will be longer.  Hopefully, some will be good and quite likely, some will be terrible, but my goal is to be in it for the duration, and NOT QUIT.  

I'd love for you to join me on your own creative journey - cooking, crafting, writing, sewing - whatever floats YOUR boat. We can offer each other support and encouragement.  Let's make the world a more creative place!!