Journal of the Plague Year 3-20-2020

I have vowed to record life under self-isolation even if nothing much happens. Today was one of those nothing-much days. We watched three more episodes of Keepers, the Netflix docudrama about investigating the murder of a nun in Baltimore. The ending was not a bang but a whimper. Lots of possible suspects were highlighted, but no smoking gun emerged. The Catholic diocese of Baltimore did not come off well. I spent much of my watching time trying to unpack the Baltimore accents of the various parties interviewed. Too bad, as the first episodes were strong.

Since my exercise class has stopped, I summoned my oldest son, aka Joe College, to help move an old recumbent bike upstairs so I could use it while watching TV. Sadly, I now remember why it found its way to the basement in the first place: It doesn’t work very well. Instead, I am walking on the track in the local playground. That has the advantage of getting me outside to soak up some Vitamin D. The bike can stay where it is for now.

Today’s decluttering was limited to the master bath medicine cabinet. Several old prescriptions, including three bottles of Flonase, went into the garbage. The were prescribed for hubby some years ago during allergy season. Even though I know you are not supposed to do this, I kept the old oxycodone bottles, leftover from some surgery a couple of years ago. One can never be sure about future medical needs during these challenging times.

The chance that we will use them is remote at best. They were prescribed for OLGS, who stopped taking them because he got bad dreams and other strange side effects. I probably wouldn’t take them because my mother was very dependent on Oxy in the last years of her life. It was sad to see a woman who worried about taking baby aspirin become addicted. I am like her in many ways but don’t want to follow her down this path.

That’s all for today. Stay well. And please post your recommendation for books, movies, or binge-worthy TV shows.

Journal of the Plague Year 3-19-2020

Getting cabin fever. And I am a homebody. I see a walk in my future tomorrow. It’s supposed to be nice tomorrow, although cold and windy. Our local playground has a paved path around the edge of the baseball field. It’s a quarter mile long and wide open, so walkers can see potential virus carriers coming.

Today, I made some progress in the decluttering department and managed to weed out all the old, frayed and unmatched sheets and towels. I kept four sets of sheets—two good ones that I like and two sets to use as backup. That left approximately seven unmatched top sheets—bottom sheets wear out faster. Some I remember purchasing many, many years ago.

I did the same with towels. I was ruthless. There were some still nice extra-large bath towels that don’t even fit on my current towel racks. Gone! There were some strange colored hand towels that I don’t remember buying and don’t match any past décor that I can recall. Out! 

Sheets and towels will go to an animal shelter, once I can find one that is open and accepting donations. In the meantime, they are going into a mesh laundry bag that one of my sons took to camp about 20 years ago. He no longer needs or wants it, so that’s part of the discard pile. 

The exercise left me with an empty 19^th century dresser that I can’t bear to get rid of, even though it is falling apart. It will go into the basement once OLGS finishes cleaning down there and our son can help him move it. The dresser will live with the four Scandinavian caned chairs that no longer have intact seats. Once the crisis has passed (see how optimistic I am), it will go to a furniture repair shop, wonderfully named Strippers. After six months or so, it will emerge in like-new condition. What do I do with it then? 

In other news, our mailman has started wearing shorts, a sure sign of spring even if the temp is around freezing and it’s drizzling. We watched three episodes of Keepers, a harrowing true crime story about the 1969 murder of a nun in Baltimore. OLGS baked bread. Son delivered groceries, although he included Pop Tarts in the delivery, something I neither asked for nor have eaten in 40 years. Maybe he was planning on removing them and eating them himself but forgot. A handyman came by to check out a possible job. He kept his distance. In other words, a quiet day in the Land of 10,000 Swamps.

Journal of the Plague Year 3-18-2020

Books to read while self-isolating

Happy Spring! The evidence of spring in the Land of 10,000 Swamps is reduced piles of frozen, dirty slush. It’s raining instead of snowing or sleeting. I will take it. Even Mitzi the Cat, who sleeps 23 hours a day from November to March, is beginning to show some interest in going outside, if only for a few minutes. 

The virus has shuttered lots of services and businesses. Our credit union has drive-up and ATM services only. Restaurants, including chains such as Red Lobster and Domino’s Pizza, have switched to takeout only. OLGS has a part-time job at the Target Center, home of the Minnesota Timberwolves. The Wolves are no longer playing, so he is no longer working.

In addition to TV watching and decluttering (an aspirational activity, to be sure), I am returning to my attempt to learn Hungarian. That should be a full-time job. Hungarian is up there with Mandarin as one of the hardest languages to learn. It’s the challenge rather than the utility that keeps me at it. If I wanted utility, I would study Spanish.

I have not abandoned reading. In the run-up to self-isolation, I finished Nickel Boys by Colson Whitehead. It’s a sobering, beautifully written story about a juvenile detention facility in Florida. He also has a book about New York City, The Colossus of New York, that I would like to read next.

Our recent trip to New York inspired the purchase of two collections of essays, Leaving New York and My First New York. Sadly, the books are ultimately unsatisfying to read, because most of the essays were written by people who first arrived in the city in the 1990s. There are only a few that touch on the terrible years in the 1970s when OLGS and I lived there. Is it a sign of age, or walls closing in, that makes me prefer books that speak to my own experience?

If I get tired of the books on my bedside table, there are many hundreds more on bookshelves around the house—books that I always intended to read but did not. Depending on how long this lasts, I may get to them. Then again, I might not. There’s always Netflix.