Like millions of Americans vaccinated against COVID-19, we’ve already sprinted away from the stuck-at-home cocoon brought on by the virus.
 
The first big thing we did might not seem like much, but it was A Very Big Deal to us.
 
We left our house for more than a day.  
 
Pre-pandemic, we’d been talking about taking some sort of road trip for well over a year, but then the global
pause happened.
 
Now, the initial challenge was to decide where to go because there are so many choices. Southern Oregon boasts several pristine lakes just a few hours from our town, and there’s also what locals call “The Coast”—at least half a dozen picture-perfect beaches that take around the same amount of time to reach.
 
Ultimately, we headed to Union Creek Resort, only 73 miles and less than a 90-minute drive away from home, with most of the route well-marked and maintained by the Oregon Department of Transportation.  
 
I only knew about this redwood refuge because my hairdresser recommended it. Indeed, when the Hubster told someone else where we were going, she replied that while she knew it well, the region remains one of this state’s best-kept secrets.

This unincorporated outpost inside the Rogue National Forest is also listed on the U.S. National Register of Historic Places, and just as many of today’s tourists haven’t heard of Union Creek, it was the same in the early 1900s. Back then, these woods and trails were secret stomping grounds for Teddy Roosevelt, John Muir and Jack London.

As terrific as it all sounded, leaving after so many months still made me anxious.
 
Still, after being pretty much here in our town for over a year—the Hubster accurately says grocery shopping is now his social life—we understood the dire need to both mingle and skedaddle. I also knew that if we postponed, I’d blink and six months would pass.

But calling Union Creek a resort is a misnomer.

There are no luxe spa services, golf courses or restaurants on site or nearby. The main lodge has a smattering of rooms, but mostly there are rustic cabins, some built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s.

Since I was in the mix, we opted for an updated model with a heater; tiny-but-full kitchen and bath, and queen-sized bed. There was still space to lay my yoga mat, and the shower provided plenty of hot water.

It was cold and rainy, but none of that really mattered.

We took a couple of easy hikes, really more like strolls, in the mist.

One remarkable walk was the Natural Bridge, a five-minute drive from our cabin located along the upper reaches of the Rogue River and surrounded by many hundreds of ancient trees. Stately trunks cling to cliffs above rushing water that literally disappears underground into a 250-foot lava tube. Then, all of the water slowly reappears at the surface further down the river.

Like every vacation, there were downsides.

We missed Sadie and Hank, but also knew they were in the hands of a loving and capable dog sitter.

Also, I’m a news junkie, so not having a reliable internet connection was a drag.  But we found a good signal a dozen miles away in the town of Prospect, where The Hubster ate what he says was the best hamburger of his life accompanied by perfectly cooked crinkle fries.

Will we go back to Union Creek Resort?

Absolutely.

Our reservation has already been made.

Where have you traveled since the pandemic started to wane?
​
P.S. To see part of our stunning Natural Bridge walk, copy and paste this link to your browser. Turn up the volume, too! https://www.facebook.com/larry.grant.798/videos/4675419789169782

Those who know me will likely be astounded to learn that I’ve joined a gym.
 
Having never ever wanted to be anywhere near any sign that has the words “fitness” or “workout” or even “club” in it,
I’m surprised, too.
 
In fact, I’m more up for a laid-back stroll, no hills please, and after that, an afternoon nap.
 
Choosing to move as little as possible was already apparent in high school.
 
That’s when my best friend and I talked our P.E. teacher into decorating the locker room bulletin boards rather than going outside. We still suited up, but spent the entire period cutting out construction paper into shapes and writing headlines with felt pens. I can’t be sure, but some collaging might have been in the mix, too.
 
There was more activity in college.
 
At UCLA, and only because there wasn’t any other option, I walked 20 minutes from my dorm to school on a sidewalk that ran parallel to Sunset Blvd. After my Girl Clown time, I transferred to San Jose State and rode my three-speed bike
a mile or so to class and then, living in New York City, walked more than I’d ever had to before.  
 
On the heels of a bad car accident a few decades back, I settled into a yoga practice with some walking on the side.  
 
I stayed on the mat after moving to Oregon, and had just found a yoga teacher I really liked. I paid upfront for
10 classes, and then, of course, COVID-19 shut everything down.
 
Those workouts resumed recently. But when the teacher refused to honor the punch card, and also said she wasn’t about to get a COVID-19 vaccine, it was time to move on. 
 
A neighbor mentioned the state-of-the-art gym three blocks away, complete with yoga, personal trainers and a pool. After taking a tour, The Hubster and I realized that its set monthly cost—which includes an unlimited amount of classes—was way more cost-efficient than yoga from the anti-vaxx instructor.
 
A week later, I had a new patient appointment with a physician.   
 
As expected, I was pronounced to be in excellent health. But scanning the paperwork as I walked out the door, I
stopped walking.
 
I’d put on 30 pounds in the last 15 months. 
 
Or maybe, because I’m loathe to keep a scale, some had piled on before.  
 
Still, I can justifiably blame the gain on the pandemic, during which I mostly stayed home. Like a lot of folks, I also parked my caboose in front of Netflix and Amazon Prime, surrounded by tons of highly-caloric, made-from-scratch comfort food. (Three different posts from last year are about carrot cake, Jell-O salad and snowball cookies.)
 
Still, seeing that number was shocking.  
 
But thanks to the gym I’d already joined, there’s a plan.
 
I take five classes, one each weekday. I’m also walking to and from the venue, which comes out to about 150 blocks every month. The facility was shut down for most of last year and is just getting back on its feet, so there are no weekend classes yet. On those days, I walk laps around a nearby track.
 
Besides yoga, I’m also trying out something I’ve never done—exercising in a warm pool.
 
Its official name is aqua therapy, and this sort of regime first appeared in the United States in the early 1900s as a treatment for cerebral palsy.  A few decades later, it had become so popular that Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who was paralyzed from the waist down, was a regular adherent.
 
This makes sense, because aqua therapy is especially beneficial for those who want to increase their strength and range of motion, and to decrease pain from arthritis and pain related to various types of surgeries. I especially admire one woman in my class who needs knee surgery, but says her physician won’t consider it until she takes off 100 pounds. 
 
For me, the buoyancy and pressure of the water has me successfully, and surprisingly, executing moves and poses that have always been impossible to do on land. The sole downside is that my solitary bathing suit has begun to fade, but that’s also a reason to buy a new one, or maybe two.
 
Now, having been a gym member for only three weeks, I’m amazed that I’m already stronger.
 
But more important is my upbeat emotional state.
 
As it turns out, there’s fresh research that shows why.
 
A new study—which tracked more than 18,000 middle-aged and older men and women, a demographic that I’m a part of—concluded that our exercise habits may influence our sense of purpose in life. Taking these findings a step further, a certain amount of regular exercise will likely give us a positive sense of purpose. Finally, those who commit to a  consistent regime are the most likely to stay active over time.
 
Don’t get me wrong.
 
I’ll never be as thin as I was in my 20s.
 
Likewise, I’m a very good home cook, and I enjoy both making and eating my comfort food recipes. If you tried any of them, I’m sure you’d feel the same.
 
But now that this once-every-100 years pandemic is finally abating, at least in this circus tent and likely in yours, a  healthier way of living has me on a high that feels very, very good.
 
Of course, I have no idea what this journey might bring.
 
But for now, my intention is to find out.

We’re hoping for sweet pea flowers this year in our garden. 
 
Of course, I’ll need to assume that the seeds, which were first soaked overnight in water and planted a week ago,
will germinate.
 
Next, they’ll have to push up toward the sunlight; morph into itty-bitty tendrils, and then twine around the white wood lattices bought just for them. If the vines turn out to be exceedingly fond of the spot I picked, they might reach
an astonishing height of nine feet.  
 
Finally, and if all goes as intended, I’ll gaze out our dining room window in a few months and see hundreds of blossoms
in hues ranging from deep red to soft pink to pale white. With a bit of luck and the right proportion of sugar to water,
I might even manage to keep a few vases full of the dainty-winged beauties inside the house.   
 
The luminous coloring and honey-like orange blossom fragrance of sweet peas are reason enough to keep them around.
 
But there are other, more practical details.  
 
These flowers will provide food for the neighborhood hummingbirds, who are most likely to be most drawn to the deep magenta and inky purple tints.
 
Sweet peas also complement a vegetable garden—we’re bringing in baby tomato plants next week—because they attract bees and other pollinators, which improves crop yield. The vines can also be stir-fried for a delicious side dish, and
if those bouquets inside the house work out, houseflies hate the odor and won’t linger long.
 
Sweet peas and I have our own history.
 
I was six years old when I glimpsed my first ones over our backyard fence.
 
A next-door neighbor had designated several feet of an exterior wall of her house to plant a bunch, where they grew to be nearly as tall as the wall and bloomed for months.
 
Indeed, she had so many sweet peas—the more they’re cut, the more they flower--that I came home at least once a week with bundles for my teachers.
 
Eventually I fell in with other flowers, including lavender lilacs and white daisies and yes, pink carnations. However, sweet peas stayed my first love. Indeed, when the time came to create my wedding bouquet, I made certain that a few went down the aisle with me.  
 
Given their popularity, it isn’t surprising that sweet peas were domesticated centuries ago.
 
Sicilian monk and botanist Father Francis Cupani is credited for discovering the wild sweet pea, named Lathyru odoratus, in the 1690s. So enamored was Cupani with his find that he sent specimens to friends in Holland and England. A few years later, new colors were budding throughout Europe.
 
But Scottish horticulturist Henry Eckford was The Game Changer.
 
Born near Edinburgh in 1823, Eckford’s spent his early adulthood as an apprentice at gardens throughout Scotland and England. Then, starting at 30 years old, he began cross-breeding sweet peas, which became his life’s work.   
 
In fact, Eckford is recognized as the person who transformed the plant from a humble garden subject to the Queen of Annuals, improving overall performance and making its blossoms larger and fuller. Some varieties that Eckford
​is credited with are Apple Blossom, Orange Prince, Indigo King—and over 150 more.
 
Finding out about how my best-loved flower came to be is fascinating.
 
But really, it comes down to this.
 
Sweet peas made me smile when I was six years old.
 
They still do.
 

​You can blame Jane Fonda for why I've stopped coloring my hair.   
 
Nope, I’ve never met the 83-year-old actress and activist*, whose first movie came out in 1960 and who has dual Oscars; a fistful of Golden Globes, and enough lifetime achievement awards to fill a couple of mantels.
 
But scrolling YouTube a few weeks ago, I caught a recent Zoom chat between Ellen DeGeneres and the still sassy and still stunning Fonda.
 
Right off, DeGeneres mentioned how beautiful Fonda’s nearly collar length, silver locks are looking these days.     
 
“I’m so happy I let it go gray,” she replied. “Enough already!  So much time wasted, so much money spent, so many chemicals!” Then, sliding a finger from one end of her throat to the other, Fonda said, “I’m through with that!”
 
I watched the exchange two more times.
 
Then came my epiphany to do the same.
 
Longtime friends, especially my California hairdresser, are no doubt astonished to hear about this hard turn.   
 
That’s because they know that for decades, I’ve had my hair professionally colored once every month. Years ago, the cost was $35; the price tag today has nearly doubled. Still, it was never not worth it because I always felt prettier and more confident when I left the salon.  
 
Eventually, there was another reason: I was sure these visits made me look much younger than my actual birthdate. 
 
But of course, the cycle was never-ending.  
 
I’d see those first gray roots peeking out two to three weeks after a session at the salon. So, having already booked
an appointment my last time in the chair, I’d return with checkbook in hand. I joked that my hair might be gray, or
it might not.
 
In any case, no one was ever going to find out.
 
When COVID-19 required my salon to close last March, I knew one thing: I wasn’t going to stop coloring my hair. Instead, I trotted to the nearest drugstore to buy over-the-counter hair dye for the first time ever, playing it safe with a name brand in dark brown.
 
Then I recruited the Very Reluctant Hubster to do the deed. 
 
With our bright dining room light directly above me and a few old towels draped over my shoulders, I’d hoist myself up on the swiveling stool that he had once used to sing at weddings, fundraisers and community get-togethers.
  
Now he had another job.  
 
Pulling on the thin plastic gloves that came with the tint, my spouse sighed deeply and covered my entire scalp, and sometimes a cheek, with the dark goo. I’d pile the mess into a ponytail and wait 25 minutes, and then jump in the shower to shampoo it out. 
 
It looked good.
 
But, perhaps because I also saw him cringe whenever I mentioned it was once again time for the tall chair, I began weighing other options.
 
Months had gone by, and I’d found a new hairdresser who took masking to the next level. She worked by herself in a stand-alone salon her husband had built on their property, allowing only one client in at a time. My spouse immediately said this was a great idea.  
 
However, I realize now that I’d already been thinking about going gray.
 
That might be because I’d recently heard of something called color correction, the technique that makes Jane Fonda’s hair look so terrific.  
 
Here’s what it means.
 
First and foremost, this isn’t a one-and-done situation.  Instead, it’s a two-year commitment.
 
The process starts with letting the gray roots grow out two to three inches. Then, my hairdresser will do something called stripping, which lifts the dyed color out. Once stripped, the hair is lighter and therefore more evenly matches the emerging gray on top. Another stripping appointment comes soon after, perhaps in a few days or if my hair isn’t as healthy as it needs to be, a few months.
 
As more hair grows, small “baby” highlights are applied to the darkest parts of the hair, which ensures that the overall color will be evenly toned. There might be several of these sessions, but this relaxed schedule also means the chances for breakage and dryness are greatly reduced. In-between, I’ll use a sulfate-free, purple or blue-hued shampoo to prevent brassiness, and also have regular trims to eliminate split ends.  
 
Because the process is so exact and purposeful, the final look is nuanced and beautiful.
 
Also, it’s not only Jane Fonda’s hair that’s looking terrific these days.
 
Eighty-one-year-old Ali McGraw boasts a long ponytail streaked with shades of light and dark silver. Seventysomethings Helen Mirren, Glenn Close and Meryl Streep are rocking the look as well, as well as many other Hollywood celebrities.    
 
Sooner than later, I’ll be in their ranks. 
 
I can’t wait.
 
* I did shake her father’s hand once, though. He was taller than I expected.

Girl Clown Dancing is six years old this month.   
 
So, as I’ve done each February since 2016, here’s a roundup of my favorite GCD essays from the last year. Looking
back helps me remember where I was over the last 12 months; also, it’s a glimpse of where I might be in 2021.    
 
Not surprisingly, almost every post touched on COVID-19.
 
Of course, just like most folks on the planet last January, I knew nothing of the coming pandemic.
 
So, I wrote then about having to stop the yoga class I loved after one pose that screwed up my glut so severely
that I needed to go to urgent care (https://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/hip). (Initially, I thought I’d
injured my hip; hence, the post’s title.)
 
I took some time off and in early March, found a different teacher who had a gentler practice. I paid for a series
of classes, but my timing was lousy. A week later, the plague was official and as of this posting, the studio
remains closed. 
 
However, and still blissfully unaware that the Hubster and I were going to be home a lot more, another purchase
was spot-on.
 
On an impulse, we bought an oversized puffy recliner not long after the glut incident, placing it in front of
our nearly floor-to-ceiling bay window. For a piece of furniture, it’s given us many hours of peace and
comfort (https://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/reclining).
 
Also, like many folks who have found that spending time in the kitchen is cheaper than therapy, cooking and baking
old-timey favorites helped me cope.  
 
To that end, I wrote about the Zen that comes from making snowball cookies in March
(https://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/snowballs); the nostalgia of whipping up a vintage, lime green Jell-O
salad in June (https://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/jell-o), and finding the best carrot cake ever in a
most unlikely place in October (https://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/carrot-cake).
 
There were somber essays, too.
 
May’s post is my take on a sermon from the Hubster’s pastor, first heard on a spring Sunday via Zoom. I knew
this piece probably wasn’t going to get the same number of views as my thoughts on snowball cookies, and
I was right. Now, I’m hoping more people might take the time to read it (https://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/in-between-time). 
 
My final post of 2020 reviewed one of the worst years ever. And because there was a lot of not-great stuff to
cover, it's one of the wordiest posts of the year. (https://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/2020).
 
On this topic, raconteur Mark Twain once wrote, “I didn’t have time to write a short letter, so I wrote a long one instead.” I concur; mindful wordsmithing that produces a just-right piece is absolutely more challenging to do than spilling out every thought about every little thing.  
 
So, a promise.
 
I’ll continue to do my best toward keeping a tight rein on posts, trying for 1,000 words or less.
 
Thanks for continuing to hang with this Girl Clown. 
 
Also, here’s to a year of great fortune, which includes wrangling a once-in-a-century pandemic that in one way
or another, has affected all of us. 

I’m not rich, but having a warming mattress pad makes me feel like I am.
 
Now, right at bedtime, I turn on a plastic dial near my pillow, which has heat settings between one and 20. A few minutes later, a perfectly even, toasty temperature has enveloped the sheets underneath me. The Hubster keeps an identical gauge, also close to his head, on number one. But since I’m always colder, I start at number 12 and during the night, work my way down to a four. 
 
In any case, I fall asleep, and stay asleep, a lot faster and a lot longer.
 
I never knew mattress warmers existed until well into adulthood.
 
This lack of information could be because I grew up in Southern California. In fact, I had no knowledge of flannel sheets until I was in my 30s. That being said, my mother did join the electric blanket craze when I was a teenager, buying a pastel one for each bed, then carefully packing them in their original boxes once spring came around.
 
Still, I never felt entirely comfortable using one. They absolutely kept me warm on top. But those fat coils full of electrical current also gave me a vague feeling that if I happened to turn around the wrong way in my sleep, I’d wake up on fire.
 
My first mattress warmer experience was a few decades ago.
 
I was spending an unusually cold night at a friend’s house in Hollywood, and slept in the guest bedroom with a twin
bed. When I got in, I immediately noticed how cozy and warm the bed felt. My friend explained that the mattress pad
was the warming kind, and that she had found it in a J.C. Penney catalogue. Also, she was from Canada, so knew
about such things.
 
I wanted my very own pad warmer after that, but considered it a luxury item because even the smallest one cost nearly $200. There was also the fact that I was a single mom then, and needed the money for other things like food and rent and diapers.   
 
Then, last year, we moved to Oregon.
 
This is a place, as my Ohio-born Hubster likes to say, with “real seasons.” What he means is this: winter brings snow; fall boasts gusty winds, and for at least three months of the year, freezing temperatures at night are the norm.
 
So, it was now an easy-peasy decision to invest in a mattress warmer because it had become a necessity. Another plus is that the price tag was considerably lower than when I’d last checked, with our purchase costing only a bit over $100.
 
As it turns out, getting a bed warm before climbing into one is a tricky issue that’s been around for a long time.  
 
In the Medieval era, a servant or woman of the house heated a stone or brick by the fire, then took it to bed. By the 1500s, a brass or copper warming pan shaped not unlike a large banjo hung by the hearth. At bedtime, hot embers from a woodstove were placed inside this contraption, and grabbing its long handle, were carried to sleeping quarters. There, sometimes in a zig-zag pattern, the person doing the warming started at the head of each bed, quickly rubbing the warmer in-between sheets.
 
When he was a small boy, my spouse remembers something similar.
 
He recalls visiting a very old great-great aunt and uncle who lived in upstate New York. The bed he slept in was made of feathers, and got warmed with a cast-iron version of the afore-mentioned shape. The sheets, he says, were perfectly heated when he climbed into them a moment later. 
 
Knowing how clumsy I can be, I’m grateful to live in a time where electric mattress pad warmers are available online. 
 
But if I was forced to, even knowing I might burn a few fingers along the way, I’d try to use an old banjo one.   
 
Because honestly, there’s nothing quite as wonderful as a warmed bed on a cold Oregon night.  

I think we can all agree that this has been A Year.
 
Mine began like most others, which meant hoping for a few hours of sleep before midnight.  
 
I knew the dogs were going to wake up soon, both of them frantically whining and running in circles because they couldn’t stop the gunshots that always start right before midnight. The next morning, I watched a replay of the Big Apple coming down in Times Square. 
 
Still, even then, my routine was off-kilter. 
 
I had severely stretched a glut muscle a few weeks before in a yoga class I loved. Classes were done for me, at least for a while, because the pain was so intense that I had needed a powerful shot and prescription strength pills to make it through the day.
 
Plus, I missed the Hubster. 
 
We had moved to Oregon six months before. But, my spouse also wasn’t ready to leave the band director and music teacher job in California that he loved. So we had made a deal. 
 
He found a small apartment; called every night, and promised to visit for long weekends and holidays every six weeks or so. Come summertime, the plan was that he’d give up his place down south and officially retire here.
 
But, teachers never stop teaching.
 
So, once relocated, the Hubster planned to mentor teenagers, especially those needing the steady hand of someone who has lived in their shoes. By Valentine’s Day, I had my own milieu, donating time at two grammar schools, where I read to at-risk students.
 
I loved the interaction and even though we weren’t supposed to accept hugs, sometimes, I did.
 
It was around this time that I saw a frightening post from a Facebook friend in Los Angeles.   
 
A teacher, she described suffering through the scariest respiratory infection she had ever had. She had gone to urgent care twice in one week, and the second time, was sent home with an inhaler and steroids. Doctors had no clue what the mystery illness might be.   
 
We know now it was probably COVID-19.
 
Other events caught our attention, of course. 
 
Donald Trump was impeached in Congress but acquitted by the Senate. Not long after, we learned he had known all along how dangerous and contagious the virus from Wuhan was going to be. Instead, choosing to “play it down,” he announced that the infection had affected only a few Americans and “like a miracle,” was going to go away soon.  
 
There were crazy wildfires in Australia, too, and later in the summer, millions of acres burned the West Coast. Citizens in the United Kingdom continued to fight over Brexit, and filmmaker Harvey Weinstein finally went to prison for rape.
Also, basketball legend Kobe Bryant perished in a helicopter crash, his teenage daughter beside him.
 
Then came what might be the biggest reckoning of the year.  
 
In May, 46-year-old George Floyd bought cigarettes at a convenience store with a $20 counterfeit bill. He was arrested by Minneapolis cops, who then chocked him to death. Worse, squeezing the last breath out of Floyd lasted for nearly nine minutes, all of it captured on cell phone video.  
 
While there were other killings of African Americans by law enforcement earlier in the year, and in previous years, too, this stayed with us.
 
Within a few days, and despite a raging pandemic, tens of thousands of people around the world took to the
streets, continuing their vigils into the summer and fall. And unlike the civil rights marches of the 1960s, a majority of
the protesters were white. Also, despite what some media outlets reported, more than 90 percent of the gatherings were peaceful.  
 
Hopefully, Floyd’s passing has marked the start of addressing the systemic racism that has always been a part of
our country.
 
Still, the virus was the headline.    
 
We wore masks, washed our hands and social distanced. Schools went online, which was difficult for teachers and parents, but even more so for children. The Hubster stayed here, teaching via Zoom, and also knowing he wasn’t going to return to California. Interacting with teenagers up here wasn’t about to happen anytime soon, either.   
 
For me, unhurried lunches with new friends and afternoon movie matinees stopped almost instantly. Yoga sessions and volunteer work halted, too.  
 
COVID-19 has put our lives on hold.
 
We definitely have what is called pandemic fatigue. We’re grumpy and we snap at each other. Nearly as often, we find ourselves both infuriated and frustrated when we hear about friends who, despite clear guidelines from the CDC, travel to other states for weddings and family get-togethers. Frankly, it’s exhausting.
 
Yet we’re lucky.
 
We have each other to hug. And, we’re able to pay our mortgage and put food on the table. 
 
But an astounding 22 million Americans have lost their jobs through no fault of their own, and 800 small businesses are closing every day. Food banks are running out of food, and more hospitals are at a literal breaking point, some having little or no available ICU beds or staff. As people lose hope, murders and domestic abuse and suicides are rising, too.  
 
Through it all, a good part of the country continues to move in the wrong direction.   
 
Three days after Christmas, 333,000 Americans have died from the virus, and almost 20 million of us have contracted it, sometimes leading to permanent organ damage. Equally unsettling, a disproportionate number of those affected are elderly, poor, and nonwhite. 
 
Still, there’s a glimmer of light.
 
Two COVID-19 vaccines, one from Pfizer-BioNTech and the other from Moderna, were approved for emergency use
by the FDA last month. In order to work, two shots must be administered 21 days apart, but together, the dosage has
an astounding 95 percent rate of efficiency. Politicians, health-care personnel and essential workers are the first getting immunized.   
 
At the same time, the vaccine isn’t a magic bullet. 
 
It works more like a dimmer switch, slowing the virus down until the contagion level has nearly vanished. We hope to be at the front of the line in March, but we also know that masks and distancing will be necessary for some time, perhaps most of next year.
 
I’ll take it.
 
Also, we’ll soon have a new President of the United States.
 
While Joe Biden wasn’t my first, second or even third choice, I’m thrilled with the team he is assembling.
 
He chose Kamala Harris, a woman of color, as his Vice President. And he has named Pete Buttigieg, my number one POTUS pick and openly gay, for a cabinet post, another first. Other Biden appointees also reflect the diversity of America, and all seem poised to take on global warming; public education, and our crumbling infrastructure in new ways.
 
I hope we never have another year as awful as 2020. 
 
Then again, I know that winter always turns into spring. 
 
We’re going to be okay.
      

This dark winter, I’m spending more time with words.
 
The extra alphabet wrangling began after remembering a secret drawer in the pine coffee table my late partner
had built years ago.
 
That table isn’t in our living room anymore, but has been put to good use in the bedroom for houseplants.  Here in
clay pots are yams with dozens of tangled tendrils; fragile lemon seed shoots which may or may not make it, and jade
and philodendron cuttings from California to remind me of where I came from.  
 
Directly underneath the plants is that hidden drawer, and that’s where I unearthed a forgotten and fat word
search puzzle book with only a handful of completed pages. 
 
The searches (also known as word find, word seek and wonder word) are set in square or rectangular grids, and most
are solved by circling words that read forward, backward, up and down, and diagonally, always in a straight line. 
Each puzzle also has a “spotlight” theme, which varies by book.  My book focuses on old movies and TV shows,
and is likely the reason I bought it. 
 
So, there are puzzles for the TV shows Happy Days and Thirtysomething and Sesame Street, and movies including The French Connection, The Way We Were and How Green Was My Valley.  A few singers are here, too, as well as directors and writers and bands.
 
I tackled only straight-line puzzles for years.  But then I got bored, so upped the ante with zig-zag problems, where each word has one bend in it, and then patchwords, with every word reading clockwise or counterclockwise around the edges of a square or rectangular box.  They’re more challenging but not so much that I give up.
 
And although I sold my first magazine piece in college, and think of myself as a word nut, I didn’t discover word search books until well until adulthood.  
 
Right away, though, their pages took me to a simpler and calmer space.
 
Especially this year, the puzzles kept my worried and COVID fatigued brain at bay, giving my head a bit more room for hope and optimism.  Also, it’s helpful for me to take out the book where and when I do: in our oversized puffy recliner and half an hour before bedtime.      
 
Perhaps surprisingly, word searches weren’t invented until the mid-1960s.
 
It was then that prolific Spanish hobbyist and puzzle writer Pedro Ocon de Oro came up with a word puzzle called
Sopa de Letras, or Soup of Letters, which morphed into the word searches around today.  But it was Norman Gibat,
from Norman, Oklahama, who has the distinction of printing the first English language word search. 
 
There’s even an exact date:  March 1, 1968.
 
That’s when Gibat’s small want-ad digest, distributed free to the local Safeway and other businesses, boasted a puzzle with the names of Oklahoma cities overlapping vertically, horizontally and diagonally. 
 
Gibat featured new search puzzles in later issues, and that’s when educators saw their potential value for classrooms.  Supposedly, one teacher sent Gibat’s puzzles to friends around the country and eventually, the idea of publishing a book made up of only word searches was born.
 
These days, I’m sure that most word search fans access puzzles on iPhones and computers, where they’re mostly free.  But for me, spending a few bucks to feel the book in my hands, along with a sharpened pencil and a good eraser always within reach, just feels better.
 
Plus, once I’ve finished a puzzle, I draw a happy face at the top of the page.
 

Carrot cake is my favorite cake.
 
And since I’ve long been a Cake Girl (as opposed to a Pie Girl or Cookie Girl, desserts that are both yummy, but nope, don’t hold a candle to cake), I’ve had more than a few decades to reach this conclusion.  This means that I’ve sampled thousands of slices of two and three-layer cakes, with a lot of frosting or just a little; sheet and Bundt versions, and even a few mixed together in a cast iron skillet.
 
I also bake from scratch.  So, when I talk about my most-loved cake, my point of view is of someone who knows that the finest ones never involve a mix and never skimp on ingredients. 
 
One terrific chocolate cake in my repertoire calls for a cup of strong coffee.  I’m also partial to my red velvet cake, a birthday favorite whose deep color goes hand-in-hand next to a perfect round scoop of vanilla ice cream. A few years ago I baked half a dozen classic white cakes in a row, including a Lady Baltimore, which has chopped nuts and raisins in the frosting.  But the Hubster’s tastes are more basic: a simple yellow cake with chocolate frosting is his choice.   
 
These are the kind of cakes in my mother’s cookbooks.  
 
But when I think about a carrot cake, I don’t remember ever seeing one in any book, much less on our kitchen cake plate.   
The Ohio-born Hubster swears his mom made them, but I don’t think the cake became popular in California, where I grew up, until the early 1970s.  Even then, they appeared exclusively at health food stores, although I also recall making my first one a few years later in college, baked in a rectangular Pyrex pan with just a bit of icing on top. 
 
But after my cousin make a birthday carrot cake for my daughter, I knew I had found The Best Cake Ever.
 
Her recipe, which instantly became mine, features two cups of freshly grated carrots and a small can of
crushed pineapple, which makes the cake super moist.  And like my red velvet cake, there’s no skimping on the
​cream cheese frosting.
 
Best of all, it’s a “dump cake.”  This means only a single bowl is required to make it, with each ingredient dumped one by one into the mixture until the batter is complete.  Wash the bowl while the cake is baking and voila, assembling the cream cheese frosting is done in the same bowl.
 
Then, a few weeks ago, my head and taste buds made an unexpected carrot cake turnaround.
 
I’d gone to an event at a park, and sitting on a picnic table was the biggest sheet cake I’d ever seen.  I assumed it was from a bakery, but in fact, it was from WinCo Foods, the largest supermarket around here and one I’m especially partial to because all of its 126 stores, located mostly on the West Coast, are employee owned.   
 
Still, I kept the bar low. 
 
I assumed this was going to be like any other supermarket cake I’d ever had, which is to say, dry and tasteless.  And when I saw it was a carrot cake, I knew, for sure, that compared to my dump cake I’d be underwhelmed.
 
Then I tried a slice.
 
Not only was the cake very fresh, there was a lot of visible grated carrot, chopped walnuts and even raisins.  It was also very dark and moist, which made me think that this recipe must also have pineapple. 
 
I later found out that unlike other markets whose cakes are assembled off site, WinCo cakes are made in-house with a 24-hour notice.  I also learned that I didn’t need to purchase a giant cake; I could order a quarter size sheet cake that measured nine by 13 inches.  And because it was a carrot cake, I also knew that I’d be able to divide it into individual servings that were going to freeze well.
 
Hubster picked up one about a week later and this one was just as yummy as the one I’d had in the park.  Plus, there was a lot of cream cheese frosting, which made the cake even higher than what is usually in a Pyrex dish the same size.
 
I don’t expect to start buying cakes from WinCo on a regular basis.
 
After all, I love to bake and I love to try new dessert recipes.
 
But if I’m in the mood for carrot cake, there won’t be any need to trot out my turquoise stand mixer or metal grater or glass measuring cups anymore. 
 
I’ll just call WinCo. 

Give a homeless person a home, and he or she isn’t homeless.
 
This idea has long been a no-brainer for me.  And as it turns out, it's also true.  

That's not just for Grants Pass, where we’ve lived for a year, but everywhere else, too. 
 
Of course, the devil is in the details—and because of those specifics, goes beyond coming up with a place to sleep.
 
Yet for decades, this is how our country has mostly dealt with our chronically homeless population.   
 
Often, this put-a-band-aid-on-it policy means that these underserved Americans (about 600,000 people on any given night) are afforded brief respites at warehouse-like facilities in neighborhoods where filth, poverty and crime rule.  Some towns, like ours, have places in nicer neighborhoods where they’re called “rescue missions” and are faith based.
 
They do meet an immediate need—somewhere to lie down; a hot meal, and bathroom facilities.  But at least here, there are ironclad rules: no pets, no guarantee about a room for the next night, and a requirement that everyone has to attend at least one religious service, and sometimes more, every day.
 
This isn’t a solution to homelessness. 
 
But there’s a better way, and it will be here soon.
 
It’s called transitional housing.
 
These communities are neither new nor radical. They began popping up in the United States in the early 2000s, and now include Quixote Village in Olympia, Washington; Community First in Austin, Texas, and Second Wind Cottages in Newfield, New York.  Most feature tiny modular homes, sometimes single or sometimes a duplex, usually with a front porch and big enough inside for a bed and bureau.  A small amount of monthly rent is required; pets are generally allowed, and residents vary from a handful to a few hundred. Some allow children and some don’t.  But everyone is carefully vetted before admittance.  
 
These enclaves are also much more cost effective than letting the homeless wander the streets. 
 
In fact, with increased time in hospitals, overnights in jail and emergency shelter, taxpayers fork out about $40,000
per year per homeless person. But with transition programs, lives are supported by offering homes that can cost as
little as $1,500. 
 
Those who live here can also breathe a sigh of relief—gone are worries about safety; belongings being stolen, or where to find shelter on any given night.  
 
But the real key to success is case management.     
 
So, each enclave also has a brick-and-mortar community center, where social workers, mental health professionals and counselors connect residents to opportunities previously impossible, such as job training; applying for veteran and food benefits, and how to obtain a GED. 
 
Additionally, each center has mailboxes; a kitchen and dining area, and bathroom facilities.  Community gardens are also common, with sweat equity mandatory.  Most residents take about six months to successfully transition to an off-site home and job, but no one is evicted if goals haven’t yet been met.   
 
Now, a tiny home community for the homeless is coming to Grants Pass.
 
It’s named Foundry Village after the street where it’s located.  And, despite the COVID-19 pandemic; a contentious election year, and raging fires in this part of the state, groundbreaking is slated to happen by the end of this year.  
 
I’d heard about this project when we moved here last summer.
 
But the Village had been stalled by red tape and city leaders who believed this sort of housing was going to cause home values to plummet (they haven’t in other communities); excess littering around the area (hasn’t happened), and increased noise complaints to police (that hasn’t occurred either). 
 
It took over a year, but once Foundry steering committee members presented accurate facts and figures to the powers blocking the idea, as well as offering tours of an established transitional community about 35 miles south, the project was green lighted.   
 
This kind of housing won’t work for everyone.
 
But the overall success rate stands at 60 percent, and given that many residents have been previously homeless for years, those are pretty good odds.
 
The Hubster and I feel strongly that Foundry Village has a place here.
 
So, to the extent that we can, we’re volunteering time to make it a reality.
 
Masked, socially distanced and outside, we work at a booth a few hours every Saturday at our local Growers’ Market.  There’s a one-gallon glass jar on the table for donations, but mostly, we offer information.  That means answering questions; giving out pamphlets, and reassuring folks that Foundry Village will be A Very Good Thing for Grants Pass.  
 
And perhaps surprisingly, except for one man early on, who grumbled that “at least now we’ll know where they all are,” we’ve received an overwhelmingly positive response.
 
For those who can’t pull themselves up by the bootstraps because they don’t have boots, we hope to give them the
shoes they’ll need.  
 
Find out more about Foundry Village at www.foundryvillagegrantspass.com/.