Thoughts on my to-do list
It’s Wednesday.  I’m a bit groggy, the result of an uneasy sleep last night.  There were so many nagging thoughts competing for my attention, so I got up and I tried to make sense of how the rest of the day would proceed.
I have paper and pen in front of me ready for my daily list of aspirational “to-do’s.”  You would think that, given the freedom that comes from staying home, I would have an impressive list of important stuff.  You would think that, wouldn’t you? Not a chance.
No, I am not brushing up on Spanish verb conjugations or even photocopying my grandmother’s handwritten recipes.   I should, but there are so many options to turn this Corona hiatus from the ordinary into a redeeming experience, but somehow I am being drawn elsewhere.
No, Ann is not organizing and cleaning out closets or dusting all of the books in her bookcases, though Lord knows these things need doing. What did she do this week?  Cooked, baked, vacuumed and crocheted four bookmarks. Why crochet bookmarks? I have no idea. It’s like I am watching someone else lead a less meaningful life.
I started last week with every intention of making face masks.  I had bought quarter inch flat elastic only a few months ago to fix my pajama bottoms, , but when I checked my stash of fabric, the memory of a previous cleanout reminded me that the only fabric I had on hand was green fleece.   Who would wear a green fleece face mask? Maybe it could be worn on a ski slope, but certainly not at Nojaims or in a hospital. One sneeze and the result isn’t worth even thinking about, much less visualizing.
A list of friends to call sits right next to my computer.  I dearly want to check up on each, but something holds me back.  Is it denial?
There are two stacks of books on my coffee table.  One includes two disturbing non-fiction tomes, “The Coming Plague” and “Rats, Lice and History,”  both informative vis a vis our current situation and the other is a stack of mysteries and such that are designed to take my mind to other times and places. What do I read?  I read the New Yorker and find myself dispirited by its analysis of why we are where we are. I am outraged at the slow and confused response to this national crisis. This does not explain why I am crocheting bookmarks either.
At the same time, you have to smile at the way that people have responded to the virus.  Toilet paper hoarding? Why? Then I read that one of the unheralded symptoms of the virus can be gastrointestinal.  That made me check my supply. I also checked out the Imodium in my medicine cabinet. That reminded me of an article I read about addicts resorting to Imodium when they can’t get opioids.  And that led me to a picture of the ghastly side effect of too much Imodium, which is a seriously slowed down digestive system. My mind wanders to places it shouldn’t.
We now keep a can of disinfectant spray and hand wipes near our side door, a boot tray for the shoes we may have worn out into a world that is infected with Covid19.  Liquid hand soap has now become a must use after entering. Should I do something more?
My daughter called and offered to shop for me.
“Give me a list and I’ll buy the stuff and leave it in your vestibule,” she said.  She lives in Cazenovia and that is a long trip for groceries. I tried to tell her that this wasn’t necessary, that we could manage a quick trip to the store.  But she was adamant.
“Ok, I’ll leave money in the vestibule,” I relented.
“No, Mom. Let me do this for you.” I try to explain that she isn’t immune to the virus either and she responds with a series of well thought out reasons why she should be shopping and I shouldn’t.
Why do we argue about this? This is family.
I vacillate back and forth between being her Mom and my Mom’s oldest child. There were times when I so wanted to help my mother and she, in turn, didn’t want my help. There is that not-being-a-burden thing.   I feel her now, more than ever. The circle keeps turning. It’s not that this perception is new, it’s just more poignant now, more ironic, more bittersweet.
My two grandsons, one 9 and one soon to be 11, tell me they are constructing a fort out of twigs and such in their backyard, a joyful exercise of the innocence of youth, freed from the confines of the pandemic, being who they are, in real time.
I only wish that I could do the same, build a fort out of all of the stuff that I need to get rid of, a fort that would protect us from the silent small bit of RNA that has reminded us of our place on this earth, of how all of our arrogant intelligence is, at least for now, no match for the tiny and unseen.
What is the first thing on my list today?

Ann Ferro is a mother, a grandmother and a retired social studies teacher. While still figuring out what she wants to be when she grows up, she lives in Marcellus with lots of books, a spouse and a large orange cat.