Women Making History Journal

Beverly Butler Faragasso

SATURDAY, MAY 23: my first entry

I am at the kitchen table my father made. It comfortably seats four people, but, when I was growing up, my parents, my grandmother, my sister and I managed to squeeze around it every night for dinner. I always felt comfortable, however, and, when my parents moved and gave it to me, I was thrilled, for the worn wood and the metal hinges that sometimes need to be re-tooled are all part of my family’s story. My husband and I have now added our story to it, because at this table, we type, we eat, we write in long-hand, we sort through mail, we play Scrabble, we read the newspaper, we Zoom and we have the most intense discussions.

Our good friend, Kathy, told me about this project. She and her husband, John, have always been supportive of my writing. I wore her wedding tiara on my wedding day and John was Frank’s Best Man. I am glad Kathy knows me well enough to know that this project would interest me. Thanks, Kathy.

Although I do not know where my writing will lead, I can only hope that what I say here will resonate in a positive way with someone. So, for thirty days, I will put the computer on this table that my father made, roll up my sleeves (sometimes literally, sometimes metaphorically) and simply write.

As I have on many days, I hear birds chirping and I look out the glass door next to where I sit to catch a glimpse. I catch them in flight and I envy their freedom. Our bedroom door is just a few yards away and my husband sleeps, his breath a steady, low whistle, a bit like a kettle that needs to be taken off the stove. He has Parkinson’s and asthma and I do not wake him when he sleeps a little later. This is the way it is. Everything seems normal, like it always has been, the way we have grown accustomed to it being, like the birds taking flight, I guess. Of course, everything is not normal. My husband and I have been in a self-imposed quarantine since March 11. Frank has left our house only to get blood drawn for a telemedicine appointment with his doctor. I leave the house once a week for a ten-minute outdoor visit with my father, who, at ninety-seven, lives alone. I hope that the sight of me will sustain him, like my twice daily phone calls. When I leave my father’s apartment complex, I pick up our mail.

Everything else, even grocery shopping, I do on-line. I do not think of myself as particularly computer savvy, so, it is a way of living that is new, scary, looking into a digital box, trying to figure out how to buy food, yarn, scotch tape, just to shorten the time I am in the car, in the street, in stores. Well, truth be told, I haven’t been inside a store since early March.

Beverly F. 

SUNDAY, MAY 24

Last night we zoomed for the first time with Frank’s son and his family, who live in New Zealand. Long after the call, I found myself thinking about how different our lives have become because of the way our countries handled the pandemic. Frank’s son and daughter-in-law and their children seemed much more casual, relaxed, about it. Frank and I, on the other hand, are rarely relaxed. Frank worries that, despite being self-quarantined for seventy-five days, as of today, he might be asymptomatic for the virus. And, for me, every venture outside is fraught with fear. The night before I go out, I put my mask, my gloves, my sanitizer in the car. If I am going to take food to my father, I prepare and wrap it ahead of time and if I am going to mail letters and envelopes I put them, along with Daddy’s food, on the passenger seat. I do this because I do not want to have to return home, even though our mail pick-up and package delivery is just three minutes one way and the drive to my father’s apartment is forty minutes round-trip. I do not want to make a second run. As with climate change, I am trying to reduce my foot or car print. I am also very afraid that Frank might fall and end up in the hospital, so I do not want to be gone for longer than an hour. In fourteen and a half years of marriage, I have nursed him through six back surgeries and I have always been able to stay at the hospital all day and sometimes all night.

Times have changed.
Frank is calling me.

 Beverly F.

MEMORIAL DAY

I am in the kitchen when I hear “something” falling, metal on tile, I think. I run to the bathroom and find Frank crouching by the sink, various items, one an unidentifiable metal object, perhaps a part to or a part of something, scattered on the floor. “Did you fall?” I ask. He shakes his head. The saliva in his mouth is probably too thick for him to talk. This happens with Parkinson’s sometimes. I help Frank into the seat of his walker, lift his feet, concretized, immobile, onto the foot rests and wheel him into the bedroom. My hands shake a little. This is fear. About a month ago, I wrote:

I have warned my husband. “Be careful.” “Hold onto your walker with both hands.” I remind him that neither one of us can go to the hospital. I am afraid, I tell him. I am crazy afraid.

Frank is okay.
This time, Frank is okay.
He was hospitalized for one night in December and caught the flu a few days

later. He was then hospitalized in January for two nights and I slept in my clothes on a sofa next to his bed.

At the hands of Minnesota police, a man died today over a small amount of counterfeit money. Twenty dollars. Twenty dollars!

The coronavirus death count in America is rising. 

Beverly F. 

TUESDAY, MAY 26

I have just finished reading two articles in The New York Times on two very different situations in England. One is about a scientist, Peter Piot, who, despite fighting Ebola and AIDS, contracted the coronavirus. Before falling ill, Piot says he “... underestimated this one – how fast it would spread.” According to the reporter, Piot also took “no particular precautions.” His story is certainly a cautionary tale. The second article describes how the assistant to the Prime Minister has been given a “pass” for not following lockdown regulations. Defying those rules, he drove a long distance to see his parents. Given that I dis-invited my father in mid-March from coming to our house, I sympathize with the British public. About that dis- invitation, I wrote:

“Daddy,” I began in a phone call I did not want to make, “I don’t think you should come tonight.” He said he understood.

When I hung up, I agonized. Did he understand the fear I felt for him; for my husband, who is 77 and has Parkinson’s and asthma; indeed, for myself, at 65, sleeping with a CPAP machine for sleep apnea? I went to bed, no answers forthcoming. It felt as if, until this pandemic ends, my father, who does not use technology, and I would not see each other (New York Times: March 22, 2020).

A few days after this was published, I began my outdoor visits.

It is my godson’s twenty-eighth birthday today and his wife is surprising him with a Zoom birthday card from family and friends. A photograph of me hugging my godson’s mother when she was pregnant with him has been spliced into the video with my voice wishing him, “Happy Birthday.” 

Beverly F. 

WEDNESDAY, MAY 27

I heard the rain – pounding, thunderous, sudden – before I saw it. It is unrelenting, and today the moment of its descent catches me by surprise. The rain licks the sides of our house, and, with each slurp, I ask Frank if he thinks we should go to his eye doctor’s appointment, hoping he will say, “No, we should cancel.” He asks me to help him get his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, and I know that, of course, he wants to go. “Promise me,” I say, “that you will tell me to turn around if you think it’s too dangerous.”

We go, of course, and everything is fine. The rain has become a drizzle and the doctor’s office has implemented changes, such as plexiglass shields at the reception desk, that make me more comfortable. I do not sit down in the waiting room, however: I pace the floor, pushing Frank’s walker until his name is called.

Beverly F.

THURSDAY, MAY 28

I wake up and I fall, metaphorically and literally, to my knees because over three hundred thousand people have died across the globe from a virus we will never see. 

Beverly F.

FRIDAY, MAY 29

The officer who pressed his knee on the neck of the African American man on Memorial Day was arrested. Typing “on the neck” is surreal, as though my fingers did not, could not, type those words. Our country and the world are reeling from the virus that is present everywhere, threatening our lives, our livelihoods, and, now this – unbelievable.

And, yet, believable.

You cannot tell from my earlier entries that I am African-American or that Frank is Italian-Irish-American. Well, we are, and time and again, we have had people assume that I am my husband’s paid caregiver, not his wife. This is insignificant, compared to losing one’s life. Both situations, however, are about invisibility, a state that Frank and I know all too well. We are often the unseen or the mistaken, particularly in the eyes of strangers, and that is vexing.

These situations are also about some people willfully confusing accidents with choices. So much in life is accidental, such as the chronic illness of old age and the color of one’s skin. I will never understand why some people choose to believe that illness and race are choices. Frank and I know they are not. I am angry that some people think this and then act hatefully.

Frank was a wrestler in high school and a runner later in life. When I first met him over two decades ago, he was still working. When we got married, he packed his own bags for our honeymoon and he continued to work for almost four years. I pack our bags now. That Parkinson’s has robbed Frank of his ability to assemble his clothes and toiletries into a suitcase, that it often robs him of his ability to walk and sometimes even to talk are not choices. And, each time strangers call him “Buddy” and patronize him with praise (“Good for you!”), they don’t see this historian who has studied the life of Frederick Douglass and the Civil War and who danced at our wedding and whose mind is still sharp.

The only photograph we have of my great-great grandmother hangs in our guest room. Enslaved all her life, she lived to be at least one hundred. When I tell white people that all the children she bore were fathered by the man who owned her, I am often asked, “Did she love him?” They don’t hear or understand the absurdity of the question, for what does that matter when my great-great grandmother lived an invisible life devoid of choices? 

Beverly F. 

SATURDAY, MAY 30

Protests are erupting across America in honor of the man who was murdered. There have also been riots. Another surreal time. I am, for now, sitting here, without words.

I cannot type another sentence. 

Beverly F. 

SUNDAY, MAY 31

My father joined us on our back porch this afternoon. This is the second time we have done this. I asked him to walk around the side of the house, so he did not have to walk through the house. We sat six feet apart, masked. I remember feeling very awkward the first time, but today, as Frank dozed (he did not sleep well last night), Daddy and I had a rich conversation. Knowing that I cannot hug my father reminds me that no matter how good, how rich, the conversation, we are living in a strange time, and, because, for now, there is no finale, no end in sight, I find myself defining my life by pre and now and post.

I do not ask my father, but I do wonder what this man who grew up in the segregated South thinks about what is happening in our country today. I do not ask, because I know my question will only stir up pain. I think it is painful enough for him to be living alone, not able to come here and linger over dinner, not able to drive where he pleases.

Later, I watched a crochet DVD and tried to imitate the stitches, a reprieve from all that is going on in our country. Stitch by stitch, the instructor is teaching us how to make an afghan.

We are watching a television program now and a commercial crowded with people comes on and I tell Frank, “That must have been made pre.” 

Beverly F.

MONDAY, JUNE 1

I am inside a mother’s fear this morning. My cousin Thera tells her sister, my sister and me in an anguished text that her son is one of the Philadelphia police officers who is “on the ground” in the midst of a protest/riot. Although I have no children of my own, I feel a mother’s fear today.

Internalizing my cousin’s fear made me realize that mothers (and fathers) of protestors, of officers, of anyone who is “out front,” may be feeling the same anguish. I say this not to excuse what some officers do to African American men (often African American men, but not always) who have been stopped or who are in custody; rather, I say this because we share a collective, complicated, very human fear because of a collective, complicated problem. What is the solution?

 Beverly F.

TUESDAY, JUNE 2

Today I spoke to my sister, Rita, and my friend, Cathy. Rita has Multiple Sclerosis and I worry about her. Cathy lives alone and I worry about her too. I worry, even though they are both capable, strong, amazing women. I worry, nonetheless. Perhaps they do not need my worry. My sister has the ability to look at an impossible problem and find a solution. This made her a good teacher and I have often relied on her wisdom. She also has a supportive husband, Billy. Cathy and I were hired as English professors on the same day at least four decades ago. She was an excellent teacher, organized, creative and knowledgeable. Yes, Rita and Cathy do not seem to need my worry.

Gina and I used to talk once a month. With our lives a little less structured now, we talk whenever we can. We text more than we call. In a few days, she will celebrate her birthday and I will send a gift.

Perhaps tomorrow I will be able to answer the question I asked yesterday.

Beverly F.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 3

Early in the pandemic, our friend, Bill, invited us to join him and his wife, Annette, for a Wednesday night Zoom, and this has become our very nice, very necessary tradition. Our souls need this and we look forward every Wednesday to talking with them, sometimes about the pandemic, occasionally about our country, often just about our lives.

These conversations have revealed aspects of ourselves that are fun surprises. For example, we did not know until we started zooming that our friends have a knack for telling jokes.

After we zoomed, Frank and I rented The Maltese Falcon: my brother-in-law taught us how to do this inexpensively from our television. Frank slept through a bit of the movie, but I put down my crochet hook to follow the plot. Twice when the movie was on television years ago, I always seemed to catch it in the middle, and, as a consequence, was puzzled by the ending. Although the movie was an interesting, but not particularly intellectual diversion, one thing struck me: the female lead, who turns out to be the villain, admits that she cannot tell the difference between her lies and her reality. I think we are at a time in American society where some of us have also lost our ability to make this distinction. This is troublesome. Every relationship – between spouses, friends, communities, nations, countries – cannot endure without truth.

What needs to be said? What needs to be done? What is the solution to our shared problem? I don’t know. I do believe that we need to be talking and talking and talking on a regular basis, as Annette, Bill, Frank and I do, until our country figures out who we are and where we are and, most importantly, who we want to be and where we want to go. Perhaps we also need to talk whenever, as Gina and I do. And, the people talking need to be representative of the community, the city, the state. That means that farmers, teachers, single parents, same sex couples, heterosexual couples, small business owners, big business owners, hospitals, churches, people with chronic illnesses, people with children, people without children, etc. must all be invited to the conversation. And, those at the table must be racially and culturally diverse.
When I park the car in handicapped parking, I often get annoyed that the ramp is usually on my side, not the passenger side where Frank sits. If we had been invited to the conversation before the space was designated, we would have suggested that ramps be put on both sides. This is the kind of talk that needs to happen throughout our country about a variety of problems. How else can we get “it” right? How else can we answer all the questions that must be asked? How can we even figure out which questions to ask, if multiple voices aren’t in the conversation?

The beauty of these conversations is that all of us can extend invitations. I can invite you to my table and you can invite me to yours. This journal is a kind of invitation, isn’t it?

 Beverly F. 

THURSDAY, JUNE 4

We have been watching too much television, so, once in a while, we re-claim our lives by trying to do some of the activities that engaged us pre-pandemic, like playing Scrabble. We have a rotating board with large tiles (a purchase inspired by Annette and Bill, who, in our world, are Scrabble champions) that Frank can pick up and place with ease. Parkinson’s is a movement disorder, and, since Frank has been living with it for over twenty-six years, he often has difficulty with fingering buttons or picking up Scrabble pieces or zipping zippers. Scrabble is an intellectual, fun game for us, although we do not always abide by the rules: for example, I might help Frank arrange his letters or he might give me a hint. Playing is not a competition for us, and, since we never count scores, we never declare winners. In that sense, with every game, we both win.

Tonight – game on. 

Beverly F.

FRIDAY, JUNE 5

Frank goes to two drive-through pharmacies with me to pick up medicine and to return a thermometer I could not get to work. This is one of the rare times he has left the house since March 11.

We stop to pick up mail. Frank stays in the car, masked. Week after week, I continue to be surprised when I step out of the car that I am the only person in a mask and gloves. Even the mail delivery man does not wear a mask.

Our pantry and refrigerator are almost bare, time for me to order groceries, so, I sit down and log in. Almost two years ago, we went to France where Frank presented a paper on Frederick Douglass with his friend and former colleague, Doug. While there, we learned a few lessons in grocery shopping that we are using now. When we first arrived, we shopped as though we had a car. The second time we returned to our apartment, with me pushing Frank because his energy had been spent getting to the store, heavy cloth bags on my shoulders, a bag or two in the storage seat of his walker, another bag on his lap, I announced, breathless and frustrated, “We can’t shop like this again.” Bags unpacked, we talked later that day about shopping smarter. The next time, we began buying only what we needed and only what we could comfortably carry, such as one vegetable instead of three. In our life now, I have figured out how much food we need for three weeks and I order only that much. Shopping in this way has made me a much more creative cook. There are many ways to fix carrots, I’ve discovered! It was also in France that I began making shopping lists, a practice I still use. Beverly F.

SATURDAY, JUNE 6

Frank accidentally called a friend – his fingers, moving involuntarily, sometimes hit random, unintended keys -- who lives in Washington, D.C. They worked together, and, although Jenny is also my friend, I decided to let these old friends talk without me. I learned later that protests were going to be within a short distance of her apartment building and she had decided to “stay in.” While Jenny and Frank talked, I tried to figure out the instructions for this afghan. I made more mistakes than stitches. 

Beverly F.

 SUNDAY, JUNE 7

Today I am typing sections of Frank’s memoir. This is a difficult task for him and I like doing it. Today has been a rainy, windy day and my neighbors are pinging their support and frustration to each other. Sometimes I look up if the rain is particularly strident or the wind howls or my phone pings, but I am mostly focused on carefully reading Frank’s drafts and typing accurately.

I learn about Frank and his early life in these pages, and I am glad to read about people who shaped him, people already dead when we married. Long before I began typing the memoir, I saw his father’s handwriting on photographs. He often wrote funny captions or short identifications. Early in our marriage, I turned on a cassette player and was startled by a booming voice I did not recognize: Frank told me that was his father. I am touched by Frank’s description of the day his father returned from the war:

My father returned home from the war in the Pacific one Sunday afternoon wearing his Navy uniform and carrying a large sack. His arrival time had to be estimated since we had no telephone. The first news of his impending arrival must have been by telegram. He was greeted at the door by my mother and me. Her parents were seated in the living room.

Father was tall and handsome in his uniform. On his chest were strips of ribbon. They looked to me like sticks of colorful bubblegum and he laughed when I asked if they were indeed what I thought they were.

Frank’s mother was very shy, and I identify with her because I too am shy. Most people who know me today probably don’t realize this, because, in my life as a caregiver, I must speak up. Even when my true self wants to retreat, I have to make demands, ask questions, and problem solve, but when I read Frank’s descriptions of his mother sitting alone by the pool with a book or a magazine, not connecting with anyone, I feel that I am sitting next to her, engaged in my own world, not talking, simply paying attention to my internal dialogue. I have also seen photographs of her: she was beautiful, and, many times, she is smiling, happy, tenderly holding Frank, her first-born infant son.

At one point, Frank silently re-reads pages to find new passages he wants me to type. I get out my crocheting and fiddle with a section I cannot quite figure out. I have watched the DVD at least three times and I have tried to do this one turn on my own, but not successfully. I am just learning how to read patterns and making circles is a challenge. Crocheting my usual rectangular shapes is definitely easier. Until there is a vaccine, however, I have time, if I stay healthy, to rip out stitches.

Beverly F.

MONDAY, JUNE 8

We had planned to have an out-door visit with my father, but about an hour before we were going to get in the car, fierce rain, wind and thunder kicked up and we decided not to go anywhere. I called my father repeatedly to let him know about the change in plans, and, although his phone was clearly ringing, it kept going to voice mail. Each time I called, I hoped I would hear his “Hello! Hello!” (he usually repeats his greeting twice) and when I didn’t, I felt anxiety rising. Was his phone in the car? Had he fallen? Or worse? I finally told Frank that I needed to go. The sun came out, but Frank did not want to go, so I got him settled in what we call “The Blue Chair” (actually a Lazy Boy given to him by one of the spouses in our Parkinson’s group) in our bedroom, and placed his phone, water, pill case and a book near him. I also made Frank promise not to leave the chair. Sometimes his feet get tangled or his body shifts unexpectedly and he falls. I kissed him “Good- bye” and headed for the car.

I put a bag of food on the ground in front of my father’s apartment door, knocked, stepped back approximately six feet and waited: a tentative opening.

“Get your phone,” I shouted, then called him on my phone. He couldn’t hear the ring, so, standing outside, as socially distant as possible, I gave him yet another tutorial in volume control. I was not angry about the drive nor about this. My father is, after all, ninety-seven. I texted my sister that perhaps Daddy needs a land-line.

 Beverly F. 

TUESDAY, JUNE 9

Three people have referred to crazy times in texts to me. As the wife of a historian and as an African-American, I am not sure what they are referring to. When has America not had crazy times? Today is crazier than what? Slavery? Lynching? Sexual Harassment? Unequal Pay? Internment Camps? I could fill pages with our atrocities. I will admit, though, that in a world where we can see each other in a digital box and where the severed tips of a colleague’s fingers were replaced with prosthetic replicas, I had hoped for less craziness. I admit that. I wish life was simpler, purer, easier.

But it isn’t. And, it never has been.
I understand. We are all tired. At least, many of us are, including me.
I suspect that it is through the “crazy” that we sometimes find the “sane.” Even if I am right that “crazy” can lead to “sane,” everyone wants to get to the latter sooner than soon. The peaceful protests are leading, it seems to me, to much needed dialogue and some positive action.

I also think we label something “crazy” when we are frustrated and feeling insecure. Perhaps we know all along that this “crazy” may not be “crazier” than that “crazy,” but labelling it thus allows us to remain distanced from the frightening thing over there. 

Beverly F. 

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 10

Three of my cousin Qunter’s in-laws contracted the virus and one died. I do not know them, but I grieved, nonetheless, because of our shared humanity and because I love my cousin.

I read stories in the newspaper of strangers who have died from the virus. I do this because I want to remember their contributions, as I hope someone somewhere will remember mine. 

Beverly F. 

THURSDAY, JUNE 11

After several attempts, I finally figured out how to crochet a complete square. My stitches are imperfect, but I keep trying. There is something comforting, I discovered, about my hands moving yarn and hook in and out, over and under, and my mind focusing on that stitch by stitch rhythmic sequence. I also like to think that, like Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple, who is often knitting, that this movement of my hands aids the working of my brain.

I send recipes to my sister and a friend and old photographs to another friend. I also sent two letters. This kind of connection keeps me sane, because, like sending Gina’s gift, it is something pleasurable I would have done pre. 

Beverly F.

FRIDAY, JUNE 12

I mull over crochet instructions and I realize I must call my father. I notice faded words from a birthday message written in permanent ink now imprinted on our kitchen table. I begin scrubbing and realize I should start breakfast – it might be weeks before it completely fades, and, maybe, just maybe, it adds to the stories worn into the wood. A sentence comes into my head and I sit down to type it – Frank isn’t up yet and breakfast can wait and my father is probably also sound asleep – but, then, barely in my chair, Frank calls. He needs help getting out of bed.

I suppose we all get interrupted, distracted. In this pandemic, I find I am more scattered, more uncertain of the next step than in the time before, the pre- time.

I hesitate.

I start.
I hear birds.

I go into the bedroom to help Frank. 

Beverly F. 

SATURDAY, JUNE 13

I do not recall the sentence that popped into my head yesterday.
Like so much in life, it remains elusive.
Frank and I worked in the garden just as the morning was beginning to get a

little warm. Spikes of grass grow through the bushes and Frank is much more patient than I am at pulling the blades out. When I do it, I fuss as though fussing will erase the unsightly mess. I try to be “in the moment” when I am pulling, but my mind eventually returns to its initial state of outrage. So, today, I pulled weeds. Unlike the cerebral calm of crocheting, weed pulling is good anxiety therapy, aggressively practiced.

The more we worked, the hotter it got and Frank told me, after perhaps twenty minutes, that he was “ready” to go in.

Before we go to bed, while we are still seated at the kitchen table, Frank tells me he feels “depression coming.” I wheel him into the bedroom and we sit, side- by-side, on the bed. I ask him if he wants to talk and he does. Parkinson’s erodes confidence in “tomorrow,” and that, coupled with the woes of the pandemic, can be crippling. Frank has often felt that his body has “betrayed” him and that living with this disease is a “full-time job.” Everything is harder and he feels like he is not getting much done, because often he can’t do all that he wants or needs to do.

I turn my body towards his and I take his hands in mine. I feel the same way, I tell him. I put my head on his shoulder, my arms around his waist, and I feel his softness.

Frank is the strongest person I know. No matter how Parkinson’s betrays and distorts his body, he never surrenders. Frank doesn’t place blame. He doesn’t ask “Why me?” He just lives and sometimes “puts up with.” I know he will get over this depression and he will not be angry.

One of his hospitalizations lasted fifty-seven days, fifty-six days longer than I would have lasted.

I press ever deeper into his shoulder.
Frank is the strongest person I know and he is forever my rock.
I eventually lift my head and ask him if he “feels better.” He says he does and I crank up the bed slightly and he sits back against the pillows. I begin removing his socks, so he can put his feet on the bed, and I notice blood dotting the toe of one of them. “What happened?” I ask. Frank looks down, thinks about my question and tells me his toe got caught in the slats of the bed. He is so matter of fact about his bloody toe that I almost laugh. ALMOST. 

Beverly F. 

SUNDAY, JUNE 14

Qunter has sent two Thank You notes because of a condolence card and an essay I sent her. I re-read one of her notes:

Our warmest appreciation for your kind expression during the loss of our sister Cynthia. The writing made so much sense as I read it and caused me to think about the programs of many loved ones. Your writing was beautiful! Thank you! I appreciate your sharing our history.

I re-read my essay (here is the excerpt that I think prompted Qunter’s comments):

...holding my grandmother’s entire life in my hands in the form of a folded four-panel program, however, has been more precious than words or possessions. I walked again with my grandmother! Because of that, I pick up the next program and the next and the next and the next and I sit quietly in the lives of those who came before me. My parents were wise to keep all these mementos to the dead. They understood the emotional and transformative power of the printed page, and I am grateful, at last (“Final Program” in What Remains, 2020).

I also re-read my condolence card:

You have known and loved Cynthia for a season, but now, because of the stories you will tell about her, she belongs to the ages, to new generations who will love her anew.

We hope knowing this brings you comfort and a flood of good, joyous memories.

Re-reading all this reminds me that what we face daily – with and without the virus – is the knowledge, often submerged under dish washing and cooking and all the other distractions of our lives, that we are going to die someday.

Another African American man died last night at the hands of the police.
I am sick of this.
I will wake Frank up in about twenty minutes so he can take his first dose of medication, and, while I wait, I will attempt to finish a crochet square, my escape. Before I get out my materials, Frank says “GOOD MORNING!” in his loudest voice and I shout “GOOD MORNING!” back.

 Beverly F. 

MONDAY, JUNE 15

About four hours after my father was supposed to visit with us, we got in the car and I drove to his apartment complex. As I neared his door, I could see that his car was not there! We found paper in our glove compartment, but no pen, no pencil, so I could not leave a note. The best I could do was rip off piece of a letter I found in the car with Frank’s name on it and stuff it under the front door in the hope that my father would realize I had left him a clue we were there. And, of course, of course, of course, when I finally spoke to him, I knew from what he did not say that he had stepped over the paper and entered his apartment completely unaware!

Worrying about my father stresses me more than taking care of my husband. That forty-minute round-trip had me sweating through my shirt, despite air conditioning. 

Beverly F.

TUESDAY, JUNE 16

Another day filled with activities and tasks I could not control. I spent the morning calling my father’s television company, because he is not getting a picture. Although I talked with an automated voice and two humans, I was not successful. Later in the morning, Frank thought his left big toe had a fungus, so we went to the podiatrist. After that appointment (no fungus!), we went to my father’s apartment where I called the television company again as Frank and I sat in the car. I was on hold for about thirty minutes. It was a hot day, Frank felt a little dizzy and I decided we should go home. Once home, I called the company one more time. I was on hold for another thirty minutes.

Days like this make me want to go to sleep. Despite this, I find myself thinking about the time, shortly after Frank had back surgery, when the surgical nurses came to get me in the waiting room and escorted me to the recovery room. Frank was not awake and his heart was beating too fast, they told me. I sat down on a stool at the foot of his bed. His face was swollen like a pink basketball. Tubes snaked from his nose and out of his body. It seemed like we were either in space or under water. The nurses were a blur of noisy activity around me. I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. I watched Frank. I certainly couldn’t close my eyes. I suppressed every thought. I suppressed every feeling.

I waited.
I wonder whether relatives, who cannot see their loved ones, who cannot go into hospitals, have a similar experience. 

Beverly F. 

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 17

While Frank was sleeping this morning, I composed and sent Frank’s son and daughter-in-law an anniversary message in an attachment. They actually got married fifteen years ago on the eighteenth, but, since they live in New Zealand, I always have to line up everything in advance so that calls from us to them are in sync and so that packages or cards arrive in time for important events like birthdays and anniversaries.

When we zoomed with them in May, we learned that mail in New Zealand had not been delivered for weeks because of the pandemic. I sent their son his birthday present in March and he had not received it in May (usually packages take three or four weeks to arrive). Until I am told otherwise, I will only send virtual cards.

We had our weekly Zoom meeting with Annette and Bill. Also, Thera invited us a few hours later to a “Birthday Zoom” for Qunter. I especially enjoyed “meeting” Thera’s husband and Qunter’s minister. Since everyone else seemed to know each other, Frank and I listened more than we talked.

Although I enjoyed today more than I enjoyed yesterday, I didn’t get much done and am looking forward to tomorrow when I hope I can do a few things I want and need to do, such as mopping all our floors. 

Beverly F. 

THURSDAY, JUNE 18

Well, I didn’t get my wish, but I always try to remember that I can still do ordinary things. We woke up in our house today.

I received a very elegant (as always) e-mail from my friend, Julie. We were office mates in graduate school: a fine poet, she has helped me become a better essayist. I learn in her e-mail that her son has been protesting. I stop reading and scroll back through my phone to find the photograph her husband, Rich, sent me of them wearing masks Julie made. She also made masks for her son and his house- mates. Julie and other sewers inspired me to write this:

They found and studied the patterns. They went through boxes, maybe in the attic or the garage, looking for scraps big enough. They threaded needles, turned on machines, some long idle and needing dusting, and got to work. They sewed until morning. The humming and the snipping and the cutting went on for days, weeks. A friend tells me she sewed thirty-seven masks for children at a local hospital, children she did not know, children she would never meet. Another friend’s husband sends me a photograph of the masks she made for the two of them, and he tells me in a text that she also made masks for their son and his housemates. She is worried that he and they might get sick, a mother’s worry. A cousin’s daughter sews into the night. A neighbor, a few houses down, surprises us with six masks, two for my father. Frank and I had been wearing paper masks and are grateful for these cloth ones. All these sewers, guided and driven by something most of us cannot fully understand or appreciate, have been sewing for our health, our lives, our futures.

I am sure Will is wearing the mask his mother made. On a few occasions, Frank has expressed a desire to be in the streets with the protestors. He knows he can’t, but he wishes he could do something purposeful and meaningful. I feel that pull too. Rita and Billy were about to go to a protest (my sister assured me that she would not be marching, that Billy would drop her at the final destination where she would wait for the protestors), but Billy convinced her that they did not need to do that. I was relieved.

I keep telling Frank and Rita that I think we are doing our part. Six days out of seven we stay home. We use delivery services, instead of going into stores. I have read essays about those who are shopping and delivering: each story impresses me. I always write a note: “Thank you for shopping for us. Stay safe.” Like the sewers of masks, I feel that these shoppers are also saving our lives. I hope we are saving theirs, by keeping them employed. We stay in touch with family and friends, especially those who live alone and those who are elderly. I am writing this journal. I think we are doing our part, because we are doing what we can safely do. 

Beverly F. 

FRIDAY, JUNE 19

It is Juneteenth, my oldest niece’s birthday. In a text earlier in the week, I asked Jacqueline if she knew the significance and she said she did. Nonetheless, I sent her articles about its history as well as one about chefs who created Juneteenth recipes.

On this day, people eat and rejoice and reflect because it was a time of both triumph (freedom from slavery) and tragedy (murder and the destruction of “Black Wall Street”). I suspect that, as humans, we are always caught between extremes and sometimes the navigation is difficult, tricky, as I think it is on Juneteenth.

In our family, we celebrate Juneteenth by celebrating Jacqueline.

The President decides to change a rally from Juneteenth to the next day, a prudent move, I think, but less prudent than holding a rally in the first place. Well, that’s a choice, that’s a calculation that some people are willing to make. Not me, not this descendent of slaves, not for this president, during a pandemic or any other time.

A friend tells me she does not know much about Juneteenth and asks me to send her some information. Jackie is keenly aware that being white means she has never been inside my experience, yet she always wants to get my perspective. I appreciate that. She also knows that, as an interracial couple, Frank and I are not afraid to talk about race.

I took my father to the lab for blood work in preparation for a phone appointment with his doctor. To do this, I had to think through all the steps to make sure outside and inside we were socially distanced from each other as well as from strangers. It is not that this is all that difficult; it is simply different. We will, however, be living like this for the next few months, perhaps even a year, maybe more, and, so, all these things that are merely different must become usual, typical, no big deal. They aren’t quite that yet -- at least, not for me. 

Beverly F. 

SATURDAY, JUNE 20

A few days ago, I realized that I do not want to crochet an afghan. This realization came after I wrote the following to Kathy:

How about a good laugh? By the end of last weekend, I was very proud of myself because I had completed seven crochet squares. Today, right before I sat down to order more yarn, I read the directions more carefully and realized that the actual project is a gigantic granny square blanket with about ten colors, all worked together as one unit. I guess because on the DVD the instructor had us make these sample squares, I just figured I would make about twenty of them and sew them together! As young people say, “My bad.” So, I think I have made seven pot holders or seven trivets!!! Kathy, I promise not to make them part of some strange Christmas present!

Kathy responded with a very cute photograph of Shirley Temple laughing. It is hilarious and made me laugh at myself! I do want to crochet, but we do not need another afghan or spread. Because of this, I spent some time on-line looking for another, smaller project for beginners. I choose bedroom slippers, since I don’t have any. The directions were e-mailed to me and they seem complicated, not at all for beginners, but the challenge might be good for me. In my mind’s eye, I can see Miss Marple consulting a pattern, and I tell myself I can do this, knowing that I will make a hundred mistakes before I have slippers I can wear. 

Beverly F.

SUNDAY, JUNE 21: my last entry

HAPPY SOCIALLY DISTANCED FATHER’S DAY!

Our refrigerator is very clean and clear, save for a wedge of cheese, a half jar of Marinara sauce, a few leaves of lettuce, carrots that I will cook tonight and four eggs. I can see clear to the back of the freezer and the pantry, because only a few items, such as a big bag of frozen chicken wings and a single can of garbanzo beans, remain. Although I will not place my order until this Thursday, I have already started my list, partly in my head, partly on paper.

I do think about those whose refrigerators and pantries are always or almost always empty. How do we, as a society, help them? I wish that, when the pandemic began, communities could have made deals with farmers to buy pigs and cows and produce at reduced costs. Surely, in each community, a butcher could have cut up the meat, also, at reduced cost. I still wish that, someday, we can have these potentially life-saving conversations. People will always be hungry, unfortunately. Rita and Billy took food to a small church for distribution in their neighborhood.

My father still does not have a picture on his television. Rita and Billy have arranged for a repairman to come to the apartment this afternoon. Frank and I arrive a little early and sit in the car with the doors open. My father sits in front of his door, mask in one hand, Father’s Day gift bag in the other.

We waited for an hour and a half, the hot sun and an occasional breeze flowing through our open doors. While we are waiting, we see a man deliver food to my father’s next-door neighbor. Since we never see those who shop for us, I am happy to see this young man. He goes back to his car to get one more bag and he hands it to the neighbor. Although I cannot make out the words, the tone of their conversation is pleasant. That makes me feel good.

Billy calls and asks me to go inside to manipulate the remote. The door is wide open and I stand near the door, facing the far wall where the television sits on a narrow home-made table. I follow Billy’s instructions without success. This is the first time I have been inside my father’s apartment since March and he has made cardboard shelves on the wall above the television. I am impressed and tell him.

Rita and Billy will set up another appointment. I appreciate the two times Frank has come with me, but next time I will come alone.

I have sent Frank’s son a Father’s Day card in an attachment and he sends back an electronic Thank you. On the computer his family has sent photographs of home-made Father’s Day cards. Frank’s oldest grandchild wrote this one, decorated with hearts and bows:

Dear Grandpa Frank,

I love and miss you sooooooo much. Happy Father’s Day!!! You are amazing!! You push through hard things that come your way. I am greatful to be your granddaughter.

Lots of love.

I am amazed that this ten-year-old knows her grandfather pushes “through hard things.” I know this, but how does she know? I am amazed.

This is her brother’s card:

Happy Father’s Day
I hope you have a God Day
And this is what I think of you (drawing of a heart here) and this is not what I think of you (arrows and an unclear drawing)

Although Frank’s grandson meant to write “good,” it is nice that Frank got a “spiritual wish” – however accidental – from a loving seven-year-old!

Frank’s daughter called, her infant son cooing next to her.

It is perhaps fitting that I end this journal where I began – with reflections at and about the kitchen table my father made. It is Father’s Day, after all, and, a year ago, he would have been seated at this table, enjoying a meal and conversation with Frank and me. I am hopeful that we will all remain healthy and that my father will be seated in whatever future awaits us at his usual place, in the third chair, facing us, his back to the garden.

When I finally call my father to invite him to dinner, it will feel like the first time I have ever extended that invitation because I will be saying it with a love, with a gratitude, with a renewed hope that will render that dinner and every dinner afterwards as events I can never, never, never take for granted. In truth, if we survive this, I will not take our lives, the lives of our family, the lives of our friends, the lives of all those who share this planet with us, the lives of those who have gone before us, indeed, every breath we breathe, every conversation we engage in, for granted. This experience will not let me.

Everyone, stay safe and keep talking. Beverly F.