On June ninth I woke to the sound of an acetaminophen bottle hitting the dryer and found a large black snake on the laundry room shelf. At eye level. Moments later it dropped to the floor to hide beneath the washing machine. This led to an unwholesome rodeo, with Bob wiggling-walking the dryer away from the wall, then loudly smacking the washer.

Frozen and barely awake I stood by, clutching a bath towel and later, a broom. “Put on your shoes!” I cried, slipping into my Teva flats. Bob ignored the shoe cue and kept banging until the snake came out and then we herded it out the back door. We don’t know how it got in or if it’s come back, nor do we know how many snakes there might be inside our house right now.

I immediately noticed an uptick in nightmares. Bad people doing bad things, with me trying to defend myself and others from murder, rape, and dismemberment. Yes, my Catholic upbringing—all those martyred saints—has proven fertile ground for night sweats.

A week later Tami saw a sizeable Black Bear ahead while riding her bike a couple of miles from our house. She moved to the other side of the road and once she saw that the bear was more interested in eating leaves than chasing her, she pedaled like hell.

So now I am hypersensitive to night sounds, and also self-soothing with sugar which does nothing good for my sleep patterns. I know I’m overreacting, but hey, try telling that to my sympathetic nervous system.

The other night I was awakened by something scratching or bumping against the wall behind my head, and with my high-alert synapses firing away, I nudged my hero and woke him up. Unperturbed, he jiggled the mattress to recreate the sound I thought I’d heard, and then he got up and pulled the bed away from the wall. Nevertheless, I lay there for another hour before falling back to sleep.

When I woke to morning light—arms at my side, stiff as a corpse—I heard something moving underneath the dresser. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t muster enough spit to talk so I got up and got a drink of water before crawling back under the sheet next to my unflappable husband.

Bob has been all patience and fortitude throughout all this snake business. He always comes up with a plan and has not teased me once for waking him up or wimping out. He hasn’t even said, “I don’t know what’s come over you,” even though he must be thinking it. I surely am. All my life, I’ve been unafraid, good in a crisis, always ready to chase down dogs, wasps, and cockroaches. Then suddenly I turn seventy, find a five-foot snake where it’s not supposed to be, and I’m all a-puddle.

After hearing Tami’s story, I asked Bob to set the trail camera up near the compost pile in case a bear shows up to gnaw corn cobs and cantaloupe skin with the possums. But the notion of a bear in our yard doesn’t concern me nearly as much as a snake in our bed.

As I lick the last pretzel crumb and set down my empty mug, a black vulture lands on the lawn between the persimmons. I watch the mockingbird chase it out to the ditch. You badass, I think, and wander towards the road to see if there’s a carcass I need to move before getting out the pitchfork and the wheelbarrow.

At first it was just shaded streets—sidewalked and stop-signed—and at every corner my fingers twitched with hope. I just might get my hands on the driver’s side door and put a stop to this nonsense. I just might, as long as no child leaps in front of me, no squirrel bounces into view, confused, and possibly suicidal.

But the distance between us remained, and now we were approaching bigger traffic—wide open, two-lane traffic with strip malls and stop lights. It wasn’t long before I got caught at a light, stewing in fearful guilt, watching the van weave up onto a highway ramp. I stared at its sputtering turn signal, hoping with all my heart a patrol car would intervene.

I didn’t have a chance in hell, but I shoved my foot down onto the accelerator and sped ahead, the first prickles of sweat gnawing at my hairline.

Mercifully, there was not too much traffic and I was able to keep my target in view—a scarred white van ascending skyward over a thin interstate overpass. I fully expected to see it fly over the guard rail and onto the innocent and unsuspecting bystanders below.

But the van somehow managed to remain centered, eerily purposeful, until it eventually slowed to turn left into a deserted rest stop. I pulled in after it, heaving as though I’d run the whole way and, pulling my keys from the Subaru, stepped onto the dusty asphalt. And, because this was a dream, the van smiled and said, “How do you like this spot for a picnic?”

You fucker, I thought between clenched eyelids, We could have eaten at home, but I tugged the corners of my mouth into a reciprocal smile and spoke calmly—as one would to an escaped tiger—and approached one step at a time.

In my last dream, I was driving on a highway with two passengers who felt like family. We had to get out of the city—Denver, I think it was—but we were escaping from bad people and had not been able to plan our route.

“I think 6th Avenue will take us north and out,” I said. Flanked by purposeful drivers in fast cars, we scanned the signs for the words, “Ft. Collins,” or “Wyoming.” I wanted to slow down but that was impossible.

The dream before that had me telling a kindly, older gentleman how I’d just returned from Europe after giving away my baby. “My second giveaway baby,” I told him, reaching for his white, wrinkled hand, my eyes pleading for a kind word. Joni Mitchell’s song rang in my head, “Everything comes and goes,” and I began to cry.

In a third dream, a crazed mental patient crawled into my bed and threatened to kill me. I easily disabled him, frail as he was. Then I went searching for a nurse or an orderly to take him into custody. I found them celebrating the holidays and had difficulty getting their attention. “Look,” I said, “This guy has already killed several people!”

~*~

Bad people, lost highways, abandoned children, and demented patients. I’m surprised I didn’t wake with blood pouring from my nose. But that will happen a little deeper into the cold season, after a couple more months of forced-air heat.

I get up, pee, weigh myself, and slink back into bed. Three pounds over. I am a fat, winter refugee, lost and fleeing. No surprises here. Typical, sucky, winter morning. I reach for Bob and he reaches back. Thank god for Bob.

I get up and begin padding my day with purpose. I start a load of laundry, make a pot of coffee. I’ll have to do yoga and run errands. I could clean the bathrooms, get out the Windex and wash the mirrors. I drag my notebook to the fat, plaid chair between our bedroom windows to write.

Would I even get up if it weren’t for Bob? Can I give my life purpose if he dies? I feel a twinge of pain in my neck. The washer grinds away. I’m stuck in the corner chair.

Get up. Keep moving. If you stop, you’ll freeze to death. Find your way out.

On that day, I won’t be stuck, aimless, mediocre. I’ll tap in. I’ll be a magnificent conduit, a jovial funnel of insight and inspiration.

Everyone will want to read me.

You will find me in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, Brevity, Creative Nonfiction, The Sun, and The New York Times.

From behind my subway newspaper I’ll hear them whisper, “Did you read that article in the Times? I love how she writes!” They’ll give me my own clever column. I’ll make deadline with ease, words ever-flowing, a burbling spring. One day.

You think it’s still dark at 6:00 AM because it rained last night and must still be cloudy.

You think there is still plenty of summer left even though you begin your morning on the back porch in slippers, a red pashmina draped over your fleece jumper.

You think there isn’t a chance in hell the upcoming election will go smoothly, but you hope democracy will survive.

You thought as you lay awake in your dark bed, about your ballot request working its way through the system, about how you should have cooked the mushrooms you found in the woods a little longer, about your friend who ate raw chanterelles and lived, and about how you will use the small, yellow peppers in your vegetable drawer.

You fell asleep, thinking, and dreamed your daughter had left her husband for an over-confident young woman who fixes your hair with a dozen bobby pins. In your dream, you all headed off to meet your friends for a walk in the park but got sidelined by a demonstrative hotel manager. You kissed your daughter’s husband on the cheek making him cry, and were swept into a tour of the opulent grounds.

You woke in the dark after a woman with perfect teeth stole your daughter’s baby through a hole in the bathroom wall behind the sinks. You and Bob and your daughter and her lover took action as orchestrated by the manager, running in all directions hoping to catch the culprit and recover your grandchild. You raced down a stairwell, grasping the cold handrail and emerged in a bright, babyless courtyard.

You lay there, your mind returning to the pepper drawer, and think you will not eat a piece of chocolate after dinner, especially tonight on this dark moon day.

I’ve been fighting writers block for weeks.

When Bob and I first tucked into the primal adventure of our lives, I anticipated an unprecedented flow of words. They would spill freely, unhampered by social distractions just like the times we had left the country and reinvented our lives. I pictured me and Bob in a sampan, bumping our way down a river clogged with Covid refugees, an island of two navigating a foreign landscape.

Writing would be as easy as falling off a log. All I had to do was pick up my Pilot G2 gel pen and float to the fertile gulf. I would delve deep, spending hours on my back porch rocker with my legs stretched out, scribbling furiously, capturing dialogue and irony, blithely blasting through the log jams.

I would build an easel of my knees and sketch a fantastic world. I would capture the glories of spring in watercolor pencil, nuanced with brushstrokes of global angst. I would be the Edward Scissorhands of Art, flinging finished work to the lawn as my fingers rushed to start another.

But that surge in creativity has not been forthcoming. Instead, my words repeat in dull loops, rolling beneath my feet, refusing to carry me anywhere. My sketch pad sits patiently on a dusty shelf.

Granted, it is April and we have planned a tight garden, every square inch of that old swimming pool measured and groomed. I’ve been shuffling compost and mulch around the yard in our wheelbarrow, have made that grey plastic tub the epicenter of my world. No time for art.

But, who am I kidding? Were it any other time of year, I would be squandering these extra hours polishing the copper-bottom pots, cleaning out cupboards, and squirting canned air on my crumb-infested keyboard.

On cold mornings perfect for writing, I zest lemons and bake pound cake. I flip pancakes and chop onions instead of fleshing out my stack of first drafts. In the evenings, after reading mountains of corona-virus news, I labor over The New York Times crossword before turning off my browser to play solitaire with a stiff, new deck.

Like many, I’m suffering from cognitive dissonance, unable to reconcile my sinfully simple day-to-day routine with the sour news of death. When I close my eyes, I imagine that I’m sitting at a table with Bob on a Mediterranean veranda. We touch glasses, our eyes shining, and turn our faces seaward to await the mushroom cloud.

And so I eat lemon pound cake while the planet wobbles, and I find myself choking on the unfairness and the uncertainty, the loss of stability, life, and livelihood. I can’t ignore the sight of our social systems folding in on themselves like a house of cards.

I want desperately to write of something else, to try and capture the light of hope. I’d like to believe world governments and their people will rebuild a more equitable world on the ashes of this pandemic. In my dreams, people who have been forced to cook for themselves will retain the habit, the gardens they have dug will remain weed-free, and government will fix our healthcare fiasco. In my dreams.

I dreamt that I was standing on a crowded New York sidewalk waiting for the light to change, talking with a tall woman in a long, red cashmere coat that matched her lipstick. I’d met her before and was searching for her name, watching her lips move without hearing her words. A woman on my left, younger and shorter, spoke. What a coincidence, I thought. I know her, too.

I nodded to the woman on my left and glancing right, roped in the woman in red. And then, I surprised myself by pulling out a name: Mary. The three of us were fully engaged now, so I pulled out some earrings and put my black-handled faux alligator purse on a patch of sidewalk, careful not to set it on a wad of chewing gum. We held the shiny baubles up to our ears and inspected each other. Time stalled as the crowd thickened around us.

And then in an instant, the woman on my left stepped on to a bus, the light changed, the tide of human bodies was unleashed, and Mary disappeared. I reached for my purse, and it was gone. I plowed through the river of feet and heads, searching in vain for the woman with the bright red lipstick. I ran back to the corner where we had stood, like a hound that had lost the scent.

My wallet, phone, change purse – everything vanished in an instant. I didn’t even have a quarter for the payphone, so I could call Bob and say, “Quick, cancel my cards.”

Later, in a daylit hotel bathroom that felt exactly like our airy bathroom in the Belizean rain forest, I stood before the mirror, trying to insert an earring into the pocket between a lower canine and my gums. The ornaments resembled top-heavy letter openers. I thought that if I could get three of them in there, they would support each other, like when I wedge multiple serving spoons in the plastic cup that hangs off the side of my dish drainer. One spoon will topple out, but three take up enough space to prevent that.

I wasn’t having much luck. The first earring kept falling out, slicing my gum before I could pick up a second one and wedge it in there. I looked at the blood in the mirror and saw Mary’s red lips, her pale skin framed in dark hair, and her beautiful red coat.

Satisfied with how I’ve rescued the remnants of my dream, I open my eyes. The light is thicker now. I have no idea what this dream was about, but I’m glad I took the time to capture the mood and the colors, even if their meaning eludes me — happy that I waited for the light to change.

Our first marriages hadn’t worked for either of us, but now, putting hope over experience, we were keen to give it a second chance. Our families struggled to understand. One brother spoke the words everyone else was thinking. “I hope your love will stand the test of time.” Another brother warned that if we went through with the wedding, we would become the objects of pity and disgust.

I won’t lie and say it was easy. At 40, I was carrying a significant load of baggage. There were legal and financial swamps to navigate, patterns to unravel, and encumbrances to shed. We loved each other fiercely, of that there was no doubt, and so we soldiered on. Our many friends embraced us and provided wholehearted support. In the evenings and weekends, we saddled our horses for brain-cleansing rides, ambling down hard-packed county roads to the sound of meadow larks, poking around the flood plain stirring up magpies, and flushing long-tailed pheasants with gallops along the edges of winter wheat fields.

We had been feeling stuck when Bob awoke from his inflorescent dream. We felt as if we were in a dark forest, thwarted by obstacles, bumping into one tree after another, having to back up and go around, all the while striving towards elusive patches of sunlight. We held onto the golden meadow image and kept inching forward.

A wise friend told me that when we join hands in a relationship, we begin walking down a road together and that although that road is often smooth and wide, it sometimes narrows into a cold, rocky place without a trace of a trail. “The important thing is to hang on. Find your way together. Don’t let go.”

Twenty-five years later, I look over my shoulder at miles and miles of open plain, that tangled wood so far in the distance, I wonder if it ever even existed. Open grassland, moonscape, narrow trail, and wide-open road; we have galloped and trudged over every kind of landscape, hand-in-hand, determined to stand the test of time. The life we’ve built, the goodwill we have garnered, the warm and constant flame of love we’ve nourished—all are proof of love manifested and a life well shared.

On Christmas Eve, time hits a warp and bumps me into unexpected glimpses of Christmas past. Taking out the compost after dinner I’m transported to three years ago when the fence was still open to the farm, a path crunchy with fallen leaves worn between our house and Haruka and Jason’s. I squint into the darkness, searching for the soft glow of their porch light, remembering how we’d already have planned, and been cooking towards, a mostly home-grown Christmas meal.

Pulling our fake turkey roast from the freezer I have a sudden longing for winter-less Maui, where I never had to pull on jacket, hat, and gloves to make it to the compost pile. Back then my skin never chapped and my hair occasionally smelled of salt water. Fifteen years ago, we would have been planning a vegan Christmas feast with Pam and Shaun, the folks who showed us how to enjoy not eating animals.

Twenty-three years ago we would have decorated a tree, and wrapped presents would be spilling from its base across the living room floor of an old Colorado farm house. The next day the girls would arrive and fill the house with jewels of laughter. Emily would have been eight, Amy six, and Molly three. That was the last time we set up a tree – the lights, ornaments, bulbs, and painstakingly crayoned paper garlands long gone from our peripatetic lives.

This Christmas morning, I squint into a layer of frost, imagining Nana’s painted plywood reindeer and Santa sleigh racing across her snowy lawn. Fifty years ago my five brothers and I would make Christmas wrapping fly around the living room like a scene from Edward Scissorhands. We would still be living in an old New Jersey neighborhood lousy with kids, there for so long (six years) that we imagined we’d never move again.

In those days Nana was in charge of pulling together the family dinner. We’d head over there after mass to find her stone fireplace flocked with fake snow, more presents underneath her tree for us and our cousins, a turkey in the oven, and pies cooling on racks. Oh, to have a time machine and go back to this idyllic moment!

Back then it was almost always a white Christmas and we kids didn’t hate winter. We burrowed through the drifts to make caves and Dad wowed us by making candy sugar snow cones. We sang carols, there were candles, and no babies ever cried.

Back then everything was perfect. The spirit of Christmas illuminated all our hearts. Peace on Earth reigned. No one languished for want. America was great, no crimes were committed, and all was calm and bright.

I think.

Maybe I don’t really want a time machine after all. I’d hate to find out that those times were ordinary times just like these times. I’d hate to find out we were fighting wars and going hungry, that there were people being robbed or raped or killed on one of those stellar Christmases past.

So, forget about that old time machine. Instead I’m going to sit down with the seed catalogs to envision a succulent future. I’ll plan peppers and cantaloupe and maybe even artichokes.

Much love and fond memories for all who have shared Christmas cheer in years gone by!

Bob set down an armload of wood and inhaled the vapors from the pot hanging over the cook fire.

“I love the smell of beans in the morning!”
“You ain’t smelled nothing yet, Mr. Man.”
“What are the girls up to? We could use a bucket of water.”
“Oh, they’re off playing hide and seek with the chanterelles. Maybe they’ll score a lion’s mane.”
“Speaking of water, turn around.”
“Uh oh. Shit.”

The predicted high water event was creeping up the meadow below our camp, spreading towards us like a disease. We would have to leave and leave now. Twenty yards uphill, I regretted my haste.

“Dang, I should have brought shoes!”
“We aren’t going back.”
“What about the girls?”

Silence. I knew the answer. We had prepared them for this moment and had to trust they would also be heading for higher ground. Still… I stopped and yelled for them, trying out a couple of one-note pitches until I found the loudest one, and repeated it twice more. Wishing I had time to stand and wait for their answer, I ran to catch up with Bob.

We arrived at a large pavilion in the center of town and were greeted by the staff. Two of the first, we chose seats on an old sofa with spotty, blue upholstery. I stretched one foot behind me and folded myself into the heavenly soft cushion, leaning into the warmth of my distracted husband. The place was filling with murmuring refugees. Second tier refugees. We’d already evacuated once.

All had mentally rehearsed this moment, this banding together, this test of our collective mettle. We all knew that our lives would never be the same. Together we would create a new, possibly nomadic reality in conjunction with other roving bands. Big government wasn’t going to save us now.

Bob got up and moved around the room. I yielded my cushy seat to a young family, a little self-conscious in my bare feet and baggy cream-colored flannel nightshirt smothered in frisky ponies, a remnant from our online shopping days. I scanned the room for our kids but didn’t see them. I thought I caught a whiff of vanilla and before I could talk myself out of it, dared to hope for something sugary and fried in fat.

A kindly-faced man cleared his throat and everyone turned toward him. “It’s time to announce the election results.” I dug around my brain and remembered voting months ago for a contingency leader should rising water force us into an apocalypse. “And the winner is, Bob Armantrout!”

No one was surprised. Bob feigned a tired smile. In his heart of hearts, he would rather have dodged this bullet. I beamed, excited for the challenge. I went to his side, hoping to slide in beside him, but the green and yellow webbed lawn chair wouldn’t fit the two of us.

I re-entered consciousness beneath a down comforter in our opulent pre-fab master bedroom and watched my dream melt away in rivulets. I listened for rain but heard none. I was comforted by Bob’s quiet breathing and noticed hints of dawn spilling around the edges of our dun-colored wooden blinds. No tarps, no apocalypse, no exodus; just another easy day in paradise.