How Some Dads I Know Spent the Past Year

On Mother’s Day, made a list of some things moms I know went through in the year of Covid.  So, doing the same for the guys here on Father’s Day.

Went to get takeout and died when a distracted driver t-boned his car.

Took his family on their last vacation in Mexico just as the virus hit, then spent the rest of the year methodically saying his goodbyes and best wishes to everyone he loved before cancer took him.

Spent a month in hospital with a shattered leg, buried his grandmother, did stay-at-home dad helping one teen with autism cope with zoom school and the kid’s twin cope with their discovery of their non-binary gender.

Caught covid (did not have to be hospitalized) driving his softball playing daughter around the South to not quite socially distanced tournaments.

3 dads:  Taught creative writing via zoom, taught occupational therapy via zoom, taught junior high special education via zoom.

Welcomed a new baby into the family while at the same time launching an online occupational therapy business with his wife (which, by the way, is thriving).

Handled three PRN home care therapy gigs while being Mr. Mom to a toddler son (wife an overburdened anesthesia tech at a major hospital).

Stayed home with his toddler daughter, getting his exercise on walks to the park and VR games, while wife – an overburdened anesthesia tech – worked at a major hospital.  (Different family).

Nursed his wife as she died from cancer, then once vaccinated, made the rounds of his widely scattered adult kids (and grandkids) with hugs, laughter, and generosity.

Reconfigured a college curriculum he directed as covid hit, all while completing his dissertation and raising three kids stuck at home and zooming school (this dad, btw, is blind).

Spent four months in solitary confinement in a federal prison, not for disciplinary reasons, but as a precaution against catching covid (a lot more, as you’d imagine, to this story).

It was a tough year for dad’s, too, folks.  Hope we’ve all learned from this ordeal about the importance of love, connection, and caring, along with a sharper appreciation of how tenuous is our time here, and how precious. Happy Father’s Day, y’all.

Visiting Friends in the Mountains – a poem

Drove five hours out to see my friend Rondalyn at her creekside home in Morgantown this week, came home and went right back out the next day to do some woodworking with my friend Ken at his riverside retreat in Verona. Conflated the trips in this revery at the brink of retirement from my career at VCU:

On the cusp of summer
driving to see friends
out in the mountains:

The pencil thin road
traces a cleavage
of hills like a reclining
body’s contours, so you

roll down the window
reach out and tickle
the breeze with your fingers.

These are ages old ranges
comfy as sofas the plush
deciduous carpet running
right across their peaks.

Old friends, too.
I don’t need my GPS
to find them though
the highway climbs to
rutted trails along
serpentine streams.

They greet me
with hugs and dogs
the whole visit like
those fairy tales where
the wandering and lost

find a hermit and his
hermitage and a way
of living that invites
a raft of questions
about what you do
and why.

We sit in rockers out back
shoulders round
faces creased
sipping whiskey.

Our babble and the stream’s
worrying the puzzle
of worn rock at our feet
as twilight deepens.

Feed More Run: a poem

Feed More run along Route One
the old Jeff Davis now Richmond Highway
its street signs the only new things around.

Turn off to the neighborhoods behind.

A mix of old homes, some kept up with painted porches
an occasional larger place with a manicured lawn

but mostly the bedraggled salt boxes, the trailer parks,
the sagging window AC’s, the rusting chain link fences,
the wheelless cars on jacks, the rutted pavement.

My clients crack the door sucking oxygen from hoses
on a cane or a walker, make an effort to smile.

Or you open to a hoarder’s stash, old man reclined
on a hospital bed the blasting tv at his feet
next stop a woman likewise arranged, says,
close the door quick – don’t let out my cat!

Second richest county in the seventh richest state
in the wealthiest nation in the world. 

Pull off Hwy 1 into a trailer park older than you are
and you are not young.  People coping as they can. 

Homes decay into the red clay,
cold hearts & kudzu conspire to blanket it all.

Beach Reads!

For your Summer reading pleasure, hope you’ll consider books from my growing NeXTeXT collection. With last week’s publication of Sarah Knorr’s poetry, you can choose from a Charlottesville novel, a gripping story collection, a memoir of the Greatest Generation, and two books of poems. All available on Amazon (or ask for them at your local bookstore). Have a great Summer, everyone – read on!

Announcing: Poems by Sarah Knorr

The last time I saw my friend Sarah Knorr was a month before covid shut everything down. We met at my favorite bakery Sub Rosa on Church Hill, sitting side by side on a bench along the wall, sipping tea and nibbling a cinnamon roll.  Through the bakery’s tall picture windows, we watched a horse-drawn funeral cortege round the traffic circle just outside, both of us smiling at this augury, the kind of correspondence poets live for. Sarah had recently stopped chemo.  She said her flaming red hair was beginning to sprout again, but as always in public she wore a wide straw hat, movie star sunglasses, and a Kate Hepburn scarf around her neck. She asked, as usual, about my writing.  She never mentioned, ever, her own.

This time last year we were all in covid lockdown, and Sarah lay dying in Verona, in the house my dear friend her husband Ken built atop a river bluff amidst trees alive with birdsong. He nursed her for months as her body failed, no visitors allowed because covid, then in mid-July she died, not of the virus but of the cancer she had danced with for so long (Sarah hated it when people used verbs like “battle” or “wrestle” or “fight” to describe the cancer experience. She corrected one friend with, “This is not a fight. It is a dance, and when the music stops I will sit down.”)

A few weeks later, Ken and Sarah’s estimable sisters Anne and Ginger invited me to look through three boxes of Sarah’s writings, and in those boxes I discovered pages and pages of poems, a few from as far back as high school, others written as recently as 2017, some published in literary journals. I’d known Sarah and Ken for twenty years, she had acted as a fierce and inspiring champion of my writing, and yet for reasons I don’t understand she never mentioned her own work. I knew her as a relentless advocate for people with disabilities, the person who could figure out funding, housing, or caregiving for the weakest among us, tirelessly untangling the state’s byzantine social safety net case by tedious case. Those were the things she talked about when she wasn’t praising some bit of writing I’d shared. Never her own writing ever.

As I sorted through her boxes, and the poems piled up on my desk, it quickly became clear what had to be done.  Sarah was not a hobbyist or Sunday poet. She was a hard-working, steady, and focused artist. Her poems are tightly wrought and physically acute. They typically strike flint-like on sharply drawn images of quotidian life, sparking evocative links to myth, symbol and mystery. They reward close reading and re-reading, both individually and in correspondence with each other. They deserve an audience.

So I decided to collect them. It took nearly a year of mostly weekend effort, since I was teaching covid-inflected courses at VCU, but over time a sequence of 80 poems came together. As you might imagine, there were varied versions of many of these poems. I made the best decisions I could about which might be the final versions, winnowing as I went along. Some of the poems had been published in literary journals, so they were easy to figure out. Others were crossed over with edits, so I did the best I could. In no case did I alter a word or even a comma. This book is Sarah’s.

In reading the collection you will see, as I did, that Sarah was an accomplished lyric poet. Her voice, her cadence, and her vision clearly and consistently speak from poem to poem. The best lyric poems, through some magic trick, make personal experience universal. Sarah’s achieve that high bar.

One way to measure originality in an artist is to clock their influences. Many of Sarah’s poems work as compact parables, drawing insight from nature, as Mary Oliver’s do. Some draw from her childhood ranging over the family farm on horseback, attentive to rural lessons as Wendell Berry’s do. That said, no one but Sarah could have composed these poems. Her intimate acquaintance with cancer (she suffered surgery and radiation in her 20s, and lived with the expectation of recurrence) taught her how tentative and precious life is. Yet the poems don’t mope; they praise each moment of lived existence with a fierce, terse insistence.

In closing, I’d like to thank Ken, Anne and Ginger for sharing Sarah’s work and letting me take a shot at collecting her poems. Thanks go to Sarah’s lifelong friend Adele Castillo, who found a painting (by the local artist Carol Baron) of Sarah’s spirit animal the heron for the cover. And to my visual artist son Stephen for cover design. One last thing, proceeds from sales of Sarah’s book will go to one of her many charities. I’m so glad to be able to share this collection with you all.  Here’s where you can get it, in paperback or e-version. Enjoy!

Mother’s Day 2021

Some things Mom’s I know have gone through in this covid year:

Masked up every day all day at work.
Worked doubles for weeks treating covid patients.
Was laid off after twenty-five years with the same company, eventually finding part-time gigs to keep going.
Was laid off and started her own virtual therapy company – while pregnant.
Nurtured her son who was driving in a car crash that killed her husband and his dad.
Turned her home into a hospice for her dying husband.
Tried to work from home while son had periodic melt-downs while zooming schoolwork in the same room.
Tried to work from home while daughter had periodic melt-downs while zooming schoolwork in the same room.
Figured out how to teach on zoom and face-to-face at the same time.
Organized a socially-distanced funeral for the 99-year old grandmother she had supported for years.
Gently counseled a college-age son who, flushed home from campus, gave up classes for shooter games all semester.
Took in her adult daughter who’d been laid off and lost her apartment.
Picked up volunteer gigs giving vaccinations.
Home-schooled kids who could not manage remote curricula.

No doubt you have your own list of motherly heroics from this harrowing year. Today, let’s all make an extra effort to make this the happiest Mother’s Day it can be, eh?

And re parenting, check out this adorable video our son shot of the bluebirds in our front yard birdhouse.

Today’s My Last Day Teaching

A brilliant Fall afternoon in Charlottesville, the booms of a cannon marking each touchdown scored at the football stadium nearby.  Yesterday, I dared my first aquatic therapy session with a stroke patient, in the therapy pool at the new UVA-Healthsouth Rehabilitation Center down the street, where I work as an occupational therapist.  It was fun.  Seemed to help.  Tomorrow my pregnant wife Chris and I will take our toddler son Nick up Carter Mountain for apples and cider donuts, the first visit of what will become an annual rite.  But today I’m attempting yet another new adventure, delivering my first ever speech at a professional conference, on this topic that I’m just beginning to understand myself, How Activities of Daily Living can Inform and Improve Rehabilitation for People with Brain Injury. 

It seems to go well, at least nobody gets up and leaves before I’m done.  Then as I collect my slides from the projector, one by one, and slot them back in their folder, a professorial looking guy in a tie and jacket comes up, asking a question that for me became fateful words, “Have you ever thought about teaching?”

In the twenty-something years since that first talk, I’ve gone back to school for a PhD, taught a generation of OT students, delivered countless lectures, workshops and seminars in 32 states and six foreign countries, conducted ground-breaking research on the use of mobile devices and smart homes for people with cognitive-behavioral challenges, founded and directed a novel community reentry program for brain injury, and served on the usual professional and foundation boards.  Al Copolillo, that guy who asked the fateful question, is a friend and colleague. For two decades we were the lone males on a staff of talented women in the OT department at VCU.  He lives nearby now, retired from a sterling career, and today I happily – one might say giddily — join him.

This past year’s covid-related challenges have played havoc (this is VCU, of course, where havoc is a basketball cheer) with clinical education.  How do you teach a student to splint a hand, transfer a patient, ultrasound a wound, or repair a wheelchair when you’re not allowed to touch anybody?  We figured it out, lecturing on Zoom, finagling the hands-on labs in masks and goggles, but today thanks to new guidance from the powers that be, I’m turning off my computer, and meeting the students in my stroke seminar at Byrd Park, maskless outdoors, to sum up the semester, wish them well, share some homemade cookies, and leave them to their own careers that I can only hope will spawn memories as full as mine. So much to reflect on, to be grateful for, here at the cusp of what friends call “the next chapter.”  Indeed.

A Disposition – poem

(On surprising a neighbor lady at play.)

Do they matter anymore
the inclinations of age?

If she stoops
with a groan and
grit at the knees

predisposed to
care, bowed
in sorrow, but

what daring
here in bending
plucks
a dandelion

ratchets upright
to puff
that tuft onto

the breeze
the air about her
snow-globed

resolved in a
weathered smile
if you squint

so much like
that one in the
faded Polaroid?