As a nurse of 35 years, a person who dedicated my entire life from the age of 20 to the medical profession, I believe that not only should low-income students be given free education for medical fields—all people should be given free tuition. I do not believe that nursing is for everybody. I believe it is a calling, not a chosen profession, and a lot of the nurses you see having difficulty dealing with this job are nurses that got into it for the wrong reason.

We are held as heroes every day we put on that uniform, but some wear that uniform for how they are seen in it, not to take care of others. We do not want to be called heroes; we just want to do the job that we are called to do. We want to have the equipment we need. We want to stop having these high nurse-to-patient ratios that cause us not to be able to care for our patients which lead us to mental health problems which lead us to difficulty dealing with the decisions we have to make.

It is not feasible in any nurse’s mind that you can take seven patients to care for in a shift but that is acceptable to a hospital. Regardless of how nurses try to fight back we are not heard. I feel like the people that run and own these large health organizations or hospitals have sold their soul for a price and they are attempting to make the nurses sell theirs.

Nursing is a field that has evolved and continues to grow over the years. So has my education about nursing. I see a large number of older nurses leaving the field because it has become something we want no part of. It stands out very clearly in my mind when I was told at a hospital orientation that our patients were to be referred to as our clients. In that moment I felt like nursing was being set back 50 years. A client was something that a prostitute would call somebody that paid them for a service. It was one of the lowest points in my career because I never until that moment felt like I was providing a service that could be paid for. What I was doing for another human being was something I did because I cared.

—Barbara Moss

As I sit on my patio at 7 a.m., sipping an Americano, my plants anxiously await being fed, groomed, and watered. They are oblivious to the fact that it is day 66 of lockdown due to COVID-19. Sounds like prison. Feels like prison. My 300-square-foot studio apartment in Montrose, California—a far cry from the 3,800-square-foot condo I shared with Carl Peter, my boyfriend of seven years, in Michigan, my birthplace—isn’t much larger than a prison cell.

I wish I was a plant.

Talking to my plants are the only conversations I have had in public without wearing a mask once it became mandatory. I don’t have any children, pets, or a significant other to hunker down with. Feels like solitary confinement. Thank God for my 19” TV (not a typo), Facetime, and Wi-Fi.

Montrose, California is a quaint town housing bars, restaurants, unique shops, Starbucks, Trader Joe’s, a bank, a post office, and the Montrose Bowl built in 1940 (used exclusively for private bowling parties). Honolulu Avenue, the main street, has been hosting the Montrose Harvest Market every Sunday since 2002. The avenue is lined with tents filled with produce, hot ethnic foods, yogurts, homemade jams, French baked goods, plants, and arts and crafts. Bands take turns serenading patrons with rhythm and blues, rock, and country music. The banner suspended above the road, for 18 years, reads “SUNDAYS 9 AM TO 2 PM RAIN OR SHINE.” Who would have ever thought to add the words, “EXCEPT FOR A PANDEMIC”?

Not until March 19, 2020.

On August 8, 2018, Carl Peter died suddenly. I was distraught. Our romance was unmatched. We met at a Starbucks. I was the barista and he was the customer. Sparks ignited like Fourth of July fireworks. He was a majestic German man with gorgeous locks of white hair who had played soccer for 52 years. He was my European heartthrob. One of the regulars at Starbucks would say, when Carl Peter wasn’t there, “Hey Blondie, where’s Dagwood?” and painted a watercolor of Blondie and Dagwood and gave it to me. It now adorns my vanity table. Carl Peter and I were inseparable.

Since I had lived in Los Angeles in the 80s and 90s, I decided to rediscover the land of milk and honey. I never lost touch with my California friends, but a twenty-five-year absence was a shock to my system. Rent, insurance, and gas were twice that of Michigan prices. But the cold, snow, and ice storms had become my enemy. I’d had enough, even though leaving my family and friends made me second guess my decision. If it wasn’t for the loss of Carl Peter, I would still be living in Michigan, going through the quarantine with him, tolerating the cold, snow, and ice storms.

And not alone.

Dazed and confused, I packed up all my cares and woes, boxes upon boxes, researching moving companies and auto transporters. I headed west like a madwoman on a mission, in search of my “new” normal, with a thousand questions dancing in my head. Am I crazy? Am I too old for this? What about a job? Can I afford California?

Before leaving LA in 1994, shortly after the Northridge earthquake, I was working in the film industry. Ironically, I was the costume designer on a Disney period film, Goodbye Miss Liberty (based on a true story). It was about the 1918 Spanish Influenza. Some of the sets were dressed with antique medical equipment, while actors portraying doctors, nurses, and patients donned vintage hospital uniforms and gowns. And here it is 100 years later and our world is reliving it … all over again. Daunting. What does that say for 2120?

California is entering Stage 2 now, with 90,000 + cases of Coronavirus and 3,600 deaths to date (approximately 220 cases and 9 deaths per 100,000 residents). Parks, beaches, and some retail businesses are reopening with restrictions. Even casinos and pet salons. Scary. Some say it is too soon while others are elated. I am concerned that people will jump out of the frying pan into the fire.

Montrose Harvest Market partially re-opened on Sunday, May 17. A large sign with guidelines was posted at the entrance. I walked there wearing my mask and glove ensemble. For the most part, people followed the guidelines, with one or two exceptions. The market was half the size of the “old” normal. Chalk lines were drawn at 6-foot distances. Produce, French baked goods, yogurts, and homemade jams occupied the tables. The missing links were hot ethnic foods (I miss the tempura shrimp sticks from the Tornado Potato vender), plants, arts and crafts, and bands, all to return as part of Stage 3.

As I sit on my patio at 4 p.m., sipping a glass of Pinot Noir, my plants fed, groomed, and watered, I hear a bird splashing in my birdbath behind me, oblivious to the fact that it is day 66 of lockdown. I remain still. I don’t dare turn around for fear I will scare him off. I don’t want him to leave. I enjoy his company. I call him Carl Peter.

I wish I was a bird.

—Barbara Anderson

I used to live on 8 acres at the end of half a mile of private dirt road in the Santa Monica Mountains outside of Los Angeles. It wasn’t particularly isolated; about a dozen families lived along the narrow one-lane road that ran alongside a little creek. Many of us had dogs.

Because it was a private road (named Paradise Lane, of all things) we were able to informally agree to forego the leash laws and allow our dogs to run free. Our three-house property was home to three families and five dogs. There were about a half a dozen other dogs scattered along the lane, and all were free to come and go as they pleased, even though, most of the time, they stayed close to their own homes and humans. These dozen or so dogs self-organized into a set of about four packs with surprisingly rigid boundaries and identities.

Flora drinks from the creek. Courtesy of Nesdon Booth.

All of the dogs we had in these days, as well as the ones we knew from our neighbors, tended to be extremely healthy and long lived, most of them surpassing 20 years of age. In those years, before the drought, they were also able to drink freely from the creek, leading some of our friends, who envied the longevity of our dogs, to claim that the creek was a canine fountain of youth, and call our little valley Dog Heaven, as it probably was.

Ever since I moved away from that valley, I haven’t really been able to abide the thought of the life a dog might have in a house or apartment. After my sister, who lived and then died in one of the houses on our property, was gone, I took one of her dogs, a huge powerful Akita mix, to live with me in a shared house in Berkeley. He was not as lonely as most urban dogs might be, but still, I had to sometimes leave him home alone, where he would become anxious and chew adorable little round holes all over my bedding. Knowing the life he had had on Paradise, despite the great comfort he was to me during my grieving, I could not bear to keep him away from that life, and so returned him to live out his days in joy in dog heaven on Paradise Lane.

I have misgivings about how pets, especially well-trained ones, are essentially enslaved by their human masters. I have had dogs all my life and find enormous comfort in their company. They are so eager and willing to be with us it used to feel as if we were not really violating their sovereignty when we collar, leash, and confine them. My experience living in the Santa Monica mountains with dogs who were able to live so freely and closer to the way humans and dogs may have lived together, without fences or leashes, for the thousands of years that we co-evolved to develop the special bond we share, changed the way I feel about owning a pet. Dogs are, in fact, sovereign beings, with their own needs and desires, and some right to live their lives on their own terms. I do not now have a dog, despite having a little granddaughter whom I would so love to expose to the ecstatic and overwhelming love of a puppy, something that was one of the greatest joys of my childhood. I’m not completely tainted by the knowledge of how divine a dog’s life might be, even as a pet, and may yet rescue a puppy to live here with us in our suburban backyard. But neither am I as cavalier as I once was about dominating the life of a dog.

—Nesdon Booth