perfect storms

Strange pandemic days. We walk in circles at home. Drive around the same back roads. I spoon-feed and potty train my teenage boy. With the latter, he's doing surprisingly well. I never thought him capable. Perhaps I need more faith in him, and in my own abilities as his coach. They say if you can imagine something, it's possible. I'd like to think so.

This is the time of year—if windless, sunny and bundled-up—two degrees feels hardly worse than thirty. I'm proof anyone can get accustomed to the cold. Michael runs 5Ks even when the mercury falls below zero. In these parts, a lot of people do. If anything, humans are resilient. Remembering that gives me hope.

On daily drives this winter, I see hawks perched on telephone poles. They search for prey in fields of grass and snow. I stop for flocks of wild turkeys strutting across the road. I've spotted bald eagles and crimson cardinals. The other night I banged the hell out of the bedroom wall trying to shoo some sort of nesting vermin. In this pandemic, squirrels have manifestly taken over the neighborhood.

Yesterday, I baked some cookies. First batch since Woody's death last summer. They came out perfect—crispy, chewy, salty, sweet. Molasses, sea salt and dark chocolate are my secret. If he were still alive, I'd have brought him a handful in a napkin or piece of foil. Like last winter, I'd be on the phone with him standing in his driveway. Pandemic style, we'd be peering at each other through his kitchen window. We'd talk of weather warm enough for drinking whiskey on his porch together. I miss him so.

We're anxious for the vaccine's arrival. It might mean sending Calvin back to school. Why kids with high-risk medical conditions like Calvin can't yet get vaccinated is beyond me. He can't keep a mask on, which is why we mostly stay at home. He's three times more likely to die from Covid than most others. Please wear your masks, people.

This storm is meant to drop a foot of snow. One car is on the fritz. Can't risk driving it in case it stalls. Michael took the other to the studio. The snow is too deep for Calvin to trudge through it. He can't build a snowman. Can't catch snowflakes on his tongue. Can't make snow angels. So, we're stuck inside at home. Anyway, it's nasty out. Wind and freezing rain coming down in sheets. At least he isn't seizing ... yet; nor'easters in pandemics make for perfect storms.