The sky is a high, pale blue this afternoon. A slight breeze takes the sting out of the ninety-degree heat. A few thin shadows of clouds hover around the horizon, barely visible.

Time got away from me after I started the pandemic journal. My focus narrowed. My concern became my family and their health. I made bread, stretched our meals, and adopted a siege mentality. We stocked up on basic foods and necessaries, stayed home, and communicated with our children often. We checked on friends and neighbors. It’s what one does in troubled times.  Lyd stitched and I piddled on the banjo. We spent a lot of time on the internet. We might as well have been homesteaders in the middle of the prairie. We saw folks about as often as any early settler.

Then I got sick. Afraid of disease transmittal, it was weeks before a doctor would see me. When one finally did it was an e-visit on the internet. The doctors never did determine what to call what I had. I took two Corona virus tests, both negative. Neither of my doctors took those results to heart and suggested I may have had it anyway, or something close to it. Lyd was worried and had an emergency bag in the car packed with supplies, such as a spare phone, in case I was whisked away to ICU. I didn’t almost die, but I was very ill. I almost, almost died. Our children visited often, Josh from across town and Heather from Spokane, a seven hour drive each way. They did our errands and shopping, mowed the lawn and carried garbage to the front on pick-up days.

Now, twenty-one weeks later, I’ve coasted back to health. I’ve gone from not being able to go from one room to another without oxygen, to walking around the block, and it’s a long block. We’ve settled into a gentle routine that I have only become aware of today. I spend the morning reading or doing light chores. I water the garden. I cut up greens for a salad and fix light meals. The dog and I wander around the yard. She barks at neighbors, and, sometimes I do too, just to keep her company. I play the banjo. She curls nearby whenever I play. I happened upon a song the other day that I’ve begun to pick. It is relatively simple, which matches my skill level. When I heard the title, I knew I had to learn it: “The Old Yeller Dog Came Trotting Through the Meeting House.” The image spoke to me, the sudden entrance of the ridiculous into the serious. It was American Zen. Han Shan and She-te in the Ozarks. For now, the tune has become a koan for me. I struggle to find the inner meaning, the key that will unlock the melody for my fingers. I want to be able to simply let go and play it. I’m not there yet.

The world at large seems noisy, unpleasant, and often ugly in general, though in particular people are kind and caring. We have had our own little storm here in the Willamette Valley and with fortitude, faith in each other and in our family, we are safe and happy for the present. We watch the weather, love each other, and go about our business, just like the ol’ yeller dog.

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