The pastor at my Hubster’s church is a world traveler named Chris Failla. 
 
And, a couple of weeks ago, Failla (pronounced FAY-la) had a few things to say about what’s happening right now.
 
He calls this the “in-between time.”
 
I’m not Christian.  But every Sunday morning at 10 o’clock, my spouse closes the door to his home office; powers up his laptop and logs onto Zoom, and takes part in a virtual hour-long service led by Failla.  
 
This one time, because I asked, the Hubster shared his notes with me.
 
Failla has a Master of Arts in Global Leadership from the esteemed Fuller Seminary, and spent years before that as a teacher and community organizer in China.  At this service, he compared the uncertainty of COVID-19 to a couple of Biblical events where folks were also “in-between”—forced to give up any semblance of control and expectations they thought they had.  One is Exodus, when the Jews wandered for 40 years before finding a home in Israel, and the other is Easter, right after Christ died but before rising from the dead.
 
Like then, it seems as if we’re neither moving forward nor backward.   Even though every state is allowing businesses to reopen, this time is still a waiting game.   
 
But we don’t know exactly what we’re waiting for, or for how long.
 
At the same time, it’s getting harder to remember what life was like a few months ago.   
 
It’s oddly quaint that at the beginning of this year, most of us left our homes every day, going to work or enjoying a long lunch, shopping with friends or catching a new movie.  But the merry skedaddling is gone, and now that the virus has claimed more than 100,000 lives in the United States, hoarding toilet paper and wearing pants with elastic waistbands isn’t as funny as it was a month ago.  
 
Maybe that’s why Failla talked about something else: this “in-between time” can’t be wasted. 
 
So, while recognizing that our days and nights are absolutely scary and difficult and sad and uncertain, Failla has also decided to view the COVID-19 pandemic as an opportunity for reflection.
 
To this end, Failla created four “What?” questions things to ask ourselves right now.  Answering them has helped me recognize my priorities, and might allow others do the same.  
 
Here they are.  
 
What am I happy to be free from?
 
I hate getting up early.
 
But most of my career required being a morning riser, and when I lived in New York City, that meant waking up very early since every weekday, I washed and blow dried my hair; applied full makeup, and tugged panty hose on before taking the subway from Brooklyn to Manhattan.   
 
I haven’t done this in decades, but right before the virus hit, I was up most days around 7 a.m.  
 
Twice a week I volunteered at two grammar schools, where I read one-on-one with about a dozen children, most of whom had no one at home to do the same.  I also took a morning yoga class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I wasn’t lounging around those mornings.  And, a few days before the shelter at home order hit, I registered voters for the first time in front of the town post office. The Friday a.m. shift was the only one open.
 
I want all of these activities back sooner than later.
 
For now, though, I’m happy to be free from alarm clocks.
 
What am I missing?
 
I’m missing the freedom to be free. 
 
This includes not having to think about running to the market for a few items needed for dinner; strolling through thrift stores and estate sales for vintage cake plates, Pyrex and table clothes, and having my hair professionally cut and colored whenever I want.
 
I’m missing that my daughter isn’t able to hop on a plane from California, and vice versa.
 
I’m missing that I can’t drive to the nearest beach to feel the waves on my feet and wriggle my toes in the sand. 
Until further notice, that part of the coastline is closed.
 
Unlike so many, I’m blessed to have a partner to cuddle and hug.  But being unable to touch anyone else is
​increasingly difficult.
 
Also, I miss breathing without a mask.   
 
What matters more?
 
Friends and family have always been important, but now, there’s a greater need, even an ache, to connect with more of them, and more often.
 
What matters less?
 
For years, keeping a daily schedule, even in my head, was important because I like having a certain cadence and order to my days.  If I didn’t get everything done that I’d planned, I’d berate myself for wasting time. 
 
But time is different now. 
 
While it isn’t easy breaking this old habit, I’m trying to give myself wiggle room if everything on my list doesn’t get done.  This means more living in the moment and more appreciating what I do have.
 
Which “What?” questions are calling to you, and how will you answer them?
 

We bought a new recliner in January, never knowing it was destined to become a central addition for sheltering
in place.     
 
A shiny, velveteen chocolate brown that looks like a puffy shirt if said shirt had been reincarnated into a large chair,
the purchase was unplanned. 
 
We had gone to the nicest furniture store in town for a different reason: to order a new futon mattress, one that
we knew was going to be better made and last longer than anything we’d find at one of those “every day is a sale”
bed places. 
 
But it was impossible to pass up the recliners because they were purposefully placed right inside the store’s
​only entrance.
 
More than a dozen were lined up, and because they were all part of an after-Christmas sale, all were substantially discounted.  The Hubster had talked about buying a recliner for years, so I figured there was no harm in looking. 
 
My spouse quickly settled into the puffy one. He recognized and liked the brand, as well as the fact that the chair was 50 percent off the original price tag.  Most of all, he liked how comfortable it was, nearly melting into it.    
 
I appreciated his choice, but also knew we already had plenty of places to park our cabooses.
 
We’re empty nesters, so there are only two of us.  We have a full-sized couch, and meeting that sofa at a right degree angle is the afore-mentioned futon.  A few feet away is my spouse’s hickory wood rocking chair with matching stool. Adding to everyone’s comfort are two floor lamps; a coffee table piled with books and TV and Roku remotes, and the white, custom-designed entertainment center cabinet.
 
There’s also a luxe dog bed for Sadie and Hank, with an old wooden salad bowl full of tennis balls and sun-bleached bones within easy reach.
 
It’s enough.
 
Then the Hubster spoke.
 
“Look,” he said, still in the recliner and eyes half closed. “It even rocks back and forth.”  He sighed deeply.  “It’s more than I could ever have hoped for or wanted.”
 
That cinched the deal.
 
Gazing at the recliner after it was delivered, I pondered whether owning one might now mark me as A Very Old Person.  But when I told a friend that it didn’t have an electric button, only a hand lever on the side for going forward and back, she assured me that I wasn’t elderly—at least not yet. 
 
But reclining chairs are old.
 
The forerunners of today’s recliners are chaise lounges and daybeds, which have been around since ancient Egypt, and perhaps not surprisingly, used exclusively by the wealthy.  Also, while dentists are not exactly recognized for inventing these comfy chairs, the first dental chair that debuted in 1790 was adjustable and featured a moveable headrest.  Less than 100 years later, a British dentist came up with a chair that glided up and down. 
 
Still, it wasn’t until the late 1920s that American cousins Edward Knabush and Edwin Shoemaker filed a patent application for a simple reclining bench that eventually became the recliner seen in millions of living rooms.  The manufacturing of that first chair, made of wood and intended for a patio, paved the way for a little company called La-Z-Boy, which still rules the reclining world and today, is worth $1.5 billion.
 
All of this history is cool.
 
But honestly, what I care most about right now is that snuggling into our big brown recliner makes me feel safe. 
 
During the day, it’s the Hubster’s seat of choice, but once he heads to bed, I take over the brown velveteen pillows.   I’ll adjust the lever so that I’m half lying down, often sipping a cup of tea or glass of milk.  Sometimes I’ll read, and sometimes I’ll think about how my days are so much quieter and less hurried now.
 
I’ll understand, too, that I’ve been given permission to slow down and take a giant pause.
 
After all, that’s basically what the entire planet is up to right now anyway.

Making snowball cookies helps keeps my worries at bay.

​And, now that the COVID-19 panademic is causing millions around the world to quarantine or shelter in place, with a major economic depression a likely consequence,  high anxiety has quickly become our new normal.
 
But there’s also a corner of joy in my teal and white kitchen, where there’s butter, sugar, flour and cookie sheets.
 
Because snowball cookies usually make an appearance around Christmas, folks forget that they can be made all year long.  
Thought to originate in England during the Middle Ages, these two or three-bite treats are also known as Mexican or Greek wedding cookies; butterballs, or powdered sugar balls.  My version calls them honey sand balls since honey is added.  But each share this: there are only a handful of ingredients, and once the dough is put together, the cookies can hit the oven quickly since the dough needs no refrigeration.
 
When snowballs aren’t part of a frenzied holiday ritual, making these cookies provides a comforting rhythm.  
 
Cream together softened butter (always use the real, good stuff) with a bit of powdered sugar, then add flour, vanilla (also use real) and a touch of salt. Lastly, mix in your favorite nuts (walnuts or pecans or hazelnuts work).  I get about
a dozen balls per sheet because even though the recipe has no baking powder or soda, the balls flatten and expand
while baking.  
 
Then comes the very best part (except for the eating): use your (very clean) hands to roll one buttery treat at a time into a one-inch or so sized ball.  Just as studies have shown that gardening in dirt may help ease depression, I think it’s also true when it comes to immersing our hands in cookie dough.   
 
You also can’t fret about anything while making snowballs. 
 
This is because you have to single mindedly be on top of the timing.   
 
Snowballs, you see, are fragile, and even in an oven set at a low 325 degrees, these cookies will burn unless carefully monitored.  Although my recipe calls for 14 minutes, I check the cookies at about 11, and usually find them done with just a tinge of very light browning around the edges.  I’ll take the sheet out and let it sit for only a minute on a wire rack.  Then, with my (very clean) hands, I gently take each ball and roll it in powdered sugar.  After all the balls are done, I roll them in powdered sugar a second time.  A third time won't hurt.  The important point of the sugar assemblage is to do the rolling as soon as possible, because the sugar only sticks when the cookies are hot.    
 
Snowballs are also pretty, so I display them in a glass domed cake stand.  They’ll stay fresh for more than a week this way, but they freeze well, too. When ready to eat one of the latter, just pop it in the microwave for about 10 seconds.  And, since these treats are much lighter than chocolate chip or heavily iced cookies, one or two make a perfect bedtime snack with tea or milk.
 
In the end, though, it doesn’t make any difference how or when you eat snowballs. 
 
Because no matter what, your taste buds will do a happy dance.
 
Honey Sand Balls
 
1 cup (2 sticks) softened butter
½ cup sifted powdered sugar
2 tablespoons honey
2 cups all-purpose flour
¾ chopped walnuts (or pecans or hazelnuts
1 teaspoon vanilla
¼ teaspoon salt
More powdered sugar for the last step
 
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
 
In a large mixing bowl, beat the butter and sifted powdered sugar, then add the honey.  Mix until blended.
 
Beat or stir in the flour, nuts, vanilla and salt.  Mix thoroughly, and if you’d like, use your (very clean) hands.
 
Shape the dough into 1-inch balls, places about 1 ½ inches apart on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper. 
 
Bake for about 14 minutes, but check at about 11 minutes to see if the cookies are done.  They should be very lightly browned around the edges.
 
While the cookies are still warm, roll them gently in powdered sugar, then roll again.  Roll a third time for them to be extra powdery.
 
Makes about 35 cookies.

Girl Clown Dancing is five years old this month.
 
So, like every February since this blog’s one-year anniversary, here’s a look back on some events and posts from the last 12 months.    
 
Some things are different and a lot is the same.
 
The biggest channel changer was the Hubster and I moving north to Oregon last summer.  Why we choose to leave California is explained in my April blog (hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/moving).  Five months later, I wrote how we were doing eight weeks after settling into our new town (hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/hellohome).   
 
There have also been fewer essays—one posted each month instead of the two I did for years.  
 
One reason for writing less is because I’m busy—more about that in an upcoming blog.  But also, with so many reading choices online (not to mention movies, games and eBooks), there’s an intention to make every post count.  I’ll admit this, too: I want to leave GCD fans wanting a bit more so the next essay is one they’ll want to read.  
 
Another change is a new and, I think, better way to view past posts.  
 
Looking for older essays has always been doable by pointing the cursor over to the Archives list, which is to the right
of the screen for those reading GCD on a laptop or office computer.  (I can’t speak to the location for iPhone or Android readers, since neither accommodate a full website page on one screen.)  But since Archives is organized by months
(it’s an automatic function of the Weebly server), there’s no way here to zero in on specific topics. 
 
Now, thanks to a savvy computer neighbor, posts can be accessed via another list titled Categories, just above Archives.  Here, you’ll find 14 topics by subject that include Living Life, Activism and Remembering.  Hopefully, this will be a more efficient way to find old posts.     
 
Still, 2019 essays are the same—musings about life in my corner and my POV regarding other people’s corners. 
And because I’m a journalist, I like to include facts and/or links when it helps to clarify the topic.
 
As it has been from the beginning, most essays aren’t political (there’s plenty of that on my Facebook
and Twitter accounts, though), and instead, tend toward the whimsical.  These include why I still write checks
(hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/checks); my favorite tea, rediscovered in Guatemala
(hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/hibiscus), and finally getting around to assembling sauerkraut
balls, a Midwest appetizer that makes the Ohio-born Hubster swoon 
(hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/sauerkraut-balls).
 
But I also wrote about Empire actor Jussie Smollett, and his arrest for staging a clumsy hate crime attack in order
to gain sympathy and a fatter paycheck (hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/jussie-smollett).  (Last week,
Smollett was indicted on six new charges of disorderly conduct, which include filing four false police reports.)  
Then, after being front and center with a very angry customer at my favorite supermarket, I thought about
​the collective PTSD that so many of us are experiencing right now (hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/PTSD).
 
I promise to keep writing. 
 
For both old and new Girl Clown Dancing fans, especially my new peeps in Oregon, I hope you’ll keep reading.
 

I began the New Year by screwing up my hip.
 
Maybe because I’m of A Certain Age, lots of folks assumed the injury came from a fall.  
 
The real culprit was a yoga pose.
 
Now, I love my teacher’s classes. The one I attend meets weekday mornings, which means that there’s usually less than half a dozen people there, so, more attention from the teacher.  Also, this instructor does asanas (poses) that I haven’t done with previous teachers.  As someone who gets easily bored, that last point is a huge plus. 
 
But here’s the other thing.  
 
My yoga teacher is also a bodybuilder.
 
And to that end of getting the class as strong as possible, she challenges us.  Usually I’m up for it because it’s fun to try different poses, although I think I know my limits.  Also, if a pose hurts, I always stop.
 
This is why I initially thought I had only tweaked something.  The pain was annoying, but mild enough that I went home and vacuumed the entire house, thinking that cleaning might “stretch out the muscle.”  
 
By dinnertime I knew that housework wasn’t going to be the cure.  This was a no-brainer conclusion because now
I couldn’t walk without limping.  Also, I couldn’t stand in one spot for more than five seconds without intense pain
​kicking in.   

Still, being a cock-eyed optimist, I came up with Plan B:  I was just going to rest for a few days.

I didn't have a heating pad, but I did have a heated electric throw.  Scrunching it up in a corner of the couch, I burrowed my hip into it.  I had icepacks, too, so alternated those with the blanket.  I also smeared on organic CBD oil.  Finally, I was gulping down 800 milligrams of Ibuprofen every four hours, which took the edge off of the pain, but never came close to taking it away. 

Three weeks passed.

I wasn't getting any better, but I had bought a heating pad.  (In retrospect, limping for nearly an hour through a huge supermarket for groceries wasn't the best idea.)

In fact, I was in so much pain after the shopping adventure that I called the Hubster, crying.  He was out of town, and he knows that I'm not a complainer.  He offered to take a flight home the next morning to take care of me, a suggestion I didn't refuse. 

Right about now, you might wonder why I didn’t see a doctor.  
 
Yes, I have insurance.  But I’m not a fan of the medical establishment.  Maybe it’s because I’ve known too many people who got sicker after they went to a physician; or received a faulty diagnosis, or ended up paying hundreds of dollars for needless tests.  And more often than not, all three.  
 
Nonetheless, at this point, I gave in.
 
The Hubster hadn’t arrived yet, but thankfully, a friend was able to take me to an urgent care facility.  There, the intake clerk couldn’t believe I hadn’t come in earlier.  We still had to wait nearly two hours,  but that was okay, especially since being in this sort of pain meant I really couldn’t do anything else.  (Also, my friend had snagged a chair next to an electrical outlet, allowing me to plug in my heating pad.)
 
Ultimately, it was worth it.
 
I saw a terrific nurse practitioner, who asked a lot of questions and answered all of mine. We even had a few laughs.  And then, he gave me exactly what I needed—a shot in the butt.  He also wrote out prescriptions for a muscle relaxer, as well as Naproxen (which, as it turns out, works way better for me than Ibuprofen) and a numbing gel to slather all over the injured area.  And, much to my surprise, he didn’t try to push blood work or X-rays on me, instead focusing on what he was pretty sure was a badly pulled muscle.
 
I’ve followed all of his instructions to the letter and now, a little more than a week after that visit, the pain is nearly gone, and I’m not limping.  I’m also sleeping.  I miss my classes, and hope to be back within a couple of weeks. 
 
One more thing. 
 
Just before leaving the clinic, I was handed a page of gentle exercises to do every day.  
 
Each one is a yoga pose.
  

I hope the rats have left the building.
 
To clarify, we discovered last month that some nasty rodents had moved into our home.  And right from the get-go, know that these rats didn’t look or act anything like Remy and Emile from Ratatouille.  
 
Because, of course, ours weren’t animated by Disney, which also meant they didn’t have dazzling smiles; sweet smelling fur, and itsy-bitsy skinny tails.   Nope, our invaders boasted sharp yellow incisors; were filthy grey, and had long fat tails.  Also, they left copious amounts of poop in the kitchen and inside the entertainment center.
 
We first became aware of them late one night.
 
I woke to loud scratching noises coming from inside a wall.
 
“Oh,” said the Hubster, “you didn’t turn off the water in the bathroom sink.”
 
“That doesn’t sound like water dripping,” I replied.  Still, I got up to check and found a turned off spigot—and the wall where the scratching was coming from.  Our closet was nearby and not knowing exactly what was going on, or what to do, I closed one door hard, and the noise stopped. 
 
But in my gut, I knew that whatever was happening wasn’t going to end there.  
 
The next morning, I found more than three dozen droppings. 
 
Just like Hansel and Gretel, their crumbs (unfortunately, not bread) indicated the areas where they had walked. That evening, Hubster watched one skitter in front of the microwave and down the back of the stove.  I saw the pest there the next afternoon.  I think chipmunks and squirrels are impossibly cute, but something about a rat’s squinty eyes and reptilian tail freaks me out, every single time. 
 
I screamed. 
 
Now, we have one of those luxe traps, the kind that instantly electrocutes the rat once it enters the trap.  But it’s packed away in one of many unidentified, unopened boxes in the garage.  Also, we knew that this infestation was no job for a single trap, no matter how cutting edge the device. 
 
I called an exterminator in town. 
 
Started and managed by two brothers, the company I chose has been in business for decades, with a great rating on Yelp.  But an appointment wasn’t immediately available. 
 
When one exterminator brother came over a few days later, he explained the delay:  rat infestations around town are the worst he has seen in 35 years.  (The reason for the escalation, he added, is twofold.  One, global warming has brought changing weather patterns, which means that more rats are more frequently looking for warmer places to live.  Two, a bond measure that promised to better maintain the town’s sewer system was turned down last year by voters.)
 
Initially entering the attic, the exterminator immediately saw many small holes sealed up, time and date unknown.  So, there had been a bigly rat issue here before.  But the good news is that entering through the roof was the only way they had come in; there was no evidence of any arriving from ground level.
 
However, this fact was tempered when the exterminator told me I absolutely had rats and not mice, since the droppings were larger than grains of rice and mice don’t scratch.  (They were doing the latter, he explained, in order to make “new roads” to get around inside the house.)  
 
Then, my knew-what-he-was-doing professional placed more than half a dozen bait boxes both inside and out, including two small ones in the kitchen (still not tripped, thank goodness); four around the house’s perimeter, and some in the attic.
 
He went on to tell me about the non-toxic bait he used, marketed under the name RatX.  
 
Once rats ingest it, he said, the bait turns off the stomach sensors that lets them know they’re thirsty.  With those sensors no longer working, the rats return to their outside burrow and become so dehydrated they die.  But what I liked most about RatX is that there’s no secondary poisoning, so it’s safe to use around pets.  In other words, if my hound Hank ate a rodent poisoned by RatX, I wouldn’t need to make an emergency visit to the vet.
 
Two weeks later, knowing that all of the vermin had likely left the house, someone else from the company arrived to seal the two holes the exterminator had found.  (After that initial visit, I still heard nocturnal scratches.  But they got fainter and fainter and within a week, had stopped.)  
 
But I wasn’t out of the woods.
 
“I’ve seen these guys eat through steel,” this man said.  We were standing in the back yard, and just then, I noticed that Hank was running in circles with a rat in his mouth.   The man retrieved it and picked it up by its tail. 
 
“How long has it been dead?” I asked.  
 
“Looks pretty fresh to me,” he replied.
 
I’ve signed on to have the exterminator refill the bait boxes every three months.   
 
 

​I discovered hibiscus tea in Guatemala.
 
This was last year, when I attended a writing retreat on the shores of Lake Atitlan, one of the most beautiful and magical bodies of water on the planet.  Encircled by lush green mountains, Mayan villages and cone shaped volcanos, my time there taught me how to up my storytelling game.
 
Then came the hibiscus. 
 
The retreat provided lunch and snacks, and iced hibiscus tea, in a large silver pitcher with a matching carafe of sugar syrup at its side, was always on the table.  Ruby red with a kick of tangy flavor, the drink comes from the dried flowers and leaves of the plant by the same name, and was the only cold tea offered.  
 
As it turns out, hibiscus not only tastes great, but has a ton of health benefits, including helping to lower blood pressure; ease depression, and aid digestion.    
 
I wasn’t unfamiliar with this tea.
 
Decades ago, in college, I knew it as Red Zinger from Celestial Seasonings, and drank it hot.   Perhaps best known for the imaginative art work on its boxes, the company’s colorful drawings seemed to be in everyone’s pantry in the 1970s, especially if you were under 30 years old. 
 
Still, I had no idea then that tea bags often sit in warehouses for years, which might be the reason that when I sipped Red Zinger, the taste was more of a suggestion of hibiscus than what I experienced in Guatemala.  (Also, while this tea is mostly hibiscus, it has traces of peppermint, rose hips and orange peel.)
 
Now, just like the tea at the writing retreat, I drink my hibiscus cold.
 
To make it, I take out two, quart sized Mason jars from a kitchen cupboard (mine cost 50 cents each at Goodwill).  Then I dump about four tablespoons of dried hibiscus into each container. (Hibiscus is sold at health food stores or sometimes, supermarkets with a large bulk section. It’s also cheap—about two cups are under five dollars, and yield about five large pitchers of tea.)   Next, I fill the jars nearly to the top with cold water, secure the tops with tin foil, and put them in the refrigerator overnight.
 
The next morning, the liquid in those jars is that deep ruby color I’ve come to love. I retreive my biggest pitcher, which is plastic, chartreuse and seemingly indestructible, remove the lid and place a strainer on top.  Then I carefully pour the contents of both jars in. 
 
But I don’t get rid of the strainer with the now-wet hibiscus just yet. 
 
That’s because I’m busy making sugar syrup, which is one cup of white sugar to one cup of water, mixed in a small saucepan over medium heat.  Turn off the burner just before the water boils, making sure there are no visible grains
of sugar.
 
Then throw in a small handful of fresh, coarsely chopped herbs to the pan and stir.  (Basil was the go-to herb in Guatemala, but rosemary and oregano and Italian parsley work, too.)  There will be the very faintest essence of whatever herb was dropped in the syrup, which adds to the overall flavor profile of the tea.   Cool a bit, then pour the syrup on top of the flowers still in the strainer.  I also go back to my Mason jars now, and fill them with about one cup of water each, and pour that in the strainer, too.   
 
Next, remove the strainer with the flowers and herbs, and stir well.  My hibiscus tea is finally ready to drink,  so I screw the lid to the pitcher back on.  But often, I’ll add one-eighth of a teaspoon of almond or vanilla extract to the mix (other folks like orange slices or a cinnamon stick or two).  Sometimes, if I’m really jonesing for a glass and can’t wait for the tea to cool, I’ll toss some ice in a cup and drink it immediately. 
 
Because I like this tea so much, I do my best to always have dried hibiscus on hand.
 
But last month I used up my last little bit, and the store where I’ve always found it wasn’t expecting a shipment for at least another week. 

My heart started to beat faster and my breathing became shallow.  Luckily, no one seemed to notice as an employee guided me to an aisle with boxes of hibiscus tea bags.  
 
I politely refused his suggestion. 
 
It took me another week, and checking out another venue that had run out as well, but I finally scored at a third place in town.  This time, I stocked up with three cups of dried hibiscus. 
 
I don’t plan to run out again anytime soon.
 
How about you?  What’s your favorite can’t-live-without-it beverage? 

I'm convinced that millions of Americans are suffering from a collective form of PTSD.
 
This isn’t about those who have survived a horrific plane crash, or bank customers ordered to lie face down on a stone-cold floor while armed robbers empty the tills.  I’m also not thinking of families leaping out of fiery apartments in the middle of the night wearing only their pajamas, or moms with little kids trapped in mini-vans by sudden flooding.
 
But here’s what does haunt us:  the incessant mass shootings unique to this time in history. 
 
Being a victim of gun violence by a loved one, or even an enemy you know, has always been unsettling. My late partner committed suicide with a gun, and if circumstances had been just a little different that night, he might have taken my daughter and myself out as well.  Still, I knew he was depressed, and I knew he was unhinged. 
 
This is different.
 
As of last month, 334 mass shootings have taken place in 2019 that meet the criteria for this type of event—at least three people (although there are usually more) gunned down at a single location.  Often, victims have no connection with the shooter.  Broken down further, that’s 1.24 mass shootings every single day in the United States, with 1,347 persons injured and 377 dying, for a total of 1,684 victims.  Nearly all of the perps are troubled young white males, and most were born and raised in America. 
 
After one of these massacres—yes, the word is accurate—our government leaders offer up “thoughts and prayers.”
 
There’s nothing wrong with that.   But when it comes to real solutions and real courage—for instance, standing up to
​the NRA by passing a federal law that keeps weapons that are expressly designed for a military battlefield out of the hands of ordinary citizens, and forbidding those with a history of violent mental illness to never be allowed to buy any gun—they are cowards.  
 
So.
 
We send our children to school knowing they’ll be taught active shooter drills, but we don’t think much about the long-term psychological damage of these exercises to their young brains.  We don’t know if a disgruntled employee at our workplace will go home at lunch, and then return to kill every colleague in sight. We also can’t shop at a supermarket without scoping out supply rooms and bathrooms that a gunman might not know about.
 
I know the back way out of my yoga studio, but I’m not sure about my hair salon. 
 
I didn’t realize how little it took to shake up my PTSD until last week.
 
I was in a check-out line at my favorite supermarket.  Two folks were in front of me when suddenly, a bearded and disheveled young man cut ahead of us.  He began to shout at both the cashier and the woman whose purchases were being rung up.
 
“This is a mistake!” he yelled.  “You need to be in the self check-out line!  Take your stuff and come with me now! 
Right now!”
 
The fear in our line wasn’t imaginary.  We were crowded together and there was no way to run.  Was this man, who was extremely upset, about to brandish a gun?  Was he then going to shot the cashier and the woman, and then us?
 
Thankfully, our cashier knew what not to say: she didn’t tell him to calm down, or inform him that she couldn’t undo the transaction.
 
She kept her voice low.  

"We will make this work," she told him. "Some of these groceries have been rung up, but let's separate them.  You’ll be able to take everything to the self check-out line. It's all okay."
 
The man relaxed and he and the woman he was shouting at moved away.  The rest of us gazed at each another, and heaved an audible sigh of relief. 
 
This time, I was lucky.
 
However, I’ll keep looking for hiding places as I run my errands.  Because on another day, I might not be so fortunate. 

We moved to Grants Pass, Oregon, eight weeks ago.
 
First and without question, leaving California was The Right Thing To Do.  
 
Our house is on a street only one block long, which means it’s pretty quiet most of the time. There’s a tall blackberry bush in the backyard, as well as a creek three houses away, with the same kind of hedges bordering its banks. I’ve already baked a cobbler and muffins using these luscious berries, and more treats are coming.
 
Other discoveries are the community convenience store with killer grinders; a historic neighborhood of restored turn-of-the-century houses adjacent to mine, and easy freeway access.  I’ve also discovered a yoga studio I love, as well as a hairdresser and massage therapist. 
 
Finding a great supermarket has been trouble free, too. (The Walmart is okay but the Win Co across the street is way better.)  In fact, the 10-minute drive there is one I look forward to, taking me down a winding road with sloping meadows, grazing horses and an old-timey octagonal house, painted forest green and three stories high.     
 
Surprisingly, this small town—a tad under 40,000 folks—is also a foodie’s paradise.
 
The weekly Growers’ Market (called a farmers’ market in California) has more than 80 booths, and Thai, Lebanese and Japanese restaurants are nearby.  Tucked in a strip mall one town over is an itty-bitty Italian kitchen so good that folks have been known to come from San Francisco, a six-hour drive, to check it out. There’s also a terrific diner downtown, where the Hubster and I have had breakfast a few times.  (The tab for our first visit stunned us in the best of ways: the grand total was $12.90.) 
 
The dogs are content as well.     
 
At our old house, Hank ran laps all day in the yard, and barked incessantly at every noise he heard just outside the fence.  Here, he curls up on the cedar deck, taking in the sun and cocking his head at the wind.  Sadie does the same, her brow relaxed, and front paws crossed.   
 
And yet. 
 
I now know that only those who are fiercely determined to move should do so. 
 
In fact, the process was so brutal that it has made my Top 10 List of Most Challenging Life Adventures.
 
Unlike the skedaddling I did in my 20s, which involved a few suitcases and cardboard boxes from a local grocery
store, this required a professional moving company.  Three men and one large van transported furniture for a dining
and living room, master bedroom and two good-sized offices, as well as all the accoutrements. (A tiny sampling:
the almost as-tall-as-me bulletin board, Christmas decorations, vintage floor lamps, Pyrex collection and at
​least two dozen boxes of books).
 
There were other big issues prior to leaving.
 
Mainly, because we needed a large down payment on an Oregon home to get a low mortgage, we had to first sell our California place at the best possible price.
 
To do that, we embarked on a remodel that took close to three years.  (Another tiny sampling: upgrades to the bathrooms and kitchen; new flooring in nearly every room, and having both inside and outside of the house painted.)  Also, because of the terms of our buyer’s lender, the house had to be tented for termites before closing. This meant packing and sealing our food and medicine in two dozen special bags, and then finding another place to live (the dogs, too)
for three anxious days.
  
During this renovation period, we also drove to Oregon to look at houses—four times, 600 miles each way.  Sometimes, we did it in one day. 
 
Except for the final visit, when we found our house, these trips always ended in crushing disappointment; places
that looked great online were very different in person.  We called these “run for the car” houses, and we looked at
more than a dozen.
 
I don’t know how I managed, except that early on, I decided there wasn’t going to be any turning back.  I also learned to take one bite of the elephant at a time. 
 
Now that we’re here, we’re doing a lot to make our house our home.
 
I adore my teal blue kitchen—the 1960s gas stove with Bakelite knobs sold me right away—and with more wall space than before, our many framed pictures are now hung precisely how I’ve always wanted.  My Pyrex collection is on full display in the largest dining area I’ve ever had, and our entertainment cabinet and the Hubster’s rocking chair fit perfectly in the living room.
 
There’s still plenty of work to be done, because there always is when settling into a new place. 

We’re getting there.  Most of all, we’re happy to be doing it right here.  

I might end up being The Last Person Alive who writes checks.
 
This is because I use my checkbook more than anyone I know. 
 
Like a lot of folks, I pay our mortgage with a check.  But I take care of utility bills this way, too, and my hairdresser gets a check for the awesome cobalt and maroon colors she puts on my bangs.  Twice weekly yoga classes and monthly massages are handled with a check, and you’ll also see me pulling out my brown leather checkbook at the grocery store.  It’s also here that I pretend to ignore the eye rolls and withering glances of those behind me in line.    
 
I don’t care.
 
However, I’d like to tell them that I know debit and credit cards are a faster way to pay, and more convenient and efficient, than my old-timey writing ways.
 
Also, I’m uber aware that millennials like my 21-year-old daughter use even speedier methods such as Apple Pay and Android Pay.  There’s also PayPal and Zelle, online technologies which allow someone to send and receive money directly to and from the bank of his choice, sometimes for a small fee but sometimes not. 
 
In fact, my kid insists that she never needs to learn how to write a check—and she’s right.  An increasing number of companies, Urban Outfitter and Jockey and IKEA among them, are in the same circus tent as my girl.  They don’t accept checks, and frankly, their reasoning makes sense.  
 
After all, cashiers can’t determine if a customer’s account contains enough money.  (Adding insult to injury, banks
will slap fines on businesses that deposit checks from customers with insufficient funds.)  It also takes longer
to prepare and deposit personal checks for a business owner, who has to sign them, fill out deposit slips and then
send them to the bank. 
 
It’s also worth noting that for those of us holding the checkbook, it’s easy to make mistakes, with common errors including writing in the wrong company, or entering mismatched amounts of money. 
 
Still.
 
A 2016 Washington Post article reported that over 40 percent of the small businesses it surveyed didn’t accept electronic payments of any kind.  And, even in this new world of online banking, a whopping 97 percent of those companies said they still cut paper checks to vendors, and received checks from customers. Reasons given for taking checks included no hidden fees and familiarity, as well as having a paper trail. 
 
I like all of these justifications. 
 
But my main reason for writing checks is this:  doing so helps me stick to my budget.
 
With that leather book always in my purse, I can know, in an instant, how much money I have in the bank, as well as what I’ve spent and where I’ve spent it, in the last week or even the last six months.  Check writing is also a terrific system for brains that are wired like mine—those who learn best when life is handled visually and kinesthetically.  By looking at a blank check, then writing an amount in, and finally recording the company and amount in the register, the information sticks in my noggin.  
 
And really, I’m not that much of a fuddy-duddy.  I keep an online account with my bank, which lets me track deposits, credits and other transactions.
 
It works for me.
 
All of this means is that I won’t stop writing checks unless it’s forced on me.  Hopefully, that won’t happen
​anytime soon.   
 
How about you?  Do you write checks?