Once again, my hubby and son provide inspiration for my writing…
“Wahoo!” My husband waved his phone as he played aloud the recorded message from his company. They advised workers to stay in place, work from home!
A recent snowstorm blanketed our area with over five inches of snow. Wind pushed frozen precipitation into perilous piles on local roads and obscured lane markers. Traffic was not moving, major highway intersections closed by congestion of cars that, to their detriment braved the elements and blocked ramps. School had been canceled in most all Greater Seattle area locations.
Not so excited was my son, who’s regularly Monday schedule includes DART bus ride to our local Senior Center. He volunteers his time every Monday from about 10:30 to 1 p.m. Nicholas resides on the autism spectrum. Breaks in his routine and schedule disturb his normal sunny nature.
I was ambivalent, not going to interrupt my Monday schedule too much. I’d lace up my seldom worn Eddie Bauer snow boots, and take the dogs for a stroll in the snow. They have been excited since the first few flakes hit the wooden slats on the deck. They cavorted and raced about, rooted in drifts of snow, tails wagged in unison.
I put on a pot of tea, intent on a leisurely read of the Sunday paper. My reverie interrupted by a loud sigh, I hear footsteps. My husband trudged up the stairs, into the kitchen and yanked open the door to the refrigerator.
“I’m not hungry” he said as he glanced over his shoulder at me.
Rather than engage with his co-workers on the current project at work, it appeared his more immediate task involved an inventory: the contents of our pantry.
“Working from home sure makes me hungry.” I offered no comment, and he continued his search.
Jubilation over the snow day faded… He’d grasped the facts- a trip to his favorite Pho restaurant- not in the cards.
The return trip down the stairs is short lived. Five minutes he reappeared in the kitchen. “I don’t think anyone is working! No one is returning messages or responding to my email.”
I raised my eyebrows, “Problems with the VPN connection?”
A bit distracted too, I’d busied myself with set up of our hummingbird feeding station. I‘d returned to the kitchen after a computer search confirmed the recipe and correct ratio of sugar to water. I stirred the bubbling liquid on the stove top.
“No.” He opens a cupboard again and I heard the rustle of packages. “Do you have a plan for lunch?”
“There are lots of leftovers.” But my comment doesn’t seem to satisfy.
I raise my voice over the noise from the shelves, “there are several bowls of instant ramen noodles and mix, up there on the top left side.”
“We could always make cheese crisps or nachos with beans and cheese…”
He frowns. “Remember, I’ve decided to give up cheese. ” His recent decision, to decrease dairy products in his diet, is at odds with his desire to dine at the present moment, given the limited supplies in our pantry.
I pointed out the tofu stir-fry leftovers, made suggestions of items he could add, like the heat and serve rice packets on the second shelf. “This doesn’t look like very much.”
I rose and returned to my computer, at the other end of the house. From my desk I hear the beep of the microwave timer and the sound of steps going down the stairs.
I started to type but startled as a voice asks ” There bacon in this potato salad?”
My husband discovered on yet another return trip to the kitchen, a container, on the top shelf of the refrigerator toward the back. The clear plastic revealed bacon and blue cheese potato salad.
“Yep,” I confirm, “there’s bacon in that batch.”
His next question “How long has this been in here?” elicits a chuckle. He HAS been gone about 5 days… but really?
“Isn’t there a date on the container label?” I knew the answer. Our local Health Food Cooperative includes this information on each printout, along with the weight and the unit price. I encouraged him to “read the label.” I turned to the Quick Books inventory I’d begun.
Moments later my son Nick climbed the stairs to the main level and announced he’d chosen to exercise.
“Great.” I’m glad he’s not focused on food just yet. Maybe, I could finish the task at hand before the lunch hour begins.
He filled his water bottle and returned downstairs to the rec- room. A lively disco beat floated up the stairs. I heard the door to my husband’s home office slam.
Over the loud beat pulsing from the stereo speakers, I heard my son Nick shout “number two.”His routine for home workouts entailed furious pedaling on the Air dyne bike, or vigorous rowing on our Concept Two apparatus. His workout is timed. Ten songs total about thirty minutes, an easy way for my sightless son to keep track.
My husband is back upstairs, again. I fight to keep the smile off my face. “You and Nick are getting quite a workout this morning.”
My husband gave voice to his frustrations with his co-worker. “Our boss mucked up the process and slowed everyone down.” I made eye contact, gave a look of sympathy and rotated the office chair back toward my computer monitor.
“Number eight!” My son’s announcement indicates the inevitable-two more songs and he he’d be upstairs expecting lunch.
The music ceased, but is replaced the drone of a Dyson vacuum cleaner. Consumed by nervous energy, my husband vacuumed the entire lower level of the house.
“OK, count your blessings.” I murmured to myself. I pulled up the online schedule that indicates when our neighborhood’s streets will be plowed clear.
“Do we need anything from the store?” Hopeful eyes indicated a desire to don outdoor gear and trudge down to the corner market. I grabbed a pen…
by 
