IN THIS TOGETHER

My iPhone cares about me. I had long suspected something of the sort, but the proof came yesterday when she congratulated me for increasing my exercise dramatically over the past week. It is small wonder that she was impressed. I hadn’t asked her to keep records, but she had noticed that I was now averaging 12,500 steps per day. In past weeks, the average was much, much lower. Of course, she hadn’t been giving me full credit for things I was doing. She didn’t count it when I pedalled the exercise bike, and she sat under the chair when I participated in exercise classes. But now she’s in my pocket every afternoon for the daily walk. The daily walk, consuming most of each afternoon, has been made possible by my neighbour Kathy. We had been in the habit of taking shorter walks when we had the time. We were both busy in those days. Now we are not busy. We’ve got the time. We decided to declare ourselves a couple from the perspective of social distancing. We behave as we would if we shared an apartment. We keep each other safe by maintaining social distance from everyone else when we are out, and staying home except when we are walking. In many ways, this is the best of all seasons for long walks. Here in Edmonton we live a short distance from river valley trails and quiet neighbourhoods graced by aging trees. It is part spring and part winter. The daily walk takes through snow, ice, mud, water and patches of hopeful dryness. Birds and squirrels are everywhere. The sun warms the back of our winter parkas and forces us to remove our hats and mittens. Most of the people we meet stay far away and smile conspiratorially. People, machines and nature are doing their best to keep each other going. We are all in this together.

FLOWERS WILL BLOOM IN SEPTEMBER

Today is the first full day of spring. Is anybody in the whole world more pleased than I to see it? I am hoping to grow flowers on my balcony. I am hoping grocery stores will bring in bedding plants that can be purchased along with groceries. If they can’t I’ll forgive them. They might have more important things to stock. I would start seeds if I had them. Unfortunately I don’t have any seeds, but I do have acidanthra bulbs. They are waiting for me in a pot on the shelf in the closet of the guest bedroom. I put them there last October. “See you in the spring,” I said to them. “I’ll be planting you as soon as the soil thaws in my balcony pots.” Acidanthra plants are a bit like gladioli. They sprout uninteresting green shoots that bore you for most of the summer. Then, on some August day, you’ll notice a thickening, later a stock, later still the final pay-off. I bought and planted a bag of acidanthra bulbs last spring. I hadn’t had any for a few years. They were just as I remembered—boring! Then, in September they opened their flowers. They were just as I remembered--tall, white, delicate and marvellously fragrant. Lured by intoxicating temptation, I made several balcony visits every day just to smell them. And that is what I want to do this September—wander out on the balcony to smell the flowers. In the meantime, I’ll wait with those boring plants. I’ll be waiting for a virus to run its course, for the coffee shops to open again, for exercise classes to start, for social gatherings on my calendar. I’ll be waiting to see so many people I won’t be seeing on a regular basis. Flowers will bloom in September!

TIME TO HOPE

The dishes in my dishwasher are clean. I plan to get them out and put them away—later. In the meantime, I am writing to stave off the boredom that comes from having too much time at home and too little to do. Emptying the dishwasher is not the only thing I plan to do later. It is just one of the small things. Tuesday was a great day for putting things off. On Tuesday I didn’t take the garbage out or deliver the recycling to the bin. I didn’t update my financial records or strip the bed. You might think I am procrastinating, but really, I am generating self-hope. It will be better to think about a long period of self-isolation if I know there will be enough things to do in the future. It’s far too painful to contemplate a future with too little to do. I’ve known people who practice behaviors that I think of as reverse hope. Reverse hope helps us dread the future by making ourselves miserable in the present. Many years ago a friend of mine started sleeping on an uncomfortable bed. She had a comfortable bed, but she would be giving it up in three weeks and she thought she’d better start getting used to the new one before she was forced to sleep in it. Later I met a woman who refused to get out of bed because she wanted to avoid a fall that might break a hip. “I don’t want to break a hip and be bed-ridden,” she said. In good times, hope allows us to look forward to the future. In the not-so-good times, hope allows us to think about the future and be okay in the present. At present I am looking forward to a future in which I will avoid doing certain things by keeping busy doing things I want to do. Come to think of it, I can do that right now. I may empty the dishwasher today, but I am definitely not going to tidy my underwear drawer. If I am to have all this unsolicited available time at home, I plan to avoid wasting it on things I would naturally want to avoid, like cleaning out my closets and kitchen cupboards. I’d rather write. It’s a hope thing.

FLAKY

There are things out there you’ve never imagined, possibilities you haven’t even considered. Good things are waiting for you. Take, for example, croissants. Call them flaky! Call them fattening! Call them anything you like. But call them over in your darkest hour. You’ll be glad you did. There are a surprising number of ways to get croissants. You can stay in a fancy hotel and have room service bring them up. You can stay in a cheap hotel and snatch them off the breakfast buffet in the moment before the morning rush. You can ask the baker to bring one out from behind the counter; you can buy them by the half-dozen in a clamshell at the grocery store. You might even be able to bake them from scratch, though I’ve never knowingly met anybody who has. Each of these has its own advantages. Then, there’s the other way to get croissants, my favourite way. You can go to a grocery store and ask the person behind the bakery counter to sell you the frozen, unbaked croissants they keep in the back. It’s one of those things you don’t know you can do until you try it. It’s not a strategy preferred by the shy retiring types, given that you generally have to ask twice. Nobody is expecting such a request. Once they have ensured that they heard you properly, some clerks will agree to this without batting an eyelash. Others, less professional in their approach, will hesitate, click their tongues thoughtfully, and call the manager. Either way, you’ll go home with the treasure you came for. Trust me! I know this from experience, and here is another thing I know. No croissant has ever tasted better than the hot-from-the-oven miracles I devoured in my bed at 5:00 AM on March 16 2020. I had purchased the frozen babies just before Christmas, thinking I would serve them Christmas morning. But then, other treats got in the way and my icy possibilities gradually sank into obscurity beneath the blueberries, chicken breasts and forgotten bread crusts I was saving to make stuffing. There they lay: silent; patient; hoping I would remember them some day; waiting to be needed. The some-day of remembrance and need arrived on Sunday March 15. What I actually needed on Sunday March 15 was something to give me hope. Covid-19 was cancelling my plans. Looking regretfully to the next few days I could see that there would be no choir practice, no writers club, no exercise classes, no bridge club, no lunches with friends. There would be no happy hour in our condo social room, no care-partner training at the Alzheimer Society, no planning for upcoming grief groups at Pilgrim’s Hospice. Once the ball of regret got rolling, I even started regretting the cancellation of the condo meeting that had promised to be stressful and controversial. That was the last straw. Something had to be done. I looked around for something to do. I listened for the voice of wisdom. That is when I heard them calling. “Bake us Wendy! Bake us!” Frozen unbaked croissants are perfect examples of potential. They start out small and grow faster than most things. You can take frozen croissant babies out of the freezer any time, but bedtime is the best time. You put them on a cookie sheet. They thaw and rise overnight. Then, in the morning, you bake them. I had not intended to bake at 4:30 AM. But these are strange times. I wasn’t sleeping well, and by 4:00 a faint whiff of yeastiness was floating on the cold night air. In the warmth of my bed I heard the distant call. It was a chiding call, the call of a dare. “Just try to wait until 7:00!” “I can wait,” I replied with confidence, and I did wait. I practised self-discipline for 25 long minutes. Then I baked. Few things are flakier than hot croissants in the first moments after you take them out of the oven. Few people are flakier than those of us who, rather than eating in a cold night kitchen, will choose to take hot croissants to bed. But there’s no place more comfortable than bed at 5:00 AM, and nothing more tantalizing than a hot flaky croissant. Today is March 17. Runaway croissant flakes are hiding in my bed. I push them with my feet, catch them in my toes and swish them down toward the bottom. Normally I would have washed the sheets yesterday. Someday I will do the laundry. But for now, with so few interesting things to do, and no promise of a quick return to normal life, I think I will simply enjoy coming across them by accident and remembering the delicious taste of those freshly baked piping hot croissants.

GRANNY AT THE ZOO

“Granny, I need an adult to play red panda with me,” says Ben, age seven. It is late afternoon on a hot sunny vacation day. We are three generations, sharing a two-storey hotel room. Kids and Granny sleep on the lower floor. Parents sleep directly above. Ben’s parents, pleased to see Granny taking over, are headed for the shower. “Okay Ben, I say with more confidence than I feel. “What do I have to do?” “It’s easy,” says Ben. “I am a red panda in a zoo. You are giving tours.” Our hotel room is ideally arranged for this endeavor. The zoo is a top bunk that doubles as Ben’s bed. The staircase runs up alongside the bunks. Near the top of the stairs there’s a hole in the wall that affords climbers a good view of the bunk. Ben heads for his habitat. I head for the stairs, examining my credentials as I go. . I am suspecting that my knowledge and experience have not adequately prepared me for this job. On the plus side, I was once seven years old and I have presented myself to others as an animal. I was fairly convincing as a pig perhaps, or a dog, possibly a chicken and occasionally a turkey. My expertise came organically. These were the inhabitants in the farm yards of my youth and my knowledge of them was acquired without the enhancement of formal study. I knew where they slept and what they ate. I could have given an impromptu tour of a farm yard to impress any grandchild. As for the red panda, I’ve never been near one. How much do I know about the species? Absolutely nothing. In a desperate bid to buy myself some time, I kneel on the stairs and assemble a crowd of imaginary children, accompanied by imaginary parents. “Notice the panda’s red coat,” I declare, hoping that the red panda has been named descriptively. Later I will ask myself why I didn’t decline this job opportunity at the outset. But I know the answer. The parents needed a shower. With unwarranted optimism I summon my creative powers. Suddenly I remember that I am a tour guide with duties that extend beyond animal description. The safety of the animals and the visitors is my utmost concern. “Please keep your children well back from the fence,” I admonish the parents who have come to the zoo, pointing an accusing finger at one imaginary mother who has allowed a toddler to cross the line. “And don’t even consider feeding Red Panda,” I scold. “That peanut in your hand could choke this precious creature.” To reinforce the point, I pause in my speech and glare at the assembled crowd. “Tell them more,” says Ben. “Tell them about me.” Later I will ask myself why I didn’t volunteer to be the red panda and invite Ben to be the tour guide. Now, grasping at straws, I turn to the imaginary children, a question in my voice. “Can you tell me,” I say, “what is the difference between the red panda and other pandas?” I am hoping there is more than one kind of panda. Perhaps pandas are like bears. Maybe there are brown pandas and black pandas. The imaginary children have been silenced by my previous scolding. They wait for me to answer, and I wonder another thing. How long does it take for the average Canadian parent to have a shower? I keep that question to myself. Suddenly I remember that Ben and I are not alone. I seize the opportunity to extend my reach. “Are there any children not on this tour who can tell me about the different kinds of pandas?” As I say this, I am appealing directly to Ben’s five-year-old brother Evan. He has observed my performance in uncharacteristic silence, but now he comes to my rescue. “There are red pandas and giant pandas,” he tells me and the imaginary audience. “The giant pandas are bears. The red pandas are cats.” “Well done,” I enthuse. “What else can you tell us about the red panda?” “Granny,” says Ben, “Evan is not a human. He is a cloud leopard in the cage next to mine. I want you to tell them what I eat.” I want to tell them this also, and I would tell them, if I knew. Another inspiration hits me. “Hello red panda,’ I say cloyingly, keeping my hands well back from the cage. “You are certainly a hungry fellow. Tell these tourists what you are eating right now.” “Bamboo,” says my red panda. “They have planted it especially for me. Now tell them where I live.” Hmmm. Where does the red panda live? I’m pretty sure I won’t get away with asking Ben to tell the audience where he lives. So I check my mental library. I’ve never been to Africa Asia or Australia so they might be there. I’ve never heard mention of red pandas in south America, and I’m pretty sure there aren’t any in Edmonton. I decide to take a chance. “We find red pandas in Asia,” I say, “In China.” “Mostly in Nepal,” says the cloud leopard in the cage next to Ben. I think of Nepal, everything I know about Nepal. Isn’t that where Everest is? “Look for red pandas in the mountains,” I say, “on the upper slopes.” This seems to satisfy Ben. “Now tell them about me,” says Evan the cloud leopard. Unfortunately, I know as much about the cloud leopard as I knew about the red panda. Still I forge ahead. While I give the speech about the dangers of feeding the cloud leopard, and scold the imaginary parents for letting their children come too close to the cage, I reflect on how times have changed. When I was Seven I came home from school and turned on the television. There I learned about history and nature. The Flintstones taught me about life in the Stone Age and the Beverly Hillbillies educated me about life in Tennessee. Bugs Bunny taught me everything I needed to know about rabbits. Much of the time was spent watching commercials and preparing my Christmas list. In contrast, Ben and Evan know nothing about commercials because their parents don’t pay for cable television. Mommy downloads nature videos and podcasts. When Christmas comes near she says, “Granny, why don’t you get them a subscription to Kids Geographic?” This selective exposure has led to a limited education. They have taught me that the red-crested cardinal is a tanager not a cardinal, and the pine marten is a mammal while the purple martin is a bird. So far they’ve shown little interest in learning about Fred and Wilma Flintstone. And here is a problem. The parents are enjoying their shower. What is a granny to do? Suddenly I have a great idea. It is time to swallow my pride. “Evan,” I say, “Before I conduct the tour, I need a little education. Would you please tell me a few things about the cloud leopard?”

MOVIES

David and I spent 47 years together. During that time we saw very few movies. We were not much harmed by this lack, but it did stunt our capacity to participate in conversations about movies and to enjoy watching the Academy Awards. We might have watched more movies had it not been for the combination of two factors: David was a loud whisperer and a quiet sleeper. Had he been a quiet whisperer and a loud sleeper the situation might have been entirely different. But then, if I had been a sighted person rather than a blind person, none of it would have mattered. Movie theatres were fewer, larger and more crowded back in 1972 when our dating life began. We would wait in line for tickets and wedge into seats among strangers sitting beside, in front and behind. Things would be fine in this cozy environment until David would notice something happening on the screen and determine that I needed to know it. Then he would whisper a description—sort of whisper--more like a mutter really. “They’re walking across a street. Really tall buildings on both sides.” It suited me fine, but our fellow watchers didn’t like it much. If you listened carefully, you could hear them grumbling. “Quieter,” I’d whisper. It was my best advice, but he didn’t like it much. “I can’t be quieter,” he’d mutter. “Try harder,” I’d whisper—well, maybe it was more of a yelling whisper. Nobody liked it much. Not David. Not the people around us. Still we soldiered along for a while, searching every theatre for the least inhabited space where David could mutter descriptions. If there was one point, one single event that changed our behavior, it was likely the evening when we bumbled obliviously into a German movie with English sub-titles. Five minutes later we were back in the lobby, beging for a refund. “Other customers don’t like it when I read the subtitles to Wendy,” David sanctimoniously explained to the reluctant teen-ager behind the cash register. With no manager on site, he cut his losses and refunded our ticket price. It seemed that many people might be better off if David and I watched TV movies at home. Fortunately, he was a good-natured guy. If he regretted exchanging the big screen for our 13-inch black and white he did not complain. We would find a comfortable position, quite often lying on the couch together. The movie would start. He would describe the action in a normal voice. All would be well. As the movie progressed I would find it easier to follow, being familiar with the characters and what they might do. There was not so much need for help from David. But every silver lining has its cloud. While I was following the plot, he was falling asleep, only I wouldn’t know it, his being a quiet sleeper and all. “Bang bang!” a gun would shoot. “Who got shot?” I’d demand to know. “Shot? I don’t know,” David would reply sleepily. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” This is how a tiny spark of lovers’ quarrel blows into a raging blaze. “If you loved me you’d stay awake,” I’d shout. Neither of us liked it much. We were happily married, perhaps because we learned to reduce the possibility of those bang bang moments. They seldom occurred if we limited our movie watching to movies we’d already seen. Take, for example, The Sound of Music, or It’s A Wonderful Life. Now that David is gone, I find to my great surprise that I am watching a lot of movies, as many as one a day, sometimes two in a row, occasionally three. The stars have aligned to make it possible. Shaw channel 49 shows nothing but movies, I have plenty of spare time, and things have changed more than you might imagine. There’s no longer much need to whisper to blind people in theatres. Many movies now come with description for the visually impaired. You can ask the ticket clerk for a little machine with earphones to hear the extra information. At home you can push a few buttons and if they have recorded description you can hear it on your TV along with the movie sounds. There are many movies which have not yet been described. These are annoying, but now there are options that don’t require the participation of a spouse. If you need to know who shot who when a gun bangs, you can always get the anser in a full plot outline from Wikipedia. You don’t build up much movie history watching one or two new movies per year. The films I watch these days, so old to others, are new to me. You might recognize some of the names: To Kill a Mockingbird, Steel Magnolias, The bells of St. Mary’s, In The Heat Of The Night, Casablanca, Funny Girl, the Judy Garland version of A star Is Born. With great relish I drop their names in conversations with friends, mentioning plot details with such vivid intensity that I might have heard them only yesterday. Those who haven’t seen these movies in four decades are left with the impression that I am a remarkable movie enthusiast with a fabulous memory. Of course, when you discuss movies with friends, the topic inevitably turns to modern movies, to recent and future academy awards. In this realm I am no wiser than I used to be. But reputation is everything. Having already established myself in their eyes as a movie expert, I find it convenient to sit back with great interest and ask for their opinions.