Last Monday, I watched an MLB game. In person. With Beth and our friend, a Cleveland fan who lives in the hood.

It felt pretty normal–in an abnormal way. Fans were scattered through the lower and upper

Yahoo!

decks, with the largest grouping being four. Our electronic tickets indicated which gate to enter and which zone we’d be in. Each zone was like a piece of a stadium pie chart, and once in, we could wander the concourse within our zone, but no farther.

But that was fine. Our zone had everything we needed: beer, bathrooms bratwurst, Polish and Italian sausage, and yes, the smell of grilled onions. Though the number of fans were limited, those who were there were excited enough to cheer like a much bigger crowd. And though we were distanced, we were close enough that we could eavesdrop on baseball chatter and join in. Beth struck up a conversation with the young woman who was our usher. Her father and grandfather loved baseball, and she inherited a general love of the game from them.

Yesterday afternoon neighborhood friends generously gave us their matinee tickets to Jazz

Back in business!

Showcase, which reopened to limited crowds recently. The talent on stage was not at all limited—Ari Brown, a legendary local saxophonist led the band. And one of our favorite young Turks of the Chicago jazz scene—saxophonist Isaiah Collier—sat near us in the audience until called up to join the band for a couple of stirring numbers. Old guard and new guard fused as one.

Those two events reminded me of what we’ve been missing in the 2D world of screen living. Things are better in 3D.

And next Saturday, we’ll get to be with Gus, in all three dimensions.

Thanks for all the sweet comments to Wednesday’s blog post about leading memoir-writing class in-person again. A few of you requested I let you know how “opening day” played out, so here I am with some highlights:

• My good pants still fit
• Luna emptied during her morning constitutional – welcome news
• The cab I ordered arrived late – unwelcome news
• Everything I’ve heard about drivers ignoring speed limits during the pandemic proved true
• Cab driver floored it on Lake Shore Drive
• Luna and I arrived at The Admiral just a few minutes late
• I had the right amount of cash on hand to tip the driver
• The temperature check at the front entrance came out normal
• Barbara, the class organizer, was right there to direct us to the conference room we were meeting in
  

  We’re on the road again.

The writers cheered when we entered the conference room and were especially excited to meet Luna. Barbara led me to a seat at the table that was socially distanced from others seated there. The four or five who couldn’t fit sat socially distanced behind us, a peanut gallery of sorts. I don’t give writing assignments during breaks from class but I do encourage those itching to write to do so on their own and bring those essays along to read out loud during the first class. A majority of them did just that, and when Bindy Bitterman was called on to read first, we readied ourselves for something uniquely Bindy.

She did not disappoint.

After pulling her mask down to read, she started her essay with a question. “Remember the song ‘Que Sera, Sera’?” From there, she belted out the first part of the 1956 Doris Day hit song for us. What can I say? Joy, laughter and applause comes through a lot better in person than over Zoom! For an encore, she sang her personalized-for-Bindy version: “Will I be published? I won’t be rich! That’s what I say to me!” Bindy has been trying two years to get her children’s limerick book, Skiddly Diddly Skat,” published, and she used the rest of her 500 words to share some good news. A mishap with her laptop required her to get help retrieving lost data. The data retrieval recovered long-lost information of an artist who been a friend of her late husband and the two got back in touch. “Self-publishing didn’t appeal to me before, but now it feels perfectly do-able,” she read with joy in her voice. “No, I won’t make money at it, and yes, it will cost a lot — Rich is much younger than I, and this is how he earns his living — but this style fits Skiddly so perfectly it’s bound to be a hit!”

What a great start to the in-person class. Being in the room to hear others read their essays was so moving, many of them featuring personal encounters in the past with family members, caring for a grandson who’d been born prematurely and is now a healthy teenager, making friends with a man who happen to sit next to him on a flight — back when strangers were used to sitting together on flights. A piece one writer wrote about how Zoom helped her survive the pandemic served to remind us that holding class online this past year was downright amazing.

At the end of class I took Luna’s harness off and welcomed those interested to come on over and pet her. When she rolled on her back for bellyrubs I knew for certain: Luna prefers in-person learning.

Happy Immunity Day! It’s been 14 days since Mike and I got our second Pfizer vaccine, and I’m celebrating by leading a memoir-writing class in person this afternoon.

Luna’s not worried.

The last memoir-writing class I taught in person met 13 months ago. It is downright amazing how quickly we all adjusted to using Zoom and meeting online. So comfortable that, as much as I hate to admit it, I’m feeling a little anxiety over physically attending class in a few hours. A story on CNBC tells me this is normal –sort of.

More than a year into the pandemic, people have become accustomed to the lives they’ve built and the routines they’ve created in their “Covid caves” and are not looking forward to a return to normal.

For some, this comes from an extreme fear of the disease, or anxiety about reacclimating into society.

Others have found that the pandemic has brought about positive changes in their lives, and they’re afraid of losing what they’ve gained.

My anxiety has little to do with the COVID virus: today’s class meets at Admiral-at-the-Lake, a Chicago senior housing facility where every resident and all staff members received their vaccines in February. I’ve been fully vaccinated, my writers have all been fully vaccinated, we all can meet in the conference room around one table and, get this: read essays with our masks off. So why am I nervous? It’s the little stuff.

How did I used to get there every week? What’s the address again? Do I have the right cash to tip the cab driver? What time should I leave so I get there on time? What should I wear? Will my good pants still fit? What do I need to bring? Where is my lipstick? In class we pass Scrabble tiles around to see who reads first, second, third…where on earth did I stash my little zippered bag of Scrabble tiles after classes were cancelled last year? Will my bus pass still work? My Seeing Eye dog has only been to the Admiral once or twice, will she get me into the lobby alright? What prompt should I assign for next week? Is my iPhone fully charged?

I look forward to coming home this afternoon, rereading this post and wondering what I was so worried about. But that comes later. Now, I’d better start getting ready.

You know where we’re having dinner tonight? At the White Sox-Cleveland game!

It’ll be different than the last game we went to in 2019, to be sure. We’re assigned to a section and we can’t roam the park and hang out on the outfield concourse like we usually do. But I’ll float on the aroma of grilled onions and tubular meats like Bugs Bunny levitates to the smell of carrot stew.

I feel like a six-year-old on the day before Christmas.

COVID anniversaries these past few weeks have driven home how much we’ve all gone through together. Indeed, we’re not out. But Beth and I will celebrate immunity day this Wednesday, marking two weeks after our second Pfizer vaccination. We’re daring to believe the light at the end of the tunnel is not the headlight of a train.

This morning, during our twice-yearly phone meeting with Gus’ caseworker, his nurse, and his house manager, Beth and I came away assured that the transition from Bethesda to Broadstep—the new owner/operator of Gus’ group home in Wisconsin—is going well.

Even better, we learned that after this Wednesday we can visit him! He and his housemates and staff received their second shots weeks ago, we’ll be fully vaccinated, so On Wisconsin!

Finally, just this morning I learned from Beth that the Bangles song Just Another Manic Monday was written and performed originally by Prince. I can’t believe I didn’t know that.

And so, tonight at the game I’m going to party like it’s 1999. Please continue to take care, and happy Monday everybody!

Today’s guest blogger, Cynthia Jones.

I am pleased to feature Cynthia Jones as our Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger today. After a long career in nursing and social work, Cynthia officially retired in 2013 and before March, 2020, had been working part-time at City of Chicago senior centers and a residential facility for people with chronic mental illness. Her furlough is our gain: she now has time to participate in the memoir-writing class I lead via Zoom on Thursday afternoons.

Goodbye Alexandra

by Cynthia Jones

I dressed myself and my one-week old daughter carefully for the meeting. I knew the impression we made would be important and lasting. As part of our adoption agreement, we were to meet Mariah’s birthmother and maternal grandmother at the adoption agency today, the day Alexandra would sign the final paper to relinquish her parental rights.

I was functioning on automatic pilot so as not to get bogged down in my emotions and become unable to prepare. Fear that Alexandra had changed her mind about giving up Mariah. Fear that Alexandra wouldn’t like me and forever feel bad about the adoption. Guilt about “taking” Alexandra’s child. most importantly, not wanting to be flooded with memories and associated feelings about that long ago day when I was the unmarried 20-year-old birth mother signing away my own newborn.

Mariah and I hadn’t yet established the synchronous flow that develops between a mother and her infant. We’d only had 2 days together. But she was my second child so I felt confident in handling and caring for her.

The drive was long and silent with our dread. The social worker my husband and I had met at the hospital met us at the reception desk, whispered that Alexandra had already signed the papers, and ushered us into a conference room.

At least this no longer felt like an audition. Alexandra and her mother, Gwen, sat side by side. Mariah was asleep in her carrier. We sat across the table. I noticed Alexandra’s beautiful sweet smile. I don’t remember much about the conversation except that it was uncomfortable.

Fortunately, my wonderful husband had thought to bring a photo album with pictures of us with our son Josh on happy occasions. It was a perfect ice breaker and gave Alexandra a chance to see Mariah’s new brother.

We’d been told by the social worker that Alexandra and her mom wanted to keep her baby and raise her, but since Alexandra and her family were white and Mariah’s father African American, her father was absolutely against having Mariah in the family. We learned that Alexandra had lived in her parents’ home throughout her pregnancy. After about 20 minutes of that conversation, Mariah woke up crying and hungry. I was prepared with a bottle and settled to feed her.

It was then that I noticed Alexandra was crying. My heart broke for her, and I asked if she wanted to feed Mariah (which I’m sure was against agency policy). Alexandra nodded and I placed Mariah in her arms and the bottle in her hand. She had long brown hair which cascaded over both their faces as she leaned forward to feed her daughter one last time. Mariah made satisfied sucking sounds while Alexandra continued to cry softly. Gwen put her arm comfortingly around her grieving daughter as she, too, cried softly. I tried my best not to cry, but tears streamed down my face, too. So much mother grief in that small room.

After Mariah emptied the bottle, Gwen said softly, “Give her back to her mother now.” This time my heart shattered as Alexandra placed Mariah back in my arms.