OGT BiWeekly - Week Six SLICE OF HEAVEN

For those of you who don't believe that heaven can exist on earth, this is what it looks like:

I wait each year for this moment when each day is a new anticipation of what glory has unfurled.  It is brief but it is splendid and despite the death and illness, the prejudice and heartbreak and violence that we see in the news right now, I have this to look forward to each May.

I am deeply grateful.

Comfortably Numb

Hello, Friends.

Have you noticed in the age of COVID that some of your tastes have changed?  I don't mean literally, although I do think it is spooky that one marker of this disease is a loss of taste and smell.  I mean the things you typically like to do, or eat, or in my case, listen to.

Mia has her potatoes.  I have re-discovered comfort in classic rock.

Before the outbreak, our adult son Nick gave us a family membership to Spotify. I was grateful for the gift, but thought I might never use it. I thought I was too old for the internet jukebox.

I am from the vinyl generation.  The first album I ever bought was Goodbye Yellow Brick Road by Elton John. I was thirteen years old. I remember sitting in my room, with the stereo my father built, listening to Funeral for a Friend.  A Candle in the Wind. Benny and the Jets. It was a double LP and I studied the liner notes over and over again.  When I plugged in the giant headphones and climbed into my beanbag chair, I felt such comfort. Whatever was swirling about in my adolescent mind quieted as I listened to my music. Over the years I added new albums to my collection, and my love for classic rock followed me to my prom (Stairway to Heaven), and to college.  But as 8-tracks replaced albums, and cassette tapes replaced 8-tracks, I began moving away from my original passion for this style of music.  Today the albums of my youth are in my attic, gathering dust, along with the turntable.

For most of the last twenty years I have preferred to listen to and follow acoustic musicians. Folk artists.  Musical poets. Iron & Wine, Ani DiFranco, Brett Dennen, Fiest, Fink. The Weepies. Even Ed Sheeran (the closest I get to enjoying rap music). I have a particular Melissa Ferrick CD I leave in my car to listen to whenever the political news starts raising my anxiety past the point of no return.

But recently, with COVID and a collapsing economy, and near total uncertainty as to what elementary education will look like in the fall (my chosen profession), this music no longer comforts me. I have begun to do a lot more cooking than before, and I have found myself relying on both the Spotify membership that Nick bought us, and the Sonos speaker he gifted us at Christmas to keep me company in the kitchen.  And what do I listen to now?  Classic Rock.

Last night, while I made chili rellenos, I listened to Landslide, Wild Horses, Let it Rain, Hotel California, Knockin' on Heaven's Door, and Comfortably Numb. Can you name the bands? (Fleetwood Mac, The Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton, Eagles, Dylan, and Pink Floyd.) I didn't think about murdering hornets, or permanently remote teaching. I didn't get anxious about the coming election. I didn't do anything but sing along with song lyrics that haven't passed my lips in decades. And it felt good.  It felt familiar. It felt safe.

Rock Classics is now my first playlist on Spotify. Thanks, Nick, for the present. It brings me comfort during an uncomfortable time.

What brings you comfort? 

OGT BiWeekly Week Five: THE HUMBLE POTATO

I do like French Fries.  I am true to my Belgian roots that way in liking my pomme frite, but I don't usually go out of my way to eat them.   I haven't stepped into a McDonald's in seven years since I worked with kids in foster care and we've cut most carbohydrates out of our household diet.   

But ever since the "COVID19 Shelter in Place Orders" I've noticed a craving for comfort food and the humble potato has become my favorite staple.

My other heritage, Scottish-Irish owes a lot to this versatile root.    The Irish were nearly decimated as a population due to the Potato Famine of the 1840's.  Also known as the Great Hunger, Gorta Mor in Gaelic, it began in 1845 and lasted 7 years killing nearly one million Irish and forcing another million to emigrate to places like America.   It's likely that my mother's family would not have come to New York if it weren't for this tiny fungus, Phytopthoran infestans, which caused potatoes to blacken and die.   

Great Hunger Memorial

V.E. Macy Park, Ardsley, NY

Artist: Eamonn O’Doherty

Commissioned by: Great Hunger Foundation and Memorial Committee

There are parallels here to this new SARS virus COVID19.  The seven year course of this blight should give us pause to consider the ways in which nature forces us to respect its power and probably irresponsible management of crops and farmland.   Who knows how long COVID will be lurking around our firesides.  Queen Victoria's Corn Laws taxed grains so extremely in the 1840's that the poor Irish under Brutish rule turned the potato as their mainstay.   If I think about my craving for this comfort food it appears a genetic legacy on both sides.  https://www.history.com/topics/immigration/irish-potato-famine#section_3

Ironically the potato has its roots in the highlands of Peru, where the wild Solanum tuberosum was domesticated some 10,000 years ago.  It was not brought to Europe until 400 years ago by the Spaniards.

Now it's a fundamental staple of most world diets coming in fourth after corn, wheat and rice.

The Potato Eaters - Vincent Van Gogh, 1885

The Potato Harvest by Jean-Francois Millet, 1855

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Potato

It's also a member of the Nightshade Family and contains the toxin Solanine, which is poisonous to humans in large doses.   Perhaps here is a warning about moderation and balance not just for me and my trauma centered comfort diet, but for our planet and our management of food crops for a world that is ever estranged from its own sources of nutrition.   

A basket of Idahos

Dean buys a great brand of frozen French Fries from Idaho and they are so crispy when heated in the convection oven.   He is also a whiz with making up new recipes: Hash browns, scalloped potatoes with scallions and cheese, and tonight we had air crisped potato chips sauteed in garlic, pepper and olive oil.   I can't get enough of these and guzzle them down with globs of mayonnaise.   Diet be damned.   

Pick Up the Pieces

Photo is mine

Hello, friends. 

When I say jigsaw puzzle, you say...

Old folks home? 
Rainy day? 
Vexing? 
Relaxing? 

I never liked puzzles before Covid.  There was no immediate gratification. There were always more interesting things to do. 

And then we were trapped in our homes.  And the wonderful shopkeeper of Chelsea Dry Goods started posting on Facebook.  Photos of puzzles.  Lots of them.  And the offer of drop off service.  For puzzles!

I bought them at first to support her business. And to give us something to do. I bought three.  Then three more.  And then four.  Since the order came down to stay home and stay safe, Tom and I have put together seven 1,000 piece puzzles.  Puzzles of Manhattan and of Yankee Stadium.  Puzzles of birds, and cannabis leaves.  Puzzles of abstract art and antique seed packets. 

We generally start on Saturday morning, opening the box, spilling out the pieces, putting them all face up.  Then we sort the edges, and build the frame (generally my job).   The puzzle occupies our dining room table all week long. No meals are eaten there.  We dip in and out -- sometimes together, often apart --finding a few moments here and there to assemble what we can. 

The thing I've learned about puzzles is that the challenge comes in waves: first there is the border, and then the chaos of too many loose pieces.  Then there is the first gathering of pieces that come together with the promise of more.  And then the pieces that lie there taunting you.  And then, the joy when you manage to connect one side of the puzzle to another.  And then the weight of how much is left to build.  Finally, as the process comes to an end, the picture comes together.  Matte or shiny, 1,000 pieces gloriously bound together in one moment captured in time. 

When Tom and I build the puzzle together, we generally don't talk. It's companionable, but silent.  An occasional, "Gotcha" and lots of leaning over and rearranging.  When we build apart, we find time to stop by each other's work spaces and share the triumph of another step completed.  Sometimes it's competitive. Other times it's collegial.

I texted my sister our latest puzzle in progress.  She immediately replied. "That would frustrate the f*#k out of me."

Thing is, I would have felt the same way two months ago.  I would rather take a walk, or binge watch a show, or start a new book.  But now when I walk, I duck from side to side on the street to avoid others.  And I seem uninspired to watch much tv.  And reading is impossible. 

So why puzzles? Why now? 

I think it is because when we get a puzzle it is in pieces.  A mess.  The cover of the box reminds us of what it looked like when it was first painted or photographed or illustrated.   But it doesn't look like that any more.  But if you take the time, and work steadily, one piece at a time, the image reforms.  It doesn't look exactly the same.  The fissures from the puzzle pieces remain.  The shadows catch these edges and blur the image a bit.  But there is satisfaction and gratification when we are done. 

I think I like puzzles now because I can make things whole again, or almost so.  I can put the pieces back together.  I can fix what is broken.

I have no control over so much of my life right now, but a puzzle is one thing that reminds me to keep my eye on the prize

.  On what comes next.  And it reminds me to take it one piece at a time. 

Talk to you next week,
Laurie

OGT BiWeekly Week Four: PETS

What would we do without our pets?   These past six weeks of isolation (an astounding period of time for such a peripatetic society) have felt more like six months, and the norms through which we find support, connection and release from our darker impulses and deepest longings, have collapsed. They are reconfiguring in ways that not everyone is technologically nor emotionally equipped to handle.  Teachers have to teach children who may not see or hear them.  Therapists have to help lonely and desperate people whom they can only hope they can reassure through a screen.  Families are having to let go of loved ones who are dying alone.  Where do we turn?

In our house we have a lovable 17 year old blind, deaf and incontinent cockapoo.  We love her to pieces and she can barely hold the weight of that love right now.  But we can hug and stroke her when we can't do that with our kids and friends.

Sammy

Adoption of animals is on the rise.   Laurie and I met this cutie on the street when we had our "social distance" walk to discuss the blog:

And we have a new grand-kitty adopted in the midst of quarantine over the internet:

Frankie posing with the Sunflowers

She has the adorable habit of sitting under the sunflowers in my son's apartment.  This 9 year old perpetual kitten was the runt of her litter and has made self-quarantining in an apartment, in the hard hit borough of Queens, NY, much more bearable.   

Not to be outdone there is the stylish Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, another shelter kitty living in Brooklyn with our daughter:

Jackie-O, our other Grand-kitty

Abandonment is also on the rise as poverty and unemployment hits many homes. So here's how you can help by adopting your own dog or cat baby or making a donation to: Animal Care Centers of NYC - https://www.nycacc.org/.  The American Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals - https://www.aspca.org/nyc.



But it does not have to be a warm and fuzzy creature. We take great solace from our birds and fish......

 The basement goldfish keep me company when I do the laundry.

In the salt water tank the damsels are our constant entertainment.   

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wyuRtQPS2UU

Once when a cable station was preparing for new content, they trained a camera on their fish tank and left it there to fill in the airtime. 

When the actual cable show content was broadcast they received so many letters asking for the fish tank back that they had to comply.  

Where else can you go when you aren't allowed to go anywhere?

 

An then there are the birds who don't let anyone determine what they do and where they go...

Allow

Photo is Mine - Hosta Unfurling

Is anyone else losing track of days? How can it be May?

I have been waiting for some inspiration to strike, so that I could return to the page and add a new post.  It hasn't happened.  Since my last post, I have received lots of packages - a kit to build a new raised garden bed, bags of soil, envelopes of seeds, and fertilizer.  Chicken wire to keep out the critters. 

But, no inspiration has arrived upon my doorstep. 

For someone who likes control, this is an interesting time. I am a petri dish, growing a new version of myself that will hopefully be able to weather what the virus has done to the world. 

My garden is the best thing for me to hold onto right now.  Last weekend, when I had been outside in the dirt for the entire day, Tom stopped by and asked me if I was obsessed.  I was.

I am. 

I am obsessed with nurturing that which I can control. 

I can't hug my son. I can't go to work. I can't visit my family members. I can't walk into the grocery store without feeling some measure of anxiety.  I can't enjoy a pizza delivery without first wiping down the cardboard box. I can't go anywhere without a mask on my face.


But, I can put on my gardening gloves and rake the moss from my lawn, sprinkle grass seed on the bald spots, loosen the soil from around my perennials, and spray for deer. I can divide my iris and lilies. I can weed away the spring intruders. I can fertilize and mulch and aerate. 

And if I do all this, my plants will blossom.  And I will have evidence, that once again, after a long hard winter, life returns.


Allow

There is no controlling life.
Try corralling a lightning bolt,
containing a tornado. Dam a
stream and it will create a new
channel. Resist, and the tide
will sweep you off your feet. 
Allow, and grace will carry
you to higher ground. The only
safety lies in letting it all in --
the wild and the weak; fear, 
fantasies, failures and success. 
When loss rips off the doors 
of the heart, or sadness veils your
vision with despair, practice 
becomes simply bearing the truth. 
In the choice to let go of your
known way of being, the whole
world is revealed to your new eyes. 

- Danna Faulds