COVID-19 hits home(s) - (the Corona Chronicles)

This collection of "Fiction 101" short stories (101 words or less) are told from the perspective of six different kids reflecting on life in the daily reality of the Coronavirus.

Taylor

Mom takes care of old folks and Dad works at a farm. I watch the little ones.

It’s tough doing schoolwork when my brother and sister are crying, fighting or hungry. I try to keep up but sometimes the Wi-Fi goes out. Teachers are nice and keep checking in, but I sure miss my friends.

I wish we could get food from school, but my parents are always working. I have to fix dinner for everyone every day. Why can't Grandma be with us?

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll make it until school to starts again.

Sophie

During the virus thing we’re staying at Dad's. Mom works at the hospital, so she’s really busy. He lets us sleep late. We eat breakfast and check in with school, do some work, play video games and chat with friends. Dad focuses on his stuff until we get noisy.

At lunchtime Dad asks questions to check how we are doing. If we can make him think we’re caught up we get free time. There’s not much to do, so we get bored. I sure miss my friends.

                           

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll make it until school to starts again.

Ash

Mom’s usually working on her computer or texting with friends. Dad keeps yelling on the phone, reminding people he’s the boss. At least when they are high they leave us alone. We’re lucky when we get take-out because neither of them cooks worth shit.

I try doing schoolwork. When I need help from Mom she’s busy with the baby. And Dad’s he tells me it’s my responsibility. Teachers are nice and keep checking in, but I sure miss my friends.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll make it until school to starts again.

Joseph

Dad calls, “Up and ready.” for breakfast by 7. At 7:30 Mom starts with “Write about three things you learned yesterday.” Next Dad breaks from his work for Math and Science. Mom does PE before lunch. Then we get 30 minutes on our own, no screens. Next back to Mom for History. An old movie if we’re lucky.

We do afternoon chores until dinner. Finally 30 minutes of screen time, hopefully connecting with friends. The day ends with reading time and bed by 9:30.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll make it until school to starts again.

Tony

Dad’s trying to teach his third graders while helping me do my Middle School stuff. He gets edgy quick sometimes. Mom’s gone a lot for her job at the clinic.

When Mom’s home she gets ticked at Dad because he gets frustrated with me. She says things like, “You’re a teacher.” or, “You need to be more patient.” Which kinda makes him more frustrated.

By the afternoon I’m glad we’re done with school. I sure miss my friends.

                           

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll make it until school to starts again.

Jade

At Mom’s house she bitches about Dad leaving us. At Dad’s we hear about the “Assholes that took my job.” It’s best when he’s drunk and not hitting us. We’re lucky when they remember to get food on school pick-up days.

I try doing schoolwork each day. When I need help from Mom she’s on her phone. At Dad’s he’s usually in his room with his new girlfriend. Teachers are nice and keep checking in, but I sure miss my friends.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll make it until school to starts again.

Ten Things For A Short Journey

Here is the opening and a link to a new piece I have in the current issue of Topology Magazine:

30 years ago we travelled a few miles across town. It was a relatively short distance, but a change of untold consequences. We were leaving a work setting where housing was part of the compensation and culture. It was not quite a commune (and hopefully not a cult). We had two young sons. We were a one-car family. We wanted to be near downtown and near my new place of work. We found an affordable fixer-upper, in an era of high interest rates.

We soon learned that the public school, about two blocks away, was the unofficial center of a tight knit neighborhood. Our new address put us in between the center of downtown and the interstate, about a mile from each. In the three decades we have lived here, we have raised our children, lived in two homes within a half-mile of each other and transitioned though a number of life and career shifts.

Bellingham has continued to morph and grow over the years. We have seen the loss of a major employer with the closing of the pulp mill. We have lived through the coming of a regional mall resulting in the near death and eventual rebirth of downtown. Bellingham may now have more brewpubs, coffee shops, and hipsters per capita than either Portland or Seattle can boast.

Here is the link for the rest of the essay: http://www.topologymagazine.org/essay/ten-things-for-a-short-journey/

I Love My Place

My childhood home on Stephens Street was a poorly built track piece in the booming suburbs of the fifties. Ten miles from downtown and a few more from a farm town that would transition to little more than one of the states largest strip mall repositories over the next few decades.

Our place was one of the smallest, cheapest models in the neighborhood, with three bedrooms, one bath, a single garage — maybe a thousand square feet. The yard was never finished, maybe because of my mom’s scattered-ness and dad’s drinking. Who can say?

The place was defined by contradictions. It was home, my place of rest and protection. It was a mess of screaming fights, lonely fears, abuse and waiting for the next bad thing. I remember Mom would give us pajamas hot from the dryer on a winter night. I remember days without seeing my dad, not knowing if it was a blessing or a curse.

We moved in when I was four and stayed for about fourteen years. Moving came up a few times and I was terrorized. When I was nearing my last year of high school, the momentum increased. I made it clear that the family could move, but I was finding a way to finish school with my friends.

My childhood dream was that somehow I would live in the house forever. In the far future I’d be there, probably with a family of my own. I’m not sure where my parents and my brother went in the dreams, but they were gone. It was home, my home, and I wanted or needed no other.

The move happened soon after I graduated and the fragmentation of my family became its own version of a modern tragedy over the next decade leading to my parents’ eventual divorce. We may have been fortunate to get out when we did. I hear it is now within spitting distance of some of the worst crime and poverty in the metro area. It is the stuff that fills local news and idle conversations.

Connie and I married young. We went through the somewhat common series of rapid moves in our early years together — about an address change a year on average. In 1985 we made the move to owning our first home (actually, the bank owned it and we just got the privilege of paying for and taking care of it).  By this time we had two preschool-aged sons. We moved a few blocks in 1992 making sure to stay in the same school area for the kids’ sakes.

This new home, new for us, was built in the fifties and went through a major remodel in 1970. It was twice the size of our first place and twice the size of my childhood home. Within a few years we had reworked most of the interior. The kitchen took a few extra years, but we finally got it done. My wife worked to provide our own outdoor sanctuary by transforming the yard and gardens.

We live on Tulip Road, formerly a tulip farm. It is a solitary piece of road with about fifteen homes. Most people in town have never heard of it. It is the home our sons most identify with. It is the only home our grandkids know us in. it is the home both my wife and I have lived in longer than any other.

It will soon be twenty-two years that we have lived on Tulip Road. It is getting near twice as long as I lived in suburban home of my childhood.  According to any standardized accounting system this house experience far exceeds my childhood residence. More house, better organized and cared for and a far from perfect, yet more stable family.

But when I think of “home” I am still driven by my childish memories. I can quickly skim the bleak realities and ruminate on memories that may or may not be real. This house, the place I have lived longer than any other, the place that has truly provided refuge and strength, has an ongoing feeling that I can only describe as temporary. Not that I expect to leave soon.

I think it may be wrapped in the sense of childhood innocence and distance of memories. I somehow thought living on Stephens Street could last forever, maybe my first self-definition of heaven on earth.  Tulip Road has always been held with awareness of responsibility, my own limitations and knowing that there will be an end.

Occasionally when I am back near Stephens Street I’ll drive by the old house, maybe get out of the car and walk the street a bit. It looks so small and uncared for. I no longer have delusions of what life would have been if I had stayed there for what I thought would be forever. I am thankful for where I live and how my life has been shaped and guided over the years.

But I realize there may be a gift in the sense of idealized home that touched me all those years gone by. I may never sense it again. It may be unreal but it shaped me and it provides a bit of an idealized memory for moments when I need them.

And in unique ways, each home has shaped me and each continues to be a part of defining who I am.

May God have mercy on us all.

also: https://www.catapultmagazine.com/i-love-my-place/article/from-stephens-street-to-tulip-road

Stephens Street house over my left shoulder.

I missed a week of advent

I missed a week of advent

as if it disappeared

or maybe never happened

I was in another place

with decorations and

carols all around

and greetings of cheer

from nice, new people

friendly, but unfamiliar

I sat in hotels, meetings and planes

that little convinced my heart or

soul of the soon coming day

I have returned home  

bearing an unseen weight

of responsibilities and

expectations with slight chance

I’ll catch up

or be caught up

Seem So Different

There’s little buzz in our home

Advent begins, Christmas approaches

Decorations are an obligation

And only a few materialize

There’s talk of times past

And of kids now grown

Wondering how we did it all

Guilty whispers that can be ignored

How can an empty nest

Seem so busy?

How can a season

Seem so different?

I think it happened something like this… #4 - Until Morning

Until Morning

On the best summer days, we’d play with friends all day and sleep outside at night. You might get to have one friend over. Maybe two.

We’d wait for lights to dim and our parents to sleep. The big maple at the end of the block was our gathering place. We whispered jokes and lies in the dark. Coughs stifled laughter. We’d light and flick matches; in later years, we smoked. Sometimes Denny would strip naked and run around the street.

At the sight of a house light or sound of a car, we scattered to our sleeping bags until morning.

Sadie

Mr. Parker gave us Sadie. She was brown-red with white flecks. Her tail and tongue flapped when she ran. She followed me to school and slept with me every night.

One afternoon, Billy, the biggest kid around, threw a punch at me. Sadie lunged, pressing her teeth on his neck as a deep growl escaped her throat. Billy squirmed loose and took off. I ran home to Mom, bawling, gasping for words of explanation. Sadie was protecting me.

Mom was sitting on my bed, not Sadie, in the morning. “I’m sorry. Dad took her to the pound. She won’t be back.”

Until

I love the early morning
Being the first out of bed
Making my way by memory
Avoiding corners and shoes
Occasionally getting it wrong
To the regret of my foot or shin

The night chill hangs
Until I close the window, kick start the heat

Sounds are few, distant, muffled
Until seasonal birds fill the yard

Darkness slinks away
Until morning has again arrived

Time pauses, then gains momentum
Until it rules the day… and morning is gone

Momma kept staring (part V of V)

V

“We’ll go see her soon. In a couple of days.” Aunt Heather was strong and her words convincing. We finally walked inside the house and I noticed Jack sitting at the entrance to the kitchen, not moving or not speaking. I guess he’d been there all along.

The three of us sat at the table for dinner that evening. Jack, my aunt, and me. Dad didn’t come home that night, or any other night. Aunt Heather tried to explain, but it didn’t make much sense to us.

The days drifted into weeks and we didn’t see Momma. Aunt Heather kept saying, “She’s not quite ready yet.”

One night at dinner, Aunt Heather told us we were going to her house. She had things she needed to do at her place; she had a job and they needed her back, and Momma wasn’t getting better anytime soon.

My mind raced. She was talking about moving, not just visiting. Leaving my home, my friends, my school, and my parents. Well, leaving Momma, at least; by then, we had figured out that Daddy had left us all. I loved Aunt Heather, but this was home and I needed to be here. I’d never lived anywhere else and I had never thought of leaving.

I begged, pleaded, and bargained. I told Aunt Heather she could move into our house. She could have our room. We’d sleep in Mom and Dad’s bed. We’d be good, work hard. Her friends would come and visit. She could find a job here. She listened, even cried along with me at times. Held me a lot. Nothing worked. By the weekend, we were packed and gone.

Concrete patches

Manifest Destiny ended
On the trail of Lewis and Clark
We settled near the shores
Of the Pacific
After the second Big One
We moved to subdivisions and tract homes
With ordered, efficient expectations
Porches became small concrete patches
Big enough for two or three JWs
To argue theology from
Until we shut the door in their faces

Porches lost their draw out West
There were no sweltering nights,
No fireflies to capture the eye
Or gleeful children giving chase
Few neighbors stroll the sidewalks
Rarely did generations gather

Backyards became the Thing
A framework of fences to keep others out
While guaranteeing privacy within
Patios, barbecues, decks, pools, ponds,
Gardens, hot tubs, and outdoor furniture
If we hadn’t done away with outhouses
One could have lived for months back there
At least until the weather turned

The shift complete, we settled in
Comfortable, safe, secluded
Until Television drew us near
To huddle by the hum and glow
Of the box in singular focus

There’s not much to say about our living room

We are family room people
Everybody knows to come in
Through the back door
Except strangers, peddlers, campaigning politicians,
First timers and shoe-string relatives
Our family room pulses, with no dividing line into the kitchen
Thanksgiving is the best, our annual celebration
Our gathering, our Holy time

Our living room looks east, toward the mountain
It is quiet and usually empty
At times, mostly in the winter I go there
To read, waiting for the fire’s warmth to
Touch me from across the room
Two, maybe three, may gather there
To get away from the crowd, the noise
For serious, or private conversation

My great-grandfathers desk sits
Between the window and fireplace
It’s been refinished and is missing the
Fold-down writing surface
I think of him resting his head
On his open Bible, the one I have,
Preparing a sermon for the small congregation
Of Methodist farmers, who would certainly,
Faithfully be at church each Sunday
After tending to animals and chores
Because that is what people did

76th and Tibbets

Corner of 76th and Tibbets
The boys, their sons,
My dad and his brothers
Called it 76
Always white with green trim
Side view looked like a barn
It was “the house” in my mind
Always, there, always part of our family

The garage was across a walk way
And there was a hidden key
I watched my dad get it, over the years
Later when I was in high school
I’d stop by, knowing they’d be gone
With a friend or two
Get the key and
Hang out inside for a while

In the back yard
Was a plum tree
That we’d pick from each year
And a weeping willow
Great for climbing
And pretending to be
Adventurers or lost children
The Columbus Day Storm
Split its core
It hung limp for years
Until finally cleared away

Two floors and a full basement
Half finished as a party room
Light paneled walls
And a bar by the fireplace
They were cocktail and hard liquor people
We’d sneak sips
With our cousins
When the adults were upstairs
I only knew a few of the people
Whose faces filled party pictures
That covered the walls

On party nights
I’d be upstairs, with my brother
Listening to the music pulse
Through the floors
And when brave
We’d sneak to the top of the stairs
To catch a glimpse
Finally in deep sleep
Dad would get us out
Of bed late at night
And we’d drive home

On the other side of the basement
Was a work bench
Laundry area
And a chest freezer
That always had Eskimo Pies that
I thought grandpa would
Bring them back from Alaska each fall

Grandma was so thin, boney
Dark, permed hair
And flowery dresses
She had a bedroom on the main floor
Next to the bathroom
It all smelled of perfumes and powders
She slept with a mask
Over her eyes
Had a lady-like cigarette case yet
Don’t remember her smoking much

She worked late nights
For the phone company
Connecting voices, lives
From across town and around the world
She’d sleep until almost noon

We’d listen to 45’s in the party room
Hits of the day
And dance with grandma
At Christmastime she’d make us kiss her
Under the mistletoe

Tension, outbursts and distance
Defined the family
Each son quit high school
And joined the service
She’d fight with her son’s
If they talked at all
She said they’d be sorry when she died
Their half-joke response
Was that we’d never know
Because she’d outlive us all
She didn’t, she died
Before grandpa
Before any of her sons
A few months before her
First great-grand child arrived


Grandpa lived upstairs
With the boys
Two bedrooms and a bath
Story was my dad shared
Grandpa’s room while growing up

He would leave every summer
For cannery work in Alaska
May have cherished
The break from grandma

He’d go to bed early
And rise in similar fashion
We’d sleep in the room
Across the hall when our
Parents were away
Get up early with him
He’d make Cream of Wheat
And toast for breakfast
With real butter
Every time
We’d sit at the Formica, kitchen table
Looking at the willow tree
Until it was gone

There was an attic off his bedroom
My older cousin showed us slide pictures
Of topless women
We’d hold them up to
The single, bare light bulb
Hanging from the rafters
Fascinated, afraid, fixated

After grandma got ready
On Saturday
They would go grocery shopping
She in her dress
And he in a white shirt, slacks
And a hat to cover his bald head
Always he drove
Always the same store
Always together

He’d been a cowboy
Working on a ranch in Montana
After coming to the states
As a young boy from Germany

She’d been a school teacher
And enjoyed correcting our grammar

She was embarrassed
He didn’t have a middle name
She gave him an initial
I often wondered why
She didn’t give him the whole name

In her mind all people
Should be Methodists and democrats
And you should never wear blue jeans
Those were for poor people
Who didn’t know better
Or couldn’t afford more

As teenagers we’d be sure to wear
Our oldest jeans when visiting

After grandma died
Grandpa stayed on ten plus years
Heard he started drinking
Finally he went to a nursing home
We visited shortly before he died

My dad’s oldest brother
Lived in the house for a while
I heard the stairs were more than
His joints could handle
I heard he sold 76