“Remoted” – Day 387 (Wednesday)

It was another quick walk down memory lane when Facebook Memories reminded me that on this date in 2011, the ribbon cutting was held to officially open the Fort Defiance Civil War Park and Interpretive Center in Clarksville. It was a beautiful, sunny, warm Tennessee day.

That's me in the goofy sunglasses
at the ribbon cutting!

Early on April 7, 2011, I had posted on Facebook “Fort Defiance Interpretive Center ribbon cutting today! I hope I don’t do something really stupid like cry when I see my script writing credit in the video.” It was followed later in the day with “update: did not cry during my video credit … it was much earlier during the National Anthem. Was super glad to be wearing big Hollywood sunglasses.” 

While Clarksville never saw battle during the Civil War, it was occupied over a four-year period by both Confederate and Union forces. There are diaries chronicling the time period, which were part of the research. The marketing agency I was lucky to be working for, BLF Marketing, partnered with local historians to research and write the information for the interpretive panels along the walking trails and the museum exhibit. We teamed with a local brilliant video producer to create the film, “Crossroads of Change: Clarksville Tennessee 1861-1865,” shown in the theater at the interpretive center. The video and exhibits tell the story of Clarksville during the period of occupation.

The Fort Defiance project is high on the list of favorite projects of my career. It was exhilarating being part of the historical research and script writing, and seeing my name in the scriptwriting credits the end of the film was an extra bonus. The project is a huge, mushy, fond spot in my heart and a high point of my time in Clarksville. It’s not often I got to spend weeks eyeballs deep in researching history and grand projects like this one don’t come along every day, except maybe in my dreams, which means I'll be bragging about this for a very long time.

“Remoted” – Day 386 (Tuesday)

Not the actual cabins, but close enough.

At recent team meetings, we’ve been reminded about scheduling vacation time, which has me thinking about vacations to come, and vacations of ago. There have been many good vacations – defined as including any combination of fun, relaxation, and/or entertainment.

As great as the fun vacations were, the cloud of one particular vacation lurks in the background. While married to ex-husband two (aka X2), we took a vacation with his parents and family friends to Gananoque, Ontario, Canada, “the gateway to the 1,000 islands,” to stay in cabins near the water. 

The trip began with a flight from Tennessee to Pennsylvania to meet up with the in-laws, followed by a planned early morning departure by car from Pennsylvania to Canada. There were several cars in the plan, and we were passengers with X2’s parents. Everyone else had been to Gananoque and the specific cabin resort where the tidy white cabins were arranged in a semi-circle around a large grassy area. I was the newbie.

There was a hiccup at the start when X2 and I arrived at the beautiful Allentown, Bethlehem, Easton airport and our luggage did not. We were told it might arrive on the first flight in the morning, due a couple hours after our vacation caravan was scheduled to leave for our international adventure. On the way to the in-law’s home we stopped at WalMart for toiletries and pajamas. The next morning, our luggage had still not arrived, and the airline offered to deliver it to our destination in Canada. The in-laws, X2 and I drove off, a couple hours behind schedule, and half of us were missing our carefully curated vacation clothes. Somehow, the luggage beat us to Canada and was at the check-in desk when we arrived.

The week had a schedule. I was the only one unaware of any of the key aspects of the plans for the week. Every day at 8:00 am we went out on the boat and fished until noon. After a one-hour lunch, it was back on the boat for another four hours. The houses on the islands were beautiful and mink ran along the rocks. We returned each day empty handed, because except for Friday, all the fish were tossed back. I was great with the release part, but it felt stupid to bother doing the catching. It seems cruel to lure a fish with bait and a hook it by the mouth, yank it out of the water, get the hook out, and send it back into the water. Let’s just let the fish enjoy their day without the confusion and trauma.

Once docked for the night, the men played horse shoes and drank beer and hung around outside the cabins. Inside the cabin, my mother-in-law and I cooked, served, and cleaned up after dinner. Then we cleaned the cabin. Apparently, only the guys were on vacation, and the women had been conscripted to labor camp. On Friday, the fish caught on all the boats were kept and the guys cleaned and cooked them. 

Because every one else in our group of four cabins had been to the cabin resort in Gananoque many times, they weren’t interested in sightseeing. Nearly every evening, they sat around talking about all the activities done on previous trips. Once, we all went into town for ice cream, and one day I managed to stay at the cabin and not fish. The plan was to watch the Tour de France, but my rest day from Labor Camp was also a rest day for the Tour. I read a book instead. 

There was a huge temptation to run away from hard labor camp, which would have required stealing both the keys and my father-in-law’s car, and trying to navigate out of Canada without a navigation system in the days before having a cell phone. Despite the potential for great excitement and a huge improvement in my Gananoque so-called “vacation,” running away was ruled out. It was the longest, most laborious vacation ever, and I hope to never repeat it.

“Remoted” – Day 385 (Monday)

First stop, dermatology office.

The fourth consecutive installment of Medical Monday continued today with a double header. The morning session kicked off with a dermatology appointment. This was part of the continuation of referrals that were supposed to happen a year ago, but didn’t due to the unusual situation of much of society screeching to a halt. Doctor Dermatology looked at a spot on my nose that has been weirdly cycling between looking like a freckle and then getting dry and flaking off. It was zapped with the freezy stuff (not a formal brand or scientific name) and the sensation reminded me of sparklers. 

The second half of the double header wrapped up in the afternoon with a 40-minute drive to receive the first shot of the COVID vaccine. The vaccine center was in a storefront in a shopping plaza, and ran like a military operation. The precision made sense given the dozens of brown and green camo-clad people administering the shots. My shot was given by someone with a tape proclaiming “Santiago” on his chest. 

The shots were Moderna. In my head, every time I see or hear “Moderna” my brain adds the preface “Mid Century” and it’s amusing. Had I known which shot it would be in advance, I would have dressed mid-century modern for the occasion. It took just 40 minutes to check in, fill out some papers, get the shot, and wait the required 15 minutes to allow for potential adverse reactions, then it was back into the car for the drive back.

Side effects and jelly beans.

The shot appointment sprang up suddenly. About two weeks after preregistering on the state vaccine site, the text came with a code good for 24 hours and a link to make an appointment at the designated vaccine site. Unfortunately, the site was the Hynes Center, which meant Boston traffic and Boston parking fees. Hoping to score something more local, I kept trolling the Lowell General Hospital and CVS sites for open appointments. Every time checked, every site was and continued to be “Fully Booked” except for CVS locations in Chicopee and Springfield, a 1.5-hour drive west.

Late last week a colleague told me about a health center that had open appointments. I was on the site immediately and scoring one of the slots felt a little like winning the lottery. And today, just like that, boom, the first step is done. Six hours after the shot and the sides effects were first, feeling slightly over-caffeinated, followed by a mild headache. These literature provided mentioned headache as a side effect, but the rest of it might have been from the half bag of half-off Easter jelly beans accidentally eaten after supper. 

“Remoted” – Day 384 (Sunday)

Back when Easter involved "outfits"
 and amusement parks.

It was a quiet day with the dogs. There was no Easter bonnet or new spring-colored coat like in my youth when every Easter included a new outfit of dress, shoes and accessories. There were no flowers or dyed eggs, because of the whole being lazy thing, plus it would be pointless with no kids to share it with. An egg hunt loses a lot of the fun when it’s the same one person doing the hiding and the finding. There is no need to ask how I know this. 

An invitation to Easter dinner had been declined. It was partly due to my not being vaccinated yet, and the infection rates seem to be increasing again. I haven’t been this careful for this many days to eff it up now. The other part of the reason for declining now seems like a slightly selfish need/desire to have the day to myself and do nothing. This is almost comical, as 95% of my days are spent alone. The other 5% is talking across the yard to a neighbor, video meetings at work, or standing across the counter at a store while paying for things.

The day of solitude included the usual amount of thinking of things I could do and then not doing them. Baking a cherry pie or cherry cake were each considered. Neither happened, but it's nice to have options. For a nano-second, the idea of swapping out the winter wardrobe for spring was on the radar, then passively rejected by simply not doing it. Starting the yard work was briefly entertained, but when I went outside with the dogs, it was colder than I thought it would be and the idea was nixed.

On the accomplishments side of the equation, there was a small amount of cooking, laundry, and vacuuming. The thinking and the actual doing amounted to a higher level of activity than initially intended for the day of doing nothing, but at least the sheets and the rugs are clean. When the vacuum started making a smell like something was burning, it seemed like the perfect time to stop. The odor was concerning and annoying as the vacuum isn’t that old and certainly does not in any way suffer from overuse. Maybe some magical, mythical day I will be the type of domestic engineer that will work the household appliances to death, but this is doubtful.

“Remoted” – Day 383 (Saturday)

The day ranked high on quiet and also high on productive. With coffee poured, the morning was spent handwriting tags for photos that will be available for sale. It was imagined that the photos would be brought down to The Brush Art Gallery and Studios and hung on my associate artist wall today, but reality proved that imagination can be rather flimsy when it comes to timelines. 

Tags were written with the artist code and item title, but the process fell apart when it came to price, which is always where the wall is hit head on. Calculating the magical price point that will appeal to buyers and somehow reflect the effort behind the work is not my forte, is quite personally painful, and is currently delayed. Maybe Sunday's coffee will provide pricing inspiration.

During the week, acrylic shelves and hanging nails arrived. Business cards ordered last weekend had been assigned an expected delivery date of today. These delivered with the regular mail at 4:30. The intent was to fasten a card to the back of each piece. It’s frustrating when I buy an artwork and there is no identifying information for the artist. I have several pieces with no signature, no information on the back, and no clue who created them.

Had the business cards arrived earlier, the timeline might have been hastened during the day. Or not. I’ve known for several weeks these tasks would need to be done, and still waited until today to get busy with it. The leisurely pace of matting and framing pieces that needed it, tagging and bagging, and making a list of what is going to the wall was quite pleasant. Unfortunately, the leisurely pace also means that these now won’t be hung until next Saturday. All in good time. 

“Remoted” – Day 382 (Friday)

After the veggie cooking and spilled cleanup of Thursday night, it was time for the kitchen and I to have a little trial separation. There was enough of the stir fry veggies left that lunch was microwaved and eaten from the storage bowl. This kitchen victory was declared for both not cooking and not dirtying additional dishes.

During this breakup, supper was a delivery pizza, inspired by a menu mailer that arrived on Monday. Menus from delivery places are my favorite advertising mail. This one proclaimed “online ordering” and “delivery,” from the latest collection of my current favorite words. The menu was from Suppa’s, a place close to the house that I didn’t know delivered.

Supper from Suppa's.

It felt like I was cheating on Primo when visiting the Suppa’s website. It was the Indian dishes in the menu including paneer tikka masala that got me onto the website, but it ended up being pizza that was ordered. The beauty of living within a half mile of pizza places seems to be the delivery – from either place, the food has arrived earlier than estimated and piping hot. 

The Suppa’s pizza was good. It’s different than Primo, and different than Espresso, which is still probably my favorite pizza. If Espresso delivered or I wasn’t so lazy, it would be my go-to pizza. The basic version of the pie from each of these places fits the description of my ideal pizza – thin crust and inexpensive, especially considering that the eight slices of a large pizza provide between four and eight meals at The BungaLowell. The first night, when it’s hot and fresh, is often a two-slice event, but after that the rations are single slices plucked from the freezer.

The feeling of cheating on Primo disappeared or maybe it was swallowed with the delicious pizza from Suppa’s. I’m a free agent with no allegiance to any pizza purveyor and shall sow my pizza cash rations freely to any local shops that deliver.

“Remoted” – Day 381 (Thursday)

The Misfits Market box was scheduled for Wednesday, and expecting the produce delivery, there were rare plans for items in the box. Usually I just wing it. These included stuffed peppers using the incoming mixed bell peppers and the leftover rice in the fridge, and a sliced beefsteak tomato and cheese sandwich for lunch on Thursday. Late in the day, I saw the email that the box was delayed until Thursday.

Today, around noon, but after I’d already eaten left over beans and rice for lunch, the box arrived. Wednesday’s enthusiasm for cooking had waned, and the mood had shifted to wanting a pizza delivered for supper. The box looked a little banged up, and I held my breath a bit as I opened it. Despite the ice pack being on top of the corn chips, miraculously, they weren’t completely crushed.

Smashed.

The promising start didn’t finish as well. One of the beefsteak tomatoes was smashed, curtailing the opportunity for slicing. There is a second one, so it isn’t totally off the table. Both peppers were smashed, killing the stuffed peppers plan. The box of broth was crushed and leaking from the bottom seam. 

Despite not feeling like cooking supper, the smashed pepper and the smashed tomato were cut into chunks for a stir fry, along with a bunch of other veggies and the last of the shrimp from the freezer. As a finish, I decided to add the leftover sauce from ravioli the other night.

After spooning some of the sauce into the pan, the container with the remainder was set on the counter. Except it wasn’t set fully on the counter, and fell onto the floor. Maybe I wasn't paying attention. Maybe I'm just a klutz. What is impressive is the coverage provided by approximately a cup of spaghetti sauce.

Stir fry veggies and shrimp.

The dogs appeared immediately to lick the puddle of sauce from the landing zone. An abstract arc of sauce was painted across the front of the oven door and the drawer below, reminiscent of a murder scene. When it finally seemed the mess was all cleaned up, Winston started licking a cookbook on the bottom shelf of the rack about six feet away from the scene of the mishap. There was sauce on the cookbook and the seat of the desk chair. It was in the dog bed near the desk. There was a big splatter of it on the bottom of my pant leg and the top of my shoe. It reached the point where it wasn’t clear if the mess was being mopped up or just spread around. 

The supper I wasn’t even in the mood to cook had turned into a punishment with the additional cleaning project. At least supper tasted good, even if the smashed veggies and major cleanup left a sour taste in my mouth. As for Misfits .... it might be time for us to break up. There have been far too many boxes of smashed produce that leave me frustrated and annoyed.