It’s been a month since the stay-at-home order went out. We (my husband and I) have had nothing but each other’s company for that long. But that’s OK. We LIKE each other’s company. We are both people who like our private space, so we stay out of each other’s way most of the day, come together for meals, and sit contentedly side by side in the evenings to watch our favorite entertainment.

He likes spy stories, I like SciFi, so we watch a little of each, interspersed with ghost stories and crime dramas. We’ve even re-watched some of our favorites.

We have, unfortunately, established a routine by now. I say unfortunately because my personal routine involves a lot of doing nothing. I do several online crossword and word puzzles every morning, after I have checked my email and scrolled through the latest Facebook posts. Tony goes upstairs to his study to read carefully through his favorite news websites and check his own email and Facebook page. Then we have lunch. We’re not all that hungry, but it’s something to do, it breaks up the day, and it keeps us from overeating at supper time.

The rest of the day is spent napping, knitting (I’ve finished several large projects), reading (I’m on book 17 of a 19 book series, Foreigner by C. J. Cherryh. I got book 19 in January and decided to re-read the whole series before I open it.) I play silly iPad games like Candy Crush or those addictive color-by-number games. I did volunteer to make masks for a hospital initiative, but the organizers haven’t gotten back to me yet with instructions or materials. We’re wearing masks made of a bandana and a linen napkin.

Speaking of masks, we suited up this morning for a run to the grocery store. Seems we have been spending WAY more money on groceries these days than before coronavirus. I always feel the need to stock up a little, and lay in some baking supplies in case I get the urge to make Snickerdoodles or something. Before coronavirus, if we ran short of milk or bread before grocery day, one of us would just stop by Ruler or Aldi for a gallon or a loaf. Now, we wait until grocery day to make the trip. Less exposure.

So, this morning, it was my turn to brave the interior of the store. As we left the house, armed with gloves, masks, and a list, I quipped we needed to have our armor, shields, swords, etc. Tony waited in the car while I went in, but then had to run into the store anyway because I forgot the bags in the car. I’m so used to him carrying the bags, they never crossed my mind until he appeared at my side as I was selecting a bunch of green bananas. He silently put the bags in the cart and hurried back to the safety of the car. Now, I’d caused him to get exposed to whatever dangers lurked in the aisles of Aldi’s! I followed my list carefully and picked up a few extra items “just in case”. Spent about half again what our usual grocery budget was before this whole stay-at-home thing.

I’m sure when this is all over, some folks will emerge stronger, leaner, fitter than before. Some of us, however, will emerge with couch potato bodies, flabby from our idleness. I’ve been hearing a lot about the emotional trauma of this whole event. Everyone copes the best they can. Some of us cope by living in a kind of suspended state. I feel like my life is on hold for a while. Until somebody pushes the Reset button, and we can all get back to whatever normal will be.

Sheila taps her foot to the muzak until she realizes there is no muzak. There never was any muzak. She taps faster.

She’s been waiting in this line for exactly seven and one-half minutes. It seems longer. She has pumped her gas, picked up flashlight batteries, milk, bread, and a book of crossword puzzles. A blizzard is coming. It’s already snowing heavily, and she needs to get home.

Stanley is waiting for his dinner. He doesn’t complain, he doesn’t praise. Does he even notice? So, Sheila is waiting in line at the convenience store to pick up a few emergency items in case they get snowed in. It will mean spending days in the house with Stanley, but at least she’ll have the crossword puzzles.

Sheila has worked late – again, then Stanley phoned just as she was leaving work to let her know the furnace is acting up again. He’d turned the thermostat up to 80° and it was only 62° inside. Just as the battery on her phone went dead, she’d thought, Call the fucking repairman, Stanley!

Once, just once, she’d like it if Stanley would take some initiative instead of wasting her phone battery so she couldn’t make the call. He could have dialed the repairman. It’s not like they’d never had to call one before. Hell, they should have the furnace repairman on speed dial by now, they’d called him so many times this last year – along with the sump pump guy for the crawl space, the mechanic for her car, and her dentist’s personal cell number.

Meanwhile, the line has stalled. The clerk is off checking the price on an item the young man three places ahead has brought to the register. Sheila’s foot taps faster.

Outside the window, the wind is beginning to blow the snow on a startling angle. This is going to be a bad one.

What’s taking that clerk so long?

By the time he gets back, Sheila’s foot is beating a staccato rhythm on the floor. That transaction finally finished, there’s an elderly woman next. She predictably picks through her coin purse for the exact change for her $3.37 purchase. Sheila reaches past the gentleman in front of her and throws two quarters on the counter.

“Here, keep the change!” she shouts. Please God, let’s get moving, people, she thinks.

The woman and the clerk have by now started up a conversation about the kindness of strangers, but Sheila misses it. She pushes the bewildered gentleman aside, throws two twenties on the counter, and maneuvers around the old lady to get out the door.

“Excuse me, ma’am. You forgot your . . .” shouts the pimply-faced clerk.

A young man who has just entered the store grabs Sheila by the arm, thinking maybe a robbery is taking place.

“Let go of me!” Sheila is yelling now.

She jerks her arm free, swerves, makes a sharp right, and heads down a side aisle toward another door. She picks up speed even as she hears footsteps approaching fast behind her. She swings her arm carrying the milk in a kind of reverse-bowling move, hoping to trip up her pursuer. She reaches the door as he slows enough to veer around the milk carton, which has cracked open and is rapidly spreading milk across the floor. She yanks the door open and bursts through – into a large-ish utility closet. She slams the door and pulls on the handle to hold it against her pursuer. She flips on the light switch with her left hand and grabs a mop that leans in the corner next to the door. She shoves the handle through the loop of the door handle, wedging it against the frame. She has essentially barred the door. It has a lock, but it locks from the outside, with a key that sits in a drawer under the counter up front.

She hears a loud thump as her chasers crash into the door. Rattling and shaking ensues as they try without success to pull it open. Her makeshift bolt holds! She feels a momentary rush of triumph. More footsteps approach.

“Ma’am, you need to come out of there,” comes the pleading voice of the clerk, cracking slightly.

Sheila waits in silence.

Approximately ten minutes passes.

Damn! If my phone wasn’t dead, I could call somebody for help. Maybe the furnace repairman. The sump pump guy. My dentist!

“Ma’am, if you don’t come out, I’ll have to call the cops.”

More rattling and shaking. Then more silence.

“I’m going to call the cops.”

“We could break down the door.”

“I’m leaving that to the cops. Move back.”

Sheila hears the sound of several pairs of feet moving away. It sounds like a whole crowd by now. She waits. She has no intention of coming out. She’ll stay in here as long as it takes.

The minutes tick by.

She takes a look around. There’s a circuit box on the wall, a water heater and furnace, a dirty utility sink, and several stacks of boxes. She slides a sturdy box of paper towel rolls over by the door and sits. This could be a while.

Then . . .  a siren approaching.

Before she knows it, there is loud authoritative banging on the door. More rattling and shaking.

“Ma’am,” says a deep official-sounding voice. “You need to open this door immediately.”

“I’ve got a gun!” Sheila yells.

“Does she have a gun?” Sheila can hear the police officer talking to the crowd on the other side of the door.

“I didn’t see one.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You people need to move back. Go up to the front of the store. If she does have a gun, we don’t want anybody getting hurt.”

Then, in calm measured tones:

“Ma’am, please open the door and come out.”

 “I’m telling you, I have a gun!” she screams, trying to sound hysterical. It’s not much of a stretch by now.

“Calm down, ma’am. You don’t want to use the gun. Why don’t you put it down and open the door. We can talk this out. Is there somebody we can call? A family member? Your husband?”

“No!”

Silence.

“You! Clerk! Come back here. I have to use the radio in my car. Keep her talking,”

“Ma’am, I saw the items you were carrying,” comes the cracking voice of the clerk. “Your gas purchase registered inside. I won’t charge you for the milk. If you open the door, I can give you your change. Ma’am . . . ma’am?”

Silence.

“Ma’am, I have your change here . . . ma’am?”

“Just shove it under the crack, for Christ’s sake!” Sheila barks.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Three dollars and eighty-five cents appear at Sheila’s feet, pushed through the gap beneath the door. Her foot starts tapping again.

“Um, ma’am? It’s really starting to pile up out there.”

Silence, except for the tap tap tap of Sheila’s foot.

“You know this is pointless, don’t you? I mean, you don’t even have a hostage.”

Don’t give me any ideas!

“It’s getting late, ma’am. I’m supposed to be off in another hour . . .”

“Just go, then!”

“No, I can’t just leave, ma’am. Not with you in the utility room and . . .”

“Well I’m not coming out.”

“I’m aware of that, ma’am.”

“And quit calling me ma’am!”

“Well, what should I call you?”

“Call me Sheila.” Oh God! You never tell them your name!

“That’s not my real name – just . . . what you can call me,” she quickly adds.

“OK . . . Sheila. I’m Kevin. . . . That’s my real name.”

Sheila sits on the inside of the door. Kevin stands on the outside. She can hear him breathing, for God’s sake! The silence drags on.

 “Um, . . . Sheila . . . Sheila? Are you still in there?”

“Yes, Kevin. I’m still in here.” Sheila brushes a wisp of hair out of her eyes.

More minutes drag by. Sheila’s foot taps on.

“Um . . . yeah. Um, Sheila. Where do you live? Do you have far to drive home?”

Before Sheila can answer, she hears footsteps approaching and the deep voice of the police officer once again.

“Sheila, we’ve contacted your husband Stanley. He’s on his way. He’s very concerned about you, Sheila. He wants you to put down the gun and come out so we can all talk when he gets here.”

Concerned my ass! Sheila rolls her eyes all alone in the closet. He’s concerned about his dinner, is what he’s concerned about. He’s concerned about steady heat from the furnace, and a nice dry crawl space. But me? No. I don’t think so, officer. He’s no knight in shining armor, coming to my rescue. He was once my knight, or at least my partner when we were first married – that time we got accosted on the street in broad daylight. Walking home from an afternoon at his mother’s house, a criminal approached us from the other side of the street. He didn’t look like a criminal, which is why we both turned toward him and smiled when he said “Hello.” But then he indicated there was a gun in his pocket and we’d better give him all our money and jewelry or he’d use it. Stanley dropped my hand and stepped in front of me. I handed the criminal my watch and ring and began rummaging in my purse for my wallet. Stanley swatted my hand away and told the criminal he wasn’t getting anything from us unless he showed us his gun. I was kind of whimpering and begging Stanley not to antagonize the nice man. He demanded to see the gun “Right now!” Of course, there never was a gun. The criminal threw my things on the sidewalk and hurried away. We both stood there speechless. What ever happened to that Stanley?

She doesn’t share her thoughts with the officer.

“Wait a minute,” she says. “How did you know to call Stanley?”

“We found your car sitting by the gas pump, traced the registration, and called your home. Stanley sounds anxious. Why don’t you put down the gun and come out.”

“I’m not coming out.”

“Sheila, whatever it is you want, I’m sure we can come to an agreement. Just tell us what you want.”

What I want? What I want? I want a better life! I want the furnace to work! I want better teeth! I want a husband who cares! I want Stanley to notice me!

“I might as well want the moon and a million stars,” says Sheila.

“The moon and what?”

“Never mind.”

Stanley was going to give me that once. On our honeymoon. We lay on that beach in Florida and gazed at the full moon. He said he’d reach out and grab it and give it to me so I could keep it in my heart, and a million stars to put in my hair. Well, the full moon waned, along with his passion. After what, fifteen years of marriage now, there’s no moon in my heart, and no stars in my hair. In fact, Stanley wouldn’t notice if I sparkled!

Sheila remembers their first anniversary when he cut out a picture of the moon from a magazine, and gave her that and a whole box of hair pins with sparkly crystals. She still has one or two of those pins in the back of a drawer somewhere.

Sheila’s foot starts tapping again.

This stand-off business is more boring than in the movies. How long does it take for Stanley to drive from our house to this sorry convenience store? Maybe the roads are closed by now. Maybe Stanley has skidded into a ditch. Maybe I’ll be stuck in this stalemate for hours! God, I have to pee. No! Don’t think about that. You can wait it out, Sheila. Heaven knows, you can wait it out.

Sheila recalls the time two years ago when she’d had to wait it out to her very limit. Stanley had stated that he’d never forgive himself if his dear Uncle Max passed away before they drove to Cincinnati to visit him. He was Stanley’s last living relative – except for Max’s two loathsome children, Gracie and Mark. But that’s another story. So anyway, once Stanley decided they should drive the three hundred miles to visit his uncle, he determined they could make by noon if they left early and didn’t stop, except for gas. They left the house at four in the morning, Sheila carrying a large insulated cup of coffee. By the time Stanley stopped for gas, she was indeed feeling a strong need to relieve herself. While Stanley pumped the gas, Sheila hurried inside to find the restroom. A hand-lettered “Out of Order” sign hung on the door. She asked the clerk behind the counter if there was another restroom on the premises. He said, “Sorry, ma’am. We just have the one toilet. I’ve called the plumber, but he can’t make it ‘til tomorrow. There’s another gas station about eight miles down the road, though.”

Back in the car, Sheila explained the situation to Stanley, who shook his head. “We’ll stop at the next place.”

The next place was closed.

“You’ll just have to wait it out until we get there.”

By this time, Sheila was so frustrated, she determined not to say another word for the entire rest of the trip. She sat fuming in the passenger seat, tapping her foot to a staccato beat. When they reached the retirement home where Uncle Max resided, Sheila pushed past the reception desk and burst into the first resident’s room with the door ajar. Muttering “Excuse me” she made a bee-line for the bathroom, undid her jeans, and sat with a sigh.

Meanwhile, her foot keeps tapping in the broom closet. She twists around and looks at the dirty utility sink. If she gets desperate, it’s always an option. But she’s not desperate . . . yet.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Movement outside the door.

“Sheila, we have received a call from Stanley. He’s on his way, but the roads are bad. He’s driving very slowly on the highway, following a line of traffic inching along in the accumulating snow. He hopes you have surrendered the gun by now and have come out of the closet. He wants you safe.”

“How long until he gets here?” queries Sheila. She is beginning to eye the sink with less and less disgust.

“At least another half hour.”

Sheila sighs. She tries to think of anything but her bladder. She thinks of what she’ll say to Stanley when he arrives. About time you showed up for once. Your wife is waiting. Don’t ignore our marriage any longer. Stanley. It’s time for the moon and the million stars.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

“Listen, Sheila. You need to put down your gun and open this door right now. The situation outside is becoming serious. Come on out.”

“No!”

I can wait it out indefinitely in here.

She looks at her watch. An hour and a half since she entered this sanctuary, or prison, whatever. She props her back against the side wall of the closet. Her head nods.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Sheila’s eyes pop open. Her neck is stiff from the sharp angle it’s been in. She looks with bewilderment at the utility closet that has been her home for what seems like an eternity. Then she remembers – the sprint to sanctuary, the imaginary gun, the moon, and a million stars. With a sigh, she reaches for the mop handle/dead bolt holding the door shut.

But before she can pull it free, she hears Stanley’s voice.

“Sheila, Sheila, are you OK? They haven’t hurt you, have they? Put down the gun and open the door. I love you. I love you, Sheila.”

Sheila pulls the mop handle free and slowly pushes the door open. The first thing she sees is the police officer with his hand hovering near his service revolver. She holds both hands palms out to let him know she’s unarmed.

“There’s no gun, officer. There never was.”

That settled, Sheila turns toward Stanley. He’s holding a crudely cut out picture of the full moon, along with a few crystal-studded bobby pins. He opens his arms and Sheila buries her face against his shoulder as he enfolds her.

2 C. flour

1/3 C. sugar

1 tsp. baking powder

1/4 tsp. baking soda

1/2 tsp. salt

8 T. butter – 1 stick (place in freezer several hours ahead)

1/2 C. sour cream

1 egg

Heat oven to 400. Combine dry ingredients. Grate butter into flour mixture. Stir in 1/2 C. or more raisins, blueberries, cranberries, or whatever you like. Combine sour cream and egg. Stir into flour mixture. (you may need to add a small amount of milk to make a soft dough. Knead into ball, pat into 7 or 8″ circle. Cut into 8 wedges. For daintier scones, make 2 6″ circles and cut each into 8 wedges. Place on parchment lined cookie sheet. Bake 15 to 17 min.

I have made these with blueberries. I add grated zest of 2 lemons and about a tablespoon of lemon juice. I either put more lemon juice and sprinkle sugar on top before baking, or make a glaze of lemon juice and confectioners sugar and drizzle on when they cool.

I have also made them with fresh cranberries, adding grated orange zest and some orange juice to dough, then glazing with orange juice and confectioners sugar.

I have made them with chopped apples and cinnamon, but I like the blueberries or cranberries best.

Enjoy!

I mean REALLY at home – 24/7! Well, there is the once-weekly foray out for groceries, hoping not to touch any contaminated surfaces, leaving our gloves and bags in the garage, washing our hands immediately upon entering the house, and again immediately after getting all the groceries put away.

We have both been retired for over 3 years now, so we’ve had some practice being home. I spent the first 2 years of my retirement (Tony was still working), pretending I was on vacation with nowhere to go. I binge-watched Breaking Bad, American Horror Story, Hemlock Grove, Ghost Whisperer – and on and on. American Horror Story was so scary, I had to go out in the kitchen and watch through the square hole between the kitchen and dining room where the phone sat!

By the time Tony retired, I’d pretty much figured it out. I was doing regular volunteer work at the library, meeting with a friend once a week for lunch and an afternoon of knitting and conversation. I thought I would spend more time working on my artwork, but I found creative outlet in writing instead. I took some classes. I joined some writers’ groups. I started this blog.

Tony is still figuring it out. He spends a lot of time on his computer reading and sending out emails and maintaining his website www.squaresail.com. We both read a lot, and stream interesting series on Netflix and Amazon Prime. We’re currently watching Season 3 of Babylon Berlin, Thieves in the Woods, Charitè, Lucifer, and a couple others. We ration out our favorites to one episode a week. Tony remains active with Toastmasters, and a local car club.

Now, however, everything is different. No more volunteer work at the library, no more lunches and knitting with my health-challenged friend, no more face-to-face meetings. We are still figuring out virtual meetings with Discord, Cisco Webex, Zoom, Uberconference. There are all kinds of apps out there. We’ll keep trying until we get them to work correctly.

We have tried ordering take-out from our favorite restaurants a couple extra times. We maybe went out once a week before, now we are trying to do that more to help our restaurants that may be struggling. Even the chains employ local people, so giving them business is not a bad thing. Red Lobster delivered our food using Door Dash. They messed up our order. Not the fault of the delivery service. When we called, they said they couldn’t deliver the missed items and offered a refund. We’re still waiting for that. On Friday, we tried ordering ahead and picking up at Texas Roadhouse. When we got there, a waitress (carhop?) met us at our car, took our name, and brought the food out to us – so we never had to go inside. I checked the order before we drove home and everything was correct. And when we got home, the rolls were still hot!

We walked at Meadowbrook the last day it was sunny. Clouds and rain since then. Since our gym is closed, we’re trying to run up and down the stairs in our house more and get outside for a walk when we can. Going to try some yoga today in the living room!

Thank God for social media. I never thought I’d say that. I have always felt that smart phones and social media distanced people more than bringing them together, with all those kids with their noses in their phones instead of looking at each other face to face. But now, social media is doing us all a service. Keeping us in touch with each other when we can’t meet face to face.

The human spirit is unstoppable. Even in this global crisis, we find ways to be creative, generous, and connect however we can. Yes, I’ve seen the videos of low-lifes fighting over toilet paper and attacking people because they look Chinese, but mostly I see kindness and caring. People always sign off with Take Care, or Stay Healthy, or Stay Safe now. People are reaching out to each other more often. Even the posts on Facebook are more about cute animals and loving messages. And food posts. Lots of food posts. When forced to stay home, people cook more from scratch. Many of my friends have made home-made baked goods. I made an angel food cake yesterday.

So, as I sit here still in my pajamas at 10:30 on Sunday morning, still haven’t even combed my hair, I think about all the ways I can stay active and creative while staying at home. Maybe a jigsaw puzzle . . . hmmm . . .

Two months ago, I’d never even heard of CoVid19. It was only known to folks in the health care field. Then, suddenly, it burst into our living rooms on the national news and now we’re all experts on its symptoms, spread, and prevention.

Conspiracy theories have spread more quickly than the virus. In one day, I heard that the virus was a bio-weapon developed by China, a political plot by Trump, a hoax, and a mild harmless illness less dangerous than the common cold.

Who do you believe? And that’s the key word here, Belief. News – even in trusted (?) media – is no longer factual. It is based on some belief system. Usually liberal or conservative. So, I have always felt it my duty to listen to both sides of any issue and try to find the truth somewhere in that no-man’s land between them. It is difficult.

But, politics aside, what I really want to talk about is the unexpectedness of this whole situation. Ways our lives are being – and will be – affected by a virulent virus we cannot see except by how it affects those who succumb. The even greater effect is the ways government agencies and private citizens are reacting.

Here are some of the changes I have noticed:

• Posts on Facebook consist mostly of humor about the virus and wishes of kindness and love to our fellow man, interspersed with lengthy instructions on how to avoid getting sick and what to do if you do get sick. Not so much hateful political crap right now.
• The rare face-to-face meetings with people – neighbors or strangers in stores – while keeping the appropriate distance apart, are warm and include well wishes for health and safety.
• There is a general feeling we’re all in this together (which we are) and a sense of being united against a common enemy (the virus).

I must admit, as my life in general runs, I have been extremely lucky thus far. I guess both my husband (69) and myself (74) are members of the at-risk group for having serious illnesses if we do contract the virus. Our ages alone put us in that category. Neither of us has any other risk factor. We are both in relatively good health and have – until last week – kept ourselves fit by regular attendance at the nearby Planet Fitness gym.

We are now trying to maintain that level of health and fitness by staying home as much as possible, walking outside when weather permits, washing our hands often enough to make our skin hurt, and staving off boredom by binge-watching everything that interests us.

We did our usual Friday morning grocery shopping last week and were appalled to see empty shelves at Aldi’s! People were attempting to buy carts full of bottled water! First of all, I can’t believe those people would want to fill the landfill with all those tiny plastic bottles, and secondly, how is a pandemic going to shut off our water supply? I can understand hoarding chicken (protein) and toilet paper (necessity), but we only have to turn on our taps to get water. If that stops, we might as well run into the streets and ask the wandering zombies to just shoot us and get it over with!

We are intending to get groceries as usual again this Friday. We will take some precautions, like keeping our gloves on (I usually do anyway), and, of course, washing our hands immediately when we return home. And I must admit, we did buy an extra bundle of toilet paper last week even though we still had several rolls at home – just because everyone else seemed to be doing that as well.

We have also talked about ordering some take-away a few extra times this week just to support local restaurants who are having to face severe economic difficulties right now.

I have been heartened to see several local restaurants providing much-needed free lunches to school children deprived of that entitlement because of school closings.

Tony and I are so lucky that we’re retired, relatively comfortable economically, and have no worries about day-care for young children, having to work from home, losing income, etc., etc. I am feeling some withdrawal symptoms because of the closing of the library. I spend so much of my time there. I usually attend Shut Up and Write there one morning a week, join a writer’s critique group one evening, and spend two mornings a week doing volunteer work. The groups have switched to online venues – which are working fairly well. Can’t do my volunteer work from home, but with the library closed, there will be no need for that work for a while. Fortunately, our library has a huge online catalogue, so people still have access to materials. Once I read through the thousand or so books in my home, I may avail myself of those ebooks and downloads.

I fear this crisis is going to last way longer than anybody imagined. We’ll be feeling repercussions for years. Friends or loved ones gone, shops and restaurants closed for good, our whole way of life changed.

I told my husband the other day, social distancing practices are going to change our whole social structure. People will become more formal in their interactions. Hugging and handshaking will no longer be acceptable. Touching will be prohibited except with intimates.  We will become like the Victorians! Never saw that coming!

My father was a blunt talker. He was Swedish. Enough said.

When I was a teenager, he did have comments about the music my friends and I listened to. He had a high-tech radio that could receive about a thousand frequencies on multiple bands, including emergency channels, air to ground transmissions, even outer space, I think. Sometimes I would bring my friend Patsy over after school to listen to Dick Biondi count down the top 40 pop hits on my dad’s radio. We’d switch bands to 890 on the AM dial. WLS. He’d get home from work shortly after we got home from school and catch us listening to Elvis Presley or the theme from A Summer Place.

He called it all “jing-jang.”

But he did buy me my first portable record player and a couple of 45s. One was Elvis’ Hound Dog. I think Blue Suede Shoes was on the flip side. Patsy and I listened to those songs for hours. I sensed more mild amusement than disapproval in my dad’s remarks about my choice in music. He liked most all kinds of music. We listened to a lot of Dixieland Jazz in our house. I remember Louie Armstrong, Patti Page, Peggy Lee, Edith Piaf, and the big bands.

One of my fondest memories was dancing the night away at a surprise birthday party we (neighborhood kids) had thrown for my brother Curt’s sixteenth birthday. I was fourteen. We had the party in the rec room Dad had made in our basement. He’d paneled the whole place with knotty cedar. Not sheets of paneling like you buy today – these were individually finished tongue-and-groove boards that he nailed up one at a time. He put asphalt tile on the floor in a pattern he let me design. He made a built-in wrap-around bar, and a nice big cabinet for the Hi-Fi. Mom and dad encouraged us to invite our friends over for parties to use the rec room (and probably so they knew where we were!)

So, we threw this big surprise party for Curt. Mom made snacks. Some of the kids left early, but several stayed to listen to our LP of big band music. Next door neighbor Denny (my big crush – he looked just like Pat Boone!) and I danced over and over to Sail Along Silv’ry Moon. It was a magical night. Until Dad came to the top of the stairs, flicked the lights off and on, and said, “Time to go home.”

Before the Hi-Fi, Mom and Dad had an old-fashioned record player atop a wooden cabinet that held all kinds of 78s. Curt and I taught each other to ball-room dance listening to old Strauss waltzes on that thing. Unfortunately, I learned to lead!

Dad embraced all kinds of music. They had the old Blues and Jazz greats on those 78s, along with Crosby, Sinatra, even Spike Jones. We could spend hours down in Dad’s workshop – which was the unfinished side of the basement – listening to those records.

Once the Beatles invaded, Dad even embraced them! He wouldn’t admit it to anybody, but he did become a big fan of Sir Paul in later years. After he was gone, we divided up his CD collection, finding lots of Beatles, New Age, and Bluegrass, along with boxed sets of Dixieland and Country. I guess you could say his taste in music was eclectic.

But he still called the teenie-pop I listened to “jing-jang.”

Having your picture taken is really complicated. First, you have to have a pretty red dress. It helps if your mommy can sew. Then she can make you one with white cross stitching on the yoke and a long sash that ties in the back. Its pebbly soft texture feels like a much-washed handkerchief against your skin, and you feel pretty as a movie star.

Next, you have to get your hair permed. You can’t just have it hanging in your eyes. It has to be curly and fluffy so you look like the movie star Shirley Temple. The rotten-egg ammonia stink of the chemicals burns your eyes if they get in them. But your mommy will tell you to “Grin and bear it,” and “Beauty is painful.”

Once you are all dressed up with your hair perfect, you and your big brother have to ride the bus with your mommy all the way downtown to the photographer’s studio. Your big brother will be wearing his best blue shirt and navy blue jacket and you will be very proud to be his little sister. He looks dapper in his good clothes. Even though she isn’t going to be in the picture, your mommy will be wearing her second-best brown suit with the gold buttons and stockings with seams up the back. She always dresses like that to go downtown. Your mommy says “If you look good, you feel good.” Her seams stay perfectly in place as she climbs the tall steps of the bus. Then she’ll turn around to give you a hand up.

Maybe the three of you will sit in your favorite place on the bus – the seats that face the center right behind the bus driver. If you see somebody on the bus who looks like Hopalong Cassidy, keep your mouth shut. Everybody knows Hopalong Cassidy lives out west in Hollywood, and would never be riding a bus in Rockford, Illinois! So just never mind about him.

When you get to the studio, you have to stand there while your mommy makes you look just so, like a model. She’ll straighten Curt’s collar, and your dress. She’ll comb and fluff your hair one last time. Then it’s time to sit very still and try not to blink under the hot bright lights while the photographer fiddles with his camera. It might be hard for you to remember to smile after all that – the dress, the perm, the bus ride, the lights. But the photographer captures it all.

The first five years of my life are kind of a blur – probably lots of diapers and bottles, followed by learning to navigate on my own two feet and speak English. Things began to settle down when I reached five. Then, my big brother – who was always nearby – went off to school. For almost three hours every day! How was I to manage? I was left on my own!

He came home every day with wild tales of life at school. Somebody threw up during art, the teacher cut her finger in the paper cutter and a substitute had to come in, he tore his pants on the way home and had to stop by Valeria’s for a quick mend-job. He was having all kinds of adventures without me.

Eventually, it came time for me to leave the nest as well and venture off to Kindergarten. I was scared! He told me not to worry. School was fun – if you followed the rules. They were very strict on rules at our school, he explained. Especially the one about tardiness.

“Don’t ever be late!” he cautioned.

“What happens if you’re late?” I asked with some trepidation.

“Not sure, but you get called to the Principal’s office. Probably get spanked!”

My eyes grew round at that image!

“OK, OK,” I told myself. “All I have to do is get there on time and obey the rest of the rules and I’m golden. This school thing is going to be a walk in the park!”

Being a kid isn’t as easy as adults think. There are so many ‘Don’ts’ and ‘Nos’. So many things one mustn’t touch, or break, or mess up. I tried so hard to follow all the rules, but sometimes I’d forget. Sometimes youthful exuberance just overruled!

But I digress, back to school.

I’m a daydreamer. Always have been. Always will be. I could get lost in the patterns of my Cheerios floating in a bowl of milk. I could take all morning brushing my teeth, my hair, tying my shoes. My big brother, Curt, was to walk me to school, but left in exasperation while I lingered over breakfast.

I finally got scooted out the door by Mom and was on my way. All I had to do was walk straight down the street – a block and a half, then across another street and there was the school. I made it down the first block in good time. The second block was a short one. But there were violets. A carpet of violets growing beside the sidewalk.

I stopped to admire them. I picked a few. Then I picked a few more. These would be a pretty present for my teacher. Just a few more. There, ready to go. I looked up and realized all the kids who had been loitering in the school playground and along the sidewalks leading toward the school were gone. Inside. I was late!

I hurried across the last street and past the windows of the Principal’s office. Hope she didn’t see me! I was the last child in the door to the Kindergarten classroom. The teacher greeted me with a smile. I waited and waited, but no summons came to be marched to the Principal’s office for a spanking. No stern looks. No reprimand. I think my teacher was also a picker of violets.

One of my best friends when I was 10 was Cheryl Ottenberg. She had moved into the house behind us to the left from Pennsylvania. The whole family, Cheryl, her brother Elwyn, and their parents Clark and Zetta all spoke with an exotic-sounding Pennsylvania accent. Elwyn was actually my age but, being a boy, was way too immature for my taste. Cheryl was only a year older than me. We became good friends.

She got a puppy. A German Shepherd puppy named Cotton. He was a big ball of soft fur – like cotton! He was so sweet! We had a kitten at the time who thought Cotton might be his mommy. Cotton was confused! I wasn’t much of a dog person, being somewhat afraid of them, but I liked Cotton. Cotton went wherever Cheryl went. He followed us all over the neighborhood.

That summer, all the kids were talking about sleeping outside in tents. Camping! It was the thing to do. My brother Curt and his friends set up a pup tent in the back yard, but got scared in the wee hours of the morning and came inside to finish out the night. Sissies!

Cheryl and I decided to do them one better and pitched our tent up on the top of the hill in the big pasture behind our neighborhood. Being a new suburb on the edge of town, it wasn’t unusual to see cows grazing over that hill. One morning, Zetta, Cheryl’s mother, called my mother to tell her she woke up to see a cow looking in her kitchen window! They had gotten out of the pasture and were roaming the neighborhood!

Cheryl and I wanted to make our night out a true camping experience, so she brought along a camping stove made from a large tin can with holes punched around the bottom. We could place it right in our campfire and heat a pan of bacon and eggs for breakfast! She also brought Cotton.

We set up the tent, tied Cotton to one of the tent lines, ate some snacks and slipped into our sleeping bags. Sometime during the night we were aroused by the violent shaking of the whole tent. At first, I thought it was the boys trying to frighten us. Then I thought it might be someone wanting to do us harm! This was during a time long ago when we hadn’t even heard the term sexual predator. But thieves and murderers? Sure!

Finally, Cheryl got up the courage to open the tent flap and peer out to see who was shaking the tent. It was Cotton. I guess he got tired of being tied up out there and was trying to pull free. Cheryl brought him in to sleep with us and he settled right down. We laughed to realize we had thought of thieves and murderers. Cotton would have scared them away!

In the morning, we piled up the newspaper we had brought for tinder and lit our campfire. We set the makeshift stove on top. Unfortunately, we hadn’t thought about real fuel for the fire. The open pasture provided little in the way of logs or even sticks. We gathered some grass, but it didn’t burn that well. What fire we had was way to small to cook bacon, and kept going out. We finally gave up on the open-air breakfast and walked down to Cheryl’s house to cook our food on the kitchen stove.

I think Cotton got a few table scraps that morning. She was our hero – saving us from imaginary thieves and murderers – and whatever had frightened the boys inside.

My mother never liked hollyhocks. She thought of them as weeds. They grew all around our house.

One summer, exasperated with them, she told my cousin Janice and me that we could pick all we wanted. They were too rough and woody to pull up by the roots and too thick to break off, but we plucked off the flowers.

We had baskets of them. We laid them out on the grass like graves and took turns lying in them. We baptized each other with handfuls of the blossoms. We played with them until they grew limp and wilted. Then we moved to other games and left the hollyhocks to rot on the grass. I’m sure we were made to clean them up later, but I have no memory of that. Memory is fickle – and selective.

Janice and I pretended to be adults – like our mothers. We ‘smoked’ candy cigarettes – even though neither of our mothers smoked – and had what we thought were adult conversations. We gossiped about imaginary acquaintances and discussed their latest diseases. We crossed our legs when we sat. We pretended to be pregnant and produced doll babies from under our skirts.

Janice lived nearly in the country. It was way on the edge of the city on the opposite side from where we lived. But because we were relatives, we made the ten mile drive every month or so to visit. Janice and I always begged to spend the night together – either at their place or at mine. I remember once, in the heat of summer, my Auntie Mil filled galvanized metal wash tubs with water from the hose and we sat in them to cool off. We had to fold our long legs up to our chins, but it was cool!

My Uncle Ed, Janice’s father, had a huge vegetable garden. He may have sold some of the produce for extra money. We would pull a carrot fresh from the soil, wash it under the hose, and crunch down the whole thing. Our mothers couldn’t get us to eat fresh carrots at the dinner table, but right out of the garden was a treat. We picked apples from the scrawny trees they had. Roasted them over the burn barrel. Good times!

We spent every Christmas Eve with Auntie Mil and Uncle Ed and their kids, Janice, Bruce, Bradley, and David. The boys came along much later, though – as did my younger brother, Dean. So for years, it was the four adults, plus my older brother, Curt, Janice, and me. The tradition was, we would have a huge Swedish smorgasbord-type dinner. No one in our social circle owned a dishwasher, so the women had to get the dishes done before we got down to the real purpose of the get-together, ripping open the bushel baskets full of toys and gifts. Another Swedish tradition – we exchanged gifts on Christmas Eve. Santa might visit by Christmas morning, but the big loot was to be had on Christmas Eve – from Mom and Dad.

One particular Christmas Eve, we were at Auntie Mil and Uncle Ed’s house, and had been politely asked if we’d like to go for a walk while the women finished up the dishes. Evidently our asking every five minutes when we could begin opening presents had become annoying to the adults. So, the three of us bundled up and set out down the road.

About 6 inches of new snow lay over the countryside. It was quiet and beautiful. The stars were bright – only a few light clouds. I don’t remember a moon. We walked all the way down the hill along the road to the apple orchard, then turned and started back. We were beginning to feel the cold!

When we had almost reached the crest of the hill, and could see the beckoning warmth of the house, we all three happened to glance up at the sky at the same moment. What we saw has stuck with me for over 60 years, and probably with Curt and Janice as well. A huge cross made of light hung in the sky. When I say huge, I mean its length went almost from the horizon to directly overhead, and the arms covered one fourth of the night sky. For several minutes, nobody said a word. When we looked away – at each other – then back, it was gone. We all spoke at once. “Did you see that?” “It’s a Christmas miracle!” “Was that real?”

We raced to the house and breathlessly told the adults what we’d seen. They barely reacted. If any of them did venture out to look at the sky, the vision was long gone. It was only for Curt, Janice, and myself. To keep with us all these years.