I have been an observer of humans all my life. My father used to say, “People are the same everywhere,” and I feel like my life has been a field study in seeing if I agree with him. And that means: I talk to people. The cashier at the gas station, the person on the park bench, on the airplane, in the grocery store line, taxi/Uber/Lyft drivers.

But the people I have studied possibly the most are the lone, bar belly-uppers. And I’m worried about them right now.

A little history: I’m not picky when it comes to what kind of bar. Impossible-to-reserve kitchen bars stools at 3 star Michelin restaurants, the corner Irish pub replete with Gaelic dirges, artsy holes-in-the wall where a poetry slam can happen any minute. And does. When you peel away the outer layers…I have found that people want to tell their stories. And the ones who sit alone at bars often want to do just that. They want to be seen and heard. They want to know that they’re not alone. And ultimately…people want to love and be loved. All that can happen, in a variety of doses, when humans have the courage to take their loneliness out into the world and risk a conversation with a stranger. And a bar, whether you’re there to eat or drink or connect with humanity, is a solution for loneliness that right now…can’t really happen. Again, I’m worried.

My very favorite sort of bar is the kind that doesn’t have a sign out front. Just a winking Pabst neon in a back window telling me that there are day drinkers in there who don’t want outsiders sharing the barkeep’s attention. The barkeep who loves to hear their fishing and hunting tales. Over and over again. And why wouldn’t he or she? Especially the she’s. These belly-uppers want their she-keeps all to themselves, because the she-keeps are the tougher nuts to crack…and once those she-keeps crack, those belly-uppers belong to her. They like to belong to her. To be called “Hon.” Shake-a-day, Hon? You’ve had enough, Hon. How’s the old lady, Hon? Tell her to come around one of these days, Hon.

For the almost thirty years I’ve lived in Montana, I’ve taken my father’s field study to these 11:00 am stool dwellers that still smell like last night’s whiskey, sitting in remote bars all over this state. I have an eagle eye for them from any number of rural two-lane highways that snake around Montana. When I’m sick of myself, I get in my truck and drive these roads, going right where I’ve gone left, and left where I’ve gone right, until I find that lone watering hole with that winking neon, park, and go in.

It’s pretty much the same every time: I enter and they all straighten up a bit, like they’ve just gotten a firm flick in the middle of their back from someone they’re not very fond of. Then they return to their previous position, rotate their chin toward the door, and then point it upward, slowly and just a bit, so that they’re looking at me sotto chin. It’s a practiced pose. They don’t quite land on tourist because a tourist wouldn’t come into a bar like this. But they don’t quite land on local either.

The bartender saves them from their performance and smiles directly at me as I saddle up on a stool. “What’re’we having today, Hon?”

This is the part that always throws me for a loop. Because I’m not really there to drink and so I’ve forgotten to prepare my poison. That’s the kiss of death in places like this. You have to know your poison from the time you put your car into park. You have to know your poison so that if you become a return customer, you can be given your poison without even asking. And the bartenders…they remember. So you better pick right. Because if you change it the next time you come around, and they’ve brought you what you got last time, it’s an insult to their acceptance of you in this dark den on the side of a dirt road with denizens that look like this is one of two stops on the map of their current life.

But not the map of their whole life. And it’s that map that I want to know all about. I want to see the sameness in them.

“I’ll have a beer and a shot of whiskey,” is always a safe thing to say in the way of being socially accepted in this kind of place. Hopefully they won’t notice that it’s going to take me a long time to drink it.

The people on the bar stools crack a she’s-not-half-bad smile. I love being made “good” for something that other people would find “bad”— drinking whiskey and beer, never mind before noon. What they don’t know is that I don’t like beer. And whiskey is okay. In a toddy. With local honey and Meyer lemons. And a dash of cayenne. But I’m not on that kind of stool. Those stool dwellers take a bit longer to talk if they talk at all. There’s a good chance, in fact, that they were raised not to talk to strangers. But I feel sad for them, sitting there, looking at their cell phones and adjusting their couture blouses and twisting their diamond rings. I know that deep down they want to connect the same way we all want to connect. Otherwise, they’d be sitting at a table for one. I usually give it a few tries and then let it go. Focus on my foodie haze. Don’t get me wrong. There’s a place in my heart for those stool dwellers. Especially if there’s uni involved. But I always learn more about humanity, and myself therein, when I’m in the beer and whiskey bars where the stool-dwellers think that raw fish is “bait.”

And here’s why: The winking Pabst neon nameless-bar belly-uppers might lead with hunting and fishing…but pretty quickly they’ll tell you the map of their life. And their stories. Oh their stories! Hunting and fishing themes quickly move to bleeding hearts and believe me, they’re not afraid to bleed-out on those bar stools. They have sick spouses, sick kids, sick parents. They’re out of work and not because they want to be out of work. They feel forgotten and invisible. So many of them fought in wars which they assume you know not a whole lot about, and usually they’re right. Why we fought them, or how they felt about it, and what a patriot really is. Which usually brings them to politics. And the politics in spots like this is usually vastly different from my own. But that’s part of my father’s field study.

If people are the same everywhere, why would I waste my time trying to make them wrong, or myself right.

I’m not sitting on stools trying to make anyone right or wrong. I’m sitting on stools to see myself in people’s eyes, and to hopefully have them see themselves in mine. And that means that people have to bother to look. At bars like this…they bother to look. Even if it’s under their chin. So I prefer to go to places that don’t have names. Or if they do, only the locals know what they are.

I go to cities a lot, where there are plenty of those Michelin star-type kitchen bars. But even there, I still find bars like the nameless ones in Montana with the fried pickles and every-so-often a fried Rocky Mountain “oyster.” When it comes to my field study, I trust myself better in these sorts of joints.  If there’s no one there to chat with, I chat with the bartender. Get the local scoop. No one becomes a bartender to not talk to their customers. It’s part of the gig. In cities, a lot of them are artists. My people. We have a lot to complain about, but I always go for the fire in their eyes. There’s always that fire, no matter how ashen it feels. I could write a book about the things that bartenders have written on cocktail napkins for me—from a painting I must see at this one obscure little sex museum in Amsterdam, to the roseate spoonbill I must see in the sanctuary at the end of Placencia in Belize—just beware of the kids with raw chickens on fishing poles trying to bring up gaters. I trust these cocktail napkin scrawls perhaps more than the Michelin guide. And that’s saying a lot. I might not live for couture fashion, but I have a weak spot for couture food.

Here’s what I’m getting at, and you can tell I miss those stools since it took me awhile to get here:

No matter what kind of joint it is…there are no bar stools these days. And if there are, they are placed two together, six feet away from the next two, as they need to be for now. And so I’ve found that mostly…they’re empty. So I wonder where all the belly-uppers are, in couture or Carharts. I especially wonder where the single ones are. No one wants a table for one. Not if you’re there to tell stories and be heard and offer your stool-mate the same honor. Like I said, I’m worried about these people. I’m worried about the ones living alone, out of a job. The ones whose loved ones are sick and who have to isolate even more than the average person, due to susceptibility to the Corona virus. I worry about them not sharing their stories, not looking into other people’s eyes. I worry about the confessionals that aren’t flowing. The food that they’re not eating. Everyone has a jar of pickles in the refrigerator, after all.

But it’s not just the rural disenfranchised stool-dwellers I’m worrying about. I worry about the ones in gold bracelets and couture blouses at not Robuchon, not eyeing the jamon Iberico. I worry about the ones not at the corner Irish pub, not loosening their ties, releasing the smell of newspaper and Old Spice and worry. I worry about the ones in black turtlenecks who’ve taken a pilgrimage to Vesuvio to try to channel Kerouac and maybe meet another wayward poet. Not meeting anyone at all. I worry about myself. As a single woman, I rely on going into town and sitting at our local restaurant bars for dinner and connection. It’s that kind of town. And while things are open…they’re appropriately distanced. And I’m not going all the way into town to stare at a TV screen. I can’t hear anything from under masks anyway, so why bother. But Netflix stories just can’t compare with real live human ones. And a family Zoom call doesn’t really illicit what a stranger can that you’ll likely never see again.

So where are the stool-dwellers right now?

I don’t know. But I suspect they’re belly up to the internet, and if that’s the case, then maybe, oh stool-dwellers, you have found this essay. And in so doing, you have found what follows. Which is good news. Help. Stories from strangers. And just like at the bar, and the proverbial bar of life, the internet can be a friendly place too.

Here’s a more than heartening example. I hope it helps you.

The other day, in a moment of deep loneliness, the kind of moment that would have me hopping in my truck and driving until I found just the right winking neon container for loneliness and connection and stories and people-are-the-same-everywhere studies, I went on Facebook instead.

I posted this:

How are you coping right now, given all that’s going on in the world? What’s holding you together? What are you doing for personal health and self-care? How are you being good to yourself? Even if it’s something very small. My lifelines are VERY small right now and I need them that way, because they’re do-able. And I show up for them.

Walking in the woods with the dog.

Reading The Untethered Soul.

Reading a book I started writing 20 years ago.

Thinking about finishing that book and how it might end.

Writing about it in my journal.

Making dinner for one. Ratatouille seems to be the go-to.

Watching Andy Griffith when Schitt’s Creek is too much.

What are yours? Let’s get real here.

And here were what all the virtual belly-uppers shared. May it help us all.

Visual and audio pablum all the way! Back to the ‘70s.

Currently on Day 7 of a very quiet & chill 8-day camping trip.

Making myself do a 1/2 mile walk every day. Not nearly enough for weight control, but something. Reading favorite books. Baking, then giving some away when there is an opportunity. Cuddling my kitties. Talking to friends on the phone.

Talking with girlfriends about what we can control. Working on my book daily. Watching Mary Tyler Moore shows. Walks in nature

Reading, streaming, driveway visits with friends. Video chats with family.

I have become the “constant gardener” and visit my flowers at least 6 times a day. I talk to them and in my mind they are all girls! I cheer them on. I walk Tulip my little rescue Terrier mix for miles and go stare out at Lake Michigan for some peace. I sink into the abyss a lot and see no end to the isolation. I talk to a fabulous therapist every 2 weeks. I bike ride many times a week. Found TM meditation and meditate twice a day with the David Lynch Foundation – thousands on each meditation. Talk on the phone constantly…. Buy endless clothes for my new grandson who I may not see for some time as he is in SF! That is the saddest. And yes Schitt’s Creek was a life preserver but finished it. I try and hang on.

QIgong. Mimi Kuo Deemer on you tube.

Oh The Untethered Soul is one of my long time favorites – my copy is so tattered.

The Untethered Soul is profoundly transformative.

I do something physical (walk, swim, weights), something mental (work on 3 books), something spiritual (meditate)each day.

I’ve always practiced those three important balancing modules, but miss outings, vacations, and friends.

My lifelines are very small, too. Walking the dog off leash, so I can watch her prance through the grass.

Watching Northern Exposure—my husband has the box set on CD and I’ve never seen it. We watch an episode a night together.

Facetiming with my best friend.

Journaling.

Guzzling water from my giant YETI bottle.

Tinkering with my memoir.

Reading. Right now I’m finishing Everything You Ever Wanted by Jillian Lauren. It’s good.

Sunday NYT Xword with my husband. (It’s a new husband, hence the happiness?)

Looking at the sky. Sky is balm.

Exercise. Schitt’s Creek. Working with my writers. Writing a guided journal to go with the book.

Picking and canning fruit. Dog walks in the woods. Hot springs soaking. Wildcrafting medicine. Painting. Making music. Beading. Tending to my plants. Building things. Meditation.

Getting outside as much as possible. Riding one of my horses on the beautiful fall trails and hiking with the other one who can’t be ridden. Breathing in the dry fall air and driving through the lake enjoying the colors of the changing season. Cooking soups and reading by the fire. Life is good!

Yoga and meditation and walking

Making lists of “emotional self care” items for my toolbox, just like this.

Extending forgiveness to myself for being distractible, disorganized and generally undone right now.

Trying to get enough sleep. At least offering myself the opportunity for it.

Looking at photos or pulling up memories of beautiful moments in my life. Haven retreat included

Trying to balance caring for myself by eating healthy food and cari g for myself by allowing comfort food.

Untethered Soul is amazzzzing! I think I’ll re-read. Have spent the last three months supporting and safe guarding my 30yr old high-risk daughter during her LA sabbatical (Montana is body, soul and mind medicine), working to keep my staff safe and working in the Flathead Valley, and spending every minute I can in nature and with my dogs. So deeply grateful for this year’s smoke free air and endless room to roam. I’ve also been working on releasing any expectations for the months ahead, holiday happenings and all that comes with fall. Essential and gentle release like leaves falling.

Walking in the woods with the dog.

Hiking with a few friends.

Socially distanced cocktail hour.

Writing fiction.

Weak pink wine over lots of ice cubes when necessary.

Facetime with friends and my kids.

Gratitude for all I have.

Taking an online course on the Gospel of John, Facebook, reading American Harvest and Original Blessing, walking the dogs, cleaning the barn, good medication, Love Island.

Making time to write. Keeping up relationships near or far.

Reading John O’Donohue connecting to my Celtic roots  watching “ Anne with an E “ again  walks around duck pond with my boy Pip to listen to the birds sing so sweetly, and listening to Freya Riding and Celtic piano on repeat

I’m reading a tattered library copy of the Untethered Soul and walking in the woods! I picked up the book the other day and it fell open to page 76. I read the second paragraph and thought, woah! Chapter 8 let go now or fall! Divine Appointment

– Scheduled a telehealth conference with mental health counselor

– Sipping bourbon

– Rocking on the porch

– Birdwatching

– Reminiscing about my heavenly daughter Celeste whose birthday is Oct 6

– Grateful to live in the woods

and for my many blessings

– Creating my virtual law firm

– writing my memoir

– daily snuggles with Lola

Watching Outlander, walking through groves of golden trees, visiting Glacier NP, moving into a new place, moving towards getting my poetry published, spending time with friends

Snuggling my dog, sitting on my swing, occasional walk with a friend. That’s all I’ve got, I need more.

Ooh, I need to read Untethered Soul again.

Reading all of these responses!

Sitting outside every morning for tea and space to just breathe.

Taking my pups out in the woods. Snuggling all of our pets.

Journaling. Thinking a about art journaling (eventually I’ll get to actually art journaling, but this week at least I got so far as prepping the pages…)

Most of my time I’m staring off into space, just kind of existing. But I’m being gentle with myself and letting it be okay if that is just what my body and heart need right now

Oh, and ruminating on a new novel I want to write that feels somehow more time constrained than all the other books I’m sort of writing.

March-September

• Depression napping 4-5 hours a day.
• Doom Scrolling FB 8-10 hours a day.

October (so far)

• Listening to Mel Robbins motivational videos on YouTube.
• Deep cleaning my beach cottage one room at a time (washing walls, cleaning blinds, moving all furniture so I can scrub the wood floors on my hands and knees).

Laura, because I live with an extreme introvert, it’s a bit like empty nesting all over again. However, a few things are keeping me sane. A) Our poetry group has started up again. This time we each take a month, plan the lessons and write until the 20th of the month and then share on line. B)Working my way through the three So Now What? exercises I completed with you. The last one forced me to grieve the loss of the relationship with my daughter-in-law. (Now writing an essay from that experience.) She has been like a real daughter for over thirty years. Healing will come. I have to believe that. No, she didn’t die, but I think I’m dead to her. C) I am working on a drag-around baby quilt. I continue to edit my memoir. Should be done before Christmas.  Jan. Oh, and I celebrated 79 years on this planet, too.

Aiming for meditation and yoga every morning. Being compassionate if it’s migraine and sleep instead. FaceTime with my daughter and her family (2-year-old William and her great husband Bleu). And with my sons. A weekly breakfast FaceTime with my best friend 3,000 miles away. Reading. Submitting poetry. Learning about query letters. Holding hands with the part of my that horriblizes the future, and reminding her that this really doesn’t keep it from happening the way I think it will. Loving my little one&ahalf-year-old puppy, Ruby. Offering deep smiles to stressed out strangers. Loving myself for trying so hard. Loving the world, and feeling tender and toward everyone (yes, I do mean everyone) in it for how much we all want things to be different and how scared we are to question our beliefs. And then the final go to (even for this vegan, when things are just too hard for words): Häagen-Dazs coffee ice cream bars.

Enjoying coffee in bed every morning. Editing my debut novel, due Dec. 1. Freaking out about editing my novel- questioning if it’s even good. Sigh. Read “When Things Fall Apart,” again, with highlighter, journal, and sister-friend discussion group. Same with When Women Run with the Wolves. Created my first real garden. Ate what came from that backbreaking and beautiful work. Doodled a lot. Forest baths. Fell in love with my new dog. Lots of FT with daughter, 3000 miles away in LA. Lots of music. Living in tremendous gratitude. Still. My heart hurts. So. Much. Love to all.

Coffee in bed… NYTimes…. shower… paint… write short stories….roll a cigarette… watch people from balcony…Highway Patrol on YouTube after sun goes down…homesick in Spain…but I have taught the Spanish kids.. Johnny B Goode… Chuck Berry… why ? Why not ?

I alternate yoga and aerobics every other day. meditate with the CALM app every morning. try to make one friendly phone call a day. watching a lot of tennis. reading light murder mysteries that take place in france or italy so i can ‘get away’. walking outside every day even if just around the block. weeding. cooking new recipes. writing (only every once in a while).

Humanity is indeed good. But I still miss seeing you in person, bellied-up, and maybe even bleeding. We’re all in this together. Even if we’re alone.