2020, As it Were

Highlights from the 2020 Journal©

January – Out of rehab (not what you are thinking). In a wheelchair after four hours of surgery. Moved into new house. Noah 25% house trained. Travel restricted to places with electric wheelchairs (EWs) for handicapped and weight-challenged people. EW folks are a cheerful, helpful lot. Ms. Fire Hair (Nanticoke Native-American with broken hip) gave me the low-down on stores with EWs: Giant, Lowes, Home Depot and (I did not pursue this) the local leather/adult novelty boutique, as well as the best source to trade any surplus meds I might have for frequent flyer miles. Decide to rewrite my sure-to-be best seller novel Paperboy in time for Christmas buying season and winter book tours. See Joe around town but he doesn’t stop by for coffee – the guy is so darn busy what with trying to pull the country out of madness.

February – 50% unpacked. Graduated to walker. Noah 33% house trained. Have a whole new circle of friends from the staffs, fellow patients, home nurses and physical therapists (PTs) I visit constantly. Noah expelled from puppy school. Hire private tutor. First quarter rewrite of first chapter of novel 25% complete. I am picking up the pace. Try as we might Joe, and Jill and I just can’t find the time to grab a latte at the Flying Saucer Café. He’s just so wrapped up with this New Hampshire stuff and she is grading mid-terms; completely understandable.

March – Trash people send extra bill for hauling off the first 200 empty moving boxes. On crutches, allowed to drive myself anywhere as long as I don’t leave Sussex County. Meet my PT team, all irritatingly kind, supportive, athletic, and upbeat. No excuses therapy twice a week and they let me know they’d know if I didn’t do my prescribed exercises. Stock up on COVID lifestyle essentials. Wake up at 2AM to wash my hands and take my temperature (a Chinese thermometer in Celsius so not entirely sure what that means in real degrees) every hour. Noah slides to 25% and is placed under martial law. My bon voyage EW luncheon at the Deli counter at Giant created a traffic jam. Accepted into a tough love writing class. Am learning so much I decide to start the rewrite all over. A little worried about the release date but am optimistic that I can shift into literary overdrive. Black helicopter circles the house (driving Noah nuts) but am certain it can only be the Bidens waving.

April – $4,500 of your (Medicare) tax dollars spent on a magic black box that somehow grows bone tissue, programed for six months and then thrown away. It worked. PTs insist (demand) upon pouring me into what looks like a giant rubber diaper then strap me into an unforgiving mechanism that makes me run without putting too much pressure on the leg. Must make ugly scene when PTs “forget” to take me out. Don’t want to even think it is deliberate. Following a regrettable incident with the neighbor’s (and I say this without judgement) promiscuous Bichon Frise (aren’t they all?) Noah visits the vet hospital and emerges unencumbered but no less furtive. Might need to liquidate IRA to pay Zoom. Perhaps went overboard with on-line classes. Then again learning Frysk has been on my “To Do” list for decades. It seems I write five words and change seven. Have reluctantly abandoned Christmas publication date but am throwing in an unrequited love chapter to lock in the St Valentine’s Day market. Jill leaves a charming message in voice mail reminding me that tyrants aren’t toppled for free. I send a check with a note agreeing we must get together “as soon as all this stuff is over.”

May – Off crutches, final therapy, clean bill of health, tears, and hugs as I say au reservoir to my circle of true and valued friends whom I really don’t want to ever see again in the same circumstances. All good things must end. Some not soon enough. Noah housetrained but shows an alarming passive-aggressive streak with his Donald doll, which to the unknowing eye looks a lot like torture. Slow, deliberate torture. Summer tenants call hysterical and despondent over having to cancel their sacred vacations, but somehow manage to regain their composure to ask for a full refund, which I do without hesitation. COVID living isn’t a lot different than broken leg recovery living, without the EWs. Novel rolling along at 33.3% first quarter of first chapter locked up. Realize that writers don’t have lifestyles. We sit in little rooms and write. Surprise visit from the Secret Service; not about Noah’s antisocial behavior … just a friendly conversation to talk about all the messages I am returning to Joe and Jill. Suspect that this is just an excuse for security clearance as people are telling me that it is only a matter of time before I am approached for a sensitive senior position in the Biden administration. Am increasingly unsympathetic when told by red-as-lobster tourists (dizzy from staggering on the boardwalk in a sunbaked daze stuffing themselves with Dolle’s candies and Grotto’s pizzas and stopping every 10 steps to rearrange the 43 stuffed toys someone either won or walked off with from Funland) to get out of the way so that they can take cutesy photos of their no-neck monster offspring (dropping pizza grease and sticky stuff it should be noted) with Noah on the back seat (like a beauty queen) of my classic turquoise 64 Rambler convertible. The price one pays for being a legend.

June – Break pinky finger which entails surgery and an entirely new circle of doctors and PTs. None of my old EW buddies recognize me vertical. Isle au Haut (IaH) essentially closed down. Feel compelled to write pithy letter to the Rehoboth Bla-Bla chastising brain dead Confederate Insurrectionists for refusing the wear masks on the Boardwalk. Might have been imprudent signing my name and not, as strongly encouraged, “A Concerned Citizen.” Polished off the ninth (possibly more, no longer keep count) rewrite of the first quarter of the first chapter. Miss catching up with Joe by minutes at Browseabout Books. Wave to Jill at car wash. Have become “the guy with the cool blue antique convertible with Noah” at WaWa, Chipotle, Rise Up Coffee, the USPO, Five Guys, Wharton Garden Center, RB Writers Guild, Wilmington Trust, Dolles, Bad Hair Day, Summer House, Lewes Library, Royal Treat Ice Cream, Funland and All Saints Thrift.

July – Finger slowly healing (not encouraged when all conversations with a medical person start with “for a person of your age”). Unorthodox finger exercises with a therapist (Strange Finger Lady ((SFL) who mumbles to herself and has a haunting, vacant look in her eyes and large, detailed, and misspelt tattoos with names of people she’s can’t remember. Old friends that we are, after ten minutes she confides that she is a Q-Anon recruiter. Make note to never, never be late for my sessions and to gently remind her (after all they all look alike) that it’s the hand with the splint that has the broken finger. Noah voted “Most Popular Dog” at the puppy spa. Computer crashes which make me realize that in the interests of literature I should switch to a Selectric and make hard copies as Penn State will most certainly want my drafts and revisions for their alumni author archives. And future PhD theses. Last minute booking by dysfunctional Maryland Evangelical family/cult (decidedly vague who was and wasn’t kin) who needed “to let things cool down at the church back home.” Advised by the State Troopers that it’s best to keep a low profile after unfortunate backlash from above-noted letter to the editor. Ask SFL to intercede on my behalf. Am having disturbing nightmares about the characters in my novel who clearly don’t like me invading their privacy. Excited to bump into Joe and Jill at the drycleaners – but decide that they’re actually decoys with masks, which can only explain their blank stares when I hollered hello. Didn’t see any Secret Service people, but then I wouldn’t, would I?

August – Compelled to write (yet) another letter to the editor of the Bla-Bla about the city elections and the complete lunacy (in some detail, with footnotes) of voting for the man who soon thereafter was, in fact, elected. Somewhat relieved when assured there probably won’t be any serious retaliation. Major and Champ Biden bond with Noah at the Lewes Dog Park. Whispered conversation behind the product counter with SFL at Bad Hair Day (we share Tammy, the only stylist in LSD⁶ who really knows our hair) about intervening on my behalf with Confederate Insurrectionists/Q-Aon/Banana Republicans (they share office space above Miss Brenda’s House of Tattoo) not one bit encouraging. Confides that my name has been added to the “Children of Satan” list, which I can’t believe is a good thing. Take the most logical and auspicious action and get the hades out of Dodge⁷. In under three hours, Noah (disguised as a beagle) and I are on the Lewes-Cape May Ferry headed to an undisclosed island quite possibly seven miles off the coast of Maine where the mail boat captain will accidentally deposit anyone who asks where I live on an uninhabited, unnamed island somewhere in the Penobscot Bay (there are over 100 of them. No worries about overcrowding). The $600 (more of your tax dollars) protective custom-made hard plastic finger splint abandoned while climbing over rocks, mountains, rivers, swamp and through barberry jungles yelling/praying for help while semi-lost in Dead Man’s Ravine (not a good sign) on the Duck Harbour Mountain Trail. Rescued just as mobile went dead by a posse of bossyboots nine-year old Brownies who wouldn’t let me move until they assessed my cuts and bruises and left me covered with mercurochrome, my head wrapped in medical tape, legs and arms plastered with band aids, with a new finger splint made from a (grape) popsicle stick with duct tape, and several big silver star (not cooperative enough to get gold) stickers. Refuse their demands to give urine (or in their medical terminology “#1”) sample. So happy to be alive that I spent $300 for a lobster pie (delicious I am told, I don’t really eat lobster), at the Island School Pie Auction and later while at the Grocerie learn about an impromptu relocated wedding for 200 was held at my house (unknown to me but was delighted it worked) last October due to a nasty squall whipping the tent, the band’s drummer, and several guests out to sea at the Lighthouse. Was a tad lonely as couldn’t really visit my Island friends and my Camp Sisson¹º friends honored the COVID regulations but the fortnight was glorious. Turns out the computer had a hex, not a virus. Deposited at Convent of the Little Sisters of the Slapped Wrists for digital exorcism (platinum level). Moved the novel meter to a rock solid 29%.

September – Stop to see (six feet or the equivalent of six half-barrel kegs apart) Bunky⁸ and family and later Putuu-Putuu⁹ (the next Zaha Hadid) and her sweet babboo Matt on way home. Said babboo is a gifted portraitist and created an amazing painting of Jerry. Noah declared “Mr. Personality” at the Lewes Dog Park, (Small Designer Dogs division). Got a clean bill of health from the finger doctor but the SFT either went underground or was abducted by a UFO. Left me a note with words cut from newspapers that at first glance seemed to be a ransom letter. She tried but was only able to have my name moved to the Reformed Children of Satan list. This means I won’t be abducted and set loose naked in the forest under a full moon during a hurricane with dogs and the militia hunting me down with bows-and-arrows. Instead I will be tormented for eternity by people: (1) in line before me at Starbucks who have no idea what they want or where they put their money, (2) who don’t turn their ‘phones off in the movies, (3) who see no need to use directional lights, (4) are airplane seatmates who will not stop giving you the detailed (and at times illustrated) story of their very, very boring lives, and (5) who won’t stop ranting (or take off their MAGA hats) while spraying you with spittle that Elvis is alive and Paul McCartney is dead, that Finland doesn’t exist, that Trump is the Messiah, that Megan Markle is a robot and 5G causes COVID. So thoughtful of Joe to have his friends send emails and leave messages telling me how much my friendship means to him - and while I’m at it please give them my credit card number. Novel almost 50% rewritten (first quarter of first chapter). Resigned to a mid-Spring launch to coincide with the Frankfurt Book Fair.

October – Get a medallion from SA (Surgery Anonymous) for three months without anesthesia. Go on record as officially over COVID. Feeling a tad lonely as I no longer have medical appointments or PT sessions. I am yesterday’s news with my EV buddies. Noah invited to the Bidens for a Halloween party. Accountant (aka Evil Tax Return Queen of Lower Delaware) locks me in a dark room at the Dover House of Pain/DMV for three days (no takeout allowed) ‘til we finish the 2019 return. Knocked sideways and upside down by the death from COVID of a kind, dear friend from Florida. Am excited about tackling the second quarter of the first chapter and have decided it is never too early to start thinking about the movie/Netflix series adaptation and casts.

November – Go to bed terrified that Agent Orange has somehow managed to win and am on tender hooks until PA an GA move the dial. Am strongly encouraged NOT to write another letter to the editor demanding that Rehoboth abide by the separation of church and state (it’s in the constitution) and ban nativity scenes on public property. Spent TG with Noah, walking on the beach and sharing a catered dinner from Lé Diner Rehôboth (I like restaurants that have pictures of the food on the menu). Noah had to leave early as he was joining Champ and Major for TG dinner with the Bidens and Kamalas. Some confusion as to which wee beastie accidentally tripped the President-Elect. Second quarter of first chapter of novel hits 50%. Will most certainly publish just in time for the beach read market and Oprah interviews.

December – Christmas bonus demand letters received from the mailman, rubbish collectors, paperboy, lawn guys, cleaning crew, groomers, and my dental assistant, essentially emptying the IRA. Noah nominated for Delaware “Designer Puppy of the Year,” and reveals his personal mantra in an exclusive interview: To err is human, to forgive canine. Who knew he was so philosophical? Decided to do all Channukah, Kwanzaa, Christmas, and Black Mass shopping (as if I had any choice) by mail order and make many new and interesting friends from all over the world who are so patient in helping me select gifts and (especially) pay. Puzzled why there are two mountains of FedEx, UPS and USPO boxes on my porch when I come home from Urban Float. It appears that I’d gotten so involved chatting with my new BFFs that I neglected to have the presents shipped to the recipients. Rush to Drive-By Colonoscopy window to have boxes x-rayed as I went the gift wrap option and I have no idea what goes to who(m). Noah gets personally pawed Christmas card from Champ and Major and an engraved invitation to join them in the First Canine’s box (with Bo and Sunny Obama, Freddy Bush, and Lady Sugar Mountbatten-Windsor, representing her human the Queen) at the Inauguration. I receive a personalized (my name and address was almost certainly hand-written on the envelope) letter from Joe’s PA thanking me for volunteering to be Chief of Protocol and that he’d keep me in mind. Decide to leak book synopsis to Steve⁵ since I trust him to honor the book’s mood. Have vowed to hang in until the Bed Bath and Beyond Pharmacy honors my 20% off coupon to get the COVID vaccine. Looking forward to a year without Spray Tan Donnie and COVID, with freedom of movement, returning tenants and the robust health of all my friends, family and loved ones. particularly the SFL

Best of the Season and hopes for a happy and healthy 2021 Noah’s Human¹ ¹Formerly known as Mat. ²Any recipient of the above missive living, dead or otherwise who does not reciprocate in either written (preferred) or optional electronic fashion will be removed from the 2021 missive distribution. No exceptions. ³No animals were hurt writing this letter. This included upon the advice/dictate of sister Puddles (neither her real name nor a nun) who based on taking copious notes on every Perry Mason and coaching her daughter Pudding (not her real name) for the Colorado (and 35 other states/jurisdictions) bar exams (she passed!) feels more than qualified to dispense legal advice at no charge (to start). She is my self-appointed literary executor and is nothing but forward-thinking ⁴Red bench in snow picture may/may not represent Jerry’s memorial bench on/near Lake Gerar. ⁵Spielberg, aspiring director with a great deal of potential. ⁶Lower Slower Delaware. ⁷Literary idiom for Rehoboth Beach. ⁸Adored college roommate. ⁹Incredible niece (not her real name). ¹ºSenior year college friends and families who join me on the Island every year.