Shelter in Place, San Francisco, March 6, 2021
As I work in the garden cleaning, mulching, and planting for spring, I am surrounded by birds - hummingbirds in full color buzz my head; a bright yellow Townsend’s warbler tries in vain to hide himself in the branches of the nearby ceanothus, now a budding, brilliant blue; sparrows begin their mating racket in the neighbor's bamboo stand; and it sounds like the mourning dove is back in the neighborhood and looking for a mate.
My sons asked this morning what we’ll do differently now that both John and I are fully vaccinated. Honestly, I don’t know. What will be safe and what we want are not entirely clear. But tomorrow evening we will celebrate John’s birthday on the newly opened patio of a favorite restaurant - our first San Francisco meal out in over a year. It will probably be cold, it may be rainy. But it marks a milestone, nonetheless. A baby step until we feel safe enough to fly out of our pandemic shelter, truly up and away.
Day 346: Things Will Be Different
Shelter in Place, San Francisco, March 2, 2021
Not all the perennials seem to be coming back this spring, and my hips are improved enough to foster my ambition, so yesterday we ventured down to our favorite nursery in Half Moon Bay to see what we could find. The ride along the coast was much the same - beautiful and crowded, in fact - as if everybody feels, like us, sprung from Covid darkness, and anxious to see the sun and sea. Unfortunately, our destination seemed altered, not only for the masks we all were wearing down the aisles, but for the nursery’s highly reduced inventory and the sadness of their plants. Like us, I’m guessing, many gardeners stayed away last growing season and, as a result, it looks like the place is barely hanging on.
Back home, I’m mapping out where I want to put the plants we did manage to find, taking into consideration the absence of our shady tree and the fact that Northern California has only seen forty percent of its usual rain in this, its wettest season. Everything is dry, and there’s little sign of more to come, so as I plant I’m going to have to water (and get more serious about what can survive without).
This, I imagine, is only the beginning of the reckoning that is to come. As we emerge from quarantine with one desire - to get back to ‘normal’ - I’m guessing that neither the residual economic and social effects of this cataclysmic year, nor the growing signs of how our climate is rapidly changing will let us. Things will be different. Some things - like my garden - already are.
Day 340: For Peter
Shelter in Place, San Francisco, February 26, 2021
When my mother’s Alzheimers got worse, I remember my wonder that someone could so quickly lose a lifetime of curiosity and spunk. And when she finally died, it became for me an existential question: Where does all that knowledge go? The love? The generosity? Are they floating somewhere untethered in the universe? Do all the books she read make no difference now? How can I grab onto and preserve all that my mother did, and knew, and gave the world while she was living?
Those questions returned yesterday when I learned that Peter Ostroushko has died. We are lucky enough to have recordings left behind, a full lifetime of Peter’s remarkable and prolific output, and I spent some time yesterday listening again to a small fraction. But where is all the music he had yet to write down, the beauty in his head? What new Peter tunes float out there in the cosmos? And oh, what we will miss from not having his shy smile and kindness in our midst!
I knew Peter decades ago when we shared the weary life of A Prairie Home Companion road shows. His was a quiet, calming presence on and off a busy stage. I didn’t see him enough in the years that followed, but the breadth of his legendary grace and kindness have been an example and a beacon in my life as I have watched his music spread and grow. So now, too late, I’m sending this to Peter with my thanks. The world will miss you, dear man. May that mysterious universe keep you full of song and safe.