Where Am I Now?

A full article from an April 19th submission to Juke's quarterly smorgasbord: Where Are You Now?

Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash

Every few months, Tonya Morton of Juke asks her cadre of writers to answer a question: what are you eating? What book are you reading? Where are you now? It's become a quarterly ritual that provides a "smorgasbord" of writings for fans of Juke to partake. All of us come from different places and cultures around the world, so the offerings are varied as well as tasty. Whenever these questions appear in our emails, I tend to wax wordier than Tonya needs to fill the long and luscious feast she prepares. I'm just self-indulgent enough to share the whole piece, though, just to satisfy my inner narcissist. Hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

The first part of the following was used in the April 19th gathering.

Where Am I Now?

Living in a virtual world, visiting friends on emails and Facebook , long-lost people from high school or my job at the newspaper now join my Friends lists. Photos of my grands remind me there's still something wonderful to live for. I scroll past angry faces on the news sites and dive into Substack, a neighborhood I want to move to permanently. It's a safe place where snark is non-existent, critique rare but constructive, and the writing and artwork inspires me to find joy beyond the screen.

When my eyes blur, I set the laptop on the chair-side table and reach into the basket for the Word Puzzles magazine, inking in Brick-by-Bricks, Crosswords, and Cryptograms, pretending to be a spy breaking codes. My mind makes up stories for each puzzle. Sometimes I read a book, though my mind wanders completely off track at the sight of a particular word. Boing! Like a spring into another dimension. For some reason, I don't have that problem when I read an article on the screen. Does this mean I'm more engaged?

At last, my fingers itch to knit and a movie DVD adds to the pleasure. I juggle the laptop on the arm of the chair while I glance between steamy love scenes and checking for dropped stitches. My DVD collection grows as my yarn collection disappears. The chair has become the support system for all my favorite activities; but when I get up, my legs falter, my posture creaks as it unfolds into proper alignment, and I need to hobble to the other end of the house just to wake up the muscles. My chair and laptop are killing me slowly each day.

Eventually, I climb out of my chair and enter the corporeal world. I replenish the feeders that draw a variety of birds from LBBs to flickers. Errands take me to the hardware store where I catch up with an old ham from the radio club I abandoned, escaping the rancor there. I ask him which bolts I need to fix something and he explains how he does things the old fashioned way. I tease him. "C'mon JT, you know I'm from the lazy generation," and his sly smile creases his face. His is the generation that will take the ancient wisdom to the grave.

The self-check clerk at Walmart rejects my cartful of groceries and sends me to a human checker. Waiting behind a couple waiting behind another, the husband chats with me and his wife teases him about talking to strangers. We all laugh. We're coming out of our COVID malaise, joking about the election, the return of winter, etc. They say they enjoyed my delightful banter, and I wonder how dreary their lives are if my sense of humor enlivens their day. I tell the young man scanning my purchases how much I appreciate him doing that job instead of me. "It's nice to be doing it," he says. His sigh reveals relief rather than boredom. How long has he been unemployed? The "delightful banter" continues and even the customer behind me laughs.

At knitting circle, I sit next to an ancient woman struggling to loop yarn around the points. Blurry in the half-blind vision of my left eye, I avoid her. When the Queen Bee leaves the table, the rigid conversation veers to raucous and risqué topics. Nancy and Lois compare how much time they waste playing computer games as well as all the series they stream by the hour. I say, "Isn't it amazing how much fun we can have in our chairs?" They all agree the virtual life can be addictive. That's especially true when the lower joints ache with each step, making a pleasant walk into a painful ordeal. This is the time of life when exercise destroys more than enhances the body. It's a vicious catch-twenty-two.

Finally, the old woman rises to leave, stashing her needles in her handbag. "Well, I got a good start," she says. "It's so good to see you again, Fay," they all chime like a chorus. Or was her name Faith. I point to the Irish knot pattern on her sleeve and ask if she made the sweater. "Yes, I always wear something I made when I come to knitting." Another woman states, "She makes the most beautiful things."

As she disappears around the display cases, the others reveal how she used to make difficult patterns all the time. Now she struggles just to cast on. I've heard how some women lose the capacity to knit as they age. Their brains have core-dumped lots of complicated skills and memories as they approach that ninth decade. One woman said while browsing in the store, "I loved to knit, but I no longer have the energy." It amazes me how subtle is the strength it takes to maneuver two sticks and a length of string into a garment.

Regretting how I ignored the old woman sitting next to me, at least I finally woke up and complimented her sweater. I wonder why when it was so easy to engage with the people waiting at the checkout counter. Maybe she'll return and give me another chance to talk to her. And maybe I'll find out if she's Fay or Faith.

That latter name seems to fit her effort to get out of her chair and seek company rather than retreat into isolation. It is indeed a leap of faith as the years smother those hard-earned skills and we wonder if anyone will be willing to listen if we try to pass them on. At least we old ones like to hear each other's voices, share each other's fears and joys, celebrate our finished projects that we've learned to make from the inspiration of our friends.

If you enjoyed this essay, feel free to explore others in the Ring Around the Basin Archive. And please leave a comment. Let’s start a conversation.