tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42117733958578407232024-03-19T04:38:38.450-08:00Our Third ThirdsCloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.comBlogger374125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-67981707722678059452022-05-20T06:55:00.001-08:002022-05-20T06:55:41.174-08:00"Home" vs. "Away"<p>I’m home now. I’m looking at the flea market couch I brought up from California; I had cushions made three times over the years till I got it just right. Now it’s just right. It’s been in my life 42 years.<br /> <br />Tim has been in my life 34 years, but he had to be out of town this weekend; so “home” as a notion right now is “place,” not “where Tim is.” That makes for interesting thoughts.<br /> <br /><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Home is Life Admin and Chores</span></span></b><br />Home is where I came back to two months of unopened mail, piled high. And that’s Issue #1 about home: It comes with what Sophie calls Life Admin. Life Admin is bills to pay, bank statements to reconcile, plants to be repotted, newspaper delivery issues to be complained about, humidifier to be cleaned and put away, etc etc ad infinitum. Life Admin is Chores.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigckoICwhQiYmlHHKPKbjMqbH-QDrawD7wBoEtyBQ2v-NFXKacRla2XHS5ts6L2XOIrjaNtwBWXeiuEbpj-9CnfLCzis7DY3by70Mck5NptORnOULff_wznXYnh7l0uNJtGQbhk9IgvIO2tcbxgoh7JTSdCnIEBrOFBSCYbPTha37eiI5Ss6kQEOc6RQ/s626/Unopened%20Mail.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="511" data-original-width="626" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigckoICwhQiYmlHHKPKbjMqbH-QDrawD7wBoEtyBQ2v-NFXKacRla2XHS5ts6L2XOIrjaNtwBWXeiuEbpj-9CnfLCzis7DY3by70Mck5NptORnOULff_wznXYnh7l0uNJtGQbhk9IgvIO2tcbxgoh7JTSdCnIEBrOFBSCYbPTha37eiI5Ss6kQEOc6RQ/w346-h282/Unopened%20Mail.jpeg" width="346" /></a></div><p>“Away” still comes with Chores, but they’re different. There will always be laundry, but Away laundry is “throw it all in one load.” Home laundry is different temperatures based on color and fabric, which is not a bad thing. In fact, I enjoy being a <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2017/05/the-purpose-of-laundry.html" target="_blank">master launderer</a>, but Away laundry is the three T-shirts and two jeans you brought, and you’ll wait to repair one pair of jeans till you’re home with your sewing machine (Life Admin).<br /> <br />Home cooking comes with a pantry and a well-stocked spice rack. Away cooking is like camping: in a bare kitchen, I discovered the only staples I needed were olive oil, vinegar, and soy sauce. My salmon, broccoli, and spinach salads were easy and delicious, and dishwashing was a piece of cake, too.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1JN3mWbDh0mbeJGzLvvrxmtDCfPfIZl2qhX_xfgk8i5vhSUxjEMRE0bEPDwyE1Yp063ZHHEsJZvpj1lSZuSxsu_F4B52YHdCG0G5yToKM81ocYFGR0qs2t75Tic_Gg90YCLGQMANQ-hd3431x4NcUt4H01U4RYZLm1o4R0iMWD51ISPfgCop3T5lkw/s654/Kitchen%20Staples.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="654" data-original-width="527" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1JN3mWbDh0mbeJGzLvvrxmtDCfPfIZl2qhX_xfgk8i5vhSUxjEMRE0bEPDwyE1Yp063ZHHEsJZvpj1lSZuSxsu_F4B52YHdCG0G5yToKM81ocYFGR0qs2t75Tic_Gg90YCLGQMANQ-hd3431x4NcUt4H01U4RYZLm1o4R0iMWD51ISPfgCop3T5lkw/s320/Kitchen%20Staples.jpeg" width="258" /></a></div><p>Away eating is usually street food (roti, char siu bao, a baguette, a Greek salad, whatever I come across), so there’s less cooking (and I’m eight pounds less, too). Home eating means cooking, so it runs up against the <a href="http://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2015/11/over-and-over-again.html" target="_blank">do-over-and-over-again problem</a> endemic to Chores.<br /> <br />Away comes with a landlord; Home comes with homeownership. Home ownership comes with Life Admin; it’s a love/hate relationship.<br /> <br /><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Away is escape</span></span></b><br />When I take my Months, Tim, Sophie, and my sister usually visit for a few days or less than a week. This time, Tim came for a month, and I found myself Preparing Speeches in anticipation: “I am not taking care of you.” Wow, I hadn’t expected that, but I realized that Away meant I wasn’t a wife, a mother, a caregiver, a responsible party. I was just Barbara. Although I was first in the Airbnb, I didn’t want to be the household manager, the keeper of Life Admin.<br /> <br />It’s different when Tim and I vacation; then we’re both tourists and equals experiencing a place, and we have a great time. But in my Months, I’m what a friend calls a “resident visitor,” and I’m making a life. It’s an act of creation, and I want to be free to explore it without introducing Life Admin. I startled myself with my vehemence – my ferocity even – I’m still pondering that.<br /> <br /><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Home means a Car</span></span></b><br />Away is public transit; Home is driving a car. My car is <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2018/08/my-friend-car.html" target="_blank">often my friend</a> and I look forward to <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2018/09/sister-reunion.html" target="_blank">road trips</a>; but public <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2015/09/a-love-affair-reawakened.html" target="_blank">transit is my love</a>. My Presto card and the TTC (Toronto Transit Commission) open up a whole world for me while I get to look out windows, not worry about parking or gas, be part of society. Public transit is walking out to a bus or subway stop and knowing one will come within a few minutes. It is not having to check a schedule for the 45-minute chance a bus will come. I used to run Anchorage’s public transit system, but Anchorage will always require a car.</p><p>My last streetcar ride in Toronto was very complicated: almost every stop involved a person in a wheelchair, walker, or stroller; so the ramp was often deployed and the aisle got very crowded. I could have been annoyed, but instead I thought: this is a place to grow old! People can still get around in their Third Third, no matter their physical state.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2_x42_GM4rpW5WJ-oNwO8Zwn56g37F0XnlkK1iV3O-FlBYwwoe_YlDxB7fb6m8IqVetOx9JMSj_L4DwKezRGqPrPL2B_ctbpyMdS11Pav-cb-ePwDF4cyKkBxlaod4DgzAXzDEev-mrR1GfWbp0GxY_neKCOSbZqkJWIPVRLBiOclU6gkK8hhaXHMWQ/s1156/TTC%20Streetcar.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="1156" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2_x42_GM4rpW5WJ-oNwO8Zwn56g37F0XnlkK1iV3O-FlBYwwoe_YlDxB7fb6m8IqVetOx9JMSj_L4DwKezRGqPrPL2B_ctbpyMdS11Pav-cb-ePwDF4cyKkBxlaod4DgzAXzDEev-mrR1GfWbp0GxY_neKCOSbZqkJWIPVRLBiOclU6gkK8hhaXHMWQ/w422-h156/TTC%20Streetcar.jpeg" width="422" /></a></div><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Home is comfort</span></span></b><br /><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44261/the-death-of-the-hired-man" target="_blank">Robert Frost’s home</a> may be “‘… the place where, when you have to go there,/ They have to take you in,’” but <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2020/02/the-illness-lesson.html" target="_blank">Home is also the place</a> that, when you’re not at your best, sick or hurting, “comes with a husband, a couch, a heating pad, a big blanket, Netflix, many library books, a teakettle, and a medicine cabinet.” <br /> <br /><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Home holds memory</span></span></b><br />When my mother moved out of the family home, she lamented the wall where all our heights were marked as we grew up. Those marks were a symbol of all that had transpired there, all the life and memories. Home holds that past. Away holds re-creation. In our Third Third, those two battle a tug-of-war.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4EAaGQ1BUAoG8uJP0I1geJ34A_SB543LSiBpM3cQ5BqE2rhWBfH4pIdWRU7UUDhpDRZn8AChjzTInBuDBL09TDtUkL0vVwBYqVzL0MiZt_N1AGUkLbt6ZxsJHcrKn3cCFcZgdrS3f0n4cnYO2iPAuHkn-XMlKUZCRyFJfU7TFrgUfgPurKAoAg9GqKw/s1038/Tug%20of%20War.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="1038" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4EAaGQ1BUAoG8uJP0I1geJ34A_SB543LSiBpM3cQ5BqE2rhWBfH4pIdWRU7UUDhpDRZn8AChjzTInBuDBL09TDtUkL0vVwBYqVzL0MiZt_N1AGUkLbt6ZxsJHcrKn3cCFcZgdrS3f0n4cnYO2iPAuHkn-XMlKUZCRyFJfU7TFrgUfgPurKAoAg9GqKw/w378-h196/Tug%20of%20War.jpeg" width="378" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-82647870230777993692022-05-10T13:22:00.000-08:002022-05-10T13:22:11.564-08:00Goodbye, Toronto<p>I’m saying my goodbyes to Toronto. I’ve seen my last Hot Docs Festival film, and I’m just back from my last author program. I’ve probably had my last roti, checked out my last book at my local branch library, gone to my last art workshop. Horror of horrors, I’ve even watched my last play.<br /> <br />The thing about my Urban Infusion Months is that I get attached. I embrace my new city – even my new neighborhood – and then I feel such nostalgia over leaving it. I leave little bits of me and my experiences all over.<br /> <br />When I first arrived and wrote <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2022/04/toronto-round-two.html" target="_blank">my last post</a> about the thrill of being a little bit scared, a little bit curious; my friend Helen replied, “How are we friends when we’re so different?! Reading this one made me realize how much I now like creating new routines and avoiding confusion!!”<br /> <br />As I told Helen, “I definitely create new routines. It’s just that they’re <b>new</b> routines, not the same old, same old for the past 35 years!”<br /> <br />So I’d start off every morning checking blogTO to see what new things they’d found for me. And I’d stop off at my Riverdale Branch Library where the librarian posted a new poem every day of April for Poetry Month.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg22-u6qZq_hzHsYzAC2ejVtIpWBrYtXCoYQ0Qhpmz_kux_23CSroiYUjW4SHRl4hGalTV9W2ioHWDXAZn1V8ahhNyeHEV2QXVPo3HKvkkUhA8KTGGN06I8z-jBTZfvyl8rfpLrFzBHt6pCIHFDPtXSlX-bVQgdJuT-yrt5-CsqXDPVLURkmN6P3iTFOA/s916/Riverdale%20Branch%20Library.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="819" data-original-width="916" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg22-u6qZq_hzHsYzAC2ejVtIpWBrYtXCoYQ0Qhpmz_kux_23CSroiYUjW4SHRl4hGalTV9W2ioHWDXAZn1V8ahhNyeHEV2QXVPo3HKvkkUhA8KTGGN06I8z-jBTZfvyl8rfpLrFzBHt6pCIHFDPtXSlX-bVQgdJuT-yrt5-CsqXDPVLURkmN6P3iTFOA/w359-h321/Riverdale%20Branch%20Library.jpg" width="359" /></a></div>Many nights, I’d catch <i>The Great Canadian Baking Show</i> – four seasons’ worth! – after I figured out the TV remote. I learned that Montreal-style bagels have bigger holes than New York bagels and they’re boiled in honey water instead of plain water. They look scrawny and burnt as opposed to New York’s plump and golden, but that honey water holds a LOT of garlic and onion. So when blogTO announced the opening of Kettleman’s Bagels, I headed down there to check them out and watch the bakers in the window. I do that a lot. A half-dozen bagels are coming back to Alaska with me.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheTFBkzyM-e1dmjr0Jl0eLrplUn-jt-80GrO6IFPrxR9Sp8mVAeR3mt5nVLQWTwp7mdQmQXLArMAmm_ucc78JNpSFD4h8hfDf6AG7oU7uYKs5c9AVYxQE7YqN1G5AX7buv-9a5hsxERnMDXasGJqyn3D_tqXT_OC95LX6NvZwECCsHGyr-Fvse81kHrg/s911/NY%20v%20Montreal%20Bagels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="482" data-original-width="911" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheTFBkzyM-e1dmjr0Jl0eLrplUn-jt-80GrO6IFPrxR9Sp8mVAeR3mt5nVLQWTwp7mdQmQXLArMAmm_ucc78JNpSFD4h8hfDf6AG7oU7uYKs5c9AVYxQE7YqN1G5AX7buv-9a5hsxERnMDXasGJqyn3D_tqXT_OC95LX6NvZwECCsHGyr-Fvse81kHrg/w354-h187/NY%20v%20Montreal%20Bagels.jpg" width="354" /></a></div>I learned where the Apple store was when my external hard drive crashed, so I knew where it was when Tim lost a cable. Around the corner, Yael has put the recipe for my hair color in the files so she can repeat it. When I discovered that Nova Era Bakery in Little Portugal has a wonderful little café in back, I took Elizabeth and Tim there, too. It’s my new “Spot,” right near Galo de Barcelos.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoA0BnWtuXzecUJ2_7Yy-6PenVoRGQh-BZ74J_xkdOHnScaPKiJ3NfdHCmSVsXigbWNVRxUiYfK1ndw_v3xxYzCjR5Q53ePrXg1PIOXylMe_-cidxXVutqi_dxM5yHCIo3EtqGO7HG7JNImNwmDfmTDCU0q_z_pFjjFyaMb8p8URl2y7GXdhcv7zagSw/s891/Galo%20de%20Barcelos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="891" data-original-width="587" height="399" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoA0BnWtuXzecUJ2_7Yy-6PenVoRGQh-BZ74J_xkdOHnScaPKiJ3NfdHCmSVsXigbWNVRxUiYfK1ndw_v3xxYzCjR5Q53ePrXg1PIOXylMe_-cidxXVutqi_dxM5yHCIo3EtqGO7HG7JNImNwmDfmTDCU0q_z_pFjjFyaMb8p8URl2y7GXdhcv7zagSw/w263-h399/Galo%20de%20Barcelos.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><p>I have my favorite FreshCo, my favorite COBS Bread, my favorite Bulk Barn, even my favorite Dollarama with my favorite licorice. I have my favorite streetcar (although Tim insists I’ve never met a streetcar I didn’t love). I have a tried-and-true walk up the hill to the subway, and I know where the bad puddle exists permanently in Riverdale Park. I even have a favorite spot on the couch in the apartment living room.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir64KCatJBYgNQi-BYXmpADRCJ9mTJKfAWuWmezDXlx-xjrDFVcx2a4alLnyDs-G1i-OkzC_vVpeHoaW3FCxde1Ofu3ECbfTb2NJaV0jObBQKrtOHXFEqlkkpr9wHtCD_VgFO8fs8LbeX5883gn3injnNgPzKdJqJ3rmOa7yFgMOrl1-hzrfreue_XyQ/s1373/Airbnb%20Couch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="656" data-original-width="1373" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir64KCatJBYgNQi-BYXmpADRCJ9mTJKfAWuWmezDXlx-xjrDFVcx2a4alLnyDs-G1i-OkzC_vVpeHoaW3FCxde1Ofu3ECbfTb2NJaV0jObBQKrtOHXFEqlkkpr9wHtCD_VgFO8fs8LbeX5883gn3injnNgPzKdJqJ3rmOa7yFgMOrl1-hzrfreue_XyQ/w515-h247/Airbnb%20Couch.jpg" width="515" /></a></div><br />Still, no one sits next to anyone on the TTC yet, and there’s even distancing spaces in theaters, so my salvation has been Meetup: Walking Adventures with Deb. Several times a week, Deb leads us through the nooks and crannies of Toronto to the glorious greenery of the ravines, paths, and rivers. We’re outdoors and unmasked and walking and talking. Siobhan, Penny, Anna, Phyllis, Janet, Alison, and so many other welcoming folks made such a difference. I see what’s ahead on the calendar, but I won’t be here.<br /> <br />On Sunday afternoons, the Danforth Jewish Circle let me be a part of their Jewish community and their art workshop to create a print for a tapestry for the sanctuary. Now I’ll only see photos when it’s finished.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXZwZBBW7AKvIlTmD-_wzTFEjeJQL8fkFMDvSoFh6VlOA7ogUwEIhVFLZdaGs3tlMGnbBauMUx-b-Qr45m-N9XUxW5_5_f8fRoDUl8jUllxSAyw3-7Wf8VXH3xHAU8Ysq7FDi9BTnsRaDnaAROFhcUFkiiqGro0bq0s00G-cocONttdnZ3sSVAHJpUpQ/s1116/Daffodil%20Print.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1116" data-original-width="938" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXZwZBBW7AKvIlTmD-_wzTFEjeJQL8fkFMDvSoFh6VlOA7ogUwEIhVFLZdaGs3tlMGnbBauMUx-b-Qr45m-N9XUxW5_5_f8fRoDUl8jUllxSAyw3-7Wf8VXH3xHAU8Ysq7FDi9BTnsRaDnaAROFhcUFkiiqGro0bq0s00G-cocONttdnZ3sSVAHJpUpQ/w291-h346/Daffodil%20Print.JPG" width="291" /></a></div><p><br />In all my reading and conjecturing about parallel lives and multiverses, I think about all the branches of my lives that take off after I’ve left them. There’s the Anchorage Barbara, the Toronto Barbara, the New York Barbara, the San Francisco Barbara, and even the Costa Rica Barbara. If I’d stayed in one place, I could hold my life close and let it continue. But by starting new lives in several places, I have to let them go.<br /> <br />This is the sweet and sad part. I have to let them go.<br /> <br />Because there’s another part of me that wants to lie with Tim on our back deck in Anchorage and look out over the yard that’s held barbecues and potlucks, croquet games and badminton games, Sophie’s playhouse and once-healthy spruce trees. To bask in all the history of 37 years in one spot.</p><p><br /></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-19743140262305170922022-04-11T16:56:00.000-08:002022-04-11T16:56:30.790-08:00Toronto -- Round Two<p>Here I am now – culturally-infused, foot-sore, and exploration-happy – in my latest Urban Infusion Month. Hooray! I’m back in Toronto – three years to the day – but this time for <b>two</b> months. So far, I’ve done Manhattan, London, Toronto, and the Covid-aborted Philadelphia; but <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2019/05/why-i-do-it.html " target="_blank">Toronto was my favorite</a> of them all.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7jQqGk4jf_u4ovzuiusLqiUjemKLBmTe5Bp--QVnrrocOKySJiL5v02QMtFE_uV3AC7JtCWfUXG9KJ0m3xWOoY67SO6eIz_NvhT1_xsbXDXC_eVdDrlKDLfSNxsIEmH3RGTCtxZzGQBLM6djkB7zUfOCc0i93p4sdqEslIX-GLGS83DYhzhKM70dzfQ/s1658/Toronto%20Bandaid%20Sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="1658" height="94" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7jQqGk4jf_u4ovzuiusLqiUjemKLBmTe5Bp--QVnrrocOKySJiL5v02QMtFE_uV3AC7JtCWfUXG9KJ0m3xWOoY67SO6eIz_NvhT1_xsbXDXC_eVdDrlKDLfSNxsIEmH3RGTCtxZzGQBLM6djkB7zUfOCc0i93p4sdqEslIX-GLGS83DYhzhKM70dzfQ/w627-h94/Toronto%20Bandaid%20Sign.jpg" width="627" /></a></div><p> I’ve been thinking about what these trips do for me.<br /></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Yes, they’re a chance to get Spring earlier than it comes to Alaska (although Toronto has had snow and winds that suck the warmth right out of me).<br /><br /></li><li>And yes, I feed my live-theater lust – I’ve already been to five plays here with two more in the next few days.<br /><br /></li><li>And yes, I get to be car-less while happily gorging on transit.<br /><br /></li><li>I get to escape meal-planning; grazing on ethnic street food or fruit returns hours to my days!</li></ul><p>These are four really big reasons.<br /> <br />My only difficulty can be social isolation. There was that <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2017/05/reflections-on-return-1.html" target="_blank">rough time in London</a> because British people don’t talk to people they don’t know, but Toronto was special because <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2019/04/welcome-to-toronto.html" target="_blank">Torontonians talk to everyone</a>!<br /> <br />But this is a Covid-changed world. Even Torontonians don’t talk to everyone anywhere. Everywhere – including on transit – we’re six feet apart, wearing masks, and not making friends. But on the other hand, the rest of the world isn’t very far away: with Zoom, I still meet with my Alaska book club, <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2020/10/the-challenges-of-art.html" target="_blank">Bricolage art challenge group</a>, and my siblings. Some days I don’t even feel like I’m gone.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDnHOcDtVwjOdiCcbv5UzTTHXiaRuCluWeRUu8afTo27fDwsmpCkrd9nptUIvugP4Wu66NKhPhYT_48mIKkS2Nh1fn5wGoZHHlKOZnuac6GCIph6VTqvl-42BYL2LCfJV4jcsjMZL6JTNvJYdW6mKOfZlLKPqgSMSWiCg12VzJlsTol1fPsj6bwzP6Ag/s731/Seats%20Empty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="582" data-original-width="731" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDnHOcDtVwjOdiCcbv5UzTTHXiaRuCluWeRUu8afTo27fDwsmpCkrd9nptUIvugP4Wu66NKhPhYT_48mIKkS2Nh1fn5wGoZHHlKOZnuac6GCIph6VTqvl-42BYL2LCfJV4jcsjMZL6JTNvJYdW6mKOfZlLKPqgSMSWiCg12VzJlsTol1fPsj6bwzP6Ag/w378-h301/Seats%20Empty.jpg" width="378" /></a></div><p>What I’ve learned so far is what my months <i>really</i> do for me. They confuse me. They stump me. They fill my days with riddles and glitches, happy accidents and utter confusion. When I get on a bus I’ve never been on before, I have that squirrelly nervous feeling: What if I miss my stop and end up God knows where? I sit on the edge of my seat.<br /></p><p>I <b>seek out</b> this feeling; it’s why I’m here. It’s the Quest for
New-ness, the thrill and mystery of non-stale, non-stagnant (without my
fear of heights). I do my produce shopping in Chinatown, where
everything is way cheaper. Lately, the big crop is strawberries. Two big
baskets of strawberries for $2 each (and that’s Canadian dollars!). But
over there, on the next table – same vendor – they’re $1 each. How can
that be? Why?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOpqQJ7kI4m4mUrtTuRm-BFZxulB7jqfOgG247JISAdu0QIvN811dEHU1LSvQBzxnBPHwzhwNIHyaGCEPOKdtqEowlLwrxBXIS4SLmHtvdyYt86RAEQy03sbNhxb7UDgIv0lHpHI8ylyQ0LklBX5z83IKcAe0ObX4nwtcxsIjGalTnripB_PstnfJEHw/s877/Strawberry%20Sale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="566" data-original-width="877" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOpqQJ7kI4m4mUrtTuRm-BFZxulB7jqfOgG247JISAdu0QIvN811dEHU1LSvQBzxnBPHwzhwNIHyaGCEPOKdtqEowlLwrxBXIS4SLmHtvdyYt86RAEQy03sbNhxb7UDgIv0lHpHI8ylyQ0LklBX5z83IKcAe0ObX4nwtcxsIjGalTnripB_PstnfJEHw/w421-h272/Strawberry%20Sale.jpg" width="421" /></a></div><br />Because $1 strawberries go bad twice as fast as $2 strawberries.<br /><br />I try to be helpful at grocery stores, bringing carts in from the lot to the store. But yesterday, when I saw a woman loading her car, I offered to bring her cart back in, and she looked askance at me. Why? Well, when I returned the cart, there was a little plastic thing hanging, and when I attached it, a dollar – a loonie – popped out! Uh, oh! I bet that woman is telling her family about the panhandler taking her cart money!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8f5xPhWJPK5G5jL1kx_-btz4v9KD0g0pfoVwRk4csTq5-4hmGvA_NihKezCDmPuyvhi4fsITwLkYQJdJdPAZfReqaev_k_x28KBpBeQjqR7vRkJP-KpK2DczBI7npnOMEJF1iTJ1RRL4JmToyPGbbYEkNguNk94G0KGb_EgOj1R-vPlXgpi4JT7t1w/s798/Pay%20Cart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="688" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8f5xPhWJPK5G5jL1kx_-btz4v9KD0g0pfoVwRk4csTq5-4hmGvA_NihKezCDmPuyvhi4fsITwLkYQJdJdPAZfReqaev_k_x28KBpBeQjqR7vRkJP-KpK2DczBI7npnOMEJF1iTJ1RRL4JmToyPGbbYEkNguNk94G0KGb_EgOj1R-vPlXgpi4JT7t1w/s320/Pay%20Cart.jpg" width="276" /></a> <br /></div><p>My day is filled with things that need figuring out: Why does the remote work easily to turn things on but has a terrible time turning things off? How do people easily deal with their milk in floppy, plastic bags? Does the Sweet’n Low paper go in the Blue Bin, the Green Bin, or garbage?<br /> <br />Oh, I have bigger questions: Why did Matthew Wong’s exhibition at the Art Gallery of Ontario appeal to me so much? Was it because they were all blue, that they spoke of isolation, that they had simple lines, that Wong was self-taught, that he was bipolar and killed himself at 35? Was it the work itself or the artist’s pain in creating it? Is that why Van Gogh moves me?<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRnaKzWRDrf3DZYLmQvqaBPNTyXGslaxH9kxjJWPopptNQNN1S3NBmSbbWEtYhxPcNeI6g9uqrKlxXP7iaVfVJjUi0dEph9w987P0KFab6Ot4Q9Gyi--POtxH1o-BTH6KRf2tVyHZHKoEE7VrG_zNZ_PDpka-B8XVxwexzwicpm8hLR4hcpX1ira4TOw/s668/%22Uptown%20Blues%22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="668" data-original-width="608" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRnaKzWRDrf3DZYLmQvqaBPNTyXGslaxH9kxjJWPopptNQNN1S3NBmSbbWEtYhxPcNeI6g9uqrKlxXP7iaVfVJjUi0dEph9w987P0KFab6Ot4Q9Gyi--POtxH1o-BTH6KRf2tVyHZHKoEE7VrG_zNZ_PDpka-B8XVxwexzwicpm8hLR4hcpX1ira4TOw/w311-h342/%22Uptown%20Blues%22.jpg" width="311" /></a></div><p>In the play, “Gloria,” when Gloria shoots everyone in her workplace except Dean, Kendra misses it all because she’s out getting coffee and Nan is hiding under her desk. All three write a book from his/her perspective and argue about who has the right to “the story.” Who owns any story?<br /> <br />Big questions and little ones. When I wake up in the morning, I have to remember the new place where I store the cereal, which drawer has my underwear. Is it easier to go up Spadina and walk west or Bathurst and walk east?<br /> <br />Nothing is routine, and the strange interrupts the ordinary at a moment’s notice. Every day, at any moment, I can get a jolt of difference, newness, confusion – even panic. And wonder, too. I like living like this.</p><p> </p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-9056309647672179232022-03-12T20:57:00.001-09:002022-03-12T20:57:46.464-09:00The Perils of Updating<p>It was time for the 6-year-old MacBook to die. It was still living in El Capitan, back in 2015. In the Mac world (where they give their operating systems cute names), I was years behind. Eons and mountains and deserts behind.<br /><br />Websites were starting to remind me I was out of date, if not forbidding me entrance. Some browsers didn’t even want to know me anymore.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnihaRhaIsdEBGd-nGCLYIwMZuoB2xVTOXKConlj-yQQZZnG29DVjEhK2LJhB5abMFa2h7SCxoglUARSbabulwcIo-j-6NoDPfp88TM3T2qZ8uEJmADaoqMybMJMTZ2Ce7Fr76j2-cHL2b_q9QcSd4d0Uhc6ekly9WYMvuIqo5opxllUI4lTqAzRbUvA=s820" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="820" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnihaRhaIsdEBGd-nGCLYIwMZuoB2xVTOXKConlj-yQQZZnG29DVjEhK2LJhB5abMFa2h7SCxoglUARSbabulwcIo-j-6NoDPfp88TM3T2qZ8uEJmADaoqMybMJMTZ2Ce7Fr76j2-cHL2b_q9QcSd4d0Uhc6ekly9WYMvuIqo5opxllUI4lTqAzRbUvA=w387-h213" width="387" /></a></div><p>So I decided to update my system. Maybe travel as far as Big Sur or … Monterey! But then an alert popped up: my Microsoft Office 2011 wouldn’t work anymore if I updated my computer. I’d have to update to Microsoft 365.<br /><br />Aiiiieeee! All this updating! They’re talking to a person who has had the same hairstyle for thirty years, who doesn’t ever rearrange furniture, who kept her <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2018/08/my-friend-car.html" target="_blank">beloved Subaru</a> for 20 years and only heartbreakingly replaced it.<br /><br />I took the plunge. It helped that my sister’s office was burglarized and she had to replace her computer, so some of the replacement research was done. (Sorry, Allison.) Both of us are now proud owners of MacBook Airs.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGolZrymJMkDkHSsfVcr-NL6Mbynuyl9aGyNi7sV2_RZfYHmzSYinu3vsyneSfFS79M_DkhhQJqSYGqlQ9qopPtWC8-DegZHnrKYrG0zBHhTzahkL48H5dNpgI3ah3FPa2ECQPJLsdhdoa_Bpi6NtWFr6GoEDGolYjzT3R9vcElgpzhVrvfszKNi93Uw=s624" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="624" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGolZrymJMkDkHSsfVcr-NL6Mbynuyl9aGyNi7sV2_RZfYHmzSYinu3vsyneSfFS79M_DkhhQJqSYGqlQ9qopPtWC8-DegZHnrKYrG0zBHhTzahkL48H5dNpgI3ah3FPa2ECQPJLsdhdoa_Bpi6NtWFr6GoEDGolYjzT3R9vcElgpzhVrvfszKNi93Uw=s320" width="320" /></a></div>I can say “proud” because I’m just now recovering from hysteria. The Geniuses at the Genius Bar at the Apple Store must see me and run for the back rooms. Five visits in four days. And that’s not even counting the at-home computer consultant and the chats and phone calls with Apple Support. I’ve been a one-woman disturbance in the cloud universe.<br /><br />The Cloud! The misty, obscure, and unknowable Cloud. Because I decided I’d have to backup to The Cloud in case (as happened with poor Allison) my laptop was stolen or destroyed. (Allison was wisely backed up.)<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHCvpOR7CdtI_yc3cWzOKotI0YXlWFHzWdislaU_OdL9oGbsxOJvMlbHtcfED205RZNIsLYgejVb7XJfKr1guoA2UZpR3gl-0IN-hdJmqrgkmI0BOF3CVnQJ6-WGvKEZBVZsldmOpL0Y6RPhoCjzPAVUcQv70rex0QWBhY6ZmlkK91WXVJnKFvX36KfQ=s694" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="490" data-original-width="694" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHCvpOR7CdtI_yc3cWzOKotI0YXlWFHzWdislaU_OdL9oGbsxOJvMlbHtcfED205RZNIsLYgejVb7XJfKr1guoA2UZpR3gl-0IN-hdJmqrgkmI0BOF3CVnQJ6-WGvKEZBVZsldmOpL0Y6RPhoCjzPAVUcQv70rex0QWBhY6ZmlkK91WXVJnKFvX36KfQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div>First, we had to empty the brains of my old laptop into the new brain. That was a couple of visits which involved the horrors of where did my neat little highly-organized folders go? Then there was the problem of where did my photos go?<br /><br />And did I even talk about passwords? I could do an entire sitcom on passwords.<br /><br />That’s when Nancy the Computer Whiz entered my home. She sat down at my computer and explained how to back up to The Cloud, and she made it happen. She explained how to do the password thing, the photo thing. But poor Nancy had me as a client.<br /><br />So Nancy had to put up with many hysterical emails. Tim had to put up with hysteria in person. The Geniuses don’t know how close they were to having a crazy woman run amok in the Fifth Avenue Mall.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTTk6U90XUJ84lYZei6sUQ69XCOL9mG3wHREBXHv2VV81Y-xCfhls4WtqWduGRIy97I2a9mL3yzb_WHpqVW71AylnBrBc_DzyO0HQqnmg357khg1bWfWmUdEsAxsTlpcSs8Q_rUeeuOF_OBdB2z1ahzNHKuPAgCeg4m0lsEML09m3qg1VOpXydM9SfBg=s742" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="742" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTTk6U90XUJ84lYZei6sUQ69XCOL9mG3wHREBXHv2VV81Y-xCfhls4WtqWduGRIy97I2a9mL3yzb_WHpqVW71AylnBrBc_DzyO0HQqnmg357khg1bWfWmUdEsAxsTlpcSs8Q_rUeeuOF_OBdB2z1ahzNHKuPAgCeg4m0lsEML09m3qg1VOpXydM9SfBg=w347-h218" width="347" /></a></div>Because everything had disappeared from my computer. It was all in The Cloud, so what if I didn’t have Internet, did I have <b>NOTHING?!?</b><br /><br />I find it amazing – if not reassuring – that when I have a problem and ask Google, as I’m typing it out, Google auto completes my query. It means that other people have the same problem. I type in “document not…” and Google comes up with “not loading on my Mac,” “not updating,” “not in my backup,” etc etc. I type in “photos not…” and I get the catalog of everyone else’s problems with photos.<br /><br />I type in “how to calm” and it’s amazing how many people need to calm down, calm anxiety, calm a hysterical person, calm a panic attack.<br /><br />Eight emails and Nancy could not reassure me. “It’s all in The Cloud! It’s gone from my computer! <span style="font-family: Monoton;">Gone</span><b>!!</b>” Finally, she told me to disconnect from wifi. I did. My things were still there! They weren’t stuck in The Cloud, they’d just changed locations, rearranged the furniture.<br /><br />My heart rate is slowing down. I can function again. I’d started out writing about things that merely confuse me before I was distracted by things that traumatize me. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get back to mere confusion.<br />CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-1893384933719064382022-02-20T20:33:00.000-09:002022-02-20T20:33:06.725-09:00A Very Good Jar<p>I made a very interesting discovery – an illuminating discovery – but it came about from a whole other direction, which is often how discoveries come about. It started with this cartoon.<br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiIwJj9myWMUeBcoZGFsfR-5GV_BTk_xjHoORkBaYTR1fMMu9YEDQ_NYQ_wnMlQEfw_EkSPlcSO3znGfWw8hnMRVaE71FNXT263C8dSrJiLthIlxjIcq3dOcSjFP0lEbxjgIgfUQO_3VTHibyerPVz-eNBRfuS_gaygQN6LzWsltByG1-8NU9LOxTM6Pw=s553" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="487" data-original-width="553" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiIwJj9myWMUeBcoZGFsfR-5GV_BTk_xjHoORkBaYTR1fMMu9YEDQ_NYQ_wnMlQEfw_EkSPlcSO3znGfWw8hnMRVaE71FNXT263C8dSrJiLthIlxjIcq3dOcSjFP0lEbxjgIgfUQO_3VTHibyerPVz-eNBRfuS_gaygQN6LzWsltByG1-8NU9LOxTM6Pw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think it's time to consider the possibility that you might never reuse your old jars.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Which started a typical Third Third conversation about getting rid of things, decluttering, needing things some day, not being able to part with things. You know the drill. Ultimately, the group concluded: No More Jars!<br /><br />But I replied, “Just yesterday, I used Goo Gone to get the adhesive off a Very Good Jar. I did something creative with the lid.”<br /><br />Which led to the other question: What constitutes a Very Good Jar? Do you have your own definition of a Very Good Jar? (And, by the way, do you have a definition of a Very Good Box, too?) And if you have a Very Good Jar, do you debate and reconsider and ultimately decide to … keep it?<br /><br />My Very Good Jar has clear glass, straight sides with no narrowing for the mouth, and a snug but easily rotatable lid that ideally doesn’t have a label on top. It needs to feel sturdy in the hand. This is a nearly perfect jar:<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhyoVTYz0gAuAEbJNZgu08oc7OyxXDPVqY4ke9-vEkgtyalbbF8k3Gcb2sC51bwNMsRVFZa-kYHWDakwkTp3FaYuoPWzMrKW77VnlTNRZQzuEFp8yuXzbXeX_V-OP-aFI2Zvsvws_JhGuP1Lysndms_b6P-iZ8uV_swlk-BFQE0sS8bjpIBJNyrJxmV-Q=s743" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="743" data-original-width="711" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhyoVTYz0gAuAEbJNZgu08oc7OyxXDPVqY4ke9-vEkgtyalbbF8k3Gcb2sC51bwNMsRVFZa-kYHWDakwkTp3FaYuoPWzMrKW77VnlTNRZQzuEFp8yuXzbXeX_V-OP-aFI2Zvsvws_JhGuP1Lysndms_b6P-iZ8uV_swlk-BFQE0sS8bjpIBJNyrJxmV-Q=s320" width="306" /></a></div>The only problem with this jar is that the label adheres too well. When you soak it and then peel it off, it leaves adhesive behind. It’s a sticky mess. That’s why you need Goo Gone.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEju0hFTvhdSAMm95u4LNcotdkSPRm0sAPxe6LdqWy7jB4sicqnRYEtnKkZraWFZ_jZqBHac1gb6BFMrtwrol3yDY999Jf8KEPfYOufm6V_JtrZTONNRlOaOdS5c-_45i8BiNm3tcscwn0fZa1hU4F5zFC2tO7bdFqScpChEBzpIPlUbOAx24agD7I0Bjg=s993" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="993" data-original-width="376" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEju0hFTvhdSAMm95u4LNcotdkSPRm0sAPxe6LdqWy7jB4sicqnRYEtnKkZraWFZ_jZqBHac1gb6BFMrtwrol3yDY999Jf8KEPfYOufm6V_JtrZTONNRlOaOdS5c-_45i8BiNm3tcscwn0fZa1hU4F5zFC2tO7bdFqScpChEBzpIPlUbOAx24agD7I0Bjg=s320" width="121" /></a></div>Meanwhile, in a totally unrelated foray into my closet (Art Supply Storage), I came across Sophie’s Fun with Beads – Ancient Egypt kit from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Back in third grade, she’d meticulously beaded the “Lotus Bud Garland Necklace for Ipuy or his wife.” The kit was short one color of bead for that project, so I wrote the Museum. Next thing we knew, we were inundated with multiple sets of more and more beads. All of them now reside in Art Supply Storage.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitDIhyrA7Hgw6DfrRS05pY272W7-vGpYJ9PeyPhw3BFrQz_M-eSDwY3wd6MLnPzJPOWN9-nyKV-HUF6IPVtFUjCii-k7uJIbgNtfyeWRCx1yqq1GMYzkS3W7Z_n0R19jK2zyAa2Qae_qCS_ZVmZl5NCjHxmr0Fii9zGZAIXMpHtzFO8A24skcHOiJrjA=s849" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="849" data-original-width="634" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitDIhyrA7Hgw6DfrRS05pY272W7-vGpYJ9PeyPhw3BFrQz_M-eSDwY3wd6MLnPzJPOWN9-nyKV-HUF6IPVtFUjCii-k7uJIbgNtfyeWRCx1yqq1GMYzkS3W7Z_n0R19jK2zyAa2Qae_qCS_ZVmZl5NCjHxmr0Fii9zGZAIXMpHtzFO8A24skcHOiJrjA=s320" width="239" /></a></div>These are eensy beensy little ceramic beads, not suitable for my Third Third hands to do anything involving stringing, but I could glue them. Looking around for a glue destination, I spied a Very Good Jar. And since the Very Good Jar does have a label on top, I could cover that up with beads and improve it further. I glued and sprinkled.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEie9p4YfkeZEIzKbst6Zul1-hxYQfMnh0YrzRloJWoij9KB_ec0TzlCqp0gS4UkINP4F7DpJGZrtDc4Y-Uvztqj1wOpO6wn1ebtItkOAF7Mi4xP_sSY62BjbhHzumxDaWvCZsA2IM5bX3HvktEf37jHGV6OPFoGQ2A7S71hubRZt4BS4tKIytBDXOAgFQ=s618" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="618" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEie9p4YfkeZEIzKbst6Zul1-hxYQfMnh0YrzRloJWoij9KB_ec0TzlCqp0gS4UkINP4F7DpJGZrtDc4Y-Uvztqj1wOpO6wn1ebtItkOAF7Mi4xP_sSY62BjbhHzumxDaWvCZsA2IM5bX3HvktEf37jHGV6OPFoGQ2A7S71hubRZt4BS4tKIytBDXOAgFQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p>Ta-dah! Something from nothing! Jars rescued from mediocrity. I could give jars with beaded lids as gifts. An Even Better Jar! <br /><br />But that’s not even the illuminating discovery. In the process of admiring the Very Good Jar, of painting it for this blog, I had to look very carefully at the label. Do you see it?<br /><br />I am a major spelling advocate. I have taught courses on spelling, I have conducted spelling bees, and I am the Pronouncer for the Alaska Literacy Program’s <i>BizBee</i>, the <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2018/11/dare-to-spell.html" target="_blank">adult spelling bee</a>. I am the Werd Nerd.<br /><br />And if you’d ever asked me how to spell bouillon (the soup, not the gold bar), I would have ended it with –ion. There is no second I in bouillon! Apparently, the LL in French comes with its own Y sound. Isn’t that amazing! There’s only one I in bouillon, and I never knew that.<br /><br />What a day: <b>two</b> New Things. I’ll be talking about that I in bouillon for <strike>days</strike> weeks.</p><p><br /></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-73457056326840223412022-02-13T13:55:00.001-09:002022-02-13T13:55:42.396-09:00Baby Steps<p>Baby steps.<br /><br />Little by little I may reenter society.<br /><br />The problem when you feel despair – a “dark night of the soul” – is that you can still interact with people, but when you do, you pull out some ebullience, some pep, because otherwise you’re just a black hole. A Debbie Downer. But then you feel like a fake (not to mention that you can get a little manic in the overcompensation and that’s a whole other alarm). And if you want to be authentic in your interactions with friends, then you’re not presenting properly. You’re presenting positive energy, and that’s not what you have. Other people see a person, but you are just a shattered pile of pieces.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZVg4xwh5cEuxqWaes-nlbs99uuNBhfndBl3PCvqfvs5xIblNUESTHsblQ-78PExbvuQNjli_fTsrF5VqqcT_cBbS2odZn45DYSQptgXIuJR52DQikMxY6oyDRI31TAlJcX7kqZE4Mzpa3qq-P6M4L_SGdQmVANOkXZIXoXt_b1W6gwMf0mkMDN6l4fA=s922" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="342" data-original-width="922" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZVg4xwh5cEuxqWaes-nlbs99uuNBhfndBl3PCvqfvs5xIblNUESTHsblQ-78PExbvuQNjli_fTsrF5VqqcT_cBbS2odZn45DYSQptgXIuJR52DQikMxY6oyDRI31TAlJcX7kqZE4Mzpa3qq-P6M4L_SGdQmVANOkXZIXoXt_b1W6gwMf0mkMDN6l4fA=w400-h149" width="400" /></a></div>So you just stop.<br /><br />And because there’s Zoom, you can still appear to be interacting and not missing out on book club or theater group, but that’s because the machine protects you. Maybe people are not doing Gallery View and so they don’t see you. You can always Stop Video.<br /><br />I wear contact lenses. When I was younger, I noticed that when I wore glasses, I felt like no one could see me. A barrier had gone up around my eyes that shielded me. When I wear a mask, the same thing happens. I get to walk around like the Invisible Woman.<br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlezGimFAAHgkc07ybghjrD8DjSPkIN7EnAZ7dFTeQJqRUoYUHMJMJI4g590qbZ6K8H320vj5yQ-fyw1K-TzlgScEIHJwjPkntES6vPT2K-R7WdoF3GrhwylK7QOi-UzLHWrTeQOr4jgKh4gmVh8DvgnTx6afK2b8WNOTLqWykbD7pT5v53jpWgT-nkg=s822" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="822" data-original-width="701" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlezGimFAAHgkc07ybghjrD8DjSPkIN7EnAZ7dFTeQJqRUoYUHMJMJI4g590qbZ6K8H320vj5yQ-fyw1K-TzlgScEIHJwjPkntES6vPT2K-R7WdoF3GrhwylK7QOi-UzLHWrTeQOr4jgKh4gmVh8DvgnTx6afK2b8WNOTLqWykbD7pT5v53jpWgT-nkg=w240-h281" width="240" /></a></div><p>And when the adult daughter spent December with us, my world just moved into our living room. When the temperatures hung out well below zero, I didn’t go out.<br /><br />So this perfect storm of fakery-avoidance and machines and barriers and home and below zero just allowed me to isolate. And isolate. Even now, I’m not sure how to stop it. It makes many things much easier: less planning, less arranging, less energy required.<br /><br />I do two things: I read a lot, and I do jigsaw puzzles. Jigsaw puzzles are disorder assembled into order. That is all they have to do, and I cannot say enough <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2016/05/in-praise-of-jigsaw-puzzle.html" target="_blank">good things about jigsaw puzzles</a>. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiMzCwtM9bkkYNromsEmAHeuwHghP70M6qnWlPajRUwQIlKngm8SdTXZpM94Goa7XyawvFcImnqnvH8NtxNmc147Fnh0GGj57bTZHiuSMmFos6zigD9BUrGfScRpY0jXbuuSqlhXUpxX_MwpcsZ_rzl6V_9x7fRvlcwFjjg7PeNrsbH6ktTax1V2vhp-g=s648" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="648" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiMzCwtM9bkkYNromsEmAHeuwHghP70M6qnWlPajRUwQIlKngm8SdTXZpM94Goa7XyawvFcImnqnvH8NtxNmc147Fnh0GGj57bTZHiuSMmFos6zigD9BUrGfScRpY0jXbuuSqlhXUpxX_MwpcsZ_rzl6V_9x7fRvlcwFjjg7PeNrsbH6ktTax1V2vhp-g=w270-h256" width="270" /></a></div>How did all this start? No, my “dark night of the soul” is <b>not</b> about Covid.<br /><br />2021 traumatized me. No, it <b>traumatized</b> me. No, more accurately, it <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Luckiest Guy;">traumatized</span></span> me. It started with January 6 and watching our legislators have to run and cower for their lives. And it continued with watching some of those same legislators later deny the severity of what happened, watching an entire Republican Party cower to the megalomania of a demagogue.<br /><br />Then I watched our Supreme Court decide they could control women’s bodies. More recently, they decided it was discrimination to try and reverse discrimination. In Anchorage, I saw our mayor dismantle homeless shelters, close Covid testing sites, even mess with our library. My library! My most prized institution in the world!<br /><br />Oh, I’ve organized Zoom calls with my senators, email and phone my legislators repeatedly, prepare testimony, teach English to refugees and immigrants, donate to worthy causes; but our democracy is in danger, and all I am is some ineffectual Paul Revere shouting in the wilderness.<br /><br />The only communication possible became a rant. Or despair. Both socially unacceptable.<br /><br />I told Tim I was trapped in this world, that if I were an animal I would try to chew off my arm to escape.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbj_SCkayF9IbCDKzMMxLOo1cjnQe56DVH54MoiVY6OnGR3eTSdHirMfZatakqXTgi-APn69O30sNjgPHGOS49p7kuFJKZdW_zudswZfqHgMsA5CFoDC08EI86rh9uc1_ei9CYJUKPuLAne3TsZWVWJHofphq0Fq40MVewFciy9c-TQrmO_CoAKYsurA=s780" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="780" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbj_SCkayF9IbCDKzMMxLOo1cjnQe56DVH54MoiVY6OnGR3eTSdHirMfZatakqXTgi-APn69O30sNjgPHGOS49p7kuFJKZdW_zudswZfqHgMsA5CFoDC08EI86rh9uc1_ei9CYJUKPuLAne3TsZWVWJHofphq0Fq40MVewFciy9c-TQrmO_CoAKYsurA=w363-h221" width="363" /></a></div>So he took me to Mexico, to daylight and warmth and water and beaches. It has <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2016/01/stop-do-you-see-pattern-here.html " target="_blank">saved my psyche</a> every year, and it did again. I have a dopey, leaky yellow plastic raft that can barely stay afloat. And unlike a <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2021/05/the-quest-for-new-ness-5.html" target="_blank">boogie board</a>, the limp, leaky raft doesn’t keep you on top of the wave. It lets the wave pummel you, flip you up from down, smash you into the sand. You emerge with a scalp full of sand, a bathing suit full of sand, and a shriek of being alive. I laughed out loud. That sound actually came from me. I heard it.<br /><br />But what really saved me in Mexico was respect. In the restaurant, people would enter with a mask, hang it on the little hook by their table while they ate, and put it back on when they got up. I felt like they cared about the health of their community, about each other. They passed laws to protect themselves and others.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUVx9aJ5LYEd02BP7ZAIvGMY_PbVckqIrtNevzLuCUR1CvKQ_8I705BYK4CymCgmO3JodbwdtNLewRS7Hcl7pxK7Ebb91vUfLKX_2s4hwLTHDV_pkRjtYQaEfJQvV3GVmb_Po0PZC7Rmh_REAAfiNS-8mwVhagS0aMQp7HddVcRyIzROm3pjZZPGY9MA=s866" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="542" data-original-width="866" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUVx9aJ5LYEd02BP7ZAIvGMY_PbVckqIrtNevzLuCUR1CvKQ_8I705BYK4CymCgmO3JodbwdtNLewRS7Hcl7pxK7Ebb91vUfLKX_2s4hwLTHDV_pkRjtYQaEfJQvV3GVmb_Po0PZC7Rmh_REAAfiNS-8mwVhagS0aMQp7HddVcRyIzROm3pjZZPGY9MA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p>So now I’m back home, and Putin is on the border of Ukraine and I had a dream that nuclear war happened and Sophie cried that she’d thought she’d have her whole life ahead of her and my heart just broke, and this is how my head is working and I just don’t know how to walk around like this in front of other people.<br /><br />So now you know.<br /><br />Every now and then, a warm and funny thing happens, and I want to write about it. I imagine the structure it will take – the beginning, the middle, and the end – and it’s a good story. Maybe I will write about it tomorrow.<br /></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-41030792246827988792022-01-14T14:50:00.000-09:002022-01-14T14:50:13.618-09:00Lost Voice<p>Sorry, I seem to have lost my voice. Nothing comes out.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiA9fmt87Qt9Z78VN0yotk7ALrvDKL7JxrHvuT_-p5G0ID1dOs2aISk8CHvVp53jM47K7_kkcPTH2KUMun8-hZ6Yw61sNxjjpDE5M0yMQXNiuADjju4wEDNEhQjir-gaC9KXymoej62GLPi81hRtaXn5uEkD4CRxSHNZ727EyX5LZHC5z6LWPNRbnjNig=s593" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="559" data-original-width="593" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiA9fmt87Qt9Z78VN0yotk7ALrvDKL7JxrHvuT_-p5G0ID1dOs2aISk8CHvVp53jM47K7_kkcPTH2KUMun8-hZ6Yw61sNxjjpDE5M0yMQXNiuADjju4wEDNEhQjir-gaC9KXymoej62GLPi81hRtaXn5uEkD4CRxSHNZ727EyX5LZHC5z6LWPNRbnjNig=s320" width="320" /></a></div>It’s either because I’m empty or maybe I just won’t unleash my storm into the universe. Mostly, my whole self just stopped. It takes A LOT of oomph to un-stop, and all my oomph just goes to putting one foot in front of the other. That’s all.<br /><br />Not sure how long this will last. <br /><p></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-15222576608692301362021-10-31T17:48:00.000-08:002021-10-31T17:48:05.289-08:00Road Trip: One Amazing Thing <div><div><p>I started writing a post titled “Human beings do amazing things,” and I was telling you all about the amazing things encountered on this trip: art, museum exhibits, architecture, theater, food. But there was just too much. It got boring: This great thing, that great thing, oh and another great thing.<br /><br />So I’m just going to tell you about one thing. Who knew that the Gettysburg Museum & Visitor Center would float to the top of my list?<br /><br />I had my qualms about the whole stop in Gettysburg, thinking it might be a chronicle of this general and that battle and those maneuvers. I’m tired of the militarization of American history; our chapters go from war to war: Revolutionary War, War of 1812, Civil War, World War I, etc etc. What if instead our chapters went from invention to invention or economy to economy, peace to peace? What would things look like if most of our monuments were all about peacekeepers, good Samaritans, educators, farmers?<br /><br />There were 51,000 casualties in three days at Gettysburg. This is no victory celebration site; <b>this is a cemetery</b>. By the end, the Civil War killed more Americans than any other war: 620,000 people.</p><p style="text-align: center;">Gettysburg is a museum of War – of the toll it takes<br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">of the people who die<br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">of the people who have to bury them<br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">of the equipment they have to carry</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn3yD8aY2KZbu_WirI0ATzkqCTXgjo9OOjEJ0GYOOpb_IR2970_THKB6_LqS-vbkASAKCJZhcz7hBafIFDl6Ujo-xecKWudPp8c-e4mUWCK49hyJKKvlk2tcP7xt73fGqIwSd_8KDIpweS/s682/Civll+War+Haversack.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="644" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn3yD8aY2KZbu_WirI0ATzkqCTXgjo9OOjEJ0GYOOpb_IR2970_THKB6_LqS-vbkASAKCJZhcz7hBafIFDl6Ujo-xecKWudPp8c-e4mUWCK49hyJKKvlk2tcP7xt73fGqIwSd_8KDIpweS/w252-h267/Civll+War+Haversack.jpg" width="252" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">of the equipment they don’t have<br /><br />of the heat<br /><br />of their heavy uniforms<br /><br />of the photographers and journalists who witness their deaths<br /><br />of the weight of decisions to make and mistakes that are made<br /><br />of canteens collected and water not found</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYK8XFdgn42OrvT72SUywPhdH10YPCKkyctc3PI19MFAiRf2mMzv-GZmGTe9CVRsYYlEpX8K_0pEgFCbqGnDh6obwSKJfma9aHhjHjHmqVuOQ3E_KfG_ew98L4olKhSp_2fPWBguF3QYI2/s732/Civll+War+Canteens.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="732" data-original-width="438" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYK8XFdgn42OrvT72SUywPhdH10YPCKkyctc3PI19MFAiRf2mMzv-GZmGTe9CVRsYYlEpX8K_0pEgFCbqGnDh6obwSKJfma9aHhjHjHmqVuOQ3E_KfG_ew98L4olKhSp_2fPWBguF3QYI2/w177-h297/Civll+War+Canteens.jpg" width="177" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: right;">of regret and despair<br /><br />of the whims of chance and who had the higher ground and who they couldn’t see in the dark<br /><br />of medics and disease and amputations</div><div style="text-align: right;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMxQX5TtMSVH3chy3xfWRU88Wh1Bo7iVp3NWwlBWyu_Ad0gRP5XoIl2aX1J77u0-Fr_phGty2nYw8veASX5OP3TtWrDZawVVeYHwn9terZtgW4-SvUHKfttmWsq0ptX875y1blGXIAK5xE/s970/Civll+War+Surgery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="970" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMxQX5TtMSVH3chy3xfWRU88Wh1Bo7iVp3NWwlBWyu_Ad0gRP5XoIl2aX1J77u0-Fr_phGty2nYw8veASX5OP3TtWrDZawVVeYHwn9terZtgW4-SvUHKfttmWsq0ptX875y1blGXIAK5xE/s320/Civll+War+Surgery.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">of the women left behind and the families splintered.<br /><br />of freedom fought for and yet freedom undelivered.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p>It’s all arranged chronologically, by the three days of the battle. We walk those three days. It’s a brilliantly designed museum. We feel those three days.<br /><br />Sometimes you learn things by slowly absorbing them, bit by bit. And then, every now and then, you get a direct infusion to the brain. The Gettysburg Museum is a 2 x 4 to the head and heart: War is hell; freedom is worth fighting for; equality is not done.<br /><br />At the end of the museum, there’s a continuously-running film that ends with the 50-year reunion at Gettysburg. President Wilson invited white veterans of both sides, and a famous handshake between white Union and Confederate soldiers took place. Black soldiers were relegated to setting up tents and cleaning latrines.<br /><br />All those dead people, and this is where we are.</p><p>I read further and the story of the racism of the 1913 centennial is even worse. In 1963, at the 100th anniversary, President Johnson gave <a href="http://www.lbjlibrary.net/collections/selected-speeches/pre-presidential/05-30-1963.html" target="_blank">his Gettysburg address</a>: </p><blockquote><blockquote><p>“The Negro today asks justice. We do not answer him — we do not answer those who lie beneath this soil — when we reply to the Negro by asking, ‘Patience.’”</p></blockquote></blockquote><p>That was in 1963, but still equality is not done.</p><p>The next day, we did the outdoor tour of Gettysburg. You can hire a guide or you can follow along in your car and <a href="https://www.nps.gov/gett/learn/photosmultimedia/virtualtour.htm" target="_blank">listen to Ranger Gwinn</a> describe the sites on your smart phone. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNoTXGtM_a2dP6dVwaJ8XeGhDcFvKQVJJ8SlMLXCSHqgxFHerJ9fKxWlnvf8tJ3fWoxrljp88pdhywvEcp8hJgdOHMv0TUfaKwcap-QFs1cCqFD5nZnBGE7UiQa14X_aj9wGIORvu6RdBz/s866/Ranger+Gwinn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="589" data-original-width="866" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNoTXGtM_a2dP6dVwaJ8XeGhDcFvKQVJJ8SlMLXCSHqgxFHerJ9fKxWlnvf8tJ3fWoxrljp88pdhywvEcp8hJgdOHMv0TUfaKwcap-QFs1cCqFD5nZnBGE7UiQa14X_aj9wGIORvu6RdBz/s320/Ranger+Gwinn.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Little light interlude because this is all so heavy:</b></span></span><br /><br />I was very happy because Ranger Gwinn does a wonderful job at each site, but mostly: I got make-your-own waffles for breakfast! All through this trip, the hotel breakfasts have been reduced to grab-and-go breakfasts because of Covid. I love make-your-own waffles, but I have only been able to stare longingly at the dormant waffle makers. Not in Gettysburg! Waffles for breakfast!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEkjSpnWYrQUU4BQ36EAwjkRapOw6RF6id2wy8ywVGTMnm6UGD5SvDkwMNaXeCFsavb95XfwWjehTxk1XW_IIF09lqQZW5shKZ5SsRzCvSWQ5FgoFz3P48WjjmznglQVzf69i0R5HXhDQh/s742/Waffle+Maker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="742" data-original-width="671" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEkjSpnWYrQUU4BQ36EAwjkRapOw6RF6id2wy8ywVGTMnm6UGD5SvDkwMNaXeCFsavb95XfwWjehTxk1XW_IIF09lqQZW5shKZ5SsRzCvSWQ5FgoFz3P48WjjmznglQVzf69i0R5HXhDQh/s320/Waffle+Maker.jpg" width="289" /></a></div>We went on to Washington, D.C, where white flags at the Washington Monument memorialize American Covid deaths – 700,327 when we were there. As far as the eye could see. We’d passed the Civil War milestone.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibhqoQv0dj5DA0lgGGFKSBfp0QbSphAanrOKFNkxBz4hixYMBpkuE6_RgM2RKdOJL0L39XnALCuhoxjy9BnjcFjZCVX0Dv9RyJSXA-yzmZabvoe2gRccqzbQ7dawdMWBzPkAZr5OmMnDik/s1103/Covid+White+Flags.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="651" data-original-width="1103" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibhqoQv0dj5DA0lgGGFKSBfp0QbSphAanrOKFNkxBz4hixYMBpkuE6_RgM2RKdOJL0L39XnALCuhoxjy9BnjcFjZCVX0Dv9RyJSXA-yzmZabvoe2gRccqzbQ7dawdMWBzPkAZr5OmMnDik/w447-h264/Covid+White+Flags.jpg" width="447" /></a></div><br />No, Gettysburg was not a depressing element of our trip, but it was thoughtful, sobering, and unforgettable.<br /><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /><p></p></div></div>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-53368255353948166512021-10-23T18:40:00.000-08:002021-10-23T18:40:28.069-08:00Road Trip First Stop: Logistics<div><p>When I take my urban infusion months, I <b>live</b> in a place. I become a resident, not a tourist. This trip was different (and not just because Tim was with me); it was a sightseeing trip. We stayed in hotels, not apartments. We ate out; we didn’t cook. I didn’t get a library card; Tim never unpacked his suitcase. We didn’t become “regulars” anywhere.<br /><br />Becoming a resident means some days you just hang out. If the African-American History Museum is closed Mondays and Tuesdays, that’s okay because you’ll still be here on Wednesday; you don’t have to kill yourself to fit it in on Sunday.<br /><br />We were going to be gone two months. We couldn’t do it. We cut it short. Tim said I could always stay on and do my “month,” but I’m tired. I want to lie in my own bed, sleep and wake on my own schedule. I want to do nothing for as many days as I feel like it, walk around the house in just a T-shirt. I am pooped. This <i>New Yorker</i> cartoon says it all.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmUx7o86yhw0ZwJAH3XyZCfYG_1mo7Ao3XIgWBH5peU1w7UoAML7BlF61B0KUMpyynBqVaCUcLWJDmbThVasJxha4RDiKeRFI_vbqQgfWDXQWoGxRF8AJB-37BbFs2CfL-RvKd4hmKnYd4/s1928/Has+a+Bench.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1309" data-original-width="1928" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmUx7o86yhw0ZwJAH3XyZCfYG_1mo7Ao3XIgWBH5peU1w7UoAML7BlF61B0KUMpyynBqVaCUcLWJDmbThVasJxha4RDiKeRFI_vbqQgfWDXQWoGxRF8AJB-37BbFs2CfL-RvKd4hmKnYd4/w430-h292/Has+a+Bench.jpg" width="430" /></a></div> <p></p><p>By the end of this trip, I was traveling bench-to-bench. Time to go home, the bench at the end of the rainbow.<br /><br />I did learn a few things. That’ll be today’s post. Then I’ll get to the good stuff.<br /><br /><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Things I learned schlepping four bags across the country:</span></span></b><br /></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li>Never schlep four bags across the country. If you’re going to camp, go on a camping trip and bring a duffel of camping supplies. If you’re going to stay in hotels, bring a bag with clothes and stuff. Do not even think of bringing both at the same time.<br /><br /></li><li>If you’re going to schlep four bags, do it once. Don’t rent a car, take a plane, another car, switch to a train, take a taxi, back to a plane, onto an air train. With hotels in between. With staircases, streets, long hallways, and curbs in between.<br /></li></ol></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8tkyotp8BwVFINgmyDWnf4fd875bg5uVZxtWohhyphenhyphenBwLVIBwTv-JHRTCKoaL62mcq4n7ZxIi1pq-ZWTTzw5b0HoODbbk0bYHq__SD6lqcqdBbmPAZICPhl4KuhyV0GiKXLK9p9im8ns0i/s1116/Too+Much+Luggage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="697" data-original-width="1116" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8tkyotp8BwVFINgmyDWnf4fd875bg5uVZxtWohhyphenhyphenBwLVIBwTv-JHRTCKoaL62mcq4n7ZxIi1pq-ZWTTzw5b0HoODbbk0bYHq__SD6lqcqdBbmPAZICPhl4KuhyV0GiKXLK9p9im8ns0i/w410-h256/Too+Much+Luggage.jpg" width="410" /></a></div><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Things I learned staying in hotels:</span></span></b><br /></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li>The people who write reviews of hotels online are very crabby people who seem to run into a lot of stained sheets, hair on pillows, worn-out carpet, and nasty check-in staff. I stayed in some of those places, and I liked them just fine (except for one, but I should have known better). Some places were even great. I’m going to give them 10s to offset all the crabby people.<br /><br /></li><li>Towels multiply. You start out with two of each towel. You leave them hanging up to use again, but when the room is serviced, there are now three washcloths and four big towels. By the time a week is out, there are zillions of towels. At least they aren’t pillows.<br /><br /></li><li>The pillow situation is out of control. Why would any bed require six pillows – plus decorative ones! – and no place to move them so you can actually sleep? I haven’t had to clear out a bed like that since Tim evicted my stuffed animals years ago.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6g8xi3n4cBmGD2alrpPSfOfLZmzjJAcXsQBN5lPTYlAIBzpGc4OhJsw369zJjvoLNzLZosmqB78cKLf1mGwTkcTGWBdYJM5ThFjuXhS1kFnSg9PPfzj1YhMLM-Ej_L1My2Tfr20aaRFsV/s811/Many+Pillows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="693" data-original-width="811" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6g8xi3n4cBmGD2alrpPSfOfLZmzjJAcXsQBN5lPTYlAIBzpGc4OhJsw369zJjvoLNzLZosmqB78cKLf1mGwTkcTGWBdYJM5ThFjuXhS1kFnSg9PPfzj1YhMLM-Ej_L1My2Tfr20aaRFsV/s320/Many+Pillows.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></li><li>I need to buy new towels. Hotel towels are fluffy and white and they absorb water. While I like the color of my towels at home – and have liked them for many, many years – I’ve learned that towels are not supposed to be threadbare in places. Unless you’re outfitting a hotel for a crabby hotel review.</li></ol><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Things I’ve learned about hot places:<br /></span></span></b></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li>The only reason to go to a hot place is to swim and loll around a pool or ocean. Otherwise, hot places are just hot. Hot, hot, hot.<br /><br /></li><li>If a hot place comes with beige-colored terrain, it is just a hot, hot, beige place. Avoid in the future. <br /></li></ol><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8OAU0phBufpf8UZWQVpiDCL0-qu-DY3gUmKj7cG82x-IjzV2DcR69KnfFqHWk2FiZgLQLF7NjiWTBapfgi0QyG5xKtD6n_9T1nXOmuE14nPmvrZa0PQLV6H5HI0QpDl0X5nkEA7QAqYkV/s777/Hot+%2526+Beige.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="777" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8OAU0phBufpf8UZWQVpiDCL0-qu-DY3gUmKj7cG82x-IjzV2DcR69KnfFqHWk2FiZgLQLF7NjiWTBapfgi0QyG5xKtD6n_9T1nXOmuE14nPmvrZa0PQLV6H5HI0QpDl0X5nkEA7QAqYkV/s320/Hot+%2526+Beige.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Things I’ve learned about places with mask mandates:</span></span></b><br /><p></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li>Life is good! Things are open, people feel happy and comfortable! People walk around, pause before a doorway, reach into their pockets for their masks, put them on, and enter. Occasionally, they have to show a vaccination card, but that just means something wished-for is finally able to open (whether it’s live theater or a restaurant). It’s no big deal! (Thank you state of New Mexico, District of Columbia, and New York City!)<br /><br /></li><li>You cannot imagine how nuts the rest of the country thinks Alaskans are right now. Anti-mask lunatics in Alaska are spreading disease at crisis levels because – wait for this – they think it’s unbearable to put a little mask on. And in the process, they have to trivialize the murders of the Holocaust by comparing that little mask to genocide? Really? Theirs are not protests, they’re tantrums. With consequences for all of us.</li></ol>But I got to vacation in Adult Land – good stuff next post!<br /><div> <p style="text-align: left;"></p></div>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-60064597143079898792021-10-05T18:07:00.000-08:002021-10-05T18:07:07.318-08:00Lucky in so many ways<p>We’d spent the day at Bandelier National Monument in New Mexico, seeing things I’d never seen before – cliff dwellings – and camping in a terrific campground. But now we were off to Taos via Los Alamos. But as we drove into Los Alamos, I saw an even bigger sight: white tents! White tents mean farmers markets or craft fairs or art shows. “Tim, stop the car! And, oh, look! There’s a bagel place.”<br /><br />Anchorage has lost its real-bagel places. The only one left makes bread and shapes it into circles and calls them bagels, but they’re not. I wanted a real bagel, a Ruby K’s Bagel Café bagel. I got two. Tim and I sat outside at their tables, loved the bagels and how pleasant it all seemed, and we were on our way to Taos.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9NJp50azaw1y455shOgVeC_5_N-ZPfcgLdbQALes088wly5wUg4un53S1-urp4tO4vE28ijG6xeD6QgnvhgkE-mr2DvQB2QQs1ioatRmpkjrpKu2CbCbJEShl4dk-36Pc0UtDSWIdZKu/s877/Ruby+K%2527s.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="515" data-original-width="877" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9NJp50azaw1y455shOgVeC_5_N-ZPfcgLdbQALes088wly5wUg4un53S1-urp4tO4vE28ijG6xeD6QgnvhgkE-mr2DvQB2QQs1ioatRmpkjrpKu2CbCbJEShl4dk-36Pc0UtDSWIdZKu/w380-h223/Ruby+K%2527s.jpg" width="380" /></a></div><p> Somewhere along the way, the road did a little twisty thing along the edge of a mountain. There were those scary sharp arrow signs in a row – not even the curvy arrows: “Tim, slow down, you don’t know what’s ahead. You’re going too fast if the curve keeps curving. There are edges here!”<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObqxhCJnLCWng1YF10oseMrQaJyY3Y9jnWxtXBHO9g9q5LQE3PemImMEO1k-HHlIBLO_9T6zsc3KZ2l9A2kkLqumhYVSdRcu6pQDdMP-3VFNuQtne1uzUR3mMpRdJQPdt1N2N6YlFvEV4/s743/Curves+Ahead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="344" data-original-width="743" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObqxhCJnLCWng1YF10oseMrQaJyY3Y9jnWxtXBHO9g9q5LQE3PemImMEO1k-HHlIBLO_9T6zsc3KZ2l9A2kkLqumhYVSdRcu6pQDdMP-3VFNuQtne1uzUR3mMpRdJQPdt1N2N6YlFvEV4/w341-h158/Curves+Ahead.jpg" width="341" /></a></div> <p></p><p>Yes, it’s my edge problem. My we’re-up-high-and-there’s-an-edge-to-the-drop problem. But it was brief and we were through. And then, halfway to Taos, I spotted a roadside stand. Roadside stands are right up there with white tents. “Stop the car!”<br /><br />So I jumped out of the car, reached into the back seat for my fanny pack, and it wasn’t there! <b>Where was my fanny pack!</b> Did it slide forward off the seat? Had I shoved it into my daypack? No, the crushing realization loomed: I’d left it somewhere. The bagel place. I’d looped it over the chair outside.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVj5O6bynmcdSytwj2PSPM571odPMltr-YN05Nb9Zies47yfvh9LDT0Ghr3cV6wTqXx07OjlWbbKDMHWBKnaPqxCxwZJQGfmiEje9TgwDwN9x4_NAAEaLm_yfmX_0cs67oIlxq9Hsc8tit/s678/Lost+Fanny+Pack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="606" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVj5O6bynmcdSytwj2PSPM571odPMltr-YN05Nb9Zies47yfvh9LDT0Ghr3cV6wTqXx07OjlWbbKDMHWBKnaPqxCxwZJQGfmiEje9TgwDwN9x4_NAAEaLm_yfmX_0cs67oIlxq9Hsc8tit/w256-h286/Lost+Fanny+Pack.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><p> Cue the mindless blathering: “It has everything in it. Both our credit cards so now neither of them can be used. It has my vaccination card. It has that iPhone you gave me that I haven’t set up or charged. <b>How can I be so stupid?</b>”<br /><br />I remembered the dozen times I’ve left that fanny pack in movie theaters. I remembered the time I left it by the side of the road while fixing a flat in Costa Rica and, even though I realized it in seconds, with the one-way streets we had to go around the block and by the time we did, the fanny pack was gone and our credit card was buying pizza and candy and costume jewelry. “I have just totally fucked up. I have to stop this. I have to tie that thing around my waist no matter how stupid it looks. I have to never do this again.”<br /><br />Tim turned the car around. The GPS lady went crazy: <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Make a U-turn at some place and return to New Mexico 68 north.”</span></span> Tim said, “Call the restaurant.”<br /><br />“How do I turn off the GPS lady so I can Google the restaurant? <span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Make a U-turn at some place and return to New Mexico 68 north.”</span></i></span> How do I make her stop? <b><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Make a U-turn at some place and return to New Mexico 68 north.”</span></b><br /><br />I dug out the receipt from the restaurant. It had a phone number on it. <i><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Make a U-turn at some place and return to New Mexico 68 north.”</span></b></i> How do I stop her so I can phone???<br /><br />And, of course, all the while, I’m blathering about what a fuck up I am, how I have to stop leaving this stupid fanny pack in places. Tim is calmly driving back. GPS lady is yelling at us. Somehow, I get her to go away. I phone the restaurant. No one answers. Their mailbox is full.<br /><br />I remember there was a Starbucks next door. I manage to Google “Starbucks Los Alamos.” There are two. One seems right. I tell the man that I can’t reach Ruby’s, that I have left my fanny pack outside, does he have a number for Ruby, can he check? He says he’ll go outside and look. It’s not there. Ruby is closed and doesn’t reopen till 8 a.m.<br /><br />Tim says, “We’ll get a room in Los Alamos tonight.”<br /><br />I Google “Los Alamos Police Department.” My hands are shaking so bad that I’m Googling Los Alanow Polive and Lps Alampa Polive and everything else till I finally get it right. (You realize I’m still blathering about being a fuck-up and how am I going to get this fanny pack purse carry thing right.) <br /><br />I tell the dispatcher I’m a tourist and we were driving to Taos when I realized I’d left my fanny pack at Ruby K’s and maybe somebody turned it in but I don’t know how to reach Ruby and they’re closed but maybe she can find out how to phone Ruby’s owner? She says she’ll call me back.<br /><br />More blather, more hysteria. Tim calmly driving. We get to the scary road part with curves and edges, and I whisper to Tim, “You remember this part means slowing down.” He does.<br /><br />We get to Ruby K’s. The door says they closed at 2 p.m. A young girl is sitting outside.<br /><br />“How long have you been here? Did you see a fanny pack on this chair?”<br /><br />“I just got here. But the door is open. They’re inside.”<br /><br />The door is open? I walk in. I say, “I left my fanny pack,” and without a word, the guy hands it to me.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuwbkGRzVVSEIJyT-qDsyHCvAfiu5F5Nop-L3z1ZknrfEULKF6Bg39W5xmlane3XZ72x3Uk8kNWTCMKfgudXPYLruVWqrpfdVGiC_DBzQCKJBaFkwZlCktDa1YDCWm3w3VHBIqT_Z5TNuo/s1049/Fanny+Pack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="1049" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuwbkGRzVVSEIJyT-qDsyHCvAfiu5F5Nop-L3z1ZknrfEULKF6Bg39W5xmlane3XZ72x3Uk8kNWTCMKfgudXPYLruVWqrpfdVGiC_DBzQCKJBaFkwZlCktDa1YDCWm3w3VHBIqT_Z5TNuo/w356-h214/Fanny+Pack.jpg" width="356" /></a></div>The dispatcher calls to say she reached Ruby’s, and I tell her I’m holding the fanny pack. I go next door to thank the Starbucks guy and tell him it worked out.<br /><br />I tell Tim I am going to write about this, about all the wonderful people who helped out. He asks, “Will I be the hero of this story?” I tell him yes, yes, <b>YES</b>! We get in the car. We drive through the scary, curvy part yet again. I don’t say a word. We get to Taos.<br /><br />When I get out of the car, when we stop, I count and say out loud: “I am putting my fanny pack down, my sunglasses, my mask. Three things. When I leave, I have to pick up three things.” Maybe this will work.<br /><br />The next day, we stop for a picnic. I count my things. As I’m packing up, I say, “<i><b>Someone</b></i> put the spoon away with the peanut butter still on it.”<br /><br />Tim says, “The same someone who didn’t leave his fanny pack in Los Alamos.”<br /><br /><p></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-45362583729008306362021-09-17T19:13:00.000-08:002021-09-17T19:13:06.720-08:00A Worrywart Goes on a Road Trip<p>I’ve felt fear, I’ve felt angst, I’ve felt panic, I’ve worried. I’ve been a <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2017/05/reflections-on-return-1.html" target="_blank">scared little rabbit</a>, a <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2015/12/becoming-wimp-in-my-third-third.html" target="_blank">scaredy cat</a>, and a wimp. I’ve even detailed the finer points between fear and worry in a blog called “<a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2017/03/not-scaredy-cat-worrywart.html" target="_blank">Not a scaredy-cat – a worrywart</a>.”<br /><br />Yes, I’m occasionally brave, land on my feet, am tough as nails. But not right now. Right now, I’m planning a road trip into Covid Land USA: the Lower 48. (Well, actually, Alaska is a worse Covid Land. The whole U.S. is Covid Land.)<br /><br />Tim and I just returned from a 3-day ferry ride on the Alaska Marine Highway’s <i>Tustumena</i> to Dutch Harbor. The trip had been canceled on us for the last two attempts over the years, so this was Our Chance. We were also going to spend an additional three days in Dutch Harbor.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQPUbYuGcro-etvSWNokOzP0r9fK-htZVBJ_dIM-0kOmtTuKRnu9HXHiu3I0d5OoA1Arr4u_p64-cM0bHKodbjhvAqc8_libJpnyLJKnxTl_rKEsEir_eIiIGWkYcwEAHf0-QvoggVvd8K/s1191/Tustumena+Route.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="1191" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQPUbYuGcro-etvSWNokOzP0r9fK-htZVBJ_dIM-0kOmtTuKRnu9HXHiu3I0d5OoA1Arr4u_p64-cM0bHKodbjhvAqc8_libJpnyLJKnxTl_rKEsEir_eIiIGWkYcwEAHf0-QvoggVvd8K/w486-h253/Tustumena+Route.jpg" width="486" /></a></div><p>These were my pre-trip planning concerns:<br /></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Will I barf for three days of seasickness?<br /></li><li>Will the Scopolamine patch behind my ear be enough to not barf? Do I need (as advised by friends) anti-nausea drugs given to chemotherapy patients?<br /></li><li>Where will I barf if we don’t have a private bathroom in the stateroom?<br /></li><li>What about traveling in a state with only 50+% vaccination rate … and an assertive non-masking contingent? And what about tourists?<br /></li><li>What’s the hospital capacity if I get sick?<br /></li><li>Oh, no – we’re coming back on a small plane?!? How will I keep from barfing on a small plane?</li></ul><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVBOw5wZtlBND8gfGAZseQDVVe0kHd6vTGOtxanJql3e6kZi-oE4ePswerL8FNG87l3Td8wqM9NBFrEenwwRbNRi3E9_f2YnuAh4C5Hm1AeICr1eDFRPyqF05zwQRTHRC_dxWWZ2Ql9Gh/s552/Barfing+Barbara.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="552" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVBOw5wZtlBND8gfGAZseQDVVe0kHd6vTGOtxanJql3e6kZi-oE4ePswerL8FNG87l3Td8wqM9NBFrEenwwRbNRi3E9_f2YnuAh4C5Hm1AeICr1eDFRPyqF05zwQRTHRC_dxWWZ2Ql9Gh/s320/Barfing+Barbara.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Okay, that IS a lot about barfing. I have, in my life, been known as the Barf Queen. I have barfed on many a ship, so it’s not some idle fantasy. But – amazingly and wonderfully – the ocean was calm and peaceful, the weather glorious, and the plane ride smooth. No cell coverage and no wi-fi just increased the relaxation. The landscapes were beautiful, the hikes through World War II sites fascinating, and the burger at Norwegian Rats Saloon the best in my life. Hooray!<br /><br />The passengers: unmasked, unconcerned, and too close for comfort. Oddly, I hadn’t worried about Covid onboard the ferry because these were the published rules: <b>AMHS currently requires passengers and employees to wear masks inside, but the CDC order makes refusal to wear a face covering a violation of federal law. </b>But there was NO enforcement at all, even when four people had to be put off at King Cove for testing positive. The seating deck where many hung out in close quarters was a frightening petri dish I never entered. They advertised a safe environment and then didn't deliver.<br /><br />That was the trial run for Barbara Takes a Road Trip. Obviously, barfing is no longer a concern, but Covid is. As in:<br /><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>The Delta variant is running amok!</li><li>Hospital ICUs are full! If anything else goes wrong, we can’t get in.</li><li>What if everything around us closes down and seeing new stuff – the reason we’re headed to the Lower 48 at all – becomes impossible?</li><li>There are 170,000 NEW cases!</li><li>What if we get a positive test and are stuck in some hotel somewhere for ten days? Ordering in pizza?</li><li>Even being vaccinated, we could still be spreaders.</li><li>And almost on a par misery-wise: It’s 90° down there! Yikes, it’s more than 90°! How do people live???</li></ul><p>Okay, I can really worry myself into a corner, but I’ve already had one trip <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2020/03/philadelphia-here-i-was.html" target="_blank">fall apart around me</a> when Philadelphia closed down. So packing for this trip became a stop-and-go activity; we’re going, we’re not, we’re going, we’re not.<br /><br />But then Connie told me the New Mexico State Fair was happening in Albuquerque. I love state fairs! When I checked, I saw that <b>they require full vaccination</b> or a recent test to enter! Hooray! New Mexico, here we come!<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0AmtvPgQemo0NoslAeHztqEpILtf55J8398fZJvwn_b4z9t_v2slBmJtuIWHfhsPWPzeX9DwVzfYj07wjRBItIspDedidwAQT32TGgiXmNlUDAEmHhBf_6Rcl3rlpwUUvvFvWar6sXM8/s708/New+Mexico+State+Fair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="708" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0AmtvPgQemo0NoslAeHztqEpILtf55J8398fZJvwn_b4z9t_v2slBmJtuIWHfhsPWPzeX9DwVzfYj07wjRBItIspDedidwAQT32TGgiXmNlUDAEmHhBf_6Rcl3rlpwUUvvFvWar6sXM8/s320/New+Mexico+State+Fair.jpg" width="320" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But yes, I still have a Plan B. Wherever we are, we can just come home. We have no reservations, no commitments – just the open road.<br /><br />Hello, open road. <br /></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-28625322015057357382021-09-06T14:41:00.000-08:002021-09-06T14:41:47.226-08:00How do I know you're you?<p>I was watching an old YouTube clip of musicians doing an impromptu street concert in New York City.<br /><br />Then, at :46, I spotted my father in the crowd!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH99vYIE7pbekneBArrlQEwcLe5okh7sDhshmKI0GmYH3k9i7qrGSz8EgWCbkqjc5Sbr-Xi8-3Ys5Pzgbhk9ODVpsC-mStJtx5GOl-f485z4gZdkOZOnqoGpC9ws4vvwYZAsk464Nz7T_V/s803/Fake+Dad+Video.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="584" data-original-width="803" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH99vYIE7pbekneBArrlQEwcLe5okh7sDhshmKI0GmYH3k9i7qrGSz8EgWCbkqjc5Sbr-Xi8-3Ys5Pzgbhk9ODVpsC-mStJtx5GOl-f485z4gZdkOZOnqoGpC9ws4vvwYZAsk464Nz7T_V/w349-h254/Fake+Dad+Video.jpg" width="349" /></a></div>My father died in 1980. I haven’t “seen” him for 41 years, but this man had his build, his eyes, nose, white hair. He was even wearing clothes my father would have worn, clothes my mother would have picked out for him; he was in a leisure suit. (So it would have been before the time I asked why he was dressed like a pimp, and he glared at my mother and never wore it again.)<br /><br />But it really wasn’t my father. (I’m pretty sure.) For one thing, my mother wasn’t next to him in the crowd. There is no way my father would have been in that situation – an impromptu street concert! – or remained in that situation – without my mother, and she wasn’t there. (I’m pretty sure.)<br /><br />So there’s this duplicate Dad, and I know it’s not him. (I’m pretty sure.) So it leaves me wondering: what is it that makes someone <i>someone</i>? What is it that would make me <b>sure</b> that man in the movie was my father?<br /><br />When I was pregnant, I read that mothers could find and identify their babies by their smell. After Sophie was born, I spent a lot of time sniffing her, memorizing her. My postpartum existential worries included whether or not I could pick her out of a crowd of babies.<br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhresEycRbUaVY15ayoMGX0MMrn-tgOhpLBzYTUG8YMZUZnZvM-czTdApT-6zBVnlBSe98Ry4-L2IkhKZtyICZ9L_5CYHVk06IxvtkEgX3YFPTHscuGy7LvIbF12K_mGguJ5itn7FNENuhN/s876/Sniffing+Sophie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="488" data-original-width="876" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhresEycRbUaVY15ayoMGX0MMrn-tgOhpLBzYTUG8YMZUZnZvM-czTdApT-6zBVnlBSe98Ry4-L2IkhKZtyICZ9L_5CYHVk06IxvtkEgX3YFPTHscuGy7LvIbF12K_mGguJ5itn7FNENuhN/s320/Sniffing+Sophie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I’ve read about animals and birds that throw an intruder baby out of their nest, that they can tell if it’s not one of theirs. Yet, in reading <i>The Lost Family</i> by Libby Copeland, a wonderful book about DNA tests, there was one terrifying photo of a cartful of babies in a Manhattan maternity hospital. The babies were collected from the mothers – without little name bracelets! – and then redistributed after baths. Apparently, a big, switched-at-birth mix-up occurred. Aiiieeee!<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfJP_ySEfCS1Ev6dzGEaB9DPnesTwlLzmC5dkF46MAKodm_4oCFsPa7fyPbzV4iE7AmSra_ZX4WUxVpr9dGZ9WLB88PUPWUoDvxUBVw91Z8gZn0SPaS1FyGQ_bASJuTAxNtcHiEM6ahlli/s710/Cartful+of+Babies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="407" data-original-width="710" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfJP_ySEfCS1Ev6dzGEaB9DPnesTwlLzmC5dkF46MAKodm_4oCFsPa7fyPbzV4iE7AmSra_ZX4WUxVpr9dGZ9WLB88PUPWUoDvxUBVw91Z8gZn0SPaS1FyGQ_bASJuTAxNtcHiEM6ahlli/s320/Cartful+of+Babies.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Well, now, I would know my daughter anywhere. When she was in a play in costume and whirled around the stage, I’d just hunt for the blond ponytail … and end up tracking Seline, who also had a blond ponytail. Seline’s parents had the same problem. And recently, in a photo she shared of her friends all dressed up at a wedding, I asked, “Who’s the one in the middle?” and it was <b>my own daughter</b>.<br /><br />So what makes us <i>us</i>? How do we recognize each other?<br /><br />When I would visit my parents after a long time away, I would search the airport as I disembarked with a certain bit of panic pumping my heart: would I know them? Sometimes they’d look different, they’d aged, and I’d hunt for their “them-ness.”<br /><br />Okay, this may be complicated by my own <i>prosopagnosia</i>, facial blindness. My brain has trouble processing faces into memory unless I can link it with posture, gait, expression, hair style, voice, etc. Unfortunately, my worst case involved a boss: I would show up every Monday after a weekend off and introduce myself to the “stranger” in the office. Sometimes I just stay home because it’s too stressful to run into people I’m supposed to recognize.<br /><br />One benefit of Covid and mask-wearing is that finally, I can ask people who they are without risking social gaffes. I used to cover my cluelessness by blaming it on sunglasses, bike helmets, hair styles, poor lighting, or anything else I could claim…. Now I just blame it on the mask.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1hji44faF_oNoRK2rIhiw6SdB3V4Wso70z6MVU2xvlqKGNx12EAcly51pBxGMvYZCAxEkuye2_cYWn9VKkSBI97L9A1qqMSKzKTmKPHunjjXMUQnQ5ryXeMQ_YC3brxWCEIISBR7ca7jN/s905/Who+are+you%253F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="555" data-original-width="905" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1hji44faF_oNoRK2rIhiw6SdB3V4Wso70z6MVU2xvlqKGNx12EAcly51pBxGMvYZCAxEkuye2_cYWn9VKkSBI97L9A1qqMSKzKTmKPHunjjXMUQnQ5ryXeMQ_YC3brxWCEIISBR7ca7jN/s320/Who+are+you%253F.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>In the midst of my mother’s dementia, she’d often fake it, offer exuberant hellos to friends when she had no idea who they were. So that’s a memory thing; she couldn’t remember them. But I remember my father, and in photos from my childhood, I <b>know</b> that’s him. Is it because I was there, I know the situation, the environment, or is there something I <b>see</b>?<br /><br />And would I be able to see it and recognize it 41 years later if he showed up in a video on YouTube?<br /><p><br /></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-5900916316545570222021-08-17T12:21:00.000-08:002021-08-17T12:21:52.903-08:00Silver Lining #2<p>As we sit around in that halfway state of not-a-pandemic/still-a-pandemic, I still have about a zillion negatives, and they clearly outweigh the positives for both the world and the sufferers, BUT I can stretch myself to actually put a word to one more silver lining.<br /><br />Theater.<br /><br />Did I actually write that? Did I actually put the death of live theater in a positive column?<br /><br />Yes, because theater didn’t die. It transformed. Which is not saying that I don’t miss live theater – I do! – but I discovered a new way to enjoy it: Livestreamed or On Demand or Archived or however else theaters figured out how to get it to audiences.<br /><br />Right away, by April 2020, I was watching London theater at home with <a href="https://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/nt-at-home-2020" target="_blank">National Theatre at Home</a> and PBS Great Performances. By July, everyone was watching <i>Hamilton</i> on their TVs. And by October, I was watching theater from Los Angeles, from Oregon, and even from Isabella Rossellini’s farm on Long Island. Sometimes at crazy hours to catch a London livestream.<br /><br />But I missed other people. Other people as in “let’s go see a play, let’s go out afterwards.” As in spontaneous applause, ovations, reactions. Now I know that I was missing “<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/07/10/opinion/sunday/covid-group-emotions-happiness.html" target="_blank">collective effervescence</a>” (by the same guy who taught us about “<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/04/19/well/mind/covid-mental-health-languishing.html" target="_blank">languishing</a>”).<br /><br />So, in a rare Covid moment of energy and initiative, I emailed a few friends to watch theater with me. We’d be no more than seven – to save us from Zoom overlaps and interruptions – and talk for no more than an hour – to save us from Zoom fatigue. We’d watch a play in our own living rooms, but we’d talk about it afterwards on Zoom (with my sister hosting).<br /><br />We started with Phyllida Lloyd’s <i>The Tempest,</i> and it blew our minds: all women – in prison! – even filmed with GoPros so we were <i>there</i>, on stage! From <a href="https://stannswarehouse.org" target="_blank">St. Ann’s Warehouse</a> in Brooklyn – how had I missed them during my months in New York?<br /><br />In the beginning, theaters were focusing on one-actor plays: easier to film, less Covid issues. So we saw some terrific one-person shows. Mary was so enthralled with Sara Porkalob’s <a href="http://www.saraporkalob.com/the-dragon-cycle" target="_blank"><i>Dragon Mama</i></a> that she wants to search her out in Seattle. And all of us think Anne O’Riordan’s performance in Irish Rep’s <a href="https://irishrep.org/show/irish-rep-online-2021/ghosting/" target="_blank"><i>Ghosting</i></a> topped the charts. We’re still talking about it.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCBildyTN9g96gdPr1UCOYVp3D5eA_4wT_ULLaqe74TDVFBcCO53-TB_sINr5MOeSWQuOmtzOWBZZqPnT8Uzaf4ezc-xMhRRGaZ86Uspn52W8TMxJZWSk3U7H3h5ym5NUu7smye_AHQoUt/s769/Ghosting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="639" data-original-width="769" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCBildyTN9g96gdPr1UCOYVp3D5eA_4wT_ULLaqe74TDVFBcCO53-TB_sINr5MOeSWQuOmtzOWBZZqPnT8Uzaf4ezc-xMhRRGaZ86Uspn52W8TMxJZWSk3U7H3h5ym5NUu7smye_AHQoUt/s320/Ghosting.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>We didn’t forget Shakespeare either. We saw <b>two</b> <i>Julius Caesar</i>s: one all-women (<a href="https://www.pbs.org/video/julius-caesar-from-donmar-suw3sh/" target="_blank">from Phyllida Lloyd again</a>) and one with standard casts. Marla thought a play about the ravages of testosterone needed men, I thought having all women emphasized the relationships, and we discovered Riki had taken courses in Shakespeare.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTy1502S8PuG_-T7K4ohWoVRH2cDhJtcSeqHLuZ3NH4khfwc5eV9C1D56Op9TsLmJp_uVpLDAjr_1BnMQ494R5hktY-lwX_y60LBAy5IZLZN3L_u_wG-UOaX4ZPcmqTjS3HhTo0YJdWPps/s998/Two+Julius+Caesars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="593" data-original-width="998" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTy1502S8PuG_-T7K4ohWoVRH2cDhJtcSeqHLuZ3NH4khfwc5eV9C1D56Op9TsLmJp_uVpLDAjr_1BnMQ494R5hktY-lwX_y60LBAy5IZLZN3L_u_wG-UOaX4ZPcmqTjS3HhTo0YJdWPps/s320/Two+Julius+Caesars.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><a href="https://wilmatheater.org/fat-ham-wilmabill/" target="_blank"><i>Fat Ham</i></a> was <i>Hamlet</i> with a Black cast at a backyard BBQ; the play-within-a-play was a game of charades! But then the PBS <i>Romeo and Juliet</i> left me thinking: I hadn’t remembered Juliet’s mother being so caustic. When I checked the actual play – and Mimi is usually the one with those on hand – I discovered that by giving Lord Capulet’s lines to Lady Capulet, it really brought forth a whole new mother/daughter tension.<br /><br />Sherri took notes … and changed the way I watched theater. I used to watch, enjoy, wonder about, talk about for a bit, and that was it. But once I started <b>really</b> watching, knowing I’d have to discuss, knowing I’d have to remember who was who and who did what, my appreciation grew. Chris says the whole experience opened her eyes to theater. We all loved <a href="https://projectartscentre.ie/event/the-approach-by-mark-orowe/" target="_blank"><i>The Approach</i></a>, but we all had to watch it twice because it was so … <b>meaty</b>. And the three women, in discussing their play afterwards, said the intimacy of their conversations was actually more profound with a camera instead of having to project to a 500-person audience. How interesting!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUEv4QI-UuyOpZNlzxUacxRqpve826T2zRSORFhzVUPo-1B0bDda4xltNbMwMT21TZvYPQNkpeHbY9ZKVwpEiz63CCP_GbA9t8-smXUZbhyphenhyphenOCF7SgIaUE4rzn6eDsWN7VtilLh7Yr4rWoB/s827/The+Approach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="827" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUEv4QI-UuyOpZNlzxUacxRqpve826T2zRSORFhzVUPo-1B0bDda4xltNbMwMT21TZvYPQNkpeHbY9ZKVwpEiz63CCP_GbA9t8-smXUZbhyphenhyphenOCF7SgIaUE4rzn6eDsWN7VtilLh7Yr4rWoB/w364-h225/The+Approach.jpg" width="364" /></a></div>So many different approaches to audiences, too! <a href="https://www.hbo.com/documentaries/every-brilliant-thing" target="_blank"><i>Every Brilliant Thing</i></a> gave his audience parts, had them participating with his lists. And <a href="https://www.ootbtheatrics.com/l5y" target="_blank"><i>The Last 5 Years</i></a> was a love affair in song: he started with meeting her and she started with their break-up, and their scenes moved chronologically either backwards or forwards. How creative; how heartbreaking!<br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuU2TbUazEyDueLIMd-uQskk4MypysvTMxCK-D86CCzAhLl1VNn87XSOkFKkLqHqxVoZg2Bux_1fv2x3CEaii7fznNURocNB2sj_t6WGUKBvKC-tcEgXgAXR_ijjsqLWBM9VJhdXtL2mS/s962/Every+Brilliant+Thing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="692" data-original-width="962" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuU2TbUazEyDueLIMd-uQskk4MypysvTMxCK-D86CCzAhLl1VNn87XSOkFKkLqHqxVoZg2Bux_1fv2x3CEaii7fznNURocNB2sj_t6WGUKBvKC-tcEgXgAXR_ijjsqLWBM9VJhdXtL2mS/s320/Every+Brilliant+Thing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>The big question: What’s the difference between theater and a movie if the theater is filmed? Is it confinement to a stage, a set? We’re not sure – still debating – so I guess we have to keep watching. So far, we’ve seen 22 performances together, and I’ve watched another 34 on my own. Theater did not die during Covid!<br /><br />We’re now meeting in person – all vaccinated – for our discussions. Not everyone knew each other beforehand, but now we do, and our connection helped me through darker months. Yes, we’re eager for the return of live theater; but I’m so grateful to the actors, the companies, the playwrights, and the techs who tackled a whole new medium and kept their art alive. Some days, they kept me alive, too.</p><p><br /></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-50817714036798225932021-08-01T20:10:00.000-08:002021-08-01T20:10:54.012-08:00I Got To Be in Pictures!<p>I’m in a movie! A real movie with a director and cameraman and “action” and “rolling.” And a line person and locations and extras and multiple takes. This is my newest New Thing in a while!<br /><br />It’s called <a href="https://casselcore.com/next-to-north/" target="_blank"><i>Next to North</i></a>, and it’s the brainchild of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Next.to.North.Film/" target="_blank">Rebecca Casselman</a>. It’s the story of an Alaska woman returning to Alaska to heal from a Lower 48 divorce. I play GAT (Great Aunt Tonka):</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGRaw2wojZ6l9RXP6t2qZDp5SWeTv1isTlRajr0f6_qKkKYTVFz3iDs-t_Z4QQfCwQqvxMJ9PKYsTgx8E20fndjK9Vqe9HGgMz8YwbCfN2m_hDCWPw-rTDzhyphenhyphen0HOVKYB6M3qJdJtrMFhLX/s972/Next+to+North.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="552" data-original-width="972" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGRaw2wojZ6l9RXP6t2qZDp5SWeTv1isTlRajr0f6_qKkKYTVFz3iDs-t_Z4QQfCwQqvxMJ9PKYsTgx8E20fndjK9Vqe9HGgMz8YwbCfN2m_hDCWPw-rTDzhyphenhyphen0HOVKYB6M3qJdJtrMFhLX/w396-h225/Next+to+North.jpg" width="396" /></a></div><u></u><blockquote><u>Late 60s Woman</u><br /> She is called Tonka because she gave Tori a Tonka truck when she was little. Gat is fun-spirited, always bringing wonder and laughter to the family. She lives out in the bush with her man Joe, only coming into town for supplies every few weeks. She is visiting to lend support to Tori and love on her great-great nieces. She likes to crack jokes and forgets to have a filter when in ‘society.’</blockquote>Boy, that’s a real character stretch!<br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh02jFFclOSDpNkrm6TitZqZKfXCB7DsHbOshkuhOdeQ7huJtvPysor0y2Rc5xuusFmwSkrAE79jau3UPv9RIYjzZukc9oKMmkbeyvZj50NQbps3O8Ot-xLxTl9vbyLeg5shH0kdl93nuQo/s618/Tonka+Truck.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="422" data-original-width="618" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh02jFFclOSDpNkrm6TitZqZKfXCB7DsHbOshkuhOdeQ7huJtvPysor0y2Rc5xuusFmwSkrAE79jau3UPv9RIYjzZukc9oKMmkbeyvZj50NQbps3O8Ot-xLxTl9vbyLeg5shH0kdl93nuQo/s320/Tonka+Truck.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>It all started because I ran into my friend Jane while hiking, and she mentioned being in some indie films. Jane and I both worked at the library, but we also did theater acting. Next thing I knew, Jane told me to call Rebecca, with whom I Zoom-auditioned, and I got the part!<br /><br />Jane, Linda, and I know each other from the theater world – acting on stage. Acting where you learn your lines in the script and your character develops from one scene to another. Where your lines go in order.<br /><br />“In order” is just not what movie making is about.<br /><br />So sometimes, I’d be in a T-shirt for a summer scene, but afterwards I’d be in long sleeves for a prior fall scene. But that’s not the big adjustment.<br /><br />Let’s say I’m saying two sentences to the two adorable great-great nieces: “I don’t live here, remember? I live out in the Bush with Joe.” So, theater actor that I am, I think I’m going to say them and hug the girls and work my emotions for leave-taking and the rest of my lines.<br /><br />But someone yells cut and <a href="https://nostalgicforevers.com/bio" target="_blank">Darius</a> the cameraman moves over my shoulder or over the girls’ shoulders or from the kitchen. And we do it again. And someone coughs and we do it again. And the director and cameraman confer and we do it again. Forget that I have three more sentences that are supposed to come right after with emotional content.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFG0HpRsmoft48SSuAtMmn1bzZYWvytHT31JD0u811IqVAj4Yksp76QvJnCh26AwVZfqCFDPKH3LHWoGnwwadLP1EJNhuZyHsjU7u0hKK-e7y5EZFfN-hSDvvYDOWTbgkrC4V39xlsblzR/s439/Cameraman+Darius.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="439" data-original-width="395" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFG0HpRsmoft48SSuAtMmn1bzZYWvytHT31JD0u811IqVAj4Yksp76QvJnCh26AwVZfqCFDPKH3LHWoGnwwadLP1EJNhuZyHsjU7u0hKK-e7y5EZFfN-hSDvvYDOWTbgkrC4V39xlsblzR/w208-h231/Cameraman+Darius.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><p>In theater, you have to remember that every audience is seeing the play for their first time, so you have to be fresh with every repeat performance. Here, you have to be fresh with every r<b>epeat line</b>. And recover where you are for the next line.<br /><br />So what you think they’re getting is a chopped-up, fragmented mess of lines and script. Except Darius tells me that the average shot is only seven seconds long, that I should check on my next TV show.<br /><br />Oh, wow, he’s right! A man running: two seconds on his shoes, one second on a passing window, two seconds on his sweating face, one second on his looking over his shoulder, two seconds on what’s behind him, two seconds on him long-distance, etc. etc. But somehow our brain puts it all together seamlessly.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu2C6DvLecOUFiXOyLFDSwcE_4IR9T7Jl-RX7l4wOAZIIotjj-u8z8lRB0X7TOaxvqEchQzU98LfaVtyRhtggqjMS-jJjqbpTvxOqqIGzFbgMS2iQzb2sjAjmBZEDF_dcBYDoBMnv_iF0n/s956/Film+Strip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="543" data-original-width="956" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu2C6DvLecOUFiXOyLFDSwcE_4IR9T7Jl-RX7l4wOAZIIotjj-u8z8lRB0X7TOaxvqEchQzU98LfaVtyRhtggqjMS-jJjqbpTvxOqqIGzFbgMS2iQzb2sjAjmBZEDF_dcBYDoBMnv_iF0n/s320/Film+Strip.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I have new respect for the editor of movies.<br /><br />And for what they call the Continuity Person.<br /><br />One day, Linda and I are in an autumn card-playing scene. Then, for a few days, we’re in the summer. Then we’re back to the night of the card-playing, but I think Linda is in the wrong shirt. After grappling with our Third Third memory capacities, Linda goes home to her laundry pile and returns to the set with the right shirt. We’re pretty sure.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_rCvMyGaePjkTNCDA49gk1XMVV4LTjJdIQKbliCZwiK9mO8748mNPbNuxxXgG5uk9SLqoXn4TuU_XbTGsI_kylv-X1XlCuYO-PaFLICeMFWf8j8ErpnKRpQGjgnUGxmRaZfd1Jl6uzrK/s1058/Spot+the+Difference.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="552" data-original-width="1058" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_rCvMyGaePjkTNCDA49gk1XMVV4LTjJdIQKbliCZwiK9mO8748mNPbNuxxXgG5uk9SLqoXn4TuU_XbTGsI_kylv-X1XlCuYO-PaFLICeMFWf8j8ErpnKRpQGjgnUGxmRaZfd1Jl6uzrK/w395-h206/Spot+the+Difference.jpg" width="395" /></a></div>Never mind where the tea cups were placed!<br /><br />It had been quite a while since I’d acted. And suddenly, there I was with a group of actors again. You share a stage and a script and a schedule in a collaborative work of art. Everyone wishes everyone well because you share this production and you want it to succeed and you need everyone to succeed.<br /><br />Movieland gives you a chance to inhabit a different world, to take a break from this one. You share lots of waiting around time – as yourself – in between the role you’re adopting. There’s something about putting on a role deliberately: because then it’s clear when you take it off. In Real Life, that’s not always clear. But for a time, with acting, you take a break from yourself, too. What a relief.<br />CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-44549338208489354942021-07-23T00:18:00.000-08:002021-07-23T00:18:17.097-08:00Notched Up and Flammable<p>Back in June, I read an article in my <a href="https://www.headbutler.com/" target="_blank">Head Butler</a> newsletter from Jesse Kornbluth. <a href="https://www.headbutler.com/reviews/citizen-an-american-lyric/" target="_blank">He described a book</a>, <i>Citizen: An American Lyric</i> by Claudia Rankine. The passages he quotes highlight the ordinary insults/belittling/denigration African Americans face living in our society. But he said the book was like poetry, so I put it on hold at my library.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoTb2O8TfT_8rBRTR0GmudU41sfQAtSI4JOjkaYYMKG4cS2YKJ45yZYSIlb8t2o2D_-2qwtaAjGIHCRI58I-gOLZIQElu19NX_Y77kYknDhlJgj5ElpO8igPee_eGtqgT_tU7KoYE5MdIE/s1081/Head+Butler.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="296" data-original-width="1081" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoTb2O8TfT_8rBRTR0GmudU41sfQAtSI4JOjkaYYMKG4cS2YKJ45yZYSIlb8t2o2D_-2qwtaAjGIHCRI58I-gOLZIQElu19NX_Y77kYknDhlJgj5ElpO8igPee_eGtqgT_tU7KoYE5MdIE/w456-h125/Head+Butler.jpg" width="456" /></a></div><br /><p>I started and finished it yesterday. It's short. <br /></p><p>Part I of the book is bits of what white people will actually say to black people. Horrible things. But all very believable.<br /></p><blockquote>Who said that? She said what? What did he just do? Did she really just say that? He said what? What did she do? Did I hear what I think I heard?</blockquote><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4YpVoYbZNFep9XcD04_UWmvRSWINCXPY_t919SndOPNO3NzLUdWN1HG106WEqOQE3J5jjTVS4fEIdgZdZedLY0_FzGAwY_aK-8bx83bCtG-RkxI8BK88ZF1l0omTNSs2FqY5fm8bsSdsT/s717/Citizen+-+An+American+Lyric.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="717" data-original-width="544" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4YpVoYbZNFep9XcD04_UWmvRSWINCXPY_t919SndOPNO3NzLUdWN1HG106WEqOQE3J5jjTVS4fEIdgZdZedLY0_FzGAwY_aK-8bx83bCtG-RkxI8BK88ZF1l0omTNSs2FqY5fm8bsSdsT/w206-h271/Citizen+-+An+American+Lyric.jpg" width="206" /></a></div>Part II of the book is about Serena Williams and what she has had to put up with as a strong, black woman in the white world of tennis. Rankine describes the bad calls against Serena by tennis umpires – five of them in the 2004 U.S. Open alone.<br /><br />By now, I’m enraged. I like and admire Serena Williams, but I don’t follow tennis, so I didn’t know any of the bad calls, public ridicule, etc etc. This is all new to me, and I’m in a lather. <b>How dare they</b> treat her like that! How dare they think her anger is uncalled for!<br /><br />I am sputtering with fury, fueled with rage, so I go online to <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> to register that I’m “currently reading” the book.<br /><br />Huh? Goodreads shows that I’ve already marked the book as “read” back in 2017. And it only has three stars.<br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My First Reaction</span></span></b><br />Somebody has hacked my Goodreads account! Someone is adding books to my “read” list that I haven’t read. How have they gotten my password? And they’re throwing in fake star reviews, too; this book is clearly four stars. This is terrible!<br /><br />Tim, witnessing both my Serena rage and the uproar over my hacked book list, mutters something about how it wasn’t, after all, my bank account.<br /><br /><b>But this is my book list!</b> So I inspect other books recorded for 2017: <i>Here I Am</i> by Jonathan Safran Foer, <i>A Gentleman in Moscow</i> by Amor Towles. Yes, I read those. How deep has the hacking gone?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwS3gW20gUkhRC_Zl5FlCLt4dwq9fvFDU2r8IcCsWL86BVlh4Uwn3O3PfbBlZRr95iMJ6cVZRujjdxbsV1pAU9aVX2kz_nJT6QqLtLarnTkQ-wAUTnKZ7r0CKv9iCFSo4FVCLBzhH3KkNk/s1209/Goodreads.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="620" data-original-width="1209" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwS3gW20gUkhRC_Zl5FlCLt4dwq9fvFDU2r8IcCsWL86BVlh4Uwn3O3PfbBlZRr95iMJ6cVZRujjdxbsV1pAU9aVX2kz_nJT6QqLtLarnTkQ-wAUTnKZ7r0CKv9iCFSo4FVCLBzhH3KkNk/w445-h228/Goodreads.jpg" width="445" /></a></div>Ah, but back in 2017, I also kept a separate, non-Internet list of books I’d read. I can check against that. And there it is: I read <i>Citizen: An American Lyric</i> in May of 2017.<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My Second Reaction</span></span></b><br />Dementia has set in, and I am one step away from assisted living. How could I have read a book, had such a strong reaction, and have absolutely no memory of it?<br /><br />I tell people I have never read Kafka, that it’s a hole in my literary history. And then, many years ago, while cleaning out my mother’s attic, I came across a paper I wrote comparing the writings of Nietzsche and Kafka. I was thorough: the bibliography was comprehensive. Yes, I know my Nietzsche well, but I have never, ever read any Kafka.<br /><br />Wherever Kafka is, so is <i>Citizen: An American Lyric</i>.<br /><br />I read the rest of the book, hoping I’ll come across an aha! moment of recognition. It doesn’t happen. What does happen is Part III and Part IV and Part V and Part VI of regular and consistent humiliations and deaths of unarmed black men and mistreatment and the squashing of anger because to be black and “Yes, and this is how you are a citizen. Come on. Let it go. Move on.” But all expressed … lyrically … so it hurts to see ugliness described beautifully.</p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My Third Reaction</span></span></b><br />It’s 2021 today, and 2017 must have been a long, long time ago. 2019 was a long time ago.<br /><br />Like the rest of America, I’m notched up. Claudia Rankine says it herself, that these moments accumulate in the body: “I wanted the book, as much as the book could do this, to communicate that feeling. The feeling of saturation. Of being full up.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv3ISYYLsttQ4ZH9IpWApHVeDwDk3WgWWaZrOL_fh9NTelOEa5xWv2oNvNJL94bEh63DklUDr6bWui1CdGSDDHHToV1_b8R00jhX4rCdAh1Blj8G0Xx-fADJmapggidvYRFIDgCr2DgaA-/s579/Tinderbox+Barbara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="579" data-original-width="573" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv3ISYYLsttQ4ZH9IpWApHVeDwDk3WgWWaZrOL_fh9NTelOEa5xWv2oNvNJL94bEh63DklUDr6bWui1CdGSDDHHToV1_b8R00jhX4rCdAh1Blj8G0Xx-fADJmapggidvYRFIDgCr2DgaA-/w275-h278/Tinderbox+Barbara.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><p>Her book does that, but in 2021, I am already saturated. I am a tinderbox and just one more story of social injustice, of people wronged or ignored, of rights lost, and I ignite. I am just a spark away from outrage.<br /><br />So is the rest of America.<br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My Fourth Reaction</span></span></b><br />I’m coordinating meetings with my senators in support of the For the People Act and the John Lewis Voting Rights Advancement Act. (Email me if you’re interested.)<br /><br />There, that sounds reasonable and calm and restrained, right? Like I can conduct myself properly. You wouldn’t know the desperation I feel about things <b>not getting better</b>. I’m not running crazy through the streets, shouting on street corners, tearing my hair out. At least, not on the outside. (Trust me, I still am on the inside.)<br /><br />My hope? That we all reach our own Fourth Reactions, whatever shape they take. We just need to do <b>something</b>.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-55685631155656208352021-07-08T18:49:00.001-08:002021-07-08T18:49:19.785-08:00Did this come in your email?<p>Do things look different?<br /><br />Does this blog look different?<br /><br />Is everything working the way it’s supposed to?<br /><br />Just when I think things are stable and running smoothly, technology throws a wrench in the works. I write and illustrate the blog; then I post it. Then it gets to you and your email because you signed up. But Google did away with the sign-up thingie, so I had to find another.<br /><br />It’s called <i>follow.it</i>. If you’re reading this, then <i>follow.it</i> works. Hooray!<br /><br />If you’re not reading this, I’m going to have a big conniption fit in the corner. I may even throw things. I’ll call my friend, Steve, who also switched over to <i>follow.it</i> for <a href="https://whatdoino-steve.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">his blog</a>. And maybe eventually, I’ll take deep breaths and calm down.<br /><br />Whether it’s <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2019/08/my-car-of-future.html" target="_blank">my car</a>, my <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2019/09/gizmos-part-ii.html" target="_blank">wristwatch</a>, my <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2015/11/technology-vs-blog.html" target="_blank">scanner</a>, or <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2017/02/the-public-restroom-technological.html" target="_blank">public restrooms</a>, technology has confounded me.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUnv2_56Ke6LXEldg9Vh-jhy_57FK7mWeXr-IFoOuiyqRHXOEDoj8OfaH2HzUBY48CpgGZOhBNrJy8f73hlw1wJItQtUq0rUL9HC6iB8SdHdhTIXSiidGvnjhk19Lb2CiGSuwAyKvtBp1I/s722/Whirling+Thoughts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="722" data-original-width="536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUnv2_56Ke6LXEldg9Vh-jhy_57FK7mWeXr-IFoOuiyqRHXOEDoj8OfaH2HzUBY48CpgGZOhBNrJy8f73hlw1wJItQtUq0rUL9HC6iB8SdHdhTIXSiidGvnjhk19Lb2CiGSuwAyKvtBp1I/s320/Whirling+Thoughts.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><br />It’s confounded you, too. I had to explain <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2016/09/how-to-comment-how-to-share.html" target="_blank">how to comment and share</a> my posts after so much shared confusion.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiakQ5RirptxqI8CWaTeHItulP_N5wPi6tTwcJS_hqLP_vVg1BkjqskkNP3qJPz4mqFz3Udur2DF-u6W-dZCk-ztSXM6qAInn00z5eiILCmmS_Rkohidfjln2OHLLVJZwTZ00coL9F7l_dT/s977/Post+a+Comment.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="603" data-original-width="977" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiakQ5RirptxqI8CWaTeHItulP_N5wPi6tTwcJS_hqLP_vVg1BkjqskkNP3qJPz4mqFz3Udur2DF-u6W-dZCk-ztSXM6qAInn00z5eiILCmmS_Rkohidfjln2OHLLVJZwTZ00coL9F7l_dT/s320/Post+a+Comment.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Some of these posts go back to 2015 – technology is a problem that endures. Back then, I was still figuring out how to work an <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2015/08/i-am-not-tech-dinosaur.html" target="_blank">Apple TV remote</a>.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxvlbWVOCmiYZlflMP-PDrojs8-2gsBSS_RFkxRKxNNQlQksejG1_7D11FIf4UbAUbETO0diTzJ0BFFtk8DdBnqTfkUz_k2LpS8-2vNa1NbSQny6KSKUoS5Ai_napaJ4l3PDT0-IPzoSrs/s1038/Apple+TV+Remote.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1038" data-original-width="359" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxvlbWVOCmiYZlflMP-PDrojs8-2gsBSS_RFkxRKxNNQlQksejG1_7D11FIf4UbAUbETO0diTzJ0BFFtk8DdBnqTfkUz_k2LpS8-2vNa1NbSQny6KSKUoS5Ai_napaJ4l3PDT0-IPzoSrs/w94-h271/Apple+TV+Remote.jpg" width="94" /></a></div>I’m going on and on, assuming you’re here with me, that I made it into your inbox. Oh, and if you’re reading this on the website (https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com) and not via email, you should see a great big box “To receive Our Third Thirds by email” with a big black “Subscribe” button. That’s compliments of <i>follow.it</i>. It’s easy.<br /><br />We hope.<br />CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-47941208806082768902021-06-08T21:57:00.000-08:002021-06-08T21:57:12.215-08:00Silver Linings<p>As the pandemic winds down – or so we think – leaving many dead, many long-sick, the rich richer and the poor poorer, and me with my social skills fractured; I have to admit to a silver lining. Doesn’t that sound callous? I think so. But some people might call it “looking on the bright side,” which is yet another example of my social confusion.<br /><br />Anyhow, way back at the beginning, when I was in Philadelphia for my “urban infusion” month interrupted by Covid, my sister Elizabeth <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2020/03/philadelphia-here-i-was.html" target="_blank">rescued me</a>. She drove down from Massachusetts and retrieved me. As the reality of pandemic hit us, Elizabeth was especially nervous because she lives alone. I promised her that I would not let her feel unsupported; I would check in on her every week.<br /><br />And I have.<br /><br />And I even went the extra step: I included my brother, Larry.<br /><br />My brother once said powerful glue held all of us together. And then, ten years ago, I stopped speaking to him. Oh, he was still cc’d on sibling emails, but no visits, no phone calls, no private emails, no contact. The glue was dissolved. The siblings were in disarray.<br /><br />So disruptive was this wound that we kept it from my mother. My mother died feeling that her legacy – four kids who would stick together no matter what – was intact. It wasn’t. I spoke to my brother for the first time at her funeral. In between, I’d manage the “I can’t get away” excuse when the family gathered.<br /><br />So what did he do? Never mind. To me, it was very, very big.<br /><br />But I’d made a promise to Elizabeth and now it was Covid time, and there was Zoom. So the siblings – all four of us – started Zooming every Sunday: noon Alaska time, 1:00 California time, 4:00 Massachusetts time, and 10 p.m. Berlin time.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_W16atiMZKYQIlCSc8umg2R323ZBobDeQDgjASv2QkHPVmZIMnRPe8W5ImNjjz7nV0Be7uQoSlsMTaV4240MmWOE9pjiLxzfHdA9zImnqKHlQUAuX5vs8HEhKlgO0xvr8s8Mqzi2Vo7g3/s1393/Zoom+Time.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="676" data-original-width="1393" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_W16atiMZKYQIlCSc8umg2R323ZBobDeQDgjASv2QkHPVmZIMnRPe8W5ImNjjz7nV0Be7uQoSlsMTaV4240MmWOE9pjiLxzfHdA9zImnqKHlQUAuX5vs8HEhKlgO0xvr8s8Mqzi2Vo7g3/w390-h189/Zoom+Time.jpg" width="390" /></a></div> <p></p><p>Every Sunday. Except when that was impossible, so then it was Monday. One friend called it “sacrosanct.” Yup. <b>Every Sunday.</b><br /><br />For two or more hours.<br /><br />I suffer Zoom fatigue. No, I suffer Zoom hate. I can’t stand looking at faces in little boxes, sitting erect in front of my computer, having people talk over each other, etc etc. I have a Zoom limit of an hour (if I’m generous).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkarAiCBMt5wnIP5eOLZ8L-kssyf5PZIdWlcylzSgZGHEA1yUwnx_R4irh2aq3wk3a5qpRHEwzskNe4FY-14-7wd5LcJLztbkNd7WXWa9pgWRrRNq7gYpUI05bZdvkEDqBK6cdJMMyX5Uy/s1019/Zoom+Screen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="742" data-original-width="1019" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkarAiCBMt5wnIP5eOLZ8L-kssyf5PZIdWlcylzSgZGHEA1yUwnx_R4irh2aq3wk3a5qpRHEwzskNe4FY-14-7wd5LcJLztbkNd7WXWa9pgWRrRNq7gYpUI05bZdvkEDqBK6cdJMMyX5Uy/s320/Zoom+Screen.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>But I can Zoom with my siblings for HOURS. This is what we do: we laugh, we tease, we agree or disagree, we try not to give advice, we get tired, we prattle on meaninglessly, we comfort, we talk movies and books, we listen.<br /><br />At one point, Larry held up a stapler. Immediately, Elizabeth held one up, too. “I got it from Mom; she got it from her office.” Someone else got theirs the same way. I held up mine: “I got it when I was little and it turns out it had a lifetime guarantee, so I got a new one about twenty years ago.” “Who gives a lifetime guarantee on staplers?” And off we went, proving to Larry that we could talk about anything.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcVQtnWgcdxSSfRzaRGfIMVlcMcEi48iJTyV3vveq1QLby7yzC2VbHwGwwwrtEI2UjQhug1m0ZHnorufE13kItV485uLJnO2C_dXPHpGhXj3-3QxX6t0x-UOEIGQ2XLYH6XJjFCaO0FhQ_/s901/Staplers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="901" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcVQtnWgcdxSSfRzaRGfIMVlcMcEi48iJTyV3vveq1QLby7yzC2VbHwGwwwrtEI2UjQhug1m0ZHnorufE13kItV485uLJnO2C_dXPHpGhXj3-3QxX6t0x-UOEIGQ2XLYH6XJjFCaO0FhQ_/s320/Staplers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Anytime Allison’s eyes start looking down, we know she’s researching something. She’s relentless. So sometimes, when we see that, we all “stop video.” She looks up to see us all gone. “Where is everybody?”<br /><br />Once one of us pulled out the masks we got on a family vacation in New England. Back then, we had spent an uproarious time in the general store trying on masks, hooting and freaking out. Amazingly, now, each of us then disappeared off-screen and returned with our own masks – even in the same general store bags. We spent an hour, carrying on in masks, disguises, costumes.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5QehxBFgbE4QTisAS-8D5wi1EadkpXuByw9mWiJn_t63kjW-GLHADFVgxmEljvOfqCXMozEJhs6JHIE8OVxozc_XpxrdiMSH2pPulyRsnZYIArwP83gKAtpMD_ggLDefCEIK_PZhcCy_0/s1122/Brown+kids+incognito+1+2021-02-23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="643" data-original-width="1122" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5QehxBFgbE4QTisAS-8D5wi1EadkpXuByw9mWiJn_t63kjW-GLHADFVgxmEljvOfqCXMozEJhs6JHIE8OVxozc_XpxrdiMSH2pPulyRsnZYIArwP83gKAtpMD_ggLDefCEIK_PZhcCy_0/w370-h212/Brown+kids+incognito+1+2021-02-23.jpg" width="370" /></a></div><br /><p>After several months, I told my brother I forgave him.<br /><br />I started with the sibling Zooms as a gift to Allison and Elizabeth, knowing that they needed all of us together, but I was wrong. These sibling Zooms are a gift to me.<br /><br />Yes, I know all those sayings like, “Anger does more damage to the vessel in which it is stored than the object on which it is poured,” but I’d felt <b>wronged</b>.<br /><br />How wrong I was. I might have called this post <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2019/02/pearl-of-wisdom-1.html" target="_blank">Pearl of Wisdom</a> #3 except that I’m too slow a learner. I don’t feel very wise. I feel foolish and stubborn. I needed a 2x4 to the head; I needed a pandemic!<br /><br />Life is short. Love is long. I love my siblings, all of them. Thank you, Covid. Thank you, Zoom.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-72662416199120685152021-05-02T17:58:00.000-08:002021-05-02T17:58:57.058-08:00The Quest for New-ness #5<p>When I first started this blog, I was really intent on my Quest for New-ness. On my website, my New Thing label has 84 posts, more than any other. I described it <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2016/01/the-quest-for-new-ness-3.html" target="_blank">this way</a>:<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><blockquote>If I don’t want to get stale in my Third Third, I need newness. I need jolts and shake-ups. Actually, my whole life has been about wanting and liking jolts and shake-ups, but the difference is that now I feel I need them to ward off any encroaching stagnation.</blockquote><p></p><p>And that was even before the relentless staleness of Covid-19.<br /><br />So here I am after <strike>days</strike> <strike>weeks</strike> months of same-old-same-old. But then we got vaccinated and Tim announced, “Off to Maui!” which jolted me so badly I had to hide for a while. But I emerged, boarded the plane, and traded Alaska snow and cold for Maui sun and heat.<br /><br />This is the thing about sun and heat: you can lie down in it, you walk around in shorts and tank tops in it, you put sunscreen on in it. You maybe stay indoors during the hottest part of it, but mostly you are breathing air-that-has-not-been-in-four-walls – <b>outside air! </b>You do that for <b>most of the day</b>. It’s kind of miraculous.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXUh3iuejBg7HG4Ui9KdhNsng3IXYa4207eALUUqEgyfVFHWiyOo9qAum-PCU_xvdfSwvVN22gKF4gs0cD0A60TIe1BXKjdgqSkQQP0luUNPM_08AYvbd768ae2OjcmXZ_5a1arJRLDrP0/s848/Maui+Sunshine.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="848" data-original-width="635" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXUh3iuejBg7HG4Ui9KdhNsng3IXYa4207eALUUqEgyfVFHWiyOo9qAum-PCU_xvdfSwvVN22gKF4gs0cD0A60TIe1BXKjdgqSkQQP0luUNPM_08AYvbd768ae2OjcmXZ_5a1arJRLDrP0/s320/Maui+Sunshine.jpg" /></a></div>But you still have to eat, you still have to acquire food and do something with it – cook it or order it or look at a menu about it. You still have to take showers and wash your hair. You still have to brush your teeth. You still have to put dirty clothes in the dirty-laundry bag.<br /><br />You still have to wake up and go to sleep. You still have to decide what you’re going to do today: hike or beach or pool? You still have to get in a car that you’ll drive to wherever you might want to sightsee. The car will still need gas. If you read a book, you still have to open it and turn the pages.<br /><br />Do you see where I’m going here? Most of our days repeat most of our days <b>no matter where we are</b>. And if you’re suffering from too much routine and the psychologists report an emotional state of <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/04/19/well/mind/covid-mental-health-languishing.html " target="_blank">“languishing,”</a> then you just might not be getting the New-ness your spirit requires.<br /><br />I grew up on Long Island, so I grew up on water. Beaches and pools. During those sticky, humid days, water was our sanity, our pleasure, and our thrill. I would body surf till my scalp was covered in sand, till I carried loads of sand in my swimsuit. The town pool was daily until my friends got driver’s licenses, then the beach became a daily after work option. I am better in water than on land.<br /><br />And on Maui, the water is delightful. You can swim in it and play around in it, but it’s very shallow. The thing you can’t do is body surf in it. You just can’t grab a wave and let it take your body over a four-inch surf. That must be why everyone is holding a boogie board, which I don’t quite get: is it like a toy? A baby surfboard?<br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCNPajiktJ-xOhYcJ7KgcZQ5xrAHdgOFz6r_Bftg5zW8w9PB5MJpOlzkVgxHrCgByccws-5hDZiBr2_3uxNql7SkE_H6WQafq4taBMEKxx7X5zWxoI9zo4S3i2ID-b7RIOHMaBKtaNa3n/s723/Boogie+Board.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="436" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCNPajiktJ-xOhYcJ7KgcZQ5xrAHdgOFz6r_Bftg5zW8w9PB5MJpOlzkVgxHrCgByccws-5hDZiBr2_3uxNql7SkE_H6WQafq4taBMEKxx7X5zWxoI9zo4S3i2ID-b7RIOHMaBKtaNa3n/w161-h267/Boogie+Board.jpg" width="161" /></a></div><p>One of the new things on this trip was staying in a condo. We’d never done that. In this condo was a supply closet with beach chairs and beach mats, umbrellas and towels, flippers and wet suits. And boogie boards. It was like a personal summertime R.E.I.<br /><br />So we took the boogie boards to the beach. Let me tell you about boogie boarding!<br /><br />I stood out there, holding the board in front of me. I know my waves; I picked a good one at the right time, threw myself forward on the board. <br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Luckiest Guy;">And I flew!</span></span> <span style="font-size: x-large;"> <span><span style="font-family: Chewy;">I was a bullet</span></span></span>, flying through the water or the air or whatever it was! </p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Monoton;">I was on top of the whole world</span></span> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLFE04Q6B9-RI3m6csO1HKOMG7bIuGGdniy4g6NHSYv5pUwdowrvX5LuZMTZADitjFP-4MWkeV4KmDbc_8l3S_EYnoLv9FE71Qjr-6hUli14IF6_OU1VrxY0HVUIZ335-6iowwIdKaOWc/s840/Riding+the+Boogie+Bd+%25231.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="391" data-original-width="840" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLFE04Q6B9-RI3m6csO1HKOMG7bIuGGdniy4g6NHSYv5pUwdowrvX5LuZMTZADitjFP-4MWkeV4KmDbc_8l3S_EYnoLv9FE71Qjr-6hUli14IF6_OU1VrxY0HVUIZ335-6iowwIdKaOWc/s320/Riding+the+Boogie+Bd+%25231.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />until the wave disappeared below me and dropped me down – free fall! – to the next wave which caught me and took me to shore<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzfCzbe2OIeXLHy4-4LotfDlse5j2O6tjwo1m7s9TJuVkaWX5PRk9U2vTnGd6p5eYFGCILxAVHAVOm4AHAm5V2xNOB0YfPHEyIXhe8t5HVPK8DFfxPz-JX3PMxQU6Oj3vBFAQLuK1UzwbZ/s966/Riding+the+Boogie+Bd+%25232.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="559" data-original-width="966" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzfCzbe2OIeXLHy4-4LotfDlse5j2O6tjwo1m7s9TJuVkaWX5PRk9U2vTnGd6p5eYFGCILxAVHAVOm4AHAm5V2xNOB0YfPHEyIXhe8t5HVPK8DFfxPz-JX3PMxQU6Oj3vBFAQLuK1UzwbZ/s320/Riding+the+Boogie+Bd+%25232.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>where the next wave positively drove me up the beach on two inches of water and sand.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPlSzCbCu77XZmvtreaQtkLwYUtolmL5YeyNKKWRG15CTm4lTJ5pzavg6onTJgRhfFwvCCWv1b51Ad6ujs_U_esyqXQZiNs-ZkXT5cnm-Fjp020WymKllrOU8h6S554A3FP-G_0weIZsb/s994/Riding+the+Boogie+Bd+%25233.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="296" data-original-width="994" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPlSzCbCu77XZmvtreaQtkLwYUtolmL5YeyNKKWRG15CTm4lTJ5pzavg6onTJgRhfFwvCCWv1b51Ad6ujs_U_esyqXQZiNs-ZkXT5cnm-Fjp020WymKllrOU8h6S554A3FP-G_0weIZsb/s320/Riding+the+Boogie+Bd+%25233.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Aaaiiieeee! It was incredible!<br /><br />When the water went out, the board was buried in sand and I had to dig it out.<br /><br />I woke up.<br /><br />That’s it: my fog lifted and light emerged. It wasn’t the adrenaline rush of risk (I <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2016/08/lessons-of-chilkoot-trail-3.html" target="_blank">gave up terror</a> after the Chilkoot Trail), and no fear was involved in this at all: we’re talking shallow shore breaks. It was the sheer delight of New-ness. A brand-new experience had entered my life, charged new neurons, ignored the same-old-same-old.<br /><br />Finally, an 85th New Thing!<br />CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-87592080072564648642021-04-04T13:21:00.000-08:002021-04-04T13:21:54.534-08:00The Elusiveness of Normal<p>I’m not sure I can be normal again.<br /><br />I’m fully vaccinated, about to leave 29° snow behind for a vacation in Maui, and these are my thoughts: Should I take some calming medication before sitting on a crowded airplane with a mask on for five hours? This is a plane where everyone has had to have a negative Covid test within 72 hours, but that’s not it.<br /><br />I’m not scared of Covid; I’m scared of realizing that normal is no longer possible.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsw7Bflw_F4fY1YS_X0YXGO-M9N7EbcSzhyphenhyphenU2-GHQk7FAtE2SzBhS5t3UKoZxEO4dOfSvUcixKo8a8rJ32t9B_Dhqn2hRwNNAgAn5XMRxFX7yVW4VU9yu4tJTmblZhKD2lPM_ZCLAk00Oq/s712/Pandemic+Plane.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="517" data-original-width="712" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsw7Bflw_F4fY1YS_X0YXGO-M9N7EbcSzhyphenhyphenU2-GHQk7FAtE2SzBhS5t3UKoZxEO4dOfSvUcixKo8a8rJ32t9B_Dhqn2hRwNNAgAn5XMRxFX7yVW4VU9yu4tJTmblZhKD2lPM_ZCLAk00Oq/w390-h283/Pandemic+Plane.jpg" width="390" /></a></div>I look back at the past year; I’ve made a family <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2020/05/beware-exciting-project-ahead.html" target="_blank">recipe art book</a>, tackled <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2020/10/the-challenges-of-art.html" target="_blank">art projects</a>, organized an online theater-watching group, read a bazillion books. I even was incredibly excited about getting a chocolate-dipped <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2020/09/a-days-gift.html" target="_blank">ice cream pop</a>!<br /><br />But now, I wake up adrift. Plans don’t excite me. I’m sick of snow, sick of skiing, sick of Netflix, sick of cooking, sick of grocery store pickup ordering, sick of my computer. I started posting poetry on signs on my yard, and now I’m sick of poetry. Sometimes I actually don’t feel like reading, which is truly cataclysmic. Vaccination has been like spotting a finish line and totally sagging before you cross it.<p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD4N4ypy2nDQb5uiHES0vI8oI9j5SMyNT1l6u_3tqWJQNJ3Aob0afJOLRm2TXrFm_k1GX5i5YYQu7r_Bsqf4radgFo6F8bb3W7IWNIoripx1UfQWSFUXgBbhph7MAPstO1NGEnCmyTsiLR/s1836/Poetry+Poster.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1716" data-original-width="1836" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD4N4ypy2nDQb5uiHES0vI8oI9j5SMyNT1l6u_3tqWJQNJ3Aob0afJOLRm2TXrFm_k1GX5i5YYQu7r_Bsqf4radgFo6F8bb3W7IWNIoripx1UfQWSFUXgBbhph7MAPstO1NGEnCmyTsiLR/s320/Poetry+Poster.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <p></p><p>We just restarted our athletic club membership so I could swim again … and I haven’t gone. I’m not worried about catching Covid at the club, not worried about germs. I’m worried that swimming won’t feel good.<br /><br />Early on in my Third Third, I discovered the <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2015/09/when-structure-goes.html" target="_blank">Big Three</a> that were necessary for a happy Third Third:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qLUl6vqJuxHHVm4bjLNbqO4ciVo7V3vZ-mOZeu4nJ5sP1Bo1-eVReUWDwb7BhorV-3vZTzWnNMZBV1ssQ90mPPqh8K0S4Bo9vllIbp0Ot0c19Dnh9GtFKeJLBcKTa5pEduoSopBKXA5a/s1010/Big+3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1010" data-original-width="883" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qLUl6vqJuxHHVm4bjLNbqO4ciVo7V3vZ-mOZeu4nJ5sP1Bo1-eVReUWDwb7BhorV-3vZTzWnNMZBV1ssQ90mPPqh8K0S4Bo9vllIbp0Ot0c19Dnh9GtFKeJLBcKTa5pEduoSopBKXA5a/s320/Big+3.jpg" /></a></div><p>Without teaching at the Alaska Literacy Program, without in-person classes with OLÉ, my days have become sort of adrift. My ability to adapt has petered out. The only schedule I have is on the computer: a writing class, author interviews, recorded theater. Only occasionally am I “of use.” My community is on Zoom.<br /><br />Our daughter quit her first job, one she had loved. For the last year, I characterized our phone calls as her trying to convince herself she was happy with her job. She faced workplace issues complicated by working remotely, and she was valiant in framing things positively, but her heart was no longer in it. It became just too hard and she quit. Hooray! She radiates happiness now. I’m a big supporter of eliminating negative conditions quickly and decisively.<br /><br />But the ones I’m in – the ones we’re all in – just aren’t quickly and decisively going away, and I’m losing the ability to convince myself that “X will be fun; let’s do X!” Or even “I feel like doing X.” Or even “X has to be done, suck it up and do it.” I don’t suck it up anymore; I just drift.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy6QVKL0YfMl0GcZVIKWIhUhidzYs5RCsIrJN1O0bZltauJCqWaxVhvmT_f70jf5UAOduSjXUL__9o1KRIX_Wwi2wCBWCv19CYYrxvIBYXfChbK-4BDKz0P7ODaprjV8BIz2aX0hz1Be0c/s1281/Enthusiasm+Rating+System.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="1281" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy6QVKL0YfMl0GcZVIKWIhUhidzYs5RCsIrJN1O0bZltauJCqWaxVhvmT_f70jf5UAOduSjXUL__9o1KRIX_Wwi2wCBWCv19CYYrxvIBYXfChbK-4BDKz0P7ODaprjV8BIz2aX0hz1Be0c/w416-h301/Enthusiasm+Rating+System.jpg" width="416" /></a></div><p>I know that my negative conditions don’t include illness or death, job loss, or eviction – as many people’s do – and I’m grateful for that. I know that the snow I’m sick of covers a yard I may appreciate when the snow melts. For goodness sake, I’m heading to Maui! (stop whining!) But I also know that the Big Three for a happy Third Third have been disrupted, and it will take time to re-create the Third Third that works for me.<br /><br />We’ve had our first fully-vaccinated guests for dinner, been guests for the first time in someone else’s fully-vaccinated home. Both those times felt just like the old normal once we were in them. Really. But they took some psychic lifting to actually <b>do</b> them. They’re still not a new normal.<br /><br />We may have landed in this pandemic suddenly, but I think we’re going to have to lift ourselves out of it with baby steps.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfhO0QLpnpIrozB-uN7043kfbMSDMA6awjwc5KtGELIfyhhs-Z0aorFs2Vb-GYs4_PKvLgBfHnf5bH5t-dDFHhS4Qw_n9Bdgxp8-EL850P-SzbgAeE-rpzQZx52MSGM4yqKvR8j5B5Y_oO/s802/Baby+Steps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="802" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfhO0QLpnpIrozB-uN7043kfbMSDMA6awjwc5KtGELIfyhhs-Z0aorFs2Vb-GYs4_PKvLgBfHnf5bH5t-dDFHhS4Qw_n9Bdgxp8-EL850P-SzbgAeE-rpzQZx52MSGM4yqKvR8j5B5Y_oO/s320/Baby+Steps.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><br /></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-2045465069453796572021-03-10T20:34:00.001-09:002021-03-10T20:37:55.973-09:00Collateral Damage<p>My inanimate objects are suffering from Covid-19, and it’s not just my car. The latest victim: my beanbag chairs.</p><p>Yes, yes, I know: <b>nobody </b>has beanbag chairs anymore. Nobody in their Third Third. Nobody who has trouble getting up once they’ve gotten down. I have that trouble, too. But when the TV proved too hard to see all the way from the couch, it was easier to drag the beanbags out into the middle of the floor, closer to the TV. </p><p></p><blockquote>(Why do they insist on using text messages on detective shows? You have to race for the pause button and get right up to the TV to see what crucial bit of information the detective has just received.) </blockquote><p></p><p>But now – compliments of Netflix and Prime and Hulu, Disney+ and HBO Max and PBS Passport – the beanbags are pretty squashed and flattened. I’m not sitting on beans anymore; I’m sitting on floor.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia8fgS-ufexZ4Y4n6O8WRwzb8vyFrXubSW25nI6remgkNILySJ934v646QPqTldem1Yn2geXVoA3gyKggGvGSUCGTvKvldWNRB3aeC8ZKGTzja_tSYcI2Uec5w7bOt1hjZkAVbMTHuw8HI/s686/Netflix+and+Me.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="686" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia8fgS-ufexZ4Y4n6O8WRwzb8vyFrXubSW25nI6remgkNILySJ934v646QPqTldem1Yn2geXVoA3gyKggGvGSUCGTvKvldWNRB3aeC8ZKGTzja_tSYcI2Uec5w7bOt1hjZkAVbMTHuw8HI/s320/Netflix+and+Me.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I sewed my first giant-size beanbag chairs back when I had my first apartment. They have a muslin lining so I can wash the outside, and there have been many iterations of the outside as they wore out, were faded by the sun, or just got tired. Now the outsides are fine; it’s the insides that have Covid.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1EP27aIQfhYYgUP4OISYaGH_7UUNx0yhHgwBphOkgQt16FYg2DYrpyyDKFCZgkuLv58XcxjFpQiu-ZivYy3B8JdcDx1-cpTmIfQFhqmzHRZiqvqgNXh6amxHhxD5SfJUOan8UuOrewwJ/s961/Beanbag+Pattern.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="961" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1EP27aIQfhYYgUP4OISYaGH_7UUNx0yhHgwBphOkgQt16FYg2DYrpyyDKFCZgkuLv58XcxjFpQiu-ZivYy3B8JdcDx1-cpTmIfQFhqmzHRZiqvqgNXh6amxHhxD5SfJUOan8UuOrewwJ/s320/Beanbag+Pattern.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The issue is the filling: Styrofoam pellets. They start out round and roly-poly, but they flatten. Then you have to add more. That was easier in the ’70s. Since then, it’s been a challenge.<br /><br />I filled my first beanbag chair in Berkeley, California. I’d driven there in my little Datsun and stuffed it full, really FULL. It was like an early version of air bags, I guess, but as if they’d already exploded. I ended up spending the night, and when my friend Jenny saw the car the next morning, she marveled that no junkies had broken in thinking it was some incredible bounty of drugs.<br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmzSABOGeDB9Aeca2nf4vQIvJi4Ef8UpgLu0xcfAoLZu9lcs6FIMe6jU_f0m1Ap2lpf3zdFuM3OFSsIS0iG21lMYVBLHRxLU8nKv_ubESkEcAy6Dflb1-SdRxWeJfiXl64eA490MnPUgBe/s773/Loaded+Datsun.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="773" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmzSABOGeDB9Aeca2nf4vQIvJi4Ef8UpgLu0xcfAoLZu9lcs6FIMe6jU_f0m1Ap2lpf3zdFuM3OFSsIS0iG21lMYVBLHRxLU8nKv_ubESkEcAy6Dflb1-SdRxWeJfiXl64eA490MnPUgBe/s320/Loaded+Datsun.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>When I lived in San Francisco and my brother worked the early a.m. shift as a trolley coach driver, he used to show up at my place, settle in the beanbag chair in the sun, and fall asleep. So when he turned 50, I made him a beanbag chair and flew down to San Francisco in September 2001 with a bag and liner. I called all around and discovered a plastics place for the pellets.<br /><br />The thing about filling beanbag chairs is that Styrofoam pellets have static. They stick to the plastic bag you’re emptying, to your hair, your clothes, to the bag you’re putting them in. We looked like a popcorn popper had run amuck with us inside it.<br /><br />Once the bag was filled, planes flew into the World Trade Centers and my sister-in-law buried herself in the beanbag chair in front of the television. It was comforting: beanbag chairs hug back. She liked it. She said, “This is nice. You’ll have to make one for your brother some day.”<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmj-3FJX8sXanMfYdFDPx51Ny5pM4um5tE_ioKK2tc61PhdL4wOUkbcECmE8K4K71GJbcUXRFLpXFAm_HhZzb-GkeML15PD9FecOwukVSo165QEMwh48cD5ow0zRdbKAnELQVoxWXadmbh/s466/Kate+in+Beanbag.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="354" data-original-width="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmj-3FJX8sXanMfYdFDPx51Ny5pM4um5tE_ioKK2tc61PhdL4wOUkbcECmE8K4K71GJbcUXRFLpXFAm_HhZzb-GkeML15PD9FecOwukVSo165QEMwh48cD5ow0zRdbKAnELQVoxWXadmbh/s320/Kate+in+Beanbag.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>But now I have Netflix-flattened beanbag chairs, which means a Quest, a Quest for Pellets. I’ve been led on wild goose chases to Fred Meyer, Walmart, a bigger Walmart, a different Fred Meyer. Salespeople say, “Oh, yes, that’s in Crafts.” Crafts say, “We haven’t had them in years.” Salespeople in the front of the store have seen the pellets in the back of the store, but that is only a figment of their imagination. This happens in every store.<br /><br />The Quest moves online, where – <b>no, no, no!</b> I’ve done this <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2018/02/amazon-adventures.html" target="_blank">before</a>! – I lose myself in the customer reviews of pellets.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSP6bURhVaezkE6RvhuaOB5p8oywX-y56tn0wnDRcmX66MIED8pPvFT_C5RQbatKNmzEytk96xdS89wGACtkKJaeSkjpo8ShY3IpBbRfbg4o_-ZvG6IXYjsqLGkHQIz1uK8-UenTjcpIPG/s1551/Amazon+Reviews.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1551" data-original-width="1100" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSP6bURhVaezkE6RvhuaOB5p8oywX-y56tn0wnDRcmX66MIED8pPvFT_C5RQbatKNmzEytk96xdS89wGACtkKJaeSkjpo8ShY3IpBbRfbg4o_-ZvG6IXYjsqLGkHQIz1uK8-UenTjcpIPG/w284-h400/Amazon+Reviews.jpg" width="284" /></a></div>This is too much complexity for my Covid brain. The floor is just fine.<br /><p><br /></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-67927894435917601252021-01-22T15:46:00.000-09:002021-01-22T15:46:36.480-09:00My Car/My Covid Self<p>My car and I are experiencing Covid in parallel. Not “together” because mostly, I don’t go anywhere so I don’t drive anywhere, but we’re still tied up with each other, both liberating and traumatizing each other.<br /><br />Sophie tells us that the Covid experience is markedly different if (1) you have a backyard and (2) you have a car. I am incredibly grateful to have both. So my car meant I could Get Out and About. I was free! Thank you, car.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIAOR0waCk2gBN60Hop9aylVXm1TCQhAIX-1NbfeJAx7__lXFKRRyB_xqCjHimX5yX3IADi7uYvX7QqMVQ-6auRrkh1IUA_FKaqVQhkOjBVCF7XIHfwv6CdmzbeFZsqONVkxW8bFF1NVnF/s1220/New+Outback.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="502" data-original-width="1220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIAOR0waCk2gBN60Hop9aylVXm1TCQhAIX-1NbfeJAx7__lXFKRRyB_xqCjHimX5yX3IADi7uYvX7QqMVQ-6auRrkh1IUA_FKaqVQhkOjBVCF7XIHfwv6CdmzbeFZsqONVkxW8bFF1NVnF/s320/New+Outback.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <p></p><p>I’ve already explained here that this is <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2019/08/my-car-of-future.html" target="_blank">a car with gizmos</a>, that it has “features” that are supposed to enhance my driving experience. That’s what happens when you replace a 1998 car with a 2017 car.<br /><br />One of the “features” of this car is that it goes dead. When I go away for a month, it is dead when I return. But with Covid, the car was going dead every other time I got in it. <strike>We were</strike> Tim was constantly jumping it.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw2sz-gkGQ8kgzZgJgg5VddrflkE-Xbifb3hacShsq8spsQsfdOpO9zyt02GvysPKfchxqUia5xXNxce7o64rCOj2OarMcpN1mb6Zt9_9Lesc3158QuSm6Mb5-T-35APXnn7DXR-KWUyrQ/s856/Jump+Starting.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="856" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw2sz-gkGQ8kgzZgJgg5VddrflkE-Xbifb3hacShsq8spsQsfdOpO9zyt02GvysPKfchxqUia5xXNxce7o64rCOj2OarMcpN1mb6Zt9_9Lesc3158QuSm6Mb5-T-35APXnn7DXR-KWUyrQ/w349-h145/Jump+Starting.jpg" width="349" /></a></div><p>When I take my car into the repair shop, I tell them I am a woman who mostly drives alone, so it’s up to them to make sure my car will NEVER break down, never leave me vulnerable in some dark, deserted place. That works. I have only had very reliable cars.<br /><br />Until mine started going dead. A lot. Mostly, it went dead in the garage, but then it went dead at the grocery store.<br /><br /><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Barbara/Car Covid Parallel:</span></span></b> Both of us are having trouble leaving the house. No matter how much we may want to be part of the world, we’re retreating. We just don’t go.</span></p><p>Apparently, according to the battery man, I have to drive my car enough for it to recharge the battery. Driving it once a week, maybe to the grocery store five minutes away for pickup is not enough. I have to drive it at least eleven miles.<br /><br /><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Barbara/Car Covid Parallel:</span></span></b> It seems that neither of us is getting enough exercise.</span><br /><br />So I take a Big Excursion to Target, which is only 7.3 miles away, but I stop at the library and keep the car running during curbside pickup, so I think that counts. I happily find birthday cards for my sister … and in the parking lot, my car is dead as a doornail. It is dark, cold, and far from home.<br /><br /><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Barbara/Car Covid Parallel:</span></span></b> We are both traumatized, paralyzed with anxiety.</span><br /><br />I ask the friendly Channel 2 News anchorman who has unluckily parked next to me if he would jump my car. I pull out my handy dandy jumper cable case with the instructions on the outside.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi300BDmgY2McKSaKl8difk8379FrEBNBNifpfDV7aVzuJUID2N8Q_oJZ-qRTWnwjjM4VFSkt-8C_zz6L-70YajAMNcrrMqvbvEFdxaTu9m8RPPSA-mK8agWmIurBreUXdV-6qMW17fjjNx/s725/Jumper+Cables.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="725" data-original-width="716" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi300BDmgY2McKSaKl8difk8379FrEBNBNifpfDV7aVzuJUID2N8Q_oJZ-qRTWnwjjM4VFSkt-8C_zz6L-70YajAMNcrrMqvbvEFdxaTu9m8RPPSA-mK8agWmIurBreUXdV-6qMW17fjjNx/s320/Jumper+Cables.jpg" /></a></div>Nothing doing. I phone Tim and stand in the now-vacant space next to my car, waving away all the other people who want that space and who think I am an asshole. I explain and one guy offers to jump it.<br /><br /> “No, thank you, my husband is on his way.” (I want my husband!)<br /><br />Tim conquers 7.3 miles of rush-hour and bad weather, arrives, hooks up the cables, and sits with his engine running, giving my car an infusion of energy. I vibrate.<br /><br /><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Barbara/Car Covid Parallel:</span></span></b> Little by little, both of us calm down and can now direct our nervous energy toward Getting Home. We can start. The clock in the car is now two hours behind. I am not sure what day it is; my car is not sure what time it is.</span><br /><br />Once home, Tim says, “Tomorrow we can take your car in.”<br /><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><br /><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Barbara/Car Covid Parallel:</span></span></b> Now that we are safe in the garage and safe at home – kissing the ground! – <b>we are not leaving</b>.</span><br /><br />Days go by, and I eventually take the car into my trusty Subaru mechanic. J-T tells me that these newer cars have so many security features and special electronics, that they are always draining energy. The little red light that’s always blinking is the sign that the car is monitoring itself. If you don’t drive it enough, it won’t recharge enough to be able to start up.<br /><br /><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Barbara/Car Covid Parallel:</span></span></b> I am constantly ruminating over every little issue, monitoring my mental health and my awkward social interactions. Now I know that my car is doing the same thing! Are my fluid levels good, what about my tire pressure? Did I embarrass myself on that Zoom call, how can I feel purposeful again?</span><br /><br />But J-T has a solution: he installs a little Battery Minder in my car. Kept plugged in, it sends a little trickle of energy to my car while it sleeps. My well-rested car is now happy and eager to start up and go.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCX4JIidudPJZloHdwSFUPcp3YwsB_Tj0ksKD_Ilmx1cpa5p9lBat57v5ri4cHRpW993HNJqxlRsO0vFzV46gZMgcOB6qrB1iOOoRK9ZEfoT1QJVmAFqZCeqplpj2QtpT_CSWZmngXBLoy/s724/Battery+Minder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="724" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCX4JIidudPJZloHdwSFUPcp3YwsB_Tj0ksKD_Ilmx1cpa5p9lBat57v5ri4cHRpW993HNJqxlRsO0vFzV46gZMgcOB6qrB1iOOoRK9ZEfoT1QJVmAFqZCeqplpj2QtpT_CSWZmngXBLoy/s320/Battery+Minder.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>I need a Battery Minder.</p><p><br /></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-31560241521046481712020-12-30T23:55:00.000-09:002020-12-30T23:55:26.605-09:00The Dark Side of Organizing<p>The very first post I wrote for this blog outlined <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2015/08/identity-crisis-314.html" target="_blank">the issues</a> my Third Third had raised. The second post was about <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2015/08/de-cluttering-101-why-is-this-even-part.html" target="_blank">de-cluttering</a>, and included eight thoughts on de-cluttering. Here I am years later, and all those are still big issues.<br /><br />In the first blog, I asked, “Why is this Third Third such a big deal?” I gave ten answers, but the first one began, “It’s colored by mortality.” So now, get ready for a pandemic-influenced, dark-outside, morbid blog.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_1LnW6jhxrJNX-iSvQctD70LK-yq807amF7LiIGZBIn7e2LPJksJ9roN5f_iptBEHGeL1eL7TxxuzkjI8R2OCQ07Ds1rBGMY79yRlPp9-VtiHa45_IKGOoW8SiCx-s7YMA6dtOrwyR8U/s749/Warning+Ahead.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="749" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_1LnW6jhxrJNX-iSvQctD70LK-yq807amF7LiIGZBIn7e2LPJksJ9roN5f_iptBEHGeL1eL7TxxuzkjI8R2OCQ07Ds1rBGMY79yRlPp9-VtiHa45_IKGOoW8SiCx-s7YMA6dtOrwyR8U/s320/Warning+Ahead.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>This is how my Third Third began: with organizing! I loved organizing/de-cluttering! It meant things that were strewn all over the place found their preferred location in my now-orderly universe. That new place was more attractive, aesthetically pleasing, neat, accessible, tidy. So, for instance, my hundreds of <i>Anchorage Daily News</i> columns found their way into my <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2015/11/the-un-done-done.html" target="_blank">handmade books</a>. Books were donated and only favorites held prime spots on the bookshelves. <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2016/06/im-converting-my-videos-to-dvds.html " target="_blank">Videos became DVDs</a>. <br /><br />Organizing made my present and future more pleasant, cleansed of clutter.<br /><br />It’s not that organizing itself was always smooth and pleasant. Every project suffered from setbacks and lost momentum, but when they were finished, it was terrific!<br /><br />But lately, some other feeling appeared. After finishing the glorious collection of family recipes in my exquisite, artful, <a href="http://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2020/05/beware-exciting-project-ahead.html" target="_blank">photo recipe book</a>, friends called it a “legacy.”<br /><br />How lovely! In that first blog, the fifth point in “Why is this Third Third such a big deal” was “What legacy do I leave behind?” Wow, now I had a legacy!<br /><br />One I’d leave behind. After I was dead. (Cue the dark and the pandemic.)<br /><br />Then I tackled the <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2016/10/the-photo-albatross.html" target="_blank">photo albatross</a>: I culled, I tossed, I labeled, I mounted in a photo album for easy viewing. I actually finished it! Victory! … Not really. It seems I went from De-cluttering Reason #1 (“You have to toss some of your old life to make room for a new life.”) to #8 (Your kids don’t want your shit.) In other words, my organizing stopped feeling like I was making a new life, but rather packing up my old life for posterity.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT3Tg2pxeKMW2OXqObZX_RrmHsRLfVsMlAX3XFWPIpnGAKDT4ewu_GRyNaxsPRaOajaTgJRNppYnAmm0LsIdCs1HEds1P0B2DBL38I1jjDOE0JAHEG0kmy-hFD1PS8KfQR1mLkdUasm8fd/s711/Drowning+in+Photos.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="611" data-original-width="711" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT3Tg2pxeKMW2OXqObZX_RrmHsRLfVsMlAX3XFWPIpnGAKDT4ewu_GRyNaxsPRaOajaTgJRNppYnAmm0LsIdCs1HEds1P0B2DBL38I1jjDOE0JAHEG0kmy-hFD1PS8KfQR1mLkdUasm8fd/w269-h231/Drowning+in+Photos.jpg" width="269" /></a></div><p>My sister says, “Yeah, but as you went through the photos, you were reminded of each fun time and enjoyed them all over again.” Yes, all those fun times <b>in the past.</b><br /><br />Here’s another example: Tim and I have been meeting with a financial counselor, as we have every now and then over the years. Previous visits were like: Is this the best way to save? What can we do now so we can REALLY do something big next year or in two years? And how big can it be? Now, our financial plan has this big word in it: Estate. We’re not just looking at bank accounts or mutual funds; we’re looking at our <b>estate</b>.<br /><br />Estates are for dead people.<br /><br />Oh, I am getting very morbid. Instead of feeling like every paper I put in its proper file is clearing my desk, I feel like it’s making it easier for my survivors to find.<br /><br />My siblings, who have no children, have different reactions. My sisters worry about where it will go; my brother happily says, “In the trash.” “But who will sort through it? Who will handle it?” the sisters ask. “No sorting. Whoever gets the house just throws it all out.” And he sweeps his hand across the Zoom screen.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB_gNw51FgEc7WTCwomkEMtSRGP3lw6_0AZBXW5OKdu6EKzzcT_TFo4kJiwrhyc6g-cHGoyxdf6RtcgGCdShs6OP1y-7rlUR9zZN13iA32M1ZNngVyw3FsN1wUuOX5xU0fT8MW-0jQJqVz/s878/Just+Trash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="878" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB_gNw51FgEc7WTCwomkEMtSRGP3lw6_0AZBXW5OKdu6EKzzcT_TFo4kJiwrhyc6g-cHGoyxdf6RtcgGCdShs6OP1y-7rlUR9zZN13iA32M1ZNngVyw3FsN1wUuOX5xU0fT8MW-0jQJqVz/s320/Just+Trash.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Just today, my friend Chris asked, “What if all your photos, all your saved stuff, just vaporized? Isn’t it just … stuff?” She’s right. My files of community projects, places we’ve visited, high school yearbooks, appliance warranties – those can all vaporize.<br /><br />But I have a different feeling about my writing. My mother used to write stories – she called her collection “Chicken Every Friday.” I read them once as a teenager, and they were really good. But they’re gone. Just gone. I would have liked to sit with her innermost thoughts. I would have liked to remember her that way.<br /><br />So every time I encounter another piece of my writing, I don’t think happy organizing, clear-the-clutter, how-clean-how-tidy thoughts. I think of being remembered. Isn’t that what we’d all like, to be remembered well? Isn’t that a part of our Third Thirds experience?<br /><br />In the dark of Covid winter, some thoughts are too bleak to entertain. But in the dark of Covid winter, some thoughts just sit and sit. That’s why this post has been so long in coming. I gave you a warning sign!<br /><br />(I have heard that opening the door at midnight is supposed to help put 2020 to bed. And for extra insurance, I’ve Googled how to make a hot toddy to toast the arrival of 2021.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_nFDWDrVqRlFmkHM6aNYSedvobZfJg1FZIZbj6PK5o10295ceJ13jR4CmkuU98EsXZFdkyfdY9ZuFEMudrElHlyfhpLjiCRLsGUKPfIIC5lWQV4nfgdDgbALvre122Ha42y1gYhgTRlL/s711/Hello+2021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="711" data-original-width="696" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_nFDWDrVqRlFmkHM6aNYSedvobZfJg1FZIZbj6PK5o10295ceJ13jR4CmkuU98EsXZFdkyfdY9ZuFEMudrElHlyfhpLjiCRLsGUKPfIIC5lWQV4nfgdDgbALvre122Ha42y1gYhgTRlL/s320/Hello+2021.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-15317053263251897402020-11-25T21:33:00.001-09:002020-11-25T21:33:15.248-09:00Pearl of Wisdom #2<p>I didn’t even realize this was a Pearl of Wisdom until today. My sister Elizabeth and I were trading memories (or non-memories, which seems to be the case more and more – is there a word for forgottenings?). She’d come across a mention of the play, <i>Bye Bye Birdie</i>, and remembered that I starred in it in sixth grade.<br /><br />For those of you who may have missed it, <i>Bye Bye Birdie</i> is a take on Elvis Presley going into the Army. Some lucky girl is picked at random to get Conrad/Elvis’s last kiss before he’s inducted. The lucky girl is named Kim, and Ann-Margret became a super star with this role.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA71a-0vHKO_GzafQtevZVWUe-GZAiuK7JdIFEjX5IqDwB1UKRx0f6hyb3jbFv-7c53Rl9YSppiuZQ1O-YNUYp5xKWJUnHY937BVT69QQGQar1YdxLMMquJvviGNMLFRECzxvR3bZKaxQ8/s732/Bye+Bye+Birdie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="494" data-original-width="732" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA71a-0vHKO_GzafQtevZVWUe-GZAiuK7JdIFEjX5IqDwB1UKRx0f6hyb3jbFv-7c53Rl9YSppiuZQ1O-YNUYp5xKWJUnHY937BVT69QQGQar1YdxLMMquJvviGNMLFRECzxvR3bZKaxQ8/s320/Bye+Bye+Birdie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />In 1963, I was a dork. I had pointy speckled eyeglasses, a flat chest, and scabbed-up knees. I was a member of the Math Club. At my own birthday parties, I hung out in the corners.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs7N665BKlE4TdIsTPaXg5BxvpaHy2IyXGjWC4F9B1W5IODnoiAJeRvtSJCM70-AqhyphenhypheniTIRV_Aoo_BegATuv3AP2KimXL_7dvmgUnK5bYYjlBqfXR9gqg31i0TNtRYt7NYhia934BFiuID/s922/6th+Grade+Dork.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="922" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs7N665BKlE4TdIsTPaXg5BxvpaHy2IyXGjWC4F9B1W5IODnoiAJeRvtSJCM70-AqhyphenhypheniTIRV_Aoo_BegATuv3AP2KimXL_7dvmgUnK5bYYjlBqfXR9gqg31i0TNtRYt7NYhia934BFiuID/s320/6th+Grade+Dork.jpg" /></a></div><p>I was not Ann-Margret material.<br /><br />But I had a very active imagination and fantasy life, and the part of Kim became my quest. My totally unrealistic and ripe-for-disappointment quest.<br /><br />The director of the play was my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Faella, who was truly dedicated and did nothing halfway. She was going to pull off a spectacular production. For the scene where all the teens are talking on the phone in big squares, she’d have us on platforms with ladders and tables. We were going Broadway!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjALbmzGdqTwxakPEGm7l9jmjqvKhsVTHFUVsOUOUFGxf96fX6yw2wv9qvtxnuxaGulocaIenFMk8NU1v4bSaMsf3colD3ULTRwaUbyucx8993Hcnn3IAu2h3KGUc3Mojct_3aQao_zzT30/s832/Phone+Call+Scene.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="529" data-original-width="832" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjALbmzGdqTwxakPEGm7l9jmjqvKhsVTHFUVsOUOUFGxf96fX6yw2wv9qvtxnuxaGulocaIenFMk8NU1v4bSaMsf3colD3ULTRwaUbyucx8993Hcnn3IAu2h3KGUc3Mojct_3aQao_zzT30/s320/Phone+Call+Scene.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Yes, there was the problem of who was going to be Hugo (Kim’s boyfriend) and who was going to be Conrad Birdie (the kiss). The available pool were the sixth grade boys after all. I’d have to cross that bridge when I came to it.<br /><br />Besides, I was still a dork.<br /><br />The day of the audition, all the popular girls lined up. We were reading the part where Kim gets the phone call that she’s been selected as the lucky girl who will get the Last Kiss. Kim has just finished telling her mother that she is no longer going to be treated like a child, that now she will call her mother “Doris,” when the phone rings. She listens and is blown away. She shouts.<br /><br />One after another, the girls read, “Doris! Mother! Mommy!” Next girl: “Doris! Mother! Mommy!” Next girl: “Doris! Mother! Mommy!” No crescendo, no variation, no increasing volume.<br /><br />Back in the line, I had a crushing realization: if I read it just like the other girls, I’d just be one in a long line of girls. Plus, I’d still be the dork who thought she could try out for a starring role. I had to do something – ANYTHING – that would distinguish me.<br /><br />You cannot imagine the crushing realization this sent through me: I had to do something DIFFERENT. I had to separate from the peer group and do something DIFFERENT. Even now – sixty years later! – I can feel the sweat and near-hysteria that gripped me on that line. It was either step out of my comfort zone and risk total and complete sixth grade humiliation or … remain a dork and abandon a fantasy.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1nhXHpeOJFVtNes45XXfKkCtcj6YXXRaSKkLqD6_lj04dnYaQmC0uP20iZ0rIKAvHBle8KIh_eJl-KD9K8L9WALjgLDLp1ewvxhI3e4qh-FCSBT0FXOS1Adwq66t2kyeZ2OVisezmbacL/s817/Fear+Before+the+Leap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="817" data-original-width="805" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1nhXHpeOJFVtNes45XXfKkCtcj6YXXRaSKkLqD6_lj04dnYaQmC0uP20iZ0rIKAvHBle8KIh_eJl-KD9K8L9WALjgLDLp1ewvxhI3e4qh-FCSBT0FXOS1Adwq66t2kyeZ2OVisezmbacL/s320/Fear+Before+the+Leap.jpg" /></a></div>My turn came. I read “Doris!” with a whimper, “Mother!” with desperation, and positively WAILED “Mooooommmmmyyyy!”<br /><br />You could have heard a pin drop. Classmates stared at me. I had broken every rule of sixth grade peer-enforced decorum. But Mrs. Faella said, “Well, there’s no doubt about that. You have the part.”<br /><br /><i>Bye Bye Birdie</i> was the biggest thing in my life for a long time. I did not become a popular girl; I remained a dork with scabby knees. But the dork was an actress. I had starred on the stage.<br /><br />So now I’m sitting in my Third Third, musing on sixth grade Barbara. I didn’t know at the time I was learning a lesson, that I had broken through a wall, made something happen by the sheer force of will to appear stupid. I think I’ve revisited this lesson over and over again throughout my life – not just auditions, not just trying for a part – but encountering all sorts of barriers and obstacles and trials.<br /><br />I’m not sure what the fear is exactly: the fear of losing out or the fear of actually being proven stupid. It seems an impossible effort to break through and risk utter stupidity. <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2017/03/heroes-or-goats.html" target="_blank">It takes practice.</a><br /><br />If that 10-year-old Barbara could do it, so could this Third Third one. So can we all.<br />CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-73229475023231738212020-11-03T15:41:00.000-09:002020-11-03T15:41:41.261-09:00Art vs De-cluttering: A Play in Three Acts<p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Setting</span></span></b><br />I save art supplies. Not only paints and brushes, inks and pastels, pencils and papers, fabric and yarn; but things that <i>could possibly</i> turn into art. Pieces of bark, sticks, wire, metal. Old scraps of rubber, plastic, sponges, things with texture. Mesh net that once held onions or cheese or whatever. Bins of this sort of stuff.<br /><br />The key phrase is “could possibly turn into art.” <i>Anything</i> can possibly turn into art. Anything can also turn into clutter. Junk. But junk can turn into art.<br /><br />You see the problem here? Quilters nicely call their hoard of fabric their “stash.” That’s because fabric looks like fabric. My sticks and bark and scraps look like junk.<br /><br /><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Backstory</span></span></b><br />Way back when, I bought Crab Cake Minis at Costco. It was an experiment. Then Covid-19 happened and what was I going to do with 36 crab cake minis and no guests? So they sat in the freezer until Sophie visited and I thought, “only chance to get rid of the crab cake minis,” so we ate them.<br /><br />They came in a distinctive plastic shell, sort of like Costco apples, but mini. It was a sheet of little half-globes, each holding a tiny crab cake. The angel on my shoulder looked lovingly and imaginatively at that sheet, dreaming of how it might print a pattern or turn into something else.<br /><br />But the devil on the other shoulder shouted, “No more junk! You have bubble wrap and other plastic textures. Just junk! Throw it out!” Which I did.</p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Art Inspiration (the Motivating Action)</span></span></b><br />My assignment from the Anchorage Museum’s Book Arts class is to make an accordion book of one of my collections. I’d already done something with my pressed leaves, something else with my tiny rocks. This time, I looked at my collection of flying women, the ones gathered around my computer as my muses. I would paint a sort-of-somewhat 3-D image of each doll and give her a page.<br /><br />And there’s one of my <a href="https://dupreedolls.com/" target="_blank">Marilee Dupree dolls</a> dancing over me, sitting on a globe. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDz-pCxnfAY2VbHLtajX_j8l7dvQ_Ldp9fZXp1oHFIrppt54sZtR-i4zkyh5_nAwWjH0YAZMmhDB6TdyvcrJJtk9vUsABc8XaWn_sVBpar1GvBR4hwj-gjU8WSgt0LxfqrMTqN-Ni3NgW_/s2048/DSC01419.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1481" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDz-pCxnfAY2VbHLtajX_j8l7dvQ_Ldp9fZXp1oHFIrppt54sZtR-i4zkyh5_nAwWjH0YAZMmhDB6TdyvcrJJtk9vUsABc8XaWn_sVBpar1GvBR4hwj-gjU8WSgt0LxfqrMTqN-Ni3NgW_/s320/DSC01419.jpg" /></a></div><p>A globe that would be perfectly represented by a Crab Cake Mini half-globe!<br /><br />[Brief episode of foul language]<br /><br /><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Shopping Expedition #1</span></span></b><br />Costco has apparently moved on from Crab Cake Minis to Mini Tacos and Mini Quiches and Spanakopita. No more Crab Cake Minis.<br /><br /><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Supporting Cast: The Friends</span></span></b><br />I turn to my Thursday Morning Women and my Friday Morning Women. They have lots of ideas, but it comes down to the packages that Ferrero Rocher chocolates come in. I’ve never heard of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, but I Google it, and Target has them.<br /><br /><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Shopping Expedition #2</span></span></b><br />Target has them, but while the plastic packaging holds individual little chocolates, it has flat bottoms. No little half-globes. But while I am at Target, Friday Morning Judith has been on a thrift shop expedition of her own and has brought a plastic egg carrying case to my doorstep. It’s hard, too hard.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIo1uIbc8RTJsDHQmnE-GBatQz1L-YWmEDbItOy56aq7lfsAleldqEf6fgTQOoUvR3yvJmIg_z0CHv-6PvamjTYLZAlYmeRIeWf0ZK5BIh23yO0AdRnPzja7kfWu8nj2okt7rLm6DatWZx/s690/Egg+Carrier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="487" data-original-width="690" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIo1uIbc8RTJsDHQmnE-GBatQz1L-YWmEDbItOy56aq7lfsAleldqEf6fgTQOoUvR3yvJmIg_z0CHv-6PvamjTYLZAlYmeRIeWf0ZK5BIh23yO0AdRnPzja7kfWu8nj2okt7rLm6DatWZx/s320/Egg+Carrier.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Supporting Cast: The Family</span></span></b><br />Obviously, I’m getting pretty boring by now, talking about little half-globes. My sister Allison, who lives in Germany, knows international chocolate. She’s also an incurable researcher, so during our Sibling Zoom, her head disappeared. We all know what that means, so the rest of us started yelling, “Stop it, Allison! Stop researching!”<br /><br />But the flurry of emails couldn’t be interrupted: for a German chocolate named Toffiffee. Followed by an email for Toffifay, the name in the U.S. Followed by the directions to a Walgreens that sells it in Fairbanks. Followed by the directions to the Walgreens on my corner!<br /><br /><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Shopping Expedition #3</span></span></b><br />Success!<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFlaTE1SXjpxVL7GaewgZFe-XzF3Aw1GpCIb00AZSZh3vkDR_r1xFHQXU12-Oklj-rbecRMCFMDXdTkjSCfcpMNIcFvSqdfgDt19vLc8Z6DptS-KAINGTl5TFjsrnSdLef-PI3vkDEeaHH/s1186/Toffifay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="1186" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFlaTE1SXjpxVL7GaewgZFe-XzF3Aw1GpCIb00AZSZh3vkDR_r1xFHQXU12-Oklj-rbecRMCFMDXdTkjSCfcpMNIcFvSqdfgDt19vLc8Z6DptS-KAINGTl5TFjsrnSdLef-PI3vkDEeaHH/w347-h183/Toffifay.jpg" width="347" /></a></div><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Applause</span></span></b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGCM01BW1LjIJNkjQZxCSWseC1mhc8V86Vb02NYrORcMgvxKCAYVp6zeAt2106vJhOdnHIz34KkIH6uJTrR6qV72A_No05pHaIZB22jylfR2APzQVFqfFQ0QUu4Sse9O4n-5fLywGz8iU3/s2048/Hanging+Doll.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1557" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGCM01BW1LjIJNkjQZxCSWseC1mhc8V86Vb02NYrORcMgvxKCAYVp6zeAt2106vJhOdnHIz34KkIH6uJTrR6qV72A_No05pHaIZB22jylfR2APzQVFqfFQ0QUu4Sse9O4n-5fLywGz8iU3/s320/Hanging+Doll.jpg" /></a></div><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Encore</span></span></b><br />One of the other dolls hangs from the ceiling on a parasol.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9w_gXSJ3E56rzsYhJd616ofMSMtUdjHPbmntow7qWoQ6AELjXRnUP8pAW1ktTfCweisxXJJQ6tkqL3haMJbc6H_7WKRCFku7rAEiFeAhbRemUULP_U26DI_e57J6Shl1yxWG8-oYIzLY/s2048/DSC01431.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1688" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9w_gXSJ3E56rzsYhJd616ofMSMtUdjHPbmntow7qWoQ6AELjXRnUP8pAW1ktTfCweisxXJJQ6tkqL3haMJbc6H_7WKRCFku7rAEiFeAhbRemUULP_U26DI_e57J6Shl1yxWG8-oYIzLY/s320/DSC01431.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p>Aha, there were those paper cocktail parasols Sophie got a long time ago for a birthday party. There were some left over that I’d saved for years. ... But I’d finally de-cluttered them, too.<br /><br />[Another brief episode of foul language]<br /><br />What’s to be done? I obviously can’t live in a house filled with all the infinite possibilities of junk-to-art. Right now, my art space is getting overwhelmed with projects-in-process. It’s driving me a little crazy, crazy enough to do some serious de-cluttering … and repeat this show in a few months.<br /><br />Ah, but Judith to the rescue again: she has a stash of little cocktail parasols! So now I’ve reduced Judith’s clutter while she saved me from my over-eager de-cluttering error. Such a win-win!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWCoSca7GZogutp-nuwtUsprPp5Cd8jyQyVK6EbkMr38id4bXWL1BmJafgsQpKvtP8dCyB9t4HQh-Kk2BbCUTFFtdyXZTaFAlcgxlOvxUVdDwIZ3NQrfuuq-ZZidbE5xDNNrFzh26jb66/s836/Cocktail+Umbrellas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="836" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWCoSca7GZogutp-nuwtUsprPp5Cd8jyQyVK6EbkMr38id4bXWL1BmJafgsQpKvtP8dCyB9t4HQh-Kk2BbCUTFFtdyXZTaFAlcgxlOvxUVdDwIZ3NQrfuuq-ZZidbE5xDNNrFzh26jb66/s320/Cocktail+Umbrellas.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4211773395857840723.post-19686674881610453772020-10-11T00:11:00.001-08:002020-10-11T00:11:59.177-08:00Sweat/No Sweat<p>I’ve been doing a daily nighttime diary for 14 days for Carnegie Mellon University: “Help Us Learn about the Impact of the Coronavirus on Individuals, Couples, and Families.” It asks me what Covid-19 measures I do, what activities I’ve done during the day, and whom I’ve interacted with and for how long. Then it asks how I’m feeling, both emotionally and physically. I recommend <a href="https://www.cmu.edu/dietrich/psychology/relationships-lab/participate-in-study.html" target="_blank">the study</a>.<br /><br />Most days, the only person I’ve seen in 24 hours is Tim, and most days – especially bad weather ones – we’re in our house for a lot of the day. That’s usual for me, but Tim has always been a coffeehouse or daily athletic club, get-out-of-the-house kind of guy. That’s not possible now. Our house is our only inside place. Our <b>only</b> inside place.<br /><br />Usually, we inhabit the house very nicely together. This surprised me, but I’d had to adapt to his <strike>invasion</strike> presence <a href="http://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2019/08/invasion-of-other.html" target="_blank">when he retired</a>, so this was old business. I go downstairs, he stays upstairs. I am so grateful for this space! </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz8lhPpYcrQLzxZxLOCuRTGQ6UzK88BbQYESv4UQO02eLw6-9zyYpWNT8TmdDQH5kFJJa2-Y8NBBiJU3Rw9lhwp_VjW5qZ7Cjp1g1iBAM5K-F1Xb6u-WpMw5mRkFg6CC30TU0Eb5guBblT/s585/Upstairs+%2526+Downstairs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="497" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz8lhPpYcrQLzxZxLOCuRTGQ6UzK88BbQYESv4UQO02eLw6-9zyYpWNT8TmdDQH5kFJJa2-Y8NBBiJU3Rw9lhwp_VjW5qZ7Cjp1g1iBAM5K-F1Xb6u-WpMw5mRkFg6CC30TU0Eb5guBblT/w217-h255/Upstairs+%2526+Downstairs.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>But with Covid-19, how Tim and I occupy the house is COMPLETELY DIFFERENT.<br /><br />It started with his little 8-minute workout routine. I’d hear his phone beeping and he’d start jumping or sitting up or hopping or stopping. It was so cute! I offered assistance: “Why don’t you use the old ensolite pad I still have? Oh, what about those weights I got for exercises <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2017/07/no-leg-to-stand-on.html" target="_blank">when both my legs were broken</a> (and haven’t used since)?” <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilUSxLmjK2JAhGVXgQenfn-FGh2NGX0JBmdN8Zoq9X3djCblBXQpiNHUkbsmmCNIju-duD7w2cLJs_Al2gJyufnSm6-_yKmZW41PVLljcktqlfPOeTRe7_Vpvwa5-eK3MLykfumng-ZZhb/s603/10-lb+Weights.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="326" data-original-width="603" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilUSxLmjK2JAhGVXgQenfn-FGh2NGX0JBmdN8Zoq9X3djCblBXQpiNHUkbsmmCNIju-duD7w2cLJs_Al2gJyufnSm6-_yKmZW41PVLljcktqlfPOeTRe7_Vpvwa5-eK3MLykfumng-ZZhb/w279-h151/10-lb+Weights.jpg" width="279" /></a></div>Little by little, those eight minutes grew. Tim rediscovered the monkey bars on the ceiling in Sophie’s old room – which has been <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2015/08/a-room-of-my-own.html" target="_blank">My Precious Space</a> for years – and he’s added pull-ups to his workout. He comes in while I’m writing on the computer and he grunts and lifts and sweats right behind me.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLEJgSYP53lb9y2-nTpyvboiYbLQnkhs5YnHrFRBt5_xkUukp-4VEO7MwCJh4OcqlBDfJcHQf1INofYG5y71_-RerqUhESIvDvwhERopdDLNFjUskO7PxoKVQTS0YAX-cC7OJrftsERt5M/s727/Monkey+Bars.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="727" data-original-width="493" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLEJgSYP53lb9y2-nTpyvboiYbLQnkhs5YnHrFRBt5_xkUukp-4VEO7MwCJh4OcqlBDfJcHQf1INofYG5y71_-RerqUhESIvDvwhERopdDLNFjUskO7PxoKVQTS0YAX-cC7OJrftsERt5M/s320/Monkey+Bars.jpg" /></a></div><p>He moves from room to room on his now-hour-long circuit. Hopping things seem to happen in his office, but stretching things seem to happen in the living room. I’m not sure where he does the giant blue ball things. Or the lunging things. (I’m downstairs and just hear thumps.) And now, there’s The Box.<br /><br />I only exercise outdoors, period. Indoors, I may interrupt inactivity to do things, but the general backdrop is inertia. For me, Covid-19 means there is no consequence to laziness; if <a href="https://3rdthirds.blogspot.com/2020/04/einstein-was-right.html" target="_blank">I don’t know what day it is</a>, everything can happen tomorrow. Tim does Covid-19 strenuously and in motion. Outdoors and indoors. He just finished building The Box.<br /><br />I love boxes. I love a good, clean box with a snug-fitting lid. A box just the right size for whatever contents. I am a Box Person. Boxes hold things.<br /><br />Tim’s box is empty. It’s 18 inches square, wooden, beautifully crafted, and empty. He jumps onto it. Yes, he stands in front of it and jumps up vertically and lands on the box. Apparently, according to YouTube, it’s a Thing.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNsAIL7coFzvzZdP1FVrjV_iTBMlXKKQKkOjCjHkVKZ6Xx0SILZM1N27pCV1Sti6xx1iKJH8PaMv8TQnQKTYwn_0_R426r-yxCsp2FrbDw2iSUirg-M5ml589gkDxWo95WhlbaW72cGzF2/s663/Tim+on+Box.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="663" data-original-width="499" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNsAIL7coFzvzZdP1FVrjV_iTBMlXKKQKkOjCjHkVKZ6Xx0SILZM1N27pCV1Sti6xx1iKJH8PaMv8TQnQKTYwn_0_R426r-yxCsp2FrbDw2iSUirg-M5ml589gkDxWo95WhlbaW72cGzF2/s320/Tim+on+Box.jpg" /></a></div><p>I stood in front of the box. Nothing happened.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikwpp60WzUjkKBjEdfauybtTAM0ZwigJV9KxFnF9cPyXc8iDm0QCnPaQy3PEA2zcZhX9QH7J3ZGKHCQK7hWOeArGYVh617DYDfyxw2fl1M0FR4ZprYAG1N0EzvGPjydZNAsr-vPtEvUEgp/s999/Barbara+at+Box.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="999" data-original-width="472" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikwpp60WzUjkKBjEdfauybtTAM0ZwigJV9KxFnF9cPyXc8iDm0QCnPaQy3PEA2zcZhX9QH7J3ZGKHCQK7hWOeArGYVh617DYDfyxw2fl1M0FR4ZprYAG1N0EzvGPjydZNAsr-vPtEvUEgp/s320/Barbara+at+Box.jpg" /></a></div>I don’t even know what muscles to tell to move to make me jump up vertically like that.<br /><br />Now, if you can see where this is going, it’s obviously about more than a box. I have to adapt to living with someone who is doing Covid-19 very differently from me. <i><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the same house as me.</span></i> I can’t just tell him to stop jumping and sweating and hopping <b>and sweating</b> and lunging <b>AND SWEATING</b> all over the house.<br /><br />Omigod, what happens when it’s winter and the windows are closed?!?<br /><br />I have to appreciate that Tim’s taking care of his health and wellbeing in the best way. (The Carnegie Mellon researchers would be very impressed.) I have to appreciate that he just purchased a giant floor mat so his sweat won’t land on the carpet. Finally, I have to appreciate that just because I am a slug, I do not have any moral authority to begrudge the non-slug in my midst (especially when the non-slug doesn’t complain about my craft supplies invading the common space). We share this Covid-19 interior space, and <b>I have to adapt</b>.<br /><br />Uh, oh. This might be harder than jumping onto that box.<br /><p></p>CloudyinAKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04354513104617596508noreply@blogger.com4