True or False?

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On October 26, 2021, I waited in line at the Mendocino Coast Clinic’s mobile vaccination clinic to get my Covid booster shot. When it was my turn, I handed my card through the car window to a young woman who filled out the date and dose and returned it. I tossed it on the passenger seat and moved forward to get my shot. From there, I drove to the designated parking area to wait the required 15 minutes. As I put the card in my wallet, I noticed the date of my first vaccine—February 23rd.

That couldn’t be.

That. Could. Not. Be.

***

In the early days of the Covid vaccination clinics, none were offered on the Mendocino Coast. People urged me to go inland—to Willits (an hour away) or Ukiah (an hour and a half away), even Santa Rosa (two and a half hours away). One person suggested getting “aggressive” in my quest to get myself and my husband vaccinated. What they didn’t realize, what I didn’t share, is how increasingly disabled Gary had become over the past year. There was no way he would be able to tolerate what I termed a cattle call, traveling such distances only to wait in line with dozens of people. I didn’t have the luxury to be “aggressive.”

Eventually, a friend learned of a vaccination event at Mendocino High School on February 23rd—only a 15-minute drive—and signed me up. My appointment was at 1:00. I arrived at 12:45. Because the school’s parking lot is quite small, I parked on the street at the bottom of the hill. It was a cold day, made colder by the biting wind. I’d put on a sweater, wool suit jacket and scarf. I was going to bring a heavier jacket, but decided against it, figuring the time from leaving my car to entering the gym would only be a matter of minutes.

Near the base of the hill, I was stopped by the end of a line, which by my calculations was a good 10 miles from my destination. I wanted to scream, “What’s going on here? I have an appointment for God’s sake! Don’t tell me these people were all booked for the same time!” I settled myself with the reminder that I’m not the only person in the world, that these people suffered my same predicament and maybe the line would move swiftly.

I pulled out my phone and began playing crossword puzzles—the equivalent of sucking my thumb whenever I have to wait. As the line moved slowly—as in snail pace slowly—the air grew colder and the wind more insistent. For the first time ever, I was able to relate to the valiant hikers who struggle against the elements to crest Mount Everest.

If you’ve never been to Mendocino High School—and I assume most of you haven’t—it sits atop one of the most pristine pieces of real estate along the California coastline with a 180-degree view of the Pacific Ocean. Such a shame to waste it in on snarky teenagers who by that time in life hate their small town and can’t wait to escape. If Jeff Bezos ever sees this school, he’ll figure out a way to capture it, tear it down, and turn it into either a rocket launching pad or one of his many luxury retreats.

During the two grueling hours it took me and my fellow hikers to get into the gym, my fingers grew numb from the cold and could no longer navigate the crossword puzzles. I silently cursed those who “organized” this event. They deserved to be punched in the face or at the very least publicly humiliated.

I realize this was early on in the vaccination effort and people were doing the best they could amid the chaos. That doesn’t mean I couldn’t have unpleasant feelings about enduring the hardship of freezing for two hours without snacks or a porta-potty.

When I finally entered the warm gym lobby, I wanted to drop to my knees and weep with gratitude, but feared any tears would freeze to my frostbitten face. A young man asked my name. When he checked his iPad, his brow furrowed. “You’re not in the system.”

I nearly shattered into a million pieces.

I was cursed with two names—Kathleen is my given one, Kate is my nickname. I had said Kathleen. After I said Kate, he looked again and found me. I nearly leaped over his table, grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him on the mouth.

Inside the gym, an acquaintance who was a volunteer beckoned me to her table where she filled out and gave me my vaccination card. I wallowed in euphoria for the few moments it took her to hand me a slip of paper and say, “You’ll have to check this website in a couple of weeks to register for your follow-up shot.”

What?!?

What?!?

Every person I knew had their second shot scheduled when they received their first. What sins was I atoning for that forced me to suffer this horrendous ordeal? I took a deep breath, thanked her without meaning it and moved forward to the designated waiting area.

After about five minutes, a nurse called me to her station. She started to chit chat. My jaw was still thawing from the cold and I could neither chit nor chat. She said she’d heard my name before. I’ve been told I’m practically a local celebrity, but wasn’t in the mood to sign autographs. She wouldn’t stop asking me if I knew this person or that in hopes of finding a mutual connection. I wanted to scream, “There’s a thousand people out there freezing to death. Give me the blasted shot and get on to the next one.”

I sat the in 15-minute waiting area and didn’t faint or die. As I walked down the hill past the poor, blue-lipped, shivering peons, a woman about my age appeared at my side. “Well, that was a f-ing shit show,” she said. Ah…a kindred spirit. We walked together, volleying the F-word back and forth. At the bottom of the hill, we parted and she said, “I’m going home to smoke a big, fat doobie.” I flashed her two-thumbs up.

My memory is that I went home to rant and rave with Gary about Covid, about how it was ruining our lives, about how the government was bumbling the vaccination rollout—maybe even about what the hell we were going to eat for dinner. We eventually soothed our rage by watching “Judge Judy” which routinely allowed us to criticize stupid-ass people and going a long way towards boosting our self-esteem.

***

As I put my October 26th updated vaccination card in my wallet, I realized I couldn’t have come home to Gary on February 23rd.

He entered the hospital on February 10th where he spent the following three and a half weeks. He and his doctors struggled to find ways to allow him to survive before finally surrendering and he made the noble decision to come home to die. It was Covid Time. He was in Adventist Hospital Saint Helena, three hours away. I wasn’t allowed to be there, but was in telephone contact with him and the staff several times a day. It was a deeply traumatic experience—for him, for me, for our family.

Looking back, I realize the trauma of Gary’s last weeks sent my mind into another dimension with little sense of space and time. I believed I handled everything in my usual take charge manner, but now know I was living a surreal existence.

How on earth could I remember Gary being here on February 23rd when he’d been in the hospital for 13 days?

I suppose it was because for 46 years, Gary had always been with me. He was my sounding board. I didn’t always agree with his feedback—especially when he told me to calm the hell down—but I valued my ability to ask for it. How was it possible he wasn’t here when I returned nearly hypothermic from standing so long in the cold, after being told I’d have to check a website in a few weeks to schedule my second shot? How was he not here to agree that we live in such a terrible time, that Covid has completely screwed up everything, and we couldn’t take it anymore?

How?

I know for certain I would not have called Gary to complain while he was fighting for his life in the hospital. So, who did I rant to? I honestly cannot remember. Probably to my poor daughter and son-in-law who were with me during this time. Probably over the phone to my sister who was always available to listen to my tearful rages.

Fear for my mental health sent me to the internet to do a bit of research. I was relieved to discover that my experience isn’t unusual for someone who has experienced trauma. It’s called false memory.

According to the website “healthline,” (www.healthline.com/health/false-memory#overview), “[False memories] range from small and trivial, like where you swear you put your keys last night, to significant, like how an accident happened or what you saw during a crime.”

As time goes by, I’m sure I’ll uncover more false memories from this time. As for this particular one—and as strange as this might sound—it comforts me that even though Gary wasn’t here to commiserate with after I got home from the Mendocino debacle, I was able to spend several months believing he was.

Six Things to Never Say to a Grieving Person

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In March 2021, my husband of 46 years died and a 13-year-old girl took demonic possession of my emotions. I call her Tammy. I try to placate her with soothing tones, carrying scones and mocha lattes to her bedroom door. She opens the door (she’s a sucker for sweets), wearing her You’re Not the Boss of Me t-shirt, her fiery red mass of unruly curls swirling about her head. She snatches the food like the feral child she is, flips me off, and slams the door in my face.

Tammy horrifies me. I was raised to be a good girl and avoid burdening people with my anger or negative feelings. Better to keep such unpleasantness under wraps. Tammy isn’t burdened by such nonsense.

In the months since Gary died, I am astonished by the outpouring of love and support I’ve received. I am grateful, oh so grateful. It shocks me how angry Tammy becomes when people make comments that, while intended to provide comfort, do just the opposite. This consumes her with a rage that embarrasses me, one that I wrestle to control. But she will not be tamed. It’s true that one of the steps in the grief process is anger, but another is acceptance, which makes me feel I need to embrace Tammy. Maybe I can hug her so tightly that I squeeze the very life out of her.

Whenever Tammy encounters someone who says an absurd thing, she snarls, “Don’t pity her.” When people stop pitying me, she whines, “Why aren’t you pitying her?” When they try again, she snaps, “Don’t pity her.”

Pity her. Don’t pity her. Pity her. Don’t pity her. On and on it goes. It’s debilitating.

Recently, Tammy duct taped me to a chair and forced me to compile the following list of things to never say to a grieving person. I balked, not wanting to offend or hurt anyone. She got into my face and screamed “You’re a widow! You can do whatever the hell you want for at least the first year!”

#1 At least he’s no longer suffering

“Oh really?” Tammy spits. “At least?” She wonders why people try to throw this measly life preserver when I’m drowning in my darkest moments. This comment does nothing to ease my pain and causes Tammy to shriek as she stomps up the stairs to her bedroom and slams the door. She opens it to shout, “Screw you!” before slamming it again and again. It’s exhausting and humiliating. I want to tie her up, throw her into the back of a white-paneled van and ship her off to a school for troubled teens in Utah.

#2 He had a long, good life

Tammy wonders if people honestly think this offers comfort. She’s drawn her switchblade. (Before joining me, she belonged to a gang.)

Gary did have a long life, mostly good, but deeply affected by the devastating effects of 65 years of living with juvenile diabetes, effects most people know nothing about. His last 10 years were spent dealing with diminished eyesight, mobility and kidneys. He valiantly struggled through each day and remained grateful for what he did have. He was still grateful when he made the difficult decision to come home from the hospital to die. If he’d had a choice, he wouldn’t have chosen death.

Tammy wants people to stop assuming any life was either long or good. It was a life. And it’s over. Grieving people don’t care how long a life was, they want more.

#3 There’s hope for a brighter future

Tammy hates this more than anything. Even more than kale.

If anyone has experienced the intense grief of losing a loved one, one of the last things Tammy wants them to say is that their journey was like a flower that slowly blossomed and left them feeling more radiant than before. This perspective comes years after their loss. Tammy doesn’t want them trying to fast forward me through this process by giving me an end result. They think they’re helping, but they’re not. I cannot fathom such a future and right now these comments only make me sadder because my flower is wilted and rotting. And Tammy wants to kick them in the stomach.

Instead, tell me that at first you were buried up to your neck in raw, stinking sewage. As the pipes unclogged and the sewage began to recede, you could at least move, but it was nearly impossible to trudge forward with it up to your chest, then waist, then knees. Finally, after many months—perhaps years—the muck was at ankle level. By then the struggle had gotten you into Navy Seal training shape and you were able to strut out, hose yourself down, hold your fists high and claim victory. But only partial victory because the mild odor of grief will cling to you forever.

#4 Focus on the good things in your life

Tammy narrows her black eyes and seethes, “If you happen to see any sustainable good things in her life, I’ll let YOU focus on them. Right now I want to punch you in the face.”

Just when I’m able to rise a bit out of the muck and periscope my head from side to side to spy one tiny good thing here and another there, a tragedy strikes. My brother-in-law died suddenly at the end of August. In mid-September, on the morning of my daughter’s wedding, my 91-year-old mother had a major stroke and lingers in a state of limbo. A dear friend died in late September, and another at the end of October. Another close family member died in mid-December. On New Year’s Day, the infant daughter of a young, dear friend was found dead in her crib.

Each of these events belly flopped me back into the cesspool of gloom and made Tammy go wild! She burst out of the house and ran cursing and screaming down the street.

#5 I feel so bad for you living in that big old house all by yourself

I swear, if another person says this to me, I’ll let Tammy have at them with her brass knuckles. Tammy wonders if they understand when they say this that they put me in the position of defending my choice to stay in our family home. A home where we raised our children. A home that comforts and nurtures me daily.

Tammy’s interpretation is that they want me to make them feel better by closing off rooms, confining myself to the living room with a hot plate, chamber pot, a garden hose run through an open window, and a cot. Tammy wonders if it would it make them feel better if I left this big, old house and moved to a smaller place, possibly an alley house where nobody has to worry about me rattling around. Or am I being selfish by staying here and hogging more than my fair share of square footage on this earth? Should I relinquish it to others—perhaps a nice, young couple with two kids, a dog, a couple of cats, and a ferret?

Tammy wants people to know that wherever I live, I’ll be by myself. It’s not like I’m a hermit. I have an active social life. Right now, figuring out how to live alone is an integral part of my grief process. I’m much better off navigating this from a home I love, a place I shared with my family for 30 years.

Tammy wants these people to shut the hell up. Remember, she has duct tape and is not afraid to use it.

#6 Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you

I’m grateful for these generous offers, but they make Tammy clench her fists. She says, “She doesn’t know what she wants from moment to moment. Even though you’ve left the door open to respond to whatever she needs, she’s not capable of reaching out to ask for anything.”

My therapist suggests being specific when offering to help someone. “I’m going to the store today and wonder if there’s anything I can pick up for you.” If the answer is nothing, say, “I’ll bring you a meal from the deli. Does a salad or something you can warm up sound better to you?” Or, “Let’s take a walk this weekend. Would you prefer Saturday or Sunday? What time would you like, one or two o’clock?”

A friend once told me that she contacts people who are suffering and asks, “What do you need right now? What do you need today?” Sometimes they say nothing, but most of the time the responses are magic: “I need a latte.” “I need someone to bring me dinner.” “I need a walk.” She continues to reach out, not often, but maybe every month or so in an effort to not overwhelm them.

Tammy pulls her wild hair back, ties it with a scrunchy and nods approval. She knows that every smartphone has a calendar where this type of outreach can be scheduled on a recurring basis. If you truly want to help someone, do these things.

***

I pretty much hate Tammy. She’s a deep source of my shame. But I also love the way she steps up to fiercely defend me during this fragile emotional time. Someday I may be able to send her to finishing school where she’ll cut her hair, become more polished and learn to control herself. In the meantime, she’s a fitting vessel for my anger.

***

I just locked Tammy in a closet while I confess that I understand that people extend their hearts to provide comfort and help ease my suffering. People don’t intend their words to cause Tammy to burst into flames. Before I experienced Gary’s death, I’m certain I said many things that sent grieving people to the internet to shop for voodoo dolls.

Tammy is yelling at me through the closet door. “You need to tell them! Tell them now!”

Throughout this journey, I once got her calmed down enough to help me compile a list of what we consider the only things that need to be said:

  • I don’t know what to say.
  • I’m holding you in my heart.
  • This sucks so bad.
  • Give a warm hug and say, “I love you.”
  • Say nothing, bow your head in reverence, and listen . . .simply listen.

Mourning Pages

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Over the years, it’s been suggested that I participate in an activity called “Morning Pages,” where you get out of bed, rub the sleep out of your eyes, grab a pen and dedicated notebook and start writing. Apparently, you can write any old thing that wanders through your head in those moments when your mind isn’t cluttered with the garbage that accumulates as you rush through the day. Fresh and clean, the mind-hand connection can create amazing things. Apparently. I don’t know. I’ve never tried it.

I’m usually too tired first thing in the morning to do much of anything aside from turning on the coffeemaker, firing up my computer and waddling through Facebook. Coffee in hand—the first sip so delectable it makes me grateful to be alive—I start checking the financial news and my calendar for the day. Half way through my second cup, I’m usually so stressed about either the financial markets or what I have to do that day that my mental garbage begins to rapidly fill.

The experience of losing my husband of 46 years in March 2021, has forced me to do what I call “Mourning Pages.” I’ve done a lot of research about grief and am getting therapy to understand mine. I’ve learned sadness will come and go. In between, I’ll be happy, feel almost “cured.” It’s all very bipolar and unsettling, a process that stretches over the course of months to years. I hate process. Hate it. Really hate it.

As a result of my mid-century upbringing, I’m not supposed to hate anything. Otherwise, my brow might permanently furrow, my lips become a perpetual grimace. My clinched hands might freeze in that position. What sort of husband could I hope to attract with such a disfigured face and club-foot hands? It was best to stop feelings of hatred in their tracks lest my parents could not marry me off and I ended up living with them the rest of my life. (Perish the thought.)

I learned I’m supposed to have love in my heart at all times and when I don’t, I must shame myself into making it so. Fortunately, I have a therapist who tells me it’s okay to feel hateful at times. I love her for that and so much more.

In the early months after Gary died, sadness overtook me several times a day. I didn’t have the strength to fight it. Crying off and on all day is debilitating. In an effort to protect my energy and allow me to continue to be a productive member of society, my very clever mind became successful in circumventing grief. But its pesky partner—my body—seems to be in cahoots with that bitch. They plot against my mind and send warning signals when I’ve avoided grief too long.

I begin to feel what seem like tears in my heart. As my mind fights to prevent letting them out, I start to feel faint or get what Southerners call the vapors. If I avoid the vapors too long—and believe me, I have—I become nauseated. Only then do I recognize that it’s time to succumb to my Mourning Pages.

These aren’t the socially acceptable tears that I shed when I talk about the loss of Gary to family, friends and acquaintances. These are guttural, ugly tears that emanate from the core of my being, that spew like hot lava and feel like they’re burning me. They are best shed in private.

Most recently, these tears reared their hideousness after my adult children and young grandchildren left the day after Christmas. We’d had five days of sharing food, laughter, toddler glee and meltdowns, raucous activity and noise. After they left, it was rainy and dark. It was eerily quiet. The house felt like a morgue. It was beyond awful.

It was close to noon and I was hungry. I prepared my lunch and sat at the kitchen table—alone for the first time in five days. I felt like one of those pathetic characters in an Ingmar Bergman movie—a shriveled up widow, sitting alone at a darkened table in her drab, studio apartment, an elevated commuter train running past her windows every few minutes, shaking the walls as she spoons food into her mouth. The image was so disturbing that I couldn’t eat. I cried gut-shaking, choking tears.

My grief avoidance mind eventually took over. You need to take down the Christmas decorations! They are only serving as a reminder that the holiday is over. Like Gary, it’s dead.

I love Christmas and have a lot of decorations. It takes me hours to put them up and hours to disassemble. I struggled to bring in a couple of bins from the garage. I started with the tree ornaments. A few minutes in, I sank to the floor and let the hot lava of grief overtake me. Gary is no longer here. He will never be here. There is no one on this earth who will share the love of our children and grandchildren the way we did, the way I continue to do.

I got to my feet, determined to get the blasted ornaments off the tree. I looked around at the other Christmas decorations and didn’t have the energy to continue. It would have been be so much easier to vaporize them. Oh, how I wished for that kind of superpower.

I gave up, took a hot bath and sat on the sofa in a daze, watching mindless television programs before going to bed early—as in seven o’clock early.

The next morning, I woke up feeling tired, but was determined to get all of the decorations stuffed into their bins and hidden in the garage. Their mere presence physically hurt me. It took most of the morning and buckets of tears to banish them.

Then there was the tree. Traditionally, I leave it up until New Year’s Day. Not this year! It had to go! It’s artificial and too big to manage by myself. I contacted a friend who said she could help me the next day. I sighed in resignation.

***

This morning when my feet hit the landing at the bottom of the stairs, I glanced to the right and noticed the tree, sitting naked and alone in the dark parlor window. I walked down the hall to the kitchen to start the coffee. Instead of going into my home office, I went into the parlor and turned on the tree lights.

Cup of coffee in hand, I sit on the sofa, having one last moment with my tree, with this glorious Christmas season where my family and I reveled in being together knowing that life is fleeting. I let the tears flow as I wonder if the next post-Christmas season will be better or worse. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.

I’m going to pour myself another cup of coffee, sip it slowly, cry some more, and let my tree anchor me a bit longer in my Mourning Pages.

Zen & Grief Goulash with a side of Onion Rings

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It’s four days before Thanksgiving. I sit in my car in the parking lot of the Boatyard Shopping Center, chowing down onion rings and contemplating going home to dig into the snickerdoodle dairy-free ice cream I purchased earlier. I think about what I told my therapist a mere two days ago.

I said I’d been feeling pleasantly “normal” for the past couple of weeks. When she brought up my decision to be by myself on Thanksgiving, I said I was at peace with it. I anticipated that it was going to be okay. It might be bad, but that doesn’t matter. I have experienced so many awful, debilitating days since my husband Gary died—particularly in the first five or so months—that at eight months in I’m not afraid of having more.

How very enlightened. Yay for me!

Then earlier this morning I went to Harvest Market.

I ran into a long-time acquaintance. I hadn’t seen her in a few years. She’s a good, kind person and I like her a lot. We hugged and she asked if my kids were coming home for Thanksgiving.

“No,” I said. I don’t believe I said it with gloom in my voice—just stated it as a simple fact.

Her expression turned from sadness to anguish when she asked if I had plans to have dinner with other people and I said, “No, I’m okay.” Tears formed in her eyes.

Aw…crap, I made her cry. I swatted my hand in her direction and said, “It’s okay. It’s my choice. It’s what I want to do this year.” I could feel my defenses start to bristle. Was I supposed to make her feel better by explaining my daughter and her husband were on their honeymoon; that my son and his family were spending the holidays with his in-laws?

“Do you want to come to our house for dinner?”

 I held my palm up, waving it from side to side as if to erase her. “Thank you so much, but no. I promise, I’m okay. I’m fine.”

I wanted to say, “You don’t need to pity me. I’m going to have coffee and pie with friends the morning of Thanksgiving. On the day before, I’m having brunch with a friend. On the Saturday after, I’m having a group over for a Friendsgiving. Oh, and I’m going on a walk later today with a friend and with another on Tuesday. Look at me—wow! So popular!” Instead, I said it was good to see her, paid the checker and hustled out of the store.

As I drove home, I started to cry. Even though I had made the decision to be mostly by myself on Thanksgiving, I felt pathetic. I’d had plenty of dinner invitations, but I didn’t want to accept any of them. When I made this choice, I envisioned curling up on the sofa in my pajamas and staying there all day. As the holiday grows closer, that sounds dreadful. But the fact is I don’t want to do anything—and I also don’t want to do nothing. I feel like a toddler having to choose between two options—she doesn’t want either and starts to wail and thrash about.

Goddamnit!

I miss Gary and his crazy passion for the holiday season, beginning with Halloween and rolling into the New Year. He especially loved Thanksgiving. He was raised “old school,” and a stickler for the traditional meal—turkey, gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, yams, canned cranberry sauce—but was gracious when he passed on what he considered an “exotic” dish like cheesy potatoes or homemade cranberry-orange sauce. None of that fancy stuff for him! He delighted in the leftover turkey sandwiches he made for days afterward.

Over the past two weeks, I avoided the emotional logistics of being alone in my house for the first time in my life on this holiday—no kids, no grandkids, no dear friends. My action plan? I’d decorate for Christmas! I love Christmas and by then I’ll be surrounded by family. I can warm the hearts of random inquisitors by stating that yes, my children will be coming home. I’ll focus on that. Oh yes, I will. I’ll ignore Thanksgiving all together. Look at me, so sassy and clever. Yay for me! I successfully eluded grief by zigging here, zagging there, confusing it so it couldn’t find me and take me down.

Despite my mad dashing, grief kept creeping up behind, lightly tapping me on the shoulder, annoyingly trying to get my attention. “Go away,” I’d whisper. “Don’t ruin everything by making me cry and draining my energy.”

I returned home from the store, brought the grocery bags inside, sat down on a kitchen chair, and bawled for a solid 15 minutes. Gary loved Christmas. He was no longer here to enjoy it. He’d never again be here to enjoy it.

I would have continued crying, but there was the snickerdoodle ice cream threatening to melt. I hadn’t bought a frozen treat in a long time and I’d be damned if I was going to let grief destroy it.

I needed onion rings!

I put the groceries away and called David’s Deli to place the order. You cannot cry with your mouth full of onion rings. Don’t believe me? Try it. I dare you.

I picked up the food and sat in my car in the parking lot next to the Tesla charging stations. (You can’t take onion rings home and have the same flavor experience of eating them fresh out of the deep fryer. If you do, they cool just enough to make you realize how soaked in grease and terrible they are for you. I swear, never do this.)

Was I lying when I acted all Zen in front of my therapist? After eating a few onion rings dipped in tartar sauce, I decided no. I’m not afraid of grief. I just don’t want to invite it. Eight months into this shit show, I’m done with it. “Ha!” says grief. “I’ve been trying for two weeks to get your attention.” Losing patience, it finally crashed the party.

And now I’m home and feel worse than before. Goddamned onion rings didn’t help at all.

This morning probably should have taught me to make room for grief. Instead, it taught me that grief doesn’t care if I make room. Whether I like it or not, it occupies a permanent space in my life from here on out. It’s a filthy squatter that doesn’t pay rent—one I can never evict. Over time, I can try to clean it up, teach it some manners, and together we might one day peacefully coexist.

In the meantime, grief makes me sad. Just plain sad. And I hate it. I truly hate it.

Justine Lemos – at One Yoga

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Over the past few years, I’ve interviewed more than two dozen people who grew up along the Mendocino Coast and couldn’t wait to move away, believing they’d never return. But return they did, to establish businesses or professional careers. Some also chose this place to raise children, to nurture them in the small town values that shaped their own childhoods.
These are a new wave of pioneers who, like their forebearers, use intelligence and  imagination to forge a vibrant path. In exchange for the privilege of being able to live in one of the most beautiful places on earth, they work long, hard hours.
The shelter in place orders due to Covid-19 have knocked many down, but they are devising ways to get back up and resume their vision of what it means to live here.
They have open minds and are digging deep to find solutions.
They have entrepreneurial spirits that will spawn innovations to move them forward. They are truly the new pioneers of the Mendocino Coast.
We are so fortunate to have them here—especially during this trying time. 

JustinecovidWhen I first spoke with Justine about her yoga studio and related businesses, I was impressed by her wealth of education and experience. Since leaving the Mendocino Coast several years ago, she’s lived in a number of places around the world, yet chose to return and settle here with her family. You can read her original interview here: https://ithappenedatpurity.com/2017/01/03/justine-lemos/

A few days before the March shelter in place orders went into effect, Justine closed her yoga studio. Overnight, she went from offering 25 classes a week to online live streaming nearly every day. She was concerned with how SIP would impact her clients and the staff at the studio. “Before owning the yoga studio I taught college classes online. I have also  taught many online courses as an Ayurvedic practitioner. So I was already set up with much of the technology for live streaming yoga,” she said. “I reached out to my yoga students to offer them an alternative way to continue taking yoga. Unfortunately, some of my clients don’t have access to devices or the internet. For those who aren’t technically savvy, I offered support to get them set up.”

Justine converted her yoga space into a film studio with professional cameras, lighting and microphones. She concurrently livestreams and films each class. The videos are placed on her website where they can be accessed on demand for studio members. “The post-class editing can take three to four hours. “As a result, I now spend more time on technology than teaching. The technology aspect is sometimes frustrating.

“Some people get upset if they can’t take their favorite class at their former time slot. I explain that I have to work around the time constraints of editing and having an 11-year old child who now needs to be homeschooled.”

In late June, Governor Newsom announced the reopening of certain places, including gyms. “I could have opened the yoga studio with social distancing and masks or begun teaching classes outside. I polled my students to ask if they’d be willing to return to the studio and wear masks. The vast majority said no. I felt it best to take an abundance of caution and stay closed. There’s a reason for an ordinance against gatherings. A few weeks later, we would have been forced to close when new orders were issued.”

Justine is grateful to be able to move her business online. “This shift actually gives me growth opportunities. It allows me to expand my reach beyond a limited local population to clients in the San Francisco Bay Area, Arizona, Florida and the United Kingdom.” Justine feels incredibly grateful that the Community Foundation and West Company gave at One Yoga a business resiliency grant to help with the transition to online streaming.

She hopes this current crisis will result in our area becoming less dependent upon tourism. “I’m certain we’ll survive as a species, but it will be very hard for small businesses to survive. When this passes, I think the world will look radically different.”

Justine puts her circumstances into perspective by comparing them to the times she spent living in rural India. She and her husband lived in small villages off and on for a few years. “Even with shelter in place, our current existence is way easier. In India, whenever we needed to buy something that had to be refrigerated, we traveled an hour each way in a very crowded bus.”

Justine encourages support for local businesses. “If you can’t give money, reach out and ask, ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ Maybe you could run an errand or simply let them know you’re thinking about them. There’s an incredible amount of pressure on working parents with children at home. As a business owner, whenever someone expresses gratitude, it means a great deal.”

Visit Justine’s website for detailed information about her classes: https://www.at1yoga.com/

Myles Anderson – Anderson Logging

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Over the past few years, I’ve interviewed more than two dozen people who grew up along the Mendocino Coast and couldn’t wait to move away, believing they’d never return. But return they did, to establish businesses or professional careers. Some also chose this place to raise children, to nurture them in the small town values that shaped their own childhoods.
These are a new wave of pioneers who, like their forebearers, use intelligence and  imagination to forge a vibrant path. In exchange for the privilege of being able to live in one of the most beautiful places on earth, they work long, hard hours.
The shelter in place orders due to Covid-19 have knocked many down, but they are devising ways to get back up and resume their vision of what it means to live here.
They have open minds and are digging deep to find solutions.
They have entrepreneurial spirits that will spawn innovations to move them forward. They are truly the new pioneers of the Mendocino Coast.
We are so fortunate to have them here—especially during this trying time. 

MylesCovid

For decades Anderson Logging has provided jobs that have helped support many families along the Mendocino Coast. From an early age, Myles developed a passion for working in the woods and learned the value of people taking care of one another in this dangerous occupation. As he moved out of the woods and into running the family business, he’s continued this practice. You can read my initial interview with him here: https://ithappenedatpurity.com/2017/03/29/myles-anderson-2/

Under the shelter in place orders, Anderson Logging is deemed an essential business. Myles is grateful to keep his crews employed and is working hard to keep them safe. “We are not open to the public and most of the regulations impacting businesses are focused on those that cater to the public,” he says. “However, through a combination of our own ideas and those learned from industry trade associations, we devised prevention measures to keep our employees and their families safe from potential exposure.”

After a lifetime spent in the logging business, Myles says, “Every year I think I’ve seen it all, and every year I’m reminded how wrong I am. We always need to be prepared to adapt and react to change. Long before Covid-19, our business prioritized the safety and well-being of our employees.

“We have approximately 90 employees who enter and leave our facility daily. Every morning, I check their temperatures. They are required to stay in their personal vehicles and not allowed to congregate until the transport vehicle picks them up. We keep crews that work together away from the other crews. Masks are required when riding in transport vehicles and everyone must use hand sanitizer before break and lunch.

“At the end of the day, employees are dropped off at their vehicles and leave our facility. Any contact with employees after work is done over the phone.”

After the Covid-19 restrictions are lifted, Myles may ease some of the company’s prevention measures. Ultimately, this decision will depend upon what his employees need to feel safe. “I’m concerned that the restrictions will cause many families to lose their immune systems. Keeping some of these in place will benefit them.”

In contemplation of future restrictions, Myles says, “We try our best to comply with all rules and regulations. I hope any future orders are well thought out and discussed with business leaders prior to implementation. Painting rules with a broad stroke is damaging. Rules that protect employees in one industry may not do anything for employees in another.”

As for the future of our coastal community, Myles is concerned about another pandemic. “There are many things other than a virus that could cause similar issues. People in urban areas are much more susceptible to virus spread because of the density of people and public transportation systems. A potential problem for Fort Bragg is people flocking here to get away from those areas and bringing their hazards to us.”

While Myles agrees with others that it’s important to spend money locally, he also believes that the industries along our coast need support. “This can come in the form of a conversation with friends or writing letters to newspapers and elected officials. We should all agree that we need to work together to sustain what industry we have left.

“Support for logging is a good example. It is hard, dangerous and seasonal work. Through careful management of the industrial timberlands around our community, we can continue to provide jobs and produce the most environmentally-regulated wood products in the world.”

Stevie Scudder – Roundman’s Smokehouse

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Over the past few years, I’ve interviewed more than two dozen people who grew up along the Mendocino Coast and couldn’t wait to move away, believing they’d never return. But return they did, to establish businesses or professional careers. Some also chose this place to raise children, to nurture them in the small town values that shaped their own childhoods.
These are a new wave of pioneers who, like their forebearers, use intelligence and  imagination to forge a vibrant path. In exchange for the privilege of being able to live in one of the most beautiful places on earth, they work long, hard hours.
The shelter in place orders due to Covid-19 have knocked many down, but they are devising ways to get back up and resume their vision of what it means to live here.
They have open minds and are digging deep to find solutions.
They have entrepreneurial spirits that will spawn innovations to move them forward. They are truly the new pioneers of the Mendocino Coast.
We are so fortunate to have them here—especially during this trying time. 

SteviecovidheadshotWhen I interviewed Stevie nearly four years ago, I was impressed by her dedication to the legacy of her family’s business. https://ithappenedatpurity.com/tag/mendocino-coast/

Unlike other small businesses who found their operations suddenly stopped, Roundman’s remained open. When the shelter in place order was announced, they researched the essential business requirements. “As a USDA-regulated and inspected facility,” she says, “we were already in compliance with a lot of the rules. We made adjustments for masks and social distancing. We also began disinfecting contact surfaces after every customer interaction.”

In addition to their retail store, Roundman’s sells to several Mendocino County restaurants. When these had to shut down or start take-out only, Roundman’s braced for a negative impact. Surprisingly, this was offset by a spike in retail sales. “People started placing large orders for their personal stock. Business really took off—albeit in a different direction—but we adapted, have been able to keep our staff employed, and are doing fine.”

Meat shortages soon curtailed Roundman’s ability to order certain products. “We were able to shift some of our sourcing to local vendors and distributors, but even that was limited. We are doing our best to focus our efforts on more Northern California companies when possible. It’s also what the public wants.”

Despite the challenges of running a business during shelter in place, Stevie is pleased to see a slowing down of life. “Our culture has become very go-go-go, with people seeking immediate responses. Safety is now a priority and that adds a few extra minutes to each task. I think the limitations arising from this pandemic have caused people to pause and assess what is truly necessary—what they can go without in a time of crisis. Everyone worldwide has had to make sacrifices. In our little community I see an understanding of that and a comraderie forming.

“People are making masks and donating them where needed. They’re expressing gratitude and rallying to help each other out. We’re coming together—outdoors and distanced—to celebrate high school graduations, birthdays and other milestone events.”

As a business owner, Stevie urges shoppers to show compassion, gratitude and respect. “Follow the orders, read signs, respect the rules and your fellow humans. Respect the employees. Understand that those who are working are not the ones making the rules. They are trying to follow them as best they can to remain in operation and keep you, themselves and their families safe.”

Stevie hopes more people are starting to realize that added safety precautions have been implemented to ensure the well-being of everyone. “I see people more aware of their interactions and their surrounding environment. Safety and sanitation is now a priority and that adds a few extra minutes to each task. For the most part, customers are grateful we’re taking care of them by limiting the number of people in the store, wearing and requiring masks, and disinfecting surfaces between each transaction.

“Going forward, I imagine that some of the changes will remain. My guess is that Covid-19 has made people more aware of what they touch and how germs are passed. I don’t know that face shields and plexi-glass at registers will remain forever, but think we’ll see more people wearing masks—especially during heightened flu season. I think there will be more conscious efforts to wash hands, sanitize and keep a safe distance.

“I hope we can continue to rally together, support and respect each other, and encourage our visitors to do the same.”

https://www.roundmans.com/

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Megan Caron – Lost Coast Found

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Over the past few years, I’ve interviewed more than two dozen people who grew up along the Mendocino Coast and couldn’t wait to move away, believing they’d never return. But return they did, to establish businesses or professional careers. Some also chose this place to raise children, to nurture them in the small town values that shaped their own childhoods.
These are a new wave of pioneers who, like their forebearers, use intelligence and  imagination to forge a vibrant path. In exchange for the privilege of being able to live in one of the most beautiful places on earth, they work long, hard hours.
The shelter in place orders due to Covid-19 have knocked many down, but they are devising ways to get back up and resume their vision of what it means to live here.
They have open minds and are digging deep to find solutions.
They have entrepreneurial spirits that will spawn innovations to move them forward. They are truly the new pioneers of the Mendocino Coast.
We are so fortunate to have them here—especially during this trying time. 

Megancovidheadshot3

Megan returned to the Mendocino Coast four years ago for many of the same reasons other young pioneers come back—weary of city living, wanting to raise children where they’d been raised, and hoping to use their energies to revitalize our community. Soon after her arrival, she opened the vintage shop Lost Coast Found in the Larry Spring building on Redwood Avenue. https://ithappenedatpurity.com/2017/10/02/megan-caron/

Unlike other shop owners, Megan says she wasn’t fazed by the shelter in place order.

“It seems like everyday something shocking takes place. The current administration has forced many of us to become desensitized. When I think about what’s happening to this planet—children in cages, criminals in the White House—a pandemic just kind of seems like icing on the cake.”

Similar to other retailers, Megan considers the ramifications of future shelter in place orders and is considering the addition of an online store. “My brick and mortar will always be a priority because creating space and human interaction is what I enjoy. I have never really shopped online—except for that one time, but I was doing research on Scandinavian linens.” She laughs. “I find online shopping dull and unfulfilling. During these tumultuous times, I have confidence in the secondary market. I believe people are catching onto the idea of conscious consumerism, but as with every change in behavior, it takes time.”

Megan is grateful to Anne Maureen McKeating, the owner of the Larry Spring building. “She isn’t charging rent as long as I am unable to open. I wish more landlords were so kind. I am worried about our downtown community and hope landlords realize there is more value in keeping a current tenant than waiting a year for a new one to come along.”

Lost Coast Found reopened on June 12 and Megan has to limit customers to one or two people at a time. “The shop is too small to fit more than that. I want people to have a relaxing experience. I don’t want them to worry if they’re six feet away from someone.”

Given the number of employers who are allowing employees to telecommute, Megan believes Fort Bragg is more attractive to outsiders than ever before. “I guarantee we’ll make it on ‘The Top 10 Small Towns In Which To Survive A Pandemic’ list.  Over the last three years, a constant stream of tourists have come into my shop and asked, ‘So what’s it like to live here?’ I say it’s a great place if you can afford to buy a house. It can be impossible to find a rental unless you have a local connection. I tell them about our need for working professionals, trades people, entrepreneurs, and community volunteers.

“Like it or not, an influx of people will move here. I don’t think it’s a bad thing. Buying up housing for vacation rentals is what has devastated coastal communities. Building new homes will help our economy.

“When people move here, they bring money and this town desperately needs money. Fort Bragg has struggled to financially maintain its downtown and the current crisis will only make that more difficult.”

Megan finds hope for the future of our community in people like her customer Joanne.  “She lives in Fremont and is selling her home. She’s dreamed of having a tea room and Fort Bragg seems the right place. Joanne has the capital to buy one of the downtown dilapidated commercial buildings and will make it beautiful again.”

https://www.facebook.com/lostcoastfound/

Lost Coast Found is open 11:30-5:00 Wednesdays through Saturdays.

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Amberly Reynolds Caccamo – Reynolds Men’s Wear and Wrens

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Over the past few years, I’ve interviewed more than two dozen people who grew up along the Mendocino Coast and couldn’t wait to move away, believing they’d never return. But return they did, to establish businesses or professional careers. Some also chose this place to raise children, to nurture them in the small town values that shaped their own childhoods.
These are a new wave of pioneers who, like their forebearers, use intelligence and  imagination to forge a vibrant path. In exchange for the privilege of being able to live in one of the most beautiful places on earth, they work long, hard hours.
The shelter in place orders due to Covid-19 have knocked many down, but they are devising ways to get back up and resume their vision of what it means to live here.
They have open minds and are digging deep to find solutions.
They have entrepreneurial spirits that will spawn innovations to move them forward. They are truly the new pioneers of the Mendocino Coast.
We are so fortunate to have them here—especially during this trying time. 

Amberlycovid1

Each story shared by the returnees I’ve interviewed has left an impression on me, but Amberly’s touched me deeply. Not only did she keep a beloved and long-running family business going through the Great Recession, she managed to survive cancer while pregnant with her youngest child. You can read her interview here: https://ithappenedatpurity.com/2017/07/12/amberly-reynolds-caccamo/

Despite rising above previous challenges, Amberly initially found the business ramifications of the shelter in place order overwhelming. She struggled between wanting her family and community to stay safe and keeping her business afloat.

“By the time the SIP order was issued, I had already closed Wren’s and was grappling with closing Reynolds,” she says. “In early March, my 11-year-old son and I went to New York City with his class to participate in the Montessori Model United Nations. We returned on the tenth. When we left, there were more Covid cases in California than New York. Upon our return, we learned how rampant it was in New York City.  I put myself and the kids in quarantine and we hunkered down.”

Amberly despairs at the fact that the pandemic has pushed people to make needed purchases online. “Before this, I had plenty of customers who bought clothing from us, even though it was only a click away on their computer.” She’s being forced to make some tough decisions on how to move forward. “It breaks my heart, but I’ll have to combine my two shops into one. I hate to see another empty building on Franklin Street, but I cannot afford two rents and to staff two shops.

“Reynolds Men’s Wear has been in my family 54 years and was a men’s clothing store for 43 years before that. We are nearing our centennial. We have weathered more than a few storms. During the economic period of high inflation in the late seventies and early eighties, my parents spent most days sitting at a window table in the Fort Bragg Bakery across the street from the shop watching for the occasional customer. They managed to survive that difficult time.

“I am steeped in the tradition of this shop. It’s a part of me and makes me who I am. When I help customers find exactly what they need, I feel a giddy satisfaction. This pushes me to carefully select products. I am working on an online presence, but it’s not nearly as much fun as seeing people face-to-face.

“At this point, we are offering limited customer access to the stores and curbside pickup Wednesdays through Saturdays from 12:00-4:00. It’s been nice to see a few faces again—even if they are behind masks.”

Amberly is grateful that her husband’s business, Caccamo Construction, has been able to operate. She enjoys being at home with her three sons. “I see a lot of value in slowing down, and that is a huge part of my decision to merge my two stores. It will give me more freedom to be with my family. We love watching our plants grow, raising goats, and hanging with our chickens. Our dog is so happy to have kids home all day.”

Amberly encourages people to call or visit her shop. “See if we have what you need before you hop online to order. Share our Facebook posts. Interact with our Instagram posts, all of that helps to make us more visible to the public.”

https://www.facebook.com/wrensboutique/

https://www.reynoldswren.com/

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Forging a Path through the Pandemic: Young Pioneers of the Mendocino Coast

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Over the past few years, I’ve interviewed more than two dozen people who grew up along the Mendocino Coast and couldn’t wait to move away, believing they’d never return. But return they did, to establish businesses or professional careers. Some also chose this place to raise children, to nurture them in the small town values that shaped their own childhoods.
These are a new wave of pioneers who, like their forebearers, use intelligence and  imagination to forge a vibrant path. In exchange for the privilege of being able to live in one of the most beautiful places on earth, they work long, hard hours.
The shelter in place orders due to Covid-19 have knocked many down, but they are devising ways to get back up and resume their vision of what it means to live here.
They have open minds and are digging deep to find solutions.
They have entrepreneurial spirits that will spawn innovations to move them forward.
We are so fortunate to have them here—especially during this trying time. 

***

Sarena Breed – Frame Mill Art Works

SarenaCovid1I met Sarena in 2017 when I interviewed her for my blog. She had recently purchased the Frame Mill Art Works. As a first-time business owner, she worried about her ability to succeed. Despite the challenges of learning to run a shop, she’s seen her business grow and is happy she made the decision. https://ithappenedatpurity.com/2017/06/02/sarena-breed/

She was surprised in March 2020 when nonessential businesses in Mendocino County were forced to close under the shelter in place orders. “A week before the shutdown, I had celebrated my third year in business,” she says. “I noticed things had gotten slower, but expected to continue to operate with some mandated adjustments.”

The Sunday before the order took effect, she spent the day cleaning her store and making changes to keep employees and customers safe. “I separated tools and work areas so everyone in the back room could maintain social distancing. I drafted a sign for the front door asking customers to social distance. I didn’t imagine I would have to close the shop.”

With her routine suddenly disrupted, Sarena says, “I felt I was going through the stages of grief. This was the death of something.”

In addition to the temporary closure of her shop, her eighth grade daughter’s middle school was closed. “Sadly, her class had to settle for a virtual promotion ceremony this year.” Despite these losses, she’s grateful that her husband’s job as an utility arborist is considered essential and he has continued to work.

She began attending webinars on how small businesses can adapt during this time.

The core of Sarena’s business is meeting with clients face-to-face to discuss ways in which a project can be framed. “I love picture framing and don’t like spending much time on the computer. With the doors shut, I realized I had no direct way of communicating with clients. I felt cut off from the folks who came into the store. I wanted to reach out and say a simple hello and give updates, but didn’t have that capability.”

During the shutdown period, the feeling of isolation from her clients caused her to innovate. “I put in a point of sale system to collect email addresses. I’m started work on a website and Facebook and Instagram accounts. Going forward, I’ll continue to expand my online presence.”

Sarena was able to open her store on a limited basis the last week of May. “I looked outside that morning and thought we’ve all been like Sleeping Beauty and are starting to wake up. It feels great to see people again. Some come in just to make sure I was okay. Others pop their heads in to let me know they’re glad I’m open. I feel a great deal of support.” Her shop is open Wednesday through Saturday from 11:00-4:00.

Sarena is determined to move forward. She’s ordered inventory to stock the store for the Christmas season even though there may be shelter in place orders issued in the fall. If she’s forced to shut down again, she’ll be in a better position to communicate with customers and offer framing services by private appointment.

“This experience has given us time to contemplate the things that matter and to reevaluate. People seem to have an understanding that we’re all in this together and are being more patient. I feel a greater commitment to shopping locally and supporting our community.”

***

Since she re-opened, Sarena  is looking for a framer to join her team. Anyone interested can call her shop at 964-6464.

https://www.facebook.com/Frame-Mill-Artworks-106182994399181/

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