Picture it. 

The thin cold metal bars. You'd never noticed how they stretched so far out to either side. You'd never seen them glint in the fluorescent light. In fact, you were blissfully unaware that they were there because they were so purposefully hidden for, well, your entire life.

Staring down at them your mind wanders off to a shop on 18th Street in Manhattan where you bought a makeshift kitchen counter held up by those same bars yet painted over in white you know the one you took from that studio apartment when you moved into the one-bedroom and still couldn't afford any real adult furniture and later sold it to a friend and now with actual kitchen counters you didn't miss it one bit. Those bars. But silver. And naked.

The squeak of a loose wheel which alternatingly sticks and then comes free only to do a few 360 spins has gotten you to that point. That point where you freeze, shelves that are normally stocked full lay nearly bare in front of your eyes. And not much has even happened yet. You imagine they'll ask you to switch to "remote learning" soon. You just learned that term the day before. Every day after school you bring books home because you think it'll be your last for awhile yet find yourself lugging them back the next morning. Still no word. No word from the governor. Everyone is waiting. Bated breath which you release only to scream unhinged at the TV or laugh at any of your coworkers who continue to complain at the "overwhelming" number of emails (five) you've received from the superintendent. At least someone is leading, you think. 

You see yourself as responsible. You see yourself as reasonable. You don't want to panic but you've heard from a friend in Seattle that she had to go outside the city even to find very expensive toilet paper, so you gingerly arrange the 12-pack of Cottonelle between the bananas and the tuna and wonder how many trips to the bowl it will take before you need to buy more. 

And that shelf. That shelf comes back into view. Then you almost chuckle to yourself seeing your suspicion confirmed that no one actually does like tomato soup. You'd laugh out loud if shit weren't about to get so crazy. You bend low, searching back behind the few cylinders which are left lying horizontally as though a tornado has hit only that 2x4 area. You treat your hands like they're contaminated as you paw several cans toward you and place them in the cart. Then you look both ways and grab three more for good measure in the stark face of the unknown. Your stomach twists with the conflict of silently praising God for the good fortune of your guaranteed continued salary and knowingly not feeling bad enough about throwing anyone else under the bus to ensure your survival. You wonder if your cabinets and freezer can hold all this stuff. You pack up your trunk and content yourself with one last thought: if anything, there's still the luxury of choosing what you hoard.

Having too much time to get an abundance of tasks accomplished would sound like a pleasant dream to most people. While no one would want a pandemic to provide that abundance of time, the opportunity to take advantage of being at home, getting closets cleaned, years of dated papers shredded and basement and garage storage areas decluttered would seem productive and the right things to be doing under the circumstances. 

For me, too much time tells me one thing about myself. I am lazy.

There, I said it. I'm basically a lazy person, and unless I have a deadline to meet, I will find a way to get something else done instead of the "productive" chore I really should be doing. I was always fairly ambitious growing up (at one point I worked four jobs while trying to save money to buy my first house.) But as I've aged, free time has become more of a chore than a gift. Free time is meant to be enjoyed, but I have so many chores to get done.

Technology hasn't helped me become less lazy, as I use my phone constantly to google questions about qualifying for the coronavirus stimulus check, the birthdate of an entertainer from the past who I recently saw on TV or where to find bowling shoes that will help heal my plantar fasciitis. I've been finding myself too often nestled comfortably on the living room chair, texting messages to my sister and nieces and friends and checking emails. When those activities have been exhausted, I start checking the latest maps for where the coronavirus has hit (I validate this behavior by telling myself that I really should know which parts of Long Island, New York City, and the rest of the country, are being severely affected.) Maybe it's just work avoidance, but I find that when I actually have the free time to accomplish chores that really should be done during this enforced, stay at home hiatus from normal, every day life, it's hard to get motivated and do the work.

So how does a lazy person "cope" when forced to be home, 24/7, while sharing the home with a husband who is working his job remotely from home, and who is definitely NOT lazy? Not wanting to appear like I'm home doing nothing, I make sure to keep some file folders chock full of old papers needing to be shredded close by to wherever I'm sitting. The folders are my "go to" if I'm asked by David what I'm doing while David's on his work break (he logs in and out on his computer like he would at work, and of course he's extremely diligent and honest in his time keeping.) It's important that when David is eating lunch, I go down to the basement and replace a folder with another one so it doesn't look like I'm working on the same folder. It takes a lot of effort to not appear lazy.

Kidding aside, I think a lot of my laziness stems from guilt about not getting things done as I grew up. If I had free time as a child, I would have to mow the lawn, weed the grass, clean my room, or be at the beckon call of my parents who constantly kept me busy with household chores. That's how they were raised by their parents (two pairs of traditional, Italian immigrant grandparents who worked hard for everything they earned upon arriving in New York City circa 1920.) Laziness was not allowed; everyone in the family had to do his or her part to make ends meet. This idea was passed on to my sister and I at an early age, and the guilt stuck if you weren't meeting your obligations. Decades later, the guilt about feeling lazy for not being productive with time is still with me.

A full week passed at home, and not much accomplished. Except I did write a short piece for my writing group (and commented on a fellow writer's wonderful work.) It was time well spent. Maybe I need to spend some time re-thinking lazy. 

 

The Carolina Wren

Written while listening to Briana Marela’s “Everything is New.” 

Outside the window of my loft the daffodils push through the warm winter.  The forsythia buds early yellow, and greens emerge.  I spy a house finch at the freshly filled feeder and am up here keeping a lookout for the Carolina wren we heard this morning.  The rain is slowing. 

I am also hiding from my husband.  He got laid off last week.  Tim was an assistant project manager building booths and displays for trade shows.  No trade shows happening now or in the foreseeable future.  He warned me three weeks ago when talk of the virus was starting to spread that he knew this was coming.  “What are you talking about?  You’re a valued asset to that company."

"They won't be able to pay my salary."

"You’re being paranoid.”  Then he started stocking up on pasta and creamed corn, and I knew I lost him. 

I think the last time I ate creamed corn was when I was seven and my dad was out of work.  I threw it up that night, and the fact that it looked the same coming out as going in was enough to ensure that I’d never eat it again.  Tim said, “Don’t worry.  I’ll eat it.  And when it’s all we have, you’ll want to eat it, too.  Maybe I’ll share.” 

Again, I chalked it up to irrational overreaction.   “Tim, it will never come to us trapped in our house eating creamed corn.”  Well, he was right about his job. 

And now the world is shutting down.  Yesterday the governor ordered no businesses to allow more than fifty people to gather.  Today, it is ten.  Schools are closed.  I am a teacher on forced hiatus, and Tim has been trying to manage me for four days now.  I’m being kind and following his orders.  What must it feel like to have no job to go back to when this madness ends? Yesterday he sent me out armed with Lysol wipes in a sandwich baggy.  “Get water and toilet paper before the stores shut down completely.”  North Shore Farms was the only place around with water, but only one 24-pack per customer.  As for toilet paper, well, you know how that story goes.  Instead I bought several pounds of rice, thinking it’s binding and may limit our need for toilet paper.  “Smart,” Tim said, and I felt oddly proud. 

What is happening to us?  We had a five-year plan that was supposed to transition us smoothly into retirement, which included making retirement-minded purchases and getting renovations done to our house to make it the perfect place in which to ride out the rest days.  That plan no longer seems feasible.  Who knows how long it will take Tim to find work again?  Who knows for sure about anything right now?  (I spot my first goldfinch.  Such a sight.  No wren, though.)

Will I have money to plant Robert’s garden this year?  My brother passed away May 5, 2016 and each May 5 I go out and buy begonias and impatiens which bloom through his August 16 birthday and sometimes right into October.  His garden is near the firepit area where I spend my summer nights with Tim, with my grown children, and with our friends.  I make sure to plant some white begonias so they glow in the moonlight.

Robert was four and a half years older than me.  He taught me how to be in this world.  Together, we weathered the storms of a tumultuous childhood as best we could, though we did not come out unscathed.  But at least we could always talk to each other about our scars.  Through the years, we played kickball with shared neighborhood friends, rode bikes to the creek to catch fish and frogs, buried our dog in the backyard, and helped our father die peacefully.    

I try to imagine what Robert would be doing today.  He was never one to panic or get tied up in politics.  His music took him to some beautiful places, and he loved life.   And he loved his family.  Robert was the only one who’d take my autistic daughter anywhere and everywhere.  Other family members are too embarrassed by the things she says and does.  

And Robert was an optimist.  He believed he’d cure his stomach cancer.  He would have, he just ran out of time.

I believed in Robert.  (The sun is out now.  There are four goldfinches at the feeder.)  I believe he’d be riding his bike right now, breathing in the fresh air, enjoying the day.  Maybe he’d come over tonight and sit by the firepit.  There’d be no empty garden outlined there because my brother would be alive.  He’d take out his guitar and sing. (I can hear his voice as clearly as I heard that elusive Carolina wren's song this morning.)  And I’d realize, life is good.  And this is just another thing that we will get through. 

Tim is beneath me in the kitchen, whistling.  I’ve labeled him cheerfully pessimistic.  He trains an electric nail gun at the front door.  He sees me looking down at him from the loft.  “I’m going to teach you how to use this later.” 

“You mean, in case someone tries to break in to steal our supplies?”

“You bet.”  Tim’s all business.  I am learning not to laugh at his predictions, though.  Perhaps darker days are ahead.  But I have tasted hard times before. 

They taste like creamed corn.

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Strange times... (in other words, necessity is the mother of invention):
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