I woke up yesterday with a stuffy head. I didn’t think I felt too bad till I attempted to get out of bed. Then I felt as though I perhaps had been in a tractor pull…sans tractor. As the morning wore on, the cough and the sneezing started. I just didn’t feel good. I went on the DHS website and took their assessment questionnaire and it advised I go in for testing. My initial thought was, “Yeah…I’ll see how I feel tomorrow.” Then Daughter #1 happened to send a video chat request. After hearing my story, she strongly suggested I go get tested. 

Now, remember…I’m out at the farm. I can’t go near Mr. FixIt. So I called the nearest clinic and were told they do Covid testing. The gal said to “come to the tent and call this number. I’ll take your info and send someone out to do the swab.” It was about a twenty minute drive out to this little tiny rural hospital/clinic. I pulled out the envelope with the phone number, opened my phone screen and…zero cell service. I don’t know what they can get there…but it’s not Verizon. And, there was no tent. I drove around the buildings until I finally found three parking spots with “Covid Testing Parking” on a piece of printer paper taped to a pole.

I gloved and masked up and timidly went in the front foyer of the emergency department. The lady came and asked what I needed. She sent me back out to the truck, and came out about five minutes later with the test kit. This swab only went in about a half inch or so. It wasn’t the foot long swab that goes a full 4-5 inches up your nose. I don’t mind that, except I do want what is most reliable. She sent me home with directions to isolate till I get the results in three days when they’ll call me.

Now I’m doing what I can to feel better. Zinc and Vitamin C for immune boosters, anti-inflammatory for pain and fever reduction, fluids and rest. I have a stack of magazines and my electronics and my little mini-fridge of food. I was really looking forward to getting back home to see my sweetheart. I know I love a break and a little R&R, but now I’m missing my “boyfriend”. 

It’s not all bad, though. I have another stretch of time to love on this house. The same house my grandma adored. It was the Taj Mahal to her. I look around at this old bedroom. The holes in the plaster where nails hung pictures till enough of the plaster was lost and the nail no longer held. I try to remember what was hung in each spot. A calendar from the feed store, perhaps. Or, more likely, a school picture of one of us kids. 

Grandma was what we called “picture poor”. She might not have had a whole lot, but that woman always had film in her camera and every trip to the farm involved pictures. We would stop and get her pictures for her from the store and take them to the farm with a sack of groceries. After lunch, we all gathered around to look at grandma’s pictures. No one said a word about her photography. She had a habit of standing so far away from her subjects, you had no idea who they were. But, they were always standing in front of some flowers. Grandma loved her posies.

Resting here in her bed, I listen for her voice coming back down the halls of my memory. Her laugh. Her sayings. Her quiet judgment. Her gentle love. Her strong hand that she didn’t mind swatting your backside with when you acted a fool. I see her on a sunny day with freshly washed hair glistening with streaks of silver against the dark hair of her youth that refused to leave entirely. She washed her hair in a bucket of rainwater heated on the stove. She rinsed it with cool rainwater she dipped from the barrel at the corner of the house. She kept an old enamel saucepan hanging on a nail precisely for that purpose.

When my children were very small, she would get the step stool for them. They stood on the stool and combed her long hair over and over till it dried. Then she would whip it around and around with a few swift turns and pin it into a bun. I smile at that thought because I’ve taken to wearing my own silver-streaked hair in a bun, too. One of these days, when Covid is over and we are free to do as we will, I will have a family picnic here at the farm to celebrate. And, maybe my own little three-year-old great granddaughter will stand on that very same stool and comb MY hair.

The circle of life. 

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“Children are a blessing and a gift from the Lord. Having a lot of children to take care of you in your old age is like a warrior with a lot of arrows.”

Psalms 127:3-4 CEV