April 26, 2020

WFH: Week Seven

One last, perfect, red camellia of the season.

The time I spent washing windows last Sunday was well invested. Spotted with dirt, I was finding them increasingly dispiriting now that I spend most days gazing at the world through them. [Of course, that also meant it rained on Monday.] Eight down, eight to go. [Or fourteen, if I get ambitious.]

There are more vehicles driving out of the neighborhood. People are getting antsy; I can understand that. This is all starting to feel less like an interlude and more like the next act of the play we call “real life.”

Lots of people are walking, and biking, through the neighborhood. Tempting as it is to ride, I have taken the conservative approach and stayed off the bike. Because, however unlikely a crash might be, I don't need to risk burdening our stressed medical workers. My inner voice would torture me without mercy: “They asked you to do one thing: Stay home. How hard is that?”

My hair is longer than it has been in many years; some of my colleagues have resorted to buzz cuts.  Ten weeks after my last haircut, it's now long enough to be annoying, and just long enough to tie back in a stubby ponytail.

The spring weather was spectacular on the date scheduled for this year's Tierra Bella, which (like so many other cycling events) could not be held.

One year ago this week I visited an unfamiliar part of the state and cycled in a new event, thanks to my regular ride buddy. When I'm comfortable getting back out there on a bike, I wonder how I'll do? [I won't be tackling a metric century, that's for sure.]

Ten years ago this week I biked to Half Moon Bay for lunch, following a route I don't think I have repeated, in full.

Fifty years ago this week marked the debut of Earth Day. Being a somewhat precocious youngster, in addition to whatever activities our school set up for us, I took it upon myself to do more. My parents humored me as I dragged trash out of the then-undeveloped wooded area behind our house. Years later, my coworkers and I would routinely eat outdoors (weather permitting), and it was our habit to leave each site cleaner than we found it. To this day, I am regularly dismayed at the sight of the discarded tires, appliances, and furniture I pass when biking on our back roads. I pick up small stuff, whenever I can—biking, hiking, or just walking around the neighborhood. And big stuff, too—with help! It was fitting to watch Koyaanisqatsi this week; somehow, I'd never seen it (till now).

I took in two more “Best Picture” winners that I'd not seen before, Unforgiven [1992? really?] and The Shape of Water. It was satisfying to see some bad guys get their just deserts; I needed that.

And to close out the week, the star-studded Take Me to the World: A Sondheim 90th Celebration. What a privilege to see so many intimate, emotional performances; more than one artist seemed on the verge of tears at the end of their song. And a beautiful tribute, while the honoree is still here to enjoy it.

The week opened with a confirmed 1903 cases of COVID-19 in our county, and closed with 2084 (a 9.5% increase).

April 19, 2020

WFH: Week Six

I'm not a television viewer, but was exposed to the airwaves in order to watch the broadcast of Jesus Christ Superstar last week. I'm not sure what I expected, but the combined stream of commercials for prescription drugs and those that were pandemic-themed did nothing but heighten my anxiety.

Those drug commercials are ridiculous. Seriously. Soothing music, lovely images, and a legalistic recitation of possible side effects (all ghastly, and pretty much the same from one remedy to the next). This is what people watch, all the time?

My mom has been gone for nearly five years (already?), and I am relieved that she is not here, now. Even if she might have weathered this storm, we would not have been able to keep her calm in a sea of catastrophic 24x7 news reports.

I still smile when I think of the Thanksgiving we spent in Manhattan. When she was young, she had worked in the city. When she was older, she grew afraid of it (thanks to the nightly news). Somehow, I persuaded her that we should spend the weekend there and see the parade, live. We had dinner at Tavern on the Green and walked around Rockefeller Center in the sunshine. Another night, I scored a pair of tickets to see Showboat by waiting at the box office for a cancellation, but that left no time for dinner before the show. I figured we'd duck into a hotel restaurant later; flipping through her Playbill, Mom pointed to an ad and said “Let's go here.” And there we went, strolling up 7th Avenue after 11 p.m. (!) to the Carnegie Deli. Reality: 1, Nightly News: 0.

Five years ago today I sought solace where I can always find it, along the shoreline, as I prepared to lose her. I could use a coastal walk today. But that's out of reach, for now.

Ten years ago this week marked my first bike ride to the Panoche Inn—which immediately became one of my favorite routes.

One year ago this week I stopped a moving minivan with my bicycle (without any damage to me, or the bike).

Our cooking class for the week was Molten Chocolate Cake, which looked surprisingly easy. Our chef made a point of taking ramekins out of the oven at different times, to demonstrate what happens if you don't let them bake long enough (or, too long). He mentioned a recipe that's possible to freeze (before baking), which would make this practical (since I'm not going to eat four of them). [Well, I could, but ... I would certainly regret that.]

For entertainment, I watched the 25th anniversary performance of The Phantom of the Opera, which was so stunning I watched it twice. I was lucky enough to see it on Broadway during its initial run, but not again since. I particularly loved seeing four former Phantoms (plus the Phantom of that night's production) reprise The Music of the Night. I wish I could have seen all of them in the role. “Silently the senses abandon their defenses ...

I finished The Adventurer's Son, fully empathizing with the family's frustration, anger, and despair as the authorities clung to the warped narrative they'd concocted. Which the media ate right up. [Nightly news, see above.] And by quoting from her poem Sleeping in the Forest, the author introduced me to the work of Mary Oliver.

This week I heard that one of my colleagues had fallen ill with COVID-19 (and recovered); that's the first case for someone personally known to me. The week opened with 1621 confirmed cases in our county, and closed with 1903 (a 17.4% increase).

From another poem by Mary Oliver:
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

April 12, 2020

WFH: Week Five

As it turns out, there are a few pink blossoms tucked deep inside my white camellia bush. Two distinct shades, in fact.

Ten years ago this week I eyed the weather forecast and skipped the event I'd planned to ride.

One year ago today I managed not to lose my footing on a slippery hike that got me and my hiking partner thoroughly muddy. In the pre-pandemic era, we were mulling over the timing for a return trip this spring. That was then.

This is now. Given that asymptomatic people can spread the virus, we're all supposed to wear face coverings now when we're near other people—keeping a safe distance from one another is also necessary, but no longer deemed sufficient.

I have fabric, I have thread, I have skills ... and a sewing machine.

The machine was an uncharacteristically extravagant gift for my 13th birthday. [Which makes it, yes, quite old.] I grew up in a family with a grandmother who crocheted, and embroidered, and sewed outfits for me. It was a way to save money—well-understood by those who had weathered the Great Depression and rationing during the second World War. I had learned to sew using her classic black Singer machine.

Time to figure out how to treat my Singer to some long-overdue lubrication, and get to work.

There are many patterns for fabric masks circulating online, and I decided to make two varieties. After reading an article in Popular Science, I was intrigued by the idea of using NWPP (non-woven polypropylene). What a great use for some of the surplus reusable bags in my collection! I could easily sacrifice three that I would never use. After deconstructing, laundering, and doing some geometrical planning, I had enough material to make three three-layer Surge masks.

I can also make a lot (A Lot) of simple fabric masks.

I borrowed The Adventurer's Son from a local library, thanks to Libby. (The library buildings, of course, are closed.) And yes, I know that story does not have a happy ending. “Movie” of the week was a contemporary performance of Jesus Christ Superstar (with Alice Cooper as Herod?!).

I watched the talk Larry Brilliant gave when he was awarded the TED prize. “Early detection, early response,” he said. In 2006.

Someone chalked “Hello” on my driveway, and that called for a response. Did I have some chalk? (Yes!)

The week opened with 1207 confirmed cases of COVID-19 in our county, and closed with 1621 (a 34.3% increase).

April 5, 2020

WFH: Week Four

“You should take a vacation!” our friendly HR automaton scolded me (again). No matter that sheltering-in-place is hardly a “vacation.” [Use it or lose it.] Needless to say, trips I'd been plotting for March and late April could not proceed.

So this week, and next, are short weeks. My laptop is powered off.

Neighbors are doing what they can to spread cheer. I strolled into town, to the Post Office, before the rains would move in and erase this fanciful stretch of sidewalk.

I decided to make a loop, rather than retrace my steps, and found an unexpected bounty of wild lupine in an otherwise weed-strewn patch of dirt. While I paused to snap a photo through the fence, a woman who'd been walking nearby and chatting was more bold. “There's an opening in the fence. Why not pick some? They're only going to die.”

Here's the thing about walking through a familiar neighborhood during different seasons. You just might discover a blooming dogwood tree—which you'd never expected could grow here.

The rain was coming for us, but my umbrella was ready.

The lupine wilted pretty fast, but perked right up with some fresh water. I tucked a few into my garden; some had pulled clear of the ground with their roots, when I'd tugged at them.

Ten years ago this week I enjoyed a long ride to the Pinnacles, before it became a National Park.

Five years ago this week I cruised past the wildflowers and reservoirs of south county.

One year ago this week I frolicked on the hills and curves alongside the Calaveras Reservoir. They will fade to brown before I next see them.

One month ago today, I was two pounds heavier. Eating healthy (and less), along with my morning exercise routine, is paying dividends.

My movie choice for the week was Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. To counteract that darkness, I also streamed Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, which was ... very trippy and very 60's. (Universal Pictures is sharing one Andrew Lloyd Webber musical on Fridays, free, for the next few weeks.)

The week opened with 646 confirmed cases of COVID-19 in our county, and closed with 1207 (an 86.8% increase).