Diorama Gramma

I have always sought solitude. During my working life in the chaos of a daily newspaper, there were many nights that I rode the elevator at dinnertime to a vacated department and sat in an empty cubicle relishing the quiet more than my panini.

When my sisters and I were teens and skirted our mother’s rules, she would often ground us, for a day, a weekend, sometimes longer. We were usually confined to the house, though sometimes evicted to the yard so we weren’t moping underfoot. For the worst offenses we were banished to our bedrooms. But that never bothered me; in a family of nine, I welcomed solitary confinement.

Then there were crowded dorms, houses with a half-dozen roommates and finally motherhood, when my toddler always shadowed me, even into the bathroom. I envisioned retirement as truly the golden years, with more space and time than Einstein ever imagined.

Now I have solitude on steroids.

Joni Mitchell was right: “Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.” And so was whoever said, “Be careful what you wish for.”

My mother’s been gone a decade but once again I’m grounded, confined to the house and yard by the acting out of a virus. I want to tattle that It’s not my fault! but there’s no one to listen or to blame.

My daughter lives only a mile away in our small mountain community but with a first-responder husband she’s as serious as death about social distancing. She’ll text, phone, deliver groceries and be lovingly attentive — across a great divide.

But my grandson rode over on his bike one afternoon to leave a drawing at my door and we waved, blew kisses and spoke to each other through my cabin’s picture window. It frames a wood stove, swollen bookcases and reading and rocking chairs on a braided oval rug. He peered at me through the glass as I moved between living room and kitchen. A live diorama. This is what a grandmother looked like in the era of the coronavirus.

When my daughter was a preschooler and our discipline was time out, the rule was the separation could never be longer than her age: so, four minutes for a four-year-old. What is the rule for a 70-year-old? Seventy days, weeks, months? At 70 hours, it already seemed interminable.

I realize my good fortune: this is not New York City and the deaths in our county are “only” in the double digits. But the hospital brought in a refrigerated truck to serve as a makeshift morgue. Clearly, things are expected to worsen; how badly and for how long no one knows.

But I’m adjusting to the new normal. Life is now a drive-by. At the library, the clerk pops out like a cuckoo clock, drops my books on a table and skitters back inside. The bookstore’s curbside pickup resembles a TV drug deal — a brown paper bag thrust into a waiting car. Window service is still open at the pharmacy and likewise at Starbucks but what use is coffee now?

Every week I mow the grass until it’s as tidy as AstroTurf and every month my dog gets a makeover by her longtime mobile groomer. Meanwhile, my own hair grows longer and wilder, with no solution in sight, recalling the reclusive Miss Havisham, without the wedding dress.

Doctor’s appointments are now Televisits, an easy enough adjustment. But recently a simple refill request prompted a barrage of questions meant to assess my quarantined mind. Do you keep busy every day? Are you happy? Hopeful? Sad? Do you think about harming yourself? Are you eating enough? Eating too much? Drinking more? Would you say you’re more positive than negative? Yes, yes, yes, no, no, yes, no, not really, yes.

After that endless interview, I considered that it would all be worth it if they devised a Televisit for mammograms.

Glass half full: my house has never been cleaner.
Glass half empty: who’s going to see it?

I mailed my centenarian aunt a Coronavirus Care Kit, with an adult (not that kind) coloring book and a deck of cards with instructions for 101 versions of solitaire. I’m not quite there yet but if this goes on much longer I can see myself clicking the Buy It Again button on Amazon.

Afternoons, I walk my terrier on the trails near my house or a loop through the neighborhood. Humans are scarce but several friendly dogs are loose. I religiously carry treats so they’re always excited to see me and come running as if I’m the canine Ice Cream Truck. They huddle close, pressing against my legs as I pet them, then tag along for awhile, turning back when their homes slip from view. My pandemic pack.

I lied to my doctor. There was a day that I felt sad and hopeless and wondered about tomorrow: when I watched the final episode of the last season of Schitt’s Creek.