We should kill time

It rained like hell, like uncooked rice spit on the windows the sound. And the big tree branches lay in clumps around the yard. And the ground oozed like sores, like cartoon mouths. And I dozed and woke to the plink-plink of it on the glass with reports of snow in the mountains and more rain below. But we had hot coffee in the mornings and everything we wanted. We could wait out the rain. The calendar said February 4, a day that didn’t mean a thing. A day between days looking out for a new day or another day gone by. The rain fell on its own with no regard for time. And I fell into the same rhythm, down and down and down.

I stuck my head outside and went back upstairs. I was between jobs but basically on call. My urge to work in the mornings fast petered out. I drained my nose with the Neti jar and did my push-ups, made playlists, watched videos, cleaned up. Watched as the rain drops gathered on the trees, hung there then dropped. Air-drumming at my desk, killing time.

All four of us got in the car for a drive-up COVID spit test in Bellevue. Comical watching each of us trying to make enough spit to fill the tube to the line. A year ago we were getting ready to fly to Disneyland this time. And no one in masks, with droves of kids screaming and free breakfast buffets at the hotel with all those hot pans of food laid out steaming. Cab rides, meals out, airports and planes. We got back and I interviewed for a new job then started taking the bus downtown, thought what bad timing with a global pandemic, the bus. And soon they closed the office and I was home gardening again with spring on the way and no one around. Here we are a year later, waiting it out.

Last night we sat by the fire and talked, a rare thing. Lily and Charlotte growing up fast. I said see isn’t this nice, you two wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for this pandemic. And Dawn said we should record what it’s like so we can listen back 10 years from now.

It sounds like uncooked rice spit on the windows.



Categories: Memoir, microblogging, writing

Tags: , ,

14 replies

  1. Oh my, YES, this pandemic sounds like rice spit on window panes … Brilliant metaphor! I’m guilty of stuffing my sense of pandemic-itis deep inside and trying to ignore it. Feeling a slight relief reading this – some of that came up and out as I gasped reading your paragraph about a family chat … the impetus to record such to revisit in 10 years. SURELY, in 10 years we’ll be in a better situation? I’m an optimist, still I don’t really expect things to ever be like they were “before” – change is inevitable, and this pandemic is just one huge change agent (not the only one at work, just easiest to point at).

    Liked by 1 person

    • I don’t think they’ll be like ever before for us or our kids! Not sure that’s a bad thing, though for all those in restaurant and retail and on and on, I’m sure they’ll feel differently. Odd timing, this and Amazon and social media already being in place to facilitate life without physical interaction. Like many we’re cracking up a bit with the winter + lockdown combo! Hope you’re doing alright yourself Jazz, always good to hear from you. Thanks for reading!

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Ah, the acoustical qualities of rain! I like “uncooked grains of rice spit upon the window”. A certain aggressive quality to such a fierce rain squall.

    Such fertile grounds for a pluviophile, no? Or, at least, a long-time Seattle resident. I try to think of similar sentiments, like the sizzle of bacon, or gurgling downspouts (which sounds quite cliche to me…but the best I can come up with on the fly).

    Liked by 1 person

    • It is aggressive! Good word for it Carl. Reminds me of the effect being on the receiving side of tic-tacking, from my east coast youth. Do you know what I mean by that? Throwing dried corn at peoples windows around Halloween. Has the same startling sound. You’re making me go to the dictionary for pluviophile! I’ve just got the pop of microwaved shepherds pie now, for breakfast. Hard times bunkered down here in suburbia right?!

      Liked by 1 person

      • You’ll appreciate “pluviophile”, as you’ve lingered with us moss-covered western Washingtonians for some time now. And, yes, the challenges of suburban bunkering are…challenging? I actually need to remember to drive my car so that the battery stays charged, and suffering the annoyances of the mask-challenged. Such first-world problems. At least we have toilet-paper again.

        Liked by 1 person

      • Yes! I thought of that recently. Thank heavens for all this TP and yeast we have about the house. Though we are running low on dried beans and frozen meats. Sheesh. Thanks for the new word of the day Carl! That’s a doozy. I’m in that camp, a lover of rain.

        Liked by 1 person

  3. Yes there’s a clear benefit to parents of teens with the pandemic–assuming you like your kids. I’ve never spent so much time with mine. We know each other far better than before.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Being a bit of a reductionist, might thoughts about the pandemic can be summed up as ‘Bugga’. You’ve used a few more words Bill, but every one of them is worth it.

    Melbourne Australia is in a short, sharp, severe lockdown now in an attempt to quickly drive Covid back behind quarantine doors.
    I get to work whilst many others don’t so I can add ‘gratitude’ to my summary.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I can add gratitude to mine too. Yes heard about the lockdown in Victoria from our friend Bruce. “Bugga,” David. Appreciate your note, good connecting with good folk. Be well! Bill

      Like

Leave a comment!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: