Shelter in Place, Day 63: Contrasting Perspectives

One goal when building this garden from near-scratch was to pay better attention to how each plant - no matter the season - fits into its surroundings... the combination, art for a roving eye (in the past I tended to plant whatever I liked wherever it fit). I’m still an amateur garden artist, but I’m learning that some plants make odd, but complementary bedfellows, like this succulent (I don’t know its name) that I keep at a modest height to contrast with and support a rose (David Austen Iceberg Floribunda) still young enough that it bows under its own weight. The quirky juxtaposition always makes me stop and smile as I survey this corner of the garden.

I spoke with several friends this weekend about the disconnect some of us are feeling from fellow Americans whose anger continues to accelerate and increase in volume as they declare the pandemic a hoax, and demand their constitutional rights to do what, I am not clear. From this angle the attitude seems unfathomable, but as the election nears, I fear the disconnect may get even worse. Certainly, I understand the need to get back to work, and I get the economic and emotional pain this quarantine has cost. But do I? I’m guessing there are folks who’d say I haven’t got a clue. We are coming at this from such different experience and angles. 

My son told me he’s been thinking a lot about my parents these days, and wishing he could ask them about their experience living in a time when there was a common understanding of the sacrifice required during World War II, and what it felt like to be a nation undivided. That reminded me that I haven't finished the story that I started here a few weeks ago about how, in truth, different perspectives existed even then. 

Once the Germans surrendered, my father knew that it was only a matter of weeks or months before he got shipped off to Japan for what he called his “second half” of the war. Having survived the Battle of the Bulge, he expected to die in the Pacific. His letters home began to read more brooding and a little bitter. His initial revelation that finally he and Mom were having the same experience, were on the same page, was replaced by a growing fear that she could never understand what he’d been through.

In October of 1945, still in Europe, Dad wrote what in the mythology of our family has come to be known as THE LETTER, his final thoughts before he headed not to Japan, but home:

“And now, Carol, that my homecoming is drawing near I want to tell you something that I have felt but hesitated to say for a long while. The old saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder is in my estimation a lot of baloney. It’s been nearly two years, two years of adventure that I could not have thought of in my wildest dreams. So much has happened that I have forgotten a great deal. Mainly, I’ve forgotten more about you than I believe either of us have realized. It is a little different for you, I think. You can look out the window right now and see where we walked the campus those few years ago. You sit where I gave you my Psi pin. At home you can see where I used to sit on the couch - or where we stood when we kissed goodnight. All around… you see things and do things that sharpen your memories. At the dinner table, driving a car, or walking down the street you can picture me beside you. But [for] two years - what have I had? How can I picture you when I’m looking at the rubble of Nuremburg? Or when I’m squatting on the ground eating from a mess kit? Or those nights when I was dodging shells and standing at an outpost peering into the night for German patrols - with only the sound of machine guns, an occasional burp gun and now and then a shell whining overhead? …How can I remember just how it was to have you sitting beside me in the Chevy when all I’ve ridden for the past two years is 2 1/2 ton trucks and jeeps?

“…Everything you have done in your daily life these past two years kept your memory sharpened. But I’m afraid I’ve seen or done very little that has reminded me of you. All that I can put my finger on are a few snapshots… and letters. Did you ever sit back and try to count the number of little squabbles that we’ve sent back and forth across the Atlantic? ….I guess I’m just getting more confused than ever - but when I get back, Carol, give me time to fall in love with you again. I know that I will. But frankly, I don’t think I do love you now - not really, I mean. Not the way I should and not the way I want to… so much has happened that I have forgotten how to love.

“It is half an hour latter (sic). I’ve been sitting here on my bed trying to think how it would be if you walked into this room, in through that grey painted door with the white enameled door knob. But it’s no good. You’d never come through that door. You don’t belong in a building like this. You wouldn’t fit in this town or this country. You belong to the other side of the world - that’s where I have to picture you and there is nothing over here like it. Nothing here to remind me.

“It has taken me a long while to write this letter. The spot of sunlight that was on the edge of the bed when I began has moved across to the opposite wall …The happiness at the thought that I may soon be home is so strong, Carol, that sometimes I think I’ll explode. When I let myself think about [it]… I feel as though my heart is going to pop right out. I believe you know me better than anyone, but even you, Carol, will never know how much I’ve hated this life. My love, Lou.”

— thanks to Lauren de Moll for her meticulous and dedicated family research and transcriptions.

Shelter in Place, Day 62: Hidden Dangers

San Francisco, California

In a shady patch of garden where the light and airy mint and scraggly bush rose play, I wanted something to contrast their similar leaf shapes and color. I thought this variegated tree ivy (Fatshedera variegata) would do the trick. I was right about the contrast, but the ivy has never thrived. Not enough water in the summer, perhaps, but the problem may more directly lie with some night creature that loves to eat its leaves. The ivy’s holes have grown significantly since I took this picture. 

This climate has a lot of garden pests, I’m told, but I have yet to see them. Sometimes in the rainy season, we’ll wake up to gooey slug trails shimmering on our carpet, a sight that freaked me out when I first moved in. To get there, the slugs have to cross the garden, climb down the brick steps and then up again to the lower deck, squeeze beneath the door and crawl across the sitting room. Why do they go to that much trouble? And, a better question, where are they now?!? 

We all factor certain hidden dangers into our daily lives, calculating the risks and knowing the protocols for mitigation. Living in the Bay Area has schooled me in the threat of earthquakes and taught me what to do. But even if the house shakes a little from time to time, I take my cue from everybody else that lives here - pretend the danger isn’t really there. We trust we’ll beat the odds. I’m hoping some day to file away this coronavirus in a similar way - when will I accept it as a risk to live with but not fear? When will I stop looking up and down the street expecting to see it manifest? Recently, a local headline read, “What to do if there’s an earthquake while you’re sheltered in place.” I should have read the article, but I could not quite bear the thought. Now, today, I learned that we have had only 40% of our average rain this year, which means that the drought and fires could come sooner and be worse than ever. What do you do, how do you cope when several existential threats collide? Let them go, I guess - enjoy the mint, the rose, the ivy, and be grateful for the day.

Shelter in Place, Day 61: The Last to Open

San Francisco, California

I’ve written before about the difficulty of photographing calla lilies whose nearly pure white flower challenges the lens to find a focal point and the photographer to capture the nuanced color at the flower’s core. This appears to be the last calla of the season, the last to open. While we still may see a few out-of-season stragglers from time to time, the lilies’ root clusters in our garden show every indication that they intend to go back underground. So now is my last chance to get it right this year. Paul Landskroener, this one’s for you.

Reopening stories dominate the headlines this morning. All seem to agree that social distancing has been a successful strategy so far, but disagree on what can and should happen next. Should we reopen the economy with full guns blasting? Or should we stay the isolation course until the disease is finally, truly gone (and risk making the economy even worse)? Without a coherent and cohesive game plan, states - and sometimes individual counties and cities - are making up the rules alone and as they go along. And for those of us most susceptible to the disease, this anarchy feels wrong. 

As businesses rush to be the first - not last - to reopen, it is not just us elders in the family whose vulnerability will increase, it is those already working on the front lines — the hospital workers bracing for a surge, and those reinventing themselves to save their small businesses. My stepson Jack, chef at a local southern comfort food restaurant, reports that his kitchen was the busiest ever this Mother’s Day — folks tired of their own cooking rolled up non-stop for takeout fried chicken, shrimp and grits (the quart-size jars of Margarita didn’t hurt). That was also the day Jack got the test results back for all of the staff he'd hauled down to the clinic last week. The news was good - they all tested negative(yay!!). So far. In general, cash flow has not been bad, Jack says, all things considered. And the line staff is working - he's scheduled shifts so everybody gets paid. 

But what happens if the brakes come off and all these small operations feel compelled to fully reopen in order to compete? Jack's restaurant’s dark, closed-in space is a perfect place for spreading germs. No matter how much they try to reconfigure, there will not be enough tables six feet apart to cover the costs of reopening and the expenses of sit-down service. And who will stay away? People like us who have been ordering food for pick-up, but wouldn’t dare to venture inside. We’ll quit coming, and the restaurant’s current stop-gap revenues may actually go down. And what about the staff? The danger for them gets worse. Hours in a tiny kitchen, waiting on customers that talk, and laugh, and eat, and cough, is bound to take its toll. 

Multiply that by the number of restaurants in this foodie city, and every other little business that has always hustled to make ends meet. I know we all want to get back to normal, but how do we think this is going to work? I'm afraid that in a rush to reopen, we may kill the survivors in more ways than one.

I am grateful to our mayor, London Breed, who saw the danger coming and had the courage to close us down before we knew we had to. San Francisco was one of the first places in the nation to initiate shelter-in-place. I encourage her to show the same measured leadership - in spite of, or perhaps because of the danger to local businesses like Jack’s - in helping us stay the course.