Hurry Up and Wait

I frequently heard “Hurry up and wait” as a Navy wife in the 60s. This routine saying applied to everything military and a few civilian-related events. There was no commissary in San Francisco so we battled the traffic to buy groceries. We waited in long checkout lines. A few years later at Long Beach, we gave up saving a few dollars in commissary shopping in favor of civilian grocery stores. The long checkout lines were not much different.

In the 1970s civilian life, gas was restricted by the odd/even license plates. Lines often wrapped around a full city block, engines running, vehicles inching toward the pumps. Gas prices accelerated to 25 cents a gallon. Some stations dared to charge a nickel or dime higher.

COVID-19

During the COVID pandemic, Hurry Up and Wait lines stretched for blocks with dozens—sometimes hundreds—of people standing outside essential stores such as groceries and pharmacies. Gas prices fell to half in the San Francisco East Bay area because of the Stay-at-Home order. Short waits at the gas pumps, but the price per gallon was higher than in other states because the gas tax is between 75 and 80 cents a gallon, depending on the county. Food prices doubled. Apartment and home rentals doubled, sometimes tripled, in the Bay Area. Gas increased to almost $7.00 a gallon when the Ukrainian War began. The Federal Reserve System raised the prime rate to encourage people not to borrow to combat inflation. Need a loan? Hurry Up and Wait fits there too.

There is one bright spot in this Hurry Up and Wait inflation syndrome. Interest on my tiny savings account has risen from a penny to three cents a month.

Monday Memoir: The Day I met Louisiana Governor Edwin Edwards

Huge oak trees on the sprawling grounds of a downtown Baton Rouge historical home shaded the Civil War camp reenactment where peaceable uniformed men representing both sides and ladies dressed in period costumes mingled. I swished my bell skirts through the crowds, chatted  with friends, and met new historical reenactors at this event. I talked with school children who were there to learn about historical clothing, cooking, blacksmithing, and other living skills from that period.

People were still arriving as a few left early. On my way out the ornate gate, Governor Edwin Edwards approached me. His face glowed with his political charm. He smiled at my attire and handed me his campaign card. “I hope you will vote for me,” he said.

“Oh, sir,” I replied with my Civil War demeanor, “Women can’t vote.”

Notes: This picture of me portraying a Union soldier’s wife amid the tents was taken at a different camp, but it’s the same costume I wore the day I met Governor Edwin Edwards. The 19^th Amendment gave women the right to vote in 1920 more than 50 years after the Civil War period I represented here.  

Somber Moments

“This nation was built on an idea . . . the idea of liberty and opportunity for all. We’ve never fully realized that aspiration of our founders, but every generation has opened the door a little wider.”

            -President Joe Biden, May 31, 2021

 

“Our flag does not fly because the wind moves it. It flies with the last breath of each soldier who died protecting it.”

– Unknown

My Father and Earth Day

Many years before the first Earth Day was celebrated in 1970, my father set gardening examples using biblical principles and the Farmer’s Almanac. The earth—a lot surrounding our modest two-bedroom home—was our responsibility, he said. He toiled the ground somewhat like Adam may have done in the story of that downfall in Genesis in the Christian Bible. Only my father had more modern tools like a shovel, a hoe, and a rake. Spring and Fall, he worked the ground behind the house and planted vegetables around the existing fruit trees. He grew a variety of berries to top our cereal when fresh or for Mama to can for fruit pies and cobblers in the winter. He also cared for the nectarine and apricot trees in the front yard that gave us fresh fruit in summer and canned fruit for winter. The black walnut tree responded well, but cracking those nutshells took muscles more toned than mine.

He revered the Farmer’s Almanac second to holy scripture and searched the worn pages for planting times to yield the best crops. He followed the guide and planted aboveground vegetables in the light of the moon and root vegetables in the dark of the moon. His garden flourished while others failed.

I stopped gardening when I downsized from a home on an acre of ground and moved into an apartment. Now I buy my vegetables from a farmer’s market or grocer and depend on NASA to tell me when to enjoy a full moon.

A Poet I Will Never Be

I’ve admired famous poets for years. Mostly the way they cram a full story into a few lines. After I retired, I dabbled in themed Haiku, a novice trying to create a masterpiece in three lines with a 5-7-5 syllable pattern. Several of my contest entries were published in newspapers in the San Francisco East Bay Area. The theme for this February 2010 entry was Super Bowl Snacks Poetry in Motion.

 

Guacamole dip

Fritos and buffalo wings

Soothes pain of losing.

~Violet Carr Moore

 

My Haiku have appeared in Northern California anthologies, but my writing strengths are short stories, inspirational/spiritual, and memoir.

I was inspired when I heard Dana Gioia (pronounced joy-a), a modern poet, speak at a conference a few years ago. Gioia was the California Poet Laureate (2015) and the Chair of the National Endowment of the Arts (2003-2009). He received many national awards that propelled him to the top of speaker lists. His words reach writers of all genres, not just poets. Perhaps Gioia’s encouragement at that workshop was what prompted me to be one of the first to register to hear him speak at the Tri-Valley Writers Zoom meeting on Saturday, March 20, 2021. This is a free event, open worldwide to individuals who register by the deadline.

I hope Dana will have some wise words for writers like me who need a dose of inspiration to finish an ongoing project. Perhaps his presentation will resonate with you too. Click here to read about the event and register.

 

My Father and Noah Webster

The neighbor kids had a method when asking permission from their parents to do something or go somewhere. The middle child said, “Don’t say no.” The youngest child begged, “Please, pretty please, say yes.” The oldest child said, “Maybe?” with a questioning lilt. After a few days, the reluctant parent relented.

My father was a strict, by-the-book person. The book being the family-size Holy Bible King James Version in our living room. His answer to my whimpering. “Couldn’t you just say maybe instead of no?” was Matthew 5:37. “But let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay: for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil.” If I pursued my quest, he said, “There is no maybe.” Then he quoted James 1:8. “A double minded man is unstable in all his ways.” I had to wait until school the next day to see what Webster had to say about maybe.

Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

The unabridged tome perched on a stand guarded the center of the library like a sentry. I flipped the pages to the alphabetical M section.  Was it may be or maybe? My spelling skills might have been different than Mr. Webster’s proper English.  However it was spelled, I didn’t find it.

I flipped the pages to the preface. I didn’t know what that word meant, but it must have been important or it wouldn’t have been at the front of the dictionary. That’s where I learned that Noah Webster and my father agreed on one thing. They both quoted Bible verses to support their decisions.

 

 

Groundhog Prediction Fallibility

Groundhog Day has given February 2 prominence since 1887. Punxsutawney Phil’s predictions of more winter or an early spring have averaged 50% accuracy, so why all the excitement?

My father called the tradition hogwash. “If you want to know the weather, look in the Almanac,” he said. My mother gauged spring by when she could hang the family wash on the clotheslines without wearing a coat. A bunch of hooey, one of my brothers said. I didn’t understand all the hullaballoo when flocks of birds flying north seemed a better prediction of spring.

Phil may have lost his sense of the wild, but his handlers have to know that spring, the vernal equinox, is about six weeks after Groundhog Day no matter what Phil’s shadow depicts. They will continue the charade in 2022 because it’s their day in the limelight and perhaps Phil’s only day in the winter air. The rest of the year, he lives in the climate-controlled town library with Phyllis, his mate.

 

Say goodbye to used to

Remember when you used to . . .

• attend writing conferences crowded into a room full of people?
• meet with your critique group to discuss your latest chapter revisions?
• have lunch or coffee with a friend to talk about writing?

COVID-19 changed that.

The memorial for Used To was a virtual event because in-person events were prohibited during the coronavirus shutdown. The memorial paid tribute to Used To when she was every writer’s friend. We spoke about how we waited in line to pay meeting fees, strained to hear the speaker over a table crowded by attendees crunching popcorn and Chex mix, and squinted at our scribbled meeting notes the next day. Zoom and virtual, best friends, hovered near the perimeter of the burial ground while we carried Used To’s urn to her final resting place next to the Good Old Days.

Zoom wasted no time inviting us to sample a recording of the memorial.

Now  I . . .

• pay meeting fees online,
• have a private seat from home,
• eat my favorite snacks during the meeting,
• ask questions with chat; and
• watch the live recording later to check my notes.

Perhaps saying goodbye to Used To is the best thing to emerge for writers during the 2020-2021 coronavirus pandemic. Even so, I hope the day will return when I can attend an in-person meeting to remember Used To.

 

COVID-19 Ousts Father Time as the 2020 Grim Reaper

My thoughts of spending a quiet New Year’s evening restricted by the California Coronavirus guidelines brought vivid flashbacks from more than a half-century ago. Friends had invited me to ride with them to the Tournament of Roses Parade.  My soon-to-be fiancé had hitchhiked from San Francisco to their home the night before. When Katie (fictitious name) called, she said to be ready at 8:30 p.m. An hour late, she knocked on our glass-paned front door where my mother was pacing in the living room. Mama’s anxiety wasn’t because the group was late. Her pacing was from the anxiety of my long ride on a night filled with drunk driving accidents. “We’re here,” Katie said. “We’re running a little late, so they’ll wait in the car.” When Mama asked when they would bring me home, “We’ll see you when we see you,” Katie replied.

The driver was quiet on the road, taking his duty of transporting us safely on the 15-hour round trip like a mission assigned by his Air Force superior. The rest of us chattered with excitement until midnight ushered out Father Time, the Grim Reaper, and we welcomed January 1, the new babe under twinkling stars. When I dozed, I dreamed of my future as the wife of a Navy sailor. Tonight, I will reflect on the relatively few deaths from 2020 driving accidents compared to more than 25,000 Californians who died of COVID-19 and dream of coronavirus-free December 31, 2021.

Home Alone for the Holidays

Hindsight is 20/20, a vintage saying, fits this year. Pandemic is the word of the year by Merriam-Webster Dictionary. Other devasting words like coronavirus and COVID-19 invaded our thoughts and conversations. In California, phrases like Shelter in Place isolated us on Friday, March 13. Only essential businesses were open. Long lines and empty shelves were common. Temporarily Closed signs dotted doors of barbers and hair and nail salons,  dance studios, and fitness centers. A tinge of normality arrived in the late summer when most businesses were allowed to reopen.

A resurgence of the virus following Thanksgiving holiday travel and social gatherings pushed the governor to issue more restrictive Stay at Home guidelines on December 7.  Struggling businesses closed permanently. Weddings canceled. Vacations postponed. Places of worship limited to outside events with social distancing. No travel. No family gatherings outside immediate households.  No public holiday celebrations. Long lines for food and other essentials lowered the number of shoppers to 20% of the store’s usual capacity.

California front-line medical professionals waited in a different line this week to receive the first COVID-19 injections.  Home alone for the holidays is disheartening, but hope is in sight. Vaccine could become the 2021 word of the year.