A Blue Christmas Without You

 

   Another year is just about over, the year that many people wish had never happened.  2020.

  I could list all of the calamities of this ill-fated year, but that would only make things worse.  I'll just focus on this month of December, which has always been a complex month for me.  This year, it's even more fraught with complications.

  Today is December 7th, a day that will live in infamy for many reasons.  It's Pearl Harbor Day, of course.  I've stood over the U.S.S. Arizona, still sunk in Pearl Harbor, still holding the entombed bodies of those who fought and lost, buried forever in their vessel.  I've seen the oil still leaking from that boat, swirling languidly in the waters off Hawaii.  That alone is enough of an emotionally-packed reason to honor this day.

  December 7th is a strange date for me personally for a great many reasons. I was married to my first husband on this day in 1975.  He and I moved, along with our two daughters, permanently to New York from southern Ohio, on December 7th in 1978, quite the culture shock.  We moved to Larchmont, NY to be near his mentor and to begin his career as a film and television makeup artist.  Fast forward 36 years...and December 7th is the date that my mother left this Earth.  I also lost my father in December, five calendar days (but many years) before my mother's death.  In the past few years I've lost five friends during this month.  Not to be completely gloomy, I was also born this month - a Solstice baby- and of course, there are several religious holidays during the month of December.  You can see why it's so complicated for me!

  This year my first Christmas decoration was the purchase of an all-white, small, retro Christmas tree decked out in blue lights.  I saw it in a flea market shop, and couldn't leave the store without it.  I put it in the bay window of my second floor which faces the street.  It's the first thing people see when they turn onto our tiny lane...flanked with four window candles and cradled in the white lights tucked up into the Dutch Colonial eaves.  It's my nod to the Blue Christmas movement.

  I want to focus on what "Blue Christmas" means.  I hadn't heard the term, other than Elvis's rendition of the song, until a few years ago.  It seems that there is a quieter, more reflective observation of Christmas for those who have lost loved ones at this time.  I've seen the programs for these services but have never had the opportunity to attend one.  It sounds like a really beautiful way to be with other people in a less loud, boisterous, colorful celebration of the season.

  But there is another meaning to a Blue Christmas, for me, which is really quite mystical:  Six years ago, my mother passed away on this date while my husband and I were on a "Christmas on the Danube" river tour.  She had been living nearby first in assisted living and then a nursing home, where members of our family visited her several times a week.  She was in great shape for a tiny little old lady.  She cheered us on when we told her we were going to go on this beautiful trip with a local group.  She would be fine, she assured us.  And my daughter Jess who lives nearby would continue her frequent visits.  I filled out all the requisite paperwork so that if the inevitable happened while we were away, Jess would have full legal authority to make the final arrangements for Grandma's cremation.  But none of that would be needed, surely.  My mother, a witty and intelligent Irish woman to the end, was in fine shape when we left.

  We arrived in Vienna after two long flights, and boarded the small riverboat that would be our home for the next six days.  The only shore activity that first day was a tour of Vienna, that magical city of music.  We drove all around the city, admiring the historic areas and ending our coach tour with a stop at a Christkindlemarket.  It was held in the platz in front of the Schonbrunn Palace, a stunning building with a huge Christmas tree on display in front.  There were choirs of children singing carols.  There were traditional pine bough-laden booths selling Christmas punch, cuckoo clocks, fensterlichten (wooden cut-out lights to put in your window), pastries, and of course, tchotchkes of all sorts.  It was so festive, so beautiful...

  We returned to the boat after dinner, still docked in a side-waterway off the Danube for the evening.  Our boat would leave port while we slept that night.  Only, I couldn't sleep.  Our stateroom had a large picture window that I stood by, watching the lights on the locks on the river as we passed slowly through them in the darkness, making our way to the next destination.  I tried sleeping, but was unsuccessful.  I spent quite some time standing by that window.  Maybe it was the hour, maybe it was my imagination, but I could have sworn I heard the strains of the Strauss waltz, "The Blue Danube," my father's favorite.  I could see my parents in my mind's eye - waltzing to that beautiful music, holding each other close.

  Then came the knock on the door.  I knew immediately what it was.  I was escorted to the Captain's quarters where a phone call from my son-in-law awaited me, to tell me my mother had passed away.  It took some effort for that call to go through, but he was able to reach me, as my daughter couldn't make that call.  There was no way the boat could let me off until morning.  The next day my husband and I made landfall and took a cab back to the Vienna airport to begin the long journey home.

  I don't know if my mother left this Earth to dance with my father that night, but I like to believe that that was what I was tuning in to as our boat quietly made its way down the river.  I had a few photos that I had taken at the Christkindlemarket.  I painted the scene of the platz from one of the photos, and pull it out of storage every Christmas now to remember that one beautiful night in Vienna.  Today as I write this, I made another synchronous connection - my mother grew up in Ohio near an historic Moravian village, called "Schoenbrunn."  And I had been near another historic site by the same name on the night that she died.

  And so, as we all struggle to make sense of 2020, I struggle simply to make sense of the month of December.  Tonight I'll light a fire and place some dried rose petals in it to send fragrance up to Heaven.  Rest in peace, all ye who pass away at this mystical time of year.  It'll be a blue Christmas without you.  But not one devoid of joy.

Thanksgiving Thoughts

 It has been a strange Thanksgiving.  Just when we thought we had this COVID thing under control, the seasons changed, bringing new cases and alarmingly rapid increases of hospitalizations along with the cooler weather.  New words have entered our vocabularies, such as "Zoomsgiving."  People who would normally gather with groups of family members made the difficult decision to stay home this year, cooking Thanksgiving feasts for themselves alone.

We have to be careful, and to care about others beyond our own families.  Too many families have lost family members to this Pandemic.  Too many nurses, doctors, and support staff members of COVID units have succumbed to this disease.  Today, Black Friday, many folks are doing their holiday shopping online as opposed to out in the stores.  And even the stores are limiting how many shoppers may enter at one time.  One thing hasn't changed since the summer:  masks here in New York are mandatory for going out in public.  You can't even enter a store without wearing one.

What do we have to be thankful for this holiday season?  Zoom, for one thing.  Back in the 1960s when two of my brothers were at war, our family would place a cassette tape machine (remember those?) in the middle of the table during holiday meals, and talk to our missing family members as though they were sitting in their places at the table.  We would then mail the tapes to them, and they would receive them (maybe) days or even weeks later.  How lucky we are to have such immediate communication these days!

We are resilient people.  We are innovative.  Yesterday my husband and I watched the annual Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV, appreciating how the producers put together a "parade" that looked like a scaled-down version of the real thing.  In reality, the parade was one block long, lacked student marching bands, had fewer floating balloons, and all of the musical performances were pre-recorded.  Even the Rockettes wore face masks, and didn't do their signature high kicks.  That would mean too much aerosol from heavy breathing hanging in the air during their strenuous choreography.  Yes, many things have changed, and yet we carry on.

Now we are officially in the holiday season.  What is the greatest gift we can give to our loved ones?  Could we adjust our usual habits and keep a distance, while still sharing the love?  Can we take one for the team?  I think we can...Be caring.  Be thoughtful.  Be creative, and above all, be safe.

Have a wonderful holiday season.  And do what you can to make sure others do, too...

Not Why, but How

   We are now in Week Nine of the "New York Pause."  63 days.  Tomorrow starts Week Ten.  There is talk of "Quarantine Fatigue," of people letting their guard down, not wearing masks, not standing six feet apart, and not staying home.
   In another era, there would be less complaining about compliance and more patience.  When did we become people who could not accept hardship on behalf of the health and safety of others?  When did we become a population of whiners, asking why this is happening to us instead of asking how we can get through this together?
   It's true that the pandemic didn't strike with the same intensity across all fifty states.  I live in New York, the hardest hit state in the Union.  Governor Cuomo, in his daily address, praises New Yorkers for taking this pandemic seriously.  As he points out, he couldn't possibly mandate that several million New Yorkers voluntarily stay home from work, wear masks when in public, and only go out for essentials.  We chose to do those things.  And, as a result, we have lowered the growth of the Pandemic in our state to a near-plateau.  There are fewer deaths, fewer new cases.  We have overcome the enemy!
   Now, we're poised for Phase One of the re-opening plan.  Half the regions in New York are now beginning, slowly, to return to some semblance of normalcy.  Why, next weekend, Memorial Day Weekend, our beaches on Lake Ontario will be open!  Last week it snowed, and next week we can go swimming, theoretically.   My fear is that the relaxing of the quarantine guidelines will result in a resurgence of this disease.  Cuomo speaks of "tightening the valve," of watching the numbers, and reacting accordingly.  If new cases, deaths, and hospitalizations go up, we will tighten up on the social distancing.  This is a cautious, measured approach.  Testing will be a key factor in how smoothly we can fully re-open our state.
   Meanwhile in Washington, the man in the White House has suggested that the U.S. has more cases of COVID19 because we are testing more people.  His solution:  Stop testing, and the number of cases will go down!  As of Friday, he has fired the fifth member of his administration who holds some form of accountability over him and his people.  The Republican Party stands by and watches him dismantle our system of checks and balances.  Are they even asking why?   I see this as a parallel to the logic of our mothers and fathers while in a crisis:  It's not why, but how we deal with this situation.  Whether it be pandemic or political chaos, our approach should be the same.  Seek truth. Listen deeply.  Find a way to control the outbreak.  And do it.  Not asking why, but how.  How can we eradicate the disease that reigns in our government?
   Vote.

 

Camp Arrowhead:  The Summer I Became  Who I Am

  Let's take a break from the pandemic, and take a walk back in time...This memory was awakened recently when my daughter  brought an author to my attention that has truly touched my heart.  As a result, I’ve been reading Untamed by Glennon Doyle, and listening to podcasts by Brene Brown and Glennon Doyle.  The topic of the book is self-discovery, and coming into one’s true identity.  I highly recommend this book.  It has caused me to think back on my life and the choices I have made.   It brought back some early memories, such as the summer of 1967 in which I began the journey of becoming my true self.

  This past summer (2019) my husband Rob and I drove home to Ohio for my 45^th high school reunion.  We spent two nights before that event staying in a simple cabin just outside Hocking Hills State Park, a place that remains sacred ground for me.  My father had once been ranger there.  I did so much hiking, camping, and growing up there.  Rob and I walked through many of my favorite places:  Rock House, only a mile from our cabin on a ridge;  Ash Cave, Old Man’s Cave, Cedar Falls.  Oh, the memories that flowed through my head and soul!

  After the two nights in the cabin, we packed our hiking boots and knapsacks into the car and followed our Garmin to the site of my first awakening.  Now Lake Katharine Nature Preserve, this beautiful site in Appalachian southern Ohio was once Girl Scout Camp Arrowhead, just outside Jackson, Ohio.  This was not far from Rio Grande College, where my grandfather was president in the 1920’s and where I attended band camp for several summers in the seventies.

  I had learned that the old camp property had been gifted to the state from a dear friend of mine, also a former Girl Scout.  Excitedly, I looked up the property, now called Lake Katharine Nature Preserve, and it looked like the same location I remembered Camp Arrowhead to be!  I have wondered over the years whatever became of that magical land, so much like Hocking Hills with its cliffs, waterfalls, rock outcroppings, and trails.

  Rob and I drove over back roads that became goat paths, unpaved roads in deepest Appalachia where I prayed the car wouldn’t break down.  Did I hear banjos?  It was only a few hours from our cabin.  At last we came to Jackson, Ohio.  We made our way through the small town out through half - abandoned strip malls. Then the road turned out onto the farm fields, and soon there was a turn-off onto Lake Katharine Road.  

  As we drove up the former camp entrance road, I began to feel

elevated…excited…tingling all over.  We were entering sacred space.  I had come here 52 years earlier for two weeks of sleep-away camp, an experience that had changed me forever.  For I had discovered who I was, really, and had ample opportunity to explore and delight in this new person.  I was 12 years old.

  We drove up the now-paved road and parked in the visitor’s lot.  I realized right away that this was once a huge meadow, with the dining hall straight ahead and the camp office to the left.  Our cabins were lined up along the meadow where it met the forest…I could almost hear the whippoorwills calling from the darkening woods as they did so long ago. The cabins are long gone, trees have filled in the old meadow, and the dining hall is gone.  Only the shell of the old office remains.  Oh, and the log athletic cabin, which we passed as we drove into the camp.  The memories began flooding back…

  I was the only one of us four kids who had the privilege of going to summer camp for a full two weeks.  My brothers were much older than I, and grew up before my mother went to work as an English teacher.  My Dad’s salary as a forester didn’t allow for them to go to camp, other than the occasional weekend at Boy Scout Camp Mingo.  I was the lucky one.  They had a lot to say about that! How well I remember that first drive up the camp road…  It was 1967.
   My parents drove me up to the drop-off point with my duffel bag full of carefully labeled clothing and my pressed camp uniform, a white blouse (!!), dark green shorts, and green knee socks with red flashers (garters) holding them up.  And of course, my Girl Scout pins.  I was decked out for adventure!  I don’t remember them leaving, but I know I didn’t cry.  I was free, Baby.  Bring it! This tame daughter was about to find out how to be untamed.

  I checked in at the office and found my cabin.  After lugging my gear across the meadow and claiming a bunk, I went off to meet my new companions for this 14-day excursion.  And so it began.

  I only remember a few high points of those two weeks, but I remember all of the unfettered joy I felt.  Who was this new me?  I had been a shy child.  Not so here!  I threw myself into the various activities with gusto.  Here are some salient memories:

·     There was no hot water for showering.  You had to really want to get clean to stand in freezing cold water that flowed from the rustic shower.  The shower perched next to the latrine on the edge of a sheer drop-off.  No railings.  Take your flashlight if you had to go at night…

·     Swimming that hot summer was only allowed during Red Cross Swim Lessons.  You had to hike a mile down the trail to the lake, swim your laps, and hike back up that $#@& hill to get back to your cabin. By then, of course, you would be dripping with sweat again.

·     There were no screens in the cabins.  We were mosquito meat.

·     There were mice in the cabins that tried to eat my cocoa shea butter.

·     We had flag ceremonies twice a day that involved the Pledge of Allegiance, singing, and wearing our camp uniforms.  We folded and unfolded the flag in the military way.  These ceremonies were taken very, very seriously.

·     Meals were taken in the large log dining hall.  There was a lot of singing, and of course, the following of chore charts. Everybody had a job to do.

·      I realized for the first time that women could love women.  It was clear to me that the director, a butch woman called Louie, was gay. I watched with amazement as the counselors interacted with each other, laughing and talking with complete affection and respect.  I took all of this in, accepting and wondering at this.  And no, there were never any public displays of affection…but we knew it was there.

·      I came to camp with a terrible reaction to medicine for horrific poison ivy, and the reaction put me in the infirmary for a day.  They asked me if I wanted to go home, or stay.  I wanted to stay.  I swear, once I made that decision, the hives upon hives dried up and went away.

·     In the evening, as the sun was setting, we would sit around a big campfire and sing songs like “Barges,”  “Blue Walking,” and others.  Some of the counselors played the guitar.

·     Off in the woods just behind our cabins, there were whippoorwills that would call out at twilight.  I had never heard them before, nor have I heard them since.  Those calls haunt me, and beckon for me to come back.

·     We took one overnight backpacking trip.  I remember hiking past the swimming area of Lake Katharine, walking on the bridge over a swift-flowing creek, and washing my hair under a small waterfall.  We must have pitched tents to sleep in, but I can’t remember where.  I do remember rumors of a boys’ camp on the other side of the lake, but no boys materialized.  Oh, wait – I remember some canoes coming in from the other side, that were swiftly redirected by our counselors…

·     Mostly I remember how at home I felt among these women and girls.  I wasn’t homesick at all, although I had asked my Dad to write “thick letters.”  I received a letter from him written in magic marker on paper towels!

·     My favorite memory was of Dad flying his Forest Service plane over the meadow one day.  I had told all the girls he was planning to do this.  When he buzzed our cabin, all the girls went running out into the field, waving.  He said it looked like an anthill exploding from the air!

  Looking back on these memories, I marvel at how rustic our experience was.  We were truly in the wild.  All too soon, the two weeks were over.  My parents came and collected me:  I was tanned for the first time in my life, covered in mosquito bites, and had lost about 5 pounds (I was a chunky kid.)  But the biggest change wasn’t physical…

  I came home a different person.  I was no longer tame.  Suddenly the walls of my house were too small, too constricted. For days I pined for camp, trying to spend every waking hour out of doors.  I couldn’t stand being in a house.  I remember looking at our claw-foot bathtub with contempt.   I had become wild.  I had found my soul-place, and it wasn't in town.  Most importantly, I had gained confidence in my ability to solve problems, I had built up my physical strength, and I had overcome the pain and itching of hives. I had become who I was meant to be…a budding, strong, beautiful young woman.  This was my awakening.  I was no longer tame.

  And now I was back, 52 years later. My husband and I walked toward the old camp office, where a maintenance man was working.  I asked him if this was the former Camp Arrowhead.  Yes, it was!  He pointed out the few remaining buildings, and directed us, at my request, to a trail that would take us down to the lake.

  Rob and I began the long walk down the trail to the lake.  It looked the same, smelled the same, and felt the same…the sun was heating up the hemlock trees, causing a wonderful incense smell to rise up out of the forest. Sunlight dappled the trail, and caught small pebbles of quartz in the light.  There was the rock outcropping on the left of the trail, moist, dark, and hinting of earthy mystery.

And then – the Lake.

  Lake Katharine looked mighty small. The old swimming area was overgrown with only a small length of grass where the beach once was.  No docks remained.  I had a fleeting memory of a tall counselor with a clipboard and a whistle, hustling us in and out of the freezing cold water.  We walked across the waterfront to the woods on the other side, and there it was…the trail into the woodlands with the outflow creek, splashing over that little waterfall where I washed my hair as a child.  I took a few photos, completely dazzled by the magic of the place.

  My heart was singing that day, as it had sung 52 years earlier when I first walked these trails.  A lot of water had flowed under that bridge – literally – that now led  onto the Yellow Trail (Pine Ridge Trail) of the Lake Katharine Nature Preserve.

We continued our hike for two and a half miles of thick forest walking…through sassafras, maple, beech, and hemlock stands. At times I wasn’t sure we were on the right track, but we figured it out. Finally we made our way up a very steep hillside with more rock outcroppings, and I recognized the small cliff where our outhouse once stood, behind the cabins.  (I hate to think of the hygiene and ecology issues of that “plumbing!”)  Sure enough, we emerged into the sunlight that led us back to the visitors’ parking lot.

  I looked back wistfully for the ghost cabins that I remembered, long gone.  As we returned to our car, I noticed one other car in the lot, at the far side.  There were two older women climbing out of their car.  They were about the age that my counselors would have been, now…I looked at them and wondered…Is that Louie?  And her wife?  Had they, too, come back to remember a magical summer?

  We drove onward, on to Chillicothe this time, for the high school reunion that brought me home.  I was filled with joy for having found my old camp. I felt filled with light.  The ghosts of the past receded into the forest, called back into the mists of time by the haunting cry of a whippoorwill.

  When my time comes to depart this world, I want to walk back into that forest of my youth.  It was once my heaven on earth.  There will be old friends waiting for me there, sitting around the campfire, singing the old songs…and I will join them again.  You can keep your angels’ wings, flowing robes, and pearly gates.  I’ll be wearing a white blouse, green shorts, green knee socks, red flashers…and of course, my Girl Scout pins.

Grieving the Loss of Experience

 

   COVID19 rages on.  I live in Western New York, where the number of cases and deaths continues to rise, although the New York City area has plateaued.  I continue to keep my twice-daily statistics.  It's interesting to watch the various columns either forge ahead in numbers, or plateau, sometimes evening out altogether.  Some states are thinking of re-opening, but most believe it's far too early to consider doing that.  As a result, our economies world-wide have stopped dead in their tracks.  Even hospitals are beginning layoffs and pay cuts to the very people who are putting themselves on the line every day, trying to save each and every life that they can.
   We grieve the loss of friends and family.  We grieve the loss of the school year, graduations, jobs, and opportunities.  We grieve the loss of long-planned vacations, adventures, trips abroad.  As I consider the heavy losses of human life, I wonder:  is it OK to grieve the loss of experience?
    My husband and I are retired.  We had plans to go to New York City in March to meet up with friends, go to a concert, and generally hang out and visit with people we haven't seen in a while.  That was cancelled.  We had plans to go to Canada, to visit our family there.  We often go up and spend a night, visiting various family members on both days.  That was cancelled.  We had plans to make our international trip for the year, in June:  England (visiting family), Scotland, and Russia.  That was cancelled.
    But the experience that was cancelled today was the hardest loss of all:  every year the New York State Art Teachers' Association spends a full week in the Adirondack wilderness, taking part in the Summer Institute.  We live and work at Great Camp Sagamore, one of the beautiful Great Camps of the Adirondacks, formerly the "summer camp" of the Vanderbilt family.   It has been wonderfully restored and is now an educational facility.  We live in community with 50 artists/educators, taking part in numerous art projects that span many media - watercolor, acrylic, pencil, fiber arts, print making, photography, sculpture, environmental sculpture, puppetry, paper-making...the list goes on and on.  We have an astronomer and a naturalist who come every year to teach us the stories of the constellations (using a Celestron telescope on land, and with the naked eye in the middle of a lake from canoes at night), and to teach us about the flora and fauna of the pristine wilderness.  We live in the cabins and lodges that the Vanderbilts "roughed it" in.  We eat in the dining hall that still rings with the stories and songs of history.  There is a beautiful, freezing-cold lake there for swimming, boating, and fishing.  It's an amazing place for the spirit and the mind.  I have attended the art Summer Institute for ten years, my husband for nine years.  The core people and leadership remain stable from year to year, and have become a tightly-knit community.  Last year we gave up our spots in order to go to Alaska.  We were so excited to return this coming summer.

   Today's e-mail from our leaders confirmed what we feared was coming:  due to the Corona Virus, the Summer Institute, and I presume all of Great Camp Sagamore's programs, are cancelled.  Full stop.
   In the grand scheme of things, when lives are lost, jobs vaporize, the economy is  at a standstill, and the stock market swings wildly, is it OK to grieve the loss of our beloved summer experience?  I believe so.  This is not a matter of life or death, but it is a lifeline for those for whom it was created, teachers.  Not only is the Summer Institute professional development, but it's also a place for the restoration of the soul.  To be in the wilderness, for some, is a brand-new experience.  There are at least three generations of teachers there each summer, and I believe it may be nearly four generations now.  We encourage each other, nourish each other, learn together, live together, and now we will cry together, across the miles.  For this is a great loss.

   Over the years, my husband and I have attended a number of events at Great Camp Sagamore, such as the annual Mountain Music and Dance Weekend in the fall.  We've gotten to know two distinct groups of people, all artists or musicians, and the phenomenal staff that keeps such an historical treasure running.  What will happen to them now?  Will the music weekend also be cancelled?
   We live in a time of unparalleled uncertainly on so many levels.  My way of coping with the loss of the known and familiar is to process it through the five senses.  This can be done not only in the present, but also through memory, as a kind of meditation.
    What did I hear that day?  The wind sighing in the hemlocks.
    What did I see that day?  A barn full of artists, creating, learning, laughing, talking together.
    What did I touch that day?  The strings of a dulcimer.  The smooth wood of my Irish harp.
    What did I smell that day?  The wonderful aroma of hot cedars, hemlocks, and pines, as the summer sun turns the forest floor into incense.
    What did I taste that day?  S'mores, made by adults around a campfire, for some for the very first time.
    How did I experience space that day?  I looked upon the dawn breaking over a mountain lake, and heard the cry of a loon, far, far away, down at the other end of the misty waters.

    "Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
     A time of innocence, a time of confidences.
     Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph.
     Preserve your memories:  They're all that's left you."
    - Paul Simon
   
 

Quarantine

Good afternoon.
   It's odd how things you daydream about sometimes come to pass, in ways you never could have expected.  During the past few years, I've actually thought that being under house arrest in my own home wouldn't be such a bad thing, if it ever came to it.  I have lots of books, art supplies, musical instruments, and a home on a Great Lake with beautiful scenery, wildlife, and flora.  I could be quite happy here!
   And then came the Quarantine.  COVID19  descended upon New York State like a jet falling from the sky:  swiftly, completely unexpected, devastating, leaving a pile of rubble and death in its wake.  We've been under state-wide quarantine for four weeks now.  In my last post, I shared some of my homegrown statistics, gathered from various official sources, of Coronavirus cases and deaths from my county, state, NYC, country, and globally.  As I look back at where my charts stopped, I am sorry to say that those data have increased exponentially at a truly terrifying rate.  As of this afternoon, here are my most recent stats:

Global Cases:                      1,978,769   Deaths:  125,196

US Cases:                                609,614  Deaths:  25,794

NY (State) Cases:                    202,208  Deaths:  10,834

New York City Cases:             110,465  Deaths:     7690

Monroe County (NY) Cases:         850  Deaths:        56

   If you refer back to my previous post, this is a huge increase.  Huge.

   Given these grim statistics, how does one cope with the enormous losses of life, jobs, food security, housing, and other issues of basic daily living?  I read a heart-breaking article this morning about the impossibility of maintaining the 6' "social distancing" space for people who share a house with many other residents.  If you're sleeping on someone else's floor with your children, there's no social distancing.  If you work two or three jobs to put food on the table and that goes away, there's no food on the table.
   And we're supposedly one of the richest nations in the world.
   Clearly, that only means, "For the rich.  For the middle class.  For the privileged."
   The human cost of this pandemic is staggering, and plays up the obvious discrepancies between the haves and the have-nots.  Ironically,  this pandemic is exploding in the prisons, detention centers, homeless shelters, and other places where America warehouses its undesirables.  And this could be the downfall of this nation:  By crowding human beings into tight spaces and denying them healthcare and adequate living arrangements, we could be skyrocketing the casualties to a point of no return.  Consider this:  Another recent article points out that the rat population world-wide is increasing, and becoming much more aggressive, due to the lack of food from restaurants and other public food sources.  Not a pretty picture!  The rats are beginning to eat their own.  And wasn't the Bubonic Plague spread, in part, through rats?
   Many people are having trouble with anxiety, depression, and insomnia during this crisis.  It's little wonder, with the information I'm sharing here.  So how do we cope with quarantine in a time of not only a health crisis in this country, but also a crisis of leadership?
   I focus on the little things.  Yes, I'm lucky - I live surrounded by water and woodlands.   I can take walks fairly free from crowds, although I do wear a mask.  I can see the beauty of spring unfold around me.  It's this that I choose to focus on, when I'm not watching multiple news channels, doing daily statistical research, and listening with incredulity to the ravings of our political "leaders."
   This afternoon I saw cherry blossoms, magnolia buds, waterfowl, and found a complete surprise:  a rustic chair built into a park, with a well-loved copy of "Anne of Green Gables" on the seat.
   There is beauty in the wreckage of our lives.
   If only we can take a mindful moment to walk away from the sorrow, the pain, the worry, and engage in our senses...
    What did I see today?      Cherry blossoms.
    What did I hear today?    Spring birdsong.
    What did I smell today?  Fresh earth, moist from recent rains.
    What did I touch today?  Pine needles.
    What did I taste today?   Half a bagel, with a shmeer.
    My husband and I often debrief our day by considering the senses, and we add another, final one:  How did I experience space today?  Walking in a forest.
     There is beauty to be found in everyday things.  It can help to heal the soul.
     For the majority of the world's population that struggles for the basics of survival, it is time to consider leveling the playing field.  What can we do to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, shelter the homeless, heal the sick? I may need to look beyond the beauty of my surroundings, and find ways to ease the sufferings of others.  What can I do?  How can I help? These are questions that I struggle with these days.  And while we are under Quarantine, there's plenty of time to think.

COVID19: By the Numbers

   I wish I could report that things are better in New York, and the US, and the world, since the last time I wrote...but that is certainly not the case.  One of the ways in which I cope with the stress of this time of quarantine is to record the statistics...a grim form of keeping a daily record of how a virus grows exponentially.  I began doing this on scrap paper, then began using a notebook.  Each day I write down the number of cases and the number of deaths, morning and afternoon, for the world (WW), New York (NY), New York City (NYC), and Monroe County (MC), also in New York State.  I glean statistics from reputable sources like the World Health Organization and the Center for Disease Control.  I triangulate them with what I see reported on news sources such as the BBC, MSNBC, CNN, and CBS.  It's remarkable how much the numbers differ, depending on the news station and time of day.  I'm sharing these as a rough collection of raw data, not as anything official.  See below for my table, which is far from perfect, and is not complete.
   Each day I tune in to Governor Andrew Cuomo's daily address to fellow New Yorkers, and to the nation.  I trust Dr. Fauci's information, but it's now too difficult for me to watch the news updates from the man who calls himself president.  I prefer truth.
   How are we coping?  How am I coping?  Locally in Rochester, NY, a group on FaceBook started streaming live musical performances every day at 6:00 p.m.  Musicians of all stripes, ages, and backgrounds have posted their contributions.  There are groups of artists all around New York State who are using technology to make art together.  My husband and I are taking walks nearly every day, and/or exercising at home with videos. We call our children and they call us. Once a week we order takeout from a favorite restaurant in our fair city.
   So far we are fine.  Our family in New York is holding together while being separate.  I keep informed while trying not to perseverate on the news every day.  Netflix movies definitely help, and The Little Theatre, our local Indie/Foreign film theatre, is now streaming some films online for free.  And of course, there are books...online, hard copy, or audible.
   One way I keep my spirits up is to make photo slideshows of past travels (all of our 2020 trips have been cancelled).  I watch these slide shows and dream...of yesterday.

Alaska, August 2019

           Unofficial COVID19 Statistical Data

WW (Worldwide)

US

NY (state)

NYC

MC (Monroe County, NY)

Date, A.M./P.M.	Location	Cases	Deaths
3/17/20 A.M.	US	4500	90
3/17/20 P.M.	US	6010	104
3/18/20 A.M.	MC	18	0
	WW	200,000	7900
	US	6100	112
	NY	1400	19
3/18/20 P.M.	MC	19	0
	US	6200	120
	NY	2382	19
3/19/20 A.M.	US	9400	152
	NY	9400	152
	MC	22	0
3/19/20 P.M.	US	10,442	152
	NY	5200	29
	MC	30	0
3/20/20 A.M.	US	14,040	152
	NY	7102	34
	MC	36	0
	WW	255,901	10,000
3/20/20 P.M.	WW	264,359	11,134
	US	15,219	201
	NY	7102	36
	MC	36	0
3/21/20 A.M.	WW	277,300	11,000
	US	20,000	201
	NY	8377	46
	MC	36	0
3/21/20 P.M.	WW	303,816	12,973
	US	24,783	307
	NY	10,000	201
	MC	46	0
3/22/20 A.M.	WW	307,045	13,000
	US	26,000	340
	NY	14,000	114
	MC	46	1
Date:  A.M./P.M.	Location	Cases	Deaths
3/22/20 P.M.	WW	310,000	14,356
	US	30,565	384
	NY	15,168	114
	NYC	9654
	MC	68	1
3/23/20 A.M.	WW	341,000
	US	35,000	470
	NY	16,887	150
	NYC	9654
	MC	68	1
3/23/20 P.M.	WW	372,000	16,300
	US	42,200	520
	NY	20,875	157
	NYC	415	10
	MC	80	2
3/24/20 A.M.	WW	380,000
	US	46,000	590
	NY	25,665	210
	NYC	14,900	125
	MC	81	2
3/24/20 P.M.	WW	415,800	18,500
	US	51,900	668
	NY	25,665	210
	NYC	15,597
	MC	106	3
3/25//20 A.M.	WW	423,000	18,500
	US	53,852	728
	NY	25,665	210
	NYC	15,597	192
	MC	118	3
3/25/20 P.M.	WW	467,351	21,168
	US	65,000	800
	NY	30,811	285
	NYC	17,856	200
	MC	121	3
3/26/20 A.M.	WW	500,542	22,334
	US	74,982	1078
	NY	37,258	385
	NYC
	MC	142	3
3/26/20 P.M.	WW	510,000	22,000
	US	85,000	1290
	NYC
Date: A.M./P.M.	Location	Cases	Deaths
	MC	184	4
3/27/20 A.M.	WW	510,000	22,000
	US	85,000	1290
	NY	40,000	500
	NYC
	MC	148	4
3/27/20 P.M.	WW	541,626	24,137
	US	93,568	1433
	NY	44,635	519
	NYC	25,398
	MC	166	4
3/28/20 A.M.	WW	629,471	28,964
	US	104,837	1711
	NY	44,635	519
	NYC
	MC	190	4
3/28/20 P.M.	WW	694,000	30,249
	US	120,000	2000
	NY	52,318	728
	NYC	26,697	450
	MC	202	5
3/29/20 A.M.	WW	700,000	30,249
	US	124,686	2191
	NY	59,513	728
	NYC	30,765	672
	MC	217	5
3/29/20 P.M.	WW	713,171	33,597
	US	135,029	33,597
	NY	59,513	728
	NYC	136,800	672
	MC	223	6
3/30/20 A.M.	WW	724,945	34,041
	US	143,000	2500
	NY	59,513	672
	NYC
	MC	223	6
3/30/20 P.M.	WW	724,945	34,041
	US	150,000	3000
	NY	66,497	2019
	NYC	36,221	914
	MC	246	6
Date:  A.M./P.M.	Location	Cases	Deaths
3/31/20 A.M.	WW	800,049	38,714
	US	164,000	3100
	NY	67,636	1224
	NYC	37,183
	MC	250	6