The Great Baking Disaster, Time of Coronavirus Series

Yesterday my project was baking bread. I have celiac disease so I counted myself lucky to find and order a box of gluten-free bread mix with hard-to-find yeast. I carefully followed the directions, making substitutes only when necessary because of the limitation of ingredients we had on hand.

I set the loaf carefully in the oven to rise, utilizing the “proof” setting on the fanciest oven I’ve ever had. When the dough had nicely risen above the level of the pan, I pulled it out of the oven and set the temperature for baking. In the meantime, I sat and rested as I again checked Amazon to see if they might have one of the items for which I had been searching in vain.

The oven beeped to signal the correct baking temperature had been reached. So, I opened the oven door, picked up the glass pan of bread dough, and, oops, it slipped from my hands, just as I was setting it on the middle rack. The glass pan did a sideways landing. As I tried to right the pan it tipped all the way over (another “oops") and very sticky bread dough dripped from that rack onto the rest of the racks. If this had occurred on I-65, the guy in the traffic copter would have called it a rollover accident with probable fatalities. I must have said something, (probably not “oops”) as my spouse, god love him, came running.

If I’d had my wits about me, I would have taken a photo or just sat down and cried. Instead, using spatulas, knives, pot holders, and our hands, we both tried to scoop the dough back into the pan. In doing so we only made the mess worse. I felt like I was in an old Woody Allen film, back when they were slapstick funny. We had spread the sticky dough everywhere, including on the oven door, between the oven door and the frame, and the floor.

We wiped the mess as best we could and I looked at the dough we had managed to recover and put back in the pan. It was a lot less dough and the top of the dough was covered with little black specks of burnt-on food picked up from its adventure on the oven shelves and door. You clean-food people will be happy to know we tossed the dough that had landed on the floor or outside the oven.

If you truthfully are repelled by a little dirt, do not read the rest of this post--REALLY! STOP READING NOW!--because I scraped some of the black spots out of the dough, smoothed the top, and put it back in the oven.

By dinner time the smell of fresh-baked bread filled our kitchen. I carefully took the bread pan from the oven and, after letting it rest, removed the loaf from the pan.

The great baking disaster ended well. We each enjoyed a slice of the bread with a little butter, proclaiming the taste excellent. No apparent traces of oven debris were found in the loaf—at least so far as we could tell. Maybe it’s helpful our old eyes don’t see as well as they once did. We also concluded, with some scientific-sounding pronouncements, whatever bits of previously burnt food that might remain no doubt were safe to eat after baking.

Belatedly, I realized my error that had caused the calamity. Following the bread-making directions, I had spread butter on the top of the dough as it proofed in the oven. But I had not covered the bread. When the dough rose, the butter had melted and apparently dripped down the outside of the pan making the glass pan slippery.

There were many beneficial outcomes from the great baking disaster. In addition to having fresh bread for dinner, giving the kitchen floor an extra cleaning, needing to wash all the towels, pot-holders and the like that had become bread-dough encrusted, I also learned a lesson of what not to do when baking bread. And perhaps most significant, I don’t have to worry about my next project: reading the manual for cleaning the oven.

Happy fun in the kitchen to all of you.

Living in the Time of Coronavirus: Will I Have to Learn to Drive Again?

I hope you and your families are well. We watch news reports until we can’t stand it anymore. My spouse and I are staying at home except for walking our dog in the park and necessities. My spouse goes out for groceries, every two weeks unless we run out of something we think we REALLY need. Luckily, he is a good shopper, with a mask and an organized list.  When we can’t stand the monotony of eating our own cooking we order carry out. We count ourselves lucky to be able to afford groceries and occasional carry out.

I may forget how to drive if I stay home much longer. But on the positive side I’m getting better at doing my own nails. I write some but not as much as at first with the stay-at-home. The writing is therapeutic for me even if the reading of it is not for you. I tend to write longish essays that I then need to edit and chop into shorter posts. You, my sweet reader, no doubt wonder—how can she drabble on for any longer than this? Well, there is a lot of free time now for some of us.

I also am baking bread and doing what housecleaning my arthritis allows. Hell to get old. I now read the obits in the daily paper and am startled to see how many of the dearly departed are the age of my husband, myself, or younger. Not sure how many of those listed have died from coronavirus.

Reading the obituaries makes me think perhaps I should write my own obituary now. At least I could make it a bit funny if I do it while I’m still healthy. Shall I mention my awards in college and law school, as I’ve read in other obits? Or the fact that I’ve been preceded in death by many wonderful and loving collies. If they are in heaven I won’t mind passing to that world, assuming I’m amongst the blessed. Or perhaps I can use what Martindale-Hubbell wants to put on a plaque they continuously try to sell me? No, I think I need to give this more thought.

I’m doing lots of reading and some zoom “cocktail parties”, with my book club and another women’s group. Lots has been written about the best way to Zoom.  Zoom can be challenging for largish groups. But recently we Face Timed with our teenage grandkids. That is not at all challenging or overrated.

I never thought I could value the hugs of loved ones more. But now the coronavirus has taught us those hugs truly are to be cherished.

Living in the Land of Uncertainty

We all are living now in the land of uncertainty. People are staying at home as much as possible, and wearing masks when they have to go out. Health care workers, grocery store clerks, truckers, first responders, teachers and many others are being recognized as the heroes they are. Some for the first time.  Non-essential stores and offices are closed. Online ordering of food is difficult if not impossible. Everyday items we had long come to take for granted have disappeared in many places. The underlying fear of catching a deadly and novel virus competes with dire concerns of a great depression.

My uncertainty is a lot less than the uncertainty for many. But it exists. It’s about day six or seven since I started with a little, hacky cough, tightness in my chest and headache. Since I am given to allergies to nearly everything God or man created, but especially the God-creations, such as grass, pollen, sunlight, trees, cats, wool, dust mites (you get the picture), a little cough and tightness in my chest ordinarily are not unusual enough to give me pause.  

In the time of coronavirus, however, every cough, whether at home or in public, is suspect. My spouse immediately started asking how I felt. Did I have a fever? No. Was I feeling sick? Just a little tired. Could I still taste and smell food? I sure could. Did I have an appetite? Yes. Maybe a little less robust than usual, but food tasted fine. Or it did for the most part. Some few things had a strange aftertaste. Like dark chocolate. Oh—talk about God-created miracles. Please don’t let anything ruin the taste of chocolate.

 This state of affairs continued for several days. My coughs during the night occasionally waking my light-sleeping husband. But not me. I’ve been known to sleep through small and large disasters occurring around me. Since I am a senior and have a history of asthma I yielded to my spouse and other family member’s insistence that “I do something”.  I sent an electronic message to my primary care doctor. My symptoms were so minor I apologized for taking her attention away from what I was sure were more pressing patient issues.

My doctor’s office quickly responded and asked me to come to the office the next morning. I did, following their instructions for safe access. My doctor took my vitals and confirmed my temperature, blood pressure, and oxygen levels were all good. She listened to my lungs and asked pertinent questions about my symptoms. She noted I likely had a virus, the treatment for which was rest, fluids and healthful, easily digestible foods. She reiterated hygiene and safety measures to prevent the spread of the virus in case this was the dreaded COVID 19 and sent me home with a prescription for a new inhaler to use if the tightness in my chest caused any breathing difficulties and instructions to call 911 if I felt at any time I had significant trouble breathing.

When I got home and reported in an email the results to family, in what I thought was a very low-key manner, I was met with calls and questions. Some were concerned that I had not been tested for coronavirus. The only thing scarcer than rolls of toilet paper are COVID 19 tests. While it would be useful to know if the virus I am experiencing is part of the pandemic sweeping the globe, for me right now it makes little difference. I am and have been staying at home. I am not deathly ill. The doctor had assured me that whatever virus I had my spouse most likely already had been exposed so no extraordinary measures to keep him from being exposed were likely to make a difference.  

It would be useful to know if this illness is giving me some immunity to COVID 19. By the time I’m fully better I’m hoping tests will be available to determine that. By then, I could more safely go out and about. And also, possibly donate platelets to others who need help in recovering.  

I’m now in week two of the cough that lingers. I’ve not had any of the symptoms commonly associated with allergies, like itching and sneezing, or the ones I associate with flu or other previous viruses like fever or congestion.  I also don’t feel any worse. In fact, I am cautiously optimistic. I have a little more energy and am a little less headachy. I still don’t feel much like doing chores around the house or putting on makeup. But that’s not a whole lot different than usual.

I know that week two of COVID 19 often is a turning point where some people get better and some suddenly take a turn for the worse. So, I’m going to continue to follow my doctor’s advice: rest, fluids and stay at home.

As we all live in the land of uncertainty, I am wondering what I might find on Netflix today—and if Netflix will freeze up like it did last night. Maybe at some point we will all learn who is and who is not immune to coronavirus and have a vaccine for those who are not yet immune. Then we can emerge from the land of uncertainty and rebuild our world, perhaps in a kinder, better, and safer world for all of God’s creations.

Dreams in the Time of the Coronavirus

I have a rather profound question for you, dear readers: If Jimmy Buffet is singing in the background of your dream, no matter how otherwise horrible the dream, can it be a nightmare?

I, like other friends with whom I’ve spoken—by phone I assure you--have had disturbing dreams lately. But so far, I am the only one who’s nightmares have been punctuated by a soundtrack of what ordinarily is happy, beach-going, margaritas-drinking music.

It can be difficult to think and write happy thoughts. We all have family, friends, and ourselves to worry about. I am worried about dear relatives who have come down with this awful virus. I also am worried about our adult children, teenage grandchildren, and flocks of friends and other relatives who so far are remaining healthy, that is, if you don’t count stir-craziness.

Worries invade my thoughts throughout the days and no doubt are reflected in my dreams at night. I don’t generally remember my dreams. But I expect they are somewhere stewing in my psyche and reflect some of what is going on in our increasingly dystopian world.

For two nights in a row I kicked my husband while we were both sound asleep, jolting him awake. What dream demons I was destroying I have no idea.  To his credit my spouse refused my offer that I move to the guest room. Now he wears shin and knee guards to bed. Not really, but we have placed a large pillow near my legs and between us, so he has at least a chance of waking without bruises. And also, of getting a half-way decent night of sleep.

My spouse is not the only one in the family who has been subject to sudden awakenings. This morning, far earlier than I usually get up, our collie urgently paced and cried near my side of the bed. Thinking she needed to go outside urgently, I jumped out of bed. Well, that’s not exactly accurate either. I “jumped” as quickly as a senior who was sound asleep and also taking blood pressure medicine can jump out of bed without falling on her head.  

I tried to lead our collie to the back door so she could go into the yard. She refused to budge. Then I tried to lead her to the front windows in case her disturbance was caused by a three-dog walk by a neighbor that occurs twice a day. She refused to check out the front windows. So, I did the only thing one can do with a collie--I followed her.

She led me to the closed bathroom door. Thinking my husband was in the bathroom and perhaps in distress, I knocked and then opened the door. As he emerged from the shower, I asked him if everything was ok. He said he was fine and had closed the door so that the light wouldn’t wake me. Meanwhile, our dog had laid down and was sleeping, apparently quite happily, on the cold bathroom floor.

Dogs are smarter than we sometimes credit them. One of our sons has a black lab who has learned to open doors, particularly the one to the back yard and all the doors where food is kept. Obviously, our collie is even smarter. She has learned to manipulate her humans to open whatever doors she wants to go through.

After I saw that both my spouse and dog were fine, I went back to bed and fell asleep again. Only to be abruptly awakened sometime later by a phone call. The phone call was of no consequence except it caused me to know what I was dreaming at the time.

And a truly unusual dream it was, complete with a background soundtrack and activities that no doubt someone could interpret as meaning something in the time of coronavirus.  

Jimmy Buffett was singing over and over, “I don’t know where I’m a- gonna go when the volcano blow” as I and a number of other people were trapped in a nearly-ready-to-erupt volcano in North Korea. We were guarded by military officials who didn’t understand we were all in danger. Despite our panic, some of us had hacked into the guards’ phones and other electronic devices and we were starting to play warnings about the volcano when my actual phone rang.

I remain optimistic during this virus outbreak. Just as I feel sure we would have convinced those guards to help us escape, I think we will work together to create and find solutions, vaccines, medicines, supplies, physical distancing and whatever else it takes to defeat this threat.

Our world may well be changed from BC (the Time Before Coronavirus) to AC (after Coronavirus). We are losing and will lose many people to this terrible disease. We will learn how to collectively grieve. We will learn how to accomplish a lot more work as well as socializing, using technology so we can maintain distance. We will learn how to plan ahead for the next big disaster, having supplies and supply chains better organized to respond when disaster strikes.

Another, actually profound question presents itself: will we also recognize the value of diversity for our collective survival? I hope we learn to value the least of us, the elderly, the immigrant, the poor person. They or their child may hold the solution to our next pandemic or disaster.    

Beauty Tips in Time of Coronavirus

I’ve heard tell our President has grown tired of the coronavirus and may have cabin fever from his “isolation” in the White House. I can relate to having cabin fever—so much so that I’m thinking of trying some new or old beauty methods to keep it interesting, while my spouse and I are stuck at home. These tricks might be useful—or amusing. Just know, I assume no liability if you decide to try any of them at home. 

Decades ago, I used a spoonful of plain or strawberry yogurt for a face mask. It worked so well I even used it for a clear, rosy glow on our wedding day. This was so long ago that brides didn’t generally go for pre-wedding salon appointments. Now that salons are closed in many places these at-home techniques could prove useful or at least diverting again.  

I also recall from my youth using fresh lemon juice as a hair rinse to keep my hair shiny and blond. The lemon rinse made me smell a bit like a fruit drink and attracted flies until I belatedly realized I needed to rinse it out.

Some friends used beer to set their hair and large, empty, orange-juice cans to get smooth, flat hair. The styling technique had the side effect of attracting fraternity boys. You will need to judge for yourself how these methods will be received by your current living companions. 

As far as hair coloring techniques, if you can’t go to the salon and are open to trying new methods, I have a few ideas. Did you know…Alexander the Great used saffron to make his hair shiny and orange?

Diversionary topic, discuss amongst whomever is in your household: Has Trump heard of this trick to make his hair match his face? How would that look? And what is it with powerful leaders and their interest in turning themselves orange?

Anyway, when I mentioned this idea to my spouse as a possible beauty trick he replied, “Do you know how expensive saffron is? Who do you think you are? Alexander the Great?” I replied, “I’m considering it because I’m worth it.”  I didn’t think I better mention my using his stash of beer as a setting lotion. 

On pantry diving, I have discovered no saffron so it’s presently a moot question. But I did find cumin, red pepper and also Hungarian paprika. Any one of which might temporarily restore the red highlights of my youth. But I’m afraid they might also irritate my scalp. So, if anyone out there wants to try some spices or herbs as haircoloring please let us all know how that turns out.  

In the range of serious tips, I’ve read that both mayonnaise and olive oil are wonderful hair conditioners. And I think mayonnaise also is supposed to suffocate head lice. Though with restrictions of movements and social distancing, the spread of head lice, common colds, and even air and water pollution are bound to be decreased.

Just be careful if you decide to use any of these techniques in your home. You don’t want to slip on olive oil in your shower or turn your bathtub orange.  If Trump succeeds in vanquishign the virus by Easter, as he confidently predicts he will, you can always cover your orange or strangely glossy hair with an Easter bonnet.  

Staying Busy in the Time of Coronavirus

There are still plenty of things to keep the average stay-at-home senior busy.

My plans for the typical day include reading the paper, thinking about what we can put together for dinner, and engaging in one or more of my new hobbies, including:

·      Calling friends I’d ordinarily see

·      Calling friends I don’t ordinarily see

·      Writing and blogging

·      Exercising

·      Trying homemade beauty techniques or beauty products stashed in the backs of cabinets

·      Taking photos of plants and flowers inside and outside our house

·      Ironing shirts that ordinarily go to the cleaners. (Just kidding—I haven’t gotten that bored yet.)

·      Scrounging back of cupboards, closets and drawers for useful, edible or amusing items

·      Checking online to see what is available. For example, is toilet paper available online and if is, is it a recognizable brand or something possibly weird? Are the 5 star reviews or 1 star reviews to be believed? So far it appears there are some exotic brands available. I have no idea what they cost, how long shipping takes, or whether they are the best thing since "Don't squeeze the Charmin" commercials raised American expectations for tp or disintegrating tissue paper. As our modest supply dwindles this will have to move from hobbies to chores list. 

·      Watching and trying to identify birds I see in our yard. My spouse’s search of his closet netted binoculars which I plan to use to help in this pursuit. So, neighbors, please know I am not spying on you if you happen to see me looking out the window with binoculars. But be on notice to not engage in any odd backyard behavior like burying bodies wrapped in rolled carpets. These are scary times. I will call 911 more quickly than Jimmy Stewart sent Grace Kelly to check on the funny goings outside his Rear Window.

Little, Unexpected Joys in the Time of Coronavirus

Over the weekend and while we are both feeling healthy, we made a quick stop at a neighborhood grocery to pick up some fresh produce, and whatever staples were available.

 

I found tangerines, bananas, milk, the last package of fresh meat—chicken thighs--and a few other pantry items we were getting low on. I was looking for toilet paper—none found, and also Cheerios or rice Chex since I have a gluten allergy and cannot eat a lot of cereals. To my surprise, while there were no regular Cheerios there were all sorts of different varieties: cinnamon apple, honey nut crunch, raspberry crunch (ok, I made that one up but there were some other very strange ones I don’t recall) and also chocolate Cheerios.  

I had never even heard of chocolate Cheerios. In ordinary times, even if I had, I wouldn’t have considered buying them. I was reasonably sure they were more expensive, higher in calories, sugar, and other non-healthy ingredients not found in ordinary Cheerios. But chocolate! I don’t know about you, but chocolate causes me to feel happy, at least in a temporary burst. Must be endorphins or serotonin or some other chemical reaction because I suddenly feel like I’m in love and all is right with the world, even if for just a few minutes. So, I gave into my inner child. After all, these are difficult times for all of us.  

I have eaten a lot of Cheerios in the last few years after my celiac disease diagnosis. They are reasonably healthy, easily transportable and, even if a bit boring, they are a quick breakfast or snack solution for me. But I had just about gotten to the point I could not look at Cheerios without wanting to gag.  I do not want to cause chocolate Cheerios to become as scarce as toilet paper, so I will only say they are a fun variation in breakfast foods during difficult times. But, if you should find some, please buy just one box from the shelf and leave the rest for someone who might also really need a chocolate high right now. Like me.

Crazy Ways of Coping in the Time of Coronavirus

Schools are closed in Kentucky as in many states. Restaurants and bars also are closed here. Salons and gyms were ordered closed yesterday.  Many other venues we’d ordinarily go to are closing to help slow the spread of this particularly contagious and particularly deadly virus.  

We’re told to exercise social distancing, self-quarantine if we may have been exposed. And we’re told by our “youngsters” to “Stay the f---at home”. At least they care. Or they’re just relishing the chance for turn-around in giving unsolicited advice. No, I’m going with they care.  

So how are we to cope? This is a time of coming up with novel strategies for a novel virus.  

Many have responded by rushing to all still-open stores by buying hand sanitizer (Ok, that makes some sense.), toilet paper (Not really so sensible in huge bulk quantities unless your home cooking is really bad), and firearms (Just crazy. The virus is too small to effectively eliminate with bullets and the virus has yet to turn any victim into a brain-eating zombie.)  

Some folks also have rushed to hair salons for color and cuts. Before they have to stay home for weeks. I’ve got to ask—does anyone you live with not know your hair grows and is a different color than given by nature?  

This particular behavior brings to my, somewhat-warped mind an old episode of I love Lucy. Lucy and Ricky who, in the midst of one of their more nasty squabbles, have divided their home into “his” and “hers” sections. Somehow, Lucy got the half with the kitchen and Ricky got the half with the bathroom. Lucy, uttered, in what was shocking dialogue for the times (remember this was the 1950s), “There’s going to be a lot more brown roots around here.” 

But enough with remembrances of simpler times past. Though if you can find I Love Lucy re-runs on a TV station or streaming, it surely will be a mood-lifter.  

Given that the CDC now recommends medical professionals caring for coronavirus patients who have run out of masks use scarves or bandanas we can all use some creative coping mechanisms. Maybe that's why Trump's latest new medical person-in-charge, Dr. Deborah Brix, as she stands silky shoulder-to-shoulder with the President and Vice President as they emphatically stated at today's news conference there is no shortage of protective equipment or tests, wears all those silk scarves--for when the masks run out at the White House.

 

I promised some coping mechanisms for some coronavirus problems. I didn’t say any of them would actually work. But maybe they will give you a laugh. Or, who knows, maybe some of them will work. So here they are:

·      Order a clear, plastic, bubble umbrella as a self-protection device for when you absolutely have to go out shopping. If nothing else it will help with the social distancing as other shoppers will decide you are a risk because you are half-crazy. I’d suggest spraying with cleaner or disinfectant when you get home. I don’t know what the CDC guidelines are—probably still “Stay home.” But, if you order a bubble umbrella, at least on rainy days, even in non-apocalyptic times, you can use it as just an umbrella.

·      Order a bidet toilet seat—or add-on bidet sprayer for when the toilet paper runs out. I’ve heard the Japanese swear by these devices as much cleaner than toilet paper. If you have unlimited cash or credit, go for the “Rolls-Royce” model with not only water but warm air dryer, night light and heat. If you go for the top of the line, I may break my self-imposed, staying-home mantra to come visit your home—I promise with trusty bubble umbrella in place—to check it out.  

·      This one’s for those kiddos stuck at home and their parents who think half-crazy would be an improved state of mind, why don’t the cable channels, network channels, or whomever start showing school lessons? After all, not everyone has high speed internet but most people have a TV.  Grade school classes could start early in the mornings. Afternoons, evenings and the wee hours would be reserved for high school and college-age folks. Teachers could assign tests or papers based on the lessons and collect them at some future, theoretical time when it’s safe to congregate again. In anticipation that many students would fail to complete the assignments, creative writing assignments could be doled out to explain what happened to their homework.

·      Start fun, family cooking projects to cook from items in the back of the pantry. For example, yesterday I made gluten-free bread from a package that had been in the pantry for, oh, five, maybe ten years. I knew there was something not quite right when the yeast failed to fizz even a little bit despite the recipe saying it would. The final result was not so much bread as matzah or communion wafer-loaf. But a fun project that amused me for several hours, including scrounging until I found an old bottle of cider vinegar, and the eventual cleanup of every bowl and measuring cup we own.

·      Discourage ill-advised spousal cooking plans. For example, my husband, ordinarily an excellent and thoughtful cook, suggested his own cooking from the back of the pantry project—spicy, black bean casserole. The thought of ingesting that and the likely intestinal distress from my gastritis (and had he forgotten there’s a toilet paper shortage going on), gave me emotional distress. If he follows through, I may eat the rest of my left-over project—stale, gluten-free, flat bread. Hmm…maybe with peanut butter or jelly? Or canned tuna? Time for another pantry check. And an internet search on do-it-yourself gel polish removal. Maybe with something I find in the back of the pantry.

Book Club in the Time of Coronavirus

The Big C is no longer Cancer but Coronavirus. No doubt these are unprecedented circumstances and scary times for most of us, prompting widespread closures as well as crazy panic buying. Not only toilet paper but all paper supplies are either nonexistent or in short supply at our local grocery. But gun sales are up.

 

Really??? Maybe we should call this the Go-Crazy Virus. Coronavirus generally does not cause diarrhea. But people are preparing to guard their toilet paper stashes with deadly force?

 

There is reason for staying calm. Although Coronavirus is very contagious, about 80% of infected people will have mild symptoms at worse. On the other hand, there is reason for taking precautions. Those over age 60 or with pre-existing health conditions are at much greater risk of dying from this virus.

 

No one seems to know why advanced age makes it so much more deadly. That in itself is scary. But it’s also scary to admit that being over 60 is advanced age. Is God, nature, or something more sinister trying to weed us boomers and oldsters out?

 

When I started writing this piece last week, Kentucky had 6 cases. At that time, I had read an Atlantic article which made a good case that early stage quarantine is the only way to stop the spread of this virus. Today, I read that some cancer surgeries are being postponed to save room in hospitals for the expected tsunami of Coronavirus cases. So much for our early stage measures to stem the tide of the new and scarier Big C.

 

With all the home quarantine, social distancing, and venues of amusement closing now, here’s a new game—line of Presidential succession and age/health lottery. How far down the line do you have to go to find someone under 60 who also looks sort of healthy and is likely to survive COVID19?

 

I think you get to Mark Esper, Secretary of Defense. But it’s a judgment call—we likely all can agree Secretary of State Pompeo doesn’t look healthy. But Vice President Pence is only 60 and looks healthy-ish. I personally thought he was older. Must be his white hair.

 

What happens if Trump dies from the novel Big C, Pence becomes Prez, then gets sick, and another VP who is young and healthy is installed before Pence succumbs.

 

Or, what happens if Trump and Pence both quickly succumb to the virus?  Nancy Pelosi is next in line—but what if she is infected? All of these people are in public life and until very recently have been shaking lots of hands, mingling in crowds, and the like and are well past the age of 60. Any or all of them could become infected and are at higher risk of dying.

 

Does the Speaker of the House even have to be a member of the House? Something in the back of my head said no. When I looked it up, I found the back of my head notion is correct. The House of Representatives, now controlled by Democrats and whose average age is slightly under 60, could pick Kamala Harris or Mayor Pete to be Speaker and then she or he would become President.

 

Or maybe Kiefer Sutherland ends up Prez after all. I know—I’ve gotten silly at this point. Too much time on my hands. But if you’ll bear with me, I have another question? Will he be Invincible Jack Bauer from 24 or the ordinary mortal from “Designated Survivor”?

 

And what happens to Democratic candidates if the same death surge of oldsters occurs? Bernie and Biden are both in their late 70’s. Prime targets for a negative outcome from this novel virus. Are we left with Tulsi Gabbard? Even if she’s a Russian plant at least she dresses well.

 

 Anyway, Coronavirus Lottery could make a good parlor game if we were all still able to meet in our parlors. But the latest guidelines say no more than ten in your parlor. Or you can play it by text or facetiming.  Maybe this is a game app waiting to be developed.

 

Or, it could be the basis of a movie script, which we might end up having to stream rather than see in theaters. By the point in time when a movie is released about the new Big C will the worst of this pandemic be past? Will it have mutated where it’s killing most of humanity? Or will a new pandemic have taken its place?

 

I was predicting it was only a question of time before the MAGA groups and Democratic rallies spread the disease even further. But the President and Presidential candidates alike are taking steps to cancel those large groups. Governors across the country are starting to do the same.

 

Now, there are 25 cases in Kentucky and the Governor, in a very sensible and sober response, similar to some other governors, has closed all restaurants and bars across the state.

 

President Trump has been exposed to more than one person who is now confirmed to be infected. Notably, Trump was finally tested, even though he did not quarantine or even maintain safe distances with other people during the interim.

 

News reports state the White House says Trump has tested negative. But since he lies about everything, why should we believe him? Maybe it’s true and maybe it’s a lie. Also, it’s particularly hard to assess Trump’s health status when the color of his skin keeps to an unnatural shade of orange at all times.   

 

Last week my book club met with about 8-10 members, most of whom are a bit younger than I and are still working. At the time there were no warnings about avoiding small gatherings such as this. Nevertheless, before the meeting, planned for a restaurant, I shared the recommendations from the Atlantic article for early social distancing.

 

My fellow book lovers were all, “Meh, I’m more at risk at work than at book club.” One even has a compromised immune system. So, rather than look like the only coward, I went. We shared discussions of the book, a couple bottles of wine and also of hand sanitizer, but no common appetizers. And none of the usual hugs. Was it safe or foolish to get together?  Or more like playing music on a sinking Titanic? Who knows?

 

A large gathering in Louisville in about the same time frame, a fund-raiser at the art museum, now has resulted in a number of Louisville’s and Kentucky’s movers and shakers (the Governor ,the Mayor, a Congressional Representative to name a few) needing to self-quarantine and/or be tested after two attendees were subsequently diagnosed with the coronavirus.

 

For my retired spouse and me, most of the events we had planned over the next month, plays, concerts and dinners, now have been cancelled. We are cancelling non-urgent doctors’ appointments as the experts recommend for people over age 60.

 

We are told we will likely have scarce medical resources if we do not successfully slow the spread (or flatten the curve as the statisticians like to say) of the virus. If I hate to admit that age 60 or 65 is advanced age, I even less like the idea of perhaps rationing ventilators based on age, as they apparently have had to do in places such as Italy. In China the sickest people reportedly never made it to hospitals so the rationing wasn’t as much of a problem.

 

Sure, I’ll give up a ventilator for my children or grandchildren. But for some abstract millennial? Yes, that might be fair but not particularly palatable.

 

I have to wonder why we can’t manufacture more ventilators in the time before we desperately need them. During World War II, automobile and other factories were re-tooled to manufacture B-24s and tanks. Couldn’t we pretty quickly do the same for necessary hospital equipment? If hand sanitizer can be produced by New York prisoners, surely masks, ventilators, and gowns, could be produced in adequate numbers by manufacturers of somewhat similar products. At the same time, pop-up hospitals could be designed and built by the Corp of Engineers.

 

We also need to start preparations now for the November election. A federal law requiring mail-in ballots could be passed with sufficient appropriations to cover the cost. State election registries have the lists of registered voters and their addresses. Why not print mail-in ballots with the name and address of each registered voter on the reverse side? On-site drop off points as well as a mail-in option would avoid close contact by voters and would assure a paper record for any ballots that might be challenged.

 

With leadership and cooperative efforts these problems can be solved. America, like the rest of the world now has a common enemy. It’s not an attack from another planet but it may as well be. We should mobilize as if we were engaged in a war for the world. We are. And we should stop hoarding toilet paper and guns. Neither will save you from this virus.

 

Dialing All Friends...Smarty-Pants Car—Where Are You?

I know you’ve all been there.  At least if you have an iPhone or other smarty-cell phone.  Sometime your cell phone has made a call for you that you did not intend.  If you are lucky, you stopped the call before the other person picked up.  Though, despite your best efforts to hide the fact your pocket made a call, the call’s recipient probably could tell you had called.

How did we ever manage without Caller ID?  I remember thinking it was a silly idea when I first heard of Caller ID.  Why did I need to know in advance who was calling?  Wasn’t that the purpose of telephone etiquette—where the caller says “Hello, I’m John Doe. Is this Dorothy?”  I only took Caller ID service because I worked for a phone company, and my assistant got some points if we all took the service.  Or maybe she lost points if we didn’t.  Despite my skepticism, after one day with Caller ID I was sold.  I wondered, “Caller ID, where have you been my whole life?”

I don't think I’m the only one.  No longer do most people answer a phone call blind.  We’ll want to know who is calling.  We also no longer need to be able to recognize the voices of our family and friends. Even mental telepathy and ESP are obsolete.  We now have Caller ID.

But back to that butt or pocket-dial.  Your friend or acquaintance whom you called by mistake--they either called you back or pretended to not notice you'd inadvertently placed a call.  If you’ve been less lucky, some friend or relative listened to you while you muttered over grocery prices as you pushed your cart through the aisles, or pumped gas or, worse yet, engaged in a real-life conversation with a companion that they could overhear.

I think I’ve done all those things.  I even butt, or pocket-dialed an acquaintance while walking my dog and--as I bent to pick up my dog’s deposit--dropped my sunglasses into that deposit.  Sort of the trifecta of screw ups.

You might be surprised at the words I used to express my dismay at the sunglass/dog poop situation.  I was surprised at the words I used.  Suffice it say—they would not have been acceptable to the nuns who taught me.  Or to my Mother.  And the person I had inadvertently called on my cell who was listening to the whole verbal deluge was a friend of my Mother’s.  No doubt, given the luck I was having that day I probably said a number of things that would not have been acceptable to any of my Mother’s friends.  Oh well...it was that kind of day.

Recently, I’ve topped even the “pick-up-dog-poop-drop-sunglasses-in-dog-poop-butt-call-disaster” incident.  Now my cell phone has taken to making phantom car calls on its own.

We bought a car that communicates with my iPhone through Bluetooth.  Sounds pretty cool, eh?  My car stereo (do they even call them stereos any more or is that a sound system?) will play audio books, podcasts and music from my cell.  How wonderful has technology gotten?  The car-cell collaborative strategy also will play GPS directions and probably will drive my car when I’m not paying enough attention.  I think the artificial intelligence collaboration between my cell and my car has reached the awareness stage.

I may start to call my smarty-car-cell collaborators “Car 54”.  If you are not old enough to remember the TV program “Car 54, Where are you?”  I’ll summarize it briefly.  Two police officers patrolled in a police car assigned that numerical designation.  The officers were always up to hijinks and rogue behavior.  But only in the nicest, most humorous ways. You can watch a bit at:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mQfXPGCYlfI 

As I think my car and cell are likely well intentioned, and since I am so much at their mercy, I will give them “Smarty Car 54” as an affectionate, but nostalgic  name in the hopes they use their considerable combined power in a helpful and benign manner.  Also, that way, when my car and cell phone team up and go rogue, I will have a named entity to blame.

Recently, my Smarty Car 54 decided to call one of my sons.  I had not touched my cell phone or even said anything to it.  I think perhaps I turned on the windshield wipers.  But I had no awareness that I had done anything that would result in a call to my son.

What takes the cake is the occasion when my husband’s call was answered in my car while neither my husband nor his cell were in the car.  I was leaving for an appointment, pulling out of our garage in Smarty Car 54, when a woman started talking to me from my car.  The woman appeared to think she was talking to my husband who happened to be sitting not in the car but back in our kitchen.  He had been on hold on his cell phone when I left the house.  Apparently, my husband’s cell through Bluetooth switched the call to my car sound system just as the called party picked up the call.  Luckily, my husband was not engaged in any smarty-pants behavior.  Unluckily, I was suddenly talking to his insurance provider.

So now both of our cell phones were ganging up with our car to confuse the hell out of us old folks who were just trying to do normal stuff like make phone calls on a phone.  Or drive a car.  But not at the same time.

The only thing I could think to do was to drive the car into the kitchen and let the lady talk to my husband.  No, I didn’t actually do that. I did run back inside and ask my husband to get in the car and talk to the lady who was talking to me and see if he could get the call back on his phone rather than in the car I was planning to drive away.  He did.  I drove away a bit later.  The Smarty Car 54 hijinks certainly gave me an excellent excuse for why I was late for my appointment—my car had been tied up on a call with my husband’s insurance company.

Currently I am lucky if I can get my car to play the radio. I do not even try to  replicate any of my smarty-car-cell phone hijinks, at least not intentionally.  But apparently, I can do it unintentionally.  My brother recently told me he had received a phone call, supposedly from me, and the call sounded like it was from my washing machine.  I assured him it must have been the Smarty Car 54 that called him.  As I told him—the washing machine has had it phone privileges taken away until it gets the laundry done without my having to sort the clothes, lift the baskets, add detergent and fluff or fold.

Deck the Halls or Not a creature is stirring…ooh…a dead mouse

Well it’s that happiest time of year. When we go all out: Christmas shopping, baking holiday goodies, and decorating everything.

Just yesterday I was at physical therapy. They were hanging blinking lights on the equipment, wreaths on the doors, and warned they’d cover me with tinsel if I didn’t move a little faster.

Luckily, it was about time to head home to do a little decorating of our own. We are in a new—to us—house. Our new home has the same number of bedrooms and baths as the old but is a single story with very tall, cathedral ceilings.

It’s been an interesting project figuring what fits where. You do know, interesting, is the all-purpose word when you don’t want to resort to a curse word.

Some decorations, though perhaps “dated” as the stylists like to say, or even a bit ragged from many years of usage, still carry memories of Christmas past and work just fine, at least in our opinion. But then some other decorations don’t. And there are some total gaps.

For example, we now have a very tall, white brick fireplace that cries out for some type of decoration. We don’t own any decorations large enough for the scale of the fireplace. So, we came up with a plan: buy some new decoration and hang it from the one large nail the previous owners had placed high up on the bricks of the fireplace.

With some perusing online I found and ordered a very large, pre-lit, battery-operated wreath with a timer. Our plan was once we got this sucker up we wouldn’t have to mess with it again until it was time to take it down. A very good plan. Execution was another matter.

The wreath arrived on our doorstep without incident.  My husband dragged out the extension ladder and, together, though not without struggle, we got the batteries in the wreath, a bow attached, and the wreath way up high.

Stepping back, with our heads titled all the way back, we soon realized the wreath was WAY too high for the room. Anyone would get a crick in their neck looking at it. Did I mention I’ve been going to physical therapy for persistent neck, back and shoulder pain? This wreath was not going to help. But maybe moving it wouldn’t either. In any event, the wreath came down.

My husband then fashioned a clever hanger from an ordinary white metal clothes hanger. And the wreath was now at about the right height.

Feeling smug at our accomplishment, though my husband was muttering something about how he hoped the hanger, wreath and all didn’t fall, he then attempted to replace two of the floodlights in the very tall ceiling. He was using a pole gizmo with attachments he’d ordered online and was standing near the top of the extension ladder.

All went well with one light, but the other refused to budge from the socket and instead retreated as if it were a sunken eye of Blue Beard the Pirate. There was no way we could reach the dead bulb now. Well, maybe instead of Christmas decorations we should be using a pirate party theme?

I should mention, in all the “deck the hall’ing” and changing light bulbs, a lamp was broken and wreath debris had somehow gotten everywhere. We were a bit bloodied but not quite ready to give up on decorating. Since we’d have to clean up anyway, and the ladder and the tubs of Christmas decorations were still out we thought we’d at least spread some of the old, pre-lit garland on top of our new, very tall, white bookcases on either side of the chimney. We thought that would be a nice, relatively easy, decorating touch.

After putting batteries in the garland, positioning the ladder, and taking some deep breaths, my husband climbed up on the ladder again as I handed up the garland. He promptly handed the garland back, now covered with dust and cobwebs. And he asked if I could bring him an old, plastic container (about the size of a mouse) and a trash bag. A dead mouse had been sprawled on top of the tall bookcase.

Suffice it to say, we got the lighted garland up eventually and the mouse properly disposed of. The house now is even tidied a bit from the wreck we’d made of it.

And we have to admit our house is starting to look a bit more Christmas-y. But the Christmas tree is still not yet up. In a year of optimism, we had bought a pre-lit, simple, three-part construction Christmas tree that every year creates havoc because it never quite reassembles the way the directions claim and some of the lights refuse to come on.

The tree will be a project for next week. I suppose I should sign up for a double dose of physical therapy.  I just hope the therapists have finished their decorating. We’ve had enough fun for now.

Finding a Silver Lining at a Silver Diner

I’ve driven the some 260 plus mile stretch of Interstate Highway 64 between St. Louis, Missouri, my birthplace, and Louisville Kentucky, my home for the last thirty years, hundreds of times.

That stretch of interstate’s not a very interesting road: straight and flat for the most part with few stops along the way. Sometimes there’s flooding along the sides of the road, in Indiana and Illinois, sometimes there’s construction on the road. I’ve run into some major storms while driving that stretch. But it’s always been just a means to an end, getting from one city to the other.

The people in the car and the purpose of the trip vary. Holidays and special occasions: the car laden down like Santa’s sleigh with Christmas presents, our two sons when they were young and a big collie dog.

Traveling to my parents’ and my in-laws’ 50^th wedding anniversaries, which as coincidence would have it, were the exact same date.  To accommodate our attending both, my in-laws had a lunch-time celebration; my parents an evening event.

I remember that trip because we were in a particular hurry; my husband got a speeding ticket. Our parents who were retired and relatively healthy at the time would have told us to take our time. I could almost hear my Dad, “Better to arrive in one piece and late than get in an accident.” I have to admit we haven’t always heeded the advice to take our time.

We’ve driven that interstate in sickness and health:  hurry-up trips when a parent or a relative was sick or had died. Depending on who was doing the driving we often compared our drive times, my husband’s always the shortest. When I drove alone it added fifteen to thirty minutes to the time, either because of extra stops or a lighter foot. Music, audio books or games, depending on our moods and who was in the car helped to pass the miles.

Many of the Louisville to St. Louis trips were over the last decade of my and my husband’s parents’ lives. Stress and worry were a constant on those drives as we often were racing to a hospital or rehab center because of the latest chapter in a string of difficult times. So many trips that only a few of those drives do I remember specifically.

The reason for one drive on that same stretch of I-64 was to return from a weekend get-together with two best friends from high school. We get together at least once a year, sometimes in fun locations, such as a five-day trip to Asheville, North Carolina. But many times our get togethers are just a quick add-on to a trip to our hometown to see family and friends.

Our friendships, originating when we entered an all-girl high school at ages thirteen and fourteen, have lasted now fifty years. Like traveling that interstate, our friendships have been in good times and bad. We’ve been in each other weddings, celebrated the births of our children, and for two of us, our grandchildren. We’ve shared the difficulties and joys of raising children, working in jobs we loved or hated, going back to graduate and law school. More recently, we’ve laughed together over the indignities of age. We have seen some husbands come and go, and have shared our sorrows with the passing of all of our parents. This trip, time and money led us to decide on a short trip to our hometown.

After a fun weekend and saying goodbye to my friends, I headed home on Monday morning, spurred to get an early start by my husband who had been watching the weather. He often checks the weather radar even if we are just crossing the street to walk the dog in the park on a cloudy day, frequently saving us from being caught in a sudden downpour. He advised I should leave early to avoid a line of severe weather coming in from the north, predicted to arrive in Louisville at 5 PM eastern. With the early start I thought I was on track to beat the storm by a couple of hours.

Stopping at a rest area in Illinois I saw a text from my husband updating me that the storm now had changed paths and likely would intersect I-64 right after Evansville, Indiana by early afternoon. My thoughtful husband suggested I stop in Evansville for a couple of hours to let the storm pass.

My husband and I had stopped at that exit just two weeks befoe with a packed lunch for me and to buy McDonalds’ happy meals for our grandkids. That trip with our two grandchildren in the back seat had been an unqualified delight. We went to a Cardinal baseball game, explored the twelve story playground that is the City Museum, and ate genuine frozen custard from Ted Drewes, coincidentally my very first employer. Giggles and “stump the grandparents” on a Presidential 20 Questions game passed the time on the drives there and back.

Evansville is the approximate mid-way of the drive, and would be a convenient stopping point for lunch again today. Except for the fact I had no packed lunch and all of the fast food restaurants at that location, where we had stopped hundreds of time to get gas, stretch and use the rest rooms, are not particularly friendly to someone with a gluten allergy, such as me.

Making fun of people who are gluten free is almost a national pastime now. It was a running joke in Asheville on the comedy bus tour my friends from high school and I took last year. Tom Waits, George Clooney and David Letterman championed “Free the Glutens” on one of Letterman’s last Tonight Show appearances. Articles abound with reasonable arguments that, except for the small percentage of the population with celiac disease, most people do not benefit from avoiding gluten.

All of that is fine, except for those of us who do have celiac or gluten intolerance. Even a tiny crumb of bread or cross-contamination with a wheat product makes me sick for days. There currently is no medication to help the gastro-intestinal discomfort and flu-like symptoms that result from a mistake at a restaurant. For that reason, I avoid most fast food restaurants and those without a gluten-free menu.

As a result, on long car trips, airplanes and at airports, concerts and stadiums, to name just a few gluten-free-hostile venues, I often find myself painfully hungry if I don’t bring my own food or if the venue does not permit outside food.

I wasn’t looking forward to prolonging my stop in Evansville this time, knowing all of the usual restaurants we had tried involved fast food and the only likely gluten-free option would be a drink. Nevertheless, I reflected that sitting with a bottle of water at a rest stop is better than trying to drive through a severe storm.

I recalled another trip home from St. Louis when an unexpected storm caught me in blowing, blinding rain where I was afraid to pull off the road but also afraid to continue on. Eventually, I was able to follow the taillights of a large truck and pull off at this same Evansville exit, hunkering down, along with a lot of 18-wheelers at an abandoned service station, as golf-ball-sized hail pelted the overhang.

I didn’t want to repeat that experience so I pulled off at the exit. Since wasting time was the point of my stop, I drove a half mile past McDonalds, Arby’s and the service stations. I had seen a new sign for a Denny’s and could not recall seeing that restaurant at this location.

Finally, I spotted what looked like a 1950’s-era, silver diner, tucked near one of the motels, barely visible from the road. I figured it would be more pleasant to drink an ice tea and sit at a table, even if I was hungry, than to sit in my car and wait for the storm to pass.

Stepping out of my fourteen-year old, boxy Toyota that no one would mistake for a time-traveling DeLorean, I nevertheless felt a bit like Marty McFly as I walked into a diner that looked like it had been transported from an earlier era.

The diner oozed the same old-fashioned charm on the inside as on the outside. A friendly waitress seated me and provided a menu, at which I barely glanced. After ordering ice tea, I asked the waitress if they had anything gluten free. To my surprise she pointed out the menu was color coded and clearly marked for guests with food allergies.

I thought the diner must be from “Back to the Future 4”, the yet-to-be-made sequel where the past combined the best of the old and the new, including foods labeled for people like me with food allergies. All gluten-free choices were clearly marked.  In addition to salads and entrée choices, sandwiches could be ordered on gluten-free bread. Breakfast, including gluten-free pancakes, was served all day. This was Nirvana for someone with celiac disease. I confidently chose a gluten-free salad, with grilled chicken. A meal that easily would satisfy for the long stop as well as the rest of the drive home.

Before leaving I asked the waitress when this Denny’s diner had opened. I expected it had been recently. She said she’d worked there for the last fifteen years. Apparently, we had just never ventured more than a mile off the interstate.

After a long-ish lunch break I called to check in with my husband of 43 years. I was beginning to think of him as my “personal weather man”. He said the storm had passed, the highway beyond Evansville should be clear sailing. He also suggested I take my time and travel safely. Strange words from one who in past years had often wondered why it took me longer to make the drive.

Driving home I thought back to one other Louisville to St. Louis trip. Ten years ago, on the day my Dad died, I quickly threw a few things in a suitcase and headed to St. Louis late in the afternoon, a time I had never made the drive. My husband and sons would join me the next day. I cried a little as I drove, but kept on that straight stretch of highway without stop until I could see the St. Louis skyline from Illinois. A sight I’d never seen before: a gorgeous sunset, framed by the Gateway Arch, hit me like a blow to the chest. My tears stopped and I smiled. I could almost hear my Dad say, “Stop and look at that amazing view.”

This trip to St. Louis and back to see my “besties” was not life changing. Nor was my short detour and stop at the Denny’s silver diner at the Evansville exit. Though failing to heed the changing weather and getting caught in a bad storm could have been.

I did almost hear my Dad’s voice again as I thought about the silver linings on this trip that will keep it in my memory as one of the memorable Louisville to St. Louis trips. I’ve come to treasure the value of family and good friends, reliance on my husband with his thoughtful concern, and I also found a great new stopping point for lunch where I can safely eat along a commonly-traveled road. How many more silver linings could I want?