Journal of the Plague Year

I remember reading this classic by Daniel Defoe when I was in high school. It is set in 1665, when a dreadful plague ravaged Europe, and it's a tough read even when you aren't living through a not-so-dissimilar situation. Of course, we are infinitely luckier than the folks trying to survive with no vaccinations, no decent sanitation, etc. But still, a global pandemic is a century-defining event, and COVID-19 has been no exception. 

Back in the day, pestilence, natural disasters and other kinds of mass suffering were seen as God’s judgement on, and righteous anger towards, God’s creation. Even now, there are many people who still pin the responsibility on sinful humanity, and on a Divine Power they see as exacting appropriate punishment. 

In Bible Study we are reading Exodus, and last week we discussed the ten plagues of Egypt. These vivid passages frequently make the cut for children’s Story Bibles and Vacation Bible School lessons, and for the life of me I don’t know why some saner soul doesn’t actually READ the darned things (and we’ll throw in Noah’s Ark here too) and say, “Yeah, yeah these are colorful tales but…a flood that destroys most of the earth? A series of horrors that culminates in the mass murder of babies? Uh, no.” 

I find it interesting to dig a little deeper and discover that the plagues were actually set up by the writers of Scripture as a competition between the Egyptian gods and the God of Israel. Each plague symbolized defeat of a different Egyptian deity: Frogs--Hequat, goddess of fertility; Flies--Khepri, god of regeneration; Boils--Isis, goddess of healing. Israel’s God, of course, beat them all in an epic smackdown. We now can identify almost all the plagues as natural occurrences (the waters of the Nile sometimes turned “blood” red with a certain type of algae, intense dust storms did “blot out the sun”). 

Bad stuff happens, happens often, and I don’t see it as Divine Retribution. The ending of Defoe’s Plague Year is, I hope, not prescient (as that plague receded, the people returned to their old ways, having learned absolutely nothing from the ordeal). I pray this will not be us. What I do take away, as the plague survivors in Defoe’s book do not, is the importance of remembering. Doing what we can, with the knowledge we have now, to avert future calamity (like, I don’t know, doing something about climate change maybe?)

But mostly, pulling together in these times of sorrow, and caring for each other. 

As, hopefully, our Plague Year Journal comes to a close, I am promising myself not to ever forget the lessons I learned. I will try to watch out, always, for the most vulnerable people in our society, and do nothing to further endanger them. 

When my mask is finally put away, may I not discard the habit of extra caring for my fellow humans. THAT is where I can see a loving God at work in this world. 

Maybe not the best preschool choice?

Going Solo

 

My talented friend Nimisha, whose solo performances inspire me!!

Tomorrow is my third (virtual) solo show class, and I can’t wait. I’ve long pondered the idea of a one-woman performance. I regularly do readings from my books, and of course had a lengthy career in children’s theatre “once upon a time,”  but this would be different—.a good bit scarier, for one thing. In our first class, we all shared our biggest fear around developing and sharing our solo shows, which was: our stories will be boring to an audience! It’s all been said/done before!! Our teacher had asked us to write the story of our lives to fit on one typewritten page, which we then read aloud. After the five of us had finished speaking, she asked, “Were you bored?” The answer, of course, was “no”—the other stories were fascinating, funny, poignant. I’m still not 100% sure about mine. 

Each week, we have a really cool assignment, which we present in class, and then do different theatrical exercises. We are also supposed to read, and watch videos of, other solo performers between classes. I’ve become re-acquainted, for example, with the work of the late great Spalding Gray, who used to sit alone at a table onstage with a glass of water, and tell spellbinding true tales about his life. It is quite intimidating to see how effective many of these performances are: just one person talking, minimal, if any, props and costumes. I’ve always relied on either reading my essays (clutching the book for dear life), or on Steve (my partner in show biz and forever, the Wizard to my Dorothy, the Hook to my Pan). But this would be without-a-net stuff, and I find it hard to imagine walking a tight rope, even if there was a huge net, the rope was six inches off the ground, and my feet were superglued to it. 

For tomorrow, we had to write, and will perform, a short piece in the character of one of our parents. Each presentation needs to include: a joke, a song, and a costume piece of some kind. Luckily, my choice was a simple one: I wrote as my mom, Joanie. Channeling my extremely quiet father would only work if I was portraying a chain-smoking Marcel Marceau. Joanie, however, is a relative snap (she was naturally funny, sang hits of the 1940s and 50s nonstop, and I think I still have one of her purses). 

I’m learning SO much valuable info during these sessions (choosing a persona, stating the “I Want” that focuses the show, developing conflict). Even if “The Elise Files” remains a fantasy, I will use many of these nuggets to enhance my writing. 

I have taken several classes and attended quite a few conferences since the pandemic hit—all online.  I think this is one way I’m coping with the many losses of the past 15 months—with value-adds. I may have missed travel, visiting friends and in-person concerts, but they can’t take “Writing Topical Satire” away from me! So there!

                                     Spalding Gray (from "Swimming to Cambodia")

thirtysomething

 

Back when he was "PJ"--and blowing out just 10 candles!

When my sister C and I reminisce about the time she spent living in Philly (and, for a while, with us in Oreland), the subject of the TV shows we watched together often comes up. At the top of our list is the oldie-but-goodie thirtysomething. This was the story—sometimes funny, sometimes deadly serious—of a group of friends in their early thirties: their work lives, romances, adjustments to marriage and parenting. It was especially cool that the series was set in Philadelphia. The acting was superb and the scripts were terrific. As an early thirtysomething myself, I could identify with at least some of their triumphs and trials (though new mom Hope always looked impossibly lovely, whereas I had to double check my sweats for spit up stains before venturing to the grocery store). In any event, this was my tribe: the maybe-a-bit-older-than-young adults. 

Well, not only have I LONG passed that particular decade, but, as of Saturday, four of my five kids will be “thirtysomethings,” with the addition of Patrick to that demographic. It scarcely seems real, this mothering milestone that reminds me once again of my mortality. Wasn’t it yesterday that I was not supposed to trust anyone OVER thirty? And didn’t that advice make sense to teenaged, hippie wannabe me? Now, of course, I tend to trust some people (not all) both over and under thirty, realizing in my maturity that trustworthiness is not a character trait unique to one age group. 

Our own 30 plusses are, I think, typical of Millennials: they have each had several jobs already, and anticipate continuing to jump from occupation to occupation as the years go by. For them, the idea of a pension and gold watch is baffling—why would anyone stay put their entire working life? Rose, at 32, is not close to tying the knot with anyone, and that’s just fine with her. Evan at 34 is in the same boat. Sheridan waited, and the other kids are waiting, or even deciding whether, to have kids of their own. Aiden and Peter may someday be far older than any future cousins on the Seyfried side. 

While they are frozen in time on film, the cast of thirtysomething no longer looks like those trendy friends depicted on the show (though Mel Harris, the actress who played Hope, is still infuriatingly pretty). They have gone on to produce, direct, and occasionally still perform on television. Rumor has it that a sequel is in the works, with most of the original cast returning, and a storyline including a new generation of thirtysomethings—and their sixtysomething parents. 

Maybe, if I see the characters of little Janie, Leo, Ethan and Brittany being portrayed by full grown people, I’ll finally process the indisputable fact that my brood are grownups. Until then, I will continue to see Patrick and siblings as the precious children they once were, and as Pat blows out 30 candles on his cake, I’ll sing—and, very possibly, also cry.

Open (Human Library) Book

I always said I was an open book...

As a writer, and a good friend of several librarians, I blush to disclose—I’m not a huge library goer. It may hearken back to my childhood, when lost library books and sky-high late fees were the norm at the Cunningham house. My sister Mo died in 1981. I later found a Sandy Springs Library copy of Jane Eyre Mo had checked out—but never returned—in 1972. I was so terrified that the fine would be in the thousands that (blushing again) I STILL HAVE NOT RETURNED IT. I comfort myself with the knowledge that this book is not exactly a first edition, and I’m guessing it has been replaced by now, but still…

As an adult reader, I buy my books, almost exclusively. Paperbacks overflow my bookshelves at home and at church. My Kindle is jam-packed with titles. Surely it’s because I want to support my fellow authors that I continue to shell out money for my reading material, right? And not that combo of acquisitiveness and laziness that are my trademarks? 

So it was a bit strange that on Sunday afternoon, I found myself in a virtual “book depot” at a Human Library event, making my debut as a Human Book. To explain: this is an awesome project based in Copenhagen, aiming to promote dialogue and understanding through the sharing of stories of people society deems “different” in any way. In my ongoing quest to raise awareness and increase acceptance of those with mental health issues, I applied to be a Human Book. There followed a decently long process of screening, interviewing and training. In normal times (what are those? Anybody remember?) the Human Book Events were held live, and they were local. With Zoom, these events are open to “readers” from all over. 

I was identified by my first name and the title of my “book”-- in my case, “Bipolar.” Some of my fellow books included “Adopted,” “Asian-American,” “Autism,” “Transgender,” “Gay,” and “MS.”  We logged on at 1:30 PM, met each other, went over the plan for the afternoon, and waited to be summoned to breakout rooms (one room per book) where we’d meet our groups of readers. We were supposed to speak briefly about ourselves, then open things up for questions. We needed to be prepared, we were told, for a wide variety of inquiries. Saturday night, I had dreamed my “readers” were snarling, antagonistic haters who hurled insults and then left the virtual meeting in a huff. 

My fears were not realized—my four readers were delightful people, two men (from Sweden and NYC) and two women (from France and Philly), who asked terrific, respectful questions. The hour passed very pleasantly, and at the end I felt they did understand bipolar disorder a little more. I’m excited to continue with this program and do more events. 

The Human Library Project’s slogan is “Unjudge Someone.” If we really could approach each other with open, UN-judging minds and hearts, what a world it could be! 

1848 rare edition--I swear it isn't this one!

 

Nana Olympics

 

My personal trainers

After 30 years of raising children, I became a grandmother. I was finally qualified to be on the Nana Olympics team. The seven years since have been a humbling voyage of discovery, as almost everything I did as a mom is, it turns out, the OPPOSITE of what grandmas tend to do. 

Instead of relying on my “mom” instincts, I began channeling my own Nana, who carried my IQ test results around in her purse and allowed us unlimited Yodels and soda.  I’ve made great strides, assisted of course by my young trainers Aiden and Peter, and now I feel I can compete with the best grannies on the squad. Here are a few of the events in which I excel:

THE EGO BOOST: (theirs, not mine) Everyone needs some encouragement, right? I was told as a young mother NOT to over-inflate little egos, to instead say things like: “That’s an interesting drawing. You like art.” Now, of course, I am an expert in unrestrained gushing: “That is the MOST amazing picture anyone has ever drawn. You are the best artist in the whole world!!” The Ego Boost is great for enlarging the heads of those gifted darlings. Extra points given for creative praise: “Your hands are so washed! They absolutely sparkle! I’m so glad you used the expensive French milled soap too!” 

THE DISCIPLINE DODGE: Spilled chocolate milk on the new chair? Once a tragedy and a timeout for my offspring, if my grandchild does it it’s NO BIG DEAL. Come here, sweetheart! Don’t cry! Nana knows it was an accident. It was Nana’s fault for not buying a chocolate colored chair. The stain will possibly come out. Here’s some more chocolate milk. Try to be a tiny bit more careful, but it’s OK if you aren’t! The best part of the Discipline Dodge is the chocolatey smile I get as a reward, which makes up for the scowly looks on Daddy and Mommy’s faces. Cheer up, Daddy and Mommy!

PHOTO FINISH: How many pictures of my grandkids do I have at the ready? Unlike the few snapshots grandparents used to tote in a wallet, the number of photos I can share with friends and even random strangers is limited only by the amount of space on my iPhone. Here’s the cutest picture of the boys! I took it 45 seconds ago. No, wait! Here’s a more recent one that’s even cuter! Oh, is that a picture of your granddaughter on her bike? Very sweet. Here are 20 pictures of my Peter on HIS bike. He’s only four and almost finished with training wheels. I’ve heard that’s a little advanced?

I try not to interfere with Sheridan and Ya-Jhu, who really are wonderful parents. I realize that their attempts at instilling order and good behavior are totally normal. When they become grandparents someday, I’m confident they’ll throw all that out the window just like I did. Am I spoiling the kids rotten? Spoiling them fantastic is more like it!

My mom, with one of the five most incredible children who ever lived (according to her)

Columnist in Search of a Column

For nine years, I wrote a column for the Chestnut Hill Local, a small Philadelphia newspaper. The old-school editor, Len Lear, was a gem, and I loved sharing my “slice of life” pieces with readers. “Everyday Matters” did not (even remotely) fund my kids’ college educations or my retirement, but it made me feel like a real, working writer. The paper was read far beyond its circulation area, thanks to the Internet, and I sometimes marveled at its reach. One column I wrote about my very favorite restaurant from VERY long ago, and the delightful, eccentric chef/owners, drew a lovely response, months later, from the restauranteurs' grown, far-away children. I learned that their parents had died, but it was so nice to re-connect with their family through my newspaper writing.

Then, suddenly, it was over. The paper changed direction, and my work, along with that of several other columnists, was no longer included. Instead, the Local publisher decided to focus entirely on things like neighborhood news and high school sports—a decision I obviously question, but there it is.  It’s been more than a year since my swan song, and I am yearning for another column, somewhere. My blog is carried by newspapers in suburban Philly and coastal Delaware; however, I’ve yet to be asked to become a staffer. I do a good deal of other freelance writing for newspapers and magazines, but there’s something magical about having your own dedicated place and space.

I just joined the National Society of Newspaper Columnists, and attended their virtual conference over the weekend. It was wonderful, both in terms of the presentations, and the members, a group that includes columnists for many large-circulation papers. The executive director of NSNC is Suzette Standring. Suzette, whose home base is suburban Boston, has had a widely-read syndicated religion column for years, and has also written many humor columns (religion! humor! my dream niches!) We began corresponding, and she is incredibly friendly and encouraging. In a world where there is so much cut-throat competition, it is refreshing to encounter such kindness and support. 

Will I ever land another column? I certainly hope some news publication, somewhere, will be interested in my take on life. I know the industry is changing rapidly, and that loud rustling sound you hear is more and more newspapers “folding” (get it?). But there are still options for column writers, especially online, so my fingers remain crossed--a real challenge when typing. 

Meanwhile, I will keep reading my favorite columnists, including Nick Kristof, Jennifer Rubin, Steve Lopez, Alexandra Petri and Dave Barry, and enjoying the unique perspective each of these talented folks brings to the news, and their general life observations too. 

I don’t think of myself as a particularly gutsy gal, but then I recall this quote from the late great columnist Erma Bombeck: “It takes a lot of courage to show your dreams to someone else.” 

So thank you, dear reader, for letting me show you one of my dreams. 

Oh! To be an ink-stained wretch again!

Leaving the Station

Grocery shopping in Barcelona with Evan, 2016--Shop N Bag felt just as exotic

Last Thursday, I went to the grocery store for the first time since March, 2020. I’ve been so fortunate to have Ya-Jhu doing all the food shopping. She’s done a wonderful job, and it’s been a relief to be spared that particular risk. But I’ve missed selecting my own produce and chatting with Frank at the fish counter and Diane, my favorite checker. Mostly, I’ve missed the normalcy of hopping in the car and dashing off for a gallon of milk. 

Two weeks post-vaccination, it was time to take on this family task once again. I was thrilled to push the cart down the aisles, to pull a loaf of bread off the shelf. It was all wondrous, and felt like a preview of more wonders to come (hugging my kids, returning to indoor worship at church, a restaurant meal). 

So why did I have to stop on the side of the road on the way home because I was sobbing too much to drive?

I’ve thought about the jumble of emotions that swept over me that morning. Intense regret for a year lost. But also this: I was afraid to venture out, and I am still afraid. I’ve gotten so used to thinking of the outside world as a disease-ridden and ominous place. Safety has been my primary focus, along with worry for the many who haven’t had the luxury of working from home. What in the beginning had seemed bizarre (airing out the mail for days before touching) quickly became expected routine. 

As a result, part of me misses isolation, misses hunkering down with just my household. Making small talk in the checkout line with Diane felt very strange, when so many conversations have been planned Zoom events. I’m sure I’ll acclimate, but I am amazed at my nostalgia for what has been a horrific time.

My friend and gifted writer Te-Ping Chen has written a lovely book of short stories, Land of Big Numbers. In it, she shares snapshots of life in modern China. A favorite story is “Gubeikou Spirit.” It’s a fanciful tale of many commuters stuck in a station after a mechanical failure delays the next train. The strict rule is that no one can exit the same station they had entered, so they are trapped for months. At first extremely agitated, the people become used to the food and entertainment delivered to them, all their needs met. After a while, they don’t mind the loss of their freedom. When at last a train arrives and the door opens, only a few people climb aboard. 

Oreland has felt a bit like Gubeikou Station this past year to me. Now, when at last the “trains” are beginning to run again, I hesitate. Am I really protected? Isn’t it safer to just stay at home? 

But in my heart I know it’s time to return to the outside world, scary as it still may be. And so I dry my tears and pull back onto the road. 

Miracles take a while to get used to

Ever After

Hasn’t time has been a slippery thing to measure these past 13 months? At some point 2020 ended, then we lurched into 2021, and suddenly we were in the second year of observing various holidays COVID-style—meaning: as best we could, missing much of the human contact with friends and family that is most of the point of these occasions anyway. 

Today marks Julie and Gil’s six month wedding anniversary. Their entire marriage has been spent in the shadow of isolation and restriction. I have yet to kiss the bride OR the groom, and the big celebration and reception are still months in the future. But on October 7^th, they decided to exchange their vows with one another anyway, a profound statement of love and commitment, during a major worldwide crisis. 

I remember sitting in our dining room that day, watching the Zoom video of the brief nuptials taking place in Brooklyn. Nothing about it resembled my wedding day, or indeed the wedding of anyone I’ve ever known. The couple was in their apartment, the jovial officiant was in his, and the sole witness (Rose) was in hers. The service itself was “blink and you’d miss it” quick—largely because Jules and Gil wanted to wait for the bells and whistles until we could all be together for a future Major Ceremony. So in this condensed version they said “I do,” and not much else. But it was enough to make it official. I found myself in tears, but not tears of regret that I couldn’t physically be present—rather, tears of happiness as I watched my now-wedded daughter and my brand new son-in-law join hands and lives. The officiant remarked that it was probably not the wedding of their dreams, but he echoed my feeling of hope, that life and love and promises endure, even in the most unsettled of times. 

We saw Julie and hubby several weeks later in our backyard, on a warm autumn afternoon. Chef Patrick handled grill duties, and we had a lovely meal. We cheered for the newly-minted Mr. and Mrs. Gavish, as well as Rose’s impending birthday. We knew it would be a while before our next reunion--and indeed it would be another two months, and we haven’t been together since. We will gather next for Steve’s birthday April 26th.

There was a moment at that October gathering, luckily captured in a photo, that I will treasure always. There are Julie and Gil, smiling broadly. Julie is wearing her bridal veil--along with a pair of shorts and a casual top. What might have seemed incongruous, was instead an adorable combination that summed up my Julie--sporty and no-fuss, yet sweetly romantic too. She’ll wear that veil again when the Big Do finally happens, I’m sure, but I can’t imagine her looking lovelier—or happier--than she did that day.

Some things the pandemic could not ruin for us. The unexpected joy of my daughter’s unconventional wedding is one of those things.

Weather Alert: Brain Fog

Yup. Looks about right.

Like most of us, my mind has weather. Amirite? My moods are “sunny” or “dark.” I rain (even flood) tears; I freeze people out. I’m sometimes long-winded, I can be a tornado of energy. My outlook can be clear or cloudy. This week, though I’ve been fighting it, I am foggy. Brain Fog has seeped into my cranium and taken up residence, and I’m having a hard time getting my bearings. I can only see a few feet ahead of me, and my emergency lights are flashing. I’ve slowed WAY down. Exit and street signs are impossible to read, so I’m going on instinct, feeling my way through my days. Suffice it to say, I cannot concentrate worth a darn right now.

There are understandable reasons for this lack of clarity, but that doesn’t make it any easier to navigate. 

Yes, we are in Month 13 of the Pandemic that Never Ends

Yes, our pastor died last Wednesday afternoon, so sad

Yes, I have precisely 4,123 items on my to-do list FOR THIS WEEK

Yes, I’m only on Number #3 of that list

and 

Yes, I’m 64 years old, and a little haze comes with the territory

I’ve always prided myself on achievement and speed (natural, not chemical) to power through life. While I am no athlete, I do usually move at a brisk pace, often knocking over knick-knacks and small children (sorry, Peter!) as I barrel along. These last several days, though, have been like slogging through molasses mixed with maple syrup mixed with crazy glue…when I’m not completely stuck, I am struggling to move. 

I’ve been sleeping restlessly, my dreams vivid and disconcerting. When I wake up (as I do at annoying intervals throughout the night—thank you, age 64!), I am disoriented for several moments (why am I in bed and not still climbing that icy ladder with the bad guys chasing me?) The rest of the days glide by, blurred at the edges. I feel like Lucille Ball in the movie Mame (if you saw it, the great Lucy insisted on soft-focus to hide her advancing age. When she was in scenes with other actors, it was like someone covered the camera lens with Vaseline when her face was featured).

I hear about the intense brain fog that is one of the lingering symptoms of COVID-19, and I truly empathize with those sufferers (and no, I’m sure I don’t have COVID). All I can do is keep driving down this road, cautiously, making my peace with a slower pace and rather less accomplishment than usual. Our lives, like our bodies, have spells of rough weather, and I think I’m in one now. The clouds will break, the fog will lift, the sun will shine again, eventually. I’ve learned THAT over 64 years.

While I wait, I might try to be patient, for a change. And grateful that, for me, this is a temporary condition. 

But I’d better keep those emergency flashers on, just in case.

H2O4U

You never forget your first Coke...look at that smile!

When I was little, I hated drinking water. Well, to be fair, New York City tap water way back then tasted pretty yucky. So I just didn’t drink any. And I was allergic to milk, so I couldn’t drink that either. And I was not a big juice fan. So I spent a lot of my time feeling—thirsty. Then, one magical day, at my cousin’s apartment, I discovered Coca-Cola. Where had they been keeping this amazing and delicious beverage? I wondered. It was sweet, it was fizzy, Coke was like a party in a bottle! I’d finally found something I loved to drink! 

But there’s a funny thing about Coke. I could drink gallons of it (and I did) and it could give me a mouthful of cavities (and it did) but I would still be thirsty--almost like my body was trying to tell me something, but I wasn’t listening. 

As an adult, my antipathy towards water, and my affinity for soda, continued. Oh, after a workout or tennis game I’d guzzle a little H2O, but never nearly enough to replenish what I’d lost during exercise. Usually, I’d imbibe exactly the amount required to swallow my pills in the morning, and not a drop more. 

Recently, I purchased a large, snazzy water bottle and have been trying to drink at least 6 glasses worth a day. My motives aren’t the purest (my skin has been really dry; I am struggling to lose some weight) but whatever the reasons, my body is reacting positively to this change. 

Monday was World Water Day, and that reminded me of how difficult it is to obtain fresh drinking water in many parts of the world, and how lucky I am to be able to just turn on a tap and watch it flow. Over the years, our church has supported charity:water, an amazing organization founded by Scott Harrison. Scott had been a nightclub promoter on the NYC party scene through his twenties; at age 30 he decided to change the course of his life. He spent two years on a hospital ship off the coast of Liberia, seeing the health consequences of dirty water. Since 2006, charity:water has raised $500 million for projects in 29 countries, providing clean water to 11 million people. 

We live in a world that tries to sell us Coke, when what we need is water. The world tells us that we need things that are symbolically “empty calories,” things that may sound good, or look good, or taste good, but can really hurt us. And there’s cool, refreshing water right here waiting for us, and we don’t even notice.

 This glorious first week of Spring, as I attempt to turn over a new leaf with a water-drinking routine, may I evaluate ALL the empty calories in my life, and fill up on the good stuff instead: compassion, gratitude, forgiveness, kindness. And may I do my part to provide life-giving water to my brothers and sisters who thirst.

Ny new H2O receptacle!