Covid-19: Buckling Down

This evening I received a notice from my Red Cross boss regarding neighboring San Benito County (pop. ~ 60,000): Advisory: NEW EXTENDED AND MORE RESTRICTIVE SHELTER IN PLACE ORDER ISSUED BY SAN BENITO COUNTY HEALTH OFFICER. The earlier order was set to expire in a week; it has now been extended to May 3. And they're buckling down.

As of today, there have been 21 cases of Covid-19 in San Benito County. Compare that to Monterey County's (pop. ~ 438,000)  42 cases.

The basic instruction for San Benito residents (and all of us) is, of course, to shelter in place. But today there was also "clarifying language around essential business and activities, as well as some new directives, including:

• Use of playgrounds, dog parks, public picnic areas, and similar recreational areas is prohibited. These areas must be closed to public use.
• Use of shared public recreational facilities such as golf courses, tennis and basketball courts  is prohibited. These facilities must be closed for recreational use.
• Sports requiring people to share a ball or other equipment must be limited to people in the same household.
• Funerals limited to no more than 10 people attending
• Essential businesses expanded to include service providers that enable residential transactions (notaries, title companies, Realtors, etc.); funeral homes and cemeteries; moving companies, rental car companies and rideshare services that specifically enable essential activities
• Essential businesses that continue to operate facilities must scale down operations to their essential component only"

Okay. That one about funerals being limited to no more than ten people got me. Imagine losing a loved one and not being able to mourn with your entire community of family and friends. But now I see that even the CDC has recommended that funeral directors livestream funerals to reach a larger audience. And, really: of course. A gathering of no more than ten is what we all need right now. A large, huggy, weepy, free-flowing memorial service can come at a later time. When we're all safe.

Here at home, although I haven't noticed any specific directives, we're seeing similar changes coming into effect. Two days ago the playground areas at our local little park were cordoned off with yellow tape. Okay, we reasoned—lots of surfaces to incubate germs. Today, though, the basketball and volleyball courts were taped off. The "shared ball" thing, I'm guessing. Will the dog park be next?

Meanwhile, in neighboring Monterey the mayor, Hans Uslar, said recently about allowable walks, "If you have to drive, you've gone too far." But of course, not all walks—or neighborhoods, at any rate—are created equal. Uslar subsequently backed off. We are still allowed to drive to, say, the beach. We are allowed to park in public lots at the beach. We are allowed to run, walk, bicycle, surf—but always (yeah, even you, surfer dudes) maintaining six feet of separation.

I saw a report today that the San Francisco Bay Area is flattening the curve. This is good. But we need everybody to flatten the curve.

Everybody.

Stay inside. Stay safe. Stay healthy.

Covid-19: Worry

I am not a worrier.

Mount Vernon Presbyterian Church

This evening, though, David mentioned an article he'd read about a Skagit Valley, Washington, choir that, on March 10, met to practice. Sixty people, half of the choir's full complement. At that point, no case of Covid-19 had been diagnosed in the county, and no order had been issued barring large groups from meeting. And although no one felt ill at the time or had any symptoms, and they all took precautions (no hugging, plenty of hand sanitizer), two people have now died, three have been hospitalized, and 45 are symptomatic or have tested positive for Covid-19.

What they’re speculating is that singing, all that breath being expelled, caused the virus to be communicated through the air. Droplets. Aerosols. (Something WHO had previously said wasn’t a mode of transmission.)

David’s point being, the two young men running on the trail as we took our walk this afternoon, breathing hard . . . maybe we should be more aware? careful?

But I can’t not get out.

(I do see the idea that we should all be wearing facemasks being tossed around. I’ve got a rainbow of bandanas. They’d work.)

The thing here is (I still keep thinking . . . less and less rationally, I realize): in the whole county we have only 36 confirmed cases (one death), over half of those in Salinas. I haven’t traveled beyond four or five blocks lately—to pick up pizza, to walk somewhere other than the neighborhood.

But mostly, I’ve been at home, and when I go out, I see maybe half a dozen, ten people. From a distance. What are the chances?

Well, apparently—if that choir is any indication—higher than we’d like to think. Remember: there were zero cases of the illness in Skagit County when the choir director decided to hold the practice. Now there are two dead. In less than three weeks. (Though that said, in early March this country was ridiculously unprepared to test. And it still is. So "zero cases" is somewhat meaningless.)

It’s confounding that many people can carry the virus and yet not get sick. And yet spread it. I’ve read that it’s hitting old people (over 70, over 80) hardest, or people with compromised health. And men. In Monterey County, however, our statistically insignificant sample of 36 has most cases in people under 50 (64%)—and women (67%).

This pandemic will be a goldmine for coming-up scholars in epidemiology.

My habit is not to worry. I’m washing my hands. I’m hardly going out. I’m keeping my distance as well I can. I’m yelling at people on TV to stop hugging. I try, lord knows, not to touch my face. (I’m getting better.) But I’m beginning to think I should become a worrier. More of one, anyway. It's really not in my nature . . .

But we all can change. As this virus is proving.

Stay inside. Stay safe. Stay healthy.

Covid-19: Peeps

I'm not especially social at the best of times. But now we are in the worst of times, and even I am wanting to reach out. Even give—and receive—a hug. But . . . not for a while. Patience is what we all need right now

I do see, or talk to, or at least email, a few people somewhat regularly. Starting with family:

Patty, Geoff, Aaron, David, Heidi

And then these lovely souls, some of my oldest and dearest friends:

My Massachusetts peeps, Ruthanne and Kathi

 Nina! with the inimitable Milo

Berkeley roommate Jenny . . . and friend?

Tesi!

And my daily touchstones, fellow Antioch Creative Writing alums Kim and Sherilyn, whom I "meet with" most every day virtually (Kim is in Hawaii, Sherilyn in California) to write together:

Okay, that  wasn't really Kim. That was Lulu. Here's Kim:

This evening a friend posted on Facebook a photo of a couple other of my favorite people, who ran into each other today, from my (former) SAR team—that's Chris on the left, Bob two over; and Chris's kids Niko and Thalia:

But excuse me—social distance?

Which, here's a few more SAR friends (a photo from a while ago). I don't miss SAR, not really . . . but I do miss a lot of these people:

Alain, Ken, Todd, Jesse, Nikolai, Tim, Miranda, ?, Nadene, Steve, and Brad

The Ventana Wilderness Rangers, fortunately, have permission to continue doing trail work and campsite maintenance, so it's even possible that I'll get out with a few of these fine folks before too long—but only a couple at a time, wearing PPE, and maintaining social distance:

I could mine many more photos, but for now, it's reassuring just to remember that all these friends and more are out there, and I will (I trust) see them again.

Stay safe! Stay well!

*******

Today's count for Monterey County: 36/1  (update here)

Covid-19: Change

I am used to solitude.

But of course, that's all over. Thanks to Covid-19 shelter-in-place directives.

My husband is at home now. He is preparing, starting Monday, to teach his two Naval Postgraduate School classes, Linear Algebra and Coding Theory, via Zoom, from his home office, which he’s recently relaunched. He is home now, in other words, all the time.

Not the chair, but you
get the idea

I am used to seeing him in the morning, settled in the big brown leather chair with the white cat and his laptop on his lap (they’ve worked out an arrangement). I see him as I shuffle to the kitchen to get my first cup of coffee. (He gets up earlier than I do.) I then usually go upstairs to my bolt-hole, to do my morning reading and, well, waking-up. He’s usually gone by 9: I hear the door click shut, which is my signal to go to work in my office. . . . And then, round about 4, 4:30, 5, I hear not so much the door click open as the thump-thump-thump of the dog rushing to greet him—yay! walk time! After the walk, it’s dinner, TV or maybe some reading, bed—the after-work ritual.

It’s not that much different now, really. I still shuffle for coffee, see him and the cat. I still spend most of my time in my office, working, or upstairs, reading. The after-work ritual remains intact.

But now when I come out of the office into the living room—usually for more coffee (do not ask how many cups: I have no idea)—there he is! We don’t necessarily talk. But it’s like this little shiver in the energy field. He’s not supposed to be here.

That shock of things having changed is everywhere. The afternoon walk to the Frog Pond, and being able to cross the highway without waiting—and waiting—for a gap in traffic large enough to dash through. The absence of the roar of jets from the nearby airport. The still-empty shelves of toilet paper at the Safeway. The uncertainty of finding the necessary ingredients (especially vegetables) for a particular recipe. (As a strict-constructionist, I am reluctantly learning to be flexible on that front . . .) The mask and lavender gloves of Estéban at the liquor store. The CLOSED sign at the Badger Hills trailhead. The yellow tape around the playground sets at our local park. The horror at seeing people hugging, even if it’s only on television.

And yet, there's also the joy of take-out at Gusto: pizzas, salad, and a negroni! At the same time, our beloved Fishwife in Seaside is closed—no take-out, no work for the chefs, the servers—and so many other restaurants as well. An account of a friend of a friend shared by email mentioned that, although she usually cooks her family meals, now they are doing take-out, to support the local restaurants. We'll be doing more of that ourselves.

Owen Wright at Pipeline
photo by Pedro Gomes

I’ve hardly ventured farther than a few blocks these last several days. But a couple of friends mentioned going for drives—just that: drives, like in the old days. As one of them said, after driving along Seattle’s Lake Washington to Seward Park and back home, over the course of 40 minutes, “It seems so old-fashioned, . . . go for a drive in your automobile, because you could.” The other one, as it turned out, couldn't—or decided not to, at any rate: she saw on social media that a checkpoint had been set up to ensure drivers' business on the road was “essential.” Is taking your dog for a drive-about while listening to an audiobook essential? Well, yes. But they might not agree. Enough reason to stay home. She lives on Kauai, where parks and beaches are closed—unless you’re heading across the sand, to surf. “Because #surfing.”

So, surfing in Hawaii hasn’t changed. That’s good.

And now: the evening ritual calls. That will not change either, if I have anything to say about it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I haven't been logging the Covid-19 case numbers for our county, but I should. As of March 17, we still stood at zero. The first death occurred on the 21st, at which point the total number of confirmed cases was 11. Today we stand at 27 cases, still 1 death. (Two hours later: update—34 cases.)

Stay inside, stay safe, stay well.

Covid-19: Spanish Flu

Kim the other evening, in her fourth installment of “Writing in the Time of Covid-19,” wrote about her grandmother, whose 110th birthday was that day. She shared a recipe for coffee cake, and then segued into the Spanish influenza, her grandmother having been alive then—eight years old.

My mother at age 3; this was
a "glamor shot" from the
orphanage, for prospective
parents (I believe)

 Which made me think about my parents. My father was ten in 1918, and right around then (I think) freshly relocated from Chicago to Milwaukee, freshly fatherless (divorce). It must have been a terrifying time for his mother, as she sought to make her own way—running a boarding house, I believe. My father sold newspapers on a street corner to help her out. (That’s the myth. And maybe it’s true.) My mother was four, newly adopted (for the second and final time) and no longer at the Children’s Home Society orphanage.
 I never heard any stories from them about that time. The only inklings I have feel like rumors, innuendos. They didn’t want to remember back, I’m sure. They’d moved on.
 When I mentioned in a comment on Kim’s post that I heard no stories about the Spanish flu, she remarked: “Maybe they just got diluted over the years, because so many more stories steamrolled out—the wars, the dramatic stock market crash and subsequent depression. So many stories from the first half of the last century.”
 I know my parents got married in 1936, and came to California three years later, which would have been just after the Great Depression ended. But my father would have been starting in grad school as it hit. Maybe students were immune? He did go into chemical engineering, at Standard Oil in Illinois, as a career, to begin with—and maybe that was also immune? I know not everyone got slapped on their ass during the depression. And then he was hired at UCLA. That must have felt like liberation. But I really know so little about . . . well, so much. And now they’re not around to answer questions.

 Well, if I had kids and they wanted to know about my early years, I wouldn’t have any interesting stories to tell—none about race riots (which I wasn’t a part of) or antiwar marches (ditto) or women’s lib (ditto), or any of the stuff that went on in the sixties and seventies. I was busy in school. Focused. Or oblivious. Those can mean the same thing.
 Of course I was aware that our leaders were getting killed, and I was horrified. I remember a friend in 1968, when I was in ninth grade, saying in home room that it was a good thing RFK had been killed. I was horrified at that, too. Glad that someone was dead? And . . . someone good? That may have been my first conscious introduction to “the other side” (i.e., Republicans). I assume her remark reflected her parents’ opinions, and their influence on an obedient child. (They were LDS: institutional obedience to boot.) But still.
 Anyway, yeah: I don’t have much personal to say about the civil rights movement or the Vietnam war or much of anything social-political that was going on back then. And I expect my parents didn’t have much to say about the Spanish influenza (they were pretty young), or maybe even the depression. Catastrophes hit people all sorts of ways.
 My parents’ catastrophe was my father’s chemical lab accident in 1944 doing war research. That was a doozy: he remained in and out of hospitals for the next ten years. But he recovered, and had a good long career as a professor, until cancer got him, in his late sixties. He died at the age of seventy. I was 23.
 I’ve been extraordinarily blessed to not have had many tragedies in my life—the deaths of a few people I loved, some of them way too early, are what I count especially. As I write that, I’m crossing my fingers. Hoping no other shoes are poised to drop.

Covid-19: Growing Awareness

This was my journal entry from a couple of days ago, day seven of the shelter-in-place order in our county:

This pandemic will be one of those things that define our personal histories, like where we were when we heard that JFK had been assassinated or the Twin Towers hit, first one, then a while later, the other. Unbelievable. Shock, horror. This illness has been slower making its way into my consciousness, but it’s certainly there now. And hopefully we will all—all the people I care about, I mean, but also all the good people out there (since it’s hard to include not a few of our government officials who seem not to have a shred of empathy or morality . . . but I suppose even them too, if I have to)—be okay.

So I’ve been trying to piece specific awarenesses together. I vaguely remember hearing about Wuhan and nearby cities in Hubei Province being quarantined—on January 23, as it turns out. But I didn’t think too much of it: so far away; just another virus, they’re springing up all the time; it’ll play itself out—and other rationalizations. I realize now I should have been more alarmed: it was unprecedented to quarantine an entire area of 11 million population. Wasn’t it? Suggesting that, no, this wasn’t “just another virus.” What’s more, the lockdown came two days before Chinese New Year—which also suggests something dire. At the time, however—maybe because I don’t read the newspaper regularly, but tend to rely on FB for news (most of which is focused on our own government shitshow)—I remained fairly unaware of what was coming down the pike.

Looking now at the New York Times for the couple of weeks before our departure for Chile on February 7, I see lots of reports, including the figure of 29 cases in the US as of the 5th and 350 Americans evacuated from Wuhan at the end of January and placed under 14-day quarantine. I somehow managed to miss the Diamond Princess “floating quarantine zone” in Japan on February 4th.

In any case, I had a vague awareness of something going on, but I was also preoccupied with packing and trying to alleviate my pre-trip jitters, so wasn’t looking too much at the news or social media.

And then, we were off! I am always wary of planes as disease breeders—but I’ve since learned that they’re not as bad as cruise ships (a good reason never to go on a cruise—David Foster Wallace’s essay “A Supposedly Fun Thing” being another). And how good am I really at keeping my hands washed while handling tray tables, seatbelts, and seats? Not very. I usually just fly on faith that I’m healthy, the people around me are healthy—and hope for the best. (That will change; I’ve become much more vigilant about hand-washing.)

Two evenings after arriving in Punta Arenas, after a day and a half happily tromping around town in lovely springlike weather, I got a wee tickle in my throat—which a pisco sour or two didn’t cure. That night, I developed a dry cough. The next morning, the cough remained, and I had a fever as well, as I learned once David found a pharmacy and procured a digital thermometer via sign language. Great. We were leaving for the airport and a flight to King George Island sometime that day. And I felt lousy. Plus, there were other passengers—both on the flight and, more significantly, on the small boat we’d be on for two weeks.

My friend Kate was in Antarctica with our trip leader Ted last year, on a 100-passenger vessel, and she had mentioned that shortly after arriving onboard she fell ill with the flu. On a boat that size, they have an infirmary, and she was quarantined there—pretty much for the duration. Ted remarked that she was more or less useless to him as a naturalist as a result. Not her fault, but still.

So I had that story in mind as my temperature kept bouncing around, up and down, up and down. I’d imagine myself feeling better when it dropped, though the cough continued. Then it would rise and I wasn’t sure how I felt. But the show had to go on. I did mention to Ted that I wasn’t feeling well, and he didn’t seem too concerned, just told me to take care of myself. I was on my feet, after all, and some cough syrup was helping.

To make a not especially long story (thank goodness!) somewhat shorter, I sequestered myself in our cabin for the first couple of days. I did venture out to Half Moon Island—first landing in Antarctica, how could I not! no matter how lousy I felt! But I stayed in that afternoon when the others made another landing. And the next day ended up being a full day’s sail, since weather conditions didn’t allow a landing on Deception Island. That afternoon I decided that the thermometer, with its ups and downs getting increasingly wild—now 101.something, now 97.something, and then a short while later, 100.something—was basically crap, and I threw it away. I immediately felt better! That evening, I went up to the lounge for dinner, assured everyone I was on the mend. Next day: I was fine. Whew! Let the journey continue!

Now, all through this, it never once occurred to me that I might have this new virus. I still don’t think I did (cough and fever yes, but no shortness of breath). No one else got sick, fortunately. It was probably just a mild 72-hour flu. Though I suppose if we actually had testing in this country I could find out if I am a carrier (yes? no? six weeks later?).

And then, while on our 87-foot-long ship the Hans Hansson, plying the bays and reaches of the Antarctic Peninsula: two weeks of radio silence, with no outside news whatsoever. The only reference to the novel coronavirus came as we approached Palmer, the US research station on Anvers Island. Logan, who has worked there in seasons past, said that the station was closed to outside visitors because of the virus. He needed to get some research supplies from a colleague there, but they Zodiacked out to him and did their business at a nearby landing spot.

So: back home on March 1. On the 6th, Italy’s northern region was locked down, affecting 11 million people. That I noticed. China may not be on my radar, but I know people in northern Italy. I’ve been there. And Europe locking down a large area? Somehow that struck me as much scarier than (authoritarian) China doing so. Three days later, the lockdown was extended to the entire country. Whoa.

That’s when I knew it was beyond serious. And then on March 11th, the World Health Organization officially declared this thing a pandemic. Done deal.

Since then, of course, we’ve all been watching the numbers as so many people have died in Italy, and as other countries have reported cases and deaths of their own. My husband, David, and his brother Geoff, after some back and forth, canceled their trip to Corsica after Geoff reported that he’d been on self-quarantine after a trip to Milan, and then that his doctor recommended he not go. Even I was thinking David was crazy for delaying his decision for so long, and I’m no alarmist (just the opposite).

We’ve also been learning more—what little concrete there is out there—about the virus: its symptoms, how long it may survive on surfaces (potentially up to 17 days, they’ve determined from the Diamond Princess—a radically different beast than your typical influenza, which lasts less than twenty-four hours, or as little as eight, outside the host), how to disinfect, how to social-distance, how to stockpile toilet paper, how to fill your emergency pantry. How to be afraid.

Here in California, individual counties have “locked down” on their own schedule (Monterey issued its order on the 17th, effective at midnight), until Governor Newsom issued a statewide directive on the 19th.

And here we sit. We still go out for walks. We still go to the grocery store, though we’re trying to plan meals ahead better. And make large-batch dishes that will last as leftovers. And we watch TV: Designated Survivor and, as of last night, Better Things. I have a dismal job in, but at least it keeps me focused. David will start teaching via Zoom come Monday. We’re pretty well set for the long haul.

But all that said, I feel like we’re living in an altered world. Some of the changes may be good—more telecommuting, more virtual meetings. But I do worry that this isn’t the first such pandemic. I worry that illness will have a new power over us. I hope I’m wrong. I hope we can relax again.

It won't be for a while, though. I'm pretty sure of that.

Covid-19: Getting Through, Together

I’m sort of trying to compile a list of all the cool projects that are out there to entertain, educate, enlighten during this pandemic. Here's what I'm aware of so far:

• My friend Natasha Marin (Tashi Ko on FB) has started SOL(idarity) TV (www.facebook.com/groups/solteevee/), “a platform for escape and engagement—a space to create and share content from the solitude of quarantine, self-imposed or otherwise.” She posts short homemade videos, by many contributors from all over the world, of play, meditation, singing, reading, learning, practicing, exercising. It’s really lovely.
• Patrick Stewart is reading a Shakespeare sonnet every day (Twitter, @SirPatStew, #ASonnetADay): today it was Sonnet 6, because “Sonnet 5 is too hard”
• Rebecca Solnit is reading a fairy tale every day (FB Live, daily at 5 PDT), and just generally talking about . . . it all
• Dolly Parton is reading a bedtime story every evening on YouTube (entry added 4/2)
• WxW just launched a weekly reading series, on Zoom (https://www.writingxwriters.org/readings-by-writers); it will be every Thursday (it began today, with Pam Houston) at 5 PDT
• Heather Cox Richardson is doing a FB Live “video chat” twice a week: on Tuesdays at 4 EDT she’s answering questions that FB followers ask her about politics and history; on Thursdays at 1 she’s giving an informal history lecture, drawn somewhat from her new book, How the South Won the Civil War: Oligarchy, Democracy, and the Continuing Fight for the Soul of America
• Arnold Schwarzenegger is doing funny little PSAs on Twitter, assisted by his pet mini-donkey, Lulu, and mini-horse, Whiskey (Twitter, @Schwarzenegger); he says, “I’ll keep sending Whiskey and Lulu updates, and you send me your favorite stories of doctors, nurses, truck drivers, grocery store stockers, people who check in on the elderly—anyone who gives you hope. I’ll share in this thread throughout the crisis. Stay safe, stay at home.” (Arnold as governor, maybe not; but as citizen, I'm rather fond of him—and Lulu and Whiskey.)
• If you like music, my friend Dave recommends "amazing" daily piano improve concerts by Jordan Rudess, accessible via his Facebook page (entry added 4/2)

Chris O'Dowd reading Arnie the Doughnut

There's one I’m not quite sure about: I believe it's called Operation Storytime and/or Save with Stories, where book authors and celebrities (SwS was launched by Amy Adams and Jennifer Garner) read a favorite children’s book, (maybe) every day at 3 p.m. EDT (Instagram, #OperationStorytime; https://www.instagram.com/savewithstories/). But (if I’m understanding correctly), these are also archived in various places—Twitter, YouTube, FB, IG, depending on the poster’s own preferences (maybe?). It’s all a bit mysterious to me. Anyway, yeah: stories! celebrities! if all else fails, try hashtags! (Here's an LA Times story about it, with IG links to various of the stories, some of them ongoing apparently.)

Then too, various institutions have jumped in, putting things online, and/or people on social media are posting links to available resources that we can divert ourselves with. Like:
Watch a Globe Theatre Shakespeare production
Listen to musicians all around the world create songs together, on Playing for Change
Take a virtual tour of a world-famous museum
Enjoy a moment of Zen thanks to dozens of museums worldwide (Twitter, #MuseumMomentofZen)
Swim with the jellies in a Monterey Bay Aquarium live feed

I know there must be other such initiatives and resources out there, but . . . how to find them? If you know of any, please write a comment!

Meanwhile, an English friend we met in Costa Rica wrote on FB today, “I’m just off to clap! Well, on the doorstep anyway.” I asked what that was about. He said, “At 8pm we were asked to go out into the street and applaud all the emergency services to show our appreciation for the sacrifices they are making for the rest of us.” Apparently there was a lot of noise. Good noise. Grateful noise. This is one of the things I do like social media for: making good things go viral.

I subsequently learned that my sister-in-law in Seattle also went out to hoot and holler at 8 o'clock. This is a thing? I don't think it's reached Monterey, if so. (Ah: next day, she sent me a WaPo story about it. Mystery solved.)

In any case: we will get through this (most of us)—and emerge on the other side more erudite, more literary, and best of all, more united. All this sharing lifts my heart.

Finally, here's a video that Max Brooks, author of World War Z and son of director Mel Brooks, posted on Twitter today—about distancing, especially from older people (like his 92-year-old dad). It's worth a look. (I'd embed it, but I don't know how.) (Thanks to my friend Kim, from Kauai, for mentioning it in today's blogpost about what they're experiencing there with this epidemic.)

Stay home! Stay safe! Stay well!

Covid-19: Human Nature

We in California are now in day seven of the statewide shelter-in-place order re the coronavirus. I've been journaling, though I haven't been sharing so far. Today I will. Here's what I wrote this evening, after a day of editing, a (well-shielded) session with a friend as we stumble through a book in Norwegian, a walk up a muddy trail with the dog (with spectacular views out over Monterey Bay), and the usual evening stuff: writing the following, dinner, TV, and social media. My days aren't really all that different being in lockdown, but this whole new reality has gotten me thinking.
 I probably won't post daily, but who knows. Anyway, here's this.

* * * * *

This afternoon we went for a walk up the “secret” trail that leads to the backside of Jacks Peak Park. It’s usually very quiet; typically we see no one—at most one other hiker, and almost never a dog. Today, though: ten humans and seven dogs. It reminded me of last week walking out at Toro: everybody was there, and everybody had a dog. It’s like the dogs are giving the humans permission to un-shelter, at least for a moment.

 I’ve been seeing comments (both snarky and reasonable) on NextDoor (which is a breeding ground for snarky/self-righteous/judgmental) about all the people parked at Badger Hills trailhead. Which, okay: that same day I saw all the dogs at Toro, I was amazed at all the cars at both Badger Hills and Creekside. The lots were full! And apparently, the popularity of those trailheads, of getting out into the fresh air, persists. And good: it should. And that’s also where reason should prevail: all those people are arriving at different times, so it’s not a “congregation.” And Toro is plenty big enough, with wide roads—army roads—that certainly allow for six feet distance if you pass someone.

 On the drive over to this afternoon’s walk, Ari Shapiro on NPR was interviewing someone about the anti-Chinese sentiment in Los Angeles that’s been growing ever since Wuhan was locked down—so, for six, seven, eight weeks. That plus the comments about too many people at trailheads (and I’m not denying that in some places—big cities, for example—there can be a problem with too many people wanting to use a relatively confined space) made me think about fear. Fear, ignorance. But mostly fear: fear of not being in control; fear of the unknown; fear of losing agency; fear of impermanence. And it made me think we all could use some instruction on how to deal with, not the fear itself, but with potential lack of control, of agency; the unknown; impermanence. (Doesn't it always come down to death?)

 I was thinking about children in that instance—that is, start teaching children from an early age how to approach the unknown, insecurity. But I concluded (sort of, because I'm pretty thoroughly an atheist) that that’s what religion does, or should do, for all of us, adults as well as kids, if it’s any good. Yet so much religion I hear about seems to be focused instead on other matters: us vs. them, for example; getting “ahead”; being “right” (unlike those infidels over there somewhere else . . . I guess that’s us vs. them still). Going to heaven. I confess: I don’t really know what, say, (many? most?) evangelicals believe, or want, but my impression is that very often it has little to do with unconditional love for their fellow humankind. Or for the planet that we all depend on.

 So I was thinking, where do we turn to get wise, thoughtful, compassionate, loving instruction on, oh, the human condition? Or, maybe that’s not the question. Maybe the question is, how do we teach people to want such instruction—or better, exploration—with full heart?

 And again I come around to the paradox of so many people choosing hate, when love is a better option. (I would say, the only option.)

 So yeah: the human condition. It’s the snake eating its own tail, the Ouroboros. But no: that’s a symbol of eternal cyclic renewal, and what I’m going on about here isn’t renewal—it’s a shutting down, a closing off. Is hatred really easier? (Yes, sadly, it may well be, for too many.) 
 Maybe the metaphor I’m looking for is the hungry ghost: someone trying but unable to satisfy desires—for instance, the desire to feel perfectly safe in an unpredictable world. That’s a recipe for unhappiness, for sure. What other metaphor might there be, for this stubborn human tendency to say no, get away, rather than yes, let me embrace you, with all your mystery, all your faults. (For don’t we all have a few of those?)

  When I think of religion, or religious people, people of faith, whom I admire, I draw comfort from my friend Ruthanne, who sees her journey of faith as one of questioning, of wrestling. Never settling for a pat answer, but always probing, always looking for more—more love, more connection, more heart, more joy. That’s what we all should want to be doing.

 And yet . . .

Book Report: The River

6. Peter Heller, The River (2019) (3/21/2020)

This book is part character study, part thriller—and part beautiful, lyrical description of riverine wilderness up near Hudson Bay.Then again, throw in an apocalyptic forest fire, and all bets are off.

The active players are few: two college students, Jack and Wynn, who bonded immediately upon meeting two years before at Dartmouth, and now are on a (so they think) relaxing month-long canoe trip; a husband-wife team of geochemists who are on the outs; and a couple of fishermen who seem to live on Ancient Age bourbon. There are also memories, especially of a traumatic experience in Jack's life when he lost his mother, but also simple flashbacks to previous good times, and times not so good, which give good insight into the characters.

As events unfold, Jack is shown to be stubborn, uncompromising—and pragmatic; while Wynn is more of a dreamer, who wants to give the benefit of the doubt. They work well together, until events spin out of control.

I won't give away the story. It did require, for me, some suspension of disbelief (that seems to be my favorite phrase anymore when it comes to reviewing books, particularly mysteries or thrillers—go figure). This was true especially in a key event and the motivation behind it, involving the husband-wife pair.

I was also a little irritated by Heller's writing style: he does love run-on sentences. Sometimes they worked okay enough—like when he was trying to spin out the chaotic tension of escaping the fire; as here:

The burning debris rained down, they swiped it off arms, shoulders, and Jack had to hustle to Maia to kick a burning limb away from her leg—an inconstant blizzard of sparks, bunches of pine needles flaming like flares, birch leaves ignited to molten lace rained down, but the wind had gone quiet, it eddied as if confused, circled around them like a dog settling for sleep, the dense smoke had lightened, the jet roar had yielded to the crackling and shirr of a thousand campfires, it was eerie.

Like I said, okay enough, in this scene of chaos. (Though really: ", . . . it was eerie"?) But in the earlier parts of the book, where everything is calm and easy and Jack and Wynn are just happy, I was annoyed by Heller's love of the word "and." And I have to say, I expected a flip-knife to play a much larger role.

What I especially enjoyed about the book, though, was the characterization of Jack and Wynn. Heller clearly gave a lot of thought to them: their unlikely, and yet also very likely, friendship. They grew up under different circumstances, but they also both loved the outdoors, the water—especially fishing—and they also loved literature and philosophy: thinking about the meaning of it all, and the beauty of words. (Perhaps there's something of Heller himself in both these characters.)

Here are, respectively, descriptions of a bit of each of Wynn and Jack:

Wynn heard the knock of stone as Jack moved outside, and he also heard the slow creek making the faintest ripple. He thought of the Merwin poem about dusk that he loved so much. Merwin describes the sun going down believing in nothing, and how he hears the stream running after it: It has brought its flute it is a long way.
 It killed him. The one and only sun without belief in anything and the little stream believing so hard, believing in music even. What he loved about poetry: it could do in a few seconds what a novel did in days. A painting could be like that, too, and a sculpture. But sometimes you wanted something to take days and days.

Jack believed in luck. The turning of a card that sent a life in one direction or another. The slip of a single hoof on stone, the sound of two voices in the mist. He believed in it as much as he believed in any other thing, like loyalty or hard work. And sometimes the places that happenstance sent you weren't as vague as a direction, sometimes they were as steel-cast and unforgiving as a set of rails. And sometimes the only way to jump the rails and set a new course was to have a wreck. Right now they needed speed. And he felt some comfort in the rifle propped at his feet; they might need that, too.

Finally, Heller's descriptions of the landscape, both in full late-summer fruit and, just a few days later, in utter devastation, are masterful—lyric, intimate, sensual, exuberant, stark. Convincing. There is sheer joy in the bounty and beauty of the land. The fire itself is conveyed largely through smell and sound, and is horrifying. I have a passage flagged, but . . .

Instead I'll close with the W. S. Merwin poem Wynn was thinking of, "Dusk in Winter"—because I think it might be the metaphor that illuminates this whole book:

The sun sets in the cold without friends
Without reproaches after all it has done for us
It goes down believing in nothing
When it has gone I hear the stream running after it
It has brought its flute it is a long way

DFW-PHX

Our way home from Antarctica last month included several flights, all of which went smooth as silk. I had the good fortune of sitting by the window between Dallas and Phoenix, and I took these shots (SOOC). I am forever amazed by the beauty of the patterns of land, whether strictly natural or human-manipulated. (Click on the images to see them large on black.)