A Year of Hard Times
By: Noe, Lisa Arana
Tags: Short Story, Wildfires, Nonfiction, Friendship, A Cornered Gurl

A Year of Hard Times

2020 — Smoke and Ashes

(Sunflowers in our Front Yard in a Sky of Yellow Haze) Author’s Photo

I brewed a strong cup of coffee and called my high school English teacher today. Her name is Claire, Ms. Claire, to be precise. She is 87 years old. Claire is recovering from a major stroke. Her daughter attributes the stroke to this year’s sharp increase in chain-smoking that rose steadily each morning as she read the paper.

During our video chat, Claire mentioned that she hasn’t seen my hair this long since I was seventeen. I haven’t brushed it. She raises a balding right eyebrow. Her speech is still slurred from the stroke and she has to pause from time to time to recall a lost word but I understand her just fine. Her sense of humor has remained sharp and steady as a blunt rock.

I promise to ask my wife to cut my hair. I rub my hand over the top of my head in quick circles and lament in dramatic jest, but where will the birds nest? We let out a much-needed laugh. Claire reaches for an invisible cigarette. It’s hard to break a seventy-year habit. I tell her I am proud of her for quitting.

Claire’s expression shifts to a serious look, like I might be suspended and assigned summer school if I am not completely honest. She asks if the armed “Pro-Trump” militias have left the Oregon State Capitol Building. I adjust my smartphone so she can see the yellow haze outside my window to assure her that the smoke from the wildfires is much too thick for anyone to be marching around in.

Her daughter jumps in on the conversation and reminds us that Claire is on restriction from all political discussions while she is in recovery. She hands Claire a glass of orange juice, quickly, as if it were a valium but it doesn’t even come with a splash of vodka. Claire rolls her eyes and I wink back at the screen — she chucks her foam “stress ball” at the couch. Her aim is still impressive with that good arm. We all chuckle.

Claire is a tough old bird. She survived polio in her late teens, left an alcoholic husband and raised three daughters as a single mom. She beat the odds and attended night school to become an English teacher in her early thirties. I ask if COVID-19 reminded her of polio in the 1950s. She bellows, she has never in her life seen anything as bad as COVID-19, this President and 2020. Fuck 2020! I echo, Fuck 2020!

Her daughter gives us a sideways look. Claire playfully shoos her away from her wheelchair. I smile remembering the first time I heard Claire cuss. It was after graduation. I didn’t win any awards but Claire invited me to go out to coffee, said I could stop calling her Ms. Rhodes, lit up a cigarette and extended the pack toward me. I passed on smoking but took up profanity.

Damnit.

I am glad that we have stayed in touch all of these years. I was such a pain in the ass as a student and spent a lot of time in detention. No one knew anything about learning disabilities back then but she wouldn’t give up on me and I sure as hell will not give up on her, not now, not ever.

Claire asks how things are going. I tell her about all the animals that B. and I have adopted since this year turned sour with people losing their jobs, packing up and leaving their pets behind. I tell her about the barn cats: Thelma and Louise and the Muscovy Ducks: Hilda, Gilda, Matilda and Geraldine Jr. (I point out that Geraldine is named after my mother and Claire nods, smiling). Finally, I list off the newest addition of rabbits: Hazel, Maude, Gracie and Nutless George. Claire asks if the rabbits bite and I confirm her suspicion by showing the chewed up cuff of my shirt sleeve. Claire inquires about how our old poodle is taking all of this and I promise that, while he is not amused, he is still King.

Claire asks about the garden and I try to prove that I know a little about science. I straighten up in my chair to explain that we are going to try our hand at phytoremediation on the ash contaminated soil. I tell her about the benefits of growing mushrooms and sunflowers and that we will be switching to raised beds.

Claire wonders if we were able to harvest anything before the ash fell and I assure her that we sent a carload of squash to the shelter. I pan the phone’s camera to show off cupboards stocked with pickles and kraut and then, I open the fridge so she can see that it is filled with vegetables and jars of kimchi. She requests that we send her some of my wife’s pickles and that makes me happy.

Claire’s eyes begin to grow heavy, looking about ready for a nap. We exchange an I love you, turn our phones off, gently . . . and then, it begins to rain.