and we wonder why she left

a high school friend posted the following list on FB. I took out a few things that make the list long and uninteresting; only someone from Wildwood would give a shit.

For those who live in New Jersey and those who visit:

New Jersey is a peninsula.

whoopity shit

Highlands, New Jersey has the highest elevation along the entire eastern seaboard, from Maine to Florida.

that’s a total lie

New Jersey is the only state where all of its counties are classified as metropolitan areas.

isn’t that just dandy

New Jersey has more race horses than Kentucky.

New Jersey has more Cubans in Union City (1 sq. mi.) than Havana, Cuba.

horses and cubans are okay

New Jersey has the densest system of highways and railroads in the US.

highways are not

New Jersey has the highest cost of living.

no

New Jersey has the highest cost of auto insurance.

no

New Jersey has the highest property taxes in the nation.

and…no

New Jersey has the most diners in the world and is sometimes referred to as the “Diner Capital of the World.”

one can only eat so many 2 am biscuits and gravy

New Jersey is home to the original Mystery Pork Parts Club (not Spam): Taylor Ham or Pork Roll.

is this a bragging point?

Home to the less mysterious but the best Italian hot dogs and Italian sausage w/peppers and onions.

food of my childhood

North Jersey has the most shopping malls in one area in the world, with seven major shopping malls in a 25 square mile radius.

no comment

The Passaic River was the site of the first submarine ride
by inventor John P. Holland .

kind of cool but who wants to ride a giant ship under a river?

New Jersey has 50+ resort cities & towns; some of the nation’s most famous: Asbury Park, Wildwood, Atlantic City, Seaside Heights, Cape May.

hives. this gives me hives

New Jersey has the most stringent testing along its coastline for water quality control than any other seaboard state in the entire country.

yes, since needles started appearing on the shores of all of those resort towns

New Jersey is a leading technology & industrial state and is the largest chemical producing state in the nation when you include pharmaceuticals.

why all of my parents’ friends died of cancer

Jersey tomatoes are known the world over as being the best you can buy.

I’ll give them that

Here’s to New Jersey – the toast of the country! In 1642, the first brewery in America, opened in Hoboken.

if you lived in Jersey in 1642, you’d drink too

New Jersey is a major seaport state with the largest seaport in the US, located in Elizabeth. Nearly 80 percent of what our nation imports comes through Elizabeth Seaport first.

making bank off unnecessary plastic shit made by small asian children

New Jersey is home to one of the nation’s busiest airports (in Newark), Liberty International.

who wants to visit one of the nation’s busiest anything, just to wait in line?

George Washington slept there.

the guy was in the middle of a war, on the move, he slept EVERYWHERE

Several important Revolutionary War battles were fought on New Jersey soil, led by General George Washington.

see above

The light bulb, phonograph (record player), and motion picture projector, were invented by Thomas Edison in his Menlo Park, NJ, laboratory

just read that Edison may have pilfered his assistant’s ideas

New Jersey was home to the Miss America Pageant held in Atlantic City.

doing their part to empower women every day

The game Monopoly named the streets on its playing board after the actual streets in Atlantic City. And, Atlantic City has the longest boardwalk in the world, not to mention salt water taffy. ( Now made in Pennsylvania)..

and where’s the salt water in Pennsylvania?

New Jersey has the largest petroleum containment area outside of the Middle East countries.

let’s hope it doesn’t spill all over that beautiful shoreline in Asbury Park, Wildwood, Atlantic City, Seaside Heights, Cape May

The first Indian reservation was in New Jersey, in the Watchung Mountains

first in ethnic cleansing

New Jersey built the first tunnel under a river, the Hudson (Holland Tunnel)

admittedly quite cool

New Jersey is home to both of “NEW YORK’S” pro football teams!

yes because who is going to root for a team from the state famous for oil storage and needles on the beach

All New Jersey natives: Sal Martorano, Jack Nicholson, Bruce
Springsteen, Bon Jovi, Jason Alexander, Queen Latifah, Susan Sarandon, Connie Francis, Shaq, Judy Blume, Aaron Burr, Joan Robertson, Ken Kross, Dionne Warwick, Sarah Vaughn, Budd Abbott, Lou Costello, Alan Ginsberg, Norman Mailer, Marilynn McCoo, Flip Wilson, Alexander Hamilton, Zack Braff Whitney Houston, Eddie Money, Linda McElroy, Eileen Donnelly,
Grover Cleveland, Woodrow Wilson, Walt Whitman, Jerry Lewis, Tom Cruise, Joyce Kilmer, Bruce Willis, Caesar Romero, Lauryn Hill, Ice-T, Nick Adams, Nathan Lane, Sandra Dee, Danny DeVito, Richard Conti, Joe Pesci, Joe Piscopo, Joe DePasquale, Robert Blake, John Forsythe, Meryl Streep, Loretta Swit, Norman Lloyd, Paul Simon, Jerry Herman, Gorden McCrae, Kevin Spacey, John Travolta, Phyllis Newman, Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Eva Marie Saint, Elisabeth Shue, Zebulon Pike, James Fennimore Cooper, Admiral Wm.Halsey,Jr.,Norman Schwarzkopf, Dave Thomas (Wendy’s), William Carlos Williams, Ray Liotta, Robert Wuhl, Bob Reyers, Paul Robeson, Ernie Kovacs, Joseph Macchia, Kelly Ripa, and Francis Albert Sinatra and “Uncle Floyd” Vivino.

Martorano, Costello, Romero, DeVito, Pesci, Piscopo, DePasquale, Travolta, Liotta, Vivino, the Genovese and DeCavalcante “families”, Strazza…a regular little italy…bring on the sausage and peppers…and the ammo

Meryl Streep and J Giles are from my town

Kevin Spacey is a sexual predator

yay Walt Whitman

You know you’re from Jersey when . . . .

You don’t think of fruit when people mention “The Oranges.”
You know that it’s called Great Adventure, not Six Flags.

that did feel very significant…when I was 12

You know that the state isn’t one big oil refinery

it’s easy to get confused with all that petroleum stored there

You know that the state isn’t all farmland.

right, because it’s highways, oil tanks, malls, and diners

You know that there are no “beaches” in New Jersey–there’s the shore–and you don’t go “to the shore,” you go “down the shore.” And when you are there, you’re not “at the shore”; you are “down the shore.”

grammar?

You know how to properly negotiate a circle.
You knew that the last sentence had to do with driving.

yeah, but you don’t know how to speak proper english

You don’t think “What exit?” is very funny.

so. very. true

You know that no respectable New Jerseyan goes to Princeton–that’s for out-of-staters.

you just turned down an ivy league education because you’re too cool…no wonder you can’t put a sentence together

You live within 20 minutes of at least three different malls.

via highways, circles, exits, and petroleum storage

You refer to all highways and interstates by their numbers

because there are too many to track

Every year you have least one kid in your class named Tony

and his last name is Genovese, DeCavalcante, or Strazza

You’ve gotten on the wrong highway trying to get out of the mall

pretty much sums it up

And last…

You’ve never, ever, pumped your own gas

I do miss this

but certainly not enough to move back

decadence

I came home at 3:30 on friday afternoon and it is now 8:46 on monday evening and I haven’t left the canyon.

I am a pig in mud.

I could not be happier.

Fuck yeah.

And I don’t have to go to town until Wednesday. Five days of just me and the dogs.

Bliss.

I have hiked and done some gardening. I have put serious quality time into work.

I have written so many words.

I have had more energy.

Enough to clean my entire house; all 800 square feet of it.

It took an entire day and the better part of a second. That’s how long it’s been.

I won’t tell you how many times I had to clean out the vacuum filter.

But now, my house sparkles.

I’ve spent so much time coming and going for the last few months that I feel like I live out of a suitcase and a tote bag.

I’m a Taurus…I need my home.

TAM and his 9 year old son are out of town for 10 days, so there goes my social life. I work from home. I am no longer going to physical therapy in town 2 days a week.

So I have no need to get in my truck.

Except to take the trash up the hill to the dumpster; but I don’t have to leave the property.

My truck sat in the sun for so long (with the windows closed so the snakes don’t get in) that it was 119 today when I got in to do the trash run.

So here I am getting my shit back together without realizing I had lost it. I was so scattered: mentally, physically. It would take so long for me to do anything that sometimes nothing got done.

I feel 10 pounds lighter having just gotten organized and clean.

And enjoying some activites like scrambling through the canyon or drinking coffee watching the sun come up.

I’ve been indulging.

Chocolate. Eating tomatoes out of my garden like apples. Preparing satisfying dinners instead of chip crumbs mixed with salsa.

It’s been lovely.

So now I will share with you my ultimate indulgence.

I have a super comfy camping cot that is my summer bed. It’s outside on the deck off my kitchen. Under my shade sail. Under the stars.

It is magnificant. I fall asleep to the crickets and coyotes and the occassional pissed off racoon. And sometimes the ice plant is rumbling next door. But that’s just white noise.

So the cot is on the deck. I use my birdseed box as a night table. I hang my camping lantern from a chair behind my head so I can read.

The kitchen door is open so the dogs can find me.

On the bed are TWO paco pads, cotton sheets, and a couple of quilts. Whatever isn’t already on my inside bed.

And one of those random items just happens to be an electric blanket. That I put UNDER the fitted sheet.

Oh yes, I do. I plug that fucker in and right around 4 am when the night is at its coldest, I reach over the side of the cot and turn it on. High.

I snuggle back in under the quilts, look for the first hint of light above the hillside, and listen to the songbirds call in the day.

Snug as a fucking bug in a rug.

You may laugh, but secretly, you’re googling “solar powered electric blanket for camping.”

last night I dreamt of lions

first, I found out I am going to spend 21 days in Grand Canyon

then, she came to me in my dream

eyes fixed on me, sphynx-like, from her alcove in the shade

calm, steady, not un-friendly

I felt as if I was being sized-up

there was no sign of her cub

I wasn’t afraid

my reaction was more of a “Holy shit, finally“

but I didn’t linger

this wasn’t one of those, “then she spoke to me and shared the secrets of the Divine…” kind of dreams

it was more of a, “I’m letting your intrusion slide, this time” kind of dream

it was intense

I’ve never dreamt of a mountain lion that vividly before

this morning the dogs and I walked the rim above the canyon

it felt like there was a connection between Grand Canyon and the cat; I wanted space to ruminate on it

it feels like things are afoot in my energetic world

I came to the conclusion that I am going to finally see my first cat in the “Big Ditch”

how cool is that

walking the last leg of the trail drops into a narrow canyon that leads to my creek

it’s the main thoroughfare for all the desert creatures between water and the shade beneath the cliff walls

at one point the narrow trail brushes the entrance to a shady alcove with a soft sandy floor

I have seen my lion’s and her cub’s paw marks in the sand; they nap there in the heat of the day

I stood at the lip of the canyon and thought, I know, in my gut, they are lazing right now

this is the dream; I’m going to see her today

pause

deep breath

do I want to knowingly walk into the lions’ den

that’s just dumb

right

but, I know she’s there

they’re there

or the cub is there and she is above me somewhere

but I’ve been wanting to see her for so long

here’s my chance

that’s just dumb

but so tempting

but maybe I am not supposed to see her today and I should wait until I am on the river

hmmmm there was that gal who was eaten by the bear but maybe killed first by a cougar

yeah, I’m good

and I took the long way home

The Felony Club

I have a friend whose child has gotten themself in a bit of a tangle; a tangle that involves felony charges

When that child who is an adult but still someone’s baby stands up in the courtroom, I will be there. I will be there to support my friend because I want to. I will also be there to show the judge that this child has a community that will stand up for, look out for, and love unconditionally.

That means a LOT when a judge is in the decision-making process.

There is a special club for parents of kids who are facing prison time for a felony. My son was looking at 16 years in prison for drunkenly smashing his car and three friends into a giant cottonwood. He was just a kid, albeit a dumb one. He fucked up, but he’s not a Fuck-Up.

People judged, we were shunned by friends. We were the talk of the town for quite some time. We were abandoned by many in our community.

A woman whose son was serving time for peddling child porn became my friend because she knows the stigma of being the parent of a kid that made REALLY bad choices. She never found fault with me. She never criticized my son.

She understood that no matter what, the felon before us is still someone’s child and that that child and his/her parent(s) are suffering mightily, hearts broken, feeling completely isolated and alone.

Living in terror of what might happen to their baby that they can no longer protect.

My son researched prisons in the state, preparing himself for Buena Vista (the worst) versus Canon City (one of the better state prisons.)

No parent should ever have to think about those options. No parent wants their child in one of those hellholes. Any reasonably sane parent would be terrified to think about their child behind bars for countless years.

When people judge the child, they judge the parent. When people judge the child and the parent, they tend to abandon the family when the family needs them the most.

It is horribly isolating.

We can judge our own children’s stupidity but no one else may because there is still a mom, or a dad, suffering to see their baby in danger that they can’t fix.

When we went to court, again and again, there was a posse of friends that showed up, sat next to us, held our hands, hugged my son, spoke to the judge, pled to not have his life ruined, held space for our fear and our pain.

These friends taught me about the defining lines between true friends and fair weather ones. These friends were there. Just having them sitting behind us in the courtroom made me feel like someone had our backs when the ground beneath our feet became quicksand.

Having people who could show up and love us, love my child, even when he had done something terrible, helped us survive the storm. It helped him stand up in front of the judge prepared for whatever sentence was handed down. He knew he wasn’t alone.

I knew that somehow, some way, I would survive if my boy was taken away in handcuffs.

If you haven’t had to stare that down, there is no way to understand the pain that I felt, that a mom, or a parent, feels when in the same impossible position.

I was blessed beyond imaginaton by the support and love that showed up when we needed it most. I will never ever take that for granted. I hope to never have my friendships tested like that again.

I really hope that we never, as a family, face anything that frightening and excruciating again.

But, I learned some lessons through it all.

*don’t judge

*that “bad guy” is someone’s child

*that parent loves their child as much as you love yours

*you show up for your friends. period.

trauma

Oh, I do so often feel as if I am behind my peers.

I also feel as if I have wasted time and my talents by not having more to show as a writer.

Now that my life is a little more stable and I am not currently in the midst of a whirlwind of drama, I have committed to writing more – and bigger. It’s time for me to get serious about writing a book.

Shit or get off the pot, Honey; if you’re not going to do it now, then quit pretending that you’re ever going to do it.

But, here’s the kicker with that:

Writing about my life means sifting through all of the past pain, remembering every little detail of every little (or big) hurt.

And as my writer friend and I bonded over yesterday, writing about the trauma is traumatizing. Asking oneself to relive brutal moments takes a serious toll on a soul.

I cry at the drop of a hat. All I want to do is watch tv and check out.

I’m mad, all over again, at anyone who has done me wrong.

I feel lonely and scared and just fucking exhausted.

My tank is empty. The reserves have dried up.

Did I mention that I cry all of the time?

And yet, as impossible as this all feels, as much as I want to give up, maybe even check myself into a psych ward for a while, some really good writing is coming out of it.

That makes it all worth it.

Right?????

It really is all in my head

I used to live next door to a gal with a TBI. She had to write everything on post-its.

Brush your teeth

Turn off the lights

The market is two blocks down and one over

Your boyfriend’s name is Scott.

So I know what a brain injury can do to a person. And yet, when I find evidence that my brain no longer functions quite right, I am surprised.

And disbelieving.

And the last concussion was a really bad one but I hit my head on day one of the eruption of my world four years ago, so I never paid any attention to it.

I know it contributed to how I handled things then. I literally did not have my head on straight.

So in complete denial about any concussion repercussions, I googled, “why is my spatial awareness getting worse?”

Which translates into, “why have I become such a stumble-fuck?”

Like, seriously, it has become problematic and quite embarrassing. I fall down ALL THE TIME.

I get boats stuck on rocks every time I get on the oars. I used to be a good boatwoman.

I was a trail runner and a climber and a telemarker and mountain biker and a dancer. And now I can barekly trust myself to walk across the kitchen.

I tripped over a tent cord and ate shit in front of a couple of people who jumped up with, “Oh my god are you okay?” One of my boys’ best friends was also witness to this and sat back laughing and said, “This is her normal.”

It has gotten progressively worse over the years. My spatial awareness was never great, but as a child, I thought I just didn’t have great eye-hand coordination. It was not problematic, especially since I never wanted to play field hockey anyway.

But now, like I said, I fall down. Eat shit. Land on my face. Skin my knees. Twist my ankles. Stub my toes. I have bruises that I can’t account for, scratches and scrapes on my shins, my back, my face.

I break things because I put them down too close to an edge. I can’t park my truck any more. I’m 4 feet from the curb on average.

I got pulled over in Idaho for cutting someone off on I-15. I didn’t see the car AT ALL. I then took back roads through Utah because I didn’t feel safe driving on the highway.

It’s bad. It has seriously gotten worse over time.

What did Google tell me about my problem?

Well Lady, it could be the result of a head injury.

Well shitdamn, I never thought of that.

Which, I am beginning to think is a result of the concussions; I have lost my ability to see the obvious.

When I was maybe 3 or 4, I jumped up onto the kitchen counter and head my head full force on the cabinet above. It was painful enough that I still think of it today.

When I was 6, I went through the windshield head first. This was before we knew about concussions or chiropractors.

Or seatbelts for that matter.

When I was 40-something I hit my head on the ground skiing (or falling really).

When I was 50-something I hit the top of my head on a beam above me and lost consciousness for a split second.

A little more reading showed me where the stumble-fuck control system lies in our brain and, yep, you guessed it, I’ve hit it right on the noggin, so to speak, at least twice, most likely more than that.

They say that once you bang your head, you are more likely to do it again and again…because you lose spatial awareness.

So, why did I have to do a google search to figure out what has happened to my grace and poise. How did I not put 2 and 2 together?

It must be the brain tumor.

and so it begins…

summer in the desert

a switch flipped and I have become nocturnal

I haven’t been home for a couple of days

it’s cooler out there in the rest of the world

all day today I have been sluggish

foggy

weighted

I went for a walk in a total fog

each step a challenge

couldn’t eat

couldn’t do much of anything

I despaired over the to-do list pushed aside

but now the sun is behind the canyon walls

the evening breeze is rustling the leaves of my ash tree

the colors are muted

frogs

crickets

mockingbird

dove

now I am ready to start my day

Well that’s just fucked up

Prologue

One of my favorite fragrances in the entire world is blooming russian olive. It’s right up there with fresh lilacs and ocean air.

Turns out, that I am viciously allergic to blooming russian olive and am suffering greatly as the scent wafts into my house. My head is so fucking clogged up that I can barely remember my own name. Everything itches: eyes, nose, throat, scalp, skin, hair follicles.

As my boys would say, I feel like ass.

It makes waking up tough. TAM makes waking up worth it.

But to wake up to this shit…

PART ONE

When I worked at the alternative high school in town, I had a student who was deeply troubled; he had a really rough family life. He was smart and always respectful with me. I’d say that out of all of the teachers there, I was probably the one he opened up to and trusted the most.

He was also the dark brooding type that would have gotten me into a LOT of trouble in high school. But since I was old enough to be his grandma, the brooding was just annoying.

He lived in my town and I often saw him around. Once I watched him make a purchase in front of the local meth factory. He didn’t have a car, he hitchhiked often. I always picked him up when I saw him.

I figured that it was better to stay on the good side of the local crackhead.

And then, he pulled his shit together. Cleaned up his act. Got a job, bought a truck, had a seriuous relationship.

We’d run into each other at the City Market or reach out on Facebook and catch up, maybe once every couple of years.

He has messaged me a few times this week (out of the blue after at least a year) – just saying “hey,” but something felt off and I hadn’t responded.

Periodically, I’ve wondered if he was flirting with me and then I’d brush it off as ridiculous. But I was never 100% sure.

Until this morning’s text:

“Good Morning. Me thinking about your booty is a great thing” followed by some self-satisfied looking emojis.

We can all guess what was happing on his end of things. Morning wood and all.

I feel so violated. I feel nauseous. And shakey. And grossed out. And, and, and…

I feel unsafe. Like someone used me for sex without my permission.

(Nope, not in crisis. I’m okay – just feeling icky. Going to take a shower.)

And of course, as a teacher who thought she’d somehow helped a kid, I feel like a big fat idiot.

I’ve taken all of the appropriate steps to block him, but…

What the fuck?

PART TWO

Celebratory dinner with my child and his girlfriend. They begin their new lives on Monday. I’ve been trying to soak up as much time as possible with them before they go away. I am also trying to make that time good. We have had such rough years, where every interaction ended in conflict, and we have finally turned a corner, so I am not going to fuck it up by starting shit, especially about their father.

I’ve learned my lesson about reacting to his bullshit around the boys

So at dinner, we were reminiscing about something, a time in our lives, and my child conveys what his father has said about a certain situation. The kids were young and they participated in something with lots of their friends and in hindsight, (years later we discover…) some risky shit went on. And it doesn’t matter the subject, or the situation, or the words that their father spoke. The problem is in the message he sent to my children which was,

“That moment was the beginning of the end for me because your mother knowingly put you in danger since she cared more about her friend than she did you.”

1. I HAD NO IDEA. So “knowingly” is a lie. And he knows that because he didn’t know either. No one knew. I found out 15 years later. If I’d had any idea I would NEVER.
2. It had nothing to do with friendships and everything to do with what I thought was a great thing for my children.
3. If he had such a problem with it why didn’t he ever say so? Not. A. Peep. EVER.
4. If that was “the beginning of the end” why did it take him SEVEN more years to finally do something about it?

And because I am determined to make these last few moments together really good ones, I didn’t say, “Your dad’s a dick,” or anything else along those lines.

But I sure wanted to.

I created enough mess in their lives that needs to be cleaned up. I can’t tackle another mess that he created for me to clean up.

Asshat (Thank you for the word, Susan)

What the fuck?

Mockingbird

I have created a little oasis in my yard for the songbirds. I provide food, water, shade, and flowers.

They provide entertainment.

Finches, sparrows, redwing black birds, collared, mourning, and white wing doves.

Cowbirds gurgle while quail chortle and hummingbirds dive-bomb my pink sunglasses.

Towhees, black-headed grosbeaks, kingbirds, blue heron, and a peregrine falcon.

They all make distinct noises which blend together to create a backdrop of music that plays all day and well into the evening.

It is my joy, my serenity, my sanity.

The soundtrack of my life.

Last night there was a newcomer perched on a dead branch of the doves’ favorite tree. I couldn’t see him well – it was dusky and he was just far enough away that I couldn’tdetermine who he was.

I zoomed my camera lens in on him and saw that the 15 or so different bird calls I was hearing in the moment were all coming out of his beak.

He sat on-high chirping, twittering, chortling, cooing…

mocking.

He alone makes my yard sound like an aviary; the hundreds of other birds are the choir.

I love him.

Mom

We all know how much I adore my mother. I rave about her all of the time. Call her my very best friend.

She’s driving me up the fucking wall and I’m not sure if it’s me or her.

She’s always been critical and judgmental – of everyone, but mostly of me. Somehow I’ve learned to let it all roll off my back. I haven’t always been good at it but with the grace of age, I have not let it bother me at all.

I also think that with the grace of age, she has been less bothersome.

When it’s just her and just me, we have so much fun. We see eye to eye on so many things, laugh at the same moments. We’ve even been able to talk politics just a tiny bit.

Until we get to say, borders, BLM, and whether or not Jesus had blond hair and blue eyes.

But lately, I’ve been feeling like she has an opinion on everything that isn’t consistent with mine and there is no hesitation in telling me mine is wrong.

Let’s talk about my hair; the hair that my thrifty father, on his deathbed, paid to have cut off. “Women of a certain age don’t wear their hair long.”

The reality is, I like my hair long. I can pull it back, or up, or wherever it goes after 3 days of not showering. TAM likes my hair. I’ve got great hair; hair that “women of a certain age” don’t often have. I’m going to grow it out.

But that’s created great consternation on her part and her consternation is causing great annoyance on my part.

Yesterday I mentioned TAM and me visiting a (best) friend on our way to visit her. Her response, “You don’t want to do that.”

Or, “You don’t really want to live with the snakes and conservatives (two different things – in this conversation), when are you going to move back to M-town?”

She still hasn’t asked anyone to read my 7-page essay to her.

She disagrees with my decision to give up her china because it’s going to cost me close to $1000 to get it from Florida to Colorado.

A THOUSAND DOLLARS for some plates?

No. Just no.

My job? Helping (mostly men of color) find justice? “They must be guilty of something or they wouldn’t have been convicted.”

Lots and lots of snorts and not-comments about my children and their life adventures because…

Those adventures do not currently include college.

Both are in amazing, successful, supportive relationships. One just bought his own business and the other one is moving and receiving job offers left and right because he is so good at what he does.

The third child is living independently but still needs guidance and direction. “He’s got to grow up sometime and quit depending on you.” Which he doesn’t. He just calls to say happy Mother’s Day.

I don’t understand why her words seems so offensive lately. It feels as if the pandemic has somehow exacerbated the issues.

Has she had too much time alone? Is she getting old and bitter? Is this grief?

Or is it that her filter is broken?

I don’t know but it is impacting my fondness for talking to her. We normally talk every day-ish, but lately, when I think of picking up the phone to call her, I hesitate.

Postpone.

Because I know that as soon as she picks up the phone she’s going to tell me that my landline sucks and “Don’t (I) want to move back to town so I have better service?”