Life in Interesting Times

I guess we're in a global pandemic. Which I guess gives my life the distinction of being lived in "interesting times."

So what's interesting about it?

As things were just starting to ramp up, Heather came for a planned visit. It's hard to self-isolate when your best friend is a night shift nurse with ADD on vacation, so we had to get out of the house despite the flurry of warning. Our days were bookended with trips to the weed store or Costco and epic games of Scrabble. I took her to get Botox from the guy who does mine. We wandered around the neighborhood, grateful to live in a place with lots of beautiful plants and houses and murals and a beach at the end of it.

In the middle of it all, we escaped to Joshua Tree to stay at a Zombie-themed shack next door to a trailer park hotel, where we binged awesome pizza, saw shooting stars, and sat by a fire in a teepee.
We let Mack lead us off a trail to a boulder-filled riverbed in search of a palmed oasis and hoped our ankles held up. Heather got spiked by a cactus and I plucked the pricks from her thigh while she stood bravely in her underwear in a room full of fellas.

I took her to the airport with a handful on N95 masks I had in the garage for cleaning my chicken coop. There was some mouse poop in the bottom of the box, so perhaps they'll end up being the source of Covid-20. We do what we can.

After Heather left, I did a few-day stint at work, which was as dead as it's ever been. I almost burst into tears as I turned into the parking lot on my first day back. I was terrified and obligated, torn in half by a desire to protect myself and help others. It felt like I was lining up for the firing squad. I had to swallow that worry down and remind myself that being brave meant doing things despite being afraid. I talked about this bizarre conflict with some co-workers in the break room and tears welled up in our eyes. Cops brought us donuts and coffee, restaurants sent us meals, we felt loved and appreciated. We had to plead our case to get a mask from our supervisors.

I checked the temperatures of every ambulance run that came in that wasn't on the verge of dead and offered it to staff if they asked what the hell I was doing. I felt like a Walmart greeter. I also spent a shift in triage, where I wore a mask and goggles and made everyone who entered use the hand sanitizer upon entering the room. In 4 days I think I saw 10 patients, most of whom were psych. It ended up being a great time to connect with my coworkers and use our sick sense of humor to make us feel a little more at ease with our enemy and the battle ahead. A battle that I knew I'd watch from the sidelines, since we had a month-long getaway/renovation job in St. Thomas that was planned way before Chinese New Year ignited the coronavirus.

Everything was cancelled. Volleyball for me, medical conferences for him. Bubba's nursing school graduation. Laila's classes. We took it as a sign and moved our departure date up. Our plane to the island had maybe 30 people on it, including one grouchy guy who was pissed about paying extra for the better seats when the plane was mostly empty. It sounds romantic and fortunate, and in a lot of ways, it has been. Especially before they closed the beaches. But in a lot of ways it's added an extra layer of torture. Is that interesting? Or disgusting?

We have a lot of time to feel guilt and gratitude right now, and it's a swirly mix daily. Frustrated with boredom, elevated by books. Annoyed that we can't get 90-Day Fiancé here because Hulu loves boundaries, renewed by a little dips in the aquarium outside our door that we do illegally most days.

I look forward to throwing rice at the chickens when they walk by with their babies. I love the sound of the wind in the palms and the crash of the waves. I feel obligated to check on the two lobsters hanging out at the reef we visit to make sure I can still find them. It's a thrill to see a soldier crab walking on the sidewalk. I hate that I love the air conditioning, not because I can do things without sweating but because my mosquito bites itch so much less. I miss touching people. I miss being careless about touching pens and keypads and door handles and shopping carts. I miss restaurants. I miss the sound of other people's laughter, especially if I was the thing that got it out of them. Mack's great and all, but the burden of isolation is really too much for one human. I'm jealous of big families. I bet parents of big families wish they were me. Is this interesting? Or pathetic?

The isolation has made us weirdly social people. We befriended our contractor Jose, who learned that we are late sleepers without any conscious input from us. We polished off two bottles of wine and ate black bean stew with (and courtesy of) our neighbors Corrine and Ivan, a brilliant combination of British sailor and environmentalist and Caribbean Olympian/actor/spear fisherman/community-made mayor. I'm looking forward to Scrabble night with them this week. I need to bring them some chocolate if I can find it. And wine.

Other items on the List of Things to Look Forward to This Week include a trip to get groceries since hardly any restaurants are operating and, hopefully, the arrival of Mack's electronic piano. We miss the music that usually fills our mornings. Maybe we'll also get our washer. We ordered it 2 weeks ago, but the handle was broken and the ferries weren't running and then there was Easter and island time. Last week, we managed to move in, get our dryer, get WiFi, and have the air conditioner installed. I'll probably keep up my routine of sweeping the floor and mopping daily. I have really cultivated a love of sweeping, probably because our place is so small it's low effort for high yield. I have also cultivated disdain for FaceTime, probably because it shocks me into harsh reality every time I open it. I love to see my lovies faces, but I can't stand the look of my own... it matches my voice. We haven't had a mirror in our lives since we moved in, and I forget how wild and greasy I can look, especially in muggy climates like the one we're in. Today I had to apologize to Jose when I opened the door for him to do some plumbing work because I went to bed with wet hair and I know the range of appearance that can get.

(Mack just caught a mosquito with our electric racket: "Mess with the bull, get the horns." The thrill of catching one of those bastards is worth remark.)

I don't know how long this will last. But I do know that the sweet agony of it has settled down on us, and I hope that at the end I'll feel the same fondness for it that I feel about my last summer vacations as a kid in Kentucky. That hot season when my mom kept us out of the house since she was trying to sell it and we were living disasters who survived on Nerds and Nachos at the swimming pool. When Heather and I bounced around the neighborhood between our houses like nomads. When I kissed my first boy and discovered that I could inflate my bathing suit top to make it look like I had giant boobs. When I broke my collar bone coming home from the dentist and had to swim in a brace. When we climbed into the bathtub to protect ourselves during a tornado warning and Leiah peed on all of us since Heather's mom refused to let any of us get out of the tub. When everything was carefree and slow, drastic change was on the horizon, and I was learning without even trying to.

Dulywed: Level 13

Moltenson,

Well, well, well. Lucky number 13. The ol' baker's dozen. The year of lace. The time of intricate entanglement. That point of "cheaper to keep her."

When I start thinking about how we got here, how have we made it this far, how we have never committed murder or ran away, I am bewildered. I have no answers. I have no idea. I only know that I am here and so are you and that feels pretty awesome.

This, our 13th year of marriage, we both entered our 40s. We have lost the battle of grey hair. You've officially crossed over to more salt than pepper, and I welcomed my first grey eyebrow hair. I've reached that point where if I eat a healthy meal I gain five pounds and if I think about cake I gain ten. Your "gramps" are better since you got treated for those worms, as is your snoring, which may have been the end of us if it had kept progressing. You take naps around 4pm, a routine you call N&N (news and naps). While you bury yourself under the weighted blanket and explore varying levels of unconsciousness for a couple hours, I tolerate the rambling on MSNBC in the background and give some attention to my projects. Lately most of those projects have been for your private practice, which has grown so fast it's almost scary, or our place in St. Thomas, whose post-hurricane renovation has been anticipated for so long it's actually endured another hurricane. When I think about things like "private practice" and "condo in the Caribbean," I also think "Who the fuck are we? How is this our life?"

We've had a lot of fun this year. You bought another old boat, Cynara, and we did that thing where we hemorrhage money on restoring broke down boats with gorgeous potential only to sell them as soon as they're restored. We varnished and sewed and plumbed and painted and electriced for the whole year. At one point I was elbows deep in mystery shit doing a power squat to get a holding tank bladder out of a tiny hole, and when I finally stood up with everything in my arms, I caught a glimpse of you... beaming with pride. I'll never understand why you are most impressed with me when I am doing gross, unattractive things related to brute strength, but since that's sort of my baseline, I am grateful for it.

Our third child, Cynara.

Yes, you belong there. It looks amazing on you. I wish I didn't puke.

We did a lot of work this year. But man, we also did a lot of pretiring. We spent my birthday in Fiji, where we begrudged being at a 5-star resort where everyone was so friendly we actually started playing "Dodge the Bulas" because we are so spoiled and awful. I'm still sorry I made you take that drive to find a waterfall that almost killed us, and thank you so much for reassuring me that I would make it to 42 during those four hours of terror. A couple weeks ago we spent a perfect weekend in the woods, taking short hikes among the smell of pine needles, skipping rocks on the lake, soaking in the hot tub, and binging that show about Gianni Versace's murder. Hands down, though, my favorite moments of this year with you were "chairs" and that drive across the Denali Highway.

The worst moment was when I came home from my trip to Europe and your welcome involved such kind remarks as "You were gone too long," and "I did just fine without you." I ended up in the bathroom crying to myself and you got so pissed off you threatened to leave. No, you did not do just fine without me. You turned into a troll. Luckily, my abandonment issues are so deep-seated that even that your shapeshifting into a monster doesn't send me packing.

I get why you hate when I leave now. It's not that you miss me as much as that it's bad for you. When I'm around, those damaging thoughts that creep into your brain and swirl around until they become false realities are subdued somehow. They are softened. They are muted. You are better. And I think you know it. I also know it's not your fault, it's just the intensity of your mind, and to your credit, you recognize you need a buffer on some level.

I am happy to be your buffer. In fact, I enjoy it. You are hilarious, especially when your disdain starts to boil, and your pleb-hating brings your humor to new levels. Remember that afternoon I made you go get frozen yogurt in your pajamas and we sat in the parking lot eating our yogurt watching people coming in and out of Target and talking so much shit about them? I laughed til I cried. I think that was the best date I've ever been on in my entire life. And our recent impromptu dinner at C&O Trattoria, where we drank house chianti and blew our server away with our ability to vacuum up food in seconds? "Next!" I could do nothingness with uncoordinated moments like these with you every single day and never get bored.

I like that you get up in the morning and look at financial graphs, even if it triggers unsubstantiated worries about us being poor. We were living paycheck to paycheck just a couple years ago and now there's a private practice AND a condo in the Caribbean that we're connected to. I like that you nearly get into a rage when I steal your flip flops to walk outside to do my chicken duties. What a fun little button to accidentally push, just annoying enough and innocuous enough to drive you in to madness. I like that you creepily stand over me when I sleep too late in the morning and interrupt my dreams of you on Ketamine trying to kiss men while I turn in my neighbors for trying to human traffic my co-worker. I like that when I try to take a picture with you, you pose like this.

I like you. I like us. I like this thing between us. Even if it means accepting that you like lady drinks.

Thank you for being willing to watch Dexter with me every night for months. Thank you for your "on demand" farts and making it to "fartsgiving" this year. Thank you for keeping all your secret life things, all those sneaky relationships and money manipulations that I just know you're doing, a secret, so I can live in oblivion in this beautiful facade of our life. Thank you for saying thank you more in the last month than in the past 13 years. Thank you for getting all tangled up in this marriage mess with me and making being tied down a good time. I am so lucky.

Gramma

Almost a year ago my grandma moved from Florida to Indiana because, as she put it, "I'm gonna be buried there, I may as well die there." Soon after she relocated, we found out she had a lung mass, and even though she couldn't remember why she was at her doctor's appointments, she always knew she didn't want to get treatment. She was ready to wrap it up, to "head upstairs," and while her attitude was a gift that made letting her go easier, losing her hurts to the bone.

In her 89 years, Gram raised six kids and buried three of them. She married two men and buried both of them. She made countless friends, explored the country, and most loved the view out her kitchen window when the deer came into the field in the evenings.

For me, she was that grandparent. The one who was your favorite, who loved you as sweetly as a grandparent should, who let you be who you are, and who felt like home to you. My favorite memories of life have her in the background, as her farm was the backdrop for the purest childhood joy I ever felt. I remember playing in a giant tire sandbox under pine trees there, riding big wheels down a drainage ditch, wading the creek and catching crawdads and building up the dam, finally getting brave enough to jump off the bank and into the swimming hole, swinging on an old tire swing that probably every butt in the Scott family swang on at some point, learning how to live off blackberries picked off the vine and the most efficient way to fetch firewood. 

The place we called "back at the crick" initially had nothing but a clear patch in the middle of some woods, but that place of nothing was everything to me. It was so full of good times and wild abandon, and when I got too tired or dirty from being an animal, I'd retreat back up to the house, get hosed off outside by Gram, and then get to come inside (leaving my shoes at the door) and play in the cool, musty, delicious smelling air in the basement. She'd make me fried chicken and mashed potatoes, which I'd eat in my special yellow booster stool. She let me sleep in a baby crib in her closet until I was 7 years old. She gave me her old nightgowns to use as a silky blanket. She'd take me on adventures to "town," for which she got ready by putting lipstick on her cheeks and rubbing it in, and let me pick out which cold cuts to buy and and a sack full of penny candy. She didn't judge me for choosing olive loaf or ham and cheese loaf. In fact, she made me feel special for making those choices.

Gram was fat before fat was an epidemic. Her lumpy grandma body was the most comfortable place I've ever been, and she rocked me in a recliner even after I was way too big for it. She'd sit in her chair mending clothes while I'd play with her spools of thread like they were characters in a soap opera, soap operas I knew all too well as a five-year-old because of her addiction to her "stories." As we were sorting through her recipes after we lost her, I found recipes for a diet cabbage soup, and it was only then that I realized she considered her body a struggle. I loved that body. It was the perfect body for a grandma to have, and even when it yelled at me or disciplined me, it was a safe haven that made it all better. 

As I got older and had issues with my dad, Gram became my retreat. I stayed with her whenever I visited during high school and college. After I got my first job after college, I took her out to dinner for pork chops at a steakhouse called Amber's and learned about her life as a child and during her first marriage. She had it rough, a mom with tuberculosis who left the family to go to a sanitarium, a dad who was an angry alcoholic. She found her spine in those struggles, and when I asked her about the death of her first husband from a drunk driving accident, she said, "If he hadn't died, I would've divorced him." She told me about how she met my handsome grandpa. As she told it, he had dated some of her friends at work and did them pretty dirty, so she decided to get him on a date to return the favor. She ended up falling for him, driving across the country to California, and, after he bought her a bedroom suit, she married him. By the time I came around, they'd been married 26 years, and by the time I became able to remember things, it was closer to 30. I remember lots of yelling at each other, Grampa getting fed up and shouting "Goddammit Phyllis!" and them sleeping in opposite ends of the house. 

When I visited Gram with Mack last year, she told me a story of a time she was shouting at Grampa so relentlessly all he could do was grab her by the shoulders, look her in the eye, and say, "You are the mother of my children," probably more to remind himself why he couldn't kill her than to get her off the ledge, but that comment took the wind out of her sails. She was a pistol, and she was a fighter, but as her granddaughter, I didn't get her wrath at its most fierce. I knew it was there, but I was spared. Except that one time I sassed her with, "You're not my mom," and she growled at me, "I am your GRAND mother, and that makes me bigger than your mom."

In preparation for her funeral, we were supposed to come up with one word to describe Gram. When I think of her, it's her bossiness that sticks out most in my mind. But not in the overbearing bossy naggy way. Instead it's an unapologetic demand for respect, for acknowledgement, for the right to assert oneself whenever it feels necessary. She was 4'10" but she was a giant among a bunch of men who became Marines. She showed me how a woman stands up for herself and that it is okay to make demands, to raise your voice to be heard if that's what it takes. I'm not nearly as good at it as she was, but hopefully if I make it to 89 I'll find that incredible balance of moxie and softness that I so admired in her. I am so grateful to have felt her love, to have seen her strength, and to have enjoyed such a perfect grandma.

Sixty. And dazzling.

I can't trace the first memory I have of my mom. I can't really even pinpoint an early one. It's like trying to figure out the first time I saw the sky. She's just always been there, as important and unregarded as my breath and my heartbeat. A constant life force. 

This year she celebrates 60 trips around the sun, and my sisters and I decided to throw her a proper celebration. Because, my god, the life that woman has lived.

There is no question that she made it to 60 because she is made of steel. Life has tried, over and over and over again, to crush her, to sap her will, to shut her down. Yet, she persists. She survived abuse that goes beyond the worst horrors you can imagine before she was out of middle school. As a teenager, she became a mother despite having no point of reference about how to do it or support from the grownups around her. I don't know how old I was, probably 3 or 4, when I watched her dodge a glass of iced tea my dad threw at her head one afternoon. She soon left that melodrama and got a job making $14,000 a year, with which she raised Shannon, me and Leiah all on her own. Then she turned 25.

When I turned 25, I had zero children, one dog, one cat, and no clue. Now I'm 40, with zero children, zero dogs, zero cats, and a bit more of a clue about what it takes to make it to 60 with a smile on your face. And not just any smile, but one that readily shows up, one so big it brightens the gloomiest days.

We decided to throw her a surprise party, and what a challenge that was! Somehow we had to get her and Aunt Becky to stop treasure hunting at the consignment store so we could get her to our "dinner reservation." But since we were having her party at an AirBnB, we had to get her in a strange house first. Luckily, Shannon came up with a ridiculous house viewing that had to be done before dinner. As she opened the door Mom saw people on the couch and immediately tried to leave! The surprise we all screamed took a second to register! And then that smile came in and gifted itself to us.

It was such a treat to have all these people who have known her and loved her and been through it all with her in one place celebrating the person she is and the life she's lived. We ate, we drank, we laughed, we sang, we took tons of pictures. One of us passed out on a suitcase. 

To be fair, the girl passed out on the cooler busted her ass to help us make this happen. BFFs rule.

It's so incredible when you really see the impact, the reach, the depth of a single person's life. The party was a fraction of who she's known and what she's experienced. I mean, look at this.

This is a woman who became a mother at 17. At 19. At 23. At 27. The last baby almost left before she arrived thank to placenta previa, then almost left upon arrival due to beta strep. While all that was going on, this woman was supporting her sister, whose baby boy had drowned in a river and was fighting for his life. Her three other kids were still being fed, clothed, educated, hugged, tucked in a night... and where she got the energy to do all this, I have no idea. Maybe she really did find inspiration in the quote taped to her makeup mirror: "I am the mountain I climb." Mount Debra makes Mount Everest look like a speed bump. 

Were it not for this woman, this tiny little blond beauty in the middle of that love sandwich up there, none of those other people would be. My sisters and I would not be the people we are, know the love we know, or have come as far as we've come. Had she been different, maybe wiser, maybe richer, maybe better cared for, we may not exist at all. With everything life threw at her, and continues to throw at her, she musters stamina to keep trying, to keep growing, to keep smiling. 

She is sunshine and love and perseverance, in one dazzling little human package. Happy birthday, Momma.

My Sweet Ginger

Yesterday morning I went to the chicken coop to let the girls out to play and check for eggs. Lemondrop, Clove, and Cinnamon were running around but Ginger was no where to be seen. I opened the nesting area of their house, and my sweetest, friendliest, silliest chicken was slumped over with her eyes closed. My little baby girl was dead.

The day before she died she was slow to come out of her coop and stood around kind of out of it. I didn't pay much attention because I had to get to work and I figured she was just having an off day. Mack said she was standing around shell shocked, but he didn't notice anything in particular when he picked her up. I should've paid more attention. I wish I would've known her funk was something serious. I wish I didn't cry every time I think of her sweet body in my arms, her darling eyes closed, her little neck all floppy, and those perfect yellow feet all stiff. I wish losing her didn't hurt this bad. A couple months ago she had some terrible diarrhea. I was syringe force feeding her probiotic drinks and water every few hours and she seemed to get better. Right after that she started to molt. Her comb never got back to its floppy bologna state, but her new feathers came in and she was so beautifully soft and shiny. The day after Christmas she was downing a leftover relish tray like the Ginger the Binger she is. And now she is gone. Oh, Ginger.

Ginger was my most loving chicken. She'd let me carry her anywhere and would sometimes fall asleep on my lap. She was tolerant of the kids' cuddles. She invited herself to everything I was doing outside, whether it was laundry or cutting wood with a jigsaw. She invited herself inside, too. She didn't care one bit about the chicken hierarchy, eating what she pleased when she wanted and even stealing worms right out of the other girls' mouths and then running away. She was my tiniest puff, and grew up to be my skinniest girl. She ate like a French woman and didn't get fat, which is why she was also called Jean Jae sometimes. She was probably the best Rhode Island Red that ever graced the planet.

 

I am so grateful for the laughs, joy, and love she brought to my dusty old dried up lifeless back yard, and I miss her so much. Sleep good, my sweet Gingie.