Pepper Season

An almost unseemly green against the otherwise desiccated garden, the peppers peek out from under a lush growth of tousled leaves. Along with a few earnest green beans, the peppers are all that remain of summer’s bounty, thriving among shriveled tomatoes and bolted lettuce.

These late summer days when the hot afternoon sun fades too quickly into the cool of evening always remind me of the last weeks of my father’s life. That fall I took a leave of absence from my teaching job so that I could spend time with him. I got caught up in the rhythm of what was left of his life–the visits from old friends, the care from the in-home nursing staff and the devotion of Randy, the man who mowed my dad’s lawn, shoveled snow, and did odd jobs around the house. Before the nurses and hospice people swooped in, Randy spent nights on the sofa in case my dad needed him.

Randy grew a garden in a corner patch of ground next to my dad’s toolshed. I remember growing sunflowers there when I was a child, but it was never used for much after that. He’d put in a tomato plant or two and sometimes some zucchini, but the peppers were his pride and joy. All that last September, Randy would offer me bags of gorgeous green peppers. He told me how he loved to make stuffed peppers with ground beef and “whatever cheese I got,” smacking his lips and saying, “Man, that’s good eatin’.”

I remember those days as vividly as if they occurred yesterday. They were oddly peaceful and filled with the beauty of small things. I walked to the same corner drug store I did as a child except now instead of ordering cherry cokes, I bought swabs to moisten my dad’s mouth and milkshakes he craved but couldn’t drink after a few sips. I’d go to the post office to pick up the mail, admire Randy’s most recent pepper harvest, and read prayers with my dad at bedtime. Even when my father could barely speak above a whisper, his lips moved when I read the Lord’s Prayer.

I share this story because it seems that so many friends have recently lost parents and loved ones. Even these fourteen years later, I remember what it’s like to live moment to moment, to sit in vigil, to not sleep waiting for a phone call. And yet, there are treasured times in the midst of the pain and anxiety and sadness. People who pick up our burden for a while and make us smile. People who hold us close and tell us to take a leave of absence from our jobs because we’re never going to get this time back again. People who love that person almost as much as we do and offer us bags of green peppers when everything around us is dying.

Behind My Mask

Last Sunday, I spent three hours singing in a mask—one for a morning church service and two for an evening concert. The mask makes my glasses steam up and the tropical humidity during the concert meant I had a choice between seeing the conductor or wearing the mask. The mask won. Being surrounded by my fellow choir members all wearing a piece of black cloth over their mouths felt like a weird, dystopian dream.  At the church service, a woman said to my husband and me, “I hope you’re not going to sing in those,” and we replied, “We are, and it will be fine.” She just gave us a look.

Before Covid and outside of an operating room, masks symbolized celebration. Whether worn by children trick-or-treating or adults for a Mardi-gras party, mask-wearing occurred in festive settings. Our masks let us pretend we were someone else, and we could whip them off whenever we wanted. The Lone Ranger and Zorro (I’m dating myself) wore eye masks in all of their mysterious, swash-buckling glory.

Now, behind my mask, I harbor a swirling and often, toxic, soup of emotions. I’m grateful for these miserable masks that rub my ears and steam my glasses because they help me to safely sing with others. But I’m also angry and frustrated that I’m back into my Covid shopping  routine—pull into parking lot, mask up, go into store, come out of store, mask off, sanitize hands and repeat. The box of 50 masks I bought last spring that I joked about not using are now half gone.

As I write this, the musical organizations my husband and I are involved with wrestle with decisions about how to safely rehearse and perform concerts. There are more questions than answers, and I know those frustrations don’t begin to compare with what schools and businesses are facing. My friend who is a nurse in a local hospital told me that what’s she’s seeing is the same as last winter, if not worse, because patients are younger. A theater in our community posted that vaccinations would be required for admission to all performances. Some online comments were supportive, but most were rants about invasion of privacy and government “control,” and, as with any kind of Covid posting, accompanied by the ubiquitous laughing emoji.

Behind my mask, I am exhausted from pretending to be gracious and understanding of those who choose to ignore the seriousness of this virus, especially for our youngsters who cannot yet be vaccinated. Behind my mask, I’m saying don’t dare send me any more links and emails defending your right to make others sick, especially when those links manipulate scripture to support a political agenda.

Behind my mask, I seethe, because just when we were slowly climbing out of the pit of this pandemic, too many refused to reach for the helping hands offered to them, forcing us back into the muck. I ache for the medical professionals and the teachers and the store-keepers and the restaurant owners who must constantly deal with abusive anger fueled by politics, disinformation, and plain old selfishness. I grieve for those who have lost family members to the disease or lost relationships due to the bitterness of extremism.

My masks are back in my purse and my car and my choir folders. I will soon need to buy another box.

Pushing Back

I saw you. You didn’t think I did because I was busy putting grocery bags in my cart and talking with the young man at the register. I saw you glance down at the sign taped at the end of the conveyor belt that said “trainee.” I saw you turn away even though the belt was empty, and I was nearly finished. I suspect  you turned away because when you heard the cashier speaking, you thought it best not to choose this lane, even if it meant waiting longer somewhere else. Honestly, I hesitated for a moment, too.

The young man at the register had a significant speech impediment and some other physical challenges. In the time it took for him to expertly check out my groceries, we had a wonderful conversation. He was a student at Johnson and Wales University studying hospitality management and was in the area for a summer internship with Hershey enterprises. He told me he had just interviewed the new incoming coach of the Hershey Bears and that based on his presentation in a seminar, he was invited to meet with the CEO of Hershey. He said it took him a while to find his way through college as well as to be hired by this particular store chain, but he persevered and was obviously making a success of his life.

It’s so easy to pass by the opportunity to learn from someone different from us, to make assumptions and to judge based on what we see or think we see. I’ve been guilty of it many times in my life, but I can honestly say that is changing for me. I am looking for ways to get my head out of my white, privileged bubble and see the world from the perspective of those who are different from me.

At the same time, I am sickened by the constant barrage of cruelty directed at that with which we don’t agree or perhaps, don’t understand. Laughing emojis in response to legitimate information about the covid vaccine. The hurtful words and intentional deception coming from the mouths of politicians. The comments about Dr. Rachel Levine. A large sign displayed in someone’s front yard with President Biden pictured in the circle that used to end Bugs Bunny cartoons saying “Th- th- that-s all folks.”  And sometimes the cruelty is insidious and subtle –the knowing glance and the whispered aside at the cocktail party or the conference table that will determine who’s hired and who’s fired.

I’ve always been one to keep my mouth shut because it just fans the flames of divisiveness, especially online. We’re all picking our way along paths filled with social and political landmines.  But if I’m uncomfortable or offended by something expressed to me personally, I am now more likely to respond. There have been times when I deeply regret taking the safe road and not speaking up for what I believed to be right. Those experiences taught me it’s okay to push back, even at the risk of changing how I am perceived by others. And sometimes pushing back simply means choosing a different lane at the grocery store and listening to someone’s story.

Grocery Store Madness

Just came back from a trip to one of our local grocery stores and wanted to share a few tips about using the self-check-out lanes. I’m not talking about the ones for when you just have a gallon of milk and a bag of dog food. They’re convenient, and I’ve seldom had a problem with them.

But, my friends, beware of the I’m-now-a-store-employee ones with the moving belts and the multiple bagging stations. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

First of all, I totally understand that grocery store chains are trying to cut overhead costs and like so many other businesses, they can’t get enough help. But really? Only two full-service lanes open on a Friday morning?? They still have to employ people to help customers negotiate with the self-check scanners so why not just put them to work as cashiers?? Might want to see what your competition with stores in nearby towns is doing. I can honestly say I have never waited for more than one person ahead of me in their check-out lanes, even on a day before a holiday. And their cashiers graciously and efficiently bag your groceries all the while carrying on pleasant conversations about how to cook the items you’re purchasing.

But I digress. Today, I had what I would call a moderate number of items in my cart. Too many for the quick lanes but a glance at the two staffed registers showed long lines of people who would potentially write checks to pay for their groceries or argue about expired coupons. So I took a deep breath and headed for the varsity self-check lanes.

Do not attempt this method if you are by yourself. One person cannot unload the cart and get the items scanned and bagged to meet the standards of the dis-embodied voice inside the computer. It can’t be done. I felt like I was in that famous scene from the old Lucy show where she and Ethel were working in the candy factory, and they couldn’t keep up with the conveyor belt. Fortunately, I’m someone who always weighs and labels my produce, because I can’t imagine what trials await those who must “look up” an item.

The first prompt is “Please place your item in the bagging area.” Yes, I’m doing that, give me a minute for God’s sake. When I tried to put the filled bags back in the cart (which still wasn’t empty), the computer yelled at me. “Please do not remove items from the bagging area.” What? Where am I supposed to put all this stuff? And what about my twenty-five pound box of cat litter that doesn’t fit in the bag-holder space? What do I do with that? Then it’s “Are you ready to complete your order?” No, damn it, I’m trying to figure out where to put these bags I’m not allowed to remove from the bagging area. The teenager monitoring all of this came over numerous times to wave his badge in front of the computer which acts as a sort of sedative for the machine. It sighs, re-sets itself and allows you to continue scanning. On one of his trips, he leaned over and said, “I’ll tell you a secret. If you wait until you see the red light on the scanner, you can move your bags into the cart.”

WHAT??? Why don’t they freaking tell us that?? Nothing on the screen says that a red light means you’re in a neutral zone and you can move groceries wherever you want. I missed that during orientation. Oh, I forgot. There was no orientation. I’m just a customer trying to make it easier for the corporate bigwigs to buy another yacht. Sorry—didn’t mean to be snarky but there is some truth to that.

I finally completed the transaction with my groceries shoved haphazardly into bags—not my usual neat and efficient process which has prompted cashiers to ask, “Were you ever a bagger?” It probably took as long as if I had stood in line behind the check-writers. Here’s a thought. Maybe take that creepy robot who wanders around the store dodging carts and making a general nuisance of himself and teach him to run the registers.