SOLSC '20 Day Seven: Because I could

Because I could

I stayed up til eleven last night, wired from twelve hours of book fair
Eyes glazing at the television screen
Set the alarm for six thirty and fell asleep
Woke up a six a.m., then went back to bed after a bathroom visit
Noticed my clock thought it daylight savings time change already 
Turned off both alarms and fell asleep again
Stayed in bed past my husband's kiss goodbye (glad he's paid overtime today)
Got up at eight twenty
Padded in socked feet to the kitchen to make coffee
Read my email, responded to blog comments
Paused to retrieve my coffee and ponder the quiet
Decided not to disturb it with the television or radio
Making the click-clacking of these keyboard keys 
     the loudest sound in the house.

SOLSC '20 Day Six: I knew it was coming

The subject comes up in conversation among my patrons at least once a day.
"We canceled our trip; too worried about being in a plane, in close quarters."
"I wanted to take my kids to the hands-on museum, but not sure if that's wise right now."
"The stores now have signs at the front to tell you what is sold out--water, hand sanitizer..."

My own daughter, working in schools in Japan, gets to sit in empty classrooms for the coming weeks.  Students have been told to stay home.  Teachers still report to work, every cough in the lounge receiving an accusatory glance.

This has had little effect on my daily rounds, aside from a bit more attention paid to handwashing and face touching...until now.

COVID-19, for the foreseeable future, is keeping me and my fellow volunteers from rocking babies in the NICU.

My head completely understands this need to protect the most vulnerable, precious patients.

My heart hurts that for now, we won't be able to help the NICU nurses as they work so hard to take care of multiple babies during their shifts.  Thinking of the "good touch" these babies will be missing makes me sad.

Here's a silent thank you to the scientists and doctors who are working hard to figure out the details of this virus, for accurate diagnostic testing, sanitation guidelines, and prophylactic measures.  I hope we are all able to get answers soon.

Until then, my arms will feel a little bit empty each Saturday morning.

SOLSC '20 Day Five: Full mail cubby, full heart

It was getting dark.  The book fair had been closed for the day for over an hour.  Tills were put away, reports were run, but I still had one more task to complete before heading home.

The lights in the workroom turned on as I opened the door and walked to the copier. I was joined by one of our kindergarten teachers, and we chatted a bit about the fair, and why I didn't remember to print the coupons before we opened this afternoon.  I made my copies, cut them apart as she made hers, and then she left with well-wishes.

I started distributing the coupons in the mail cubbies, left to right, top to bottom.  All of us "fringe teachers" come first, so it wasn't long before I came to my own box.

It was full of papers.  I paused to remove them, setting them on the lunch table.  That explains the early birthday wishes during book fair preview today, I thought to myself; I am one lucky librarian.

SOLSC '20 Day Four: A pain in the neck

It's there when I wake up in the morning

A dull ache on the right side of my neck

It begins to throb as I sit at my computer

Body facing forward, head turned 

To the screen on the left

I stretch, roll my head in circles

Turn my face as far to each side as I can

But that muscle refuses to soften; it's

As stubborn as my computer habits.

SOLSC '20 Day Three: Porch meditation

Ten and a half hours indoors.  Sure, there are windows in the library, and the mountain laurels in view from the back are in bloom.

Still...all walls and no sky make Chris a dull girl.  I realized this as I drove home on autopilot, my energy sapped by the long day at work.

I pulled into the driveway, got out of my car, and retrieved the mail.  I unlocked the front door, setting my purse and keys in their usual spots, then straight to the kitchen to drop the mail on the table.  For some reason, a glass of wine sounded good; I rooted around the cabinet for the fancy insulated, stemless, lidded container and made myself a spritzer.  Grabbing my phone, I headed back out the front door.

I brushed a stray brown leaf off the red mesh chair, plopped down and looked around.  It felt like spring, but looked like winter.

Breathing deeply, I did nothing but look and listen for ten minutes.  A bird was calling from a nearby tree, repeating its message in three parts over and over again.  I could hear the crunch of walkers on the gravelly path next to my yard before they came into view, one person getting their exercise, another walking a dog...did I know that person, that dog, lived catty corner from my house?  I felt disconnected from my own street. 

My practical side kicked in, and I completed my Duolingo exercises on my phone.  First Spanish--"Disculpe, por favor."  Then Japanese...my eyes still getting used to the characters, the sounds still foreign to my ears. Will either language ever stick?

My husband calls in the middle of the lesson; he's on his way home.  The darkening gloom makes me look at my watch, and I realize it's dinnertime already.  I take one last deep breath before heading inside to make a bowl of leftover chili.  The beeping of the microwave breaks my reverie. 

SOLSC '20 Day Two: Necessary drought

Dryness promotes the formation of flower buds...flowering is, after all, not an aesthetic contribution, but a survival mechanism.

ANN HAYMOND ZWINGER When an emailed daily quote from "A Network for Grateful Living" aligns with the monthly theme of Simplicity in Simple Abundance by Sarah Ban Breathnach and the two decluttering courses I've signed up for but ignored this last month, I pay attention and remember the fruits of my dry seasons. My first memories of journaling in fifth and sixth grades...I was an outsider, a military BRAT transplant in a civilian public school where few of my fellow students had traveled beyond the California state line.  The words helped me connect with my teachers.  I journaled when we moved to Germany afterwards, once again among military dependents but still feeling different; kids don't like other kids who set the curve in algebra. Words. Another readjustment in El Paso...literally the driest place I've lived.  I cut my hair, joined choir, ran with the nerds and the headbangers, expanded my musical tastes. Reinvention.  Music. I was the only student in my graduating class to attend UT Austin, six hundred miles away.  My family moved back to Germany halfway through my freshman year.  Money was tight, so I worked and shopped the clearance aisles of Kmart.  I took on larger class loads to graduate early. Thrift.  Perseverance. A beginning teacher's salary in 1987 barely covered rent, student loan payments, and gas money.  My refrigerator held five or six items and I had a capsule wardrobe before it was a stylish trend.  I took advantage of free and low-cost recreational activities--dollar movies, walking city parks. Resourcefulness. I got married and had a child.  My husband and I worked opposite shifts; my part time job only filled six hours of the week.  I scrapbooked to document this time of our life, crocheted and sewed to outfit the nursery and gift my fellow young mothers. Creativity. My mother died.  I had a second child, and the postpartum years brought with them a delayed grief, a midlife crisis.  Mothering and homecare wasn't enough.  I hit bottom, started taking better care of myself, returned to a career in education. Purpose. Now here I am, not in a drought season, but one of abundance.  I have enough money, food, clothing, shelter to live a comfortable life...and I find myself lacking some of the fruits from my past.  It's time to prune in order to bloom again. Words.  Reinvention.  Music.  Thrift.  Perseverance.  Resourcefulness.  Creativity.  Purpose.

SOLSC '20 Day One: I come by it honestly

Author's note:  I started this blog in January 2016 with a post about parsnips.  I am happy to start my eighth year of SOLSC participation with another post about memories and recipes.

I don't know much about my maternal great-grandmother.  Or my grandmother, for that matter.  Military BRATs aren't afforded much time with their relatives if their fathers are stationed hither and thither.  Not that I'm complaining; growing up in places like Bangkok, Naples, and Stuttgart is a great way to spend a childhood.

But back to family matters.  My mother was a great cook, snipping recipes from magazines and flour bags, learning dishes from the countries in which we resided.  When we stayed with her mother, I ate well, too (except for Easter lamb...I never could get used to that taste).  And just this week, I got a glimpse into my great-grandmother's culinary propensities thanks to a gift from my mother's brother:  one of her cookbooks, bagged in plastic to keep the pieces together as the cover and pages are falling apart.

My uncle told me this was a Depression-era cookbook.  I did some investigating, and found out that Ida Bailey Allen was a cookbook author, syndicated columnist, and radio personality.  The cookbook I received was part of the National Recovery Administration  efforts to build the U.S. economy after the Depression.

The cookbook is filled with handwritten notes, including my uncle's own beginner attempts at writing his name.

And it is full of clippings.  Dozens, possibly a hundred of them.

It will take me days, maybe weeks to fully explore what this cookbook has to offer.  Glancing from its contents to what I have on my dining room shelves, I now know that I truly do come by the habit of collecting recipes and cookbooks honestly; it's my genetic heritage.

The Better Homes and Garden red-and-white cookbook was my mom's.

Just some of my cookbooks; binders are full of clippings.