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!