“See, right here where the plant forms a “V”? See this little leaf poking out? That’s a sucker. Just pinch it off.” He held my fingers and showed me how remove the suckers without damaging the tomato plant. 

I might have been six or seven. We had moved to a rural part of the county a couple of years earlier, and Dad had planted a majestic garden. For decades, we grew almost all of our own fruits and vegetables, only venturing to the store for dairy and dry goods. Dad loved to garden. He loved tilling the ground, planting the seeds, tending to the plants, and harvesting. And I loved being near him.

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The first year I was in Asheville, I traveled so much for work. I was rarely home, and when I was, I was battling the weeds that had overtaken the yard. The second year I gave up the notion of “I can do this by myself”  and hired someone to help landscape the yard (weeds be gone! mulch, welcome!) and build a raised bed. That was in November 2018. I was so excited about the possibilities that lay ahead for the spring. Dad and I talked about what I could plant, where to buy seeds. 

And then he fell ill in December. And I moved back to Winston-Salem to help care for him and for Mom. And spring came. And Dad died. And I moved Mom to Asheville since she couldn’t live on her own anymore. Well into the summer I planted tomato plants. And still traveled for work. And was so busy. And grieving. And the squirrels came. And the bears. And I found half-eaten tomatoes throughout my yard and on my doorstep. And I cried. And cried some more.

And then came the pandemic. I turned the soil, planted the tomato plants, and caged them. I’m not traveling for work anymore, so every morning after my morning tea I walk outside and tend to the tomatoes. I pinch the suckers carefully, just like Dad taught me so many years ago.  The smell of tomato plants is very particular. I love having that smell on my hands when I go back inside to start my day. 

During one of Dad’s last stays in the hospital, we were alone in the  ICU. I held his hand and we talked about what was happening. We knew he was dying, we just didn’t know when. We thought we had months and in reality it was only days. 

As we sat there, I asked him how he was thinking about what would come next. Of what happens once he dies. The afterlife. His soul. He responded, “We die, and that’s it. There’s nothing more.” I wasn’t sure I heard correctly. Dad was such a spiritual and religious person. What was he saying? I asked some more questions, and he was so matter of fact. Death is death. Was this what he needed to believe to let go and leave this life? I wanted to scream, “NO! There has to be more. You can’t leave me. We have to continue to have a connection even when you’re not physically here. A part of me will die with you if that’s not true.” 

But I didn’t say that. I fought back tears and listened.

I held his hand and we talked about his former baseball career, about family, about friends, about dreams and hopes, and about books we were reading. We told each other we loved each other and held each other tight. 

And today, when I was in the garden, tending to the tomatoes, I thought to myself, “There is something more. You’re still here, Dad.”

This morning I spent three hours at the Mass Poor People’s Assembly and Moral March on Washington for a Digital Justice Gathering. The gathering was focused on amplifying the voices of those impacted by poverty. It will be re-broadcast at 6 pm ET tonight (Saturday, June 20) and at 6 pm ET tomorrow (Sunday, June 21). Most of the speakers are in English; the broadcast is open captioned in English, and also interpreted in Spanish and American Sign Language. Take a listen. It’s so incredibly important.

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A day of celebration, a day of remembrance, a reminder of the work we still need to do towards a just society.

I started the day by listening to “We Insist! Max Roach’s Freedom Now Suite,” performed by 爱加速 and Melanie Charles, hosted by 逍遥安卓模拟器(电脑安卓模拟器软件下载)V5.2.5.0官方版下载 ...:2021-5-10 · 雷电安卓模拟器3.54.0.0官方版 255.92 MB/2021-03-13 雷电安卓模拟器是一款针对手游玩家而精心推出的安卓模拟器，电脑玩手游的新一伋神器。雷电安卓模拟器采用世界领先的内核技术,具有同类模拟器中最快的运行速度和最稳定的性能.玩家可伍通过本 back in February. I wasn’t able to attend in person, but my goodness, what a performance. I especially love “Tears for Johannesburg.” 就爱加速官网

It’s weird when the people that birthed you no longer exist.

Dad passed away last year. Mom still remembered my birthday last year, but this year had no idea.

A dear friend gave me a mini birthday cake. Even a mini cake was too much for me to eat on my own, so I cut a slice and then boxed up the rest to take to Mom and her caregiver. I passed the cake off at a distance, in the breezeway area outside of Mom’s facility (still no visitors allowed inside). Mom looked in the bag and exclaimed, “Is it my birthday?” I laughed and said, “No, Mom.” She asked, “Well, why the cake?” I told her it was my birthday and she said, “Really????” Yes, I told her with a smile.

I had many calls, texts, emails, and video calls from friends today. I am so appreciative and so grateful of the outpouring of love and friendship. And yet, the people that were there when I was born are no more. It’s part of growing older, it’s the cycle of life, and it’s also so very heartbreaking.

“Why are they killing the Black people?”

Over the past weeks, I had felt Mom becoming more and more distant. Her eyes were glassy and conversations often didn’t make sense. This was lucid.

“I… I don’t know, Mom. We live in a racist society. I don’t know why they’re killing them.”

“They didn’t do anything wrong. Why are they killing them?”

I could hear CNN, or maybe MSNBC, blasting in the background. I heard Mom start to cry. “I just don’t understand.”

“Mom, why don’t you turn the tv off. Would you like to go for a walk and talk?”

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How is it that I’m having this conversation with my Mom, 78, with advanced Alzheimer’s, about the insanity of what is happening in our country right now? How do I answer the question that she’s asked? Why are we killing Black people? What do we have to do to stop the killing? To stop the hatred, the rage, the prejudice, the racism, behind the killing?

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My friend Michelle put together this list of resources, Racial Justice, A List of Resources for White People Who Are Not on Twitter 24 Hours a Day. I’m donating, I’m writing, I’m speaking out. I have no delusions that it’s enough.

I had a hankering for egg salad. Who knows why. Maybe it’s because I thought it was the advent of spring, even though it was 50 degrees outside? Maybe because I was nostalgic for Sunday afternoons of my childhood?

I read the recipe carefully. “Boil a large pot of water and carefully lower the eggs into the water, making sure the shells don’t crack.” Well, goodness. the first two eggs into the pot of water cracked. Now what?

As I pulled the eggs out of the boiling water and doused them in ice water, I laughed at the two cracked eggs. One had a mustache and one had a toupee. And I couldn’t bring myself to crack them (more), because of the dynamic conversations that they were having. At some point, I’ll eat them. But for now, they’re great companions.

I’m not quite sure how to process this.Today was one of the happiest days in memory.

I realize that the world is in a horrible state. We’re sheltering in place, worried about a disease that is spreading at unprecedented rates. I haven’t had in-person connection for almost two months. There are so many uncertainties.

And yet, I am so happy.

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So thankful for connections. So thankful for time. So thankful for choices that have brought me here. And, strangely enough, thankful for this pandemic that has invited me to examine what is important. And what is not.

One of the things that I’ve loved about this pandemic is porch surprises – both given and received. It’s a delight to drop something off on someone’s porch and text them, “Surprise waiting for you on the bench outside your door next to your rain boots!” or “Enjoy what’s in the brown paper bag on your porch!” And equally delightful to receive a similar message. I received a message saying there was a piece of funfetti cake on my porch (and who doesn’t love brightly colored cake with sprinkles?!?) and was delighted to be able to talk to the givers from a distance, because I immediately ran out to fetch the said slice of cake.

I’m taking a class on the science of well being. One of the ways to increase happiness is to interrupt it, so that you don’t get used to it (hedonistic adaptation), and then you can have multiple instances of happiness. I thought about this when I took a first bite of the cake. It was so good! I can’t remember when I last had cake. Gosh. The sweetness. The sugaryness. The crunch of the colorful sprinkles on the icing. I thought about the principles I had learned about happiness. I told myself I’d have just one more bite, then save the rest for later. And I had one more bite. And one more. And one more. And then I ate the whole thing. And I was pretty darn happy.

On Saturday morning, I went to the porch to sweep it off and to set out the basket of granola bars and packets of nuts for delivery folks. The little wren flew out of her nest when I opened the door, and I quickly did what I needed to do, then went inside and closed the door. I stood out of site and waited the two minutes that it normally takes her to return to the nest. Sure enough, she did, and I watched as she nestled into her home, hidden from site once again. I felt so lucky that she had chosen to build her nest there and that I was witness to it.

Around noon, I peeked out the door to see if the mail had come. I noticed something on the table below the nest. What was that?

I slowly opened the door, and moved closer. No. NO. NO!

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I held out a glimmer of hope that the chicks had hatched, and miraculously left the nest already. A quick Google search confirmed that was impossible and the most likely culprit was a predator – a blue jay, a snake, a raccoon, honestly, any critter.

The tears began streaming down my face as I cleaned up the mess. I went inside and continued crying. The tears were for the mother wren. But also for the loss of hope. And for the loss of what used to be normalcy. And for all the other times that I had felt like crying, but hadn’t.

 

 

I opened the door and started walking across the porch to sit in the swing. I saw something coming at my face from the corner of my eye and ducked. It was a tiny wren, and it had come out of the nest in the Christmas wreath hanging on the outside wall. I moved closer (but not too close) and peered into the nest. There were eggs!!!! At least four, maybe more. I was delighted! And then regretted interrupting the little wren. I went back inside, closed the screen door, but left the front door open and waited. The wren came back to the nest, nestled inside, then poked her head out and looked all around. I stood perfectly still until she retreated into the nest, and then walked into the house. I can’t wait to hear baby chirps soon!