I’m sorry, people. This summer, when I was submerged in anxiety about Peter’s health, I looked at most of you with envy. What did you have to worry about? My worries seemed so huge and constant. I knew my envy was misplaced. Almost all of us have big troubles of one kind or another. They ebb and flow, but mostly flow. Still, I kept thinking that someday, I, too, would just have the usual everyday worries, not the life and death ones. I told myself every day - sometimes out loud as I walked to the hospital, ignoring the stares of strangers who must have thought I was either crazy, or drug-fueled, or both - that I needed to take one day at a time. No trying to figure out when it would all end, or how it would end. Just one day at a time.

That’s Lesson #1 and the first tip I’d like to pass on to all of you. I debated about whether it was even O.K. to publish a blog this month. Was I just going to be another voice piling onto your already heavy pile of bad news? With most of us home and with more time on our hands, I worried about seeming to take advantage of you. You are quite literally a captive audience. In the end, as you can see, I’ve decided to write. You can feel free not to read, and just look at the photos and listen to the music. I understand.

At The Grilled Cheeserie, you will find yourself surrounded by grilled cheese options. When you are trying to take one day at a time, food decisions - buying it, eating it, deciding how long you have to wait until you can move onto the next meal wit… — At *The Grilled Cheeserie*, you will find yourself surrounded by grilled cheese options. When you are trying to take one day at a time, food decisions - buying it, eating it, deciding how long you have to wait until you can move onto the next meal without embarrassing yourself - loom large. I look forward to getting back to this place to do more grilled cheese research. Can you blame me?

I promise I never meant for it to come to this back when I envied you. What I wanted was for my own life to go back to “normal”, whatever that meant. I wanted none of us to have so much worry inside. Instead, we are all worrying, all the time, with the kind of worry that takes over your life. I didn’t mean for all of us to wake up every morning not knowing what kind of bad news was coming, or how bad it would be. By writing this post, I wanted to give you a little break from all the virus news and I do hope to do that. But first I had to apologize if I had any part in bringing this virus into the world. I also hope that my own private experience with worry this summer can help you along on your journey. If nothing else, it might help me in my continuing struggle to process it all. So, let’s get on with it, shall we?

Take a load off and take a listen to this.

Lesson #2: try to find some time for silliness every day. Some might say I make far too much time in my days for silliness. When times were bleakest this summer, Team Drucker always tried to find some type of escape. The Office, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and the general Vine-Drucker unique brand of humor were some of our go-to’s. I welcome any of your suggestions on this score.

Lesson #3: let music help you escape. If you can combine Lessons 2 and 3 in one fell swoop, then all the better. For example, watching David Byrne cavort around the stage gets both high silliness and high musicality marks. Find the part of every song that speaks to you. That’s one of the high points of this blog for me. We are all “letting the days go by” these days.

So many of you have checked in with us recently. The first round of check-ins was in early March when we met up with our first Tennessee tornado. We are so lucky to have sustained no damage, considering it blew in so quickly and so close to us. Like many of you who didn’t grow up in the South, I had no life experience with tornadoes. My only frame of reference was The Wizard of Oz, which was so terrifying to me as a child. So when my iPhone made a jarringly loud sound after midnight on March 3 and the message warned of an approaching tornado, neither Peter nor I knew what to do. When your house doesn’t have a basement, where do you go? Suddenly, living in a house with so many large windows everywhere didn’t seem like such a great idea. We sat on the stairs in the part of our house without windows and listened to sirens going off for about an hour. Then we crawled back into bed when the Google alerts told us it was safe.

I kept thinking this was what was about to happen to our Nashville home.

To distract myself from worrying, I tried to think about the Wizard of Oz. So many memories of huddling together on the couch with my brother and sister to watch the yearly broadcast, on our black and white T.V. Peter loves to tell the story about the time soon after we first met in law school (circa 1986) and the movie happened to be on before we were heading out to dinner. And for some reason, I still had a black and white T.V., long after the rest of the world had moved into the world of color. “No sense in staying here to watch once they get to Oz,” Peter said. When he saw the puzzled look on my face, he thought I was kidding. I really didn’t know the movie changes to color once the tornado deposits Dorothy and her house into Munchkinland. Makes me wonder what else I didn’t learn in childhood that everyone else did.

I do have to admit I was much more interested in the sepia-toned realistic story that begins and ends the movie than in the magical realism of Oz. Why did Dorothy live with her Aunt Em and Uncle Henry? What happened to her parents? These were the important questions I grappled with while watching our little black and white T.V. Let’s go back to Nashville now.

I remember when I joked about Nashville’s very own version of The Parthenon and how we didn’t have to leave home in order to feel like we were traveling to Europe. Little did I know how handy it would be to have her here, now that travel is a distan… — I remember when I joked about Nashville’s very own version of The Parthenon and how we didn’t have to leave home in order to feel like we were traveling to Europe. Little did I know how handy it would be to have her here, now that travel is a distant memory for all of us.

The news the next morning about the after-effects of the tornado was grim for many residents of Nashville. In the untouched parts of town, life marched on as usual. It’s hard to know how to react when you know others nearby lost everything. Five days after the tornado, Rachel arrived for her Spring Break from graduate school, and we took to the Berry Hill section of town to see Nashville’s technicolor beauty: its murals. The many bachelorette parties that migrate to Nashville in the spring and line up to take group photos in front of the murals scattered around town haven’t yet discovered this area. We did our part - by eating out - to help local restaurants who had lost business as a result of the tornado. Until the safer-at-home orders came down, of course.

Rachel with Amy Winehouse and James Brown.

With two of my heroes: Otis Redding and Joni Mitchell.

Even the bathrooms here have gorgeous murals.

Trying to follow Lesson #3 and let music help me escape. This guy’s voice and guitar are the musical equivalent of mac and cheese.

Early in our “Safer at Home” world, we were blessed by some lousy rainy weather. Ordinarily, that would be frustrating, but it helped keep people inside. I understand from my Amsterdam friends that the weather there has been cruelly and uncharacteristically gorgeous for March. The Dutch see sun - no matter what the temperature - and they flock outside. Apparently, it has been tough to get them to stay indoors. Even with all the rain here, the blossoms came out in force. It’s as if nature is putting on a show for us, trying to tell us that life goes on for her no matter what we’re dealing with. As a result of all these flowering trees, I’m confronted with daily panic about whether my symptoms are allergies or something more sinister. I try to remember what my Dutch doctor told me when we spent our first year in Amsterdam and I was constantly sick. Just new germs and stuff in the air to get used to, she said.

When you want to really get lost thinking about the good ‘ole days, you can watch this video. The Obamas are in the front row. Those sunny days feel like a lifetime ago.

I think this type of tree is known as a Weeping Cherry Tree. It tells the story of how I’m feeling these days.

I spent quite a lot of time on my own this summer after Ben and Rachel left Philadelphia. Now, with all of us holed up, we are experiencing more solitary time than we are used to. We might not actually be alone, but we are all spending lots less time with friends and family. Unlike many of you, I was well-prepared for the home-all-day-every-day routine. Social distancing is much easier when you only know a few people in town. The next lesson I can share (Lesson #4) is to learn to be comfortable being alone. I’m grateful to my mom for teaching me that lesson at a young age. She used to go into New York City once a week to visit my grandparents, and frequently went to matinees on her own. At the time, that seemed so unfathomable to me. Wouldn’t she rather go with a friend? Now I get it.

Here’s my beautiful mom. We used to joke about how when she took us into New York City, none of us could keep up with her. I guess she was used to a different pace when she was alone and not dragging along three little kids.

Have I told you how much I love Roz Chast the cartoonist? Her memoir, Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant? is both hilarious and sad, sometimes in the same breath. She writes about her parents getting old. I love this section in which she falls to pieces when her dad goes on (and on and on) about the bank books in the apartment. Someone might break in and steal them, etc. Finally, she makes a sign to hold up whenever her dad sets sail on some bank book talk. I’m thinking of making one about Covid-19.

When I’m by myself, I notice more. The other day, I spotted this Mondrian-esque house near us.

I also noticed this collection of bumper stickers on a nearby car. Not sure I want to know what the one on the top right corner is all about.

The answer to those questions: Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care? No and no.

Time is moving a lot more slowly these days. Was it really just about three weeks ago when Rachel and I went out to listen to live music? We went to a small venue called The Listening Room, where - as the name suggests - you are there to listen, not gab with your friends while the musicians play. I loved it. We were there for the weekly Song Suffragettes show, a showcase for female singer-songwriters who were all about Rachel’s age. Those gals were filled with talent. Just a week later, the Mayor wisely shut down all the bars. We especially loved this young woman. Her song takes on another meaning in light of our new normal. My favorite part is towards the end, when she repeats, “Baby you don’t own me. No-oh.” It sounds a bit like “yodeling” with a Southern twang.

Let’s face it, we may be getting lonely, too, as this thing continues on. I’m especially worried about the older folks in our lives who aren’t used to connecting via social media. It’s hard enough to be old without having to face life all alone. It’s heartbreaking.

I told you I was going to take your mind off your troubles. This photo of a young barbecue master was taken B.C. (Before Covid) during a food tour of East Nashville I took with some Amsterdam friends. The enthusiasm this guy had for brisket was cont… — I told you I was going to take your mind off your troubles. This photo of a young barbecue master was taken B.C. (Before Covid) during a food tour of East Nashville I took with some Amsterdam friends. The enthusiasm this guy had for brisket was contagious (in the best sense of the word, not the current sense).

Are you waking up in the middle of the night these days wondering if you just had a really bad dream? Or when you first open your eyes, do you have to remind yourself that this bad dream is your life? Been there, done that. I learned this summer that I’m prone to my own version of “magical thinking”. As in “poof” that horrendous heart failure didn’t happen and you’ll wake up and walk out of the hospital with Peter today. I’ve never been able to deal with horror. When my childhood friend Pam would invite me over to watch Creature Feature on Saturday night, I couldn’t admit to her that I was scared to death. Plus, her mom always served the best snacks. So I pretended to watch, and secretly closed my eyes during the scary parts, which was probably most of the show. And I counted the minutes until we could lighten things up with The Sonny and Cher Show, which was much more up my alley. My magical thinking kicks in almost every morning these days. “Poof!”. This pandemic is over. Time for Sonny and Cher.

Go ahead and make fun of me for loving this couple. They didn’t look like they belonged together, and yet there they were. And Cher with that dusky voice and her hair flip and those outrageous outfits: in my pre-teen dreams I was Cher. Peter and I once sang this song for a friend at his karaoke-filled 50th birthday party. What more could you ask for in a person, especially nowadays? “And when I'm sad, you're a clown/And if I get scared, you're always around.”

What lesson number are we up to? #5? Here it is: I have learned to let others help me. I’m not very good at asking for help. I usually prefer instead to overload myself and then fall apart, rather than admit I need a hand. I’m not sure we can ever thank all of you enough for all of the little and big things you did for us this summer, everything from feeding to housing to texting/emailing/calling us when we most needed it. You kept us afloat. A special shout-out to the helpers out there who work in the healthcare world. A battalion of doctors, nurses, social workers, respiratory therapists - just to name a few - saved Peter’s life this summer. You are on the battlefields taking care of us during this escalating pandemic. Many, many thanks.

And speaking of helpers, have I told you before about our wonderful neighbors in Nashville who did a million and one things for us this summer when our move was delayed? They pitched in to help - without ever having met me and knowing Peter for a whopping 15 minutes - with everything from watering the lawn, to letting the painters in, to dealing with mattresses and Amsterdam belongings showing up. So when, like the rest of the world, we needed yeast for baking last week, they came through for us once again. This also gives me the chance to play this song for you with the immortal words: “Lend me some sugar, I am your neighbor!” Years ago, when I was substitute teaching in Maplewood, N.J., a endlessly energetic student, James R., suddenly shot out of his seat, and started dancing and singing, “Shake it! Shake it! Shake it like a Polaroid picture!”. The class exploded in laughter and I never got them back on track after that. I’ve loved this song ever since.

From our own private hell this summer, to a local disaster, to the global disintegration of life as we knew it. Who knew that my training this summer - learning to wake up each day and keep going - would come in so handy and so soon? I’m reminded of a book that Rachel loved when she was little, It Could Always Be Worse. It’s based on a Yiddish folktale. Here’s the gist of the story: a man goes to his rabbi to complain that living at home with his wife and six children in a one-room hut is driving him crazy. The children are always squabbling and crying, and they are too poor to live anywhere else. The rabbi counsels him to bring a few animals inside the home. The man starts by bringing the chickens, a rooster, and a goose inside. Soon, he is back at the rabbi’s door complaining that things are even more chaotic in the home. Now there’s clucking and squawking and feathers in the food. The rabbi tells him to bring in the goat. The man complains to the rabbi that life is even worse. Bring the cow in, the rabbi says. Eventually, the rabbi tells the man to go home and let all the animals out. And lo and behold, the man thanks the rabbi. Now it’s quiet and peaceful in the home.

What does this have to do with us, you ask? I’ve spent my lifetime playing some version of the “It Could Always Be Worse“ game. No matter what I’m dealing with, I try to think about people who have it much worse than I do. It helps me feel a little less terrible. Some would say it’s a way of not dealing with what I have on my plate, but who’s bothering to listen to them? Not I, said The Little Conflict- Avoidant Red Hen. So here I go: things could always be worse. We have food. We have internet. We have books. When the world is safe again and we can let the chickens and the ducks out of the house, we won’t have anything to complain about. Or at least that’s what we tell ourselves now. But someday, we will be able to go outside again, and go to restaurants and movies. And we can go back to worrying about the little things again.

Kindness is…staying home! I found this mural in the Germantown neighborhood. This was B.T. (before the tornado).

“And when I'm sad, you're a clown/And if I get scared, you're always around.” Minus Ben, of course, who is safe and sound and in S.F.

Last lesson learned that I want to share with you: this too shall pass. Believe it or not, it will. Eventually.

Spotted this week: my own private Amsterdam in Nashville. Hope to see y’all on something other than my iPad screen soon.