It's Me: Jennie Block Taylor

Here it is the last week in May, and I have been deeply entrenched in socially-distanced self pity. I am not proud of this, so I thought I would share it with those of you who read my blog. My life continues to be a strand of contradictions strung around my neck for all to see.

Monday was the first Memorial Day since Phil entered the land of those who are memorialized on Memorial Day. I went to the cemetery on Sunday, to beat the Monday crowds. I took flowers for Phil, and for my many relatives who also rest at Sunset Memorial Park. Unlike when I was confused by the lack of Memorial Day memorializers when I, always the rebel, celebrated Memorial Day on Labor Day back in September, there were flags at each Veteran’s grave, and masked people scattered through the park carrying flowers. I tried to talk to Phil, my Mom and Dad, and the many others, but couldn’t come up with much to say. My standard greeting became, “You are remembered.” It’s weak, but it’s all I had.

I did point out to Phil, that the roses near his spot in the park were blooming. Since our 43rd wedding anniversary was coming up, I also told him “Happy Anniversary.” Again, it was weak, but it was all I had. I came home and cried. I don’t even know why. Maybe it was the timing. Maybe it was the perfect setting for a party of the self-pity variety: socially distanced.

I celebrated our anniversary by ordering a curb-side to-go steak dinner. I probably should have left it on the curb. The steak was so tough that I choked on it. I tried to wash it down with my anniversary-celebrating Margarita, but the Margarita made a quick reappearance via my nose. Before cleaning up the Margarita mess, I laughed and laughed. It was the perfect tribute to Phil and my marriage: lots of tough times and lots of laughter. So, I’m going to choose to remember times of laughter; times with friends and family; the good times. I’m going to choose to forget the Margarita coming out of my nose (it was not comfortable). Please join me in sending wishes for love and joy to your friends and family, because LIFE is good.

Roses are blooming all around Phil’s resting place.

Frankly, I’ve never been cool. Not being cool has it’s advantages. I drive a 2001 Toyota Camry. Homeless people don’t even approach me at intersections to ask for money. When I was an early adolescent, my Mother bought me a book on how to be popular. She would have been well within her rights to have asked for her money back. I’m from New Mexico. It’s hot here much of the year. It may be that my lack of coolness is environmental. Of course that doesn’t explain why I was never “hot.”

As far as not being cool in a pandemic, there are the tragically serious things that move coolness to the back burner (that sounds like an oxymoron) such as lack of adequate funds to pay expenses, isolation and loneliness, illness and the accompanying drain on dignity; and then there is the pandemic-produced coolness sieve that is my life. Last night I finished making my 100th mask. I’ve given most away, but I’ve kept a few so that I can do my part in limiting virus spread. None of my homemade masks are beautiful, but I do try to coordinate the color of the mask I wear with whatever else I’m wearing. Today, I ran to the newly re-opened fabric store and forgot to take one of the masks that I’ve made. I had to wear my emergency mask which is a pre-fab mask that you would typically wear when working in the yard or while completing a mildly-toxic home improvement task. It’s not cool to go to the FABRIC store while wearing a pre-fab yard-work mask.

My homemade masks are fairly thick (the better to protect Little Red Riding Mask), so it’s difficult to hear me when I speak through them. While wearing my homemade masks I’m frequently asked embarrassing personal questions to which I must shout out the very not-cool answers. Happily, I am wearing a mask while shouting, because a couple of nights ago I heard on the news that virus-carrying particles travel further when a virus-infected person shouts. I don’t have the virus, but if I did, I would not want to spew virus-carrying particles because I had to shout in order to have my embarrassing personal information heard. I am also happy that I’m not readily recognizable, due to the mask covering two-thirds of my face, as I shout out embarrassing personal information.

I shop for a friend when I do my weekly shopping. When I pick up toilet paper for her and for myself, it looks like I’m a hoarder. I want to publicly state, here and now, HOARDING IS NOT COOL, so even when I’m not being not cool, I appear to be not cool, which I am, so I guess it’s okay.

I do not wear a mask while I’m driving. While driving, everyone can see just who the not cool person is who is driving the 2001 Toyota Camry.

Last night, I went to bed, read a few pages in my eBook, closed my eyes and went to sleep. I did not wake up once; neither to pee, nor to wonder why I awoke at 2 a.m. rather than 6 a.m. and then tossed and turned before again falling asleep at 5:55 a.m.. It was AMAZINGLY fantastic. Yes, like so many things in my life, my fantasies are not what they used to be.

As a child, I fantasized about eating penny candy and never again being required to pull weeds in the front yard. As a young adolescent, I fantasized about being popular and about David Cassidy (I think large breasts may have been in the story line too – on me, not on David Cassidy). As an older adolescent… we probably should not go there. My imagination was particularly active and without boundaries at that time in my life. As I neared retirement age, I fantasized about retiring. My fantasies vacillated between the “take this job and shove it” variety and the abundant fanfare and weeping accompanied by multiple declarations of “we’ll never get by without you” variety.

Now I fantasize about easily falling asleep and then sleeping the night through – and a vaccine for COVID-19… and a United States with a reasonable, well-spoken president… and a literary world where over use of ellipsis is encouraged. What are my fantasies, and this world, coming to? For a moment, I considered speculating on what my grandkids fantasies would look like, but with two of them being teenage boys, and one a nearly teenage boy, I have decided not to go there. I’m pretty sure the ten-year-old boy’s fantasies involve explosions and extreme sports, and the seven-year-old girl’s are in pink with many princesses and balloons.

So, where does this leave me? Ahhh, to be young again… nope. Ahhh, to be working again… nope. Ahhh, to be asleep again… maybe. Ahhh, to live in a world where all have learned something about how to behave better after having survived a pandemic… that sounds good.

Friday already? I almost missed it. Here it is, 8 p.m. on Friday and not a word have I written (except the twenty-three preceding this). I’ve been busy. Jessie turned 35 – my baby! Wednesday she and grandkids Cody and Liadan celebrated here with me. It was a smaller gathering than we would typically have, but happily, the cake was full sized.

After the cake and ice cream, I shooed Jessie and the kids off, and returned to mask making – thirty to be made in response to a request precipitated by the governor’s mandate that all essential workers wear masks at work; however, ready-made masks are no where to be found. And, so I, super-mask-maker answered the call for help. I put on a mask (like all of those other super heroes), rushed off to Walmart to buy a 100% cotton sheet (fabric stores remain closed), elastic and seam binding (both typically available at Walmart). Sheets were available, but the shelves that should contain elastic and seam binding were as empty as the shelves that should contain ready-made masks.

I returned home, sheet in hand. While the sheet was in the wash, I scrounged through my shelves, that probably should be less encumbered with who-knows-what, in search of elastic and seam binding. I had plenty of elastic hair ties that many people have used for ear loops when making masks, but since these masks were to be worn by men, who often have big heads (feel free to interpret that literally or figuratively) I knew that I would have to use real elastic. I was able to find elastic and various colors of seam binding in sewing supplies that good-buddy-Shari’s family had given me after clearing out their family home before their mother, Norma, moved to an assisted-living facility. Thank you Norma, Shari and family! With a rainbow of seam binding, I realized conformity was no longer an option for the final mask product. Undeterred, I started cutting, folding, pressing and sewing thinking that I would finish up that night. At 1 a.m., I realized that quality, like conformity, was no longer an option, and I staggered to bed.

Thursday arrived bright and early. My appearance was neither bright, nor early. At around noon, I returned to mask making. At 11 p.m. I again surrendered. Today, my sewing machine and I, with no heroics, feebly finished the task. The masks are not beautiful. As I’ve said many times, I value function over form. I sure hope the finished masks are functional. I’m actively promoting a rumor that the uglier the mask, the more protection it provides.

I wonder why “May Day” is used as a call for help? When I was a little girl (a long, long time ago, in another century), we would make little baskets out of strips of paper, fill them with flowers from our yard, and take them to a neighbor on May 1st. In England, they have a “May Day” associated bank holiday: the first Monday in May. They have little children, crowned with flowers, dance around poles (this seems a little kinky to me – maybe it’s what inspired J.Lo and Shakira’s Superbowl half-time performance), and crown a May Queen. I know this, because I watch lots of British Television. May Day does not seem to be a big thing in the United States. We’re more into Cinco de Mayo here in New Mexico; probably because Cinco de Mayo celebrations include lots of Tequila. Tequila is very popular in the United States right now and it’s not even Cinco de Mayo yet. I won’t elaborate on the cause, because I promised myself that this week I would avoid talk of the Covid-19 stay-at-home orders.

Back to flowers. Speaking of which, there are flowers in my back yard. I’m spending a lot of time in my back yard right now. Cinnamon, the cat, encourages me to go “out back” with her. We then play a rousing game of “Keep the Cat From Jumping the Fence.” It’s her favorite game. She lures me into a false sense of peace, by lying quietly at my feet, and when she senses my muscles relaxing, she makes a mad dash for her favorite escape route of the day. It’s great exercise for both of us.

Fall before last, I planted some Iris bulbs. It’s been about six weeks since they resurfaced this year. Each will get a solitary bloom that will last one or two days. It’s a big build-up to a very quick show (again, like J. Lo and Shakira’s Superbowl half-time performance). I think it’s worth it (the flower – not the Superbowl half-time show). They’re very pretty (the flowers – not the Superbowl half-time show). After the bloom fades, you are supposed to leave the withered bloom in place so that the plant can absorb nutrients and energy from the once brilliant bloom. This reminds me of my life in retirement. I’m no longer really contributing, but I’m kept around in case I have something useful to offer later. Thank you! I have planted a garden, so maybe I’ll have vegetables to share

I used that wonderful tool, the internet, to look up the origins of the distress call: May Day. I had been thinking that maybe, it had originated when a bunch of children got tangled up and tied to the May Pole on May Day, and subsequently would scream out “May Day, May Day, May Day” in their nightmares, but I was wrong. According to the all-knowing “Wikipedia” it originated 1921 when senior radio officer, Frederick Stanley Mockford was asked to come up with an easily understood distress word. He came up with “Mayday” based on the French m’aider, which loosely translates as “help me.” Well there you go, another mystery solved thanks to the internet and the copious amount of time I have on my hands as a result of the not-to-be named virus that shares its name with a popular Mexican beer, which will be consumed in mass quantities on Cinco-de-Mayo. Everything is connected.

That was the question the newscasters were asking themselves the other night on my local five o’clock news. Online education would not have flown with dial-up internet connections. Working from home would have been grounded too as virtual networks were not yet widely available and clouds were just weather phenomena. No personal protective equipment (PPE) would have been generated on 3-D printers. Frankly, it would have been an even bigger mess than it is now. Thinking of this makes me feel better.

That’s even before I realize that there were no streaming television channels and televisions were not only NOT smart, but were big and bulky in 1999. I don’t think Blockbuster would have been deemed “essential” so we would have been stuck at home, with only our big ol’ televisions, VHS tapes that we already owned and sewing machines. I really like the movie, “Blast From the Past” and I’ve watched it on streaming while observing the “stay-at-home” order. I have “Blast From the Past” on VHS tape too, so watching “Blast From the Past” is an example of something that for me is the same now as it would have been in 1999.

My sewing skills were no better in 1999 than they are today, and I have the same sewing machine I had in 1999 (I’ve been through dozens of computers). I would not have had the time available for mask making that I have now (unless we were ordered to not work, but stay at home), because I was not retired in 1999. Any masks I made would have been of similar quality to those I’ve made in 2020. I think the sheets I’ve been using to make masks were purchased well before 1999, so they, like my “Blast From the Past” experience, would be indistinguishable from 2020.

Sheltering in place would have meant that Phil and I were cooped up together with OUR kids. All that togetherness would have been driving us CRAZY. In 2020, sheltering in place is a solitary experience in my house: just me and my cat, Cinnamon. In 1999, our household pets were ferrets, which some say are a lot like cats, so household pet status goes in the “1999/2020 Similar” column.

All-in-all it would have been different, and the same. Different and the same sounds a lot like the recommendations that are coming down from our political leaders right now. Bill Clinton was president in 1999, and was going through his impeachment hearings. In 2020 President Trump was going through his impeachment hearings. Here we are again; different, but the same.

This past week I finished up my most recent round of mask making. These masks are my third iteration, and definitely my favorite (https://aplat.com/blogs/shus-notebook/diy-cloth-face-mask); however, as far as quality goes, they are the same as those that came before (even though they’re different).

Last Saturday, the sun was shining, bulbs were blooming, pollen was pollinating as Spring flaunted its finery. Eggs were not being hunted at neighborhood parks due to the novel coronavirus, but Spring, oblivious to viral threats, popped up in public places despite stay-at-home orders. I stayed at home and Spring came to me, popping up in my backyard. That was very nice of Spring.

Easter was celebrated quietly by most on Sunday, and then Monday hit. Monday hit with a snowstorm. Happily, Liadan wears the boots pictured above year round so her feet were properly shod for the storm. I’m retired, and abiding (for the most part) by the stay-at-home orders, so I cranked up the heat (which had not been turned on in a few weeks), and reverted to my Winter crochet while binge-watching British television shows routine. Those who are not retired, not working from home, or have been newly-planted were not as lucky. Mother Nature, once again, showed us who is boss.

While sheltering from the threat of the coronavirus and the cold, my mind decided to take a trip down memory lane (memory lane is typically a private lane so I was not violating social distancing requirements). I remembered the Chiffon Margarine ads of the 70s and 80s where actress, Dena Dietrich, dressed as Mother Nature would proclaim, “It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature,” after tasting what she thought was butter and finding out that it was actually a hydrogenated cotton seed oil product. I’m proud of the fact that I remember those commercials, as so much of what happened in the 70s is as unclear in my memory as the view of the mountains was here in Albuquerque on Monday. In the 70s, I spent much of my time running from things I should have run to, and running to things I should have run from. Just as things were getting uncomfortable on memory lane, it intersected with my currently private here-and-now lane and I took the turn. I wondered, is Mother Nature angry with us? Are Spring snowstorms and novel viruses Mother Nature’s response to our own actions? Then a commercial came on the television and I decided to go fix myself a piece of toast with REAL butter. Mother Nature (and Joaquin Phoenix) would probably be happier if I had used almond butter, but I didn’t have any and we’re supposed to be staying at home right now.

Easter is Sunday, and I wish all a happy one. Chocolate bunnies, jelly beans and… masks? Yes, we’re still sequestered at home, masked in public and entrenched in the unsure and unknown. This is not a typical Easter, but the promise of resurrection has added appeal this year. We’re all hoping to resurrect our lives once the novel coronavirus subsides. In the meantime we wear masks in hopes of maintaining life, and so this week’s story is a repeat of that of an earlier week.

After last week’s self-pity-party blog post, I realized that I needed a project to keep my spirits up, and per the CDC masks in public are recommended to preserve life (if not our own, those we may expose to a virus we may be carrying). I need a project. People need masks. I can make masks, and so I’m back at the sewing machine (I was able to finally get it back together after cleaning it following my last mask-making endeavor).

This time, I decided to use Phil’s (and some of my own) old T-shirts to make masks for my kids and grandkids. I went through the drawers and found T-shirts with images that I hoped would appeal to the grandkids, thereby increasing the likelihood of the masks being worn. With elastic sold-out at stores that remain open and carry it, I turned to hair ties for securing the masks behind the ears of the wearer. I cut as many appropriately-sized rectangles as possible from the T-shirts and pinned, sewed, ripped apart, wrestled elastic, and sewed again. Eventually, I came up with twenty hopefully functional masks. I did not feel sorry for myself once all week.

Spring is as beautiful, inspiring and full of promise this year as it is every year. The promises of Easter are the same whether or not we gather together at church, with family at home, are masked or unmasked. Joy, chocolate bunnies and masks to all!

With so much justifiable concern about the dangerous virus that is sweeping across our Country, I, like everyone else, am sequestered at home. This leaves me alone with “the enemy within.” For some of us, the enemy within is as scary as the virus. I’ve long battled a fierce, merciless enemy within. I try to keep it “within” because I don’t want to expose friends or family to its demeaning brutality. Somethings, I just want to keep for myself.

Obviously, I am having some trouble adjusting to social distancing/shelter-in-place/stay-at-home orders. The funny thing is, that I don’t think I’m staying at home (alone) anymore than I was before this whole thing hit. This is both funny and sad. Really, I should be happy; now I have a reason for being stuck at home alone. Some how, it’s just not hitting me that way. It’s allowing the enemy within to take me down and pummel me with punches of self-pity. That’s disgusting. I am ashamed of myself (the enemy within tells me so). I think it best that I mask this self-loathing. Masks are now “strongly” recommended for individuals leaving the safety of home to buy toilet paper or wine (or something else that is crucial to have on hand during the current state of affairs). I’m thinking of wearing a mask at home, too. Maybe the enemy within will be a little easier on me if it can’t see my face.

When I sat down to write this morning, I thought I could either write about the impact of isolation, or the Rosemary bush in my backyard. I’m pretty sure I made the wrong choice, but I am committed to the whole downer isolation thing now, and I always try to honor my commitments.

My enemy within has been getting on to me about how lazy I’ve been. It goads me on with statements like, “Hey, you’ve got a backyard that needs work, and a front yard that needs work, and a house that needs work.” I whisper the cowardly reply, “But I’m retired.” I then do some work on my backyard, or my front yard or my house, but my heart’s not in it. I have a backyard, a front yard and a house. I should be happy, and I am, but… those things are best enjoyed with others.

I want to help. I really like helping. It makes me feel good. That may be very selfish of me: helping because it makes ME feel good, but that’s the truth (I am still abiding by the “Stay At Home” mandate, so the truth is not setting me free). When the plea for homemade fabric medical masks went out, I thought “I have a sewing machine and I have fabric so this is an opportunity for me to help and to feel good.” I perused many DIY mask patterns before settling on one that would only require materials I had on hand. The pattern was simple, so I was very surprised when it challenged my skill set (and intellect).

I printed the pattern, read through it, folded the paper pattern to make sure I understood the concept, and made a mask. Initially I misinterpreted the folding instructions, but I did not let that deter me from my mission (I decided my “prototype mask could be used by me if an order to wear masks in public was implemented). I did, however, put everything away, deciding to wait until the next day to try again. I awoke the next morning, and after completing my morning chores, again tackled mask making. I began by watching numerous YouTube videos on DIY mask making, all of which proclaimed the ease of construction as well as the minimal time required. With a better understanding of the folding aspect, I set about cutting fabric, folding and sewing. A mere 14 hours later, I had completed ten masks. I felt so good. It was after midnight, so I decided to wait until morning for the required pre-donation wash and press.

The next morning, I learned a valuable lesson when I opened the washing machine to move the masks to the dryer (using gloved hands which had been dunked in bleach water so as not to contaminate the newly-washed masks). I should have secured the ties on each individual mask before washing.

Once the masks were dry, I again immersed my gloved hands in bleach water, removed the masks from the dryer and prepared to iron them (sandwiching them in freshly washed and dried dish towels so as not to contaminate them – the germ phobic DIY mask handling was not included in the instructions, but rather a contribution of my own mania). Once the masks were ironed, I contacted one of the people who had put out a request for DIY masks and she reluctantly agreed to accept mine. I feel so good!