Déjà blue

“First time farce, second tragedy.” ~ Bill Kristol

**How it started…** **me, Kamala and Beth**

I hate this post and I hope you hate it, too.

We’ve been here before, but this feels different – even worse than 2016 – and I didn’t think that was possible. Imagine the unimaginable – or is it the unmanageable?

This time is different. Hillary Clinton was a flawed candidate even though I enthusiastically supported her. You know what I mean – her emails and that deplorable comment – although to be fair, she nailed that one in spades.

Kamala Harris was a magnificent candidate and she ran a great campaign in 107 days. Trump’s campaign was almost two years long – it only felt like seven. Donald Trump won a free and fair election and I’m not going to take a dump on Mike Johnson’s desk to protest his victory – even though I feel shitty today. And yesterday. And tomorrow.

**How it’s going… me and Dewey’s cake squares**

The people have spoken, only they’re not my people – even if I’m friends with some of them or even related to them. I have always viewed my vote as an affirmation of my values and I clearly don’t share the values of what is now a majority of Americans. They chose immorality – felony convictions, sexual harassment, vulgarity, insurrection, lies, more lies, Arnold Palmer’s big putter – over decency and democracy – oh, and the reproductive health of women. But hey, I get it – the price of eggs is apparently a deal breaker for folks who don’t really believe in deal breakers.

**Stuart is my people. He and his husband have been together 14 years. And he’s one of the kindest souls I know. This was his “I Voted” selfie.**

In the cold dark hours of Wednesday morning, when it became apparent that we are going back after all, I sat on my couch and felt like I was teetering on the edge of the abyss. My dear wife had gone to bed because she had to go to work the next day and see a full slate of therapy clients. Silver lining – I’m feeling good about her job security with Trump’s victory. We’re going to need hella lot of therapy. And Kit Kats.

**Marco (far left) is my people. He is from Italy and became an American citizen in 2016. He’s a college professor and canvassed in PA with his union. Citizenship remorse is a thing, right?**

Writing is how I process the world – the good, the bad and the apocalyptic. And even though I could hardly see through my fear (not a typo) smudged glasses in the dark, I tapped out a Facebook post trying to capture my feelings. I didn’t intend to publish what I wrote, but I think I needed to connect with my people – the people who believe in deal breakers. The post went viral – at least by my modest standards. Over 40 people shared it and almost 200 commented on it. Let me be clear – this doesn’t mean I’m a great writer – but don’t let me stop you from thinking that. So, this blog post is an extension of that election night post because, well, I had more to say. And maybe you want to hear it.

It became very clear to me when I knew that Donald Trump would be president again that I could not allow him to live in my head for another four years. Enough. I’m evicting him and his rot. Think of it as an intervention on Hoarders. I’m taking out the trash. I guess you could say that I have a concept of a plan of how to go about this. Here’s what I’ve got so far:

Avoid cable news like it is radioactive

I cannot listen to his “They’re eating the cats and dogs” droning voice any longer. I cannot look at his spray tan trainwreck of a face. I will miss my TV wife Nicolle Wallace the most, but it’s time to say goodbye. Talking heads is not news – even if it is on MSNBC. I will listen to some selective podcasts and read the NY Times on my phone – until Maureen Dowd drives me to hit the cancellation button once and for all. I already ditched the Washington Post when Jeff Bezos left Democracy to die in the darkness of his billions. My gay husband suggested I subscribe to NPR’s Up First newsletter and podcast as a sort of methadone clinic for political news junkies. I might do that, but for now, I’m staying with British crime shows and Seinfeld reruns.

Become a Disinformationbuster!

I know this sounds like a fulltime position with bad hours and no benefits, but I do think that disinformation – deliberate, of course – was a major factor in this election. Let’s take for example, those ads vilifying transgender people. If you live in a battleground state, you saw them in your sleep.

AdImpact, an analytics firm, reported that Republicans spent nearly $215 million on anti-trans network TV ads alone – not including the spending on cable and streaming ads. There are about 1.6 million transgender people over 13 in the United States – representing 1 percent of the U.S. total population. And yet the Trump campaign spent more money on anti-trans ads than any other issue. Overkill? Nope, just the standard playbook for Republicans as Nancy Pelosi noted in a recent NY Times interview – “guns, gays, and God.” Once again, Republicans hammered Democrats on cultural issues to stoke the fears of conservative voters. I can tell you that being used as political collateral – again – by the GOP is not a good feeling.

And Trump repeatedly made the absurd claim that schools are secretly sending children for gender-affirming surgeries. What the absolute fuck? And some people with a college degree still voted for him – although I’d like to see their GPAs. We have got to stop normalizing these lies because the mainstream media is not going to do it – at least not loudly enough.

So, when my friend from high school who never left the little town we grew up in posts about Democrats supporting after birth abortions and adds the prayer hands emoji for good measure, I’m going to respond with FACTS. No more free passes because you’re old or we’re related or we’ve been friends for so long. Nope. I will be respectful, but I will not ignore your participation in the promotion of these often dangerous falsehoods.

Do something!

Unlike Melania, I’ll give Michelle Obama credit where credit is due.

I’m not just going to keep howling at the moon. Now is the time for everyone to use their particular set of skills to help protect the most vulnerable among us in an even more dangerous Trump administration. I’m a writer, so I’m going to write more. Lots more. I’m thinking about starting a weekly newsletter type piece – sort of a Dollar Tree local version of Heather Cox Richardson – only without her blazing intellect and amazing context of history. The content would be a combination of pith (again, not a typo) and vinegar, but also useful information about what we can do locally as the opposition. I’m still working out the details, but the response to my election night post made me think there’s an audience – albeit a small one – for this type of content. So, stay tuned.

**Jennifer is my people and she took her son to vote with her and let him put her ballot in the machine.**

And I’m going to try and carry the joy and hope of this campaign with me for as long I can. I’ve worked in politics a long time and I’ve never felt anything like these 107 days. I got involved early on with my local Democratic Party and I was gob smacked by the sheer number of volunteers from day one. Some days, you could hardly find an open parking space at headquarters.

Campaigns aren’t all Beyonce and pizza. There’s a ton of grunt work that has to be done – such as assembling campaign literature and collating it into bags for canvassers. I did this several days and I saw the same group of women at the tables every time. They were mostly my age and older – retired but they showed up like it was their job.

It was like a book club sweatshop. They had all gotten to know each other and chatted away as they worked. They shared stories about their children and grandchildren and, of course, they talked politics a lot. I didn’t know any of these women – and yet I did. I knew that they had cried the same hot tears I did in 2016 when Hillary Clinton lost. And I knew that they believed that Kamala Harris would become the first US woman president. There was something so moving about their laser focus and camaraderie. They had waited a long time and they were not going to let it slip away this time. I will miss these women.

**I met this woman in line at early voting. She’s been waiting longer than me for a woman president**. **I loved her moxie** **and, yes, she’s my people.**

Once we had a good inventory of packets, we could start canvassing – knocking on doors for the unacquainted. It’s not for everyone, but I love it. It was even more fun because I did it with my good friend Beth. She moved here a couple of years ago from the bluest of the blue states – California. I think she had some electoral sticker shock when she started to learn more about North Carolina politics, but she was all in.

**My little friend Scout and her parents and grandmother are my people. She has a chronic health condition and a concept of a plan is not helpful to her.**
**Photo: Michael Scoggins**

Yes, a lot of folks don’t answer their door and those dang ring doorbells have become a real buzz kill for canvassers. Also, you can feel pretty silly leaving a voice message for a doorbell. That said, we had a high number of good conversations with voters. I’m such a political nerd that I get really excited and often emotional about talking to voters. I consider it a privilege when they share their thoughts – and sometimes their hopes and dreams.

Canvassing with my dear wife was one of the sweet highlights of this campaign. She has never done anything like this and I was so proud of her engagement. She’s also way better at directions than me, so that was a real bonus.

These conversations stuck with me and Beth and I both thought of the same one when we met for coffee a few days after the election. We pulled up to a modest home one Sunday afternoon when we were canvassing and saw a dilapidated van parked on the grass by the side of the driveway. A Latino woman, probably in her late 40’s, was getting some things out of the van and looked up at us. Her expression was anxious and even a little fearful. I called out a friendly “Hi” and introduced myself and told her that Beth and I were from the local Democratic party. She softly said, “Democrat?” I nodded yes, and the expression on her face immediately relaxed. I explained that we were hoping to speak with the couple on our list who lived in the house. She told us they were not at home and surprised us by volunteering that they had already voted. And then she pointed to the flyer that Beth was holding and simply said, “Kamala.” We all broke into big smiles – and hers was so beautiful. She told us she could not vote because she is not yet a citizen but explained that she was here legally and hopes to become a citizen by February. [Please insert prayers]

She went on to tell us that she loves Barack Obama and that she wants to vote for his wife one day. We laughed and assured her that we all feel that way. Her face was downright beatific when she spoke of how much she admired the Obamas. I want America to deserve that face.

As I thanked her for her time and prepared to leave, I reached out to pat her arm and she gently pulled me in for a big hug. Damn. I long to live in that hug today. Beth and I both spilled a few tears in our lattes as we wondered aloud what would happen to her – this kind other from another country.

There were so many wonderful conversations – the young black student from App State who was so excited about voting for the first time, the 93-year-old man with a thick German accent who was delighted to tell us he had already voted for Kamala and shouted out, “Go girls!” as we walked away, and the woman who said her daughter was coming home from college that weekend so they could vote together for the first woman president. Gulp. Yep, those conversations stay with you, especially when so many dreams are denied.

**I drove folks to the polls for early voting. My new friend Charlena was so excited to vote for Kamala, she forgot to put her teeth in. I get it! She’s my people.**

I’m gutted and I’m angry and I’m scared – some days all of those things at the same time. But you know what? I loved every single minute of this campaign and I will not let the results steal my joy. I love my people and in my daily life, I am blessed that there are way more of them than those other people. So, I’m not going to participate in the post-mortems of why we lost and what we should have done. I’ve endured enough mansplaining for several lifetimes. And at the end of the day, you know you’re on the right side of history if all the worst people are happy.

Lord knows it’s hard. I find myself at the grocery store making eye contact with strangers as they’re picking up that carton of eggs wondering, “Was it you?” I know that sounds a bit like Michael Corleone, but the results of this election do feel like a betrayal of so many of the principles that so many of us hold dear. And I’ll never understand how anyone could have felt good about casting their vote for Trump and the vile and harmful malevolence he represents.

The best advice I’ve gotten as I’ve been wallowing in despair came from my young friend Will, the son of one of my best friends from fourth grade. Will is in his late 30’s and works as an accountant. He is differently abled and like all of us who represent a minority, is worried about what a new and emboldened Trump administration will mean for his community. We love to talk sports – especially since my wife has below zero interest in that subject. He told me the story of how Jackie Robinson was angry and worn down by the racism he was experiencing as the first African American to play in Major League Baseball. Robinson’s wife simply told him, “Keep showing up.”

And that’s what Will said to me at the end of our long conversation late last week when I was feeling so hopeless – “Keep showing up, Addison.”

Okay, I hear you, Will. I’ll keep showing up. And when we show up, we win. Eventually.

Until then, take my advice and stay away from the egg cases.

**Kamala Harris for the People – my people**

**I’m not great with directions, but I know we can get there from here.**

Missing the bus

Most mornings I drive to a neighborhood near my own that’s ideal for walking – wide streets, sidewalks and not much traffic. Today, I had to make a stop at the recycle bins at the entrance to my condo development and I saw a little boy, probably eight or so, standing by the passenger door of an SUV. He was talking to his family while he was waiting on the school bus. He was wearing a Duke t-shirt and a backpack and he smiled at me as I walked to the bins.

I had just finished reading a news story about the father of the 14-year-old shooter in Georgia being arrested on multiple charges of murder and manslaughter because he provided his son access to an AR-15 style rifle. He actually gave his son the automatic weapon for Christmas last year.

Disclaimer: This is not a political post. Anyone who has spent five minutes with me knows that I am a proud bleeding-heart liberal, but I can’t for the life of me understand how gun control is not a bipartisan issue. I don’t want to rehash all the tired arguments here. No, this is an appreciation post for parents and children and teachers – all things that I am not. I don’t know how parents wake up in America and send their kids to school. I wonder if I could be that brave.

I talked to my friend Jen about the Georgia shooting. She has an adorable son who just started 4th grade. She told me that she’s terrified and devastated every time a shooting happens and that she always thinks about her son and also her sister who is a teacher. She said, “My sister posted on Facebook this week that with every shooting, she wonders if her school could be next and I feel that same fear.” I’m sure my mother worried about a lot of things, too, but me being shot at school was never one of them.

The shooting earlier this week was not that much different than the 44 previous ones this year, but it landed on me differently. I think I had been in such a hopeful state of mind since Kamala Harris became the Democratic candidate for president. Words like freedom and forward can have that effect on you. So, when I saw the familiar Breaking News alert on my NYT app, my joy bubble burst. I stared crying – and I couldn’t stop for a long while. Wasn’t it just a few days ago that I looked at all the sweet First Day of School pictures on Facebook? I love those photos every fall – they convey possibility to me – those earnest expressions of looking forward to what the new school year might bring.

I turned on MSNBC and found a grim Nicolle Wallace talking about how her son ( now 12) went through his first active shooter drill when he was in pre-K at age three. Apparently, the grownups don’t tell children that age all the details – they simply teach them to be very quiet and listen to the people in charge. It’s not until they reach the ripe old age of six or so that the term active shooter is used.

**“The Last Lockdown” is a statue created by Manuel Oliver, who lost his son Joaquin in the shooting at Marjory Stoneham Douglas High School in 2018.**

Her story blew my mind. I guess I had never really thought too much about it since I don’t have children. When I was a kid, we had fire drills and they were always fun – not the least bit scary because everyone knew there wasn’t a real fire and you got to go outside and talk to your friends in line. I’m guessing that active shooter drills are not nearly as entertaining.

**Innocence found on my walk this morning**

Since the shooting on Wednesday, I’ve been thinking so much about those Back-to-School photos on my Facebook timeline – children of friends, grandchildren of friends. I know my friends who posted these photos all love these children dearly and this is why for the life of me I cannot understand how we cannot pass sensible gun laws in this country. Yes, yes, the NRA is evil – no news there, but how can we not agree to agree on the simple premise that we should protect children?

To be honest, I don’t have many Republican friends, but I wish they would try and explain to me why they don’t vote for candidates who will work to make schools safer for their children and their children’s children. Do they think it can never happen at their schools?

I know I’m howling at the moon, but sometimes that’s all an old weary liberal can do.

After I dumped my recycling into the bin, I turned and smiled at the little boy waiting for the bus and he grinned back at me. Then I heard my own voice say, “Have a great day at school.” And as I turned around, I heard him and a sweet refrain of little voices from inside the SUV say, “Thank you.” It sounded like the “Hallelujah” chorus to me.

I wanted to tell them that I was sorry that we had failed them, but I could only crawl back into my car and weep. That little boy didn’t miss the bus, but we surely have.

**May all your darlings return home safely.**

Postscript: By the time I had finished writing this post yesterday afternoon, another school shooting had occurred in Joppa, Maryland.

On purpose

“I love you on purpose.” Emma, age 3 ½

Sometimes, if you’re really lucky, you find a nugget of hope and inspiration in the most unlikely of places. I found mine with a stack of French toast at a breakfast outing a few weeks ago with some much younger women – twin sisters Emma and Molly. Their mom shared the story of Emma recently declaring that she loved her “on purpose.” Mommy was very touched, of course, but also a bit bemused, and questioned Emma if she knew what “on purpose” meant – to which Emma quickly replied, “I mean it.” Gulp.

Emma’s beautiful words have challenged me. I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to love on purpose – in the big picture, as in the world – and specifically, the United States. Some days, I feel like Ouiser from Steel Magnolias who famously declared, “I’m not crazy – I’ve just been in a very bad mood for 40 years.” My bad mood is only going on six years and its origin story can be directly traced to November 8^th, 2016. Like so many good souls, I went through the five stages of grief after Hillary’s loss to Donald Trump. You know them – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. The problem is that four (it only felt like 37) years of Trump made me relapse into a permanent state of stage two – anger. Joe Biden’s victory in 2020 granted me a brief sabbatical from my fury, but not a total absence – my anger was more like a simmering sauce pan on the back of the stove for a few months.

That saucepan has morphed into a full-blown dumpster fire the past several weeks – beginning with the horrific school shooting at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, TX. I learned of the carnage the afternoon before my dear wife and I were departing on a two-week vacation to the Pacific Northwest with our good friends Lori and Sue. Suddenly, picking out the right shoes to pack didn’t seem so important anymore. We had planned to watch the series finale of This is Us that evening and had joked that nothing says leaving on vacation like a good cry. Ironically, This is Us, premiering in the fall of 2016, became a balm for many of us during the dark chaos of Trump’s reign of terror. The fictional Pearson family often reminded us of the unexpected joys in everyday life. Yes, they also made us ugly cry every single time (dammit). True story – my wife and I would joke that “we hate this show” every time we cried – sometimes even before the opening credits were finished. But that was okay – we needed a safe place to cry, and the Pearsons were there for us for six moist seasons.

We didn’t watch This is Us that evening, but we cried plenty of tears watching the news coverage of the massacre of 19 children and two teachers. I don’t have children and I always think of my younger friends who have school aged kids when these shootings happen – over and over again. I often wonder what my parents worried about when they sent me and my siblings off to school. They might have been anxious about us getting hurt playing sports or not doing well on a math test, but the idea of some other kid with an AR-15 rifle mowing us down was beyond their wildest nightmares.

Our flight to Seattle left early the next morning and I felt a bit relieved – and guilty – that I would be away from the news cycle for six hours or so. My wife and I usually reserve two aisle seats on flights – they provide a little more leg room and you have at least an outside chance that the middle seat might be empty for your flight. After I sat down, I started my usual screening of the folks filing towards me down the aisle. You know the routine – you really hope that frazzled mother with the cranky baby is not your seat mate. And you really hope it’s not the dude in the Dockers who screams manspreader and will knock you out slinging his carry-on bag into the overhead bin. I lucked out and got seatmates right out of central casting for the reboot of Dawson’s Creek. The pair were a young couple in their very early 20’s. The guy even looked like Kevin Pearson – the younger version – and he was completely unaffected by his good looks. His girlfriend was beautiful, too, and wearing shorty shorts – the kind I was never comfortable in even when I was 10. I usually give an eyeroll to this sort of airline attire, but she looked like she was on her way to pick flowers for her grandmother – just that creamy perfect skin and an irresistible smile. They apologized for making me have to get up so they could take their seats, and I could feel myself smiling too much at my good fortune.

**Even at 30,000 feet, the grief was palpable.**

I was a bit apprehensive that there might be a lot of PDAS between these lovebirds on the long flight – nobody wants to see that. They did hold hands a lot and giggle softly in each other’s ears and for a few precious hours, I believed that love could heal our broken world. And then they shared a pair of earbuds to watch a movie on one of their phones – Finding Nemo. I couldn’t make that up if I tried. Seriously? They were so freaking cute together. I wanted to get the addresses of their parents and write them thank you notes for creating two such lovely humans. They appeared so unblemished from cynicism. They were like that perfect new composition book you carried with you on the first day of 7^th grade – full of possibilities just waiting to be written.

**Spoiler alert: Dawson and Joey end up together in the reboot.**

As we began our descent into Seattle, you could see the snow-covered crest of magnificent Mount Rainier appear. Young Kevin was snapping pictures out of his window seat, and I leaned over and asked if he would take a few on my phone for me. He smiled that sparkly smile and chirped, “Yes, ma’am.” And that didn’t even annoy me. I was invested in this young couple’s future – or at least, their trip to Seattle. I got a grip on myself and dialed it down as I said goodbye when our flight deboarded. They were probably climbing Mount Rainier later that afternoon. Anyway, I hope they can change the world with their bright spirits.

**Depoe Bay, Oregon. Why don’t I live there?**

And so, our great Pacific Northwest adventure began and something truly remarkable happened. I did not turn on a television for two weeks and somehow Nicolle Wallace and the rest of the MSNBC tribe managed without me. I read the headlines on my NYTimes app, but that was it. My screen time was filled with mountains, waterfalls, forests, flowers, coastlines and vineyards. I have been to Seattle a couple of times but had never been to Oregon – big mistake. Huge. I was absolutely gobsmacked (you don’t get many chances to use that word) by the breathtaking beauty of the state. I was totally immersed in nature, okay, and a fair amount of pinot noir, and I felt better than I had in months.

I was also touched by the genuine kindness of so many folks we met along our journey. Sure, we saw plenty of hipsters, but mostly a lot of outdoorsy people who were friendly and laid back. They just go with the flow out there – literally. Rain does not prevent Oregonians from hiking, biking or anything else. I love that! They don’t bother with umbrellas because, well, they’re a pain and it rains a lot. I think they know how lucky they are to live there so they’re just naturally kind of happy. A craft beer bar and a coffee shop every 30 yards might have something to do with it, too.

One day in the Willamette (rhymes with dammit) Valley, we had planned to have a picnic lunch at a vineyard but learned upon our arrival that they did not allow outside food. We turned around and drove a bit before we pulled off onto a dusty patch next to a silo. We were unpacking our picnic when a guy in a pickup truck pulled up near us. I immediately went into full Ouiser mode preparing my retort for when he told us we couldn’t park there. Then the guy smiled at us and asked if we were lost. He said, “I saw you turn around up there and I wondered if you needed directions.” That’s the part in the cartoon where the dumbass (me) character’s face turns into an actual heel. I was disappointed in myself that anger was my default before I even knew what this man wanted with us. Wine country is a small world and the next day we ran into the same guy at Laurel Ridge Winery. He recognized us from the day before and said, “Hi, I’m Lucas – I’m the winemaker here.” I tried to make amends for misjudging him the day before by buying six bottles of his wine. Some apologies are easier to swallow than others.

**Wine bandits. Give us your pinot and no one gets hurt.**

The morning we left Oregon to return home, I took a walk on the beach by myself. We were staying in a very cool Airbnb in the tiny town of Netarts at the mouth of Netarts Bay on the edge of the coastal rainforest. I called it Pop-tarts because I’m goofy like that. The coastline is dazzlingly beautiful – so pure and untarnished – sort of like that young couple on the plane. I stood on the beach and tried to commit to memory everything I was feeling in that moment – the cool air on my face, the sound of the birds, the gentle lapping of the water. It was the one souvenir I wanted to take home with me – peace – and maybe a shred of hope that maybe we the people don’t have to keep screwing everything up.

**The last time I wasn’t hot. Netarts Bay, Oregon.**

Reentry into my real life was harsh. We returned to a heat wave and my car had to go in the shop for five weeks. Oh, and the Supreme Court went on a justice bender and overturned Roe v. Wade and Justice Clarence Thomas intimated that same-sex marriage could be on the chopping block next. And there were more shootings – and more shootings – and more disturbing revelations from the January 6^th Committee. My moment of Zen from Netarts became a distant memory. I felt like so many of the things I had worked for most of my adult life as an activist were circling the drain.

And then I had breakfast with a couple of three-and-a-half-year-olds who seem wise beyond their years. Children are so present – what a gift that we alleged grown-ups abandon so easily. All that mattered to those two in that moment were the stuffed beavers we had brought them back from Oregon. Hey, I may not have children, but I do know how to get on their good side.

Beavers, sticky fingers, lots of giggles and a side order of inspiration were just what my weary spirit needed that morning. So, lately I’ve been trying to listen to my inner-child and put Ouiser on mute. I know it’s a tough challenge – I was a grouchy old woman long before my time – but I’m trying to be more present to the everyday gifts this broken beautiful world can offer.

I’ll keep trying. I mean it.

**I’m delighted to report that the beavers are very happy in their new habitat.**

Night swimming

This might sound strange, but I have been sleeping better during this pandemic. Of course, there is a low bar for strange these days – and months. I’ve suffered with insomnia for several years. I fall asleep okay and then I find myself eyes wide open at 3:00 AM. I usually drag myself to the couch while my dear wife sleeps like a drunken sailor. She sleeps better than any person still alive and it makes me freaking jealous.

Pandemic sleep for me has been very deep. Remember diving for quarters in the deep end of the pool when you were a kid? It was such fun and I loved that sensation of swimming closer to the bottom – feeling the water getting colder and the sounds from above becoming more muffled. I could hold my breath for a surprisingly long time and I often went home with the most quarters.

My dreams have run the gamut from sweet to crazy to frightening to funny. Just last night I dreamed I was hanging out with Nicolle Wallace from MSNBC. Yes, she is my spirit animal but that’s just funny. I call these my Insta Dreams because I follow these folks on Instagram. The best one so far was a few weeks ago when JLo and I were sitting on a patio and I was telling her how much I loved her Super Bowl appearance and that I named my new car after her. She got me.

I have dreamed a lot about my dead parents over the past few months. I am grateful that these dreams have been peaceful and comforting. In most of them, we are together and doing something quite ordinary – like making dinner.

The other night, I dreamed I was with my mother in the kitchen of the house I grew up in. I was telling her goodbye because I was heading back home. In this dream, I lived in California which is pretty cool because I’ve always dreamed of living there. I guess that falls under wishful dreaming. Anyway, my mother was wearing a dark blue velour robe – which was historically accurate – and we hugged for a very long time. Almost as long as I could hold my breath in the deep end all those years ago.

I’ve dreamed of former partners – one sweet, one not – again, historically accurate – and friends I haven’t seen in years. A few nights ago, I was on the Metro in DC with Ann and Cathy, two much younger women I worked with over 20 years ago. We were chatting away like it was yesterday, and the cherry blossoms were in bloom. That period I lived in DC was one of the happiest times of my life and it was lovely to revisit it in a dream.

Of course, not all my dreams have been sweet. I’ve dreamed a lot about broken relationships with family and friends that remain unmended. Some nights I feel like George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life reviewing all the what ifs of my life. These dreams are distressing and yet I linger in them and when I wake, I am often filled with regret and despair and this pandemic feels even more ominous to me. The hangover of these dreams can last a while and I carry a heaviness throughout the day. I feel like I’m wearing one of those lead aprons they put on you when you get an X-ray at the dentist’s office. Those days are longer than most.

George Bailey. My dream doppelganger some nights.

I have spent a lot of time pondering what these dreams mean and I always come back to mortality and the unfinished things in my life. Light, right? Sometimes I wish I were a puzzle person – that seems like a far less bleak pandemic activity than pondering one’s own mortality, but I don’t have the patience for that. I think about trying to put the pieces of those broken relationships back together, but it feels so overwhelming – a 5,000-piece puzzle of the color white.

This is one of the five – and counting – puzzles my friend Chris has completed during lockdown.

So, I write to try and help me make some sense of these things that make no sense these days. My friend, Jen, is a professor of English literature at UNCG. She is the kind of smart that makes you feel like your brain is not set on the same speed as hers. She is always taking notes – as if to not miss anything – and she recently wrote a beautiful essay, “Finding the Courage to Write.” Click on the title to read it – and I really hope you do. Jen talks about writing against the despair of this pandemic and connecting with as many others as you can. I love that phrase – “writing against the despair” – it feels hopeful and makes me feel like if I keep writing, I can hold my breath long enough to make it back to the surface with that quarter safely in my hand.

Keep swimming against the despair, friends.

Taking flight

I don’t know about you, but for me, this pandemic has been a daily roller coaster ride. And I hate roller coasters. I try to start out most days with a moderately positive attitude so I can navigate the deep dips that may come – as they invariably do. Yesterday, was a most pleasant reversal of this ride – more like a Ferris wheel. And I love Ferris wheels.

Yesterday morning, I was below ground level after my weekly trip to the grocery store. And honestly, it had nothing to do with the grocery store, but the unmasked shoppers I encountered. I just don’t get it! What is so hard about wearing a mask? I had a running conversation with myself as I passed person after person without a mask. The twenty-something guy without one – stupid or just arrogant? Probably both. The old – like really old people – not wearing one. Death wish? Resignation? I had no answers, but plenty of side-eye as I passed the unmasked. Unfortunately, my side-eye, rather legendary, has apparently been rendered ineffective behind the veil of a mask.

Red state. Blue state. United States. Just wear the freaking mask!

I was just so damn mad and disgusted when I left the grocery store that I decided I needed what my dear wife likes to call a “corrective” experience. I ran home to give the groceries a quick Silkwood scrubdown and decided to take a drive to a local strawberry farm to pick up some seasonal deliciousness. This farm advertised drive-thru pickup, so I felt relatively comfortable with the outing.

It was a magnificent spring day – a Tarheel blue sky that NC is famous for. I made myself not listen to MSNBC on my Apple CarPlay on the ride out to the country and went with the Joni Mitchell channel on Spotify. Good call, right? I could feel my mask malaise dissipating as I turned down the little dirt road to the farm. I was greeted by a young man – wearing a MASK, thank you – holding a box of beautiful strawberries. He greeted me kindly and asked what I would like. I said, “Those.” I gave him my debit card – he ran it – and just like that I was driving home with my strawberries riding shotgun.

Mother Nature is a remarkable thing. As I looked back at the field of strawberries, COVID-19 felt far away – sort of like when you look down at the ground when you get to the top of a Ferris wheel. It was a feeling as sweet as those berries on the seat next to me.

I kept listening to music on my way back to town and decided to really live it up and go through the Starbucks drive-through for a cappuccino. I pulled into the parking lot and there were just a few cars ahead of me. I was on a roll. I ordered and when I got to the window, a very friendly young man – MASKED, thank you – handed me a perfect dry cappuccino – just like I like it. For the uninitiated, a dry cappuccino has less milk than a standard one and is topped off with a thick layer of milk foam. You can tell immediately if it has been made correctly when you lift the cup – it feels half-empty – just like the one in my hand. How high could this day go?

I was feeling so good that I decided to leave my bestie Carla a Marco Polo message. Marco Polo is a video chat app that lets you send messages back and forth with folks. As a dinosaur, the only Marco Polo I was familiar with was that annoying tag game we played in the pool when we were kids, but Carla keeps me young and on Day 2 of quarantine, she made me download the app. It has been our most used mode of communication these past two months. I like that it is so in the moment – good, bad, and ugly – and it has really kept us connected. A few weeks in of Poloing (our word) – Carla upped her game and started sending me videos of her playing the guitar and singing. This was a surprise to me because I didn’t know she could do either of those things, much less so well. We call these videos “Kiki’s Coffeehouse” – and I love them. It’s so fun to get a personal tiny desk concert now and then.

My last few Polos to Carla had been rather blue, so I wanted to share my up morning with her. While I was recording my video, I noticed that a lot of people were pulling into the parking lot next to Starbucks. Then I noticed two firetrucks and several police cars. I finished my chat and looked around to see lots of people standing by their cars staring up at the sky. Did I miss a pandemic eclipse? Then I remembered that the NC National Guard’s Airlift Wing was conducting flyover salutes to medical staff and other frontline workers. Somehow, I had landed smack dab in the perfect viewing site. Could this day get any better? Yes, it would.

I got out of my car – with my MASK – and surveyed the crowd. And it was a crowd. Families with little kids, lots of law enforcement as spectators, but running the lights on their cars to make it all a bit more festive. There was that excitement in the air you feel on the 4^th of July while you’re waiting for the fireworks to begin or the parade to start. People were happy and talking to each other in that benign friendly way we speak to strangers. I had a nice chat (socially distanced) with an older man wearing a Marine baseball cap.

I looked over across the street to the parking deck of Wake Forest Baptist Hospital and saw a huge group of hospital workers (DEFINITELY MASKED) standing by the wall looking up toward the sky. And that’s when I got the first lump in my throat. Then I heard a loud roar from the sky and there it was – coming right at us – a huge C-17 airplane. Disclaimer: I know less about planes than I do about cars – which is nothing. I looked it up. The C-17 is a large military transport aircraft.

It was so close I felt like I was ducking when it raced over my head. And then I heard people clapping and cheering. And that’s when the lump in my throat came out as tears – lots of them. What was this familiar feeling that started in my toes and rose to fill my heart? It was that feeling you get when the National Anthem plays before a football game. Goosebumps. That feeling of being an American. God, I haven’t felt that feeling in so very long. It was glorious and I didn’t want it to be over. No one did. Everyone lingered long after the plane was gone – not wanting to go back – to where we are now.

This pandemic has felt so different than 9/11. I mean, of course, it is different, but there has not been that tsunami of unity that a lot of us felt after that unspeakable tragedy. It might have been for just a few weeks, it’s easy to romanticize compared to our current shit show, but it felt like for a very long time, we were connected as Americans. I wonder if those not of age then will ever experience such a feeling. Honestly, I was beginning to wonder if I would ever know that feeling again.

But I did – yesterday. And after I had sucked in every breath of that magical moment, I finally got back in my car to drive home. I turned Spotify back on and what song was playing? Carolina in My Mind. Even I couldn’t make that up.

Sweet baby James makes everything better.

I stayed in the top car of that Ferris wheel the rest of the day, letting my feet dangle with not a worry in the world – smiling down at what I had been so deeply missing. My country.

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

MSNBC