Before Carol and I met in person two years ago, she wanted me to know she wore hearing aids. I guess she viewed it as some sort of disability or infirmity that I should be aware of in case I had any second thoughts.

While the coronavirus lockdown has been – for me anyway – a walk in the park without the walk, I could see Carol’s edges fraying like an overused couch. Six months without a planned trip for two people whose relationship has been defined by travel, Carol was itching to get on the road again.

Carol insisted I put the phrase “making homemade bread” in the first sentence of this blog, if I intended to keep the title as it is.. For New Orleanians, making bread is more of a quest than a kitchen hobby. The famous “french bread” of the New Orleans po-boy sandwich is as critical to Crescent City cuisine as Slap Yo Mamma crawfish boil. I

Carol noticed a cobweb stuck to my shorts and opined it had formed naturally from a recent, lengthy stay on the couch. Today, I’m going to provide my most devoted readers with a peek behind the curtain of what a writer’s mind looks like when there isn’t an idea present anywhere near it.

The negative test result came Monday afternoon to Carol’s great relief. She didn’t show it (she’s always sunshine on a cloudy day), but the prospect of contracting coronavirus weighed heavily on her. Margaritas all around Monday evening!

t was the day I got up a little later than usual. Maybe a lot later than usual, because when my eyes fully opened, there was a new tv table in the bedroom, a new water pitcher in the fridge, a room deodorizer and a different brand of stain remover near the washing machine.

There’s a strong sense that we are gradually coming out of self-quarantine. As usual, I am of two minds (at least) on this. On the one hand, I will be happy to see Carol become increasingly free to be out and about again, frequently with me in supportive tow. On the other hand, I am honestly sad that this period of self-withdrawal is ending. But I don’t want this to come off sounding as antisocial as it sounds (or probably is).

The feel of this planned march on Saturday was that it was less of a protest than an expression, a demonstration of whom we believe we truly are as a country and a people.

The other day, loud banging suddenly disturbed the rhythmic progress of pointless respiration emanating from my sector of the couch. Dogged residuals of traditional masculinity fired urgent messages to my brain that I needed to see what was up.

Chalmette, as I was told as a kid, was built on reclaimed swampland. It was said, when you dug in your backyard, you might unearth an old refrigerator or a window air conditioner. I never believed it until I saw my father dig up an old a/c and tried to get it to work.*