Part 8.2: Who's Zoomin' ... zoomed

 The story thus far: Vanessa, like many others, has turned to Zoom meetings while working at home during the pandemic. Things are going about as well as she fears. We'll back up a few lines to get a running start for part two...

The meeting was going well and discussion had moved on to the photo, when Vanessa felt her heart begin to race. She listened inattentively, her mind wandering, as the people in the postage stamp-sized gallery view frames on her computer screen checked their calendars.

How many cups of coffee DID I have? she wondered. “. . . second week of July?” a stamp asked.

Two cups were needed for coherent conversation. “Inside or outside?”

Two and a half made her perky, but three cups . . . . “Masks or no masks?”

Vanessa felt beads of sweat forming on her upper lip. “What's the point of a photo if no one recognizes me?”

A prickly feeling spread across her face. “. . . temperature scans.”

Three cups would trigger a . . . “Face shields?” . . . hot flash.

Vanessa fanned herself surreptitiously with a Snootyslacks Foundation brochure while the postage stamps debated the merits of plastic face shields. She reached for her glass of water, hoping a drink would ease her symptoms.

It didn't.

She was caught off guard mid-sip by a question and inhaled when she should have swallowed, causing her to sputter and cough.

And cough.

And cough.

The postage stamps went wild. “Do you think this is funny?” “Is this your idea of a joke?” “Have you been tested? “Ohmygosh, is COVID a computer virus?”

Steve, who had been hovering in the doorway impatiently waiting for his VIPZM, rushed in to help his friend.

“Steve, I . . . .” Vanessa croaked.

As he handed her his “lucky” white silk, jacquard pocket square (his was a V-VIPZM), Steve was struck by inspiration.

“That's Doctor Steve,” he said, smiling at the stamps with all the candor of a late-night infomercial host. “Please pardon Ms. Kolkwitz. She's having what we in the biz refer to as an 'age-related, brief, tropical vacation'.” Taking the stamps' stunned silence for confusion he added, sotto voce, “A hot flash.” The female postage stamps nodded with understanding. The male postage stamps looked like they'd rather be anywhere else at that moment.

Vanessa, having regained control of herself, tried to regain control of the meeting as well. “The hospital has a lovely, terraced, rose garden that will allow you all to maintain social distance without looking too spread out. You can lower your masks briefly for the photo, allowing us to see your faces while still showing your concern for safety.”

The postage stamps hesitated.

“And refreshments afterwards,” Steve said.

Assured that PGCHC was COVID-free, their egos stroked, and photo scheduled, the board unanimously agreed to proceed, adjourned the meeting and signed off.

One thing was still bothering Vanessa. “Doctor Steve?” she said questioningly as she cleared her things from the desk.

“PhD . . . M.D.,” Steve shrugged, “they don't ask to see my badge when I make a reservation at Olive Garden.” He sat down in the control chair, then checked and re-checked his watch. “Before you leave would you turn on the ceiling fan?” he asked, blotting sweat from his forehead. “It's kind of hot in here.”

If you liked this (and I hope you did), tell a friend! And check out my novel, Scout's Honor, and the soon to be published Scout's Redemption.

Part 8.1: Who's Zoomin' ... zoom?

 The story thus far: While working from home during the pandemic, the residents of Pleasant Glen, like people everywhere, have turned to Zoom meetings ... with mixed results. Part 1 of 2...

Vanessa's job at the small Pleasant Glen hospital changed with the ebb and flow of budget cuts and staff reductions, compounded by her habit of being tardy to staff meetings which routinely started 30 minutes earlier than scheduled. Thus, when the pandemic struck and she showed up for the 8:30 a.m. staff meeting at 8 a.m., she found that she had been named the hospital's new liaison officer at 7:45 a.m.

Her new duties included being the (masked) face of Pleasant Glen Community Health Center for all donor-related virtual interactions. In lieu of a pay increase, she was allowed to work from home (as were all non-medical employees), and permitted to use her own computer and internet connections.

Vanessa wasn't sure what she had done to deserve “this fresh hell” (as she called it), but she suspected it had something to do with threatening an insurance company representative that she would “reach through the phone line and punch him in the throat” if he didn't approve a cancer patient's treatment plan. Julie thought it had more to do with the fact that, as J.J. said, “even with the face mask, she's smokin' hot.”

Normally Vanessa would have been thrilled by the opportunity to do away with her cross-town commute, but she had come to value those 10-minutes of alone time. Things had been a little crowded at home since her ex-husband Michael and his new husband Steve (her “ex-husband-in-law,” as Steve referred to himself) had moved in with her while remodeling their house.

For the most part, this unorthodox living arrangement worked well. They all got along, no one was bored, and no one had to drink alone. Household chores were more or less equally divided. Steve volunteered for extra kitchen duties, as he was a stress baker. Michael, who's blood type was Kona, made sure there was always fresh coffee. Vanessa provided the technological wizardry to keep them all supplied with a strong WI-fi signal.

But every positive has a negative, as we shall see.

With all three of them working from home, Zoom meetings were scheduled even more closely than bathroom times. A section of bookshelves in the den was designated as the official backdrop and was tastefully decorated with carefully selected, non-offensive books (hardback), photos (black and white), and one realistic-looking plant. The lighting and web cam were arranged to create the most flattering image possible.

On the morning in question all three had Very Important Zoom Meetings scheduled. Vanessa, worried about her VIPZM, had slept poorly. While Michael dialogued virtually with the other faculty leaders of nearby Big State University, Steve assured Vanessa the bags under her eyes were not that noticeable. Steve, worried about his VIPZM had made his nana's sour cream, cinnamon streusel coffee cake – which tasted exactly the same as Vanessa's nana's coffee cake. The two of them reminisced about their nanas and tried to eat their way to confidence, washing it all down with multiple cups of fresh Kona coffee.

Bolstered by sugar and caffeine, Vanessa was at last ready to meet virtually with the board of Snootyslacks Foundation (the philanthropic arm of Fancypants Inc.) about their grant for community COVID preparedness. The hospital had already received provisional approval thanks to her work on the application, support data and testimonials. All that remained was to show that PGCHC was deserving and humble and – most importantly – could provide a COVID-free environment for the publicity photo.

The meeting was going well and discussion had moved on to the photo when Vanessa felt her heart begin to race. She listened inattentively, her mind wandering, as the people in the postage stamp-sized gallery view frames on her computer screen checked their calendars.

How many cups of coffee DID I have? she wondered. “. . . second week of July?” a stamp asked.

Two cups were needed for coherent conversation. “Inside or outside?”

Two and a half made her perky, but three cups . . . . “Masks or no masks?”

To be continued ... Keep reading for part 2!

Part 7: It's All Fun and Zooms

The story thus far: While self-isolating due to the virus pandemic, Miss Irene organized relief efforts in the town of Pleasant Glen, a task made more difficult by the inability to meet in person.

With the pandemic limiting in-person meetings, the residents of Pleasant Glen – like people everywhere – turned to video conferencing. And – like people everywhere – they found their results varied.

After a frustrating day of non-stop, disorganized organizational phone calls, 90-year-old Miss Irene asked 19-year-old Trey to help her move her committee work to the cloud. Once all the participants figured out how to share their screens and turn their microphones on, the Zoom meeting proved to be an efficient way to showcase everyone's pets. Despite the background distractions of cats, dogs, husbands and grandchildren, the group finally managed to organize a food drive – something the previous day's phone calls could not accomplish.

In fact, the virtual meeting was so efficient Miss Irene announced at dinner that night that she would be moving her weekly poker game to Zoom.

“But how are you going to deal the cards?” Julie asked.

Miss Irene stared at Julie and blinked slowly. Julie knew from previous experience that during times of apparent age-related confusion such as this, it was far more likely that she was having difficulties with cognitive comprehension than Miss Irene. Both women looked to Big George to explain what each of them thought should be obvious to the other.

“Julie dear, Irene and her friends have discovered that playing cards interrupts the flow of the game,” he said, the twinkle in his eye contradicting the seriousness of his tone. When Julie showed no sign of understanding, he tried again. “It's hard to keep up the pace of the gossip when you're distracted by cards.”

Miss Irene held up her hand to inject a point of order. “We refer to it as 'sharing information',” she said.

“So, your poker games are just an excuse to . . . gossip?” Julie asked, still not understanding.

“Oh, no. They drink, too,” J.J. said, rolling his eyes. “Poker night is code for whiskey sours.”

“Used to be sloe gin fizzes back in the day. But then . . .” Miss Irene shuddered in lieu of further explanation.

“What about your bridge club?” Julie asked.

“Intelligence gathering,” Miss Irene said solemnly.

“Puh-lease!” J.J. threw himself back in his chair and rolled his eyes so hard Julie expected to see them skitter across the floor. “They draw straws. Losers have to play, winners drink mimosas.”

“Only during morning games,”Miss Irene clarified. “Afternoons are gin and tonics.”

“Euchre?” Julie gave it one more try.

“Of course they play euchre, dear,” Big George said. “This is Iowa. It's a state law.”

J.J. shook his head. “Beer drinking and gossip are written into the rules of euchre.”

“But why bother to call it poker, or bridge, or even Crazy 8's if you're not actually playing cards?” Julie asked, her frustration getting the best of her.

Miss Irene shrugged. “A little harmless fun. Just like your 'book club meetings',” she said, making air quotes, “are an excuse to drink wine.”

“But I really do read the books!” Julie protested.

Miss Irene gave Julie the slow blink again. “Of course you do, dear.” she said, patting Julie's knee. “And that's why we love you.”

Miss Irene sounded so sincere and her touch was so comforting that Julie wasn't sure if she should be flattered or insulted.

Meanwhile, Julie's best friend Vanessa was finding it can be just as hard to make a good first impression virtually, as it is in person.

To be continued...

Part 6: Distancing, Socially

The story thus far: Miss Irene and Big George volunteered to self-isolate, given their elevated at-risk status to the virus due to "accomplished age," in order to ease the youngsters' minds. That went about as well as could be expected.

Irene's self-imposed home-isolation lasted a week, which was three days longer than Julie expected. Trey won the family's “Jail Break” pool, although charges of collusion were raised when it was discovered that he brought Miss Irene a chocolate milkshake each of the last three days.

On the eighth day, as Julie was crossing the back yard from her apartment over the garage to the main house, she was nearly run over by Miss Irene, who was headed in the opposite direction, dressed in motorcycle leathers and carrying a full-face helmet.

“Let's take The Scout on deliveries today,” she said, handing Julie a cup half-filled with coffee. “I'll load up while you finish your coffee.” Julie wanted to say that she couldn't finish her coffee until she started it, but she recognized that determined look on Miss Irene's face and knew resistance was futile. By the time Julie gulped the lukewarm coffee and entered the garage, Miss Irene was sitting in the sidecar, ready to go.

It was a beautiful day for a motorcycle ride. The sun was shining brightly – the first sunny day they’d had in weeks – and it was warm . . . -ish, or at least warm-er than it had been. Spring was more fickle than usual in its arrival, as if it, too, was practicing social distancing. Winter-weary Iowans, tired of being cooped up by ice storms and bitter wind-chills, were forced to extend their stays indoors not only by fear of the virus, but by weeks of gloomy, overcast skies. Cabin fever was rampant.

Miss Irene's first week of “house arrest,” as she called it, had been more difficult than she expected. She was used to attending kaffeklatsch at the bakery at least three times a week – Tuesdays were reserved for church meetings, Thursdays for beauty shop appointments. That week she had ventured no further than the edge of her porch. Although she was in constant phone contact with friends and informants, she had no physical contact with anyone outside her immediate family (and Julie). Virtual socialization proved effective and efficient for coordinating donations and distributions of food, money and supplies for virus relief, but it left Miss Irene with a vague feeling of emptiness.

Julie, meanwhile, had been Miss Irene's boots on the ground, running errands and making deliveries for people who were unable to leave their homes. Her “outdoor” time had been spent driving Miss Irene’s 1980s Lincoln Town Car – which Julie thought was big enough to deserve its own zip code and created its own weather patterns.

Julie's social contact – virtual or otherwise – had been just as limited, if not more so, than Miss Irene's. When Julie picked up supplies, there was barely time for a mask-muffled hello or a tired wave. And when she dropped off deliveries – setting them on the edge of porches, a safe distance from entryways – the recipients were shadows in darkened windows or foreheads and eyes peering cautiously from behind curtains. Julie felt claustrophobic, constricted by her own skin. She didn't necessarily want to socialize or travel, but she missed the potential for socialization and travel.

Even The Scout seemed anxious to get out of the house . . . or garage. Big George kept the 1941 Indian Sport Scout motorcycle running better than new, but cold starts could sometimes be difficult. That morning she started on the first kick and settled in to a throaty purr. After several adjustments, she still wanted to run fast so Julie gave in, goosed the throttle and let her have her head. The exhaust rang out joyfully as they accelerated through the corners, echoing through the deserted streets.

The Scout was a beautiful motorcycle with glossy black paint set off by white tire skirts and sparkling chrome accents. Julie watched the workers' faces brighten when The Scout pulled into the pick up lane. The sidecar seemed to expand to hold all the packages and Miss Irene.

As they set out for deliveries, Julie noticed more and more people out in their yards – whether lured out by the warm weather or, as she imagined, by The Scout's siren song. They paused their raking to watch The Scout pass by, reassured by the familiar sight. “We turn more heads than the ice cream truck,” Miss Irene boasted. When Julie placed the packages on porches, she caught her first glimpse of the recipients as they smiled and waved – albeit from behind closed doors.

By the time they returned home, Big George and Trey had set up a “clean room” in the garage for Big George, who had been providing mechanical advice via phone while in self-isolation. “There are a few problems even I can't solve over the interwebs,” Big George said with a twinkle in his eye. Coincidentally, Trey had picked this day in the family's “Jail Break II: Big George Is Back In Town” pool.

The next time Julie took The Scout on deliveries, people chatted with her from behind their screen doors. And the next time, they stood just outside their doors to visit. Even as the number of deliveries started to decrease, the time it took to make those deliveries increased.

Soon after that, virus-relief efforts in Pleasant Glen took on a new challenge. Miss Irene coordinated neighborhood walks which featured scheduled “stop and waves” or “stop and chats” – from sidewalk to porch – bringing bringing back the old-fashioned, small town notion of socializing, distantly.

To be continued...

For more stories about life in (fictional) Pleasant Glen, read my novel Scout's Honor and the soon-to-be-published Scout's Redemption.

Part 5: Chip Overplays Her Hand

The story thus far: While Miss Irene has been organizing Pleasant Glen's virus-relief efforts, we've been temporarily sidetracked by the story of how Muffy became head of PG's face-mask sewing efforts. In order to proceed, we need to back up a sentence or two and get a running start:

“Ehh-vry-one's who's ehh-ny-one is talking about it,” Chip said.

Muffy imagined she saw Chip's eyes roll back, like a shark preparing to attack. “Shark Week” was “Must See TV” for Muffy, and she knew that a quick bonk to the snout was (sometimes) enough to repel such an attack.

“Oh that old news,” Muffy said in a bored voice. “I thought you had something new and interesting to share.”

Chip flinched, then circled again, still probing for a weak spot. “I heard Miss Irene's meeting with the mayor this afternoon. I heard he's giving her the key to the city. Again.”

Muffy sneered, revealing razor-sharp teeth of her own. The mayor was her second cousin, twice removed, and in Pleasant Glen, family gossip spreads even faster than community gossip. She knew all about Miss Irene's attempts to blackmail (Muffy's opinion) the mayor for his toilet paper hoarding (reported in Part 1 of this series).

“Oh, I seriously doubt that,” Muffy said. “In fact, the mayor and I were just discussing how I would handle relief efforts much differently.” She had actually called him to commiserate about TP-Gate – since she, too, had been caught with extra rolls – and to assure him that she hadn't been the whistle-blower. (At least, she hadn't been the first to snitch on him, a point which she thought cleared her of all guilt.)

“You?” Chip said, incredulously. “But you're . . . lazy!” The mayor had reacted the same way. Muffy's usual mode of operation was to steal someone else's idea, graciously accept the title of chairman before it was offered, then humbly select a co-chair to actually do the work and take the blame.

The temperature inside the small car dropped rapidly. Poppy and Bitsy leaned as far away from Chip as they could, which, given the size of the back seat wasn't far. What Chip said was true. Even Muffy knew this. All of the women knew it was true . . . of each of them.

But it was one thing to say this behind someones back (which they did frequently), and quite another to say it to their face.

The silence in the car turned awkward. Chip, realizing she had been cast adrift, did the only thing she could do: She led the sharks to weaker fish.

“Did you see the picture Mitzi Finderstien posted on Facebook from her granddaughter's second birthday party last weekend? Definitely more than 10 people in that tiny yard of hers. No social distancing. And a pony ride!”

“Are you sure that picture was from this year's party and not one of those 'Memory' posts?” Poppy asked. “Didn't it rain all weekend?”

“I wouldn't know,” Chip said haughtily. “I was inside all day, self-isolating and sewing face masks.” She held up a sad scrap of fabric held together with safety pins and good intentions as evidence, then quickly stuffed it back into her purse.

In fact, Chip didn't know when the picture had been taken. Unless the post featured a cute kitten or a nearly naked fireman, Chip scrolled right on past it. She had only noticed Mitzi's post because the man leading the pony had a tattoo of a kitten on his well-formed bicep. “What does it matter? It's people like that who are putting the rest of us in danger.”

The women eagerly took the bait and began discussing other photos they'd seen on Facebook which may or may not have been taken during the shutdown.

Muffy ignored the frenzy. Seeing Chip's poor excuse for a face mask had given her an idea....

To be continued. 

For more stories about life in Pleasant Glen check out my novel "Scout's Honor" and soon to be released "Scout's Redemption."

Part 4: The Making of a Mask Maven

The story thus far: Miss Irene, Julie's 90-year-old landlord, is assembling a crack team - some more cracked than others - to provide pandemic relief services. So how did Muffy become the Machiavelli of Masks? Read on...

Muffy Smith wasn't Miss Irene's first choice to head the Pleasant Glen volunteer face mask sewing group. She wasn't even in the top ten.

Then again, heading up the volunteer sewing group wasn't Muffy first choice either. Her first choice would have been Miss Irene’s job as head of all Pleasant Glen's volunteer virus-relief efforts. It wasn’t that Muffy didn’t think Miss Irene was capable, or that Muffy was fond of doing anything remotely resembling work, she just preferred to be the center of attention – not orbiting slightly off center.

Muffy was meeting with her clique (Bunny, Poppy, Bitsy and Chip) when she first learned of Miss Irene's efforts to organize donations and resources to help those affected by the virus and resulting closures. Prior to that, Muffy's only virus-related concern was locating a manicurist and beautician who would make house calls. She found the restrictions to be quite inconvenient and thought the governor was going overboard with some sort of personal vendetta against her.

Case in point: before the pandemic, Muffy and friends met each Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning at Coffee Olé, Pleasant Glen's combination coffee shop/Mexican restaurant. (Tuesday mornings were reserved for Pleasant Glen Women's Religious Council meetings, Thursdays for beauty shop appointments.) From their booth in the cafe's front window, the women could observe the comings and goings at the shops surrounding the town square and pass judgment on it all: the unfortunate clothing choices, disastrous hair styles, and the frequency with which certain people visited PeeGee's Bakery.

When businesses closed because of the virus, the women were forced to get their lattes to-go, and sit in Muffy's Camero coupe. Although it was small, it was new-ish (Muffy's son “gifted” it to her when he defaulted on the payments) eye-catching and sporty, and it made them feel almost like they were back in high school (except for the difficulty they had climbing into and out of the backseat). Sitting in the car had other advantages, too: they didn't have to pretend to hide their bedazzled flasks (Bailey's Irish Cream Mondays, RumChata Wednesdays, Kahlua Fridays), and they could linger as long as they wanted without being pressured (which they ignored) to move along.

Their parking space on the town square put them right in the middle of the action, providing an edgy thrill – like the shark tunnel at the aquarium. Unfortunately, there wasn't much action to be a part of, or to comment on. In fact, by the end of the first week, the whole situation was losing its appeal. Ridiculing the few shell-shocked citizens still out and about was like shooting fish in a barrel. That didn't mean Muffy and friends didn't try: “I can see her split ends from here.” “Spandex is a privilege, not a right.” “Only a man would consider that six feet of distance.”

But Muffy could tell their hearts weren't in it. Between snarky comments, the women would sigh and twirl the ponytails protruding from their Lululemon caps (a necessity now that the salons were closed). Muffy knew if she didn't chum the water soon, they would turn on themselves. While she was willing to sacrifice any one of them, she couldn't run the risk of mutiny. She was about make them walk the plank when Julie drove by on The Scout, the sidecar filled with grocery bags.

“Well! That seems like an excessive amount of groceries for a single woman living alone!” Muffy said, her eyes lighting up at the scent of fresh prey. “Looks like 'Miss Goody Two Shoes' is Pleasant Glen's biggest hoarder!”

“She's probably just doing deliveries for Miss Irene,” said Chip, not bothering to temper the boredom in her voice.

“Deliveries?” Muffy watched Chip in the rear view mirror closely. In her experience, the quiet, bored ones were the most dangerous.

Chip, sensing a weak spot in Muffy's leadership and – as Muffy expected – hoping to improve her position in the food chain, sighed and flipped her ponytail before continuing. “Ehh-vry-one's who's ehh-ny-one is talking about it,” Chip said.

Was it Muffy's imagination, or did Chip's eyes roll back in preparation for an attack?

To be continued.

For more stories about Julie and the gang, check out my novel "Scout's Honor" and the soon to be released "Scout's Redemption."

Part 3: Irene In Charge

The story so far: Miss Irene, Julie's 90-year-old landlord, is using her shelter-at-home time to organize relief efforts for Pleasant Glen, Iowa,  residents hardest hit by the virus outbreak.

Miss Irene was the perfect Pleasant Glen Virus Relief Czarina. Big George said she had moxie. J.J. said she was bossy. She had money, she had brains, and most importantly, she had connections.

A lifelong resident of Pleasant Glen herself, Miss Irene's family had been among the first settlers and were instrumental in the establishment of Farmers’ Bank of Pleasant Glen (later Pleasant Glen Savings & Loan). Under her father's tutelage she had risen through the ranks from teller to vice president (while completing college and raising six children on her own) and was still a member of the bank's board of directors.

Rumors of her personal wealth, in addition to her association with the bank, put her at the top of the potential-member wish list of every philanthropic organization in town. Once she agreed to become a member, her work ethic and unparalleled accomplishments kept her there. She had years of experience working on both the fundraising and distribution sides of community charities.

Miss Irene was also a savvy business woman. She had gone on to earn an M.B.A., backed up with practical experience from working at the bank and her role as the (not very) silent partner in Pleasant Glen Cycles and Motors.

Perhaps most importantly, she was a key member of the Pleasant Glen gossip grapevine.

In addition to her previously mentioned sources of contact, each of her six children (seven, if you included J.J. – and everyone did), had been outgoing, with legions of friends (and parents) who were fond of (and occasionally cowed or indebted to) her. Although Miss Irene's children had all left Pleasant Glen, she still stayed in contact with those friends (and their parents), and by extension, their children (and sometimes grandchildren) who made up the current crop of PG's business owners, employees, and the town's movers and shakers.

Miss Irene and the cadre of other mothers along the grapevine knew how to apply just the right amount of diplomatic arm-twisting, guilt, or fawning to extract vital information from the youngsters who spent every day working on the front lines. With just a few well placed phone calls, Miss Irene was able to find out where and when shipments of much needed goods – like toilet paper – would be delivered . . . and more.

The manager of the local discount grocery store – who had once had a crush on Miss Irene’s eldest son – was more than happy to share with her mother (who shared with Miss Irene) the names of the people who had bought up cartloads of toilet paper when the first wave of panic buying hit.

The hoarders themselves were less enthusiastic about sharing their stash. Eventually Miss Irene was able to wheedle enough donations to include a couple rolls in each of the care packages delivered to the town's elderly shut-ins. And, after reminding the mayor that it was an election year and (mis)quoting the Lash proverb: "Give (ill-gotten toilet paper) cheerfully with one hand you will gather (votes) well with two," the food pantry was restocked with TP as well.

But for every #toiletPaperGate Miss Irene sidestepped, other problems arose. Take, for example, the near mutiny amongst the mask making volunteers . . . .

To be continued.

For more stories about Julie and the gang, check out my novel "Scout's Honor" and the soon to be released "Scout's Redemption."