Wednesday, October 21, 2020 The Nugget Newspaper, Sisters, Oregon
PINES
By T. Lee Brown
Podding
about
Growing up, summer
days are hot in the garden.
Mom sends us out to pick
pods. Early on come the
peas, many of which never
make it to the kitchen. My
brother and I shell them on
the spot and wolf them down
raw. Later come the beans in
their long, tough cocoons.
In grade school, we learn
that whales and dolphins are
social mammals who live in
hierarchical groups called
pods. In middle school, <pod
people= becomes a term for
the super-popular kids4
hierarchical mammals, sure,
but it refers to the horror
movie Invasion of the Body
Snatchers (which my parents
would never let me watch).
I head south to California
for college. Two friends of
Mexican descent speak in an
exaggerated, fake Spanglish;
they make a hilarious com-
edy duo. From this arises
our word for parents, nos
padres: <the pods.=
Moving back north I
make a new friend who is,
like me, small and nerdy.
We both loved <The Dark
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?
grandkids.= It may require
becoming a full-time baby-
sitter or having your chil-
dren move in with you.
We visit a podded cousin.
She and her pod-pal pile
over each other in a frenzy
to catch water skippers. I
want that for our son: nor-
mal, kid-to-kid contact.
I bring it up with a friend
in Sisters. It9s like asking
someone to the prom (not
that I9ve ever asked anyone
to the prom). No, they9re
not up for podding. My hus-
band9s not keen on it either.
I feel deflated but relieved.
Managing more vectors
sounds stressful.
School ramps up. Now
<pod= implies a group of
well-off families who9ve
hired teachers to educate
their children during what
used to be the normal school
day. Some admire pod-par-
ents for their ingenuity and
dedication. Others judge
them for adding to the load
of inequity that COVID
heaps upon lower-income
people. I can see both sides.
News comes down the
pike: My son9s respira-
tory condition is no longer
considered high-risk. Kids
with similar diagnoses who
got COVID didn9t develop
severe complications and
die. Hallelujah!
I9m pleased but con-
fused. Now can he go to
school when it opens up?
No; apparently we missed
our chance.
For months we9ve been
talking about doing DIY
nature classes and study
groups with a few people.
Suddenly one family opts
for private-school pod-
ding instead. The same day,
another announces their
move across the country
4 our oldest friends here,
from the days when both our
families were <full-timing=
in campgrounds and cave
grottos. We will miss them
greatly.
Before I can process all
that, the forest fills with
dense smoke. When it lifts,
my grown stepdaughter takes
a COVID test and comes to
visit. Maskless, we glori-
ously pod with her and her
dog. We hug goodbye. Real
hugs. Real tears. Then she
moves across the country.
Our tiny pod of mother,
father, child has done pretty
well this year, consider-
ing. Blessed with a home,
each other, extended fam-
ily, friends, community, the
deep beauty of nature, we
have the sense to be grateful.
But it9s been hard.
I wonder if our pod could
safely expand to include my
pods. They haven9t hugged
their grandchild since the
third-grade musical at
Sisters Elementary School
last February. How long ago
that feels, back when the
whole auditorium, teeming
with kids and families, felt
like one big pod.
Despite social distanc-
ing and political divides, I
realize, we still share planet,
habitat, DNA, and spirit.
We help each other through
fire and plague. Podding
together in the larger sense
brings joy and conflict,
along with a sense of grati-
tude and responsibility.
We all belong to the
great pod of humanity. My
friends, it is an honor to
pod with you here in Sisters
Country. May all our pods
be healthy, strong, and filled
with love.
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PHOTO BY ALEX JORDAN
In the
Crystal= when we were
kids. Now we call ourselves
podlings, after the movie9s
heroic Gelfling puppets.
Eventually I meet a
smart, handsome, creative,
passionate guy. Apple begets
the iPod. My boyfriend buys
me a sleek silver one with a
whole bunch of memory. I
marry him.
What are called food
trucks in other cities are
called food carts in Portland.
Groups of them are called
pods. I invite people to
Black Tie Food Cart Night
at a pod on Hawthorne. We
spread lavish tablecloths,
silverware, candlesticks. We
wear tuxedos and peacock
feathers, pop open cham-
pagne to go with our fried
pies.
Officially, what drives
me out of Portland are health
problems. (Just between you
and me, the city9s evolution
into a densely populated
hipsterville might9ve been a
factor). Among other prob-
lems, I have developed a
severe mold allergy.
A friend passes, too
young. His wife kindly gives
us his little R-Pod travel
trailer 4 an escape pod.
We live in it, exploring and
camping. Eventually we find
our dream home in the pines.
Fast-forward four years.
A virus spreads throughout
the land. An acquaintance
asks if we9re looking for
<pod partners.= I9m not sure
what that means, but my son
has a respiratory condition
and I9ve got neuroimmune
issues, so I say no.
Grandparent-friends use
new verbs: podding and
bubbling (not to be confused
with bubbe-ing). <To pod=
means <to get to hug your
11