It was a Wednesday. Not just any Wednesday, but a sunny Wednesday – a welcome reprieve from the dreary, gun-metal sky of the previous day. My demeanor matched the weather, as Cowboy and I drove 20 minutes away to a community center for his first pottery class.
I watched as he followed step-by-step instructions, turning lumps of clay into masterpieces. His first creation was a small bowl; he used a rubber stamp to imprint the word “believe” in the middle of the bowl. His second piece was a shallower bowl; he gently pressed a silk leaf into the clay, leaving its design. A toothpick was his tool of choice to give the edges of each piece ridges. I was impressed. At class’s end, we left his artwork there to dry. In a few days, he’d give each piece an acrylic coat of many colors. I was sure he’d pick all the blue hues and possibly purple.
We drove home happy, eager to see friends again the next morning when we returned to the center for another class. But after breaking his heart that Wednesday afternoon, telling him that the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo had been cancelled and we wouldn’t be going the next day, Cowboy decided to stay home Thursday morning.
Flash and I quickly found alternate plans, which is not an easy feat – the only thing that rivals watching bull riding, barrel racing, and calf roping is, of course, swimming. We packed up the van, and took Cowboy to Angleton, Texas to enjoy their indoor pool. It’s one of his favorite places, and it was what we all needed. The lazy river, hot tub, and slides helped melt our disappointment and my growing concern.
But only temporarily. On the way to the car after swimming, Cowboy resumed asking about the rodeo, as he had done for seven hours the previous day.
The news reports changed hourly, and I knew that would be our last swimming trip for a long time. Of course, I didn’t tell Cowboy; I had to pace how often I broke bad news to him. I knew more was coming.
Special Olympics Texas cancelled all practices and tournaments until next fall. Church was cancelled and went to on-line services. Everything we’d turned to for recreation with others, and worshipping with each other, was stripped away. Everything except the One who made it all; suddenly I saw our situation as a testing of our faith. And I hoped that most days I’d prove diligent and faithful, rather than whiny.
Thankfully, in the midst of the world’s changing, Flash had made special plans for us. For the first time in 26 years, he planned a getaway without my assistance. The day after swimming, we surprised Cowboy with an out-of-town trip to see our friends Boone and Oakley. Several years ago, they’d built a cabin with their own hands, then moved from the Houston area to their cabin. Then, they lived in that cabin for a year and a half while having their new house built. And generously, they offered their cabin to us for the last weekend of Spring Break.
Of course, when Flash first presented his getaway idea, I’d been apprehensive; we hadn’t spent a weekend with friends in a long time – not since Cowboy’s anxiety had worsened. But these were long-time friends who’d known Cowboy all his life; it would be a safe, judgment-free zone.
Still, for over an hour of our three-hour drive, my mother’s heart was anxious, mostly regarding our rapidly changing calendar. I knew there would be no school the following week. Urban Air, Jumping World, Moody Gardens, movie theaters, putt-putt golf, dine-in restaurants - the list of Everything Cowboy Enjoys Doing in Public would soon be obsolete.
But as freeways gave way to pine trees, and the dirt turned from brown to deep red, I felt my shoulders relax. We were escaping chaos. We were running away from reality at 85 miles an hour, although it felt like we were moving in molasses. I couldn’t wait to get to the country. Boone was a successful business owner for decades, and Oakley a total city girl. Now, they had completely acclimated to country life, and Oakley had killed 11 feral hogs so far, many at night while she waited for them in her hunting stand. I couldn’t imagine, but envied her skills.
In true Lindquist fashion, we found ourselves lost at a five-way stop in perhaps the smallest East Texas downtown I’ve ever seen.
“Go to the right,” I told Flash, trying to interpret his hand-drawn map. “It looks like it’s right.”
As soon as he turned, I hollered, “No, wait. I think it’s that way,” pointing back to the way from which we’d just come.
We sat in a parking lot for five minutes, discussing the pros and cons of turning right. Finally, I said, “Let’s call Boone.”
Thank God. We’d had no idea we’d come from a different direction than Flash had originally planned. Had we not asked for directions, we’d be practicing social distancing smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Which might have been easier.
When we got to the homestead, I breathed in the freedom. It was a reprieve to see our friends again, and the cabin was a gorgeous labor of love - perfect for the three of us. The rocky dirt road crunched under our feet, and the real world was light years away. I prayed, Please Lord, slow time down this weekend.
And He did.
The guys took a tour of the land on a Kawasaki Mule, while Oakley and I caught up on life. It was more than simply “picking up where we’d left off.” For me, we opened the door to a new chapter in our friendship, both of us in a different phase of life.
The next day, we visited friends Nanny and Pappy at their farm. Next door lives their daughter, Tanya, her husband, Glen, and a herd of miniature silky fainting goats. As we approached the goats, Cowboy was apprehensive about getting too close. But within three minutes, Pappy had him in the pen with the babies, and Cowboy couldn’t quit smiling. Soon, Cowboy was walking up to goats all over the yard, petting them, and being followed by a female named Arizona. I kept watching to see if any goats would faint, but none did. Apparently, they keel over when alarmed or too stressed. I know the feeling. Just last week, I ran out of chocolate, and felt a little woozy myself.
For lunch, we took Nanny and Pappy to Sylvia Mae’s Soul Food in Jacksonville, one of our favorite places we discovered the previous year. Purple hull peas, cucumber and tomato salad, the best greens I’ve ever had, and water cornbread were a few of the selections I made on this second visit. I’d never heard of water cornbread until I met Sylvia Mae – no gluten, no flour. I’m going to try making it soon. But I know it won’t compare to Sylvia Mae’s. She gained two new patrons in Pappy and Nanny that day – they’ll be going back.
In a few hours, we were back at Boone and Oakley’s, and Cowboy went fishing. Then, Flash, Cowboy, and I took a drive in the Mule – and it was my turn to drive.
“You’re not driving a jet ski,” Flash hollered as he hung on tightly to the frame and swung out past the passenger side opening, as I maneuvered across the bumpy paths.
“But we have to go fast,” I answered. Indeed, it was the most driving fun I’d had since last jet skiing.
That night, crickets serenaded us as we sat outside and visited; I was filled with gratitude and peace. We stayed as late as possible on Sunday, then headed to Houston so Flash could go to work the next day. Pulling out of their driveway, we already missed our home away from home and our beautiful hosts, and Flash and I longed to go hog hunting with Oakley that night. The weekend had brought me healing I didn’t know I needed, and a reserve of peace I’d need the next week.
Cowboy had been different all weekend. He had minimal anxiety only once, in the afternoon as usual, for a minute or less. We had no TV on, no news reports, and gave undivided attention to Cowboy most of the time. I remembered when we’d evacuated for Hurricane Ike, and lived in a small extended-stay hotel for a couple of weeks. Cowboy had been easier then, too.
Mom had remarked, “Well, there was no phone ringing. No chores to be done. Nothing distracting y’all from giving him more focused attention.”
It was a relearned lesson that would serve me well in the coming days. I resolved to spend more time with Cowboy, without distractions. Monday, I made a morning schedule and an afternoon schedule for him. And he seemed happier when I shared those with him. He smiled as he got ready for the day, then moved on to chore time after breakfast. He needed to know what to expect, especially in such a time of uncertainty. We’d been in uncertain times before, but this was different. Somehow, I had to explain to my social son why he couldn’t go anywhere, and why school was still out. Previously, he missed those things only when he was ill.
Every day brought the same questions. On his iPad, or via sign language, he would write “party,” and list the names of friends he wanted to invite over. He typed names of those he wanted to go visit. He wrote “pool” a million times, even though I’d told him repeatedly that all the community pools are closed until summer anyway, and that the indoor pools are closed now too.
But my explaining did little to appease. Not understanding, he repeatedly pointed to his nose – a gesture he often does when he is ill.
“No, Cowboy, you’re not sick. Other people are sick. Everything is closed so nobody else gets sick.”
It was a hamster wheel conversation every day, usually in the afternoon.
“We can go there when all this is over,” was all I could say with honesty.
How can I balance physical health and mental health for Cowboy? I still wonder daily. How can I protect him from depression or more anxiety from not being able to see his friends? Like every parent, I can’t.
However, I’m determined to connect him technologically. We’ve used the Marco Polo app on my phone, sending videos back and forth to friends. After successfully attending six meetings on Zoom in five days, and one meeting in Google Hangouts, I’m looking for the best way he can connect with groups of his friends. On-line meetings energize me, and I know it will cheer Cowboy.
But two days ago, Cowboy’s questions lessened, and he had no anxiety in the afternoon. Yesterday, he asked to go to the park and walk, rather than asking to do things that aren’t available. As we walked the long path, around a beautiful pond, chalk drawings and sayings greeted us along the way.
“We’ve got this.”
“Thank you doctors and nurses. Thank you first responders.”
“Be joyful.”
“Kindness is contagious too.”
“We will be okay.”
“Lather, rinse, repeat.”
“If you’re happy and you know it, wash your hands.”
“We’re in this together.”
Every few steps, the concrete path gave us a pep talk, and I felt lighter than I had all week. As we walked, we saw Star, one of Cowboy’s favorite people from church. He didn’t run to shake her hand or hug her, but waved and said “Hi” from a distance. Star told us where we could find a mother duck hatching her ducklings in a school play yard nearby; we got there just in time to see the last duckling coming out of his shell.
It was our second day without anxiety. Cowboy is adjusting and adapting, and I couldn’t be prouder of his efforts. He’s now watching the news even though I’m often not; perhaps it’s helping him come to terms with our situation. Yesterday afternoon, he watched his first soap opera, General Hospital, much to my dismay. I thought it would stress him out, but maybe watching that drama counteracted the drama of real life. Even more surprising was my seeing characters from my watching days in the 80s; some things truly never change.
We’re all adapting to ever-increasing restrictions and daily changes. And I hate change. But change can refine my faith and make me a better parent. Cowboy and I are painting rocks, tie-dying shirts, and making a stepping stone for the garden. We’ve potted plants, taken walks, and driven to the beach to watch the waves and birds. Every day, we come up with distractions from the obvious, which helps me as much as it does Cowboy. And we’re exercising on a regular basis.
That’s right, I’m exercising - clearly a sign that the Lord’s return is imminent.
A mere 14 days ago, Cowboy made his clay bowls. It seems like months ago. Now, the pottery waits – dry and naked –for the potter to return, while the potter tries to understand why the world has closed.
It may be closed for quite some time. It could get much worse before it gets better. Because Cowboy will age out of our school district this year, his last day at his vocational program, before Spring Break, may have been his last day forever. Only time will tell. But in the meantime, we’re clinging to our Hope, because of our faith. And thankfully, as the chalk prophet proclaimed, “We’re in this together.”