Today the weight of moisture in the air and the shushing sound of wind in the trees took me back to my summers in Michigan with my grandparents. My bedroom was on the second floor and was sheltered by a huge maple tree that covered the front yard. Mornings with cicadas and the sound of wind in the tree told me that rain was coming. From my bed I could smell the coffee in the kitchen below me and hear my grandparents moving around, making breakfast, talking.

When the storm came and it promised a full day of rain there were not a lot of options for entertainment. The television had lousy reception, the radio played obscure classical music that my grandfather adored but was too discordant for my taste. Grandparents were off, working on cars in the garage or other mysterious things that they did.

I was left to my own devices. So I would draw. I drew in the kitchen, in the living room, in my bedroom, in the fort I made in the guest room. Beyond my grandparents there was no one else to see and nowhere else to go. We were an island of puttering, dreaming folks who drank coffee and played scrabble late at night.

All this came back to me today when I was walking my dog before a storm settled over my house. I am not a successful tv watcher. Pandemic quarantine evenings (after work) were devoted to exploring images of feeling isolated, strange dreams, and fears of never again seeing or experiencing the physical presence of others. The series, Pandemic Boyfriend, was visceral, a brain dump of all my emotions without judgement. It is now July and the virus situation is growing worse. I’ve been mulling what to do now, in this extended isolation. Drawings are darker now, the Haywain by Bosch comes to mind, person fighting person. I want to find a kernel of hope. I want to build a fort and hide in it for a while and come out to see the people I love. Until then, I will continue to draw my way through this time.