I don’t feel like organizing my “death” files — as I should.
I don’t even feel like organizing my “in” basket — as I should;
I surely don’t feel like cleaning the drawers in my bathroom vanity– especially, the one where I saw the cockroach the other day.
And on this Fourth of July, I don’t feel like “funning” it up.
Son Chip came to visit this morning. He wore his mask and demanded that I wear one too. Just the two of us in the house together? Yes, he insisted. He brought two bagels with him, and we sat at the ends of the dining room table – with the niggardly remains of the cream cheese I had on hand, until it was clearly gone, at which time Chip declared that Philadelphia whipped cream cheese is far superior to mine, also whipped, from Public. I felt this might be something worth fighting for, and was prepared to make a contest out of it. However, I was thus left in abeyance pending further action, to be exact, the purchase of both brands, and a definitive taste-testing session.
The remainder of our visit, although of valued time spent, was somewhat of a mutual frustration, as we engaged in serial “what’s” – each of us with our own distinct audio deficiencies, and he, obsessively in compliance with the concept of mask-wearing, thus diluting the sounds.
I did, however, manage to catch up on his friend Pablo, the 25 year old Colombian immigrant, who finally got his citizenship papers and brought his wife, Lina, to live here, as she and others of his family members are currently seriously engaged in learning English. Oh, and yes – the whole family, I am told, his parents, sister, cousin and wife, and he and Lina – 7 people – left last night for Las Vegas to celebrate the holiday—a first visit for all. Some kind of “deal,” Chip conjectures. Ain’t life grande!
As I walked him out to his car, I noticed that flags has been placed in full sight, on all ten of the buildings of our immediate neighbors. They looked resplendent in their somber uniformity, and I must thank neighbor Eileen– it was such an Eileen thing to do —- for her thoughtful patriotism.
My friend Barbara, called from Stamford, Connecticut, and among other things, urged me to ask Alexa to play some marching band music today. Barbara is a celebrator of — -everything. I wouldn’t be surprised if she celebrates Groundhog Day. I should probably become more of a celebrator, myself. I will make a note of that.
And Billie called from Madison, Connecticut to let me know that she and Steve arrived safely by car, from their suffocating sunbelt home on Florida’s gulf coast, to their summer retreat in less humid climbs. Of course, my contention is: hot is hot regardless of where, but there she is, no longer within range of Alligator Alley.
I also spent a good bit of time on the phone with friend Marilyn who lives around the corner, and her anxiety ridden experience, after many hours, finally achieving success in getting the movie “Hamilton,” on her ipad for watching tonite. These are the kinds of traumas to which Covid 19, makes us especially susceptible.
And thank you dear friend Lucia for the surprise, hand delivered – and therefore some lightning-fast time-together, gift-boxed sugarless pastry from the newly discovered bake shop up the block from me. Such are the times that bring extra light into my covid moments, times that going to the mailbox and the dumpster don’t quite live up to.
I listened to some of my audible book, “How To Be An Anti-Racist.” There is still stuff to learn. I never had a close black friend and I’m thinking every white person needs one. I’m thinking of ways to make that happen.
I have no patience for television tonite. Well, actually, I am aware that I have no patience for television any night. I should probably go to sleep now. It is getting late-ish, and the fireworks are within hearing distance—small pellets of weak blasts that signal more to come. I don’t mind them. At least they seem to be indicating that life goes on.