Mama – Day 71

In our brief absence, ants colonized our condo. I got back from my walk this morning to find my spouse in battle gear, a paper towel roll in one hand, and a sheet in the other. Her eyes were wide and vigilant. Each time an ant moved, she launched an attack. Smashing them, sprinting into the bathroom, and flushing them down the toilet. She hates ants and they were everywhere in the kitchen. She has since gone out to Home Depot to buy ant traps. In the meantime, I’m avoiding the kitchen so that I don’t have to get bloody.

It turns out, the Amish were not as isolated from the virus and knowledge of its existence as we thought they may have been. After reading yesterday’s post, my cousin sent me link to a CNN article from April 7. At the time, Dad was still in the hospital and I was avoiding all news, fearful that the news stories might destroy what little hope I was clinging to. According to the article, one clinic in Pennsylvania did set up a drive through testing site designed specifically for horses and buggies. 

Now that I’m home from camping the reality of the weekend has set in and I’m missing Dad all over again. There were many Memorial Day Weekends when my son and I would drive out to Long Island to ring in the summer with a few beach days. It is the unofficial start to summer, and the only beach we ever went to was Veterans Beach. All others — especially ocean beaches — were way too crowded and I was never willing to sit in unbearable traffic if I didn’t have to. But even when we had other plans, Dad didn’t. He and Mom always spent this weekend in Mattituck. They always went to the beach, even if it was too cold to go swimming. But not this year. Dad will never go to the beach again. And my brother has decided to extend his stay in New York, but he never liked the house out on Long Island, so he and Mom are staying in the city. 

We didn’t have any plans, but I suggested a social distancing cocktail hour with the only neighbors I like. They aren’t in our condo complex. They live down the road and across the street from us. We carried our camping chairs over and sat in their driveway, at least ten feet away from them. It was a very pleasant afternoon. It was enjoyable to actually have a conversation with other people — face to face. My son joined us for a little while. He spent some time writing a story on his chrome book, but he quickly got bored — too many adults — and went home.  

Our conversation covered a great deal of ground, from education to television and politics to literature. It’s impossible to avoid discussions of politics, especially with people as politically conscious and concerned as you are. At one point, we discussed November and what will happen if Trumps loses. Will he vacate the White House peacefully as all his predecessors have done, or will he refuse to leave? He is a grown man prone to explosive temper tantrums, if he loses in the midst of a second wave of the coronavirus, will he intentionally kill more Americans — revenge against those who voted for Biden? But perhaps the biggest concern is his base. How will they react if he loses? Will there be riots? If so, how bloody will they be? As my spouse observed, it’s his people, his base who are the gun nuts, the people adamant that they need military style rifles in order to protect themselves. Will they turn those guns on their fellow Americans? I wish I could say that such a thought was far fetched and unlikely. But I can’t. Mostly, though, I wish I could call Dad up to discuss the possibility of chaos with him. I miss asking his opinion. I miss his input, his ideas, his voice.

Snapshot Rewind

2013: My parents went one a Viking cruise to Scandinavia — one of their first cruises. At the time, my son was three and he was struggling to speak. He called all cookies, cakes, chips, and ice-cream treats. Only he pronounced treats as “deets.” My mother had wanted to be called Nonna, and while we kept reinforcing it, my son persisted in calling her Deet-Deet. Since she was always spoiling him with treats, we translated his name for her as “The Treat Lady.” It seemed nothing we did would change his name for her. Then, my parents headed off to Scandinavia. When they returned nearly three weeks later, my son suddenly started calling his grandmother, Nonna. We have no idea why or what prompted the change. But I always joked, Deet-Deet went to Denmark but Nonna came home.