COVID-19 DIARIES: MY Mornings Are Late

My mornings are late. I can’t go to Pilates at nine so I sleep in, which is okay because I like sleeping in. I’m not an early morning person after all. So my mornings are late and leisurely because I don’t have to be anywhere at any time. I have no schedule but the one I make for myself each day. I make lots of lists. I make a point still to tie up my hair, put on lipstick and eyeliner. I don’t know why because no one sees me, but I just feel better about myself when I look in the mirror if and when I do, and when I take my walk on the road each day. (That walk is over a half mile so if Lee and I make it to the state park for ‘our’ walk I can usually get in more than a mile a day. A big ‘if’- we probably walk at the park only 4 to 5 times a week). Morning walks provide entertainment and inspiration for the day; that is when I see and hear the birds, and smell and appreciate what’s blooming. I witness the cherry, apple, sumac, poplar, ash, pear and walnut tree leaves and how they change with the spring. I inhale the suffocating sweetness of the honeysuckle, the spicy aroma of the rocket and the pungency of the olive. I note the differences in the hills and fields as buds bloom into leaves and flowers. Shades of green sequence from yellow and lime to light, grey and dark greens. Spring is such a magical happening and this year it has proceeded in slow measured steps and given us lots of time for it to sink in. The changes each day have been subtle; we have time to note each small transformation. If I am unfortunate enough to come across the dead among my finds on the road I take the time to study the wings, feathers and beaks of birds; the texture and patterns of snakes’ skins; the tails of rabbits and possum. So far my bird studies have included a robin, a yellow warbler, a hairy woodpecker, and a charcoal grey white-breasted bird whose breast feathers were so incredibly soft and silky my fingers disbelieved. Underneath the top of his head feathers was the tiniest streak of red-orange. One would never see it from any distance. (It was an Eastern Kingbird, a bird I had never heard of). When I held the robin’s wings outspread to admire the dove grey silk under-feathers alongside of soft salmon-orange breast I couldn’t help thinking that this was an weaver’s ultimate color scheme. After the road walk (I’ve even “jogged,” something I haven’t tried for years), I clean up the kitchen either from breakfast and/or the night before. I take a lot better care of the kitchen, wiping down the counters and washing the stove surfaces more than I usually do. I try to keep my place at the table clear of clutter- all my mail goes in a small, organized pile to the right of my placemat. (The whole rest of the table is taken up with Lee’s Wall Street Journals and his mail, and I can’t stand it but I shut up so I don’t incur a row). Now I can check my lists. There is a long one and a short one, one for things I can conceivably do and one for those lofty imaginings. Each morning I choose a physical activity that needs to be done. Once in a while that includes clothes washing and cleaning- but rarely. There is always mowing, watering and weed-whipping. Others are ‘projects’: one- time events that maybe will take several day’s- worth of work: cleaning out the attic ,exchanging winter for summer clothes, planting vegetables (in pots) and flowers, preparing soil beds, cleaning the ‘chicken house’ ( home of lawn and old furniture, looms, reels, cannon ball rope beds), and finally the least favorite of my yearly or bi-yearly jobs – vacuuming the bat guano from the tarp over the wool storage in the barn. (Yep, you heard that right- balanced on a beam fourteen feet in the air wielding a vacuum hose- diving deep into the reservoir of the best fertilizer ever). At the present time I can’t list bush-hogging the fields because ‘my’ tractor, a 1950’s grey Ford named“Gertrude”, is on the fritz, and Lee is loathe to consult another mechanic other than the one who refuses to call him back. Every day I try to pursue my various crafts in a kind of rotation so I don’t get too bored. I try to spin a length of roving, usually at night when we’re watching TV. Two looms are at different stages of dress so I can weave at one, and tie, wind on and thread the other. A felting project waits patiently for me to see it through to fruition. I dry it out after each go-round of active felting episodes. (It was too large a project for my skills and I vow to do smaller pieces in the future, even if they eventually end up in one larger work). I make time to circle the house a couple times a day and have many encounters. Lee and I made friends with a family circle of garter snakes and followed them for a few days. A mother snake and two of her children lay in the sun unconcerned, one baby more adventurous than the other. One glided along its mother twisting and turning in a kind of mother- love ecstasy, while the other ventured farther afield. I encounter him (or his cousin) snug in the space between the house and front stoop, in the stone wall behind the lilies, and another time curled into a circle in the retreat up beyond the chicken house. Along with numerous other small snakes of the garter variety (all alive) I’ve been up close and personal with a very large corn snake and a big black snake (both dead). We’ve had a doe and her fawn tip-toe through our lawn and orchards on this side of the road, and three young bucks graze behind the barn toward evening. Three yellow tulips have bloomed and faded under the mailbox followed by two flaming red ones. The rhododendron blooms better than ever, but the azalea got caught in the freeze in May, and had very few full blossoms. Each bloom around the house gets its photo taken, and lilacs and all the little lawn flowers are picked for little bouquets for the table. I think I’m getting more and more obsessed with activity, and rarely stop to sit a while except at lunch when I lay back in a lawn chair and take in the sun for a few minutes. I realize I am regimenting myself like never before. I just keep going, like the energizer bunny, like a whirling dervish; I’m on a merry-go-round and I can’t get off. This hasn’t been a time of reflection, of soul-searching, of writing innermost thoughts, fears, discontents- it’s just too close. We keep the intimate a safe distance away- social distancing guidelines apply as far as feelings go. Our only visitors are the afore-mentioned wildlife. Our children keep a respectful distance; they are fearful of seeing us, or coming for visits. They don’t want to be “the ones” who infect us- should that be our fate. The only question is what will we do when all the projects have been crossed off the list. Where do we go from there? When do we go where? How will we live our ‘new life’?