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Seeing Mom in the age of COVID-19

Steve Crowe Salem News March 26, 2020 I can hear the discouragement in my mother’s voice. She is 92 years old and holed up in her apartment in a senior residential living community near me. “I’m getting tired of this,” she says. I can’t get in to see her any more. Management has the entire complex of 1,800 independent and continuing care residents locked down tighter than a prison after an inmate uprising. Just to bring her a bag of groceries today I had to go through a three-step checkpoint at the main gate, drive up to the community center, and place the bag into a shopping cart pushed by a staff woman wearing plastic gloves. She takes my mother’s apartment number and promises to take the groceries to her. To be clear: I fully support management’s plan. A senior residential community is a tinderbox for coronavirus, and no one wants to see that match be lit. Still, it’s been more than a week since I last saw my mother and gave her a hug. A hug is the best thing I can give her these da...
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Natalie and the Flittermouse

(Based on a true story: Everything in this poem happened exactly as written except for the parts the author made up) T’was after dark when Natalie Awoke from her long reverie. She’d had a dream she was alone, Inside a big black-yellow home.  And now t’was quiet as could be, Deserted by all souls but she.  You might think this made her sad, Au contraire! It made her glad To think her wishes had the power To drive her housemates from their tower.  With eyebrows raised she said with cheer: “I made my housemates disappear!!” No company did she require,  Of chatty folks to pass the hour. Her friends already were at hand,  Eagerly waiting her command To share their stories, poems, and wit, For on her bookcase they did sit. She called the authors forth by name,  Now Flannery, now Annie,  Now Wendell and Graham,  Come Lucy, Louisa, Eudora and Jane. On Homer, on Hugo On Virgil and Dickens, Come Tolkien, Lewis, Come Rowling and Blitzen. For hours and hours ...
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My Grandson

The pictures came with news of joy, The birth of one amazing boy, Who, with one breath, conveyed on me A title robed in dignity: Grandpa. An honor, to be sure, And yet my heart did not stir. Three thousand miles apart were we, No chance to hold him or to see Beyond his face, into his heart, To find a sign I am a part Of him and he of me, that we— That he—is of my family. My grandson doesn’t look like me. His eyes are wide and mine are beady; His hair is dark and thin and straight, Mine wavy brown-turned-gray. I tell myself, “This shouldn’t faze ya, “But surely this child comes from Asia.” His other grandpa disagrees. It’s Anglo features that he sees: Brown hair, light skin, curved chin, High forehead, and so thin! He says to me, “It’s true! “I think he looks the most like you!” Thousands and thousands of years ago, Our forebears chose to go Their separate ways: Some East Some West. “Ne’er twain shall meet,” The poet wrote. And yet we find Here in this boy they are rejoined. And when at...
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Why you can't find my blog on Google

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That's me, on June 7, 2018, atop Mary's Rock (elev. 3,514 feet) in the Shenandoah National Park, Virginia, a 360 degree view along the Appalachian Trail.  For several years, I've been using this Blogspot site to post stories and essays I've written about the people, places and ideas that I find interesting. But, unless someone sent you a link to this blog, you would never find it. This is an "unpublished" blog. I have chosen to keep this blog private so that I can use this space to write and rewrite on a topic until I think it's worth sharing. Until that point, I keep my thoughts to myself.  Another reason I keep an "unpublished" blog is to show people that it's possible to keep stuff private on the Web. A lot of people, I've found, aren't too keen on letting just anyone know about their private matters. Family and friends, yes, but the whole world? No! Since you are here, I invite you to have a look around! And if this ...
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The day JFK was shot

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Do   you remember where you were 50 years ago today -- when you heard   President Kennedy had been shot? I was in this classroom, sitting at a  desk along the windows. Two years ago some of my classmates and I had a mini reunion with our teache r,   Mr. John Campagna, pictured at right, and we talked about that day in 1963. It was   Mr. C's 32nd birthday and he was a big admirer of JFK. My classmates each had pieces of the story but Mr. C remembered it as if it were yesterday. One thing we all talked about was how one classmate, a troubled young   man anyway, announced with glee that the communists had invaded. My   memory of what Mr. C did is fuzzy, so I'll leave it to some of my   classmates to fill in that detail. What I remember mostly are   feelings of confusion, fear and sadness. If the president, the most   protected person in the United States, could be shot how safe was...
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My Father's Friend

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Chris Vlahakis, left, with "Billy" Crowe, my father, (c) 1941. Chris was about two years older and looked out for my father like a big brother. On a whim, I decided to track down my father's friend, and found him on my first phone call. I'm standing with Chris Vlahakis, my father's childhood friend,   on the street where they lived as boys. I’d heard my father talk about his childhood friend Chris Vlahakis many times but I’d never met him.  Two days ago, on a whim, I decided to see if I could track him down and within five minutes I had him on the phone. (I used the Website Switchboard.com). We talked for about 10 minutes and I eventually persuaded him to have lunch with me on Saturday.  We had an amazing four hours together! I learned so much about my father. I drove Chris to their former neighborhood to see where they lived. We actually walked into the back yard of my father’s old house (I liked Chris’ boldness!) and Chris pointed out ...
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Carrying on an American Tradition

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In all my imaginings about this night, I never considered the possibility that neither team would score a run. When my older son turned 7, I decided it was time to introduce him to the family tradition of being a Red Sox fan. The year was 1986 and the Sox were heading for the playoffs and eventually the World Series. Tickets were tight but I was able to get four for the September 26 th game against the Toronto Blue Jays. On game day Jonathan was dressed in his Little League T-shirt and cap and had his glove in a bag just in case a ball came his way. His younger brother, Stephen, age 3, wore Jonathan's cap from the year before. Their mother was also ready to go but more on her later. We arrived at the park early to watch batting practice and see balls clear the Big Monster, Fenway Park's classic 37-foot-high wall in left field, and land softly in the giant net (before the Monster Seats were added). Good, I thought. The wind is blowing out – that should mean lots ...
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