Open Air

Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

This week one of my daughters-in-law (the mother of four young children) admitted on the family text string that she “told her kids she was running to the store, but really grabbed a cinnamon roll, jumped into her car, pulled out of the garage, and ate her treat in peace. And. Quiet!” I have a picture from another daughter-in-law (also the mother of four) several years ago: she’s sitting all alone in her car at the empty parking lot of a local recreation area reading the novel I sent her for her birthday.

Until I had children, I didn’t realize I was claustrophobic. One or two little people sitting on my lap didn’t bother me, but six little boys scuffling on the row next to me at church felt like a year-round cub scout pack meeting. Sundays I found myself shoveling my kids in next to their dad on the pew. I’d sit clinging to the outside edge of the bench with whichever one was the baby at the time—using the diaper bag as a barrier between me and everyone else.

Once I started teaching school, I tried to enforce a 3-foot perimeter around my desk—only one student at a time allowed  to talk to me. (It almost never worked out that way, but I kept trying.) Occasionally, when the crowd of kids pressing in on me got too overwhelming, I’d announce that anyone withing five feet of me lost 20 points on their grade. Students scattered like mice. It turned out to be a very effective tactic!

Then came the pandemic. Suddenly, millions of us were alone, or at least isolated with only those who lived in our immediate household. My neighbor told me she got to be nodding acquaintances with every dog owner within a couple of miles. From across the street they’d pass one another every day as they walked their pets on leashes. Since she never had opportunity to learn their names, she still identifies them by their dogs’ breeds—the three-huskie owner, the chihuahua lover, the woman with the charming mongrel, etc. Through unspoken, mutual agreement, they have become fast friends.

But even in my household with representatives of three generations (my husband and I, Daughter #1, and a college-age grandson), I was surprised at how much the “stay home for your own safety” order affected me. Had someone asked me before the pandemic, I would have told them that isolation is no big deal for a person who is uncomfortable in crowds. But, as it turns out, I had misread my unease.

I have two daughters and a passel of daughters-in-law. With several nieces and a couple of women who are family of the heart, we’ve been fortunate to have built an “in house” circle of friends. Several times we’ve headed south and rented houses in St. George for a week of lazy days, bought blocks of seats for the ballet season, shared books and recipes, traded kids for sleepovers and sporting events, and spent many evenings playing dozens of ridiculous games. Once season an entire soccer team of five-and six-year-olds were all related by blood or heart. (Nobody missed one of those games—they were hilarious, although admittedly without much evidence of athletic talent!)

The pandemic squashed all the fun. We missed it. Lots of texts flew back and forth about grocery stores which stocked then scare supplies. Doorstop deliveries for treats and books were frequently exchanged, albeit from a “safe” distance. But we missed sharing stories and lamenting troubles. Midwinter on the first year in, my niece—who is a high-powered businesswoman–called and said, “I can’t stand it. We need to get together in person. I haven’t laughed in months! There were “Amens!” across the Zoom call. So we did.

I have another picture of about a dozen of us, bundled up in hats, coats, gloves, and blankets, each sitting in a camp chair brought from home—all of us six feet apart in a huge circle in my double garage and driveway. It was bitter cold. We laughed, caught up on the latest inner-family stories, and shared woes about vaccinations or illness—which eventually swept through every family at one time or another. There were a couple of nurses in the crowd whom we had depended on for COVID updates and advice. After listening to their stories there was no question we were fortunate to be together, and we knew it.

Sitting in the icy chill, my fingers stiff, my ears throbbing from the blowing wind, I had a small epiphany. It’s true I don’t like small, enclosed spaces. But no matter how large the surrounding throng might grow, there is only open air when I am encircled by the folks I love.