Rock of Ages and Ice-cream

 

Graveyard of discontinued flavors at Ben & Jerry's

New England, Day Four

I overslept a tad this morning so I barely had time to grab a cup of coffee for the road before it was time to load up.  Luke gave the morning devotional and everyone was in good spirits even though a few of us didn’t get much sleep.  There were a few rowdies in the hallways throughout the night (not from our bus!) but thanks to my audio books and earbuds, I was undisturbed.

We pulled into the Rock of Ages gift shop and picked up our guide before a slow crawl up the gravel road to the quarry. Martha had warned us it would be cold and even in my down winter coat I was shivery.  We heard many interesting and heretofore unknown facts about quarrying granite.  Like so many things, modernization has streamlined production with the use of machinery rather than brute strength.  Our guide reported that both his shoulders were ruined thanks to years of drilling the guide holes needed prior to splitting the granite blocks.  He showed us one block 6 feet by 10 feet by 8 feet that weighs 27 tons.  Enormous derricks were once used to lift up to 200 tons at a time but they have now been retired since methods have changed.

I took photos that are totally ineffective in showing the massive scale of the rock walls.  If you look closely you can see a person walking along the top demonstrating how antlike we are compared to the granite towering on all sides.

We ate pulled pork and clam chowder at a quaint, well-aged restaurant in the little village of Barre, VT.  The bacon and cheese piled on top of the pork, sandwiched between slabs of toasted bun made for a delicious result.  We had the upstairs to ourselves, in a dining room that looked like it had been in use since Paul Revere rode through.  Did Paul Revere ride through VT?  I must look that up.  Anyway, I’m loving all these old buildings, most of them well-preserved and reeking of history.

A short stop at Hope Cemetary gave us time to be amazed at the elaborate gravestones memorializing the many laid to rest there.  A stark difference from the cemetary we visited a few days ago, this place did not have weatherworn, virtually unreadable, gravestones.  These markers were meant to impress and to make certain the dearly departed were not forgotten.  The most touching sight I saw was a rather simple stone surrounded by fall decorations.  Pumpkins, flowers in autumn colors and a blanket spread out for the young woman sitting there all alone.  Someone truly was loved and missed.

We drove through Montpelier, the state capital.  Its claim to fame, it seems, is that it is the only state capital without a McDonalds. Vermont also has no billboards.  Can’t say I blame them although I remain somewhat of a libertarian, meaning I don’t like rules forbidding or demanding things.  I admit though, it is nice not to have the visual pollution of advertisements scattered all over the beautiful scenery.

We spent an hour or two at Morse Farm, the famous producers of maple syrup and other related sweet things.  The pictures of their maple syrup barn looked almost identical to the one my father used back when I was a little girl. My brothers gathered the sap from our maple trees in the woods, using a big sleigh pulled by horses when the snow was on the ground, much like the picture our tour guide showed us. 

My father spent many nights back in the woods, cooking down the sap until it was a sweet, golden syrup.  He put the finished product into a large barrel tank with a spigot close to the bottom.  When we came to visit we were allowed a few sips from a tin cup he kept handy.  I can still see the little sample bottles lined up on the kitchen window sills, the syrup starting out a light liquid gold, progressively getting darker with each batch until it was deep amber by the end of the season.  I don’t remember exactly how much he charged for his syrup but I’m sure it wasn’t enough.  It was more a labor of love than a capitalistic venture.  

Listening to the man talk today, telling us all about the Morse farm, their gathering and cooking methods, and how much sap it takes to make a gallon of syrup (forty gallons), I had some déjà vu moments.  When we walked into the store and I smelled the smells, in the words of Yogi Berra, it was “déjà vu all over again.” 

We all sat around wooden tables in a side room and another farm worker gave us each a small bowl of ice and a little container of hot syrup.  She showed us how to spread a small amount of the syrup on the ice, let it cool, and eat it like candy. Fun and tasty. And sticky.  I somehow managed to get it on my fingers, the table, and everything else within reach.  I know, it’s a gift.

Next stop: Smuggler’s Notch Distillery.  Beside that store was a cheese store and beside that a chocolate shop.  Since one truffle cost over $3.00, I decided to forgo the pleasure.  Paul did buy several very sharp cheddars for me though and I look forward to sampling some later.

Not being much of a shopper, I spent my time at a picnic table, enjoying a drink and some conversation with other non-shoppers until it was time to board the bus.  And we’re off to Ben and Jerry’s.

Because of COVID concerns we were not wanted in the Ben and Jerry’s store since a busload of us would have certainly been in each others spaces.  So they brought our orders (we filled out what we wanted before we left home) to the bus.  This suited me just fine.  We bypassed the line and never left our seats. I picked the flavor American Dream.  A crunchy, chocolatey, caramel concoction that will definitely add some weight to my already ample hips. The graveyard for discontinued flavors is near the ice-cream shop and each dead flavor is given a stone with a memorial write-up.

We got to our hotel early this evening.  Our supper will be served here and then I hope to play some cards.  If anything noteworthy happens I'll let you know tomorrow.

Corning, New York

 

New England, Day Three

First Century Glass

This morning we left the hotel a few minutes after 8:00.  The continental breakfast was notably post-COVID with individually wrapped muffins and a few anemic pastries, oatmeal in packets, and several varieties of breakfast bars.  Since I don’t like to eat a lot first thing and I also happen to like those oatmeal packets I was well-satisfied.  Pablo struggled a bit more, being a big fan of breakfast food with all the trimmings.  The coffee was hot, black, and good though, so he will survive. He has been declaring his intentions of curbing his eating habits so this might be just the jump start he needs.

It occurs to me that the frustration is not so much about a lack of breakfast trimmings but more about the fear mentality shrouding so many people. A dining area that resembles a hospital operating room more than a kitchen speaks volumes about the level to which we have descended.  I was determined to not allow this travel blog to sink into the quagmire of viruses and politics but my resolve is being tested.  Time after time we find places not open because they do not have enough help.  Gone are the steaming trays of food in open buffets, rife with shared germs and bursting with tempting aromas and appetizing mounds of delectable foods.  Instead we have room temperature, prepackaged, processed breakfast bars and people skittering in and out as if they are afraid of each other, the tables and chairs left empty and quiet. 

Back on the bus normalcy returns.  No one cringes when someone sneezes.  Instead “Bless you!” comes from several directions.  Tupperware containers of homemade cookies are passed around and no one can resist them. We on this bus are people who have all been touched by COVID.  We’ve lost loved ones, we’ve experienced its virulence personally, we’ve been hurt. We are all fully aware that being together carries certain risks. But we are people who refuse to allow a mutant virus to steal our lives away an inch at a time.  I’m hopeful there are millions of others out there who are the same.

We spent over an hour at the Corning Museum of Glass in Corning, NY.  What an amazing and extensive collection of archaeological treasures they have!  I was prepared for some Corning ware and instead saw first century pieces that could have been in use when Jesus was here!  The decorative glass rods found in doorways dated at almost 2000 years BC. Egyptian excavations produced vials, cups, and decanters from the times of the Pharaohs.  I walked through the “35 Centuries of Glass” exhibits, my mind swirling with thoughts of the people who actually made, purchased, or used these priceless treasures and almost felt like I could sense something of them still here.  

We saw a demonstration of glass blowing and the creation of a blue pumpkin, stem, leaf, and all.  Thanks to COVID, a new technique for blowing glass was needed.  Hand blowing was impossible when wearing a mask for obvious reasons so an air supply line was attached to the mouthpiece of the tool used to hold the molten glass.  These innovations put in place will continue even when COVID is no longer an issue. I find it fascinating how creative we can be when pushed by the unavoidable.

We stopped for lunch at another cluster of fast food places.  KFC in this town was open, dining room and all.  Paul’s boycott ended abruptly and we ate deep fried chicken before boarding the bus for the next few hours.

Since one of the planned attractions was unavailable, thank-you covid, our trusty tour guide, Martha, found another place to stop along the way.  Cohoes Falls in New York is a short distance from the highway. The beautiful water cascading over black rocks made it worth the walk and we all needed the exercise anyway.

Dave and Irene

Supper was in Bennington, VT at Jenson’s, a family restaurant serving up hearty hot meals.  The air is notably cooler and the leaves are just beginning to change color.  It’s almost dark now as we are heading to our hotel an hour or so up the road.  Looking forward to a good night’s sleep and exploring the eastern states in the coming days.

The Big Valley

 

New England, Day Two

We left Penn Valley Retreat around 8:00 this morning.  The crew at the retreat fed us a hearty breakfast before we left, sausage and egg casserole, sausage links, fruit, muffins, juice, and most importantly, strong black coffee.  Not being an early morning eater, myself, I nonetheless rose to the challenge and downed a sizeable portion whilst wondering what size pants I would need by the time this trip is over.

With lightening flashing and rain coming down we followed the winding road back to where we had entered this beautiful oasis last evening.  I noticed that there was no thunder, even after the sharpest flashes, which I found curious.

A tour guide joined us from a nearby church and he told us a number of interesting stories. He started with Indian John Glick who got his name when he hid in a hollow log during an attack that killed every other member of his family, back in the 1700s.  Only five years old, he was found by a local Amish family wandering lost and alone after the slaughter.  They took him home and raised him as their own and his nickname stuck, still used to this day.

Another tale involved a young Amish man who left the community to join the fight against Hitler.  He was a rear gunner who went down with his plane behind enemy lines.  He made it home safely before returning for a second tour and was once again shot down in German territory.  This time he was not so fortunate as before and ended up in brutal prison camp.  During a prisoner transport the train he was on, because it was not marked with the customary cross to signify passengers on board, was bombed by the Allies. 

The young man’s father wanted his son buried in the local cemetery but one of the church leaders  would  not allow it.  The Amish are pacifists and fighting in any war is strictly forbidden.  After pleading for his son, the grieving father was given permission to bury him outside the cemetery fence.  In a great stroke of irony, the man adamantly refusing admittance to the war hero, a young man who died defending his right to do so, was forced to bury his own son outside the same fence.  Beside the solder now lay another man for whom there was no room inside an overcrowded burial ground.

We spent half an hour at Meadow View Amish School.  Forbidden any cameras, this photographer’s dream remains un-captured.  I was headed to the outhouse (never pass a bathroom is one of my cardinal rules on a bus trip) when I caught sight of about a dozen little girls watching me.  When they saw that I saw they scattered like a flock of sparrows.  Their white caps covered all hair; their dresses and aprons were dark and fell to their bare ankles.  The boys wore straw hats during recess.  Their shirts were buttoned to throats and wrists; their trousers held up by one suspender fastened front to back, diagonally. Most of them were barefoot.

The outhouse had never been treated to deodorizing solution other than the little urinal cake hanging on the wall, totally ineffective.  Two holes with battered and worn toilet seats were above a dark chasm that I could not, nor did I want to, see into.  Very little light nor ventilation seeped through the ancient boards that provided some privacy.  There was no lock but I’m here to tell you it is possible to make use of the facilities without touching anything except the door one is firmly holding shut.

We were allowed into the schoolroom to observe some learning and it was a step back in time.  Way back.  Windows spanning both side walls provided the only light and with today’s clouds and rain, it was dim at best.  A large blackboard stretched across the front of the single room. Each antique desk held one scholar while providing workspace for another behind them.  Several shelves across the back held vintage school book, still in regular use by the look of them.  There were no shiny textbooks with pictures, no flashy school supplies, no computers, no signs of modern civilization anywhere.  Each student had a tablet (the kind with paper) with which to do their ciphers and compositions.  A neat row of warm pastel scarves hung on hooks along one wall; another row held straw hats from the boys.

After recess all students gathered up front, and with the teacher, sang several songs. They belted out the words at the top of their lungs but without emotion. It sounded unusual, not the melodic lyrics usually associated with music.  Rather more like a chant than a song with unvaried tempo and volume.

The teacher was a young woman who looked to be about mid twenties or early thirties.  She was all no-nonsense and said she had been at this school for nine years. Her voice when talking was eerily the same as when singing: even tempo, expressionless, and loud.  It was clear she brooked no frivolity and I was a bit nervous that someone on the bus would end up at the desk up front in the corner. We did hush David a time or two and managed to escape without anyone getting their knuckles rapped.

I mulled things over as the lessons continued, wondering if we were seeing an idyllic replay of history in real time. Was it a lifestyle to be envied, simple and reduced to the essentials?  Or was that a romantic notion that covered a reality filled with hardship and self-denial?

After visiting the school we stopped at Peight’s, a country store very similar to our own stores back home.  I left with a bag full of chocolates, beef jerky, and maple cookies. Feeling ready for the apocalypse, I boarded the bus and took a nap.

Having read the book Rosanna of the Amish as a young girl, I found our stop at an old graveyard rather interesting.  Rosanna’s grave is there among hundreds of others, the writing on her original gravestone mostly worn away.  I saw a gravestone with the name Byler and wondered if this belonged to some long-forgotten relative of mine.  Another smaller marker bore the names of three children, the mystery of their tragic story hidden under a weatherbeaten chunk of limestone. Would my passing be forgotten by future generations too someday?  I moved on before melencholia completely overtook me. 

As the bus meandered through Pennsylvania’s Big Valley our tour guide relayed one interesting bit of history after another.  We learned about the “white-top” Amish with their houses blue doors and white buggies. Other Amish groups have yellow buggies, some allow screens in their windows, others do not.  The hundreds of minute differences between the varying districts are enough to blow the minds of any and all “Englishers.”  One thing is constant though.  The Big Valley is one of the most picturesque places in the state.  Perfect lawns, houses, and barns nestled between two long ridges of wooded hillsides, with verdant fields producing crops that would be the envy of farmers everywhere.

Woven through our tour guide’s many tales was the true story of the seven barns destroyed by an eighteen-year-old arsonist in the early 1990s. The son of an Amish bishop, his motives remain unclear, at least to me, but the hardship he created for many hard-working families was plain to see.

We ate lunch at a local homestead where we were met on our arrival by a young barefoot Amish woman who invited us in and made us feel welcome.  Wood burning ovens were baking homemade pizzas dripping with deliciousness.  Followed by pie and homemade ice-cream, food comas all around were inevitable.

Several hours later we stopped at a state park to enjoy the “Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania.”  The rain had disappeared and the temperature was a beautiful 55 degrees.  Walkways and balconies overlooked beautiful vistas which we duly admired.  I couldn’t help but thank God for his amazing creation and that I could be here to enjoy it.

Our hotel in Mansfield, PA was minutes from a few fast food places; the bus dropped us off so we could walk to whichever one suited our fancy.  Paul was determined to have some KFC so off to visit the Colonial we went.  Unfortunately he wasn’t there.  Contrary to online information the dining room was not open and the two people running the show refused to serve any walk-up customers via the drive through.  They were not busy and the six or seven of us would have added a few dollars to their coffers but it was not to be.  Paul declared a boycott on all KFCs and I mulled over once again the death of common sense across the globe. I refer not to Paul but to the KFC employees who did not dare to think outside the box by handing us food in the parking lot.  I had a brief mental image of plowing through the drive-through with the bus, damage to vehicle and building notwithstanding.  Fortunately for all, I am not permitted near the steering wheel.

Thanks to a nearby Arbys we did not go hungry.  Truth be told, we could probably go without food for the whole of our trip and not die of starvation.  The signs posted at Arby’s warning us we may not be able to order what we want because of “interruptions to the supply chain” were yet another reminder that our lives have been changed in ways we never imagined two years ago.  These things have given me new gratitude for all that we can still enjoy.  Even with the unexpected ways we find ourselves inconvenienced it is all trivial when compared to the plight of so many.  And for today – I am grateful.

Penn Valley

New England: Day One

We left the Pioneer Office at around 8:00 this morning.  This year’s trip promises to be different than those of the past few years.  Many of the friends we have traveled with in the past are not with us this time.  Many new faces are here and I look forward to getting better acquainted with them.  Our tour guide, Martha, had everyone introduce themselves this afternoon as we moved up the highway.

I listened to my fellow travelers tell about themselves and realized what a brutal year this has been.  Five people lost their spouses since January.  COVID took several of them, but not all.  Many of us have experienced this virus and recovered but others were not so fortunate.  In the beginning, back in 2019, a few of us wondered if this virus was even real.  We don’t wonder anymore.  It has taken a toll on everyone and our bus is filled with weary people who have suffered and who need a break.

We stopped at a scenic overlook hoping to seeing some elk.  The elk wouldn’t cooperate and they stayed out of sight but the scenery was beautiful anyway. 

Our stay for the night was at Penn Valley Christian Retreat, a church-run lodge that had plenty of lodging space for all of us.  The staff served us some major comfort food. After generous servings of meatloaf, scalloped potatoes, salad, vegetables, warm apple crisp and ice-cream we couldn’t help but feel like the first day of our journey was ending well. 

One of the young adults helping prepare and serve our dinner asked me if I might be her great aunt.  We played the Mennonite Game for a minute or two, and yes indeed, she is my great niece.  If you don’t know what the Mennonite Game is I will explain it in a minute.  One of the unavoidable benefits, or in some cases, hazards of large families is the possibility of being related to virtually anyone anywhere. There have been a few times when I would rather have denied a direct bloodline to someone declaring their mutual ancestry but this was not such a time.  Julie is a lovely young lady and I remember seeing her at the family reunions some years back although I would never have recognized her now, without her self-introduction.

As for the Mennonite Game. . .  Anyone with Amish or Mennonite heritage knows how to play, and most of us have done it at one time or another.  It goes something like this:

You approach a stranger, also with a plain-people lineage and ask, “Where are you from?”

They respond with their place of birth or current living location.  You then ask, “Who are your parents?” or depending on their age and yours, “Who are your grandparents?”

This usually leads to discovery of some mutual acquaintance and nine times out of ten there will be common ground found.  It is likely you are blood relatives if you are able to backtrack a few generations.

After supper most of my fellow travelers retired to their rooms but a few of us spent an hour or two playing cards.  I lost as usual but I was only there for the visiting anyway.

Corona - Mask Mayhem

I’ve been changing my mind about a lot of things.  And masks have played a large role in my road to self-discovery.  I am noticing that they also reveal a great deal about everyone else.

Piles of Masks

Way back, in the beginning – well, okay, in March of this year, the fear of mask shortages for healthcare workers was becoming a great concern.  As is true with every manner of crisis, entrepreneurs and people with soft hearts (these are not mutually exclusive, by the way), began churning out masks as fast as possible.  Some people saw it as their way to help in this war against our “invisible enemy” and others saw it as a way to bring in some money.  No judgement here, I’m merely reporting.

Elastic very quickly became hard or impossible to find.  I was fascinated with the unending creativity of the producers of these necessary, but suffocating, accessories.  Elastic hairbands quickly disappeared from store shelves as they were put into good use.  Ties were fashioned from fabric and every conceivable method of keeping our breathing hampered was explored.

Jaimee' and Paisley at the doctor

Research varies wildly and even as I write this I’m not sure what the last five minutes may have produced in the way of dispelling everyone’s claims to the truth about masks.  Sifting through all of it (or rather a small variety of it since I would not be able to read it all unless I quit my job and stare at the computer 24/7), I have reached my own conclusions.  Some things are no-brainers.  Social distancing works.  Wash your hands.  Don’t touch your face. And if you feel sick STAY HOME! But masks?  That’s inconclusive.  

I believe everyone should make up their own mind and take responsibility for their own safety.  And they should LEAVE EVERYONE ELSE ALONE.  The danger of masks goes much deeper than a virus.  Our differing opinions are becoming an excuse to behave abominably to our fellow humans.

If you feel angry that other people are not wearing a mask when you go out and about in full protective gear, please wait to vent your anger until after you have returned home, and stripped off all your clothing before entering and contaminating your house.  Then you may scream as you stand naked in your garage; it is much more satisfying to do so without something muffling your mouth.  And if your fear of this virus overshadows your fear of an Orwellian society, maybe you should stay home.  Forever. 

If you refuse to wear a mask and believe those who would never be seen in public without them are virtue signaling, SO WHAT??!!  Nobody cares what you think, really.  If you don’t want to wear a mask you don’t have to make a big deal about it.  Just don’t wear one and for pity’s sake don’t breathe in other people’s space.  No one wants to get closer than six feet to you anyway.  Seriously, a mask is much less offensive than some of the get-ups I’ve seen when I was at Walmart way back before this plague hit.  But, I digress. . .

Jaimee Smiling? Afraid? Surprised? Who knows?

Maybe if we could all just imagine that the person wearing or not wearing has issues they don’t have explained on their t-shirts, we could have a little more compassion.  Maybe the person dressed like a beekeeper has a seriously compromised immune system, lives too far out of town for grocery deliveries, and has ungrateful offspring off on a closed beach somewhere celebrating spring break.  Maybe the person NOT covered is terror stricken at the very thought of strapping something to their face because they are claustrophobic, have asthma, or are convinced it’s a government plot to feed us to the Matrix. If either of these scenarios is true, these people are in need of a kind word and a friendly smile, not your unsolicited, unqualified judgement.  If you are wearing, you might need to tell them you’re smiling though.

Then there’s that guy proudly sporting his respiratory protection, firmly fastened under his nose.  Sorry Buddy, you’re wasting your effort on that one.  Repeatedly adjusting it with your questionably clean hands is exponentially increasing your risks as well.  I don’t need a scientific study to prove me right.  I wonder if by any chance this guy is married to the woman who wears a mask when she’s alone in her car with all the windows rolled up.  The woman who feels called to gesture in disapproving anger to those outside in the open air breathing deeply of the freshness she can only dream about.

Now that all employees in Ohio are being told they must wear a mask while on the job, unless of course they shouldn’t wear one, (yes it basically says this in the fine print of the proclamation), shopping is more interesting than ever.  My daughter was picking up some “essential” items last week and her heart filled with pity for the cashier.  Drenched in sweat, she had obviously dug into her husband’s hunting closet, finding a dark, thick thing that covered most of her face and was likely a complete failure as virus protection.  She was misery personified.  Jaimee’ was worried of offending the poor girl but took a chance and offered her the handmade mask she had shoved into her purse (she’s made about a thousand so far). She told me that after seeing the look of gratitude on the young lady’s face she determined to always carry an extra mask along in case someone needs it.

I went to the drive-through at the local Dairy Queen last night to get my ice-cream fix and I noticed their masks looked like they were made out of thin, shiny fabric, the kind that is used to make cheap silky underwear.  My guess is that someone decided this was a perfect way to satisfy the governor and breathe at the same time, hence they are all wearing totally worthless but breathable face gear.  I couldn’t help grinning when I drove away.  Ingenuity.  It’s a wonderful thing.

I admit I’m one of those people sweating in panic thinking about covering my mouth and nose at the same time with anything, let alone three layers of heavy fabric.  Just writing about it makes me feel a little queasy.  So I gravitate toward the research that has “proven” wearing a mask is definitely more dangerous than breathing in whatever polluted air I happen to encounter when I’m out and about.  It reassures me so therefore it must be true.  But I will fight for your right to cover up your whole head if you want to, as long as you leave me to my own choices.  And I will do my best to scrub my hands raw, stay home when I’m sick, never touch my face again, and keep out of your space because I DO care about you. 

Hairband/mask

One of my co-workers, knowing my fear of masks, showed me her own bit of creativity.  She was wearing a stretchy headband. By simply pulling it down over her nose, it draped down to cover her mouth as well and hung loose to below her chin.  Again, not the N95 protection everyone is talking about but it should definitely placate the powers-that-be.  I promptly asked my daughter to sew me up a few.  I’ll at least give it a try when I’m at work.

I was told I probably qualify for a mask exemption since they freak me out so badly that my anxiety (one of the things listed by the governor as an excuse) is legit and severe.  But I thought since I’m the manager I really should try to set a good example to the employees.  Let’s not dwell on all the ranting I’ve done about it at work; there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind what I really think of all the hoops the government is making us jump through to reopen.  At least maybe I can set a good example in the facemask department.  My last hope is that hairband thing.  I tried on one of the cloth masks in my office one day and made it about five seconds before I tore it off and tried to calm down. 

I’m a little afraid, too, that some of my emotional upheaval has much deeper roots than a simple strip of cloth on my mouth.  Actually having something across my mouth is probably long overdue.  But I’m thinking maybe part of my problem is that I’m stubborn and I don’t like being told what to do.  I grew up in a very conservative denomination that had a great many fine qualities.  But I never got good at taking orders when the orders made no sense to me.  And wow, has this mask thing triggered me in a major way!  I find myself outraged daily to a much greater degree than warranted by the inconveniences being foisted on me by politicians that have priorities apart from my well-being. Frankly, I doubt they could care less whether I live or die, so what gives them the right to tell me what to wear?!  See, here I am all upset just thinking about it.  What it all boils down to is I like my freedom; I grew up in America and I like my freedom.

And one more thing: don’t assume that because I don’t wear a mask I don’t care about Grandma.  I believe Grandma should self-isolate until this thing is less of a threat.  I also believe that if Grandma is of sound mind she has the right to CHOOSE to not stay quarantined and to take her chances, assuming she is well-informed as to what she is risking.  We are all responsible for our own precautions, again assuming we are of sound mind.  Yes, I know, what qualifies as soundness is a matter of many differing opinions. Sometimes it just feels too much like we're marionettes being  yanked around willy nilly by people who think the constitution is just a bunch of suggestions.  

We may never agree on things but we can still choose respect and love for our fellowman. With or without a mask you’re someone God thought worth dying for.  Important for all of us to remember before we flip off strangers because of a mask.

I’m going to go do some deep breathing now.

I can do all things through him who strengthens me. Philippians 4:13

Corona Quarantine

scenes from the Spanish Influenza epidemic 1918

I finished the two-week quarantine our Governor has requested for Ohioans returning from out of state.  It wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. Although I might have been tempted to cheat had my brother not told me there is no way I’ll be able to do it.  This kind of statement is like throwing raw meat to a Doberman.  I did not leave my property for fifteen days.

I’ve had plans to paint the foyer, kitchen, and dining room for quite a while now but never found the time.  I figure being instructed to stay in my house for fourteen days is as good a time as any.  I knew we would be on “house arrest” after we got home, meaning I couldn’t go buy paint, so I bought it in Florida before we left and crossed my fingers that the color would be what I wanted after I had it on the walls.  So far, I’m okay with it.  

After

Before

Paul is struggling with me painting because he dislikes change of any kind.  He’s relieved the quarantine is over before I start ripping out walls. We used to have conflict if I moved furniture around.  Thankfully, he has given up and resigned himself to my constant need to rearrange, repaint, and redo things around the house.  There was some heavy sighing though, as the walls changed from Mexican-restaurant-stucco-in-shades-of-orange motif to a clean buttery cream.  I left one, less-orange, wall in the dining room the way it was and he was so relieved, thanking me for the “accent wall!”  I’m wondering if he’s been watching HGTV on the sly.

Anyway, I’ve been hearing way more than I ever wanted from opinionated, self-proclaimed experts on every conceivable way to prevent or cure the latest global pandemic.  And now, along with millions of other Americans, I’ve been able to experience quarantine up close and personal.

One line of thought by especially vocal citizens decrying the stay-at-home orders is the belief that this is nothing more than a way to steal our liberties and turn us into a socialist country overnight. The outcry, the outrage, the call to arms (figuratively, at least so far) well, it’s almost as if this has never happened before, as if those of us in the 21st century are enduring hardships and threats never faced by anyone ever since time began.

Recently I heard a short audio excerpt from a book by Judy Yoder titled Vera’s Journey: A True Story of God’s Faithfulness amid Sudden Deafness and a Century of Change.  She writes about the great flu epidemic in 1918 and people being told to quarantine.  Schools, professional sporting events, churches, theaters, and other places where large groups of people congregate were shut down.  This sounds vaguely familiar to me.  It piqued my curiosity and I decided to ask Google a few things.

My online search about quarantining history was quite informative and very interesting.  The first recorded quarantine instructions are found in the Bible in the book of Leviticus.  Lepers were quarantined under orders from the Almighty Himself.  While today there are effective treatments for leprosy, I suspect not one of us would have opposed the forced separation of those afflicted from society at large back in the days before anyone knew what to do to prevent, treat, or cure this dreaded bacterial disease.  

The most famous mandatory quarantine in history was of Mary Mallon, or “Typhoid Mary,” as we know her.  A carrier with no symptoms she continued to infect people while working as a cook.  Put on an island for three years, she was then released into the unsuspecting general population after promising to never cook for anyone again.  Her irresistible need to make and share her homemade peach ice-cream forced her return to the island for the rest of her life, twenty-three more years.  Seems logical to me.

For anyone who thinks 2020 is the worst year ever, they should go back about a hundred years.  In 1918 WW1 and a killer flu were competing for center stage at the real-time Horror Awards. The death toll in the United States alone was 650,000.  World-wide it was much worse.  Fifty million people died of the flu, thirty-four million more than died in the war.  These are staggering numbers.  I can’t even wrap my head around it.  And one reason for the massive infection rate was the war itself.  Soldiers moving from country to country, and factory workers laboring in the war effort, set the virus burning through the population like a match to tinder.

The same as a century ago, the one thing that works to slow the spread is separation.  Unlike a century ago we are not isolated even during the time we spend in our homes.  We have countless ways to interact.  Facebook, twitter and YouTube for real-time interaction.  Smartphones to text or call.  Netflix to entertain.  Amazon to shop. And if all else fails, there are always books, if you’re able to read; hopefully everyone owns a few of those.

There are several things about quarantining during the present crisis that disturb me.  Historically the people who were kept isolated were those afflicted with whatever dread disease was running amuck while the healthy population was still able to be in public. Today, depending what state you are unlucky enough to live in (Illinois, Hawaii, Michigan, to name a few) if you are caught out of your house without a specific, government-approved mission you will be heavily fined and possibly arrested.  Fortunately hundreds of inmates have been released from various prisons to make room for these heinous criminals escaping their homes.

A few governors, along with their “medical experts,” have revealed their lust for power as they dictate arbitrarily which businesses can stay open and which ones seemingly pose a threat to the health, well-being, and lives of their hapless constituents. I credit them, though, for trying hard to look distressed while they take one freedom after another from all of us compliant victims. Indeed I suspect they are more to be feared than the virus. Our governor has the wisdom to offer a lot of guidelines and orders in a rather non-threatening way and I’m not aware of any arrests taking place.  But as time goes on, Ohioans are finding their patience wearing thin as he delays certain businesses from reopening and extends stay-at-home orders once again.

I am reassured by those notable political leaders who resist the temptation to power grab, expecting and trusting their citizens to act responsibly with social distancing, good hygiene practices, and self-isolation when sick. States like South Dakota and Arkansas are beginning to sound appealing should I think of relocating.

As time passes my opinion is shifting somewhat.  I no longer think it inevitable that we will suffer the same fate as those poor souls a hundred years ago.  The social distancing really has made a difference. And I do believe it was important to shut down for a short time to assess how this bug is going to move.  Will it search and destroy everything in its path or will it be relatively easy to halt, or at least slow it down?  It appears we have effectively done that.  It’s interesting to me that our very success in NOT having the horror of the Spanish Influenza nightmare repeating itself has all the conspiracy theorists shouting their outrage across the land, proclaiming that this was never anything in the first place.  That, I do not believe.

What I do believe, though, is that power, once given, is very difficult to retrieve.  People who insist we need to keep everything shut down indefinitely must have no concept of where their provisions actually come from.  The government has done many a grave disservice by paying the unemployed more during their time off than when they were working, thereby giving the false impression that labor is not a necessity but an inconvenience.  If I were a conspiracy theorist I would suspect that we might be on a fast track to socialism and the complete deterioration of our freedoms and life as we know it, unless we get this economy roaring again.

Fortunately, I’m not one of those people.  Or I don’t think I am.  Pretty sure.  Could be wrong.  On my good days I really believe we will rise above all of the machinations of small-minded and power-hungry monsters.  Other days, I’m not so sure.  And then I remember those heroes from 1918.  The soldiers who died for our freedom.  The nurses and doctors who died trying to save the sick.  The neighbors who took care of each other.  The people who survived to fight another day.  Those were our parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents.  That's where we come from and that's who we are.  

                                                                                                                                            

What has been will be again,
    what has been done will be done again;
   there is nothing new under the sun.
Ecclesiastes 1:9 

Corona Hits Home

I was in Home Depot buying paint when I got the text from my son telling me he was COVID-19 positive. And Influenza B as a bonus. I was relieved, crazy as that might sound. There was finally a confirmed explanation for the misery and anxiety of the past 8 days.  And  I’ll probably never go into Home Depot again without remembering.

I asked the question on Facebook about a month back whether anyone knows of anybody, personally, who has this virus.  I was skeptical about the seriousness of the whole thing. Well, I’m not a skeptic anymore. 

My son told me half-jokingly, before he got sick, that all the plague disaster films start with the government telling everyone there’s nothing to worry about.  And that’s how they were talking, way back in the good old days, three months ago.

He was exposed second-hand to someone who had been with someone that had tested positive a week or so earlier.  Because of this exposure his family was ordered by the health department to be in two-week quarantine.  It’s a fortunate thing they were thus ordered, otherwise they would have been in contact with many other people before the symptoms appeared. The person directly exposed to the confirmed case experienced only mild symptoms, and had therefore not been tested for the virus.  As my son’s health deteriorated with fevers, sweats, nausea, vomiting and a persistent dry cough we felt certain he had also contracted this new and scary bug. 

Paul and I were in Florida where we have taken to riding out some of the miserable winter weather that is common in our area of Ohio.  Even though our son is an adult with a family of his own, during the week of hearing about his deteriorating condition, I just wanted to get on the next flight home.  Paul, the voice of reason, reminded me I wouldn’t be allowed to see Erik anyway, and that I could worry just as well in the sunshine of Florida as I could in the bleak and blustery weather of Ohio.  He was right of course but I still wanted to slap some sense into him.

Every day I checked in, sometimes several times.  He continued to tell me that the fever was back up, he had experienced terrible sweats, he couldn’t eat or keep anything down, he was unable to sleep, he was too dizzy to stay upright, and by the end of the first week he had lost fifteen pounds. This from someone who has never been overweight.

My anxiety started to climb.  And climb.  Very concerned, I finally convinced him to go to the local ER for help on about day eight. After IVs and a whole lot of tests, they discharged him to sweat it out at home.  I was somewhat reassured because now there were doctors involved, there were IV fluids in, and there were medical people staying in touch with him.  Several more days of misery followed until, finally, his fever broke and he started the long road back, gradually building up his strength again.

I feel overwhelmed with thankfulness.  For friends who pray when we are too busy freaking out to do more than blurt out “God help!” now and then.  For doctors, nurses, and techs putting themselves in harm’s way to care for those who need them.  For a God who can be trusted.  And I’m so thankful that this horrible virus never went to his lungs and that his family has suffered only minor symptoms. 

I’m also frustrated.  When I see posts about how this is all a hoax or it’s just like a “bad flu.”  Uh, yeah, no it’s not.  I hear people say there are no cases around here, or hardly any.  Also not true.  Not nearly all the cases are being counted but that doesn’t make than any less real.  I hear people say that it’s different here in the country than it is in NYC.  Well, obviously, in many ways it is.  But my son, living in a small Midwestern town many miles from any major metropolis, got slammed with this bug from the other side of the world.  He hasn’t traveled outside the state since long before Corona was anything more than beer from Mexico.

I’m frustrated when I hear people complain that we’ve been suffering through this social distancing and yet our local hospitals don’t seem to be full. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?! Most hospitals in the country aren’t being overrun BECAUSE THE QUARANTINES ARE WORKING.

Having said all that, I also realize we can’t stay shut down forever because it is simply not economically feasible.  Our small family-owned business depends on tourism.  Our checking account is looking a lot less healthy than it did a month ago.  So my frustration (at least in this blog) is not about businesses opening or staying closed.  It’s not about which side of the political aisle people are looking for their salvation.  My frustration is about people blithely comparing this to a “bad flu” or insisting that this quarantine is nothing but a political plot by the left, right, or deep state to destroy this country.  That social distancing means we’re all sheep who do anything we’re told.  That it’s all about NOTHING.  That it only kills old people.

I challenge the naysayers to promote all their questionably researched theories after someone they love has been put through the COVID wringer.  Someone who is in the prime of their life and with no underlying health challenges.  I challenge them to imagine that the body bags they’ve run out of in NYC were needed for some of their own nearest and dearest.  I challenge them to contemplate the possibility that they could be incorrect in some of their opinions. It just might change their perspectives. 

RANT OVER.

The Lord is my strength and my shield; in him my heart trusts, and I am helped; my heart exults, and with my song I give thanks to him. Psalm 28:7