Wednesday, March 18, 2020

Bad Anne Frank

I always knew that I would be a bad Anne Frank.  She was my hero,
smart, a writer, honest, brave, deep, and Jewish.  I worried if I were in the attic
how obnoxious and impossible I would be. I think many of us felt that way.

 Now, over a week in seclusion with supplies, books, running water,  my husband
 and daughter next door, I am already exhibiting signs of what a bad
Anne Frank I am. We sequester on a luxurious, rustic, six acres.  The 18 chickens are oblivious.
The robin splashing in the bird feeder knows nothing of virus.  The week of daffodils,
when I was supposed to be seeing my brother and wife in Florida, is ending now.
I would have been traveling home tonight.  ten days ago I fretted about the late arrival, and now
any arrival except the one of this virus, would be welcome.

How have I been  bad? I have been so anxious already, one long week of solitude
I have blown through enough stress to power a car. I have been cooking three meals a day.
I am trying to make something special each day.  Today I think I forgot an ingredient
because my blue corn, blueberry muffins were a little rocky.  If you slather butter
and home made jam, it's edible. Today my daughter went out for us.  She went
to four stores with our "wish list," as my youngest daughter calls it.  When she got that bag
of flour she located out, she turned into Miep Gies, the friend who helped Otto Frank and family.
There was a heroic vibe around my daughter.  She grew mythic. She wore a wool cape.  She is style itself and knows how to dress for any occasion.She delivered the bacon to non-kosher cheers of praise.

I am stressing myself out already as is my want.  Today I was up since four AM and it was not a good day.  The news freaks us out.  They said if we over-react, that might be the good news.  Two of my kids are working out in the world.  That is worrisome. Then some don't have work.  That too is fraught.
 I have three kids.  What was I thinking, that there is safety in numbers?
I have done some good deeds.  I use only two squares of toilet paper. I posted the poem "Pandemic" by Lynn Ungar that went viral to my beloved Santa Fe Girls' School and heard back from a dear student. I got in touch with Lynn Ungar herself to thank her.  I laughed at Wolf Martinez' FaceBook letter to Toilet Paper.

I laughed a deep laugh at Don McIver and wife dancing in their home for ST. Patrick's. They were alive and spontaneous. I was laughing like never before.  I don't know how come I got them LIVE, I just did.
They showed me what it means to be live, not this faint replica of my hero I have become.                                      

My youngest daughter tells her six year old Kaleia that these are blue iris she bought in Pittsburgh's Trader Joe's where it used to stay "See Yinz soon,"   the Pittsburgh equivalent of y'all.
"Virus?" my granddaughter says.  My second cousin twice removed told me people were weird.
She saw an old Hispanic lady with a shopping cart with only a box of matzoh.   That image is my image
of the week.  What do you take into the desert of the unknown?  Unleavened bread.

I'll try and track my behavior and see if I do more good than bad.  There. I wrote something.
The robin wrote it for me.

                                   The robin, splashing
 in the bath knows nothing
of virus.    


  1. love it. love you. love your voice. funny, interesting and cool - wasn't sure if I needed to choose. I'll try it now. Keep fretting - you make it into jewels.

  2. Love you and your paintings made of words, mom. We’ll become better human beings from this time. Like you taught me, “This too shall pass”. Now get to know those six acres deeply, plant your garden.

  3. Thinking of you in your golden queendom Joanie. Thanks for the post and for carrying some of the angst for the rest of us. Love to you and the Fam.

  4. You'll be glad to know, Joan, that the Boise Logghe Gals are still meeting, and today, for the first time, it was by Zoom! Some of us are pushing 80, some are just pushing computer keys or cell phone numbers, but we are STILL gathering, STILL writing, STILL building our 30-year-plus friendship. You are STILL our teacher and our inspiration, virus or no virus. You may be a bad Anne Frank, but you're a damn GOOD Joan Logghe!

  5. Came back for a reread that is how goo this is. I'm a proud granddaugher.

  6. Yay!
    You're a fabulous Anne Frank!!
    Follow my lead N we'll meet her Upstairs.

  7. Wow. Words draw pictures like a photo
    Snap. Snap. Snap

    You see what I mean?


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