Back among my people for my six-month checkup at Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN, I realized that wearing a mask now normalizes everyone.  It used to be the mask-wearers at Mayo were more-than-likely chemo patients with extremely weakened immune systems.  Now the cancer patient and the non-cancer patient look more similar.  Having lived with Neutropenia for almost a year following my last chemo in September of 2018, I became accustomed to wearing a mask in public and eating fast food drive-thru in my car.  Now the rest of the world can be other-oriented toward me and others who live like it is a pandemic every day of the year.  People who have thwarted the mitigation efforts are what I will dub, health-privileged.  The health-privileged are ignorant of a life filled with doctor appointments, procedures, and hospitalizations.  Similar to those who suffer from white privilege, the health-privileged take their health for granted and flout mask-wearing, social distancing, and self-isolation because they only see how such practices prohibit their daily activities rather than enable others'.  Perhaps those with health-privilege should take note how the limitations they feel have been imposed upon them during this pandemic are the same limitations those of us with chronic illnesses face daily.  You have been given a gift to live with restrictions forced upon you without actually contracting a disease.  Take note.  Pay attention.  Not until the author John Howard Griffin darkened his skin to live as a black man in the South in 1959 did this white man understand the scorn and ridicule faced by a man of color.  His book Black Like Me helped some whites, those willing to be other-oriented, understand the privilege afforded them just because of the color of their skin.  Perhaps I should write a book and call it Chronically Ill Like Me.  

So many questions for a place we’ve never been.

When we again gather, will it be as before?

Hugs

Kisses

Handshakes

How will it feel to go out to a movie?

Dinner

Drinks

Holidays

Will I remember how to be social closer than six feet?

Will I instinctively retreat when a mask-less stranger approaches?

Will the New Year bring new Boomers?

Parades

Vacations

Absent family

Will this be over at the stroke of midnight or will the return be gradual?

So many questions for a place we’ve never been.

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The words to the Christmas song I'll be Home for Christmas has new meaning this holiday.  "Have yourself a merry, little Christmas.  Let your heart be light.  Next year all our troubles will be out of sight.....next year all our troubles will be miles away.  Once again as in olden days, happy golden days of yore.  Faithful friends who were dear to us, will be near to us once more.  Someday soon we all will be together, if the fates allow.  Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow.  I'll be home for Christmas if only in my dreams."

The song was written for the musical Meet Me in St. Louis and was first sung by Judy Garland.  According to Internet Movie Database, Hugh Martin originally wrote the line, "Have yourself a merry, little Christmas.  It may be your last."  Garland, however, refused to sing such a depressing line to her little sister Tootie, played by Margaret O'Brien.  When Hugh Martin was interviewed by Terry Gross on National Public Radio's Fresh Air in 1989, he said, "The original version was so lugubrious that Judy Garland refused to sing it.  She said, 'If I sing that, little Margaret will cry and they'll think I'm a monster.' So I was young then and kind of arrogant, and I said, 'Well, I'm sorry you don't like it, Judy, but that's the way it is, and I don't really want to write a new lyric." But Tom Drake, who played the boy next door, took me aside and said, 'Hugh, you've got to finish it.  It's really a great song potentially, and I think you'll be sorry if you don't do it.' So I went home and I wrote the version that's in the movie."

Mr. Martin could not have possibly known his lyrics would have new meaning in this time of Covid-19.  His words make my heart feel light, thinking of what next year will bring.  His words give me hope, and hope is the greatest Christmas present I could ask for.  Time is too precious to wish it away so while this pandemic has taught me to appreciate friends and family and long walks even more than before, I look forward to "next year all our troubles will be miles away."  

 I walked by the lakes again today, this time armed with a trash bag and rubber gloves.  It amazes and saddens me that an enlightened population in the 21st century still does not know how to properly dispose of garbage and recyclables.  I remember the pollution crisis of the 1970's when garbage filled our ditches and roadways.  My mom was extremely enlightened for her time.  While others were tossing gum wrappers and cigarette packages out their car windows, Mom insisted we hand any wrappers or garbage up to her in the front seat where she would tuck it away in her purse until such time as she could throw it in a garbage can.  It was not surprising that when I began to embrace recylcing in the 1980's, Mom decided it was important too.  I still use many of the cloth shopping bags she made me.  Dad continues to recycle, but more because it was what Mom wanted and not some sense of obligation to our planet.  Maybe unconsciously I set off today to pick up garbage to honor the 11-year passing of her life.  

In just walking a mile, I filled an entire garbage bag and mostly with small bits of plastic and paper.  There was a beach towel that must have washed up on shore after my last walk and the top of a washing machine agitator that must have dislodged on the way to the landfill.....at least I hope that is where the machine ended up.  I picked up the most pieces of garbage outside bars, restaurants, and convenience stores.  The only way the paper top to a jug of milk finds its way onto the side of the road is by human hands.  If human hands could throw it on the ground, those same human hands could throw it into a garbage can.  If I were a business owner, I would pick up garbage outside my establishment on a daily basis.  I have no desire to patronize a business that cares so little for our environment.  That bar owner may say that his young patrons do not care about a little garbage around his parking lot, and I would tell him, "I have more money to spend than your young bar-hoppers, but I will not spend any of it in your place."

I found myself judging the people who have such blatant disregard for the health and beauty of our world.  I do not judge people for their religious or political beliefs nor for their race or country of origin.  But I judge people who litter.  I judge them to be selfish.  Frankly, I think a little judgment about people's poor behaviors and habits is necessary for a society to grow.  Having, as Freud called it, a super ego to keep people's negative behaviors in check is not a bad idea.  Respecting nature is bi-partisan.  Littering is disrespectful.  We desperately need an other-oriented world where everyone puts others before themselves.  I am not a proponent of the Golden Rule because it is rooted in selfishness.  If I treat others as I want to be treated then the focus is still on me.  If, however, I treat people the way they want to be treated then we become other-oriented and follow the Platinum Rule, a concept developed by communication researcher Milton Bennett.  

By reducing all types of pollution, we can add millenia to Earth as we know it.  If we do not reduce all types of pollution, the Earth will still exist but in a form uninhabitable for humans.  We will go the way of the dinosaurs when this planet was no longer hospitable to them.  For those who say, "This is why we need to travel to Mars and start a colony there," I say that in a thousand years Mars will be inhospitable to a people who never learned their lesson on Earth.  

 It was a foggy night so it was a perfect night to watch Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.  Rudolph has gotten a bad rap lately, and if you only consider lines in isolation and forget the time period, it is understandable.  But I want to set the record straight and show the beloved, animated film from my youth for the classic it is.  Maybe because it was released the year I was born I have an affinity for something as old as I am.  I bought the DVD many years ago so I can watch anytime in December that I choose, but I remember the joy of laying on my stomach on the floor in front of the TV to watch it the one and only time it was available.  It is still obvious where the commercial breaks were edited into the film.  Now I glide through them.

One of the first objections I have heard people make about this movie is when Santa first meets Rudolph, discovers his non-comformity, and rebukes him for being different.  Meanwhile his father, Donner, promises Santa he will grow out of it.  What people miss is how impressive this little fawn is being able to say, "Santa" and is acknowledged by the bearded gift-giver as being smart and sturdy.  As a parent and a teacher, I have seen the brutality of children toward those who are "different."  While I raised my daughters to be accepting of all people, and their careers in mental health therapy have shown this to have resonated with them, kids who don't fit-in with whatever is deemed the norm are ostracized.  I understand Donner's concern that his young buck will be bullied, which is why he tries to hide it with a fake, clay nose.  I want to note here, however, that Rudolph's mother is completely accepting of Rudolph just as he is but is shut down by her husband.  In 1964, the husbands and fathers were in charge so it is not surprising that Donner reacted as he did.  

This is also a time when phrases such as "man's work" and "woman's work" were completely understood, which leads me to the second issue some people take with this movie.  When Rudolph runs away with Hermey, the dentist, Donner tells his wife to stay home because searching for their son is "man's work."  To her credit, as well Clarice's, who has defied her father by continuing to see Rudolph, they broke from this role and headed out on their own.  Independent women following their own minds was quite radical for 1964, which I believe overshadows Donner's misogynistic comment.

Another complaint I have heard over the years is that Santa only accepts Rudolph when he needs he to perform a specific task.  Not true.  Santa apologizes to Rudolph as soon as he returns, and it is not until Santa is about to cancel Christmas that he realizes how helpful Rudolph's nose can be.  The Head Elf also apologizes to Hermey, who immediately schedules him for a dental appointment.  That Head Elf was quite brutal to Hermey by not letting him take a break with the other elves and telling him to act like an elf or he will be fired.  The resilient Hermey says, "You can't fire me, I quit."  But even the Head Elf made a brief attempt to understand Hermey when he asks him what is wrong.  This leads to one of my favorite lines, "Not happy in my work, I guess."  This has been an indispensable line throughout my working life!

The friendship that develops between Rudolph and Hermey is admirable as they decide, "Let's be independent together."  It took me 56 years to find such a relationship that is interdependent AND independent-together simultaneously.  To find someone in this world with whom we can be "misfits together" is truly a gift because once you fit in with someone else, you are no longer a misfit.  And finding an entire island of misfits is encouraging.  Seeing a Charlie-in-the-box hopping around inspires us that everyone is differently able.  When King Moonracer offers his wisdom that living creatures cannot hide away on an island, Yukon Cornelius sagely states, "Even among misfits, your misfits."  

The Abominable Snow Monster is the biggest bully of all, but I always feel sorry for him when Yukon knocks him out and Hermey removes all his teeth.  Yes, the bully gets puts in his place, but leading him into Santa's castle on a leash seems a bit harsh.  Apparently, however, Cornelius knows a lot about the Bumble, that he sinks and he bounces, which tells me this is why he does not desert him but instead befriends him and brings him to Santa's workshop as a new member of the family.

Yes, I just offered an analysis of a children's Christmas movie based on a 1939 Montgomery Ward coloring book written by Robert May, who was Jewish and had just lost his wife to cancer.  He wrote the story for his young daughter, but I wonder if he knew how many young children would be inspired by that little red-nosed reindeer, who overcame the bullying of his father, his friends, and his future boss.  

 I am fortunate to have a nature center in my backyard.  Hiking always brings something new and something constant.  Sometimes I see muskrats on the edge of the ice washing their paws or their dinner or their paws before dinner.  Sometimes wild turkey will wander obliviously near my path, intent only on finding seeds and acorns.   The constants are the frogs chirping in the spring, jumping quickly into ponds once my footfalls get too close.  I usually always see deer but not in the same places, and either in-deerson or the remnants of their beddings.  The swans are always on the same pond in close to the same spot.  The male ever vigilant, flapping his massive wings if I venture too close.  The female sometimes hidden in the reeds, more demure.  They are never far apart from one another, which is yet another form of consistency that draws me.  

It is December the first in the midst of a pandemic, and it is the heartbreak of this month that has me searching for the constant, the familiar.  Mom died in December.  My dog, Kea, died in December.  My daughter's father-in-law died in December.  Seeing the swans reminds me that while much of life changes, some of life remains the same.  Returning to my childhood home provides the familiar and the constant that Dad will be there, sitting on his front porch.  Even when Mom died and the familiar was changed, time made the change familiar.

The one newness of today's walk brought a beautiful Golden Retriever out walking her owner.  Her name is Ginger and she came bounding up to me, eager for attention and petting.  Although my Kea was a small Shih Tzu, she was affectionate and loved to go for walks. Ginger left me in tears, missing the constant of a loving pet who had been my companion for 13 years.

 Dad and I had a moment today.  It started by me asking him if we could sit together with him telling any stories that came into his mind, and I would sit at my computer and write them down.  He said I knew all his stories.  I reminded him of questions I wish I had asked Mom about how her parents met or her dad's education (not sure she even knew these answers), and how Mom had lamented about not asking her dad more questions when he was alive.  Regrets.  The only way to keep regrets at bay is to anticipate them.  

Despite not wanting to talk while I typed, he answered my questions.  It began by him asking me how he and Mom met.  I told him that she always told the story of her in grade school saving a place for him in line after recess, but he always chose to stand by another girl.  Dad quickly refuted this story saying, "Yeah, Mom always said that, but I don't ever remember that." Then I recounted the story of when they really "first met."  Mom was a telephone operator in town, and Dad hollered up to the open telephone office window, "How does stuff work up there?"  Mom responded, "Why don't you come up and see," to which Dad said, "I gotta go home and wash my hair."  OUCH, Dad!  He didn't go home, and that night led to 62 years of marriage.  

Talking about their first meeting led Dad to reflect on how he was with his best friend Billy Klinkenborg, and that led me to asking him how old he was when he hollered up into that telephone office window.  He said he must've been 14 or 15 to which I responded that Mom would have been 9 or 10.  This led to a long discussion of ages and dates and whether this all happened before or after WW II or if he was on furlough.  He knew he wasn't on furlough because he spent all that time with his family.  If he was in the war from ages 18-20, and they got married when he was 21, it had to be when he returned from the war and Mom was 15.  Maybe my brain works differently, but for memories to truly make sense and embed, I have to connect people, places, and dates.  Maybe after 75 years the connections have disinegrated.  

Bringing up the war led Dad to talking about his experiences, both state side and overseas.  I always thought he drove a tank in Europe, but he said that was only in Basic Training at which time he discovered that small, cramped spaces were not for him.  We talked about how lucky he was to never see any fighting, the closest being when the Germans fired on his engineering company trying to build a bridge across the Rhine River to which they promptly dismantled the bridge and retreated.  I asked him again about the can of peaches because it is one of my favorite stories.  He doesn't remember how he got the peaches or why he felt the need to bring them to dinner, but he met a girl in England who invited him back to her house for dinner.  They opened the peaches but refused to eat any until Dad took a bite first.  He did add a detail to this story that I had never heard.  "She must have lived near our camp because I remember we walked up a hill together."  That was it.  A fleeting memory that had never surfaced until tonight.  

I said he was lucky that he spent most of his time getting shipped from Germany to England to France to the Philippines.  That sparked another untold memory of him cleaning the barracks rather than being out on maneuvers.  That led to talking about cleaning toilets and me learning to clean them by helping Mom clean the city park's restrooms while she cleaned the shelterhouses.  That led to him remembering all the hard work he put in when he worked for the town: replacing foot bridges after storms; running the snow plow and getting it stuck in a ditch when the snow was so deep he couldn't discern the road.  

We talked about the work he did as a boy on the many farms his parents rented.  That somehow led to talking about milking cows, which led to him explaining how they would turn the cream separator.  I did not understand what he meant by all the plates that helped separate it so I found a YouTube video.  He was thrilled to watch, and together we learned those plates were actually cones that stacked one on top of the other.  I was happy 2020 technology could remind him of 1935 events.  

For not wanting to talk while I typed, he shared a lot of memories.  Granted I was not typing whle he talked, which is probably why we had a moment.

 "It's the shits to get old," says my 95-year-old dad.  I'm not sure he is as grateful for every birthday like I am.  Let me rephrase that, I think he is proud for each birthday he achieves, but after the pride comes the reminder that he can no longer do most of what he has done all his life...........work.  His 100-year-old sister also still lives in her own home and has been widowed longer than she was married.  She cleans her house, cooks her meals, and delights in every moment.  She once told Dad after Mom died that women were better at being alone.  While I don't think that's true now, it does apply to Dad's generation.  When Mom was alive he never cleaned a room, cooked a meal, or bathed a child.  His work was outside the house, and he does still mow his own lawn, but he hasn't done any manual labor for about five years.  Still pretty damn impressive, but not enough for him to dwell on.  

It is the shits to get old and no longer live the life you've lived for nearly a century.  It's also the shits to watch your father slowly shrink before your eyes.  Dad worked on family farms in his preteens; was a block layer in his teens and 20's carrying 100-pound bags of cement two at a time; and a city employee sweeping the main street with a push broom until the town could afford a mechanized street sweeper.  He had muscles that when flexed could repel pocket knives and break twine.  I blamed him for my inability to get a date in high school because all the boys in my class were afraid of his physique.  That physique was maintained until about a decade ago, around the time that Mom passed.  It's the shits to now be stronger and taller than my dad; to be able to lift his 171-pound frame after he has fallen yet again.  This may be one of those times when remembering the past is better than living in the present and hoping for the future.  

I guess I should be thankful for Covid-19 because it has allowed me to continue teaching virtually while caring for Dad.  He is not much of a talker except for making observations about his surroundings.  Occasionally we talk about serious topics like family members and townspeople who have contracted the virus and about the other viruses he has lived through.  Dad is, however, a thinker.  He sits on the four season porch he built and stares at the streets and the sidewalks he maintained for decades, knowing that he must now rely on others to do the heavy lifting. 

It's the shits to get old if all we have are regrets.  Dad only managed a fourth-grade education but can do algebra and trigonometry in the form of building and repairing.  Sitting on that porch, he solves the problems aging presents.  Not able to open his jugs of Sunny D with his hands, he keeps a wrench by the refrigerator.  Not able to hold the catheters he must prepare numerous times a day, he built a wooden holder.  Not able to always control his bowels, he built a wooden, beveled tray to hold between his legs. Fortunately we found a commode to replace that last invention.  I wish I could teach my students to problem-solve the way he does, but that will never happen because most people can't live in the silence that allows the brain to thrive.  

It has been nearly four years since I posted to this blog, and since it would require several "moments" for me to review the last 46 months, I will just focus on today as I have tried to do for the last 16 years. Cancer taught me that.  I hope one good thing that emerges from the COVID-19 pandemic is that more people are focusing on each today, finding hope, solace, peace, and gentleness.  As always, I find all of these while walking.  

One change that has occurred in the last four years is that I now live amidst the Iowa Great Lakes.  Yes, for you non-native-haters, Iowa has lakes and even a chain of lakes, albeit smaller than its larger namesake.  Today was a gift of sunshine and warm winds so I donned my hiking boots and headed for the lakes.  As I walked along the south shore of West Lake Okoboji, I  drank-in the sunshine as its path along the lake's surface followed me no matter which direction I went.  The ducks bobbed gently on the waves, happy to be free of obstructive docks and boats.  The south wind brought some much-needed color to my pale, quarantined cheeks.  I try to not always look toward the distant horizon but vary my gaze to the near-distance, the near, and the at-my-feet.  It was the latter that disturbed me most as I saw a glass beer bottle, aluminum beer cans oddly crushed yet still unopened, plastic water bottles and cups, napkins, the plastic top to a fast-food drink cup, and what looked to be a yellow planer-board.  Using the planer-board as a carrier, I put the other pieces of trash atop it.  Within minutes I could pile on no more for each time I bent down to pick up a new piece of trash, the other pieces fell to the ground.  A scene from Aquaman flashed through my mind.  This lake, finally free of the summer tourists, belched ashore all the human irreverence it had borne and could stomach no more.  Carrying the trash like a school kid carries a lunch tray, I headed for home seeing more trash as I went.  Looking remorsefully at my full tray.  I promised to return tomorrow equipped with garbage and recycling bags to remove the embarrassment of cigarette boxes and soda bottles for they, unlike the humans who discarded them, know the sand, the rocks, and the grass is not where they belong.