Of course, you do. Who doesn’t? First bicycles were rites of passage. On wheels, no less. That simple question, perhaps posed at a dinner table, can unleash memories, not all of them necessarily factual, that can fill many hours.

Everyone outdoes everyone else with stories of their first bike.  Everyone had the biggest, the shiniest, the fastest.  The most streamers.  The biggest basket. The nicest flag.  The loudest horn. The brightest headlight.

And that’s all before the “war stories” begin.  We hear tales of the most terrible of bike accidents, again not always factual, but designed to get oohs and aahs from the audience. Occasionally, there’s even a show-and-tell. An old scar, a bit of gravel still embedded in a knee. Evidence of where it all went down, so to speak.

I sit quietly during all of this.  I don’t say a word.  I just listen.  I wait until the testosterone has died down.  And then I pounce.   I know I can’t compete in the normal way of things but I also know I’ll win the “first bicycle story” competition. I always do.  

My first bicycle appeared at our side door in a pick-up-truck.  It was blue. Two nice men brought it into the house.  They carried it into the living room, took it around the corner and up the stairs to the second floor, then down another hall, past the bedrooms, and up more stairs to the attic.  They put it in one of the dormers with a view of the busy street we lived on.   They pulled down the kickstand which went all the way under the back wheel and sort of jacked it up a bit. And then they left.  You might say it was an unwanted prototype of the stationary bicycle.  It stayed there, in its spot.  Forever.  It never saw the light of day or met a sidewalk.  And, when I was pedaling away on my first bicycle, neither did I.

Don’t feel bad for me.  Think of all the fun I’ve had with that story through the years. Some sacrifices are simply worth the price of admission.

It doesn’t take much these days to send a perfectly good conversation into ridiculous and macabre territory.

That’s what happened during a phone chat recently with a dear friend of many years and one who has a year or two on me.  We took a turn into the morbid with much laughter as a consequence.

It all started with my encouraging her to stay home as much as she can.  She said I didn’t have to worry about that….no way was she going to get sick and die from this virus.  Certainly not now.

“Why not now?” I asked.   Because, she said, when I die, I want a funeral.  A real, honest to God, funeral. The one I’ve planned, specified to a tee and am going to have.

She wants her friends in the pews, sitting hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder.  No social distancing. 

She wants a full choir, singing to the rafters.  Belting out her favorite hymns.  No masks to muffle the music.  Or contain those “droplets” that accompany a heartfelt song.

She wants the peace offering…. people shaking hands with each other.  No elbow bumps.

She wants a full communion, too.  Everyone’s lips on the shared chalice.

And, finally, she wants a reception with lots of hugs and just as much booze.   At that point, it’s a party.  And we all know what happens at a good party.

We both agreed that she’s got a pretty good amount of time left in this life since that old way of life looks to be a far piece into the future.

Maybe it was the craziness, the loneliness, the isolation, but we laughed, together and heartily.  Neither of us currently has the virus, at least as of today.  Probably because laughter, as we all know, is the best medicine.

Dear Sallie,

We, here at Amazon, would like to request your presence….virtually, of course….in our daily meetings/briefings about the coronavirus and the ways it affects our products and delivery system.

As we’re sure you know, every single thing, and we mean EVERY single thing you buy, goes into our complex and thorough algorithms systems.  FYI, you don’t need to know what an algorithm is to be an integral part of this team.  That doesn’t matter.

We, here at Amazon, have noticed a spike in your jig-saw puzzle purchases in recent months.  It appears that just before there’s a rise in Covid numbers, you start ordering more puzzles.. Putting those two things together is what an algorithm can do.  It’s sort of like spying.   But, again that doesn’t matter.

It appears to us, through our algorithms, of course, that as the virus spreads, you also tend to order more and more CAT-related puzzles.  As opposed to flowers and sunsets which are typically among our most popular selections.  We also note that you are now ordering CHILDREN’S CAT puzzles.  There was even one with fuzzy pieces. And, we know, via our algorithms, that there are no children residing with you. So that little anomaly created a slight blip of concern, but in the end, it really doesn’t matter.

What matters is this: it looks to us like you have an “in,” a second sense about this virus. You seem to know when to order a puzzle….or two or three… and when to slow down a bit.  And we, at Amazon, are interested to know how you’re making those decisions.  What do you know that we don’t?  

And while we, here at Amazon, find it hard to believe that you know anything, and we mean ANYTHING, that we don’t, what with all our fancy algorithms and such, we’re still curious.

Please give us a call at your convenience.  Our land line, here at Amazon, is  123-456-AMAZ.

When our three boys were in elementary school, I had some level of control over what they wore. Off they’d go in their khaki pants, cute little striped polo shirts and dock-siders. Kid-prep, all the way. Dressed for Success. 

The oldest and the youngest complied nicely. They stuck to the rules and never made a fuss. Not so much with the middle child. He rebelled. (Why is it always the middles who rebel?)

He’d return later in the day “Dressed for Distress.”   Items that had been lost, found, and tossed into the school dumpster were now on his person.  All that cute, preppy, stuff had been “exchanged.”   We got used to it.  No use in struggling.  Time would, we hoped, provide a correction. (It did.)

As there is in almost everything, there was a silver lining in that dumpster.  It came home, on the middle child of course, in the form of a sweatshirt.  A Harvard sweatshirt, to be precise.  We lived in a well-educated community so even trash had a certain panache.

As soon as I saw it, I knew that sweatshirt was meant for me.  First, the size was “small.”  Second, it was a Harvard sweatshirt and the Mister had schooled there so my wearing it didn’t feel fraudulent.  And third, it was soft.  So very soft. 

That was 45 years ago.  That sweatshirt has never shrunk, stretched, faded, or frayed.  It’s never pilled or puckered.  It’s still warm, soft and most importantly, still mine.

At a wearing rate of 3x per week for 45 years, I can safely say it’s been worn 7020 times!   I can also extrapolate that it’s been washed 1800 times!  It looks as good and feels as comfortable as the day it came home from the dumpster, all those years ago.

Even the “care” label is still intact. Washing instructions are legible. And one little bit of information on that label tells the story of its longevity: “Made in America.”

They just don’t make ’em like that any more.

First question to self:  Are you awake?

Answer:  Obviously.

Second question to self: Are you woke?

Answer: Hmmmmm….. I’ll have to think about that.  

And, so I have.

The word – woke –  gets used, a lot, in matters of racism and social justice.  We’ve heard it repeatedly in the recent reporting of George Floyd’s death and subsequent marches.  Sadly, the repetition risks making it sound trite and perhaps self righteous at this point in time.  

And it would feel even more so, if I chose to define myself as “woke.”  

Given the limitations of my background, I can’t possibly fully appreciate the Black Lives Matter movement.  I would not pretend to do so.  All I can do is try to understand.  That doesn’t make me “woke.”

So, short answer to the second question to self:  No, I am not woke.

But, with hope, I am awakening.

The Mister and I frequently find ourselves going against the grain, swimming against the tide.  We’re there again with the question of continued quarantine vs. a safe return to life as we knew it.

As states continue to open up for businesses and services, our world is following.  Lapping it up.  Enjoying life. We, on the other hand, find ourselves hesitant to take advantage of the opportunities.  Rather, we’ve decided to blame our age and my cast to continue our self-imposed quarantine.

It’s not always easy to say no to those things that others are eagerly embracing.  There’s a pressure to get on with it, to be willing to take a risk, to get back in the saddle.  To get a life, for goodness sakes.

Our friend and Island Packet editor, David Lauderdale, wrote a thoughtful virus-related essay last week.  In it, he said: ”I’ve learned this much about a pandemic: it’s less of a national issue than a personal one.”

Reading and digesting those words has made it easier for us to re-inforce our own decisions.  Now there’s no need to explain. No need to talk of age and casts.  Or even Michelangelo*.  It’s a personal decision and that’s that.

So, call us wimps, finks, scardy-cats and cowards.  We’ve been called worse.  We’ll get back out there. Just not this right this minute.

*Aside/explanation: One side effect of being inside for so long is that stuff pops up in my mind that I don’t go looking for. One is a line from T. S. Eliot’s “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” To quote: ”In the room/ The women come and go/ Talking of Michelangelo.”

I’ve always liked that phrase even though I don’t fully understand it.  But Michelangelo showed up as I was writing this, uninvited, though he was. It seemed like a good idea to acknowledge him. So I did.