Notes from Quarantine

It is late and I do not know what day of Coronovirus we are on. It isn’t as long as it seems, of that I can be certain. I think it is Tuesday, but I got up this morning thinking it was Wednesday. My oven is cleaner than it has been in a long time, my desk is messier. I now rate as an “older American” so I am told, bullied, begged to stay in. This reminds me of being a young mother without a car. Get up, get dressed, work around the house, sew, take a few phone calls, fix food, and prepare for the evening at home.

I ordered make up off of the internet….MAKE UP! Something you grab and go while doing other errands is now Amazoned. Yes, I know that isn’t a word. We might have lots of words that weren’t words by the time this over. Most of us will be able to spell quarantine without thinking.

We hear about the world, here in our pumpkin shell. This one is in the hospital. That one is doing their homework. There are new jobs. My daughter is the Testing Coordinator for a high school. There is no testing. So, she is calling students no one else has reached. She is trying to reach the ones that are not making their blip on the radar of school at home though their teachers have already called them.

Her husband is a teacher. He is on his computer and phone all day. There are students who want to continue private saxophone lessons. So, they are learning how to do that. Reaching out…making contact without contacting—all flat and distant like beings on different planets.

I can sew. Who knew we would need home sewers? Women used to wrap bandages and write letters. Comfort and care for the wounded. We make masks–we care for the well who are trying to stay that way. We look like bandits in an old Western. They wanted all hands in the air, “Stick ‘em up!” We want all hands to yourself, like kindergarten. Oh! Johnny touched Linda! Teacher! He touched her! No touching here. No getting close enough to breathe on each other.  

We have varied patterns for masks. I watched a video of a woman in Kentucky making a sample mask. Their video was the same fabric I used to make my grandson pajamas. So, I made masks like theirs–down to the yellow fabric with Snoopy marching gaily across it. We trade fabric and elastic, we sewers. Put it in bags on our porches. I have used a lot of quart sized bags, but not the way I planned when I bought them. I put masks in them. They go on my porch and disappear. Or we drive out and put them on other people’s porches.

I have two teddy bears in my front window. All I see, of course, is their little bear butts. They wave at passers-by. I hope it is cheering.

I remember how this began. I went to the church building on Tuesday. I photocopied pages on the Ten Plagues Moses called down on ancient Egypt. I went to my classroom and put up pictures. I put new crayons into little containers. The room was ready for the next night. I came home and sat on the couch and cut out little booklets on the plagues. I was not thinking about being plagued. But my husband called from his office that there would be no classes. I cut out the booklets, anyway, and mailed them to the children. Now, we all know what it is to be plagued. It says in Scripture that the water turned to blood. And the people dug around and tried to find water that was not spoiled. Our plague is invisible. You cannot see it come. You do not know where it lurks. Maybe it’s here, on this lid to your soda. Maybe it’s there, on that package holding your prescription. Maybe it isn’t. You bring in mail and packages, but they are suspect. You get a pizza and try to not touch the box that holds it.

I am not hoarding anything. It is easier when you are old. Most of your life is behind you, anyway. You would gladly give to the young if you had it and they did not, so hoarding is less inviting. People want control. So they control how much toilet paper they have.

This will end. We will feel its ravages for a long time. We will be changed just like our great grandparents were changed by the Depression, like people are changed by war. The world will not be the same because too many good people will be missing. But we will, perhaps, learn to be good in their memory. I know we will treasure the everyday for a while. Just finishing a school year will be like graduating. Sitting in a hospital waiting room will seem like a privilege. And we will learn that many things we took for granted were blessings, like knowing what day it is by what we plan to do or handing someone something face to face.  Yes. Tonight in quarantine, that sounds marvelous.