Column

Years ago, Richard Simmons had a workout video series titled “Sweatin’ to the Oldies,” which featured aerobic workouts set to tunes from yesteryear.

We quit going to the gym when the pandemic began mushrooming and have been working out at home. It is a reboot of “Sweatin’ to the Oldies,” only we are the oldies.

For the bulk our cold weather home detention, we have done separate workouts at separate times, but one of our girls said she had DVD that was a good workout for men and women.

We previously heard her talk about pie-yo and pie-lo workouts and thought perhaps she had a workout with pie in mind for us. It would be a nice change of pace.

Turns out the pies she was referring to were PIYO (Pilates and yoga) and PLYO (running, jumping and dropping to the floor for push-ups) neither of which involve a fruit filling between two light and flaky crusts. The workout she gave us  contained no pie whatsoever. It was cardio intervals, recorded in a studio with a smoothie bar on the back wall. Help yourself to some kale.

So, there we were, 60-somethings doing a workout with 30-somethings. If someone made a video of us trying to keep up, we would be instant social media celebrities riding a wave of mockery and pity.

When the workout started, we initially thought the leader and several participants had surgical scars on their abdomens.

“So sad,” I said, “and they’re so young.”

The husband deduced that they were not scars, but muscles. They were “ripped.” Ripped is what happens when you don’t just go “pie-lo” but go “pie-no.”

The workout is touted as a 21-Day Fix. We didn’t know we were broken, but whatever.

We’ve been cold weather confined so long that we’ve now done the workouts numerous times. It’s getting so routine that I can watch the Food Channel on my laptop while the workout video is on the television.

Don’t judge me.

We often mute the leader and do our own narration, offering reasons as to why we slack off on certain reps before the clock runs out.

“My left knee,” I gasp. “Let’s see her do that after surgery for torn cartilage!”

The husband is lunging to the floor for push-ups, jumping back in the air, shaking the coffee table, the lamp, the sofa sleeper and lets out a whoop. “Felt that one pull on my hernia scar,” he yells.

“Well, STOP!” I gasp between breaths. “The DVDs were free, but your surgery cost thousands!”

Our favorite guy in the video series is about 35, lean and all muscle. He always grimaces and looks pained after every rep as the camera zooms in. We have decided he gets paid extra to make it look difficult.

We can make the workout look difficult without even pretending. Call us. We’re available if the price is right.

He was still in his jammies wolfing down breakfast cereal when he announced it was going to be a good day.

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Because Grandpa said he would take me into the crawl space.”

This was news to me. And to Grandpa.

Grandpa had no memory of saying he would take the boy into the crawl, but the man blithely agrees to a lot of requests out of sheer need for expediency.

Requests come rapid fire when a lot of kids are here: “Can you build a fire in the fireplace? Is it still too early to go outside? Can we build a tree house? Can I have a screwdriver? How about some scissors? Can we play hide and seek upstairs? Do you have more tape? Are you out of Hershey’s syrup? Did you know the baby is on the table? Can I go into the crawl space?”

You can see how a request to go into the crawl space could easily slip into the myriad of other requests.

The crawl space is a hollow area below the first floor of our home. It is about four-feet deep and you access it by, well, crawling. You step into the window well, remove the metal panel to the crawl, then back in feet first into the dark. A few shafts of daylight spill into the first few feet of the crawl space, but for the most part it is as dark as a moonless night, creepy and crawly.

There are also neat things down there—concrete blocks that provide the foundation to the house, wooden beams that support the floors, insulated wiring, and pipes that run the length of the house, turning and connecting with other pipes.

What 6-year-old boy in his right mind wouldn’t want to go down into the crawl space?

Grandpa said it was below freezing outside, which was too cold to go into the crawl.

Grandma kindly reminded him that once they got into the crawl it could be more like the temperature of a cave, which is cool, but not miserable.

The boy put on his sad face and Grandpa relented.

They bundled up, lumbered outside into the cold and removed the door to the crawl. A small crowd gathered to watch as they disappeared into a pit of darkness. A little one whimpered softly; others wondered aloud if it would be the last we saw of them.

As for me, I returned to the warm kitchen and poured more coffee.

We could hear them bumping around down there, tapping on the kitchen subfloor, knocking into pipes, probing the mechanics of the plumbing and duct work for air conditioning and heat.

When the boy returned, siblings and cousins mobbed him to ask what it was like and what he saw. He had disappeared into the dark a mere 6-year-old and emerged a celebrity. He is the only one among them who has ever ventured into that dark hollow.

He may be young and small, but he now stands tall, King of the Crawl.

If you can overlook the motion sickness, our first online book group went well.

I came across a list of must-read children’s classics and noted “The Wind in the Willows” on the list. I started reading the book years ago and found it to be an effective sleep aid.

Now, with a long winter looming, what better time to take another run at the children’s classic, as well as a chance to socialize online with any grands who wanted to read it as well.

Their eagerness to start a Zoom book group was stunning. But then, I suppose the prolonged isolation of a pandemic does that to people. After a year of near nothingness, someone yells, “Hey! Want to watch me pick lint from the dryer vent?” and it’s an invitation to party.

That said, the book did have a toad, mole, rat and badger going for it.

As host, I assumed I would ask questions about plot and characters, but that was not the case. Instead, I did a lot of, “Hey! Can you kids keep that laptop steady? All that rocking and rolling and bouncing around is making me queasy!”

I suggested they set it on a table, but it is called a laptop and it turns out they are of the literal interpretation bent.

I also heard myself frequently saying, “C’mon people, get her bum away from the camera! We want to see your faces, not her diaper.”

Several pre-readers had joined, the youngest physically diving into the crowd of siblings seated on the floor with the tipsy laptop. It’s always good to see enthusiasm for reading at an early age.

I asked who would put the book on their Forever Bookshelf and nobody said a word. Nobody moved. Even the laptop held still.

I asked everyone what their favorite part of the book was, and the chatter began.

SPOILER ALERT!

“When Toad fooled his friend and escaped from the house making a rope out of bedsheets!”

“When Toad wrecked the stolen car!”

“When Toad went to prison for stealing cars!”

“When Toad escaped from prison dressed as a washer woman!”

There I was, leading a book discussion for the juvenile delinquents of tomorrow. Concerned this might come back on me one day, I stressed that climbing out windows by tying sheets together is wrong, stealing cars is wrong, wrecking stolen cars is wrong and escaping from prison is wrong.

I could only imagine how the report on the book group with Grandma went with their parents.

“We talked about stealing cars and escaping from prison.”

“Yeah, and how Toad lowered himself from a bedroom window by tying bedsheets together.”

We also discussed lovely passages about drifting down the river, watching nightfall and hunting for a missing otter. We also agreed that Rat was the most admirable character, a true friend and giver of good advice, but who knows if they remembered any of that.

If not, the first book group may have been the last.

Valentine’s Day was the scariest day of the year when I was a kid.

It was before the Mandatory Valentine Edict went into effect—the rule that requires every kid to give every other kid in the class a valentine whether you like them or not.

Liking everybody else was not compulsory years ago. Oh sure, it was strongly suggested by your teacher and by your mother, but even so, the day of love could be a day of suspense and apprehension. You might get a valentine from every kid in class, or you might not.

Adding to the pressure were the valentine boxes themselves. Everybody brought a shoebox they had decorated from home. Almost everybody. There were always some boys who brought unadorned shoeboxes, plopped them on their desks and shot a glare that said, “I dare anyone to put a valentine in here.” They were unofficial nonparticipants in the day of love.

I put my all into the shoebox—all the aluminum foil I could find to wrap the box and all the glue I could find for all the lopsided hearts cut from red construction paper. I dreamed of creating a box so stunning it would draw a crowd of gushing admirers around my desk, but the crowd was always at someone’s else desk. Someone who had paper doilies, silver glitter and pink pipe cleaners.

Counting the valentines you received was an exercise in both mathematics and deduction. First you ran the numbers to see what your return was, then you tried to deduce who didn’t give you one.

In those days, I walked to school with a neighbor boy named Big Bruce. He was big up-and-down and from side-to-side. Sometimes on our walk to school, a boy from my class named Mike would chase me.

I carried my lunch money in a small coin purse, which I would entrust to Big Bruce while I outran Mike. I don’t recall ever giving Big Bruce a valentine and I should have. A big box of candy, too. He was a fine bodyguard.

My mother said Mike was sweet on me and I suppose he wasn’t an unattractive boy, but still.

I thought I’d had a good Valentine’s Day at school. I took my box home and found close to a 90 percent return from my classmates.

I opened the valentines one after another—cute puppy dogs wearing red bows, cupids shooting arrows into hearts—then I saw it. A signed valentine. From Mike.

How could my archenemy, my nemesis, give me a valentine? I was sure he didn’t like me and now he had all but declared his love from the rooftops and proposed. What a mess. Second grade was ruined.

I was only 7 years old and a boy was already messing with my head. I’ve forgiven Mike for the signed valentine, but it remains the scariest Valentine’s Day ever.

Readers often assume I live in the city where they read my column. This is not a bad thing. As a matter of fact, it may be proof that even in the Age of Contention, the spirit of neighborliness still lives.

A woman in California once invited me for lunch at a Monterey country club and said she would reserve a parking space for me out front. I thanked her for the gesture but told her not to hold the parking space, as it would be a good three-day drive.

A few weeks ago, a reader acknowledged my appreciation for the outdoors and welcomed me to walk their farmland and woods anytime. They live in Alabama. I’d need an overnight bag and two days to get there and back.

After a speaking engagement, a woman once told me she was happy to know we lived in the same city. When I said I didn’t live in her city, she said, “Well, that’s not what I heard.” She was so adamant that I checked my driver’s license on my way back to the car just to make sure I was right. Whew!

The amazing thing about all this is that even though people think our family lives in the vicinity of their family, they don’t immediately stick a “For Sale” sign in the front yard.

By way of disclosure, our home has been in Indianapolis, Indiana for 30-plus years. Neither my husband nor I were born here, but we attend the State Fair almost every year, which officially makes us Hoosiers.

I only mention where we live because we Hoosiers are on the verge of making national news and I fear it may spur controversy.

State Senator Ron Grooms introduced a bill naming popcorn the official State Snack. That’s right, you heard it here first.

The potential controversy is that upon introducing the bill the senator said, “I want Indiana to be known for more than basketball.”

The man inadvertently drew a line in the sand—and on the basketball court and in every popcorn farmer’s field. It’s probably just a matter of time before popcorn people declare popcorn more noble than basketball, and basketball people start bouncing balls against the homes of popcorn people late at night. In turn, popcorn people will become hardened and refuse melted butter and salt to family and friends.

Just when you thought things couldn’t get any uglier.

Here’s hoping push does not come to more pushing, shoving and flagrant fouls.

That said, the senator also struck a lovely note of humility, acknowledging that Indiana is number two in the nation for popcorn production (behind Nebraska, the No. 1 popcorn producer.)

How many states boast that they are in second place? The ability to be humble is a fine quality – on the court, off the court, in the field, in the home and in your community. Humility says something good about a place and its people.

So, no matter what you’ve heard, I live in Indiana, the state that separates Michigan from Kentucky, humbly acknowledges that we are No. 2, and has officially named popcorn the state snack.

Last week I planned 24 trips. Sure, 15 were for grocery pickups, but 9 were on VRBO.

Travel planning is my latest pushback against pandemic-induced claustrophobia. We may not be leaving home, but that doesn’t mean we can’t dream of leaving home.

I’ve never covered so many miles on so little fuel.

If it’s cold outside, I view beach houses. Bright tropical palettes and palm trees swaying in the breeze call, “Come!” I can even visualize myself on the beach—tall, tanned and so incredibly thin that passersby yell, “Put some meat on those bones, lady!”

I punch in travel dates and receive a message that says 30-day minimum stay required. So much the better. It is beyond my control. They demand I stay for a month!

If it is snowing, I’m browsing majestic ski lodges made of huge timbers. That’s me by the outdoor fire pit cradling a cup of hot chocolate in my hands, all decked out in my sporty ski jacket with coordinating ski pants. I don’t have a ski outfit, but when I dream I like to include wardrobe. (And weight loss. See above paragraph.)

A lot of my travel is food-inspired. We have Italian for dinner and I’m back online teetering between Sicily, Florence and Rome. So few clicks; so many choices. Seaside escape or rolling hills of Tuscany? Do we want the villa that comes with the winery tour or the villa without?

I’m jetting around the globe with absolutely no concern that my passport is out of date.

Steaks on the grill? Say hello, dude ranch. Put me down for a dry and dusty cattle drive, mending fences and sleeping under the stars. Now checking the box for “authentic western ranch experience that comes with high-end amenities.” So you really can have it all.

If a history book puts me to sleep, I create a trip board for the place where the history happened. Why read when you can tour?

If only I could earn frequent flier miles and hotel points for sitting in front of the computer. If only vacation therapy was covered by our health insurance. “Doctor, doctor, I need some vitamin See!”

I’m not the only one doing vicarious vacation therapy. On VRBO nearly every place I’ve saved to one of my 3,000 travel boards has been viewed by 289 others in the past few hours.

Nobody’s booking, but everybody’s looking.  Much of the world now works from home and travels from home.

There are two sides to these vicarious vacations. The downside of not actually leaving home is not leaving home.

The upside of not actually leaving home is that we avoid long car trips, airport security and struggling to cram a bag that won’t quite fit into overhead storage.

That said, it would be nice to go somewhere.

I miss the little soaps.

We may soon apply for “Historic Preservation” designation.

I was making coffee the morning after some of the grands spent the night, when one asked, “What’s that thing in your hand?”

“It’s a coffee filter,” I said. “I’m making coffee.”

“That’s not how my dad makes coffee.”

I know that’s not how her dad makes coffee. He uses a machine where you drop in a pod, puncture it, and seconds later get coffee that puts hair on your chest like King Kong.

Known for tact (at least two or three times a year), I kindly tell her there are many ways to make coffee.

She gives me a skeptical look, then says, “Those white things in your hand are what we use for crafts.”

She thinks I’m pulling a fast one. Who can blame her? Drip-coffee makers are nearly before her time. She is growing up in the age of K-Cup, Nespresso and drive-through designer coffees.

I am not pulling a fast one and she is correct, we have soaked coffee filters in water, dropped food coloring on them and molded them into flowers when they dried.

I cautiously explain the role of a filter in a slow-drip coffee maker, but she remains unconvinced. I should have taken a video of the conversation. It could have gone viral like videos of millennials trying to use rotary dial phones. They keep lifting the receiver and setting it back down attempting to reset the phone.

Fortunately, we have the rotary dial phone covered. The husband was given an ancient rotary dial phone, spray painted gold, by co-workers years ago in honor of all the long-distance calls we made to each other before we were married.

The grands all know how to dial a number on the rotary phone but would probably jump out of their skin should the thing ever be connected and let out a shrill b-r-r-r-r-ring, b-r-r-r-r-ring.

There is something endearing about explaining old technology to the young, watching their faces light up and understand how something was done before we all lived on screens. Likewise, we marvel as they explain the on/off button on the icemaker in the refrigerator and the program function on the thermostat.

The other day I overheard the husband asking one of the grands if she knew what a party line was. She was no doubt thinking along the lines of doing the Baby Shark dance with friends; he was referring to shared telephone lines once common in rural areas eons ago. I intervened saying we will explain history, but not ancient history.

I’m pulling for Historic Preservation designation, not Dinosaur Dig.

I take a final run at explaining that coffee filters had a utilitarian function long before they became a popular crafting material on Pinterest. She remains leery and stands her ground. I stand mine, too. Morning blend.

One day when she is my age, she can tell the story to her grands about how her grandma used to make coffee with craft supplies.

We closed out a bank account we once used for direct deposit and no longer need. Yes, it’s a sad day when your direct deposits cease to exist. A moment of silence, please.

We went in person to the bank to close the account. For the record, it is the only time either of us have entered a bank wearing masks.

It took some time. There was a flurry of activity behind the counter as several people consulted with one another and a bank manager was sought to sign off on things. Finally, we filled out the necessary paperwork, withdrew the remainder in the account, said our goodbyes, and left the bank with two new ballpoint pens.

Several weeks later, we received an envelope in the mail, four pages in all, one piece of paper completely blank, notifying us of a balance in the closed account.

One cent.

This is our version of a “get-rich-quick.”

I voted for leaving the penny just to see if it would magically spawn more pennies, but the husband said we should withdraw the “funds” if for no other reason than to spare the bank the expense of maintaining an inactive account. Agreed.

He volunteered to go to the bank to resolve the matter. Also agreed.

He was gone a very long time. The bank lobby was now closed due to an uptick in Covid cases. All transactions were conducted in the drive-through lanes with large video screens. It takes a lot longer to find the necessary people, and return to the video screen with each one, to clarify matters, as opposed to shuffling people behind a counter.

He finally returned home. Without the penny.

This was a disappointment, as I was visualizing polishing it and displaying it in a place of prominence. The bank could not release the penny to the husband because I was the one who had opened the account.

It’s intoxicating to wield such power.

I would be the one to make the withdrawal and (again) close the account.

Let’s see, three trips to the bank, four miles round trip, at government rate of 57.5 cents per mile, the penny was now worth $6.90 plus one cent face value. We were what you would call heavily invested.

We returned to the bank several days later, but not without doing hair and makeup first, knowing we would be on video—a video no doubt broadcast to the employee breakroom once word was out that the couple was back for their one cent.

The transaction was completed, the staff was sincerely apologetic, but most importantly the lighting in the drive-through was filtered and flattering, which is important when you’re on screen. Plus, if there was laughing in the background it was thoughtfully muted.

Senator Everett Dirksen is remembered for saying, “A billion here, a billion there, and pretty soon you’re talking about real money.”

That’s us. Working our way toward real money, one penny at a time.

Others apparently see us more clearly than we see ourselves, which is why we are often the recipients of free advice.

When our oldest daughter was living at home before she got married, she had so much advice for us that she designated herself our life coach. Because our life coach was engaged and about to marry, she was reading book after book on marriage and relationships. She had not yet been in a marriage, but she was a near expert on the subject.

The husband was often the subject of insights and tips offered by our life coach. He took it well, meaning he would look up, acknowledge her, shake his head and go back to what he had been doing before being interrupted.

Our life coach is now married and extremely busy coaching a family of her own. She doesn’t have much time for coaching us, but one of her daughters recently assumed that responsibility. The mantle has been passed, a very small mantle to a child who still sleeps with a stuffed bunny rabbit.

The child is concerned that her grandpa sleeps late many days. She is too young to have read any books on flexible schedules being one of the great perks of retirement and believes my husband and I need to keep the same schedule.

I explain that her grandpa and I have different circadian rhythms. She asks what cicadas have to do with sleep. I explain that a cicada is a locust, while circadian refers to patterns of sleep and wakefulness in relationship to light and darkness.

He has always been a night owl and I have always been an early morning person. If the day comes that I am not up by 5, I am probably seriously ill. Or —as I recently read in someone’s obituary— “not able to do lunch.”

Mini-coach also has it in her head that I should get her grandpa on the same schedule I am on. I did not tell her there are some who believe slightly different schedules may be the key to a happy marriage for fear she would report me to her mother, our former life coach.

Mini-coach has advised me to set every clock in the house ahead by one minute so Grandpa will think it is later than it is and get up earlier.

“Then each week, you should set every clock ahead by another minute,” she says.

Mini-coach has not done the math, because using that method, it could take four years to bring his schedule into sync with mine.

“What do I do when the clocks say it is nighttime, but it is still daylight outside?” I ask.

“Pull all the shades and keep them pulled!”

She says this with the same exasperation her mother exhibited years ago, frustrated that I am unable to reach the obvious solution to the problem.

We take our coaching under consideration; happy someone takes an interest in us and even happier that we don’t have to pay for free advice.

So long, 2020. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

Once was enough on this one. Absolutely nobody is saying, “That was fun. Let’s do this again.”

The passing year morphed into a time warp. Memories of when events happened are jumbled, out of focus and out of sequence. The benchmarks have vanished. Cancel culture cancelled life.

If someone told me that we are actually in March and St. Patrick’s Day is around the corner, I might believe them.

That will be me pinching people in January for not wearing green.

The isolation, the anxiety and the uncertainty have taken a toll.

But what if? What if 2020 wasn’t completely rotten?

What if we take the things we have learned and pull them forward?

Our neighborhood transformed under lockdown. People were out walking from the first gleam of sunrise to the last shadows of evenings. On pleasant days, the four-way stop at the corner was pedestrian congestion.

“You go first.”

“No, you go first.”

We were kind and deferential to one other. The election was still a ways off.

Stangers stopped to talk. I met a couple in their 40s who bought a house a few blocks over. They beamed announcing that they were first-time homeowners.

Kids and families rode bicycles and grown-ups and kids played ball together. There were outdoor concerts in backyards and green spaces.

Medical and emergency personnel, utility workers, trash collectors, law enforcement and grocery clerks became the heroes among us, larger than life.

Thank you. A million times, thank you.

People in every corner tried to make the best of a bad situation—there were movie nights in driveways with projectors aimed at garage doors, neighborhood scavenger hunts on social media, chalk art on sidewalks and generous tips for food service workers when restaurants reopened. At times, American ingenuity was on full display.

Granted, the year was difficult, but it wasn’t the Germans blitzing England during WWII. At least that’s what I kept telling myself. And maybe, just maybe, we gained a little perspective on the things that matter most.

I’ll never again take a welcoming hug or small soft hand in mine for granted.

I’ll never again drive by a hospital or nursing home without saying a silent prayer for all those inside.

We attended two graveside funeral services this year. We saw the grieving weeping, their hearts breaking into a thousand pieces. Every fiber of their beings longed for comfort and every fiber of our beings yearned to give it, but one cannot extend genuine human comfort from a distance of 6 feet away. When the virus is finally laid to rest, I may do a hug tour.

Far too many are grieving for loved ones. Others have lost income, jobs, businesses, homes and their futures. Many wonder if those things will ever come back.

As a young photojournalist working in Oregon years ago, I covered the explosion of Mt. St. Helens. Sprawling stands of forest that covered the mountain were stripped bare and flattened like toothpicks. Experts said the clouds of gas that exploded from the volcano and the thick layer of ash meant nothing would ever grow on the mountain again.

The following spring small green shoots peeked through the snow.

The mountain came back.

We will, too.