Mostly Good

Every Wednesday night for the last several years, I have gone to my neighbor’s house to visit with her and watch tv. Mary is debilitated by MS, diagnosed at the age of nineteen, and has endured many heartbreaks over the recent years including the sudden death of her youngest son and a divorce after forty years of marriage. Her fortune, in light of all that loss, is that she lives on a street that is a tight-knit community, that checks in on her, and helps her in many different ways including sitting beside her and watching The Great British Baking Show.

I had not done my usual Wednesday night visit with Mary for several weeks due to the holidays, a snowstorm, and other commitments. Through another neighbor (Marianne) I found out Mary wanted to update her living room and I offered to help. The two of us showed up at her house on New Year’s Day and I listened to what she wanted and offered some ideas. Truth be told, though, the minute I got home I immediately felt overwhelmed. I told Will about some of my ideas, he said he needed a weekend project, and within thirty minutes texted me a color palette. The two of us went to Mary’s house the following Saturday morning, Will loaded up with his paint samples and ideas. “What do you want, Mary,” he asked her and then fine-tuned the plan based on the feeling she wanted to evoke. She showed him a loveseat she thought might work, he gave his stamp of approval, and then he found a new rug that wouldn’t bunch up when her wheelchair rolled onto it. We had a game plan.

The following Saturday we got to work. Marianne had patched the nail holes and we did lots of caulking and smoothing and the not-so-fun stuff before the paint got rolled on. After that we got to work on color – I was the edger, Will was the roller. As is always the case with me when the first coat goes on, I thought it looked terrible and that we had made a huge mistake. The professional next to me, though, was cool as a cucumber and firmly believed it was going to be awesome. We ate lunch and then tackled the second coat. It was starting to come together. I styled her shelves, Will assembled her loveseat, and Marianne came over to help us put the rug down and move the furniture. The end result was that it looked fresh and tranquil, and most importantly, Mary loved it. And for Will and me? We gave our overwhelmed brains a rest from current events, had a day free of doom scrolling on our phones, helped someone out who appreciated it, and who bought us tacos for lunch as a thank you.

The following week I was at my grandson’s indoor soccer game. It is not my favorite thing to do as it’s hard to watch. The boards are about four feet up then plexiglass so either you stand the entire time or, in my case, you sit in a mini version of bleachers and see it all from behind black netting. Mabel kept me company with a book on dragons and pretty soon the game was over and we climbed down from our row. A few minutes later I noticed a young dad in a wheelchair and my first thought was, “How could he even see his kid play?” The boards were too high for him to see over and there wasn’t room on either side of the bleachers for him to roll his chair in to watch. I waited with Michael and the others for my grandson to come out but every once in awhile would glance back at this man. I felt like I should go to the manager and say, “DO YOU SEE WHAT’S HAPPENING HERE? THAT THIS GUY HAS TO PAY FOR A KID TO PLAY THAT HE CAN’T EVEN SEE?” But I am aware that I am so mad about everything in this country that I’m sitting on a a hair trigger of rage that needs to be closely monitored. A few minutes later I saw him high-fiving the kids on the team as they made their way off their field as a canvas bag sat on his lap. “Banana or orange,” he asked every kid as they passed by, pulling out their choice from the bag, and that simple, poignant act of service made me want to sob.

I stopped by Mary’s yesterday afternoon and she told me about one of her aides that comes at night to put her to bed. These women spend their day driving all over the area providing services for the disabled- their nights ending well past dark. She was at a Hispanic grocery store and was stopped in the parking lot by ICE. She is Puerto Rican and now carries her passport with her every day so she doesn’t get arrested. .

People are mostly good, I tell myself over and over. I know this, I’ve witnessed this. Meanwhile, those holding the microphone are loudly cheering when the undocumented are getting rounded up as if the food on their plate, their mother being cared for in assisted living, and the roof over their head hasn’t been provided by them.

I try to drown them out then decide that the mostly good need to get mostly better at fighting harder. Will it work? Who knows? I am a person of unrelenting hope and clinging to that seems like a better plan than getting swallowed whole by those who quote scripture as hate gnaws at their souls and calls itself patriotism.