Talking to Myself Twenty–Two May 17, 2020
It can all be done, I remind myself.
In a pandemic things slow down. My
proof copy takes three weeks. Then
three more to get a whole shipment.
I’ll change the pub date. My foot
heals. That was slow, too. I spend
more time looking at the green trees,
watching the hens who have learned
to hide their eggs among Tim’s
bicycles or in the midst of the flower
garden. The daylilies are rising, and
Janet and I are plotting to plant zinnia
and cosmos seeds to arrive in two
weeks. It means weeding and corralling
the hens, clipping their wings, mending
their fence, fertilizing, but that’s what
farmers do. It means work. I’ve been
idle because of three broken toe bones,
but they don’t hurt now. Let me
recover my strength and wits, feel
less helpless and more canny. Things
will grow even now, and slowly
our pandemic will let go.
Vera and Yuri Lebedev, my Russian friends from Kostroma
***
Talking to Myself Twenty-One Mother’s Day, May 10, 2020
I saw the word pismo (letter) when
I glanced over my shoulder. A Russian
letter from a Russian friend. Then I saw
Yuri. I hadn’t heard from Yuri in years.
He wrote to me after Mikhail died in
2015. They didn’t know–even his closest
friends didn’t know–that he was dying. They
learned too late. His wife and his son
cared for him that last year. I’d written
to him in January and sent my new
book, This River: An Epic Love Poem,
the Volga painted by Rumyantsev on
the cover, looking across to Kostroma.
They were connected by their childhoods.
Yuri explicated Russian writers of the
nineteenth century. Mikhail’s novels
explicated, and were saving, the Russian
soul. It can’t be faked, but it can be told.
When Mikhail left town, Yuri came
and took me to their apartment. They
fed me and put out honey for my tea
to heal my cough. We sat hours over
our meals, speaking, sharing stories.
I had very few Russian words, they
no English, but we used the dictionary.
Everything was told. We didn’t hesitate.
We played with baby Vanya. I taught
him to say, “Hi.” It came out, “Argh.”
How we laughed. Vera gave me a
mustard plaster. I’d never had one.
Then she brought in big art books
and showed me paintings while the
mustard plaster worked on my cough.
An apartment was found for me. Vera
showed me what was safe to buy and
what not. Yuri walked me to the university
so I could meet the Rector. At night
we talked and laughed and told secrets.
The rest of the family visited. We feasted.
When it was time for me to go home, I
cried. Yuri said, “Don’t cry, Judy," and I
cried more. Now comes a letter in
Russian, and photos of Yuri and Vera,
then the whole family. I am loved, not
forgotten. “We hold these memories
in our hearts."
Blue iris in Judy's garden 2018.
Talking to Myself Twenty May 3, 2020
What am I afraid of? In my dream
I couldn’t organize other writers
though I tried. They were all so different,
and they wouldn’t listen to me. Then
they disappeared, and I was lost. All
around me were huge stone buildings,
but there were no trains. I asked help,
but no one helped me. Then I was
alone. I didn’t know where I was or
how to get home. We all are alone,
and I’ve always been that way. I
wasn’t afraid. It was easy to love
other people, and they trusted me.
I need to heal. I am healing, It takes
time and patience. My body has
ancient wisdom in its bones. It
knows how to get better. I can’t be
lost if I’m alone. Alone I always
know what to do. A train will come.
Everything will be clear again. Some
few will listen to me. My words will
matter. The deep places will speak,
and many people will listen. I’m safe.
Baby chicks on roosting bars in their coop.
Talking to Myself Nineteen April 26, 2020
Every day more white iris. The chickens haven’t
bothered them. Tracey gave me bulbs, which I
duly planted, but they didn’t bloom until this year.
Then the chickens ate the weeds which held them
back, and here they are. The violets returned when
I let go the reins, some mysterious, some defiant.
This morning I think of losses. Lisa Mansfield
whose smiling face I met in the post office. I worried
about her, living so close to that coal ash dump.
Poisoned, then murdered, along with her husband
still angry about that coal ash dump so close to their
home. Angry enough to kill, but someone else killed
him and Lisa. Then John Cross, so kindly, often
gave me rides to meetings. Once he fixed a weak
board on the back porch. Terica-for-Peace dies
of lung cancer. She cheered me on when I began
working against fracking. Then Johnsie. She knew
the coal ash trains going through Southern Pines
were death trains. People talked about her love
and her smiles. No one was a stranger. No one
listened to her warnings. Was it the cancer which
killed her, or the cure? Now our twenty-first
century plague carries off thousands. What have we
come to in the land of the Pilgrims?
Sunrise at Jordan Lake earlier this month by Doc Ellen, DVM.
Talking to Myself Eighteen April 19, 2020
Is this my eternal life, wearing a boot
to protect fragile toe bones while they
heal? Sleeping with one foot under
the covers and one on top? Using a
borrowed walker to move from the
couch to the kitchen and to my
computer and writing chair; staring
at the trees outside, watching the
chickens cultivate the backyard
and where our garden was? Only
blackberry vines now. We had the
perennials: daffodils, violets, and
now the white iris. In front, forsythia
and hydrangea, daylily leaves, and
next door the remains of our champion
black oak, finally on the ground,
tangled in chickweed. Tim brings
in eggs laid among the bicycles
under a tarp The wilderness has
jumped the fence, but the grape
vines again run over the top
of the chicken run. They run over
the fig trees, too. It doesn’t bode
well for tomatoes and zinnias.
Emails from friends: “How
are you?” “Still healthy, broke
some toes, but they’re healing
slowly.” I write about my life,
remember when I kept our
baby writers’ network afloat,
when I influenced the National
Endowment panel to keep the
required number of books
published to two, instead of
increasing it to ten. I told them:
“We have no household budget.”
I lived then in subsidized housing,
got food stamps. Janet comes,
and we reminisce about our losses
and hardships and our small, but
persistent, victories. I didn’t get
the grant I tried for, so I said
we’d have a conference for
women’s stories. Six hundred
women came, and I told them
their writing was important. We
called it “Tell Me a Story That’s True.”
I still believe, with Muriel Ruykheiser,
“If one woman told the whole story
of her life, the world would split
open.”I’m still working on it.
Judy's flock of white rock chickens outside their chicken door.
Talking to Myself Seventeen April 12, Easter 2020
We never know what will happen to us
before it does. I’ve had many surprises–
some scary, some gifts I never anticipated.
I always learned. I rarely anticipated success,
but it found me in unexpected places.
Last Monday night I fell, with cane, walking
from my couch bed to the bathroom and
hurt my right foot. I took Tylenol and went
back to sleep. In our pandemic we’re told
to stay away from hospitals “Call your
provider.” I emailed her: what to do? My
little toes were hurting a lot.”Go to an
orthopedic clinic.” “Which one?” The answer
came back: “Ortho Now for emergencies.
Call first.” Tim doubted it would be safe.
I called. It sounded okay. They were
careful because of the coronovirus. I
Could come right away. We went. A
friend of Tim’s had given him a walker.
We took it and I put a sock on my foot.
We were seen right away. My foot was
examined and x-rayed, Two small bones
were broken. Then they put on a boot
to keep it in position for healing. “Come
back in four weeks or later, if it’s healing
well.” Living with a boot and a walker
isn’t easy. I take Tylenol when it hurts
a lot. Gifts arrive: a better walker. Janet,
when Tim is gone all day and Wag needs
to go out. I can wash dishes and make
my lunch and our supper. I read and write.
I can send emails. I look at the greening
world outside my window, watch our
dogs and hens in the backyard, hearing
the morning roosters. Janet nestles
Wag in her arms, talks to the hens and
our Silver Polish rooster whom she
admires. Friends write to me, and I
answer. My days pass slowly, but
my foot is healing.
Talking to Myself Sixteen April 5, 2020
A new kind of plague let loose
in the world. How could we forget
the numbers lost in the 1300s and
even to the 1800s in Europe and
Asia: the Bubonic and Pneumonic?
Millions died, carried by fleas from
rats, spread by ships. We thought we
ran the world, but the world as we
knew it has disappeared. “Please
stay at home. Wash your hands.
Keep six feet away from your
friends and loved ones. Don’t travel.”
We have to go out for food and
medicine. The hospitals need masks,
ventilators, more nurses. “Please
stay home. It saves lives. Maybe
yours or someone you love. The
elderly are most at risk.” Young
men in pickup trucks speed through
the quiet neighborhoods. “We are
staying home, but the death toll is
still rising. Blame China, blame
the president. Save the economy.
Wall Street is staggering. The
stimulus package won’t be enough.
Millions have lost their jobs. Stores
are closing. Yet this year there
were daffodils and forsythia, the
yellows of spring, and the white
iris. First one, then a second. The
violets have moved into the flower
garden. More iris lift their buds.
The hydrangea is leafing out. Day
lilies rise in time for June. We won’t
forget this--ever.
