LOCKDOWN

Ella and I, fierce critics, used to creep furtively upstairs on occasion—after the workers had left—to see how the conversion was progressing. We saw the new configurations of the three apartments above us when only the two-by-fours were in place, and later, the resurfaced white walls, which I coveted, they looked so pristine. Then we saw these same walls painted gold, making the rooms darker. (“This living room is like a tomb! The only light coming in is from one small window facing the looming wall of the neighboring house!”) Still later, we surveyed the new “kitchenettes” installed in the old living rooms, often against the only available wall. (“Where in the world is the living room furniture going to go?”) And (“How are they going to create new flat floors now that, after the leveling of the foundation, they’re so bowed?”)

But no more creeping. A week ago our governor, Gavin Newsom, announced that, because of the coronavirus, we Californians were obliged to shelter in place. The university had already shut down, and Ella had set up her new “office” on our dining room table, working on a geriatric laptop inherited from her brother. Each day we toil, companionably and diligently, on our respective projects—sitting only a few yards apart.

Meanwhile, the construction workers continue to come and go (they’re exempted from the lockdown), sometimes spending hours in the little foyer just outside our door. Ella and I wear masks—that Ella was given by a co-worker during the wildfires last fall—when we pass through the foyer to go on our daily walks, and we swab down the front door handles once the interlopers are gone. Still, I’m anxious. My theory, since the coronavirus can be passed through respiration, is that once those droplets fall to the floor, Ella and I are tracking it into our apartment on our shoes.

Initially, we were both worried that we would run out of toilet paper because we heard on the news that store shelves were empty due to hoarders—which reminded me of something I heard many years ago in a folklore class at Cal. The instructor had gone to stay with her Basque relatives in Spain. In their outhouse she noticed a board with brown swipes on it, later learning that was how people wiped themselves! Thankfully, Ella was able to buy toilet paper on her last trip to Trader Joe’s, where they’d drawn chalk lines six feet apart on the sidewalk in front of the doors—for the customers to line up—and only allowed one package of TP and paper towels per. But we still haven’t been able to find hand sanitizer, antiseptic wipes, or 409.

Anyway, I’ve been laboring with particular intensity because, a few weeks ago, I started working with a new graphic artist, Sara, on the layout out of The Poof! Academy. I’d hoped to have it published before Christmas but was so painfully conflicted, I couldn’t go ahead with it. The text was alternately glaringly gappy or crowded throughout the whole book, no matter how many hyphens I asked Lorna to try—until she suggested I learn some InDesign, so I could fine-tune the spacing of the text myself. So I studied a little about kerning, tracking, and leading (pronounced “ledding”), and got a referral to a tutor. And Sara, I’m elated to say, has changed everything!

P.S. I won’t be posting further flowers in the order I see them bloom because…well…I no longer can see most of them.