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They are out of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, my shopper messages me from the Instacart App. Do you have a replacement in mind?

I hurry to answer. Anything is fine.

The exchange continues with more alternative suggestions and apologies. As we message each other, I safely sit on my oversized chair with a warm, pink quilt covering my legs. I sip my first morning coffee while Golden Girls plays in the background.

A week before, I sat on my sunny back porch with my steaming green tea and opened my Instacart app on my phone. I always go to bread and milk first, then choose my date for delivery. I ask the kids what we’re out of and it always consists of fun stuff like Coco Puffs and peanut butter cup ice cream.

I wonder about my shopper and if she is afraid. Does she have worries? Does she have a family, too? I also wonder if she is happy about the new income her family is earning, and what will happen when people start shopping on their own again.

Do we really need things like ranch dressing, sugar, and Friendly’s Strawberry Cake Krunch Ice Cream Bars? Maybe we should be eating whatever we can, not whatever we want. Is her life and health worth risking for our late-night snacking?

If you don’t like what I choose, my shopper messages me, please tell me.

I tell her not to upset herself, the entire time wondering about my morals. I figure if I get something we won’t use, I can give it away, and that each extra second she spends in the store is dangerous.

Why is she buying my groceries? They’re making money now when they normally may not, I get that, but what is the price of health?

Does the extra tip cover the risk? If my shopper gets sick, is it worth the Lucky Charms, whole-milk ricotta, or tater tots?

We close the curtains and remain quiet while she places our bags so neatly on the front porch. We try to keep the dogs hushed so they don’t scare her. When she leaves, we peak out the window and it’s like Santa just left.

“You got Smartfood!”

We wait an hour or two until the germs blow away or settle, then we dive in with our assembly line and a bucket of hot, soapy water. I scrub the items while my face begins to itch, and the boys dry and put them away.

“Don’t touch your face,” we each say several times to each other.

I miss shopping. Baylee would come with me most times, and he would bounce back and forth in the aisles and give me those puppy eyes when he wanted Sweet and Sour Skittles or the fancy water bottle. It was kind of our thing. He said “hi” to everyone and always thanked the helpers. One day soon, we will go again.

Until then, we are truly grateful for our shoppers. I hope you are, too.

The Southampton Community Cupboard at the Congregational Church is still supplying food to those who need it during the COVID-19 pandemic, but their supplies are running alarmingly low.

Mike and Candice Iwanicki volunteer their time at the town food pantry and their minds are always on feeding local folks who need a little help, but now, because of a global pandemic, they have another concern, empty shelves.

Fear of illness is causing people around town to have their groceries delivered, and some don’t leave their houses at all. This is leading to less donations in the boxes for the pantry at the local businesses that allow them like Big Y.

Other businesses that had boxes like the library and the Easthampton Savings Bank in town are closed because of the pandemic.  

Just because there is illness in the air does not mean people stop being hungry.

“It doesn’t matter what their circumstance is,” Mike said. “It’s all the same feeling. It doesn’t make a difference. It strikes everybody the same. When you’re hungry, you’re hungry and you know it.”

Anybody is welcome to receive help from the pantry. It serves people in Southampton and surrounding communities. All you have to do is show up.

“This system has never required financial information,” Candice said.

Although Mike does not like the idea of people not being able to enter the church and shop during social distancing, he knows it is temporary, and is happy they are still open.

“People are usually able to come in and browse and decide what they want to take,” Mike said. “And what they don’t want to take, too.” 

For now, things run differently at the pantry, but they are still operating.  

“We give the people a bag and a slip of paper with some other choices on it,” Candice said. “We fill the second bag and deliver it to their car, now wearing masks, and gloves, along with wiping everything down.” 

The pantry does receive some of their items from the food bank, but they rely heavily on private donations.

They will accept any item at the pantry, but are in dire need of cereal, bars of soap, boxes of macaroni and cheese, applesauce, canned fruit, tuna, and chicken. 

If you are unable to donate, please pass the word that they are in need of items. Also, let people know that they don’t turn anyone away.

The Southampton Community Cupboard is open every second and fourth Saturday.

If you wish to donate, please contact Mike and Candice Iwanicki at mikey1261@gmail.com. If you would rather donate cash or a Big Y card, please send it to: Iwanicki, 94 Pleasant St., Southampton, MA 01073.

She’s my good-morning every day, and my night-love-you before I go to bed.

I remember meeting Sherry, Roger’s older sister, in 1992 when we were dating brothers. Her height was enhanced by a little 90’s poof and her smile was warm. The guys aren’t in recent chapters, but Sherry is still in mine.

I remember in the early 90’s we were driving back from Chi chi’s Mexican restaurant during an ice storm. Mini skirts and cowboy boots embraced our tight little bodies, and we laughed while we pushed the small, silver sedan up the dark, slippery hill in Westhampton. We didn’t look at the time.

I remember we yelled at each other in 1995, when I started dating Roger. He was in the marines, stationed in North Carolina. His leave and holidays were always spent with Sherry and that would change. The people in the apartment below used a broomstick or something on their ceiling to break up our boisterous exchange. We laughed and ate pancakes with real syrup the next morning while we shared the funnies.

I remember Sherry standing next to me in December of 1995. We were outside at the gazebo in Easthampton. It was dark and the snow was fresh and white like my rented gown. We joked that the only reason I was marrying her brother was so we could be sisters. I really loved my marine, but this may have been true.

I remember her trying to win a staring contest, the kind when you can’t smile or look away. She’s received the genetic gift of not being very good at it, but it is the most authentic smile I’ve ever seen. Her eyes crinkle, and the left side of her mouth duels the right.  

I remember when she came to us one year when we were living in North Carolina. She wanted to start over. She was brave and I was in awe. “Life is hard,” we said.

I remember how excited we were when Madonna came out with her Music CD and we played the shine out of the disk. The speakers crinkled and cracked. We’d drive down Bell Fork Road in Jacksonville, NC. She drove a navy-blue Ford Ranger, and I drove a Candy. Apple. Red . . .mini van.

I remember not being able to use my voice when I saw her through the muggy air in June of 2009. Roger was gone. I don’t remember what she wore or how her blonde curls were shaped, but I remember the trauma in her blue eyes.

I remember sitting across from Sherry while her and Roger’s father was dying, hoping it would end soon, but guilty for feeling that way. We held hands across his thin chest, and played audio of the Boston Red Sox World Series game hoping he could hear it. We commented on his perfect skin and his heart’s purity.

Sherry folds money into little shapes like guitars or swans and sends them to the boys on their birthdays. She listens to me more than I listen to her and is the only one who calls me T-Mae. She tells me when I should have used the word “rode” instead of “road” in my writings. She remembers everything significant like if I have a paper due, and from Tennessee, she checks my weather. She always tells me how strong I am.

I get it from my big sister.

On March 8th, I woke up in the middle of the night as I usually do and noticed the time was 1:53 AM. I decided to stay awake (like I had a choice in that matter) and see what it looks like when the time changes for Daylight Savings. I watched it go to 1:55 then closed my eyes. When I opened them again, it was 1:59 so I waited. I focused on not closing my eyes again. Next thing I knew, I saw 3:00. The hour was completely gone and with no celebration. It mirrored my life.

I began to flash back to the days when my sons were little in the springtime, like when they loved playing with bubbles. I can smell that gentle soapiness. They’d walk around the yard dragging those giant orange baseball bats behind them like Bamm-Bamm from the Flinstones. Sammy used to pick Sweet 100’s, tiny cherry tomatoes, from the garden. His little cheeks were all puffed out, stuffed with the juicy “meenos” as he called them. They loved playing some type of tag. They’re all over thirteen now, but I can still hear it.

“Mom’s base!”  Chests puffed out like the idea was original.

Base gives the tagee a sturdy safety bubble that surrounds them with protection from the most shameful title of It. If the tagger touches someone, he says, “You’re It!” and everyone laughs. If everyone makes it to Base before they get tagged, the tagger loses. It’s a dishonorable loss, too, and It is a terrible thing to be called.  

Base is a definitive belief that becomes almost tangible in the heat of a competition like tag. It’s strong like a hallucination or a placebo.

I remember one time I said to Tyler, my oldest, “It won’t work.” We were talking about some type of placebo.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because it’s just a placebo,” I said in a snarky Mom way.

“So?” After he replied, he remained silent knowing he was right.

If it works, it works.

The human mind. It’s incredible.

The boys really believed in Base, and sometimes, I hated that it was me. They would get rough or fling mud or Cheetos all over my shoulder when I wanted to rest for a minute. Most of the time it wasn’t so bad, but I’ve lost my powers.

They can’t place their hand on my shoulder and receive any safety from me, not in times like this. I’m a tough guy, but all of this is scary. I’ll take the terror from a hurricane any day over this fear of people we all have right now. It’s easier to protect yourself from something you can see, cause nobody wants to be It.

Our minds lately have been rolling up their sleeves and working overtime, right? My direction has been disabled by the uncertainty in the world. I have many assignments to do for school and even a work project I’m excited to begin. Baylee is officially schooling from home so that is a priority as well. Writing, thankfully, is something I can do from anywhere, but I simply can’t focus on even the simplest tasks, such as working on this blog piece.

I have four started, and none are complete. In a recent proposal I wrote, I explained that I would be able to finish my memoir by visiting local coffee shops so I will not have distractions. I fantasized about what I would order and even created a playlist on Spotify and named him Oliver. Of course, I didn’t have a backup plan for social distancing due to a pandemic (!) so I had to compromise.

I love being home, but when I am, I see windows that need to be cleaned, stop to pet my cat, Salad, or all of a sudden need a snack or a new cup of green tea from the kitchen, which is next to the library where I would write. It just wasn’t working. I talked to the boys about what we could do to remain friends with each other while this social distancing is going on. We toyed with the idea of making an office in the upstairs part of the barn or even set something up in my room. The barn is still too cold, and my room is for my bed and my rest. It had to be perfect.

There is a little sitting room centered upstairs splitting the four bedrooms into two pairs. It was full of memories, dust, and mismatched furniture. Nothing was placed neatly in the room and it was just dirty. It is far enough from the kitchen and tucked away from the living areas and noise. It would work, so we took all the furniture out, cleaned the floors, and dusted the shelves.

I used old pieces from different rooms like a sewing machine table and a chair that never fit in anywhere, and we all moved them in to place. The lighting is glowing warm, and I can see part of our wood line and the large field that a young bull moose ran through one day. It’s perfect for that mid-writing space out. There is a ledge under the window that I sprinkled a little bird seed on, and here I am, writing.

I am grateful for the large space we have here between the house, the barn, and the land. I know it’s not common and many don’t have extra space, but for this time of social distancing, the places we are confined to may be able to offer some peace. Keep it tidy and your mind will be tidy. I understand this is not a real problem. People are ill and the world is quite disabled, but our minds and sanity are important. So, boil some water with nutmeg or cinnamon, wash old curtains that have been resting in the closet, and replace the ones with tired arms. Make yourself a corner of the room that makes you happy. Set a timer for seven minutes and tell the kids to see how much they can clean of their room in that time. It becomes a game, a competition. Create a space for yourself. Feed your soul with some harmony.

When I was seventeen, Nana lived in Florida during the winter months and Massachusetts when it was warmer outside. I remember the first time she left and how much it created a sense of emptiness in me. I was desperately sad and would miss the many weekends at her house in Northampton. We ate silver-dollar pancakes for breakfast, then would shop at Caldor and Bradlees. Her house is where I learned to love black coffee, tea berries from the woods of Laurel Park, and open windows in the spring. We used to hear a train in the distance and talk about real stuff like love and God.

When we were apart, we wrote to each other. They were the real kind of letters with the medium white envelopes from CVS. The letters were written in pen, black or dark blue, and you had to lick the back of the American Flag stamps. Nana wrote in small, perfect cursive. I envied her writing, but her words and their meaning are what I didn’t pay enough attention to. She wrote about the Florida grapefruit she had for breakfast, the bright yellow daffodils that were growing in her yard, and she asked about Tyler, my first-born son. He was twenty-four days old.

Our writing stopped for a couple weeks after she found out I was pregnant. I was seventeen and still in high school. She wanted me to be a career woman and own a business one day like she did. She didn’t know what to say to me, or how to complement her modern beliefs with her old-fashioned teachings. She was born in 1925, and grew up believing unmarried women didn’t have babies, especially before they were eighteen.

Of course, she warmed to the idea of a new baby, and it’s hard to resist the charms of Tyler. So, we continued to write to each other, and the words came out fast. I wrote about my upcoming graduation, being a young mom, and plain old feelings. I felt a release and also appreciated writing as an art. I cherish our writings now and refer to them when I need or want to. One common theme she loved to sneak into many of the letters was the importance of study, and to never give up on my dream of going to college. She told me to work hard and I told her I would. Many years later, here I am.

I began a memoir a couple semesters ago and have picked it back up to finish it, and even committed to doing so for an independent study in my course at Westfield State University called Career Prep for Writers. It is taught by the one and only, Beverly Army Williams, and it is, as she said, bonkers. In this course, we learn to create our brand. It includes projects like career exploration and blog writing, as well as activities such as mock interviews and resume writing. The course makes my eyes cross and my jaw throb from clenching my teeth, but I thank God for it every day.

Professor Beverly leads with kindness and joins with compassion, and the group in our class is the warmest collection of supporters and fans any new writer could have. We have all committed to a study that is forcing us to look at the future, and I see evidence of this all over social media. The people in her class have new accounts or are working on old ones. Their brands are being created and they are thriving. I see their smiling faces and new stories, and I notice them actively living. What’s funny is that this “non-traditional” (I’m pointing my thumbs at myself.) student is no different.

Now I must employ this hope and energy and get to work. The memoir was sitting stagnant inside my HP yet still she lingered in my brain, causing disruptions in my other writing and building pressure. That’s why I tasked myself with the completion of it. The accountability was imperative, and I work best with a deadline. (I don’t have much time.)

Nana passed away on June 1, 1993. But she lives in my cooking, my need to be in the woods, and in my words. So, that’s where it all started, my love of writing. I wonder where it will go, or if it’s already moving, and when I can call myself a writer. I love being a mom and fighting fire formed me, too, but one day someone will say, “Teresa, what do you do?” I will say, “I’m a writer.” Cheers, Nana.

In my previous blog, “Hometown Love,” I wrote about my court experience against Southampton, Massachusetts, and voiced some frustrations and hurt feelings that came from it. (I need to say again that the people I’ve spoken with at the town have always been kind and respectful to me.) I figured maybe twenty people or so would read the post, but it grew like one of those little foam capsules that turns into a dinosaur. The views increased by the minute and people shared the post on social media all over the place!

At first, I didn’t think it was a big deal, then people started to contact me in many different ways wanting to help. I told them that we should redirect the anger towards a positive future for survivors and veterans. I think we should fight to let the people vote to waive the two-year waiting period for those who aren’t from Massachusetts. Anyone should feel welcome here, and the voters are the ones who should decide it. Right now, if we keep this alive, that’s the best help.

“What if we can get the town to pass this change because of Dad?” I said to Tyler a few days ago.

“What if it goes federal?” he answered. Anyone who knows Tye won’t be surprised by his ambition, and he’s right. We need to at least try.

I love the energy this is getting. In many comments, people reminded me to look around and see the beauty and peace this town keeps. I also saw, once again, the kindness and love in the people of this town. It’s incredible fuel for us, and I’ve slept so well the past few nights. There’s an intense appreciation for his sacrifice as well as warmth and a sense of true community.

I especially love that thousands of new people are seeing Roger’s name. They saw his picture and there are many new readers of my memoir pages. They’re learning stories about him and seeing what a Gold Star family was before they were known for his sacrifice. Along with the energy, as long as it doesn’t fizzle, a little information about the benefit itself will help in our quest.

Here is an example of how the benefit works: (The link is listed at the end of this page showing the breaks and qualifications.) Let’s say Jane was born and raised in Massachusetts. Jane meets Bob in North Carolina when she is visiting her friend. Bob is from Wisconsin. They fall in love, marry, and live together on base. Bob goes to war and is killed in action. Jane wants to go home to Massachusetts to be with her family but does not qualify for the benefits to assist her financially. This is because Bob was not from Massachusetts. There are other scenarios, and they’re all confusing. My point is; Jane should be able to go home to her family for the support she needs. She should qualify for the tax break. Every state is different, and the towns and cities also have some say. The benefit is so generous, and completely needed.

I spoke with someone who told me that states want to take care of their own. I also talked to someone who said the people in the cities and towns would never vote to approve waiving the two years. There was also concern voiced about survivors and disabled veterans coming here in droves holding flags and needing care. According to Zillow.com, the median house price is $407,000 in Massachusetts, and one of the reasons that disabled veterans and survivors won’t flock to the commonwealth simply for the tax benefit. People come here because they have a reason to, not because the benefits will outweigh the cost of living. In order to live here, some need those benefits. When a family member is killed in action, the country is generous to the families as far as I know personally, but the income they receive is the same no matter what state they live in. I can tell you firsthand, it doesn’t go as far up here. Massachusetts is a little pricey, so I’m sure the offset takes the edge off.

What else helps is the support the boys and I have been receiving. We feel the love and shared frustration. Because of the messages and well wishes, I feel more confident to move forward for the rest that will have to deal with disappointing denial letters. I’m trying to respond to everyone, but I feel like some are getting lost in space and I’ve never been known for my computer skills. I even welcome the messages and comments against my fight for the future veterans and survivors, because their information helps better my knowledge.

I believe that together we can try our hardest to peacefully change or clarify the laws to make our disabled veterans and Gold Star families feel a little more relaxed and wrapped up in the town’s arms. All I want is for the people in each municipality in Massachusetts to have the ability to vote to waive the two-year waiting period. Let the citizens decide.

More than anything right now, though, I thank you all.

References:

https://www.sec.state.ma.us/cis/cisvet/vetprptax.htm

https://www.zillow.com/ma/home-values/

I grew up in Southampton, Massachusetts near Hampton Ponds. The kids in my neighborhood were called “Pond Scum” by others, and eventually we decided that it was a term of endearment. I walked to Mahoney’s package store to buy candy with babysitting money, attended the Primary School before it was the town hall, and William E. Norris until sixth grade. After that, I went with all the other Southampton kids to Hampshire Regional High School, and graduated in 1992. After I turned twenty-one, I fell in love and married a marine, Roger Adams, and we moved to North Carolina. He was from Greenfield.

Continue reading “Hometown Love” →

I walked into the barn and looked at the new mouse traps. I got them a week earlier from Amazon. They were on sale.

The reason I waited to set the traps is because of something that happened a week prior. Baylee was walking and almost stepped on baby mouse that was scurrying under him. He was maybe the size of a nickel with a tail. We think he got lost or something and wasn’t ready to go solo in life, yet. I put a few drops of water on him and he reacted, so I figured he may have a chance.

I took an old Pop Tart box (WTF is wrong with me?) and tore off the top flaps. I turned it on its side and used a stick to gently push the baby mouse into the box. At this point, he wasn’t moving at all. I remembered I had a small bit of heavy cream for a ganache in the fridge that was turning. I ran into the house and got it.

I put a small amount of the almost rancid cream on his mouth and he started audibly smacking his lips. His fuzzy little hands finding his mouth to help push the liquid in. I put some chicken food in the small puddle of cream that I poured and let it sit in the box with him. I was fully prepared to find him dead in the morning, little fingers and toes all stiff. I would use the Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Pop Tart box as a coffin.

The night wore on and I could not stop thinking about this stupid baby mouse. I woke up in the morning, and even before I let the chickens out, I checked the box. I bet you can guess, there was no mouse.

“Something probably got it,” Sammy said.

“Um, what could get the mouse in a locked-up barn, and nope, he lived,” I said.

Inside the Pop Tart box were tiny little baby mouse poops. He must have been a little dehydrated or injured. I felt a sense of euphoria at having saved his life. I tossed the box into the trash can with the bright yellow liner.

Later that day, I went into the porch and noticed some Amazon boxes and dog treats (My mail carrier is better than yours). My body exhibited the Amazon.com high, the one that makes you want to almost dance. I tore into the box.

Mouse traps. Four. The kind that hide their bloody faces so the murderess can drop them into the trash without feeling badly. I put them in the barn and ignored the blaring hypocrisy.

A week or so later, more evidence of mice appeared. I took four traps out of four yellow boxes. I squinted as I read the directions. Steps one, two, and three. I used frozen pizza cheese from one the kids didn’t like.

The next morning when I went into the barn, I looked at the first trap on the top step. The metal piece was still all the way back which means there’s no mouse in there. The next two were on the landing, and one was half-way back.

“Shit,” I said out loud. At six AM. I was alone.

I turned away from it and went to do my morning chicken chores.

After I was done, I left their room. As I entered the main barn area, I felt the presence of the animal I killed. I walked quickly out the front door not looking in its direction. I prayed it wasn’t my mouse.

After a few hours, I found the courage (Baylee) to go back to the barn and take care of the animal in a respectful way. With my child at my side, I put on a glove and grabbed some menacing looking wire snips in lieu of pliers. I looked at the trap and saw the mouse’s soft little body and pointy tale coming out of the back.

“Oh, man,” said Baylee.

“I know I feel bad. We can’t have mice here.”

“I know, Mom. It sucks.”

I picked up the trap with my gloved hand, and it was noticeably heavier than it was the previous day. I held it over the trash can while I pulled the lever all the way back. There was a crinkly sound as it fell on something plastic. It was larger than my Pop Tart mouse. Relief.

Baylee and I went back into the house quietly. I washed my hands a few times and turned on Little House on the Prairie. Did you know Charles Ingles is left-handed?