Midnight Musings – A journal by Jade Walker

Home is where the safety is

September 5, 2020 / No Comments

I am, by nature, a cautious person. I’d much rather plan than spontaneously start a project or journey. I choose to weigh the pros and cons of an idea before jumping in willy nilly. I prefer to study my options instead of just selecting the first opportunity that comes along. Don’t get me wrong; I’m able to make decisions quickly. I just give myself some time — a moment, an hour, a day — to consider the ramifications.

Then I leap in wholeheartedly.

The work I’ve done for the past 30 years has inundated me with the facts, the rumors, the trends and the tribulations of this global pandemic. Which was why I wasn’t surprised to see New York City’s lockdown successfully flatten the curve, thus helping the health care system better manage the outbreak.

Nor was I surprised to see the novel coronavirus rear its ugly head in the very states that dismissed the dangers of the illness. Their leaders and citizens mocked those who made sacrifices for the good of society. Why? Because they falsely believed: “It’ll never happen here.”

Viruses don’t work that way.

It’s also why I was so saddened (and admittedly, angry) when I saw people crowding into bars and onto beaches or throwing parties with friends or family as if there was nothing to worry about. Despite what we may see in government and at rallies featuring angry, armed, anti-maskers and anti-vaxxers, pretending the pandemic doesn’t exist won’t make it magically disappear.

And that is why, after spending months in the house, I have no plans to return to society any time soon. Yes, I want things to return to “normal.” I’d love to browse the aisles of the library, take in a double feature at the movies, fill an entire wagon with plants and flowers at my local nursery or eat dinner at a favorite restaurant. But I also know that intermingling with crowds of people puts my life at risk. It puts my husband’s life at risk. It puts our financial future at risk.

That means until there’s a reliable and safe vaccine and/or treatment for COVID-19, I’m going to stay home. If you’re able, I hope you do so too. If, however, you’re an essential worker, please take as many precautions as you can. We all need you.

Lastly, if you must leave your home, don’t spend much time hanging out in places where essential workers do their jobs. Describing someone as essential means they are that, and society can’t afford to lose them or their skills/bravery to people who are carelessly spreading the virus.
I just needed one number: A bingo player’s lament

July 25, 2020 / No Comments

When I was a cub reporter, many many years ago, an editor assigned me a feature on bingo. I was familiar with the game, having learned it in elementary school as a way to identify numbers and letters. The women in my family would occasionally spend an evening together playing it (they even owned their own chips, which they stored in small travel cases). And, of course, I knew the song. But I had no idea what in the world I could possibly write that everyone didn’t already know. So, one Tuesday night, I headed out to the local bingo parlor.

The cavernous room held long tables, the kind used during lunch in school cafeterias. In the center of each table was a pad of bingo cards, colored daubers and a bin of small plastic chips. Most of the players were women over 50, which at the time seemed ancient to me. The air contained a cloud of smoke that slowly rose until it stuck to the ceiling and stained the paint. Yet it was the sounds inside that hall that remain in my memory to this day: the monotone call of the numbers, the eery silence that followed as a room filled with players searched their cards for matches, the delighted shout of “Bingo!” that was always followed by scattered groans, the crinkle of used paper cards and the rip of new ones leaving their pads as the players prepared for another round.

I observed several matches and wrote furiously in my reporter’s notebook. I marveled at the players who worked on up to nine cards at a time, scanning the numbers with sharp eyes and marking each correct spot. I recorded the various trinkets that players displayed on the table for good luck. And I coughed a lot as my eyes teared up from all that cigarette smoke.

When I informed the players at my table that I was writing an article about the game, they insisted that I had to play a few rounds. I admit I did hesitate at first, wanting to remain in observer mode. Then I figured, in for a penny…

Twenty dollars and two hours later, I was hooked. Even though I hadn’t won a single match, I found the process of playing — and the camaraderie formed with the other players during the game — positively invigorating. The article turned out to be just as much fun to write.

I’ve occasionally played bingo over the years: a few times with my best friend, many virtual rounds on Pogo.com, several memorable matches in Scotland on my honeymoon. And now that we’re midst of a pandemic and forced to remain at home, I’ve decided to start playing the game again. Since my friends and I are separated for safety, we’re going to conduct our bingo sessions via video. But I sense the sheer joy of playing — and yelling “Bingo!” — will overcome the distance we’re forced to observe.
Spring and summer – at home

June 22, 2020 / No Comments

We’ve reached that point in the summer where I go into reminder mode, in that I have to remind myself of the rare good things that happen during this season. I’m talking about chocolate and mint chip ice cream, the smokey taste of barbecue, fresh peaches eaten out of hand or in a dessert, cold and refreshing air conditioning, delightful beach reads and furious gardening (more on this last one later).

Because summer is so painful, I must also remind myself that the season will eventually end and things will get better. The brutal heat waves will stop roasting my plants. Some of the mosquitos and ticks will die off before sucking all of my blood. And yes, the seemingly endless migraines will return to their more regularly scheduled programming of two or three times a month, rather than repeats of two or three times a week.

I also recognize that the last few months have been difficult for everyone. To date, nearly 9 million people have contracted the novel coronavirus and more than 468,000 have died. As you can imagine, I’ve been working like mad, covering the global pandemic, the economic fallout, the continuing quarantine, the 2020 campaign season and the nationwide protests. When I finally sign off at the end of a shift, my brain is oatmeal. Creative thought is often impossible.

I’ve been having nightmares all year, but they’ve gotten really bad of late. Usually, my nightmares are simply stress dreams about work (enough already) or the pandemic (death, destruction, bugs), which rob me of restful sleep. This week, however, the pandemic dreams have switched from bugs to suffocation. As most dream dictionaries note, to dream that you are suffocating signifies that you are feeling oppressed by a person or situation; you are experiencing a lot of stress and tension. I expect this is true for many.

Even without these nocturnal warnings, I have been careful. The last time I was in a room with more than three other people was on Feb. 25 when I attended a Silent Book Club meeting at The Bookery. The first coronavirus cases were just beginning to appear in New Hampshire so I immediately began self-isolating.

From March 15 to June 15, the state’s “stay at home” order closed all non-essential businesses. Since then, I’ve only left the house on occasional trips to the local nursery, bank, ice cream shop, grocery store and pharmacy. Such encounters have involved opening the car window or trunk, receiving goods from a machine or masked/gloved worker and driving away.

For these rare and mostly contactless jaunts, I purchased nearly a dozen reusable masks and wore one every time I went out. I donned them to protect the elderly, the infirm, the first responders and essential workers, the people who are at the highest risk of contracting this potentially deadly virus. The rest of the time, I remained at home because with my chronic cough, testing positive for COVID-19 would be a likely death sentence.

Being homebound hasn’t been as frustrating for me as for others. As a writer, I’m a bit of a homebody anyway. I’ve become more of one since entering middle age and have made every effort to make my home a wonderfully hygge place to live.

M’s university went virtual back in March and so he’s been working from home, a situation that pleases us both. Since I already telecommuted, little changed for me lifestyle-wise.

And while I do miss browsing the stacks at the library or catching a double feature at the movies, I have plenty of entertainment options at home. According to Goodreads, my 2020 reading challenge effort is back on track. I was once up to six books behind. Now I may just hit my goal of reading 60 books before this dreadful year ends.
Quote of the day

April 15, 2020 / No Comments

“I really never thought I’d ever in my career write a ‘mass graves in New York City’ story.” –Ed Mazza
What happens when a penpal perishes?

April 4, 2020 / No Comments

Nearly 30 years ago, while I was away at university, I received a letter. It was from my Aunt Mona, a woman I hadn’t seen since I was a young child.

I remember only three things from our last face-to-face encounter:

* It was Thanksgiving so all of the family had gathered together at my grandmother’s house in suburban Chicago.

* I lost not one but two baby teeth while biting down on a carrot.

* Aunt Mona held me in her arms and comforted me while my mouth bled. Then we sat on the couch and read together.

It was the late ’70s-early ’80s. She and my uncle lived in Kansas with my two younger cousins. Although they had traveled to Illinois for the holiday, they returned to their home state, divorced soon after and I never had the opportunity to see her in person again.

Fast forward to college, the early ’90s, and the arrival of that letter. It was handwritten in blue ink on lined notebook paper. She reintroduced herself and asked if I remembered her. She said she’d once had an aunt who became a special friend and she wanted to be mine. Although I hadn’t seen her in many years, her kindness had made an impression.

From that point on, she and I began exchanging letters and gifts, stories and friendship. I told her about how I wanted to write full-time and live in New York City. I described falling in love with my husband and sent postcards from our travels overseas. She wrote about the books she read and the animals she cared for. She called me her “first niece” and said she always knew I would become a writer. She also told me about the dreams she had for her daughters’ future and how she hoped they would find happiness.

Aunt Mona died last night. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around it.

She’d been ill for a while and living in a nursing home. Apparently she started having trouble breathing yesterday and was put on oxygen. Then she developed a fever and her lungs filled with fluid. I suspect COVID-19 but in the end, it doesn’t really matter. Her body just gave out.

And just like that, the world is a little less sweet.

I keep a list of Christmas presents that I update all year long, adding new ideas next to the names of dear friends and family. By sheer coincidence, I had the file open because I needed to buy a present for a friend’s upcoming birthday.

After my cousin told me the news about her mother’s death, I returned to the list. There were still six gift ideas written under Aunt Mona’s name. I’m so sorry I’ll never have the opportunity to send them.