ONE

Ernest, one of two daytime cashiers at my Stop & Shop, comes across surly. Fortyish, with a full head of curly brown hair and deep forehead creases, he typically grunts when I offer a cheery, “Hi! How are you today?” I get it. Why should he have to make small talk with customers? Maybe he’s depressed. Or worried. Or socially awkward. Nevertheless I persist, as if connecting will help solve the world’s problems. Then, the other day, he said “Fine” loud and clear in response to my probe. “Pretty slow today, eh?” I pressed. “Yeah,” he said. “Do you have a long shift?” “No, I’m off at three.” “Oh, that’s not too bad.” I was quiet as I ran my card. Leave him alone now, I thought. Be respectful. Then he said softly, “You want your bags the same weight, right?” He remembered! I always ask to divide stuff up so I can carry it up my stairs. It’s nice to be seen at Stop & Shop on a slow day during a tumultuous time. “Yes! Thank you so much! That means a lot.” He handed me the balanced pair of cloth bags. I lowered my mask, looked him in the eye, and said, “You are great!” He cracked a tiny smile. I told him I’d give him top ratings on the survey, which he’d circled in yellow highlighter at the bottom of my receipt, but I forgot. Next time, Ernest, I promise.

TWO

Yesterday, my garbage disposal suddenly started humming, not grinding, and the water wouldn’t drain. I pulled out shredded potato skins and mangled grapes, cat-food leftovers and avocado bits, and turned on the motor again. Nothing. SHIT. My landlord’s out of town. Even when he’s home, I’ll do anything to avoid his loud, blaming tirades about appliance failures. I imagined myself washing my dishes in the bathtub from now on. My downstairs neighbor, Jeff, who’s around my age, loves solving mechanical problems. He fiddled around and extracted a string-like thing. Aha! But the grinding continued. Flashlight. Knife. Allen wrench. “I see it!” Jeff cried. Poking out from deep inside the disposal, the dented edge of an aluminum pop-top from a Fancy Feast can. Tweezers. Tongs. Prayers. SUCCESS! I hugged Jeff hard. “Oh my God, I love you!” I said. We’re happy neighbors but we don’t touch. Jumping up and down and clapping, I swore Jeff my eternal devotion in whatever form he wanted. But my gratitude had as much to do with honoring Jeff’s patience and talent as it did with my relief at not having to deal with my landlord. Blessings all around.

THREE

I still mask. Yes, still. I try not to care what people think. Very occasionally, I unmask because, well, I want to eat among humans once in a while. At a reception last weekend, I ran into a couple I hadn’t seen in years—as we’re jabbering away unmasked, the wife said she was getting over a virus. The husband leaned in closer as the noise level rose. I couldn’t help visualizing that video showing the slow-motion emission of aerosols. So I whipped out my black KN-95 mask from my pocket and strapped it on. “I’m so sorry,” I shouted. “It’s nothing personal, I promise.” “No apology necessary. I get it,” the husband said. “You do?! Thanks. It’s hard to ask. People judge,” I said. “It’s all good,” he said. I wanted to hug him for that simple kindness but, you know, proximity. It’s Day Five after our close encounter and all is well.

FOUR

At my annual bone density exam last week, I got the same tech as always: Jolene, a heavyset young woman wearing pink scrubs and a polka-dot surgical mask, her blond hair plopped into an updo. While changing, I blurted, “Jolene! Do you know I love you? You were the only one among a bunch of doctors who suggested that my swollen, painful lymph nodes were a side effect from the Covid vaccine a couple of years ago!” She remembered. We gabbed and giggled. She explained each position and apologized for contorting my ankles and neck. She gave me enough warning for holding my breath—a skill most techs don’t get right, and I told her as much. I was her last scan that day. She was off to her second job as a bartender at a karaoke joint. I bet she’s great at that too. Our warm connection has saturated my whole week, and, unfortunately, so has that dang Dolly Parton song.

FIVE

My brother, sister-in-law, and niece were in town last weekend. Hurray! But I knew they had other folks to visit, too. After comparing our schedules, I emailed my wishes without pausing to edit: “My entire goal is to spend as much time with you as possible because I love you and love being together and miss you and hardly ever see you and time is precious and life is short. :) So, there ya go.”

So, there ya go indeed. We had a delicious, leisurely visit. We hugged. I ate unmasked in a brunch-busy diner. And they still had time for their other visits, too. Win-win! I kind of like this blurting habit, as if part of me is finally freed up to care—and, somehow, not to care.

Dear Readers: Hope you’re enjoying my Substack, where I post five micro-memoirs every Friday. I’m keeping it free for the foreseeable future, but I’d be grateful if you’d lend your support by subscribing and sharing. And stay tuned for updates on my search for a publisher for This Is 70: A Life in Micro-Memoirs, a linked set of 70 micro-memoirs of exactly 70 words each, written to mark my 70th birthday last year. Thanks for visiting!