Category: summer

Constancy of Crisis

Anne Moul5 Comments

Some days I feel like the pandemic has dropped a screen over my life or perhaps, more accurately, a cage. I go about my business while straining to see through the filmy mesh of worry and fear, trying to finagle my hand through the bars to reach some vestige of my previous life. I cherish what remains the same about summer—the taste of fresh corn on the cob, the pleasant exhaustion from swimming laps in the pool, the August song of insects heralding the start of another school year.

I can count the times my husband and I have eaten at a restaurant on one hand and then it’s only been outside. I enjoy cooking, but there are days when I just Can’t. Come Up. With. Something. For supper. Again. I rarely wear anything other than shorts and tee-shirts. Or put on real make-up. Most of what I buy, other than groceries, I order online, and unlike most years, I haven’t hit the stores for sales on summer clothing and sandals. I miss meeting someone for lunch without careful planning. I miss the exhilaration of being out in the world, of having a reason to dress decently or buy something for a special occasion. Like the upcoming wedding of my best friend’s daughter which we may or may not  attend, depending on what the virus decides to do in October.

I think it’s the relentless constancy of crisis that wears on my soul. When the calendar is blank except for zoom meetings, it’s hard to find something to look forward to. I am blessed and grateful not to be thrust into the fray of horror in our hospitals or managing a business or dealing with the anger of the unmasked. I can hole up in my house, safely removed from the front lines. But knowing the pandemic is always there with no end in sight, at least for now, eats away at my energy and enthusiasm. The checking that we have our masks, the wiping of the grocery cart, and the hesitancy about doing anything with other people makes me feel like I’m walking down a darkened street, always listening for threatening footsteps coming up behind me.

But there are bright spots. We zoom (a lot) with the musical organizations that we love, trying to figure out how to help them survive until this is over. We strategically see a few friends in outside settings. My husband teaches private lessons with a homemade Plexiglas screen separating him from his students, but once school starts, he will go back to virtual lessons. I putter in my garden and kitchen, do little projects and clean-outs around the house, read, swim, and watch good television in the evenings. Next week, I’m doing a virtual live writing class with Anne Lamott, one of my all-time favorite authors. This Sunday, we will go to church, for the first time since March, at the local ballpark. We will sit at socially distanced tables in a now-unused picnic pavilion, but at least we will worship with other people instead of from our living room.

Years ago, I took a seminar on classroom discipline taught by a distinguished retired administrator. I remember him walking in the first day, stepping up to the podium and saying to us in a gracious southern drawl, “When you’re given a bad situation, you have two choices. You can make it better or you can make it worse.” So many times in my life I’ve hearkened back to those words. An over-simplification? Perhaps. But right now, all I can do is choose to make it better for myself and for others, by staying away from the world and much of what I love and by learning to do things in different ways. For however long it takes.

 

 

The Beach…this year

Anne Moul1 Comment

For many of us, the yearly visit to our favorite vacation spot is something we look forward to with anticipation. There is travel which offers an opportunity to explore new surroundings and then there’s travel that provides rest and relaxation and the soothing comfort of knowing exactly what to expect when we arrive at our destination. A friend recently posted that he just had to get away for a few days to breathe in the salt air and savor the crab cakes, Grotto pizza, and Thrasher’s French fries. Yes. Now when we’re enmeshed in the unprecedented horror of a pandemic, made even more terrifying by politicizing the safety of human lives, we need the familiar. We need a touch-point of normalcy– something to hold onto because so much of what we always took for granted has been snatched from our grasp.

But our beloved resorts are different this year, too. The beach is crowded but most people are keeping six feet of space around them, and there’s a breeze and we’re outside, so we should be okay. (Right??) Hotels and restaurants are under-staffed even with reduced patronage because the influx of summer workers from eastern European countries has been halted and many don’t want to do that kind of work, especially now. Tables are set up in parking lots and in one case, under the building on a make-shift layer of sand where the staff scurries up and down a steep flight of outside steps to get to the kitchen. Businesses are thinking creatively and incurring huge expenses so that we can still safely enjoy our annual week at the shore.

And yet, for some, that’s not good enough. I heard a young clerk in a store politely ask a customer to wear a mask only to be greeted with a torrent of vitriolic language. An ice cream stand on the boardwalk closed for a few days because their employees were getting constant abuse from customers. On the website of the community where we own a vacation home, there has been whining about limiting capacity at the swimming pools. Our cleaning service increased prices due to additional disinfecting protocols, and the owner told me he was accused of using the virus to “rip people off.” As I write this, some troll posted on the Facebook page of a well-known restaurant that the restaurant had eight employees who tested positive and who were being forced to continue working, all of which was blatantly untrue. Now, on top of everything else, the restaurant must try and undo the social media damage.

I sat on the beach last week reading Eric Larson’s latest book, The Splendid and the Vile which describes Churchill’s first year as prime minister and the courage and fortitude of the British people as they endured the bombing blitz of London. I couldn’t help but contrast that to what we’re experiencing now in this country. We’re being asked to make minimal sacrifices to sustain our own health as well as that of our fellow human beings. The Brits watched as their homes burned and lives were lost nearly every night for a year and yet they fought the fires and got up and went to work the next day. They did what they needed to do. They were in it, together, for the long haul even when the future looked bleak. I’m not sure that we can say the same as we sip our orange crushes watching the sunset over the bay, yet still feel the need to complain about wearing a mask or having to wait our turn at the swimming pool.

 

 

 

Pool Days

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Welcome to the adult pool. A few of us long-time lap swimmers have become the self-appointed standing committee, the arbiters of pool ethics and acceptable behavior. We want to make sure everyone is familiar with the rules and offer a few insights on the best way to enjoy the pool.

First of all, you need to be old to swim here. The sign says, “over 18” and most of us are way past that. We’re happy to no longer be sitting vigil at the big family pool, making sure a child’s head is above the water or dragging screaming toddlers out to use the bathroom. But admission to the rarefied atmosphere of the adult pool comes with its own set of responsibilities.

The chairs stored on the wooden racks belong to members, and we do not look kindly on weekend guests who help themselves to one of our chairs, thinking they’re provided by the pool management. And while we’re speaking of chairs, the pool is like church where woe be to the person who unknowingly sits in the wrong pew. Lap swimmers are very territorial about their space at the one end of the pool. Cocktail party swimmers, those who come to the pool to socialize, (Don’t get me wrong, we love you, too.) usually gather along the sides or in the patio area at the far end. You need to decide if you’re a Swimmer or a Socializer and set up your chair accordingly. Umbrellas are in high demand and it is highly frowned upon to move an umbrella, or, as apparently happened recently, take one home with you.

Now, a word about the lanes. Several years ago, a sign-up system had to be instituted  due to (seriously) fights and arguments breaking out about people hogging the lap lanes. (Yes, this is an adult pool.) Some individuals would paddle for hours in a lane or there would be a secret relay system where as soon as one person finished, they would allow one of their friends to slide into the lane regardless of how long others were waiting. It was ugly.

We now have four lanes, two of which may be reserved for a half-hour of swimming alone and two which are “open” but you may have to share with another swimmer. For the most part, the violence has subsided. However, it is not appropriate to give a swimmer the stink-eye because you’re waiting for a lane and you refuse to share the open lanes or insist on always using the lane beside the wall. And if you’re wearing a visor and sunglasses and trying not to get your perfectly-coiffed hair wet—umm, sorry, but you don’t belong in a lap lane. Lap lanes are for swimming back and forth, not standing at one end to chat or practice water aerobics.

A few years ago, a sort of lagoon area was built at one entrance to the pool, with inflatable palm trees and Adirondack chairs in ankle-deep water. Recently a lap swimmer made the mistake of sitting in one of these chairs while waiting for a lane to open and was immediately told that chair was “reserved.” No one appeared to be making a beeline for that chair for at least the next hour, but regardless, lesson learned. The Adirondack chair folks also do not appreciate other swimmers using that entrance to access the pool and interrupting their conversations.

Insider tip—one of the best times to come to the adult pool is when it first opens in the morning (although the chlorine is strong) or in the late afternoon and early evening. You don’t have to walk a mile across the steaming parking lot, the French-fryers have been dialed down so you’re not breathing in greasy air as you swim and it’s not as hot and crowded. And you may see something in the off-hours that makes up for all the craziness.

Last week, one of my fellow lap-swimmers (affectionately known as “the mayor,” always willing to fish out the errant frog or mouse who strays into the pool) brought his elderly mother out for an evening swim. I hadn’t seen her in years and I remember her as a strong swimmer, cutting through the water in her striped seer-sucker bathing suit. She is now frail and bent over and clung fiercely to my friend’s arm as she shuffled along the pool deck. I thought perhaps they would just sit at the edge while she dangled her feet in the water to cool off.

But, no. He and another one of the lap swimmers got a giant innertube and gently, gently walked his mother down the steps into the water, (the Adirondack chairs were mercifully vacant)  and eased her withered body onto the float. Up and down the lanes they went. His mother laid her head against the plastic ring and closed her eyes while her son and the other swimmer pulled her through the water. For a half hour. Her feet, which barely moved on dry land, were kicking the whole time. Muscle memory, I suppose. But it was beautiful to watch and although this woman seldom speaks anymore, you could tell being in the water brought her comfort. For a brief time, she was back in her seersucker suit, swimming laps.

Welcome to the adult pool.