“Whenever something bad happens to me, I think, ‘Oh good, now I have more to write about.’”

—David Sedaris

Greetings Dear Ones!

As the lockdown continues here at Hermit Hollow (where this is pretty much how the hermits live all the time) some of us are getting confused about what day it is, some of us what month it is. Yesterday was definitely June; we took our meals outside and listened to the choir of birds and bugs and frogs while the sun toasted us like almonds set on low in the oven. We were warm and golden when we went back inside. Today, the air smells like sleet and we awaken to November again. The trees are shivering and trying to suck back their buds.

We may not know what day or month it is but Luckily, we have a certain Jack Russell who has appointed himself Minister Of What Time It Is. He doesn’t wear a wrist watch but he knows precisely when to pester us to get up in the morning and have a meal, a walk, or play time with a slipper we don’t want chewed. He even insists on going to bed at a particular time and will hop on my lap while I’m fiddling and nudge my bow arm until he throws me off my jigs just to refocus my attention on his schedule. He is keeping the days going in a certain order for us, albeit entirely for his own comfort, and if there is one thing I have always needed in my life, it’s a Leader. Like most Dictators, he doesn’t give a damn about where he takes a dump; he just assumes we will clean that up for him.

In between catering to his demands, I’ve been busy sewing literally hundreds of cloth face masks for health-care workers, grocery store personnel, friends, and family. Somehow, I’ve dropped the Panic and settled into a rhythm that makes it less of a chore. I’ve stopped trying to save the entire world and am just doing my own little bit, which feels way more manageable. Besides, Something happened this week that showed me the Vital Importance of wearing these masks in public. While it gives me great pain to share this with you, I do believe you might benefit from the Wisdom this sacrifice imparts, so I will proceed:

The following story, like all stories I tell, is MOSTLY true, apart from the necessary emBELLishments. But obviously, as I do with my dear customers, I shall attempt to tell this story in such a way that no one can guess who it is.

Let’s just say that our tale begins with an Old-Fashioned woman working busily at her sewing machine while a pot of beans bubbles merrily on the stove. She is heartened, nay, ELATED by the fact that most people are now using their final hours before the Apocalypse to learn to cook and sew. True, this does not figure in most Apocalyptic movie plots, which usually involve more people running around in unitards and screaming and less making of sour-dough starter from scratch. But in real life, where Truth is always more fun than fiction, it seems that people are learning about bobbins and needles and how to work the tension knobs on old Singers they just pulled out of the attic in order to make calico face masks they can wear to the grocery store to buy things they are going to cook slowly while they wait for Little House On The Prairie to download. (Just kidding; I know it’s Tiger King.)

She ruminates that it’s such a shame that physical threat and terrifying political ineptitude is what is driving ordinary people back to their sewing machines. No longer the sole province of clever, dowdy eccentrics, these machines are being excavated and dusted off for Anyone brave enough to load a bobbin for all humankind, for any soul who wants to help her/his/their community stay safe and keep breathing from behind fabric emblazoned with cartooned hedgehogs that was once meant to be a baby quilt instead. In ways that harken back to knitting socks for the soldiers in previous world wars, these good-hearted people are now using their ingenuity and skills to protect those precious personnel on the Front.

This is making sewing Powerful, yes... It’s in the news everywhere one turns these days. But it’s not making sewing SEXY. Sexy is what sells in this nation. Before this pandemic, a good seamstress was as rare as a bale of Charmin is now. When this is over, will these people keep up these skills they have acquired in the pleating of hundreds of small rectangles? She wonders. “If only we could do something to raise the sex appeal of sewing,” thought the haggard middle-aged woman, still wearing pajamas, whose hair looked like nesting material left out for birds. She was wearing a very old, thin, stretched out tank top with spaghetti straps and a plaid flannel shirt that went to her knees with some pajama bottoms that were too long for her. “What kind of rumors will we have to start to keep people sewing after this? How can we leak it to the Major News Media that there is nothing more divinely Masculine than a tailor who knows the cut of your jib (and your inseam) from ten yards away, or Divinely Feminine than a seamstress who knows how to make your bum look like Pippa Middleton’s in denim? And that BOTH roles are open to any gender these days?”

Her musings were interrupted by a younger, honorary Hermit asking her if she wanted to go for a run that day. She did. But she was in a dead-heat race already, against Time, to get another batch of masks to the post office before they closed. She did not have time to finish her quota AND get properly kitted out for a run if those headbands with buttons were going to make the 4:30 Pony Express to Grace Cottage. She would have to improvise. She sewed until the very last minute, despite insistent nagging at her ankles from the Minister of Damnit You’re Late Again, who was glaring at her with pop-eyed fury over the leash he held in his mouth. Hastily, she exchanged the pajama bottoms for a pair of leggings and some running shoes and they set off. There wasn’t time to wrestle into a sports bra. “Who cares if these old poached eggs flop a little,” she remembers thinking, “I’ll just run in this decrepit tank top. I’ll be alright. I need to get outside and move. I’m committed to getting some F-ing BALANCE in my life.”

At the post office, only three customers were allowed in at a time. Each waited patiently, masked and gloved, at designated spots thoughtfully marked with tape on the floor, then proceeded with all the lurching dignity of tipsy bridesmaids up the aisle to the altar with the postal scale and credit card machine.

Having completed that errand in the very nick of time, the two women set off for their afternoon “plod”—which is mostly uphill for the first mile and a half. After the first quarter of a mile, our dumpy heroine was convinced she definitely contracted the Corona Virus, as she could scarcely breathe. Her companion, who is mostly made of some lithe blend of spandex and rubber, was bopping along next to her, pushing the pace, listening to what she termed “running music” but her elder knew to be 1980’s hits she’d first heard at awkward High School dances where chaperones made sure there was “room for the Holy Spirit” between couples. Their little road manager was on his leash, panting by their ankles, tongue lolling, as they passed a group of bikers off by the side of the road. Everyone they could see was wearing facial covering of some sorts—some wore masks, some bandanas, some just scarves. Vermonters are very public-spirited and are doing a remarkable job following guidelines to protect their beloved communities. Most smile with their eyes and nod appreciatively at fellow mask-wearers.

They reached the half-way mark and could feel the afternoon heat and the effects of the hill rising like steam along their spines. The younger woman unzipped her jacket and cranked the volume on their favorite song, which had just come on. Normally, they run with one earphone each, sharing the same set, but today, in the rush to get to the Post Office, they had forgotten them and were listening to the phone in her pocket with the volume turned up as loud as it could go. As soon as they saw other people, she paused the music and they ran in silence until out of earshot, so as not to disturb anyone else.

Now, with the downhill slopes lengthening their strides and the 80’s Pop music driving them on, they gloried in the fine weather, the sunlight, and one-hit wonders with titles like “It’s Raining Men.” The older woman began to overheat and decided to take off her sweatshirt. In an effort keep running while she did this, she bent forward and did a complicated maneuver, alternating the dog’s leash from hand to hand as she freed her arms and tied the sweatshirt around her waist. She tied it low and very tightly, as she leaned into her run, then stretched up and kept her pace, feeling extremely coordinated and victorious. The sun on her neck, shoulders, and eyelids felt magnificent as she panted into her mask. The air had the tingle of champagne on skin that had not seen the light of day since last October.

All was right with the world until they came upon a fellow jogger approaching from the other direction. They could clearly see his face, since he was not wearing a mask, as he labored up the hill they were now gliding down. He glanced over at the women, nodded, did a double-take, and made a facial expression of Mystified Concern, as one who had just bitten into a MacIntosh thinking it was a Honeycrisp might do. The young woman stopped the music as they ran. When he was out of earshot, she said, “Did you see that? What did he mean by that look? Were we singing out of tune?” she asked. “Beats me,” puffed the older woman, still attempting to croak out the chorus to Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding Out for a Hero.” She lumbered on.

After another quarter of a mile, they both looked in exactly the same place at the same time and to their collective horror, realized that the older woman was having what Janet Jackson demurely terms “a wardrobe malfunction.” One of the “poached eggs” had escaped the thin confines of the shabby tank-top, which had been tucked too far down into the knotted arms of the sweatshirt. Now it was the younger woman’s turn to gasp for breath and fear cardiac arrest between her mad cackles of mirth and schadenfreude.

The only consolation that poor, pale, flabby older woman has, at the end of the day, is that THANKS TO HER MASK no one in the sleepy village near Hermit Hollow will be able to recognize her when this pandemic passes. So COVER your faces people! It will do even more Greater Good than you might first imagine. The Dignity you save could be your own.

Be well, my darlings! Stay safe! Hang in there—or out of there—and COVER UP!! It’s the Safest thing to do. Let me know if you need a mask. (I’ll leave the sports bras up to you.)

Yours Aye,

Nancy