I love freelance writing, but I hate having to chase what I’m owed.
 
In the years since I started my writing business, I’ve had terrific clients who pay as soon as they receive an invoice. But sadly, about half of those who hire me hem and haw when it comes to paying the bill.
 
This, in spite of the fact that every one of them praises my work.   
 
Here’s a case in point.
 
Last year, a client who helms a very successful Lasik company in California wanted web site copy for a new venture. In explaining her eye surgery company, she made it clear that she was a very wealthy woman. So, I gave her my hourly rate—much less than what a Los Angeles or New York City writer charges--and she seemed ready to go. Indeed, she already had a domain and knew her goal: to convince movers and shakers in her town to expand the local airport.  
 
I’ll note here that while the topic was fun, this wasn’t an easy-peasy assignment.   
 
Among other requests, she wanted stories and the research behind them about how the location came to be an airport; famous flights that had arrived and departed, as well as the facility’s part in World War I and World War II. Some phone interviews were also in the mix. She had their names but little contact information; I had to dig that up myself.
 
After completing the initial consulting end of the job, I sent her an invoice.
 
She got off a check right away. But instead of making payment out to me, she wrote the name of my business. My bill had been very clear about using my name. Nonetheless, hope springs eternal: I took the check to my bank. Not surprisingly, the bank refused to deposit it. So I tore up the check, mailed it back, and then explained that I was going to keep working.
 
However, I’d now need another check, one that was properly made out.
 
This time, it took a couple of weeks to receive payment.  Thankfully, though, she followed directions.
 
As promised, I completed the job after several weeks, always making sure to communicate with her about what I was writing. Then, I emailed a final invoice for $300.
 
Not long after, new excuses began.   
 
One was that while my writing was great, I hadn’t penned exactly what she wanted.
 
Now, she really only wanted captions to historical photos, not the one and two-page features on the topics I had
sent her and that we had agreed upon. Next time I called her office, I was informed that she was in Texas
on an extended stay.
 
Luckily, I had her cell number. 
 
On this call, she told me she had instructed someone at her business to pay me while she was away. “You know how it is,” she said. “People never do any work when I’m gone!” She promised to contact her supposed-to-mail-the-check employee right away.
 
Of course, this took more time and more calls on my part. Well over a month after sending the invoice, I
​received payment.
 
Other stories in my collection scrapbook include a large public university which took over two months to pony up. Another client opined that she hadn’t paid me because her children were sick. With the latter, I sent a sympathetic email telling her I was praying for her kids, and then knocked on her front door the next day. She quickly figured out that I wasn’t going to leave until I received my money, so, she got out her checkbook.  
 
Still, I wasn’t going to take any chances. I cashed the check at her bank before going home.
 
I know it’s not only freelance writers who deal with this.
 
The list includes most folks who identify as self-employed—artists, interior decorators, teachers, house painters and yes, even clowns. Also, I remember that decades ago, doctors and dentists mailed bills. But now, medical offices post signs stipulating that payment is due at the same time services are rendered. Come to think of it, plumbers and electricians and handymen operate the same way.
 
I wish my freelancing didn’t have to include wearing a collection hat.
 
But as long as I keep writing, and until a new rubric comes along, it’s part of the job. 

Retirement has made life simpler.
 
To clarify, this isn’t about the world stage. 
 
On that platform, we continue to struggle with the global pandemic being steered by the driver that’s COVID-19. And, even though we’re now in the third year of living with this tricky and sneaky virus, the infection marches on, having a major impact everywhere—a tragic mess impacting millions.  
 
Here in the United States, crazy inflation has made budgeting a losing proposition since nearly everything costs more. This even applies to Dollar Store items, whose price tags often no longer reflect the name of the business. There are also supply chain burps, not just with toilet paper, but in our area, lumber and Mason jars.
 
Covering all of this is the jumbo circus tent that’s the Russian invasion into Ukraine.
 
From the aggressor’s perspective, the attack hasn’t gone the way it was supposed to go—instead lasting much longer,
and with many more casualties on both sides.
 
Vladimir Putin might be a madman, or he might be set on making the destiny he has imagined for so long—the return of the Soviet Union by taking over adjacent, weaker countries. He very well might be both. As I write, though, Ukraine continues to fight back against bigly odds, despite heavy losses of human life and cities bombed into rubble.
 
It's all so heartbreaking.
 
But here at home, in our blue-and-white house on a one-block street in Oregon, things are less complicated.
 
I was sort of aware of this new shift, but didn’t really notice it until I saw it in black and white.  
 
Literally.
 
We were filling out our income tax worksheets, the dreaded, annual assignment from my trusted accountant. Once completed—and I drag that process out for weeks—our scribbles give him with the information he needs to ensure our tax return is done right.  
 
But, as I began retrieving records and filling out the paperwork, one Very Big Thing started to stick out.
 
For the first time ever, a lot of spaces could be left blank.
 
It seems that retirement does this sort of thing.
 
Breaking it down a bit, it’s now no longer necessary to keep track of the many expenses that went hand-in-hand with our previous working lives.   
 
For instance, we continue to drive, but never use our vehicles for anything job related.
 
So, we no longer have to log the cost of car washes and repairs, new tires, insurance and mileage. The Hubster once used his van to travel to homes to teach private music lessons, but these days, none of the above is necessary.  Also, since those lessons are now behind him, ditto for deducting the office supplies used to bill students, including printing costs, stamps and envelopes.  
 
On my side, I continue to score writing work, but now it’s part-time and all remote. Interviews are conducted over the phone or online instead of in person, although as a freelancer, I can, and do, claim deductions for books; subscriptions to magazines, and journals. 
 
Of course, I need my computer to write, so I made sure to save the receipt I received for my new keyboard and its installation (I used my PC so much last year that several of the keys stopped functioning.)
.
But all in all, there are many less worksheet items to fill in than there used to be. 
 
Simplifying our lives doesn’t mean we’re sitting around.
 
We’re just on a different schedule.  
 
I take aquatic classes at our neighborhood gym nearly every morning, and the Hubster has also started working out at the same venue a few times during the week.  He also spends a good amount of time grocery shopping at various markets, which he is happy to admit makes up most of his social life.
 
As for keeping my brain active, the book club I belong to, as well as writing questions for Quora and puzzling out Wordle, is helping.
 
Finally, with COVID-19 winding down in our part of the world, at least right now, we’re planning on a good deal of traveling later this year.
 
We’re not going all that far, but there are friends in Seattle, and The Daughter and The Boyfriend are in Los Angeles. A dear friend has offered us his family’s beach house not far from Portland. Another intended journey that’s slated for autumn is meandering along blue highways* in Oregon.There won’t be a set schedule for this trip. Instead, we’ll stop when we please, checking out roadside motels, diners and non-touristy historical sites.
 
The simplicity of this post-job life is proving to be an interesting chapter for both of us.
 
We’re both getting used to it. Mostly, we’re also liking it.
 
 
* This descriptive noun comes from the 1978 autobiographical travel book, which is also titled Blue Highways. These are small and mostly forgotten, out-of-the-way roads that connect rural America--drawn in blue on the old-style road maps of the day.
    
 

(A note: I didn’t set out to write this post for Girl Clown Dancing. Instead, it’s the essay I submitted to the Modern Love column in The New York Times—the gold standard for essayists. Hundreds of very personal stories, or more likely thousands, are submitted every year from around the world to its editors, with less than 100 ever seeing the light
​of day. So, I knew the chance of seeing this published was slim to none. I was right.
 
But going through the process was absolutely worth it. 
 
One more thing: I thought the O. Henry ending, as well as mentioning my time as a professional circus clown
and memories of living in New York City, were unusual enough to nudge the editors toward publication. But in
retrospect, my story probably wasn’t “modern enough” to meet the column’s current criteria. To this end, my essay
isn’t about falling in love while navigating a nasty divorce; meeting one’s soulmate in the middle of a pandemic,
or the challenging work of bonding with a stepchild.
 
Still, I really like how this came out. Also, I worked hard on it. Enjoy!)

 
 It was what used to be called a one-night stand.
 
Perhaps because I’d never done such a thing before or since, and probably because the attraction was also more overwhelming than anything I’d ever experienced, forgetting him, even after decades, proved to be impossible. 
 
Just a few weeks before Christmas, I found him.
 
John had been dead for close to a year.
 
I’m online a lot, so whenever he snuck into my head, about every four or five months, I’d do a quick search to see if I could find out whatever happened to him.  As it turned out, I had been spelling his first name right but his last name wrong all of this time, sometimes with an extra letter, or sometimes with the correct letters but one misplaced vowel. 
 
Now, finally nailing the configuration, I sat in my office, starred at the computer screen, and read John’s obituary.
 
He had died in a long-term nursing home, his spouse of 35 years beside him. 
 
That final place was in Mexico, Missouri, the town where John was born and raised, and had returned to 15 years before. Scanning the memorial guestbook, I let out a loud exhale after clicking on what appeared to be his wedding day photo.
It had been snapped in my California hometown of Long Beach, the city where we had met.
 
The picture was posted by John’s widow Christine. We both had hazel eyes and dark brown hair, and wore it the same way, curly and above our collar line. 
 
I had dropped out of college and already knew a little about John the night we came together, at a cramped and dingy bar frequented by reporters and editors. Not coincidentally, it was across the street from the newspaper where
he worked.
 
John was the political cartoonist for the Long Beach Press-Telegram, and his drawings were smart, sassy and on-target with issues of the day. In person, he was curious; had a big laugh, and knew how to listen. 
 
Then there were his looks.
 
If not for the Southern drawl, John might have been mistaken for someone who grew up in Malibu—in his 30s and not an ounce of fat, but tall and lean and tan, with sun bleached hair and a casual cut neither too long nor too short. When I see photos of Jeff Bridges at his most hunky, I see John as well.
 
I was short and curvy, with unruly hair and decidedly Eastern European looks. I couldn’t imagine why anyone who
looked like him might want to be with someone who looked like me, even for one night. But I guess, at least right
then, he did.
 
We left at the same time, both knowing what was going to happen next. 
 
Besides the charged anticipation, there was an assured innocence, too.
 
After all, this was long before anyone had heard of AIDS or any of the other scary complications that sometimes happen now after sleeping with strangers. It was also the peak of the contemporary women’s movement, and a time when reliable birth control was easily available. Putting both components together, it was more than okay to be sexually active. It was, in fact, something to be celebrated.
 
It was very dark and probably close to 11 o’clock when I got in my car and John got in his.
 
I followed him to the white Spanish style house he rented with a roommate I never did meet, on a street named after a tree common to California. I also remember the bed. It was on the floor, big enough for two, and the sheets smelled as if they had just come out of the dryer.
 
Details aren’t needed here, except to say that both of us got what we wanted, and many times over, with only an hour
of sleep.
 
And while I don’t remember much small talk, I did tell John that I had been a professional circus clown for a time, coming off the road the year before. Also, I mentioned that I was Jewish. 
 
Hours later, with the sun beginning to rise, he propped one elbow on the bed, hand on his cheek, looking hard at me. ‘’Damn!” he said, in that sweet twang.  “You’re the first Jew I ever slept with!” 
 
Shortly after that, the phone rang. It was one of John’s colleagues, inviting him to see some sort of NASA landing in
the desert several hours away. John told me he really wanted to go, and so, he did. I must have left at the same time.
 
We stayed in touch for a few months. But the white-hot intensity had dissipated by then, and we lost contact. 
 
I eventually received a journalism degree from San Jose State, doing some birthday clowning gigs to help pay my tuition. I had also sold a piece on flea market tips to Seventeen, and right after graduation, because I wanted to write for magazines and because that’s where all of the big ones were, moved to New York City.    
 
First I lived in the East Village with one roommate and hundreds of cockroaches, and then snagged a walk-through apartment three flights up in Brooklyn, all for myself, on Henry Street. The kitchen featured stained burgundy carpet and the bathroom was in the hallway, but the place also boasted a spectacular view of the Statue of Liberty. 
 
Not long after, I had a job as an editorial assistant for a small publishing house and then was a staff writer for the CBS company magazine. 
 
Four years after leaving California, I came back because I missed driving, my friends and the beach. I found a pink duplex in the flats of Beverly Hills and wrote press releases about celebrities, then reported for a weekly film industry publication. Eventually, I thrived in a long career as a network television producer.   
 
However, I had stayed in contact with a few people at the Press-Telegram, where John still worked.  
 
Committed to no commitment when we met, I learned then that nearing his mid- 40s, he had married Christine. 
 
The obit provided other facts I’d never known.
 
After graduating from Mexico High School, John was an Army officer in Vietnam with the infamous Big Red One unit,
a fact that made him immensely proud.  Indeed, he had landed in Southeast Asia in time to take part in the 1968
​Tet Offensive, the notorious and bloody campaign that marked a major escalation for the United States in the war.
 
At around this time, he had also left a brief marriage and a four-year-old son behind.     
                                                                             
After leaving the military, John attended the University of Missouri, majoring in history, which became a lifetime passion. Described as a cartoonist, artist and author, the last sentence of the memorial defined the person I remember. “Everyone that knew John thought he was a nice guy, a great story teller, and a hard loving man.”
 
In the funeral home guestbook, a retired colleague from the newspaper, and a Vietnam vet as well, offered more.
 
“John was my friend,” he wrote. “I have a lot of acquaintances, but very few friends.” The writer went on to describe the lengthy walks the two took every morning for more than a decade, long after I knew him, where they “solved all the world’s problems, swapped lies and dirty jokes, and bonded the way brothers are supposed to. We laughed a lot and cursed a lot and tried our best to leave a legacy of peace and love.” 
 
The researcher and writer that I am wanted further details. Luckily, the reporter was easy to find and open to answering a few questions. 
 
To let him know I was who I said I was, I included my Facebook handle, which has photos of my days as a clown. 
 
“I expect you were among his fonder memories,” he wrote back. “For a one-nighter, you picked a good one.” 
 
The reporter went on to tell me about the historical novel John had co-authored, set right before the Civil War
and published in 2007. It remains in print and while there are only five reviews, each one is stellar in its praise. 
 
The friend also mentioned that near the end, knowing he was dying of cancer but upbeat, John was working on a
second book. 
 
He had also reconnected with his long-estranged son, with whom he’d lost touch with after Vietnam. “In my last conversation with him,” added the reporter, “he was fairly giddy over the fact had he had a couple of grandchildren.”
 
One more thing came out. 
 
“Some considerable irony here,” the friend wrote. “Christine was a professional birthday clown when she and John met.”

So, now, living in a big blue and white house in Oregon, with a front porch wide enough for two Adirondck rockers,
one for my husband and another for me, I wonder.
   
What if the chemistry that John and I acted on that one night so long ago hadn’t vanished? What if I had stuck around my hometown, and ended up in Mexico, Missouri?
 
I’ll never know.
 
But then again, for some reason, I don’t think I should. 

Earlier this year, I had high hopes that I’d never need to write about COVID-19 again.
 
But here we are.
 
Despite the easy availability of three very effective vaccines, all of which are free of charge, millions of Americans are continuing to resist the jab. Meanwhile, death rates are again on the rise.  

As I write, one in every 500 of us has now passed from COVID-19. Also, there are now close to 2,000 reported deaths in the United States every day, and about 114,000 new cases per day.
 
Looking at these stats from a longer lens, over 692,000 Americans have now passed from the virus—which more than matches the number of Americans killed in World War II, Korea, Vietnam and the 9/11 attacks combined.
 
Lastly, pretty much everyone who has died this year was unvaccinated.    
 
Generally speaking, members of The Anti-Vaxx Crusade hang out in one of three circus tents.  More often than not, there’s some overlapping.
 
The largest and loudest group insists that personal freedom should always take priority over public health and safety and the greater good of the community.
 
They’re the folks we hear the most about because they make great TV sound bites—captured by news crews at rallies, hoisting signs and yelling outside hospitals. Part of their noisy platform, too, is that lawmakers will never be able to force them to inject or ingest anything that they’re not 100 percent sure about. 
 
However, this group ignores the fact that mandated immunizations for children is the law in most states, and has been for decades. They also seem to have forgotten about downing artificial sodas; eating mystery meat in fast food tacos, and purchasing iridescent-colored yogurt for their kids’ lunch boxes.
 
The second faction is those who insist they have “natural immunity.”
 
These folks proudly announce that they’ve never had a flu shot and never will. Also, they swear that their super healthy bodies can fight off every infection that will ever come their way since they eat organic; meditate regularly, and take herbal supplements. The owner of an established health food store in my town is a vocal advocate. He’s also a
city councilman. 
 
Finally, there are those who have made the vaccine political. 
 
Most of them voted for Donald Trump, who very early on knew how bad the virus was, but decided to “play it down.” In fact, just before the country entered its initial lockdown, he also said, “One day—it’s like a miracle—it will disappear.”
 
Where I live, a good number of these believers are uber evangelical Christians, who think masks and social distancing are ridiculous because God will always protect them. This group is also comprised of those who insist the virus is a liberal global hoax created to scare us, and that the number of deaths is far less than what we’ve been told. 
 
I remember a different time and a different virus.  
 
One of my earliest memories is standing in line for my first polio shot at the community center in our neighborhood park.
 
This vaccine really was considered a miracle—so much so that when its approval came down the pike, church bells across the United States pealed in celebration. There was, of course, no social media, Fox News or YouTube influencers with zero scientific background to tell us otherwise.  
 
Today, polio has been eradicated.
 
It’s hard to say where we stand now.
 
There was a short window of time, maybe only a month, when all of those who were completely vaccinated took our masks off. The Hubster and I had dinner with another fully jabbed couple at a crowded bar; made travel plans, and thought about taking in a play.  
 
Then a monster wave called the Delta variant arrived.
 
Despite pummeling India and the UK earlier this spring and summer, this way more contagious and dangerous deviation came as a surprise. Indeed, its advent was especially disconcerting to those of us who were sure the worst of the pandemic was in the rear-view mirror.  
 
Physician J. Stacey Klutts works with the National Director of Pathology and Lab Medicine for the entire Veteran’s Administration, and in a Tampa Bay News article, unpacked Delta this way.
 
“It has a particular collection of mutations that make it extremely effective in attaching to human cells and gaining entry,” he wrote. “If the original COVID strains were covered in syrup, this variant is covered in ultrafast-drying Gorilla Super Glue, the industrial strength.”
 
Klutts added that Delta is also problematic for youngsters not yet eligible for the vaccine.
 
“You spew enough of any human pathogen on someone without immunity,” he said, “and it’s not going to end well.”
 
However, some hope might be at hand.
 
Following the science, mammoth corporations including Google, McDonalds and United Airlines are now requiring that employees be vaccinated. The Biden administration has also announced that our more than 1.3 million military troops on active duty must get the shot.
 
Too, federal employees and contractors doing business with the government have to follow the same protocol. Also, workplaces with 100 workers or more fall under this policy. Finally, the White House is putting pressure on entertainment venues to require patrons to show proof of vaccination or a recent negative COVID-19 test.
 
Once this multi-tiered approach is complete, another 100 million Americans will have had their shot in the arm.  Still, with the central question of exactly how much authority the government has to regulate workplace safety, there’s a long road ahead to that end. Lawsuits have already been filed.  
 
Ultimately, it’s up and each and every one of us to do our best to reduce the level of virus around us.
 
And, getting the COVID-19 shot is the very best road to that end.
 
So, please.
 
If you haven’t done it yet, get vaccinated. If you’re eligible for a booster shot, get that as well.
 
Remember, too, to keep clean masks at hand and wear them properly. Also, play outside; continue to social distance,
and wash hands thoroughly. Most of all, heed the good advice from trusted virologists and medical centers,
​including Anthony Fauci, Johns Hopkins University and The Mayo Clinic.
 
All have a front-row seat to what’s coming next. 
 
Until then, know that in time, winter always turns into spring.  

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.
 

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.

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'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.