Covid-19: Timeline of Our Stories (Pt. 3)

Hello friends and thank you for checking out the third installment of my Covid-19 series. This opportunity of talking about my experience and hearing the experiences of others from this year has been so moving and emotional. Being able to tell our countless stories is valuable! In this week’s post, musician and instructor, Alden Zac, shares his story of finding appreciation in a frustrating time. This is Covid-19: Timeline of Our Stories (Pt. 3):

Ode to Each Other

Last Thursday, I made sure to let my partner know she was running out of time to smell my tires.

It had been a few days since I tried to treat myself. On a particularly chilly fall morning a few days prior, “treating myself” had referred to a seemingly innocuous trip to Fred Meyer to purchase a Lego dragon to accompany an ever-growing Lego Hogwarts castle. Reigniting the pre-adult passion for Lego has blossomed into a new love of the classic building toy. We acquire more every few weeks, so on Tuesday I decided the time was ripe to bring home another set for myself. I envisioned this process as a short, pre-lunch excursion with my dog Gilda. Instead, it turned into an exhaustive two-hour escapade.

I try to take Gilly out often. Every outdoor excursion provides the tantalizng buffet of Outdoor Smells, a tantalizing opportunity for any dog. For her, “car ride” is the pinnacle of triggering phrases, but “Do you want to go—” will also send her into a frenzy. My father once told me that a dog sticking their head out a car window experiences massive sensory overload akin to a doggie acid trip — to which I should have responded,

“Are you trying to tell me my dog is doing drugs — without me?”

Gilly’s obvious comprehension of my words and her people-pleasing nature make her an excellent companion, and on this particular outing — home to the car to the store to the car and back home again — seemed to not necessitate a leash. With the exception of the occasional guilty-faced (but immediately forgiven) pee, her only motives in our parking lot are either Get In Car! or Go Inside! She waits patiently on the passenger seat whenever we run local errands; if she’s feeling particularly lonely, she’ll move to the driver’s seat, inadvertently delighting passerby.

After perhaps longer in the store than necessary, I returned to my car, Lego kit in hand. Gilly politely moved to the back seat so I could drive us home. I should perhaps mention I am wont to think deeply about Legos, certainly more deeply than I think about keeping track of time. If I am sorting or building at home, I structure my schedule around this. But perhaps I should use a timer when I am at a store.

As I slotted the key into the ignition, Gilly leaned against the glass, adding to the existing array of nose smudges, expecting the window to open when the engine started. I always open the window for her with the exception of this September (welcome to 2020) when the Oregon wildfires smoked us out of our home. Gilly and I relocated to a friend’s house during that time, but even there, the air quality was so poor that I kept the windows up. At first this tripped the parental guilt of denying your little one something they viscerally enjoy for the safety of their health, but then I realized — Gilly doesn’t know I’m in charge of the window. So I shrugged it off, letting her believe the car had unfortunately turned against her, and opened it again when the smoke cleared.

I pulled onto Mollala Avenue from the construction zone in the parking lot and headed northwest, toward downtown Oregon City. Stopped at a red light, my mind wandered until the wail of a siren pulled it back. Trapped between stopped cars in front, stopped cars behind, and trapped cars beside us, we had no way of moving for the fire engine in the rearview mirror. But the light changed and the cars in front of me peeled out
through the construction, so I did the same, veering toward the right-side curb. With my eyes carefully tracking the approaching truck, I misjudged the curb. . . and blew out my front right tire. Facepalm. I swore loudly, furthering concerning my dog with the escalating events, and pulled off the road.

Clearly, the damage was irreparable. Gilly waited in the driver’s seat as I switched to a near-deflated spare, something I had not yet done on this car. At the nearby tire store — a chain I had used before, the familiar aroma of automotive rubber helping offset my anxiety in new establishments, which the pandemic has intensified — the helpful staff informed me I would indeed require 4 beautifully fresh tires. I wasn’t sure how that was going to work, but, in a logical sense: If my car is here, and I am here, and my dog is here, but I don’t want me or my dog to be here for the next two hours while my car needs to be here, how do I get myself and my dog home while my car is here if it doesn’t have tires? For this logic puzzle, you are not allowed a leash. This was, after all, supposed to be a self-care trip to pick up a Lego set with your dog. Because it’s 2020, however, pulling over for the fire engine means buying 4 new tires.

At long last, my philosophy degree came in handy: I deduced that we could fill the spare tire at the tire store, after which I could drive home, pick up the leash, drive back, and then walk my dog home.

Gilly accompanied me on two bonus walks as the day turned warmer: one from the tire store to drop off the car, and one back to the store to pick it up. On our return I brought her inside (on the recently re-acquired leash), so that she, too, could smell the uplifting scent of fresh tires. I suppose she received a couple of extra car rides, too. As far as Gilly was concerned, other than the lurch and my expletive, it was a fantastic day. As far as I was concerned. . . well, I now had the Lego dragon I had wanted to buy, a new set of tires I hadn’t wanted to buy, and I still breezily taught my virtual music lessons that day.

I’m not particularly happy about the tire situation, but I’m not holding onto grief. A year ago, I knew if I used my car all summer, this is about the time when I would need new tires anyway. Except… I haven’t been driving all summer, because half my work (gigging) disappeared, the other half (teaching) turned virtual. Had I still been teaching lessons in person, pre-Covid style, I would have needed to reschedule my students due to the tire fiasco. Instead, the summer switch to working from home means my car’s biggest outings had dwindled to the weekly grocery trip and infrequent car rides for Gilly.

Tonight, however, the car and I are embarking on a different kind of outing: I am driving to my partner’s house. While I’m there, I’m planning to ask her if she’s ever smelled my tires. In 2020, one of the kinder things we can do for our loved ones is draw attention to the small but delightful sensations within ordinary moments. It’s one of the kinder things we can do for ourselves, too.

By reminding ourselves that these sensations exist, and by seeking them out, we bring fullness back into the dreary, endless days of 2020. So tonight, I’m going to ask a wonderful woman if she smelled the strangely relaxing scent of fresh tires, because, as it turns out, I forgot.

Concluding Reflections

This was a really beautiful piece. Something that I could certainly relate to was a simple trip becoming an exhausting situation. After all, it seems as though every task we do is exhausting. Maybe that’s due to all the events happening around us, weighing on our shoulders on top of our basic responsibilities. At least for me, I think that’s the case.

I appreciated how Alden touched on many environmental situations that he and Gilly have had to endure i.e. the fires, relocation, Covid, work changes. There’s a lot going on and it’s hard to find joy in the little things, and yet he did.

A huge thank you to Alden Zac for being a part of Covid-19: Timeline of Our Stories!

If you missed it, check out part 1, where I discussed how I fell in love with blogging after becoming temporarily unemployed and part 2, where guest blogger, Eric Drury, shares his thoughts on opening up to an online community.

Thank you for reading and as always…

Good luck with your journey,

Harumi