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Pandemic Diaries
Hello friends,
Here we are in our 9th month of quarantining that has morphed into so many other destabilizing events in the
country; the subjects are expanding all the time. But the word pandemic still applies . . . And we are deeply
interested in what you are going through, whether it’s isolating, or teaching, going back to work, home
schooling, grandparenting, getting a haircut, visiting a parent in a senior facility, trying to vote, staying away
from the fires, or any of the myriad activities you are navigating. So much trickiness, confusion and outrage.
Have you seen your family? Attended an event? What moves you? Makes you laugh?
We want to hear from you.
Add yourself to our email list using the form at the bottom of this page if you wish to be notified when more
entries are published. To send us an entry, submit online via Submittable.
C. Christine Fair, Alexandria, Virginia

COVID LUNGS: A Trilogy
This is a COVID-motivated, mixed-media triptych. The left image depicts the

brewing storm driven by China’s wet-market where trafficked animals are kept in
conditions of bio-insecurity, ripe for zoonotic events. It details 2007 scientific
findings that SARS emerged from these conditions and predict that the next
pandemic will as well. The middle image depicts the brutal reckoning of this disease
and the concomitant haphazard way in which countries like the United States
(mis)managed it. To the right, is an imagined post-pandemic future of renewal.
Running across all three pieces is the image of the damaged lung, COVID’s most
gruesome signature.
Laura Culberg, Seattle, Washington

Sheltering in place since March 16
Journal entry October 20
Exactly a year ago I sold my business. I owned and operated a yoga studio in one of
Seattle’s busiest neighborhoods for close to twenty years. But, as I rounded the
corner past fifty, I wanted to try something new.

A few months after I sold my studio, Coronavirus swept down upon us like a big,
dirty blanket. Now, with time on my hands, I decided my next move would be to
work as a contact tracer. I wanted to understand more about this virus; I wanted to
help. As a serial entrepreneur, I hadn’t created a resume or applied for a job in a
quarter of a century. The process was challenging and humbling, but I succeeded in
getting a contact tracing job.

In the four months since I’ve been contact tracing, I’ve felt simultaneously enlivened
with hope and deeply despairing. People are confused and frustrated. I’ve worked
with a nursing home where both staff and residents have been infected so there are
not enough caregivers nor are there enough rooms to isolate those who are
infected. I’ve talked to families of seven who watch the virus latch onto one person
and completely skip another. People have horrendous symptoms or none at
all. Everyone has a different idea about what to do and almost no one knows how or
where they contracted the virus. I’m learning a lot from this new job, but I don’t
have any more clarity about how this pandemic is going to play out.
Virginia Cranch Teichmann, Weingarten,

Baden, Germany
I realize what a gift it is that the pandemic has connected me to people all over
Europe, many of whom I will never see in real life, who have interests similar to mine
and want to exchange ideas in real time. Online I listened to an Italian author in
Rome reading from his novel and discussing it with a moderator in Frankfurt,
streamed because the Frankfurt Book Fair cannot take place this year. I took part in
German Quaker Yearly Meeting for three days with 140 people carefully feeling our
way, observing people’s faces and listening to the nuances of their voices, to
decisions about how to use our resources. Twice a week I meditate online with a
group of German-speaking people, some very widely read, all very thoughtful, on a
spiritual journey and willing to share their experiences. I don’t know (yet) what it is,
but the emotions that are released and come into play online are different and more
positive for me than the ones in real life. It is a combination of a different kind of
distance and closeness, I think.
Ellen K. Reichman, Kirkland, Washington

Sheltering in place for 240 days
Yesterday was a bad day. My anxiety was so high. I felt it crescendo into a raging
inferno. I couldn’t breathe.

Today I feel a bit better.

I see my old life and my new life before my eyes as if they are two different eras.
In my old life, I didn’t feel that old. Felt vital. But, in my new life, I feel old. I am now
considered elderly. I shop with the old folks.
In my old life, I was an extrovert through and through. Loved my interactions with
others. We ate out often, traveled, visited my family, went to the theater.

But now, in my new life, that’s all history.

I see my grandchildren through a screen. My arms literally ache to hold them and
hug them.

In my old life, I was not happy about our political situation, but now, in my new life,
I am obsessed and devastated about our political, racial and unjust society. I can’t
sleep at night thinking about the lives lost and the families left behind.

In my old life, my husband and I went grocery shopping whenever we felt like it. We
took our time strolling down the aisles. But now, we go, masked, gloved, and aim
for record breaking time to get in and out.

Part of my old self has died. I pray for a rebirth.
Karen Egee, Brunswick, Maine

My husband and I moved to Maine from Boston suddenly, to help out my 85–year–
old father when the pandemic hit
Journal entry early April
I dream of a damp trail through the woods. It is one of those dreams that seems
totally real. I can see puddles of water pooling over pebbles. Through the water, I
see a layer of brown pine needles covering dead leaves, covering dark earth, the
edges dotted with piles of melting snow.
“This,” I tell myself in my dream, dreaming that I woke up, “This trail, these woods
no longer exist. Remember? Coronavirus. Remember? It’s all gone.”

Then I start waking up for real, slowly, in layers. It’s still dark. It’s true. It’s not true.
Pandemic. Big red numbers on the news, unfathomable numbers, more dead every
night. That map on the front of the newspaper with our city and cities everywhere
covered in overlapping blood red circles. Hospitals overflowing, people dying
without loved ones there, doctors, nurses, others, risking their own lives to help. It
is all true.

But the path in the woods where the dog and I walk every morning does still exist.
Later, when it’s light, after I feed him and let him out, after I check the paper, before
I digest it, before I scramble eggs and fry bacon for my husband and father, we will
walk along that path in the woods, he wagging, sniffing, trotting ahead, me
breathing in cool air, my feet maybe getting wet through my sneakers, where the
snow is mostly melted, in the puddles of my dream.
We are lucky, our little family, lucky for now at least.

Elaine Nussbaum, Scappoose, Oregon
September 10
Gabrielle Trumbly, a videographer and Jennifer Paulson drive from Portland to

Paulson’s childhood home of Molalla, fifty miles southwest of Estacada, to record
the fire surrounding the town. Paulson and Trumbly leave when it becomes too
dangerous, but locals post on Facebook: they are members of Antifa and have come
to commit arson. This is not true, but rumors rage like wildfire, and are almost as
hard to squelch.
September 12
In his book Rage, Bob Woodward reveals that Trump knew how bad Covid-19 was,
back in the beginning of February, but told the public, “. . . like a miracle it will
disappear.” Almost 200,000 people have died of Covid-19. There are 2,236 active
fires in the Western United States, and Portland’s air quality is the worst of any
major city in the world.
September 13
It seems like a pleasant fall day with fog caught between the branches of scraggly
firs, and the smell of wood smoke in the air, but the Air Quality Index is 422. When I
deliver supplies to the Fire Evacuation Center at the fairgrounds, a Country Western
band plays to empty chairs set up in a field. The song they play is “This World Will
Never Be the Same Again.”
Miriam Karmel, Minneapolis, Minnesota

Sheltering in place since early March without visitors
Journal entry September 6
I plan to make pasta with pesto for lunch, as if I were matriarch of a large family
that gathers on Sundays. Alas, it is only B & moi. I am grateful for his presence. Still.
He is on the front deck reading a book about Frederick Douglass, a birthday gift
from Jessica. I’m upstairs, making entries in my morning notebooks.
I contemplate a glass of wine with our lunch, as if we are Paola and Guido Brunetti,
at our fictional flat in Venice, he back from a morning of sleuthing, me having
finished grading papers. Oh, to be in Venice! But I am trying, oh am I trying, to be
here, in the now. Why is it so hard?
We have a late lunch. Pasta with pesto made with basil I picked from the pot on the
back deck, part of my make-shift container garden that has given me solace during
this unsettling time. Leftover salad. Wine. Pellegrino. I set the table in the dining
room. I set out a small vase of zinnias (picked from another pot on the deck). Cloth
napkins. White dishes. We sit down, unfold our napkins with a flourish, toast each
other. We pretend the family is gathered around us. Everybody is laughing.
Chattering. Telling stories. The grandkids are well behaved. B and I are so happy! We
invent conversations with them. When we finish eating, I turn to B and say, “They left
so early. I miss them already.”
Elaine Nussbaum, Scappoose, Oregon

September 7
While we pick grapes in the backyard, the sky turns milky white. Blasts of hot air stir
the leaves — still green — to a frenzy. There is a strong smell of smoke. I find Fires
Near You on-line but can’t load the app. David drives up the road for a better view. I
call our neighbor who thinks it’s blowing up from fires in Southern Oregon and
California, which could be true. The internet reveals that a Gender Reveal Party Goes
Wrong in Yucaipa, California. Gender reveal parties often involve fireworks. Thirty
major fires burn in California, but the wind is blowing from the east.

September 8
The sun rises, a dull orange orb in the gray sky. Yesterday, an east wind event blew
up a human-caused fire near Estacada, a suburb southeast of Portland. Started in
dry grass, it soon spread to timber and rough terrain. In Detroit, Oregon, fifty miles
— as the crow flies — south of Estacada, fire SURROUNDS the town. A volunteer fire-
fighter films as he drives his family out through the dense smoke, fire licking at the
edges of the frame. Is this normal? his son asks. No, son. It is anything, but normal.
September 9
Where I live in Scappoose, the Air Quality Index is 375. Anything over 300 is
considered Hazardous. A young woman rides her bike down a quiet side-street. The
sky is gray. She does not wear a helmet. She is not wearing a mask. She smokes a
cigarette.
Rosanne Singer, Baltimore, Maryland
Like so many of us I have been keeping social distance from people throughout the
day, every day—on my daily dog walks, as I maneuver past fellow customers in
grocery stores, when I spend a rare visit with a friend outdoors and even when I see
family. I’ve been learning over Zoom, attending events on Zoom and sadly had to
say goodbye to a loved one on Zoom. So it has been a remarkable treat to teach a
memoir workshop in person at a senior residence in Baltimore. Of course, every
precaution is taken—I use hand sanitizer, fill out a health questionnaire, have my
temperature taken, wear a face shield and stand alone on an auditorium stage while
masked participants work at socially distanced individual tables in the audience
area. But together we have found a way to make this an emotional, intimate
experience that bridges the physical distance. Each week participants bring in a
written piece that is part of their life story. They share it out loud and listeners
gently ask questions or comment. Even without a microphone or shouting we are
able to hear each other. One week a woman read us a remembrance of September
11th when she worked close to the World Trade Center and experienced the shock
and trauma of that morning but also the humanity and kindness of those around
her. She wasn’t sure she would have the courage to read her story out loud, but she
did and received what felt like an emotional embrace from all of us in the room. I
took this photo from the stage on August 27th.
Kim Klugh, Lancaster, Pennsylvania
Woke up to a beautiful day for our son’s small, backyard wedding at his fiancée’s
home. This mini-wedding became plan B since the gala event scheduled for October
had to be postponed until 2021. This day has been marked on my wall calendar only
since mid-summer. It’s the only box on this month of 30 days with an actual
scheduled event. Two weeks ago, I bought my garden party dress and shoes without
being able to try them on at the store.

We’re part of a twelve-person guest list. Small hand sanitizer bottles sporting the
catchy phrase “Spread love not germs” and hand-made masks are the new backyard
wedding favors.

The bride and groom wrote their own vows, an aunt shared a reading written by my
son, I read a poem, the bride’s mother shared a reflection, my husband coordinated
the ceremony, and the bride’s sister was the wedding official who signed the
marriage license. Even the bride’s horse cooperated and stood by the fence during
the ceremony, wearing his new, rose-bedecked halter.

The wedding cake was a cinnamon roll cake baked by the aunt; trays of assorted
whoopie pies rounded out the dessert table. An uncle delivered the toast, and we
drank to the couple with Prosecco served in plastic champagne flutes. It was
intimate, surprisingly elegant, and oh so joyful. Best day of 2020!
David Etheridge, Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Journal entry August 10
Online is fine for Phnom Penh students with good wifi, but outside the city the
service is poor or non-existent. And students from the provinces don’t have the
hardware. “At home, I share smartphone with my younger sister and mother,” pings
Linna. Ratanak in Kampot runs his laptop off his phone hotspot which for several
courses a week is expensive . . . and these days who’s still working in Kampot? Have
a 9-student roster — 5 turn up and another 3 check in but have wifi problems and
leave; 1 is absent.

I hear wind blowing. Kimchen’s gone to a riverside restaurant where the wifi is
better than at home. “My internet interrupt now,” pings Sreyleap. Linna chats that
she can’t talk during class because she’s at Cafe Joma. Ratanak’s microphone icon
bobs:

“Ratanak, why are we listening to your rock ’n roll?”
“Sorry, teacher.”
“Please … or I mute you. Now . . . Does everyone understand the hypothesis?”

You ask the question and get nothing:

“Does silence mean ‘Yes, I get it.’ ‘No, I don’t.’ Or ‘I don’t care.’”?

Silences are exhausting. In the classroom, you read a weak smile or a face, and
reformulate. But zooming, students don’t show themselves, so silences are
inscrutable, almost always empty.

“Today my internet is so super slow,” says Sreyleap.
“Stay with me, please.”
“Okay, teacher.”
“And we’ll finish early.”

*

Telegram pings: “Please remind ur students to pay tuition fees.” Sreymom.

We’re not state funded, so we take the future on faith. Haven’t seen a pay check in
three months. Sreymom asks if I’m stressed. “Only when I think about it.” It’s
my Covid gift to the developing world: Work in the air, get paid by the wind. . . it’s
all right here, right now in the tropical heat with lousy wifi.

“Stay w/ us, teachers,” pings Sreymom.
George Bandy, Alexandria, Virginia

Woke up with a dream of me laughing.
In the dream, Freda and I are in our bedroom but we’re much younger—maybe
thirty.
Two beds: one in the closet & the one we were using by the window.
A male friend is there & some unknown young woman is sitting on an old couch I
got rid of fifteen years ago. My friend goes in front of her and turns the TV down
without comment, then goes back to the bedroom.
Why, I do not know.
I apologize and tell her my friend must think he’s in his own apartment. She ignores
me, caught up in I Love Lucy on the TV. I get my friend. He says somebody’s left us
a Mac.
I laughed throughout the dream, so much that I woke up, wide awake laughing and
felt great. First time I’d ever done that. VERY GOOD!

My vacation from the pandemic!
Amy Louise Rubin, Baltimore, Maryland

Journal entries May and June
The mandalas came out of my survival instinct, along with my desire to create.
They also came from feelings that I could not express and the need to see and
create beauty in a tragic time.
May 27: I bloom to survive. Escape into my garden. Hug my universe.

June 7: Try to disappear. Geometry of sadness. Color to survive.
June 12: Escape with design. Move to patterns of silence. Shade fear in color.
Nesta Hatendi, divides her time between

Zimbabwe and Australia
Morning! Phase Four Melbourne style. We have not yet approached the intended
targets, so we can all go about our business. People are getting restless,
complaining about loss of personal liberties. But the restrictions are working and
numbers are going down—for now. Daniel Andrews has just held his 81st
consecutive press conference and announced two deaths and 11 new cases. We are
living macabre lives when we are fixated by the yo-yoing of daily life and death
figures of anonymous people who we are further dehumanizing as statistics.
Before leaving the house earlier, I heard heavy footsteps on the wooden floor of
someone coming to boil the kettle for their early morning tea. Monday morning,
ready for working from home. I left all that and walked around the block, round the
playing field where early morning dog walkers congregate and their pets ignore
social distancing. Down the sloping pavements and then I took a new route. I started
to feel disoriented, only to discover I was on a street near home. How did I manage
that? The longer I stay here the more I realize that this will always be a foreign land.
I dream of home where my only current connection is WhatsApp group messages
from distant people living their lives in the new normal. Covid-19 should never be
allowed to determine my life, living with me like an uninvited houseguest.
Johnny Stone, Raleigh, North Carolina

I am a 93-year-old widower. I live alone. I love to write and draw. I have 5 grown
children and have been sheltering in place since May.
Journal entry May 31
At 9:46 a.m. My oldest son Junior called to check on me. Phone call was short and
brief. Just wanted to know if I slept well and what I ate for breakfast. Remember
Dad, don’t go outside. Okay. Love you.

At 11:33 a.m. Tracy my youngest son called to check on me. He thinks he is my
father. Loves to give advice and counsel. But in a loving way. Dad, you need to start
taking vitamins. Dad, you can get exercise if you walk from room to room for 15
minutes a day. I told him I would feel like a mouse in a maze. He laughed and
encouraged me to stay limber. Don’t get stuck on the couch watching those cowboy
movies all day. Alright. Love you.

At 3:15 p.m. Lisa called. My youngest and only girl. What’s up, Dad? Have you been
drinking enough water? She knows I hate drinking water so she promises to drop off
some flavored water and also a gift. After badgering her, she told me gift would be
my new companion. A Betta fish. See you soon, Dad. Love you too.

At 7:12 p.m. I received a call from Kevin. Just called to see how you doing, Dad. He
was in a terrible car accident a couple of years ago and had to learn how to walk
again. I asked more questions about him than he did me. Just hearing his voice and
knowing he’s doing much better was good enough for me.

At 9:48 p.m. Soon as I heard Hey Daddy-O, I knew it was son Stan. He calls me
Daddy-O because he says I’m a cool dad. He lives in San Francisco. He told me a
client of his died from Corona. It started with blood clots in the legs. So most of our
phone call was questions about how I was feeling. Any unusual pains, Dad? No
sniffles or headaches?

At 11:58 p.m. Going to bed after watching news and eating a nice piece of NY strip.
Best part of my day was all the check-ups from my kids. This corona thing has really
increased their communication with me. I love it.
Ilene Millman, Hillsborough, New Jersey

Today was Shlomo’s Bar Mitzvah, the day the family was scheduled to stand
together, her siblings’ feet for the first time on the continent where Melissa has
lived for ten years, the day for the coveted picture — all our children and
grandchildren encircling us. Instead, the wonders of technology delivered the event
to us, sort of and for a while.
Via live stream we were able to view, see and hear Shlomo give his speech (in
Hebrew so his friends could understand. We’ll wait for an emailed English
translation.) Marty gave his Poppy speech via Zoom (wearing white dress shirt,
jacket and tie above, shorts below).
Binny ran around pointing his cellphone video, so we could get a feel for the
excitement of the dancing, the celebration, while the photographer moved around
snapping photos. He instructed us to hold our iPad in a particular direction, placed a
smiling Shlomo in front of the screen. Like moving props around a movie set, he
adjusted our positions, snapped several shots and informed us a photo of us with
Shlomo would appear in the Bar Mitzvah album. Surreal.
And then, the link was lost. A not subtle metaphor I’m afraid. One minute you’re
there, albeit some two-dimensional rendition of proud grandparents, and poof
you’re gone. But there’s that line, from Hirschfield I think, “. . . that you came to
love, that was the gift.” Going back to living with less, I’ll try to see it.
Isabel Learza, Baltimore, Maryland

Sheltering at home since March 13
When Terrylynn invited me to Asa’s art show in their back yard, I was tickled to hear
about her five-year-old art spirit daughter living across the street. Saturday
afternoon their yard filled with masked neighbors, even Janet, who rolled her walker
up the hill to be there, a week after her hip replacement.

Asa’s paintings and drawings were mounted on black cloth that covered the fence.
She made her first painting at the beginning of the shut down, when the family had
to cancel their annual visit with her Nana in Bermuda. She looked forward to the visit
all year. But no flying out over the ocean this year. Her first painting, “The Big Deep
Sea: Waterfall”, came from her sadness and fear of deadly Corona that kept her from
her grandmother. It’s a big dark abstract painting, overwhelming, like drowning.

Terrylynn said Asa wanted the paintings and drawings to be in chronological order;
and moving along the fence, we could see/feel a shift. She painted “The Big Mind
Imagination Town.” And once she understood her imagination could take her places,
she made colorful drawings of the playground she couldn’t visit and the July 4th
fireworks she wouldn’t get to see. And rainbows started appearing — a Rainbow
Castle Gate, a Rainbow Waterfall. And a beautiful Rainbow Palmtree to bring her
close to Nana in Bermuda. It seemed that Asa had found her way through the fear
and strangeness of Covid times into joy.
Asa creating
Backyard gallery wall
The Big Deep Sea: Waterfall

The Big Mind Imagination Town
All Things Rainbow

Rainbow Palmtree
Kurt Schmidt, Fitzwilliam, New Hampshire

Sheltering in my home with my wife since March
Our country feels as unsafe today as it did nineteen years ago on September 11,
2001.
Although dismayed at watching the tragedy of 9/11 alone at home that day, I didn’t
feel the anxiety that permeated the voices of the TV reporters as they described the
terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. Perhaps I’d lived too many years with my
own demons to be frightened of the anonymous jihadists. It was with a calm voice
that I described the course of events to my son when he arrived on the school bus
and allowed him to see replays of the events on TV.
I wanted to assure him that God would keep him safe after we watched disturbing
TV images of Islamic terrorists crashing planes into the World Trade Center in New
York City. But I had no clue how God and terrorists fit together.
“Why did they do it?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“If they exploded a nuclear bomb in Boston, would it reach this far?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think they have a nuclear bomb.”
“Why did those people jump off the top of the World Trade Center?”
On watching a TV commentary about the threat from chemical and biological

weapons, he asked, “Do we need gas masks?”
I said there was no need to worry about things we couldn’t control. “Don’t worry.
We’re going to be all right.”
“Why do the terrorists hate America?”
I felt then like the Englishman in the old movie Zorba the Greek, when Zorba asks
him in a moment of agony, “Why does anybody die?” The Englishman says, “I don’t
know.” Zorba says, “What’s the use of all your damn books if they don’t tell you
that?” The Englishman says, “They tell me about the agony of men who can’t answer
questions like that.”
Today I write about the agony of being attacked by another enemy — a pandemic
that is ubiquitous.
Suzanne Iuppa, Aberdy , Snowdonia

National Park, North Wales
Alone since March 23rd, I had not seen any family since December 25th

The sand is very fine, a light creamy yellow, cool and a perfect dampness a few
inches underneath, for building sandcastles. He brings his spade up, full of angel-
fines, and puts it into his bright orange bucket. I am digging a hole with my hands
big enough for him to stand in.

I show him how to level the top when it is full, with his spade. He shows me how to
tip the bucket over — tap tap tap. It’s delightful to see the castle turrets, real in the
air. And to knock them right over! To stand in a tunnel and let Grandma cover your
feet, shins and knees; then to break the mold.

He has done this before. Perhaps once?

We decide it’s best for him not to wear his nappy into the ocean. It’s the warmest
seawater temperature of the year. He shows a good respect, wanting to hold our
hands to run into the waves. He watches the wet sand accept his feet and close over
his ankles, with the real power to petrify. Then he runs across the breakers,
shrieking. He knows to fling himself down in the magic strip where the surf is just
coming in, and feel his whole body halfway between two elements. Above us, clear
blue sky and it feels like last day of summer, but everyone is so aware of it. We are
stealing it back for one day.

On a wide, wild Cardigan Bay beach, usually littered with a host of stranded jellyfish
— not a single one.

Katy Stanton, Westminster, Maryland
Today is the second day of # Scholar Strike. Difficult to strike from my teaching
responsibilities but I keep reminding myself that my abstinence from labor for these
48 hours is making a point — that I stand in solidarity with others for racial justice
and against systemic racism in all its ugly forms. To focus, I rest in The Fire Next
Time by James Baldwin, listen to the interviews of Isabel Wilkerson.
My college teaching until March was a joyful expression of what matters a great deal
to me. I could live and learn with young people, so vibrant with their tattoos and
neon hair and pronouns. I felt an adrenalin rush walking across campus, a place to
explore creative ideas and indulge in deep thinking.
Then Covid hit, and I was told to prepare for online teaching in one week. My fun,
part-time two-day-a-week gig turned into a 24/7 anxiety attack in front of the
computer screen. No one seemed able to read instructions that took me hours to
compose. Everyone had questions in my email Inbox. Students were in different time
zones. Some who had loved class disappeared into cyberspace. The learning curve
has been steep. Last Monday I set up a discussion forum for classwork, but students
couldn’t access it. Those attending remotely wrote sarcastic comments in the chat
and never turned on their cameras to show their faces.

I do not feel like I am teaching, merely surviving the pandemic and hoping to help
my students do the same. I dream of a future where I will not worry when a student
coughs or be afraid to read a thesis statement over someone’s shoulder.
For today, I am with my colleagues and students, on strike for racial justice,
dreaming we will soon wake up to a better world.

Journal entry July 28
Last night’s gecko droppings are on the desk—she eats dengue-infected

mosquitoes, so fair trade . . . freaks me once a day darting out from under the bed.
She doesn’t move quickly up the wall; she moves erratically.

*

Listen to old Zeppelin tracks and weep—the tunes take me back, take me don’t
know where and I ache for lost time. How did I get from Kashmir to here?

*

For a Saturday there are fewer people out although all the street hawkers are there
and BBK market is fully open. Most wear masks except Westerners. I don’t notice, so
barge into the pharmacy, but on the way out I see that people wait outside to go in
one at a time. Try to keep at least a meter distance, two if possible, but others don’t
observe that protocol.

Temperature check at AEON Maxvalu Express, then a westerner is too close and I
say, “Step back . . . please.”

“Oiy, I stand wherever.”

I don’t know where the line is between fear of Covid and careful of Covid. I’m a
wear-a-mask-all-the-time guy. There are too many “que sera, sera,” insha’allah, “if
it’s God’s will . . .”, and “I don’t believe it” folks wandering around. I’m not afraid of
Covid . . . I’m afraid of people. And it finally happens—at Thai Huot I’m temperature
checked and set off the alarm, 38C (100.4F). She stops me and I panic. “Where to
buy food? Who doesn’t temp check?” And she holds the gun under the ceiling AC
draft for a few moments, then checks me again and I’m okay. I shop here; she
checks my temp. We know each other.
Sue Fagalde Lick, South Beach, Oregon
Sheltering in place for 6 months
The weirdness gets old. I saw my ophthalmologist, Dr. Haines, yesterday. He

pronounced my eyes “perfect.” At 68, that’s a relief. He did not say anything about
the embarrassing moment when he came into the examining room and found me
crawling on the floor looking for my hearing aid—which fell off as I was adjusting
my COVID mask.

COVID protocol included calling from my car when I arrived, just like at the dentist’s
and the veterinarian’s office. “Jeremy” told me they had a seat available in the
waiting room. Half the tan chairs were blocked off. Exactly one masked gray-haired
person sat in each section. Jeremy took my temperature (97.7) and handed me a
pandemic questionnaire: had I been sick? did I know anyone with COVID? had I
traveled anywhere?

After the assistants called two old ladies in, Jeremy scurried out with wipes to
sanitize the chairs where they had sat.

When my turn came, the assistant led me past the inner waiting room where people
usually wait and talk to each other while their pupils dilate. The chairs were shoved
against the wall, the TV off.

The exam was quick, tense as I leaned my chin on the machine and Dr. Haines
stared into my eyes. Usually he keeps up a constant chatter, but not this time.
“Perfect,” he said. “Congratulations.” He offered an elbow bump, and I left, squinting
in my dark glasses as I walked out into the blinding sun.
Rich Bates, Columbus, Ohio

We are bored. I am growing weary of my own company. We are getting punchy. We

are regressing to infantile behavior. Yesterday, Sharon complained of my not
clearing the almond butter wad off the shared spoon I handed her to dip her own
dollop of apple-wedge-smeared-nutty-delight so I chased her around the kitchen
waving it wildly as if to smear on her smock! She screamed; I giggled. I am
deranged! Sanity is becoming a casualty of this isolation.

I try journaling (ala Cameron, Way of the Artist and Progoff the Jungian) and grow
numb with stream of consciousness idiocy. I try meditating without my Zen sanga
and nap sitting upright. I read insightful tomes explaining the causes for the rise
and devastation of this demagogue and nod off after 10 minutes.

I watch the birds flutter at the feeders and am mesmerized into catatonia. I am
learning to distinguish the variety of bird calls of each species, but wonder at the
shrunken life of a 15X20 foot condo patio vs. an 8 acre farmstead in the midst of
thousands of acres of open farm ground and the half globe of an endless sky
stretching to an endless horizon. But memory serves and I return to tiny but
explosive things—a goldfinch watching me as he plucks a kernel from the feeder,
chops it in half, letting the tailing fall while he tongues the remainder down his
throat. A song sparrow splashes in the mini bird bath and then serenades me from
the crab apple overhanging our fence.

The telescope collapses to the microscope but life still pulses. Maybe.
Patricia McTiernan, Arlington,

Massachusetts
Journal entry March 22
I’m two weeks out from turning 60, which this year seems like crossing a chasm.
The coronavirus is more lethal in “older people,” which is now defined as those over
60. (One study I read about tonight has “older people” as those over 50.) I also read
something about ventilators—that they will give them to people with labored
breathing, and that the average adult takes 12 to 20 breaths per minute. I timed
myself, and I took only 9 breaths for that one minute as I sat in my reading chair,
fairly relaxed. Does that mean I’ll be in better shape should I get the virus or worse
shape? Has 30 years of swimming several days per week strengthened my lung
capacity? Or does the fact that I take an immune suppressant for an autoimmune
disease mean I’m doomed? Does the fact that I don’t have children and
grandchildren make me ineligible for a ventilator, should I need one? Or does my
age work in my favor there, given I’m on the younger side of “old age”?

I know I need to stop reading. I need to make a schedule. I need to do so many
things. Life is going to change so drastically. I’m retiring, and the world should be
my oyster—and I cannot leave the neighborhood.

When the sun shines, it’s like a beckoning to go outdoors, but then I remember: it’s
dangerous outdoors. Stay 6 feet away from everyone. Don’t breathe.
Susan Milord, Rome, Italy

Journal entry, March – August
I couldn’t see my Italian sweetheart for two and a half months. He works in IT for
the Ministry of Health, definitely an essential worker. When we were finally permitted
to see one another, I was nervous: what might he introduce from the outside world?
“I don’t think you have to worry,” he laughed. “I work in what is probably the most
rigorously disinfected building in the entire country.”

I occasionally teach conversational English. Two students switched to Skype lessons;
a third, a dear neighbor who’s a lawyer, had just started working with me to prepare
for an interview in English. We continued meeting in my home, taking all necessary
precautions. We were, however, definitely breaking the rules. “If we’re caught, at
least I have a lawyer to defend me,” I told him.

I feel for the many businesses impacted by the lack of tourism, but on my rare visits
downtown it’s so delightful to see families enjoying all sorts of spaces that are
usually packed with tourists. For a time, at least, Rome belongs to us, the people
who live here.

These last two months I’ve managed to go out nearly every day. Mostly it’s to take a
brisk morning walk, stopping at the outdoor market on my way home. Sometimes
it’s to run an errand. Whenever I leave home, I have my mask on. In fact, most
people wear masks when they’re in public. We’ve learned to smile with our eyes.
Lori Drawl, Cortland, Ohio

I find it ironic that the pandemic hit in 2020, a numerically symbolic reminder that
hindsight is 20/20.

I often find myself recollecting my deceased Grandma Helen’s painful tales of the
plague from a century-ago. She was nine years old when the Spanish flu struck her
family in the Appalachian foothills of Belmont County, Ohio. It was January 16,
1918, when her mother succumbed to complications from the flu just nine days
after giving birth to baby Flora. Two days later, her maternal grandfather also
died. Within the next year, her Uncle David died.

As the oldest child in the family, Grandma Helen found herself in the position of
surrogate mother to her five younger siblings. Unfortunately, Flora died in August
from the likely preventable ailment of “diarrhea”; however a child being raised solely
by her nine-year-old sister probably didn’t stand much of a chance. Her father
resorted to alcohol to cope and became an abusive tyrant.

A microscopic germ wreaked havoc on this family leaving emotional scars and
lifestyle coping mechanisms that even affected future generations. Grandma Helen
became a bit of a germ-a-phobe, sometimes bordering on hypochondria. As a child,
I recall her over-protective nature and hypervigilance to exposure to any contagion,
no matter how minor.

Grandma’s memories provide 20/20 hindsight to a cautionary tale. With clear vision,
I don’t complain when asked to wear a mask, wash my hands, and socially distance.
The consequences were very real in 1918 . . . and are again in 2020.
I decided to try to paint portraits while self-isolating. These are two of my

grandchildren who live in Las Vegas (Liam & Bryce).
Bryce at Bryce Canyon.

Liam.
Diane Kendig, Canton, Ohio

Journal entry April 17
I have kept a diary for 60 years, since I was 10. We had gone to visit former students
in Tennessee in March, returned home the 14th and have been sheltering in place
ever since. I have created a “centering” ceremony for myself where first thing in the
morning, I read a poem and respond to it.
Reading Lesley Wheeler’s poem “Energize”:

. . . how, lord
did I get to Boston
I drove theoretically . . .”
(from The State She’s In 2020)

. . . where she gets her mother out of the hospital, sets her up in an apartment, I
think, how, lord, have I gotten back to Canton? Theoretically I flew in four times to
get Dad into an apartment—and then I moved here.

And now the fallout of the Corona virus for me today is relief that Dad is not here
for it. The first year without Dad, and for once, I am glad he did not have to live, not
through this. If I had managed to bring him home, it would have been nursing
beyond me, as I’m the world’s worst nurse. If my family had talked me into leaving
him there, he would be medicated into submission by now, and I would be outside
his window, sobbing.

And for me and my husband, home alone together, having survived in adulthood the
deaths of one sibling, four parents, and a beloved single aunt and having been, each
of us, the one lone family member there for each of those who died, we remain
ready for whatever comes.
Marilyn Palasky, Summerlin, Nevada

It’s 116 degrees on the thermometer outside the kitchen window, says Tom my
resident ventilation expert. Really, he has certificates on his wall from his coal mine
bossing days in Southern Illinois. When he says the AC can’t keep up, no more stove
cooking or baking, I take note. The peaches are ripe; what to do when it’s too hot to
cook?
It’s 126 degrees today in Death Valley just a little East of us . . . I think about the
peaches which might be cooking themselves in the garage. Tom’s asleep at 9pm;
before dawn is the coolest time of day for golf. I finished my re-write at 11ish after
mentally romancing those peaches all day . . . reminiscing about the girlhood
backdoor bushel of peaches left for my mom and us girls to can-em-all. Dare I
make a pie?
July 19, 2020
My mom’s Audubon bird clock hooted midnight. I set the blanching pot on to boil,
put the bowl of ice-cube water next to it, set the stove to 375 degrees—Ta Da—
personal peach processing set to begin! Sweetheart, this is the essence of pleasure .
. . to hold a Summer warm fuzzy fruit, plunk it into roil boil float, fork it into
freezing cold water, slide its thin skin off with both hands. Then, place the whole
slippery roundness in one hand while I halve it with the little knife in the other. The
best part is slicing through the halved roundness in your palm: 8Xs half, 1X length.
Zup. Pie!
February

[Prime Minister] Hun Sen says that he’d rather have Cambodians infected with the
virus than anger the Chinese by evacuating students from Wuhan — “We will keep
them there, so sorrow and happiness in any circumstance can be shared.”

Sreymom says, “What leader doesn’t look after his people?”

March

In BKK 1, [Phnom Penh community] Cambodian laborers and Chinese capital work
through the night to build glass tower gardens like Shanghai . . . and you see a
head-shaven barefoot monk in a saffron robe wearing a black face mask waiting for
a tuk-tuk under a streetlamp . . . and in that flickering yellow light . . . he could be
an extra in a zombie apocalypse movie . . . and you joke about him but he believes
in something . . . and you don’t know what to believe these days . . . so you believe
in nothing . . . And it’s like that.

April

Watched The Salzburg Connection, 1972 movie, and binged on 10 episodes
of Gracepoint (aka Broadchurch ITV series) with Vanessa yesterday. Today it’ll
be The Fall.

May

After Anyza’s illegal crossing into Thailand, she zooms into class from just over the
border at Aranyaprathet.

“Thank you so much teacher for your good advice. Especially for your kindness when
we have a mistake.”

Anyza’s pregnant and working in her shop. She asks about prepositions of place.
She unmutes her zoom camera phone which is on the floor tilted up, and she’s in
shorts and crop top, leaning in and out of the camera, and suddenly I’m a voyeur.

June

Monks are expert at cremating skinny Cambodians, but not so effective with thick-
boned Europeans . . . your $500 goes only so far. On the third day you’ll receive
your spouse’s ashes in a box and a Lucky Market bag with charred anklebone
pieces. As part of the new entering-the-country Covid protocol, the Ministry of
Health charges tourists for testing, quarantine, and $1500 for cremation if
necessary, so no messy bits or plastic bags.
Julia Spring, Manhattan, New York

Three and a half months of somewhat lessening quarantine
Journal entry, July 31
There are tiny ants in the bathroom eleven stories up, and we have an onslaught of
water bugs like never before. The pandemic is pushing against the air conditioning
at the windows, and my sister-in law has gone downhill in every way since she
entered rehab for a broken hip at the start of March and got trapped there by the
quarantine. The Times has an article about how the City is now subtropical; the
piece of ginger I stuck in dirt months ago sends out a shoot, proving the point.

I’m not really interested in dystopia but I have a sudden image of decay: Manhattan
taken over by roaches, ants, reptiles; population decimated by Covid, TB, malaria.
Kudzu, mangrove, other trees and creeping plants, cover the collapsed skyscrapers
until all that’s left is gently rolling tropical jungle on my island, shrunken by rising
waters.
Sue Abare-Gritter, Truth or
Consequences, New Mexico
Journal entry, August 4
Retired. 25 miles from the nearest small town. Stay at home doesn’t impact one
much under these conditions. Oh, the occasional trip for needed groceries and
doctoring. Masks, yeah, in the car, in the truck, in the house and hand sanitizer too.
Otherwise, oblivious to it all except for the intrusive news.

Last friend visit in March. No family in the state or even a nearby state. Phone calls
vital. Anniversary today. Normal celebration includes going to dinner. Nothing in
New Mexico has dine-in.

Ok, a bit of a lark and whimsy mixed, drive 120 miles to El Paso; stay in car, have
our favorite steak dinner delivered curbside. Drive home, finish cooking on grill,
celebrate.

Quarantine for two weeks because we left the state? Nah, never stepped on Texas
soil. That should count for something.

Birthday in a few days. Found patio dining at a Las Cruces fav. Today’s temps, 100
plus, no end in sight. Sigh. Reservation made.

Adapt.
David Rock, Rexburg, Indiana

Journal entry, March 27
When this is all over, I wonder if we will have learned anything. I have certainly given
more thought to people whose jobs have disappeared altogether or have become
less secure. Come to find out, there are a lot of people who depend on face-to-face
interaction for their livelihood. I have found it inconvenient having to learn how to
conduct my face-to-face courses via teleconferencing and having to create
electronic versions of exams I would normally just print out and hand to the
students. But I’ll bet it’s a lot harder to figure out how to give haircuts remotely. Do
you think we will have suffered enough, individually and as a society, to be
permanently changed—hopefully in positive ways—by this experience? I used to
laugh about my grandmother’s extreme frugality. I suppose it’s because she lived
through the Great Depression, but she wouldn’t waste anything: when she came to
the end of a box of cereal, she would pour the crumbs into the new box. My mother
used to save bread crusts in a can in the cupboard to use later as a meat extender in
the meatloaf. She would also save bacon grease in a jar to cook with. That all seems
pretty funny, but now I have learned that I can wipe out the microwave, wipe the
salami grease off of my fingers, wipe out the cat’s water bowl, and blow my nose—
all with a single one-third size paper towel.
Mary Fontaine, Dahab, Egypt

For the last three years, I’ve been living in Dahab, a Bedouin town on the southeast
coast of the Sinai Peninsula. Here, there are no masks, no lock down, no physical
distancing, no information. The coronavirus must be here somewhere, but officials
aren’t talking, and people go about their lives as usual. It’s like we’re not in the
world. In Cairo and major Egyptian cities, 10 hours from where I am by car, 90,000
people are infected, so I fear it’s just a matter of time. One day everyone here might
just drop dead.

I read and watch the US news in despair, deeply depressed by the devastation there.
So far, one friend has died, and another has been very sick for two months. I’m
worried about my daughter in CA and my sister in SC, but flights home are
infrequent, so I couldn’t get there even if it were safe to travel. I’ll have to continue
to watch this disaster film from afar, fearing for family, friends, and people
throughout the country and fervently hoping the election will remove the
incompetent and seemingly uncaring government responsible for the widespread
suffering.
David Kopelke, Queensland, Australia

The main resurgence of COVID-19 is in Melbourne. This is about 30 hours by road

from us and two states away. Despite what Trump has said, Australia is not
“devastated” by COVID-19. Yes, there has been a 500% increase in infections; but
Australia was recording only a couple of cases a day and we are recording now over
500 a day. So, I guess it is accurate to say that we have had a 500% increase.
However, when compared to the US, this is still not a lot. We are currently recording
about 11 deaths a day.
Unfortunately, some Australians are getting very tired of the whole thing and we are
starting to get more and more people not taking the issue seriously. Victoria, the
worst affected state, has around 800 cases in lockdown yet the police found over
300 were not in quarantine. This is been why there has been such a jump in the
number of COVID-19 cases. Our governments are taking the matter seriously with
lockdowns and border closures put in place.
My state had three people go to Victoria, party, then lie on returning to Queensland.
They all caught COVID-19 while in Victoria. They are now facing AUD20,000 fine
and up to 5 years in jail. Unfortunately, many of those who are breaking quarantine
have missed out on government financial support. They are lowly paid and if they
don’t work, they have no money to buy food so they go to work even though they
are sick just so that they can feed their family.

This week, the government introduced paid pandemic leave to address people
working while sick.
Although only a small group, there are some who are critical of the steps that the
federal and state governments are taking. The mostly right-wing media gives high-
profile to those who like to attack the rules such as having to wear masks or stay in
quarantine. These people use scripts direct from the US claiming Magna Carta and
other ridiculous legal bases for not having to follow the law. They haven’t even
bothered to change the measurements to metric when arguing and use American
language.
I loved my time in the US. You are so fortunate to have such a beautiful country (and
green, it is so tiring everything brown and dead) and I found the people lovely. This
was despite knowing that so many were carrying guns and would be just as happy to
shoot you as say hello.
Dian Seidel, Chevy Chase, Maryland

Recently returned from Pathumthani, Thailand
Journal entry March 1–August 1
March 1: My husband and I are eager to return home after a stint teaching together
in Pathumthani, Thailand. After restocking the pantry and sorting through mail, we
rush to visit family, then arrange get-togethers with friends.

Two weeks later, we are caught up in the pandemic. Only essential businesses are
open. Our dates with friends become phone calls. In public, people maintain “social
distance.” No one hugs or shakes hands. Instead, some Americans adopt something
like the Thai wai greeting, palms joined at the chest, head bowed. Thailand issues
similar stay-at-home orders. Schools close around the world.

In summer, the coronavirus rages like wildfire across America. It’s unclear whether
students will return to class in fall. But Thai schools re-open on July 1. We see
photos of our kindergartners. Their school uniforms now include masks and face
shields. Only two students sit at tables meant for six, but every child is back in
class.

The first case of coronavirus detected outside China was in Thailand, but the
epidemic is not out of control there. Scientists don’t yet understand why. Maybe the
widespread use of masks, maybe the tradition of the wai, keeps germs from
spreading. Or maybe it is just good karma. In America, normal activities are
suspended. We spend every day together and rarely leave home. We have time to
spare. Time to remember Pathumthani.
Ellen Reichman, Kirkland, Washington

Maya Angelou—“Hope and fear cannot occupy the same space. Invite one to stay.”
I choose hope. I must say though, it doesn’t seem very hopeful right now. I am one
of the fortunate ones. I’m not alone. Jim and I have each other. And our dog. But we
are of age. We do have underlying health issues. So, we remain in our cottage.
Except for walks. The store. That’s it.

Last night I dreamt I saw my son and grandkids. They were behind a sheer curtain. I
ran to open the curtain, and when I did, they were gone.

When will I ever see them? Here I am in Seattle. There they are in Washington DC.
Will it be safe to fly? I don’t even see my daughter who lives close by. Distance.

At 71, my days are precious. Kind of like dog years. Each day is like 7. And, for my
grandsons, 5 and 8—each day is also like 7. As they grow. And change.
My older grandson wrote us a letter. In the mail. He said he wished he could

transport himself to our house. I framed the letter. My heart is cracked wide open.

But I still have hope.
Johan Fremling, Uppsala, Sweden

In Sweden we have had a little different approach than many other countries.
Our instructions are that people over 65/70 years of age should keep away from
other people. We all have to be aware and keep distance from our fellow citizens.
Ship of Fools
A crazy world. A lost ship. A ship without control. A ship with no captain. A ship
crowded with the fools in charge of the world for the moment, Trump, Putin,
Orbán . . . A ship without contact with the ground, the water. A ship with no engine
or sail, no steering wheel, no direction. A leaky ship that not yet has reached open
water, so we still have time to change the direction. Yes we can!
Barbara Kivowitz, San Francisco, California

I want to be twenty-five again. Not that this was a great time. I was confused. I had
no clue that I was beautiful and intelligent. On a good day, I thought I was
nonexistent.

I want that freedom to doubt that things weren’t likely to get better. Now I know
they’re not. I want that young skin and black tar hair. I want more time.

I want the Beatles to get back together. I want to live in Laurel Canyon and be the
only one Joni will really be friends with. I want to be Van’s brown-eyed girl.

I want to still be precocious. I want to be discovered. I don’t want to wait any
more for the night watch to find my decaying body.

I want to eat everything and not gain weight. I want to leap over mountains and
crack my head on the sky. I want both to fly and to be invisible. But if I had to
choose, I’d choose invisibility. I already know it so well.

I want to go back and hug my dogs again. And follow them to the end times.

I want the parents I never had. And I want to tell the ones I did have that I get it,
now, I really do. Thank you.

Thank you to every molecule and vapor and gene sequence that makes me yearn to
start over again. Because that means that in this life, I really did learn something.
Julie Gardner, Bainbridge Island,
Washington
Dear John,
Today, a teaspoon jammed the garbage disposal. No power. I felt underneath for a
reset button. Couldn’t find one. Unplugged it. Tried again. No power. Enough
already! My mind raced. Should I get a new one or get rid of it? Either way, I’d need
a plumber. Who? How long will I have to wait?
I always think of you at midafternoon coffee time, the way you started that ritual for
us on your first day of hastened “retirement” due to the side effects from
chemotherapy. As I sat sipping, something told me to find the reset button. I put on
my glasses, got up, turned on the light, found the red reset, pushed it, then flipped
the switch. Power restored. Thank you. Perhaps loving nearness is always here—if I
pause and take time for it, for you.
I often need to hit the reset button. I’m guessing I’m not the only one. A few weeks
ago, I sat on a curb with a mask on, far from the people at the Farmer’s Market. I
enjoyed the music and memories of being with you, family and friends during your
last Saturdays. I wrote and recommitted to life and love.

Resetting my life without you hasn’t been easy. I’m doing okay. I have a small pride
each time I conquer things I leaned on you for, and I miss having someone to do life
with. Coffee with you reminds me, I’m alone. And not.
Judith Krummeck, Baltimore, Maryland;

ex-Cape Town, South Africa
Essential worker since March 18, WBJC broadcaster
Facebook journaling
3/18
Radio, apparently, is “essential” work—who knew? Certainly not me, until I was
exempt from the governor’s stay-at-home order.

4/18
4/26
“. . . Whether consciously or unconsciously, our music choices reflect not only who
we are, but also the times in which we collectively live . . .”
4/29
When you pop out of a door unexpectedly with the lower half of your face
obliterated by a mask and the surprised passerby says, “Hello, lovely!” you can only
think, “Bless his heart.”

6/14
I’ve accepted the challenge to list 7 books that I love—and I’ll make it audiobooks
from my commute during the past year #Librofm
1. The Ninth Hour — Alice McDermott
2. Circe — Madeline Miller
3. Testaments — Margaret Atwood
4. The Dutch House — Ann Patchett
— And, in the time of Corona —
5. Mythos: The Greek Myths Reimagined — Stephen Fry’s singular take
on mythology is an escape from the frightening reality of the pandemic
6. The Other Bennet Sister — Janice Hadlow’s alternative ending for Mary gives me
hope
7. The Long Petal of the Sea — As they try, too soon, to end the stay-at-home,
Isabel Allende takes me inside the chaos of Spain’s civil war and Chile’s military
junta

7/14
I’m luckier than most. I get home feeling like a germ bomb—and spend the next
twenty minutes washing my hands and mask, and cleaning my glasses and iPhone—
but at least my life hasn’t blurred into a shapeless timetable of forgotten Zoom
days.
Nicoletta LaMarca Sacco, Roscoe, New

York
Our adult son, diagnosed with autism at 2, now 22, is sheltering with us. In self-
quarantine, after so many years struggling, it’s a strange new respite.

There have been advantages to the quarantine.

“Mom, I just wanted to say I enjoy talking to you while I’ve been here with you and
dad.”

Be careful what you wish for, as our son articulating this was a shock. My mouth
might have stayed open for a couple of beats.

“Mom, while I’ve been here with you, I’ve been wondering what my chemical cocktail
does. I don’t want to be robbed of my dignity anymore, so I asked the psychiatrist.
Just throwing meds at me like spaghetti at a wall isn’t effective.”

I could have fallen off my chair hearing Sonny’s self-advocacy. A first.

“After all, there is no cure for autism.”

He has a photographic memory, and can be tortured by repetitive thoughts playing
like a tape, he says, looping over and over. He explained exactly why he found the
overall approach to be a sham.

I’ve never felt more proud of him. Bravo for standing up for yourself, explaining
your needs to the doctor, and grabbing the autonomy you deserve. You grabbed
what’s yours. Bravo.
Sarah Merrow, Baltimore, Maryland

Our Baltimore rowhouse has been comfortable for sheltering at home; the connected
houses on this block are several rooms deep, but only 16 feet wide. All have covered
front porches separated by sturdy railings, so physical distancing is easy to
accomplish without awkwardness or apology.

During our enforced isolation I’ve been learning to play the ukulele, and last week
decided to get a little fresh air and play on the front porch. I quietly strummed and
hummed, thinking I was alone. But after finishing a tune, my neighbor Jim popped
his head around the corner of his rocking chair and said “that was lovely, thank
you.” A few minutes later a young woman two houses down called out “I enjoyed
that. I could play the bongos with you!” She introduced herself, then clarified that
she didn’t actually own a bongo drum, but that she would buy one in order to play
with me on the porch. We had a good laugh over that. She continued, “and this is my
friend, Noelle. She is too shy to say hello, but she is learning to play the kalimba!”
“That’s a thumb harp, right?” I asked. “Yes, it is!” came the answer, and together we
realized that with Jim’s sweet singing voice, a ukulele, bongos, a kalimba, and
maybe a glass of wine, we had the promising beginnings of a pandemic porch band.
Darwin Curtis, Potomac, Maryland

Journal entry, sometime in April
There is much talk today about the negative effects of isolation; about the human
need for companionship. About the third day of my time in solitary, I began
wondering how I might counter that negative effect of isolation. My first initiative
was to try talking to myself. But I found myself quickly numbed by boredom. At the
end of my second attempt, I realized I had gone sound asleep for half an hour.

I ran through a mental list of creatures who might keep me company, all of which
bellowed or barked or snarled or bit. Then I hit the gerbil. Referring to Google, I
read that “gerbils are very social animals who need the company of their own kind in
order to be happy.” I wasn’t up for a morose gerbil and I certainly wasn’t ready for
mingling with a pride of gerbils, even jolly ones.

On the same page, Google offers the thought that “Hamsters definitely can
be friendly and enjoy the companionship of their owners.” I knew hamsters to be
good listeners, which is unusual among vertebrates. But loquacious? Would I want to
acquire a maybe binge-eating hamster without much to say? Or which mumbled?
And Google adds: “There are hamsters who . . . make it clear that they prefer to be
on their own.” I had second thoughts.

As my isolation deepened, I remembered that when I was a little kid, my Aunt Mary
Claire had given me two goldfish in a small bowl. In my mind’s eye I could see them
belly up and floating. But that was an idea: fish. Well, there was the question of
common interests. Fish do seem to enjoy eating fish which are smaller than they
are. I, too, enjoy eating fish which are smaller than I am. Beyond that, I could not
identify significant areas of rapport. And what does one do with the fish when it’s
time to clean the aquarium? Fish? No.

A couple of weeks further into solitary, I reopened the subject after asking myself,
“Who was that furry old gink with the white beard I just glimpsed?” Maybe, I thought,
he’d like to chat. Then I remembered that, at the beginning of my auto-
incarceration, I persuaded myself there was no reason to shave. I had just passed a
mirror. That furry old gink was me.
Rim Chon, New York City, New York

It’s been tough being culinary challenged and quarantined at home alone. Trying to
figure out what to eat, breakfast, lunch, and dinner every single day is exhausting.

I’ve rediscovered cottage cheese. It’s delicious and one big spoonful does the trick
for a quick hunger fix. I’ve had baked potato as dinner more than I’ve had in the last
decade. Instant ramen used to be a treat. Now it feels depressing.

And grocery shopping for food? Forget about it. During my tri-weekly grocery trip, I
come home with random items that don’t add up to anything, like a bunch of
scallions because I saw an Instagram post about re-growing scallions in a glass of
water using the chopped down roots. Now it’s a race against time to eat the bunch
before they wilt in addition to the fast re-growing new scallions. I put scallions on
everything I eat. Scrambled eggs, fried rice, even on my spaghetti. Bought one
avocado, which was carefully monitored for four days. After checking the internet
and several texts with my chef sister, it was turned into an avocado toast, topped
with scallions.

A triumphant culinary day.
Debby Kaspari, Norman, Oklahoma

Sheltering in place since early March
I’m keeping track of my pandemic experiences with a series of “Quarantine Pantry”

paintings. They depict whatever it is I’m hoarding or craving or obsessing over, and
they’re rendered in soft pastels and presented as formal still lifes, side-lit on a blue
cloth with a black background.
The series includes bottles from my craft cocktail obsession, a package of ramen
(our pantry is stacked with cases of it), chocolate bars and sweet potatoes, canned
garbanzo beans to commemorate the week I discovered aquafaba’s magical
meringue-like properties, a bag of flour that for a while was worth its weight in gold
on Amazon, and 5 tomatoes and cucumbers from a victory garden we compulsively
planted across every inch of our small yard. And, of course, the leading index of
COVID-19 anxiety: toilet paper.
Stress Baking. Pastel.

My Precious. Pastel.
Julie Nelson, Iowa City, Iowa

Woke up dreaming. We were in a bakery. No, it was a restaurant, a close space,

completely packed with people bumping into each other, could not get away. Did
not have a mask. A horrible image in the dream of dead faces in the garbage cans,
waking with a start. All day, memories came to me. A moment, a person, some small
happiness from long ago. Mom in the gardens by the Cathedral wearing her
kerchief. Swimming out to picnic rocks. Walking in a blizzard in Burlington, laughing
so hard we could not see. Riding bikes in Rock Creek Park. The morning I drove to
work down Connecticut Avenue on 9/11, me singing with radio on, windows down,
the radio host that September morning changing our lives forever with the
announcement of the Twin Towers as our lives are changing now. Riding the double
decker bus in NYC in 2012, on the upper deck, the city streaming by as we coasted
past the Flat Iron building, Macys, all over Manhattan Island until without realizing
where we were the bus stopped by the church near to the Twin Towers, turned into
a memorial, and though we hadn’t meant to we got off at the stop. Dust coating the
air of the chapel, still. Wept at photos in the museum, all the people we lost then,
(are losing now). Saw name of a college friend who died in the South Tower that day,
etched in marble. How I never knew.
Dick Klenk, Westerville, Ohio
My grandson Aidan has played baseball tournaments the last 5 consecutive weeks
starting June 11th. All have been in Central Ohio, mostly within an hour’s driving
time. Games have been on varying starting days, as early as Tuesday of a week, and
going into Sunday, depending on their success. They have won 1 tournament and
played in the championship in 2 others.

Of their 27 games, I think I have seen 24 or 25. It has been a wonderful change from
“house arrest”!!! Our craziest traveling was driving from Lakeside, where we were
staying for a while, to Chillicothe—about three hours and 45 minutes. Games do not
draw crowds of any size, primarily the same cast of characters—parents,
grandparents, & occasional unwilling siblings.
Social distancing—mostly
Masks—sometimes
Outdoors—yes
Hot—for sure.
All in all—WONDERFUL!!!!

As one of our friends said recently, “you guys have had a lot of dashboard
time since mid-June.”
Ken Felt, Phoenix, Arizona

Journal entry June 24
The Ability 360 team. Felt pictured far right.
I should be in Ft. Wayne, Indiana, now at the National Power Wheelchair Soccer
tournament playing for United power wheelchair soccer team.

But that tournament and all the soccer practices since March have been cancelled
because of Covid-19. This was the first time in my life that I ever participated in any
kind of organized sports team. At 71, I joined this soccer team and although I am its
oldest player and certainly not the best, I found myself incredulously the most
physically fit. Most are quadriplegics, have muscular dystrophy and need to be lifted
into the soccer chairs. I don’t. Yet.

I raised the most money to get the team there and now here we are. Landlocked.
United had a slim chance of winning anything. But this would have been my first
national tournament. My Indiana Phi Delta Theta fraternity brothers were planning
on being there. So were my grandchildren, my daughter, son-in-law, niece and
sister.

Today, instead of being in the thick of tournament fever, I spent the morning
washing poop out of our little dog’s long matted hair. He and I have missed our
grooming. Maybe I can keep growing my hair and wear it in a ponytail for next
year’s tournament.
Eric Steiner, San Francisco, California
Day 102
In my former incarnation Mondays came much too soon, too frequently. Vacations
were never quite long enough. So many books, so little time. Be careful what you
wish for.

Now Mondays are indistinguishable from any of the other days. Vacations consist of
leafing through old travel diaries. Books are piled higgeldy piggeldy, mostly
unfinished. If I get desperate there’s always War and Peace.

I’m required to stay at home. But life isn’t bad. My apartment is bright and cheery
and I’ve hunkered down in worse places. The people in my building slip notes under
my door offering to run errands, do shopping and just be there if needed. Maybe it
takes a crisis like to restore a sense of community. I hope it lasts long after
coronavirus is gone.

I do watercolors, crossword puzzles. I move tchotzkes and pictures. What I do is not
socially redeeming or morally uplifting, but neither were the things I did prior to this
New Normal.

Earlier I had a video visit with my doctor. Couldn’t do that when the Black Death was
the Pandemic du Jour. A triumph for technology, but just a little bit frustrating for
both of us.

As Adam may have said to Eve way back in the Garden of Eden, “Eve, we’re living in
interesting times.”
Paul Rousseau, Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina

Sheltering in place since mid-March
I don’t know her whereabouts, the last fourteen years obscured by distance, physical
and emotional. Nevertheless, I text her each year on her birthday and on the
anniversary of her mother’s death—the fourteen obscured years—with no response.
Still, I squint at the pixeled screen and hope. Give her time I’m told, “She’ll come
around.” So I’ve waited. However, the pandemic has added urgency. I’m seventy; I
may not have the time.
Dorothy Rossi, Louisville, Colorado
In the backyard a robin glides gracefully on his path. My reaction is to ponder about
life’s mysteries, meaning and purpose. There is a nest nearby. What this means for
the robin, I do not know. For humans we await new life with dreams, anxieties,
hopes and fears. Not known for living in the moment, our world of present, past and
future frequently collide.

The robin builds his nest, takes care of his young, and travels within his range. This
bird awakens hope in my scarred soul no matter what is happening in my world.
Molly Jones-Quinn, Rockville, Maryland

Welcome to Ingleside at Rock Creek, where the Covid 19 lockdown has given us
unusual opportunities to travel . . . on Zoom. With the prospect of the forced
cancellation of our semi-annual Spring Poetry Reading, we poets had to find a way
to salvage it. We oldsters weren’t exactly sure how to use Zoom, but an enterprising
staff member quickly figured it out. And for those residents who were not active
computer users we found it was possible for them to call in and participate on the
telephone.

One of our most prolific poets had recently died. The opening poem (Our Friends
Have Passed Away) gave way to a man’s deep voice reciting two of Tom’s
favorites: Psalms and My Furniture. We imagined him joining us from heaven! That
was the longest trip we imagined, but several of our residents who had been
traveling when the lockdown was announced, joined in from places as far away as
northern Michigan and the Hudson Valley in New York state. Our attention ranged
from the sublime (Fourteen Ways of Knowing God) to the ridiculous, a meditation on
Weeds. After assuring ourselves that we are The Very Model of Social Distancing, we
Zoomed off to our Zumba class . . .
Fiona Jones, Dunfermline, Scotland
Lockdown beginning to ease after 3 months
Family conversations in lockdown be like: “So where did you go for your Covid walk
today?”
(Covid Walk, noun: The single daily outdoor walk from home, as permitted by UK
government during COVID19 lockdown.)
“I went up the hill northwards—and guess what I saw! A tree like a city: everything
lives in it.”

So from then on the tree has a name: the City Tree. A metropolis of busy thriving
life within its roots and trunk and asymmetric branches. A tree that’s been treeing
for centuries, long enough to stand there treeing the rest of the trees how to tree.

We’ve seen more trees in Lockdown than in the twenty years we’ve lived here. Birch
trees, white-barked, light-foliaged, airy. Oak trees, slow-growing, late-leafing, in
attitude more fighter than dancer. Horse chestnuts unfolding bat-wing leaves and
blossoming like candles. Beech trees, so thick-canopied there’s little but mosses
and mast underneath, yet full of holes and niches and food-chains of crawling life.
The City Tree is a beech.

Trees are comforting presences: old but not garrulous; alive but never demanding.
You can heal, you can dream, you can think under trees, and envision the World
After Lockdown Ends—what it should be like. I think we should fly less, buy less
stuff, spend less time travelling, more time walking outdoors. I think we would live
longer, breathe better that way.

The trees told me this, and they ought to be right. They’ve lived long enough to tell
us how it’s done.
Martha Strom, Brooklyn, New York

Daffodils Down the Block. Gouache.
Coronavirus. Gouache.
I have been keeping a journal as I always do; however, my artwork feels more like it
has been done on the wings of incarceration. In other words, I have felt glad for the
way this pandemic has forced me to turn inward.
Susan Felt, Phoenix, Arizona

Amanda and Michael and the kids are back home. We all survived.

When Michael called in April to “explore” the possibility of coming to Phoenix to
escape Chicago during this global pandemic, our tepid “of-course-we-would-love-
to-see-our-grandchildren” response revealed the conflict that rumbled beneath.

First, there was the 28-hour straight through drive he was suggesting. Our seven-
year-old grandson has rheumatic heart disease. He’s as high on the vulnerability list
for Covid-19 as his wheelchair-bound 71-year-old grandfather. We’d been isolated
in our home since early March.

Then what about those public bathrooms? Roadside “nature” stops. Eating? Car
trouble? Falling asleep at the wheel come hour 18? Quarantining for two weeks once
you get here?

Our daughter. Our son-in-law. Our grandchildren. We live for our visits with them.

But this time, it was hardly, we can’t wait to see you.

He painted a compelling picture. When will we ever have this opportunity? The
Chicago cousins can be with their Phoenix cousins. We can have Papa Ken and
Nanasus’s school with our grandchildren. Our family can be together. Take walks.
Watch Netflix. Bond. Do puzzles. Play charades.

Catch the coronavirus. Fall apart.

Such was the need to seek sunshine, a swimming pool and an outdoors where their
children could play without fear of navigating crowds of unmasked Chicagoans, that
they came. They spent a night in a hotel, thus eliminating the possibility of falling
asleep at the wheel. Handled food and nature responsibly. Quarantined for two
weeks. And stayed an extra week.

They are back home putting together a trampoline to keep the kids active until
parks and the lakefront are reopened. Michael was right. When would we ever have
this time again?
Karen Webber, Baltimore, Maryland
Sheltering in place since mid February
This morning, I do know why the cage bird can’t sing.

Singing is outlawed in this time.
As a cantor, I remain silent.

With the screen door ajar, motorcycles, trucks and a car backfire mingle with
Mozart. I re-read this poem. It provides another meaning. I am a singer. I am
partially defined by the notes I intone. In this time, it is dangerous to sing. I am told
droplets like tiny crowns flung from my throat land on the bat mitzvah girl’s bangs,
her father’s cheek, the rabbi’s ear. I haven’t done an in person bat mitzvah in 6
months. Singing loudly is worse than cantare dolcemente. But, for our safety, we
must simply mouth the words.

I imagine from my balcony, in the green space below, I see masked singers, 6 ft
apart sporting sky blue masks. How terrifying that singing can hurt other people. I
can sing at the top of my lungs to birds in trees, especially red cardinals. And if I
were a bird, I would carry away my grey hair swatches and weave them into a nest. I
have been grey for awhile. But now, I wake up each morning feeling a decade older.

I venture from my apartment, for necessities only; short walk, short drives, dinner in
boxes.

So, until they craft a vaccine here I sit, cage door swung open with me unmoving.
Meryl Baer, Ventnor, New Jersey

The big event in my life this holiday weekend is the opening of my Little Free
Library, a ‘take a book, return a book’ free book exchange. The library has been
ready for weeks, but I was reluctant to open because of the pandemic. I decided to
delay, but felt now might be the time to open. I placed two small bottles of hand
sanitizer inside. No announcement or advertising. I will place a picture on my
Facebook page and eventually mention it on the Nextdoor app. I can’t wait to see
the interest the library generates.
Karen Leathean, Northern
Territory, Australia
A trip to Casuarina Shopping Centre showed me closed and boarded up food court
spaces. Usually busy, a place for some retired groups to enjoy a coffee and
interaction. Now tables are collected together and wrapped in acres of calico cloth. I
wonder if a local fabric shop gleefully sold yards of this fabric. A few outlets still
offer take-away only. Seniors who met in these places—where are they now?

Security appears to be a growth profession. Wandering around giving people a
warning to purchase essentials and move on. Despite Northern Territory virus cases
only resultant from overseas arrivals, and as yet without community spread. Perhaps
these high-visibility vest wearers just enjoy the power?

Every time I buy something, I ask, ‘are you happy to take cash?’ expecting to be
told, ‘no, cards only.’

Extent and randomness of empty shelves continues to startle. Paper towels, empty
as if manufactures all agreed to limit production. Eggs, my daughter suggested,
might be scarce due to long distances they must be transported. We are more than
3,000k from the closest egg farm.

The new normal of staff members offering hand sanitiser and trolley wipes is clearly
visible as are floor markings declaring how far apart supermarket patrons must
stand.

I am disappointed to note long queues snaking from the Centrelink (Unemployment
office) despite early tropical heat. But vanishing jobs is one reason I can afford time
to travel to Darwin.
Linda Shapiro, Scarsdale, New York

Journal entry May 4
The UPS driver pulled into my driveway. I was outside. The driver sat checking his
list. I waved to him. For some reason, I drew a heart in the air and mouthed thank
you. He stepped out and bowed to me, put his hand over his heart and smiled. He
put the Amazon box down for me to pick up. I wanted to cry thinking he’s so
exposed, handling all those packages I don’t touch for a day or two. There he sits in
that open-air truck, up against much more than the weather, bringing us everything
we need.
Orman Day, Laurel, Maryland

Not long after questioning whether a friendly poltergeist had hidden her hearing aid
in a candy bowl, Mom was jarred by more paranormal activity in her locked-down
rooms. For her 101st birthday on May 28, Mom received a bouquet of flowers and
gas-filled “Happy Birthday” balloons. After a few weeks, the flowers wilted and
dropped their petals and were whisked away by the facility’s cleaning lady.

Drooping somewhat, the three multi-colored balloons remained huddled together in
a corner of the front room. Then, defying scientific explanation, one of the balloons
floated into Mom’s bedroom.

“I have framed photos of family members on top of my dresser,” Mom told me
during our daily phone conversation. “It floated down and stopped in front of
different people to look at them . . . like they knew each other.”

She returned the balloon to the front room, but later, the balloon wandered back to
the bedroom and landed on her pillow. Creeped out, Mom feared the balloon
wouldn’t let her sleep, so she anchored it to the teddy bear in the front room.

On Saturday, ever-cheerful Melody rolled a serving cart into Mom’s front room to
deliver punch and cookies. It was Melody’s birthday—so Mom, who had to restrain
herself from giving the aide a great big hug—presented the errant balloon to her.
Giggling, Melody tied it to her cart. Relieved to be rid of the mischief-maker, Mom
smiled and waved as the balloon bobbed out the door.
Marc Frazier, Chicago, Illinois

I want to read a long, old-fashioned letter. Or write one. I want the old ways. In any
form. I cross Lombard Avenue heading toward Buzz Cafe for a to-go latte.
Everything is to-go now. We can’t pause for long, except within the confines of our
own walls that grow closer daily. That kind of claustrophobia. I note the boarded-up
7-11, another economic casualty. A squirrel dashes up an old oak. I walk around
Barrie Park. Yellow tape surrounds the playground. A slight mist begins.

A group of soccer players kick a ball around the field. They are not supposed to be
there. The parks are closed. Do I turn them in? It seems we are always monitoring
others’ behavior. Asking whose rights come first. In Catholic grade school we were
taught to respect our elders. So many are being rolled out on gurneys these days
from nursing homes. No more than 10 spaced-apart mourners can attend the
service. In Italy they say the younger generation is now virtually without
grandparents. After my three times around the park, I head back home, not just
where the heart is but everything. I want that feeling of longing to be back in the
warm nest of my home after a trip away instead of hunkering down in it as my place
to shelter. What I need is someone to blame.
Marianne Lonsdale, Oakland, California
Journal entry May 8
Just wrapped up the daily “watercooler” zoom meetup with my work group. The
fifteen of us are spread out in California, Colorado and North Carolina. Rhonda, our
boss, does a remarkable job of keeping the group connected. We know each other
better than before this mess started. Rhonda leads us in an origami exercise. I suck
at origami and lose interest after about the third fold, but I like being part of the
gang. We’ve made birds, a dog, a cat, flowers, a cup, a box and much more.

What I do like is the daily doodles. After origami, we doodle. We write the date on a
piece of paper or in a sketch book. Sometimes we write out the words, like May
First, sometimes just numbers, 05 01. And then we doodle, adding scribbles,
flowers, robots, houses. We draw for about 5 minutes and then we hold our
creations up to the screen and chortle in delight at each other. I’ve been a secret
sketcher for years, too embarrassed to share, but I’m eager to hold up my doodle
which usually looks like the work of an unruly kindergartener.
April 12 Doodle
April 28 Doodle
Martha Henry, Cambridge, Massachusetts

After the long weekend, I had no idea what day it was until I looked at my phone.
Had to drop car off by 7:30. Got there at 8:00. Pandemic makes for easy parking.

Walked home along the river. Morning fog just burning off. Not too many people.
Not even tempted to yell at runners not wearing masks.

Herring, or whatever those small fish are, swimming in a frenzy at the edge of the
brown river. Splashing, occasional fins breaking the surface. Must be spawning or
something to do with sex.

This weekend, picnicking lovers back in the parks. COVID cases down, at least for
the moment.

For better or worse, everything loosening up. Geese families along the bike path.
Goslings growing fast. Their numbers already thinned from crossing the four-lane
road. The few solo rowers seem the most free of all of us. No masks. Width of river
to themselves.

Garage called as I crossed the Elliot Bridge. Radiator leak worse. Either replace for
$500 or wait for smoky breakdown on some random highway. So glad I didn’t
donate Civic last year. How would I have carried a week’s worth of groceries? “Fix it,”
I tell the guy. I too want to keep moving.
Stephen Kingsnorth, Wrexham, Wales, UK

Today is Tuesday; my weekly marker, recycling collection, woke me. My routine as

yesterday, echo of 6 weeks’ advised Parkinson’s self-isolation. Rain prevented D
asking me to take a walk; unless limbs are very sore, it is easier to consent. I
pretend control. Such victories are pyrrhic, consequences costly. My self-assertions
are petty; I become the child I claim not to be. Since lockdown, we have slept in
separate rooms; creeping alone under the insomnia duvet in the early hours causes
less tension. I changed TV channels, hearing her bed creak. By the time D descends,
I have washed yesterday’s dishes, managed to sneak the almost-drained into the
cupboards. I have sorted pills, fed the aquarium, and waited; to take breakfast alone
is unwise. She called me to sort my salad lunch and cooked the usual delicious
healthy vegetarian dinner. My visits to the gym have ended, my weight increasing. I
dread the question. She has baked lemon cakes for the neighbors, kept one for us.
They are good, but calorific; she is unsettled if I decline. She spent the day making
face-masks. Her skill is undeniable: I was called to take a photograph. My hours
passed writing poetry; most is poor. Yet when frequent rejections arrive, I
sink. Despite the late-night anti-depressant, I grow morose. My drifting hope is that
in the morning I will remember to maintain my sadness. Usually leg pain shifts
recall. Tomorrow will repeat today, without recycling. Will I remember it must be
Wednesday?

Several days ago in yet another loud-volume transcontinental conversation, my 101-

year-old mother complained to me that she was without the use of both hearing
aids. One aid went kaput because she wore it into the shower. The other one she
couldn’t find after taking it off to yak for an hour on the phone. Without success,
the facility sent numerous staff members to search high and low for the lost aid,
which Mom was convinced had tumbled into the unreachable bowels of her couch.

Finally my sister Laurel was able to get the water-damaged aid repaired. Because
she’s been steadily losing her sight, Mom couldn’t look for the lost aid on her own
and figured she’d resume the search when the lockdown ends. Then, just after
midnight today, she woke up hankering for a sweet and fumbled her way to a bowl
filled with butterscotch candies. Smacking her lips, she reached into the bowl . . .
and pulled up her hearing aid. This morning she phoned and asked, “Ormie, do you
think my room is haunted?”
Jyoti Minocha, Vienna, Virginia

Journal entry May 8
I call my mother and my sister who are in lockdown in New Delhi, India. They
haven’t seen the sun for weeks. They are in a containment zone and are not allowed
to walk on the road outside their street without official permission. My mother, who
is 94 and bedridden, says bless you, child, I’m doing well. When are you
coming? These calls leave me despondent, so I try to space them out.

In the afternoons we sit on the deck and watch the sun slant towards the west. The
rules of sunset are immutable, like the rules of the virus, I think. The sun will never
change course in the middle of setting and decide to go east instead. The thought
calms me.

Cardinals and bluebirds hop between the branches of our tree line and I watch them
in fascination, as if I’m seeing them for the first time. And maybe I am. I never knew
that the evening shadows in our yard rode on the cries of so many birds.
This is the world of natural laws, where there is honesty and transparency and
predictability.
The virus is part of this natural world and that thought, when it comes, is
surprisingly soothing.
The evening hour on our deck is the most rejuvenating time of my day.
Cindy Cramer, Gig Harbor, Washington
Journal entry May 8
My 15-year-old calls out from the darkness of his bedroom. “I think this is one of
those things we’re always going to remember,” he says. “Like people who lived
through the Great Depression. And we’ll wish we didn’t live through it, but we’ll
always remember this time.” I pause, wondering how to respond. “I think you’re
right,” I finally say. The only other thing I can compare it to is 9/11, but that was
quick, the clear lines of our grief laid out in a matter of hours.

I wonder what my boys will remember of this time. I hope they remember the board
games we played in the evenings. The family walks along the trail near our house.
The luau we had in the living room, wearing aloha shirts and cheap leis bought
online, because our long-planned Spring Break trip to Hawaii had evaporated. The
oldest one driving the family car in the YMCA parking lot, practicing even though
there might not be any Drivers Ed this summer.

I hope they look back and count missing school as their biggest loss. I worry about
their grandparents and their aunt. I hope their losses are normal teenage losses, and
not holes in their family. For now, I hope they sleep well at night. Leave the worry to
me. I’m older. I can take it.
Lisa Rigge, Bay Area, California

I have been compiling a series of self-portrait contour drawings expressive of my

inner state of being. These black ink drawings shaded in with pencil are based on
self-portraits and teachings by Elizabeth Layton. I work with my dreams and the
dreams of others a lot, especially since COVID19, when many dreams have taken a
dark and anxious turn.
Drink Black Liquid Death. Drawn April 15th in response to an April 13th dream.
Dream Journal entry April 13th

I sit at a table with 2 unknown men. There’s a glass on the table, half full with a
dark liquid. Beside the drink is a book I’ve written and published, an
accomplishment I am proud of. I know that if I drink this drink, I will die. But, I’m
not afraid of dying. One man picks up the drink and takes the sip. He hands it to the
man next to him, who sips it as well. This man hands it to me. I, too, take the glass
and drink the rest of the liquid. I wake up before I die.
When the Glasses Come Off. Drawn June 3rd.
Amie McGraham, Scottsdale, Arizona

Journal entries March 11-15
March 11
3 airports, 2 airplanes, 2 nursing homes, this tiny state with more pine trees than
people, a skeevy Best Western, another fucking hospital and I have lost. An. Entire.
Day. Something pushing me from motel to the long wooded driveway up to the
hospital. Patches of snow. Yellow-gray sun slowly dropping. A meditation room.
Blue stained glass and peace elusive. Mom asks me: “Is my daughter coming?”

March 12
Brunswick-Bath Best Western “Plus.” Unclear what qualifies that superlative.
Not their bitter coffee. “Everyone looks for pots,” says the breakfast area server.
“It’s not in pots.” Continues wiping down the table, spray bottle of disinfectant
hooked to her belt loop.
“I’m glad you’re cleaning the surfaces,” a white haired woman remarks. “I was going
to attend an . . . event in Portland Saturday but I’ve decided against it.”
No one comments. What would you say? That’s too bad? Sorry to hear? Good idea?
Meanwhile, a questionable president addressed his flock in a stilted feel-good
speech last night. No one feels good about this.

March 13
Of course. I’m in dementia hell, hotel hell, virus hell. Exited hospital hell,
Mom back at the Vicarage, so there’s that.
Blood transfusion? No. Palliative Care? No. Hospice visits? Again, NO. Mom is . . .
changing. She looks chalky. Translucent. Doing that weird hand thing,
moving her bony fingers through the air as if directing an orchestra.

March 15
6:39 am. Can’t get out of bed. I —
Mom’s place on lockdown. Dad’s place quarantined, 2 positive cases.
Dotty LeMieux, Marin County, California

I’m a lawyer and a political consultant and am sheltering in my office
Why is it the old people who are expendable?
Lived long enough Grandpa, time to die. Or just go play golf. Grandma, go play
canasta with all the other old biddies. You ruined our planet now get off it. When the
ethicists decide who’s to live and who’s to die, they don’t look at accumulated
wisdom, years of service, present abilities to work, they look at who has the most
(actuarial) years to live. That guy in the MAGA hat or that old lady whose roots have
grown out? And the Lt. Governor of Texas says “There are more important things
than living.” This is what happens when we treat older people like dependents, call
us “seniors” like we’re in high school, only with no graduation but death. Whatever
happened to “60 is the new 40?”

And shopping for food. You get to go early with all the other Seniors.
Gee thanks, but no, I’m not trundling off to the market at 6 am to hang with a
bunch of other old people who, as everybody knows, are the most vulnerable. Why
do you think it sweeps through nursing homes? I’ll wait until the young and fit go
shopping. Protect myself among them. So think about what this really is. Ageism.
It’s the one ism facing each and every one of us.
Naomi Karp, Washington, DC

My dad’s mishpachah was wonderful. Zayde chanted every syllable at Brooklyn

Passover seders. Bubbe made kreplach soup and had soft skin. But they were dime-
a-dozen Eastern Europeans from the shtetl.
Mom had the more exotic if frightening tale. A teenaged refugee from Nazi
Germany, she escaped because Aunt Eugenie married a State Department guy.
They’d lived through Kristallnacht, Grandpa’s Dachau stay, and losing the family
distillery, “Borato.”

Now that they’re scattered, an electronic thread sews my maternal side together.
The first email had the unlikely tagline “Seasons Greetings?” Cousin Frank in
Germany, 90, wonders how Die Familie is surviving this viral nightmare. “Though the
civilization-whitewash of us humans is rather thin, let’s all hope that things will
improve and that the world might be just a little bit better.”
Through the miracle of “Reply All,” letters ping-pong around the globe. A cousin in
Providence shares joy: a new grandson born, named for his grandpa who survived
Hitler. Another explains Die Familie’s Argentina branch. The Third Reich brought
them south. Later some moved to Israel, Brazil, Mexico, and even Deutschland. Who
knew?
Greg splits time between England and China, but is social distancing in the Nevada
desert. We’re a modern Diaspora.
Emails still fly around our pandemic planet, sparked by a rabbi’s exhortation: “Every
embrace that we avoid must become a verbal expression of warmth and concern.” I
feel the heat of the family hug.
Jeanne Cook, North eld, Vermont

Sheltering in place since early February due to an auto-immune disease
Yesterday the sun was high at one o’clock. My friend Jane came to visit and we
walked in my garden, six feet apart, looking for new growth. I could see tiny leaves
of thyme in the clay pot. I saw, intensely, blue miniature flowers I never saw in my
garden before. They must have come here on the wind. Green shoots on the rose
bush and lilac. Magnolia buds about to burst. The strange thing is, I’m losing my
vision, fast. I can’t read books anymore, or recipes, or medicine bottles. But
yesterday there were those blossoms and new growth. And I could see it! Hard to
explain—how if the sun is high and the light is just exactly right, no shadows, no
reflections, high contrast, sometimes I can see beautiful detail.

Today is dark and rainy and the world distorted and blurred. There are holes in this
text as I type it on my huge screen. But for one hour yesterday, there was clarity and
those blue blossoms, tiny and vivid, are imprinted on my thought. I will carry them
with me out of the darkness of the pandemic. Thank you for coming, my friend.
Sarah Barnett, Rehoboth Beach, Delaware

Half of me prepares to die; the other half pretends to live. The first half writes “just-
in-case” instructions. I list financial accounts with beneficiaries, passwords for the
computer and confidential files.
What else? Who will deal with my stuff—notebooks, photos dating back to the
1930s, my mother’s jewelry? What about items I treasure that no one else will care
about—one aunt’s china, another’s knick-knacks, anything my deceased daughter
ever touched? It won’t matter, I tell myself. It’s not like I’ll be watching.
My other half remains strangely calm, at peace, almost happy to have no

obligations, no place to go. No decisions about what to wear. No worries about
leaving my dog Blue for longer than usual. No concerns about driving at night. My
days are filled with the inconsequential. What to have for lunch, which pair of yoga
pants to wear, which direction to take to walk around the neighborhood, which TV
series to watch.
The half that foresees a future decrees that I use this time to decide where/how to
live these last 10.5 years assigned to me by the life expectancy tables,
approximately 5.9 of them without Blue.
Shannon Pool, Cottage Grove, Oregon

My now suspended job is up north to Eugene about 25 miles.

Luci Huhn, Union Pier, Michigan
Journal entry May 2
We have a stone dog at the end of our driveway. Dalmatian. Puppy. Cement. Painted
white with black dots. Years old, worn and chipped. Paws broken off, so it’s nestled
in the hostas. Wears a bandana, color coded for the season. I look out and see a
little girl sitting with the stone dog. She’s probably only three or so, just a little
larger than the pup. Sometimes sitting with her arm around it, sometimes laying
over it, sometimes hugging it, sometimes standing next to it with her hand on its
head. Doing a number on the hostas, but it’s early in the season, I tell myself, they’ll
recover.
Has someone left her here? I see her parents a bit down the road, carrying her
orange scooter, though it’s a tiny scooter, looks only ornamental, and she’s too
young to ride it. They have relinquished her to the dog. The dog is her sanctuary.
The dog is her playground, I realize. There are no playgrounds now, they are not
safe to touch or to breathe in, but this pup is hers. I go through the front door and
half-way down the drive. Not close. Her parents tell me she loves the pup, she won’t
leave it. In the spirit of all that we are giving up, all that we are handing over, every
day, I tell her the pup doesn’t have a name, ask would she like to name it. She tells
me it’s a boy, his name is Dots.
MaryAnn Moenck, Rural Western
Wisconsin
At home with my husband since March 11 except for grocery runs and care
packages dropped off at Mom’s assisted living in Maplewood, Minnesota. I last
hugged my 95-year-old mother on March 5.
Journal entries May 10 to May 17
May 10
Mothers Day. Did nothing. It sucked.
May 11 – May 12
Crabby Mom. Helicopter at 4:30 a.m. Failed video connect. She is giving up. I am
disheartened. Cause of death: Abundance of caution.
May 13
I ordered an oversimplified tablet for Mom that will give us video chats. It’s a
glimmer . . . Waiting on rain to plant our garden. The dirt is hard and dry.
May 14
We planted the vegetable garden today. After weeks of poor quality lettuce in the
store plus Covid concerns, I am looking forward most to fresh salads this summer.
The lettuce row looks colorful, bright, and mouth-watering.
May 15
First mowing of the season, and perfect weather. I am appropriately tired now at
bedtime. Curbside supper from WaterShed while the rest of Wisconsin goes crazy
with the Wisconsin Supreme Court opening the state abruptly. Supreme, my ass.
Idiots!
May 16
Ran the new tablet to Mom’s. Saw her through glass. She had a bad day, even told
me the 8-inch tablet was too heavy to lift. I drank more wine than necessary after
that.
May 17
Triumph. “I love this thing!” Mom said, during our first video chat. She is just inside
of capable with the new tablet. Online Scrabble with Mike and Ginny. They kicked
our butts. Inch and a half of rain, badly needed. Good day. Goodnight.
Julia Justo, New York City, New York

NY Subway Driver, part of my photographic project about the effects of the

pandemic on New York City, seeks to recognize and honor essential workers that
put their lives at risk to make sure our community continues to function.
My Subway Driver
Stephen Young, Providence, Rhode Island

I work as a driver for Meals-on-Wheels and volunteer at my local food bank
The daffodils outside Susan’s senior citizen trailer have tongues, her little dog barks
an alert, and Susan answers the door promptly. I play-act fright at the furious
barking and from behind my mask I say, “I’d hate to see what that dog might do to
me.”
She laughs and says, “Oh yeah I’m sure.”
I hand the meal over and ask, “How are you?”
She says, “More chemo Friday, maybe another operation next month, if this virus
doesn’t doesn’t kill me first.”
I say, “Sorry, that sounds difficult.”
She says, “I’m tired.”
I can see that she is, and a hollow feeling whistles through me. I suppose it’s a small
kindness to listen and let her hurt land somewhere, even though it isn’t much, I
know. I wonder who else is a witness beyond her little dog and myself. Then I’m
gone to my next delivery.

Journal entries May 7 and May 28
May 7

A phone conversation with Mom, who’s 101 this month and locked down in her
room in an assisted living facility in California.

Me (shouting): “Hello, Mom, what have you been up to?”
Mom: “What have YOU been up to?”
Me (shouting): “Not too much!”
Mom: “What?”
Me (yelling): “Not too much! Are you doing anything exciting today?
Mom: “I’m going to change the battery on my hearing aid.”
Me (yelling): “Don’t break it again.”
Mom: “How’s the weather back there?”
Me (hard of hearing myself): “What?”
Mom (shouting): “How’s the weather back there?”
Me (shrieking): “I don’t know. I haven’t looked out the window yet!”
May 28

When my mom, Flora MacKay, turned 100 last year in West Covina, CA,
my three sisters and I hosted two parties that drew a total of about 500 guests.
This May 28, Mom was temporarily let out of her room at the assisted living facility
where she’s been locked down since mid-March so she could watch friends waving
greetings and riding past in decorated cars.
Kamyar Amin, Hindås, Sweden
Art entry March 28

Covid-19 did not affect my daily life in Sweden the way it did the rest of the world.
But I always felt this strong disorder and chaos. This series was my interpretation
after watching the news one day. I used pastel and beads and I used cardboard
because I wanted to be able to peel it off.
Kathleen M. Churchill, St. Germain-en-
Laye, France
Journal entries March 17 – April 4

March 17
H. arrives today. We seal the hallway to his room, ceiling to floor, using duct tape
and thick plastic trash bags. I’m not sure how long he’ll be quarantined in there (M.
just popped her head in to say two weeks).

March 22
Seven days tomorrow since we’ve left the house. All week, police have been
stopping pedestrians and motorists asking to see permission slips we are meant to
carry with us. Yesterday, in balmy spring sunshine they were megaphone shouting
“rentrez chez vous!” Go home!

March 25
We sneak into the forest for walks. Beneath budding trees, as far as you can see,
small white flowers sheltering in dark greenery make a floral carpet, paths winding
through, as if in a fairytale.

March 26
People who have never run, jog down the empty street—they look not yet defeated.

H. doesn’t leave his room. M. calls to him through the plastic. Sometimes he
answers, sometimes he doesn’t. We put out food. Much of our days are spent
worrying about our sons.

March 28
Evening cocktails in the garden. H. climbed out his bedroom window and sat in a
chair under the blossoming chestnut tree while we huddled by the house, talking
with him over the phone.

March 31
Lapis blue skies. Last night strong winds blew open windows, dislodged shutters
banging from their locks.

April 4
From my bedroom I can hear the train going to and from Paris. I wonder who, if
anyone, still rides it.
Merry Benezra, Nova Scotia, Canada

Sheltering in place with my cat Kali under our Provincial State of Emergency since
March 22

I dreamed of thirst, was thirsty overnight but too deeply asleep to do anything about
it. A newspaper article about pandemic drinking mentions the problem of alcohol as
a sleep disruptor, but I am finding it the very opposite. It is like wading into the
Ouse with rocks sewn into one’s sweater pockets—effective. But it occurred to me to
give some thought to my liver, or kidneys, or whatever organ has the difficult job of
cleaning out the toxins. So I will make an effort to drink only one spritzer and refill
with San Pellegrino.
Yesterday I went upstairs to slip an apple cobbler recipe under Adele’s door. There
was an ambulance in front of our building, and EMTs in full pandemic gear. It turned
out that Winnie had fallen, yet when she left on the stretcher she seemed in
marvelously good spirits. The excitement brought Clarissa out into the hallway,
masked; she reported brightly that she has lung cancer, but that it is on, not inside,
her lung, and it is shrinking. Adele came out and we triangulated at two meters
apart to chat, each one holding her corner.
It was cold and drizzly and I too stayed indoors all day, in a funk and not even doing
the 10-loonie apartment jog. Some of the trees are generating ragged green buds.
Soon, or within a week or two, they should come into full leaf. Rain, here, is the
magician that pulls summer out of its hat. I cannot wait.
Eric Forsbergh, Reston, Virginia
Sheltering as much as possible since March 20 while providing dental services for
emergencies only

As a dentist, I am in a high-risk category, because I work literally in the patient’s
mouth. Our office is open for emergencies only. If someone has an oral abscess, we
need to treat them so they don’t overburden the emergency room.

We take all precautions available to us, including personal protective equipment, but
the N95 masks are on back order, and we have none of them. We take temperatures,
and ask if patients have fever or cough.

I worry about the healthy carriers of COVID19, who are shedding the virus. Also,
there will be patients shedding virus who are not yet sick. My face has to be 18
inches from the patient’s mouth. Using the drill, there is an aerosol mist which
spreads to a five-foot radius from the mouth. Contaminated with virus or not, it
settles all over me and my assistant. Our necks are exposed, as are the backs of our
heads.

My wife and I have discussed this. I’m 69. My good health is my best protection, but,
honestly, I expect to get the virus. We can’t get near our two children, each married,
and each with a baby under six months. Including their spouses, I ache to hug all six
of them.

I struggle with the chance of infecting my wife, and have offered to live in the
basement. But she’s decided we’re in this together.
Evelyn Block, Redondo Beach, California

As a retiree, I am unable to go out during the pandemic to help others. I tied masks
onto this statue of seated ladies as my reminder to folks to wear masks and stay
safe. They’ve become a huge attraction as people walk past and remember to wear
their masks. I call them Ladies in Waiting.
Donald Guadagni, Beijing, China, Chaoyang

District
Sheltering in place since January 23
Today I found myself staring at the ground outside my house building, having come
outside to ride my bike to the store to buy food and get a little exercise. Much to my
surprise there was a green glob of sputum freshly spat onto the ground near but not
into a drainage grating. This was a somber reminder to me that the quarantine was
not as effective as the local government had hoped for. Since February, more and
more people were maskless outside the community. I took a photo of the sputum
and when I come back from shopping, I will send the photo and location to Beijing
CDC IDC. We might get locked down, but I would rather report it and be wrong than
not report and be really wrong.
Margot Fedoruk, Gabriola Island, British

Columbia, off of Vancouver Island
Berry Point
April 28
My daughter grips the steering wheel as she drives me the 15 kilometres around
Gabriola Island. This is our daily ritual. She left home at 18 before getting her
driver’s license and now, at 24, since moving back home because of losing her job,
she finally has the time to practice. Today the roads are fairly empty except for the
odd deer grazing in the ditch or a lone cyclist zipping by. At first, Hailey couldn’t
drive with the radio on because it distracted her. Today we listen to the French
station and we agree they have wonderful songs, soulful and mysterious. We usually
end our daily drive by heading to a place islanders call Berry Point. We park and walk
along the road, past eagles and sea lions with their flippers out of the water to
regulate their temperature. Sometimes if there are too many people we decide to
head home. Later Hailey will cook elaborate meals for us until it’s time to watch
Jeopardy at 7:30.
Yesterday, I drove myself to Berry Point and cried, worrying about how I am going to
find work during a pandemic or what the future holds. Still, I want to remain grateful
for this serendipitous time with my daughter.
Samantha Coomber, Ho Chi Minh City,
Vietnam
Under official lockdown from April 1 to April 23
Journal entries April 1 and April 10
April 1
Despite no official COVID-19 deaths, the Vietnamese government announces a two-
week nationwide lockdown campaign starting today, pre-empting any potential
outbreaks. All non-essential businesses and services shut down, gatherings of two-
plus people are banned and everyone is urged to stay at home. As Vietnam’s
borders have already closed—no one can fly in or out—I feel more isolated than
ever.
The evening before, like many Saigonese, I dash to the supermarket for a siege
mentality stock-up. But like elsewhere, things are calm and well organized and there
are mounds of supplies. Almost having a meltdown in the long check-out queues,
locals shoot me empathetic glances over their mandatory face masks.
My annual leave also begins today. With no office camaraderie and living alone, I
don’t talk to anyone for days, sometimes just the apartment security guard (who
doesn’t speak any English). I can still venture out, albeit HCMC’s once vibrant
street-life is now eerily silent and shuttered. And I can exercise; my neighbourhood
canal running track is bustling with joggers—no social distancing here.

April 10
My last day of work and the department is shutting down, effects of the global
pandemic. We hold a subdued farewell lunch in the office before my Vietnamese
colleagues rush back to the countryside. There are no taxis; overladen with my desk
clear-outs, I lurch home on a motorbike variety.
Vivienne Vermes, Paris, France

In lockdown since March 17

I live in the centre of Paris, in the heart of Montparnasse. This is normally one of the
noisiest, most raucous parts of Paris. Now, the only sound I hear is a pigeon cooing.
Walking down to the crossroads between the Boulevard Raspail and the Boulevard du
Montparnasse, I talk to the ghosts of Hemingway, Picasso, Beckett, Scott Fitzgerald.
I stand in front of their cafés, the Rotonde, the Dôme and the Select, and wonder if
they could ever have imagined this crossroads silent, deserted, the café chairs their
wicker backs stacked clumsily against the windows, like the beige scales of some
unruly reptile.
Later, back in my flat, the spring daylight fades into dusk. I open the window. The
dark, impassive façades of the buildings opposite look like so many empty faces.
Then I hear it. Faint at first. Someone out there is clapping. The applause grows.
People are bashing saucepans, clashing together spoons, or lids, or colanders, and
clapping and cheering and whistling. This cacophony goes beyond the quartier, I can
hear it in waves across the city.
Then comes the peal of bells from Notre Dame, the first time in a year, since the
terrible fire. The bells merge with the applause. Gratitude for the heroes. I think of
John Donne: “No man is an island, entire of itself . . . therefore never send to know
for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.”
Kathy Bruce, Liverpool, England

Self-isolating with relatives since March 14
Art entry April 25

I am a US artist traveling in the UK, and on March 14 I suddenly found myself self-
isolating with relatives in a suburb of Liverpool.

These collages, Unknown Despair and Invisible Boundaries, are about the isolation,
fear and distancing we are all living with as the result of this pandemic.
Unknown Despair. Collage.

Invisible Boundaries. Collage.
Virginia Brackett, Kansas City, Missouri


In the middle of this stinking self-quarantine, in the middle of sacrifice of the
normal, my mind betrays me. Images slide into my consciousness from time to time
as I sit distracted, wanting to think about the day ahead, but instead thinking of my
past. On a sunny afternoon—I’m about 9 years old—I walk into my best friend’s
house. Her mother’s doing something with her younger sister. Her father sits facing
the television. Momentarily sun blind, I try to identify the object beside his chair. It
looked like a leg, but how could it be standing there on its own? I’m confused. I’d
likely heard the term “prosthesis,” as in the 1950s veterans were still on the nation’s
mind, but I’d never encountered one. I wait a moment—now I see the leg standing of
its own will, as well as the shortened natural limb belonging to my friend’s father.
Did she tell me he’d lost a leg to war? I don’t know. My parents’ generation knew
sacrifice well—my own father was killed by a sniper in Korea when I was eight
months old. Maybe I see that image on this day to remind me that what I suffer now,
temporary separation from loved ones and social life—boredom, fear, restlessness—
is hardly a sacrifice at all.
Judy Bolton-Fasman, Newton,

Massachusetts

With my 85-year-old mother a patient at a local nursing home, this New York Times
headline haunts me: “‘They’re Death Pits’: Virus Claims at Least 7,000 Lives in U.S.
Nursing Homes.” And now my mother has tested positive for the virus.
I see her twice a week via 30-minute Zoom calls. So far, she’s asymptomatic, but
she is very confused. Why hasn’t she seen me in years, she’ll ask. The squares that
her children and their families populate on the iPad screen disorient her. Where are
we? Who is speaking? It’s both comforting and agitating for her to see our pixelated
images floating from who knows where.
Each time we Zoom, a staff person, in full coronavirus attire, is by her side. (“We
metaphorically, and physically, ‘suit up’ and battle COVID-19 for 24 hours a day,”
said a recent dispatch from the home to families). Margo, a physical therapist now
deployed to help coronavirus patients, guides my mother during the call. “This is
your daughter, Judy,” she patiently points out. “Your granddaughter, Anna, is
speaking to you.” My mother nods. Later on the telephone she will ask me to remind
her of my sister’s name. “Carol,” I answer tearing up. “So many people in our family,”
she says, bewildered.
Suze Pringle-Cohan, Sebastopol, California


This time of Sheltering In Place has seen a huge shift in our 44-year marriage.
A few weeks ago, on a balmy night, we wandered outside and lay down on our
chaise lounges just expecting a quick rest to digest. As we lay quietly, suddenly it
was as if we had entered an aviary of birdsong. Neither of us spoke as we dropped
deeper and deeper into this, being bathed in the song of dusk, the birds chirping
and twittering returning to their nests for sleep, the soft breeze high in the tops of
the redwoods, hummingbirds zinging by. Time seemed to stop and we didn’t speak
as we went even deeper. It was as if we could feel the earth slowly turn and sensed
all of humanity holding on. I have no idea how long we were there, but
simultaneously we both sat up, looked at each other and sighed.

My husband is a pragmatist and not drawn to meditation or prayer, but the
following evening, after supper, he looked at me and asked “Wanna go to birdsong
tonight?” We both laughed so hard. We now call it Birdsong Bathing and go there
often.
John D. Thompson, Pella, Iowa
Sheltering in place alone since Monday, March 16

Finally, I found out what PPE means! I’ve been listening to Coronavirus reports since
Leap Year Day. I bet I’ve heard “PPE” said a thousand times and then some but never
could spread that acronym out: Personal Protective Equipment! Of course! “PPE” at 3
syllables is much shorter than “Personal Protective Equipment” at 9! It seems the
Coronovirus syndrome has found its way to the world of acronyms. Just ask the CDC
or WHO.
FYI, “ACH” is for “air changes per hour.” “ARI” abbreviates “acute respiratory
infection.” “ASTM” unveils the “American Society for Testing and Materials” (now
gone international).
Being “AC” myself (acronym challenged), I’m finding myself OOB (out of breath) to
keep up with all these media airborne acronyms for Co-Vid . . . there’s another one.
And, for God’s sakes, what does the “N” stand for in N95 masks? “N”obody has one .
. . or “N”early 95 masks available at this time?
I vow to learn at least 1 new CVA (coronavirus acronym) per day, starting today.
Let’s start with “HEPA” shall we? Any guesses! “HEPA” stands for “high efficiency
particulate air.” Now, that sounds good to me . . . especially the “high efficiency”
part. At first, I thought HEPA meant “Help Each Person Always.”
Speaking of HEPA, we are in a HEPA trouble if we don’t acquire quicker testing,

combative antidotes, and a vaccine in the VNF (very near future).
Sousan Sha ghi, Tehran, Iran

Sheltering in place since February 23

Translated from Farsi by her daughter . . . “I tried to stay very truthful to her
original. It’s more lyrical in Persian. It feels very plain in English.”

I had the strangest dream. I dreamed that it was morning and I woke up, there was
nobody in the world but me, and all the wealth in the world belonged to me. Then I
thought, Oh well, what should I wear now? Which jewelry and accessories should I
put on? What kind of a car should I ride? Which house makes me happiest?

I had all the possessions one can ask or dream of. But there was not any sense of
happiness, no feelings at all. Only a peculiar feeling of emptiness. There wasn’t
anybody to share my happiness, or anything else for that matter. And all of a
sudden I wanted to lose everything that I owned in my dream to be with someone
else.
My dream showed me that together people are everything, and we’re nothing
without each other. I didn’t feel this strong connection before Corona.
Uday Dhar, New York City

Sheltering at home for 2 months
Journal entry May 7

This time has allowed me to dig up old sketches and add color.
I started these drawings at the end of 2019, but have reworked and completed them
in the past month in isolation at home.

As an immigrant to the United States, questions about belonging and pride that I
feel for this country are always present. What I want to explore in my work is how
can something that is familiar be transformed to create new readings. The drawings
take the structure of the US flag as a foundation. New marks create a new structure.
A whole that incorporates the parts. A way of thought that embraces diversity and
difference.
Fireaters Boogaboo
Fireaters Promise
Mary Ellen Talley, Seattle, Washington


When I opened up ZOOM for our language lesson and to read a story with Aubrey
Kate, I asked her if she had a special online Kindergarten meeting with her class
today, since she was wearing her sleeveless taffeta dress with the overlapping pastel
circles. She answered, “No Grandma, I just wanted to dress up. It’s nothing serious.”
Kathleen Klassen, Ottawa, Ontario

I have been in relative isolation for many years as a result of a significant head
injury and sheltering in place with two teenage boys since mid-March.
I have seen memes suggesting that pandemics are no time to text your ex. (No time
to shower, wash your hair or dress up in a ball gown either, but that hasn’t stopped
anyone, amarite?) When it appeared things might be shutting down quickly a week
and a half ago, I did just that—not the ball gown part, but pink boa and sparkly blue
stilettos. And I called my ex. He was very grateful for my concern and as a result of
the open dialogue I asked if he could help us out. (I was quite beside myself with
thoughts of full-time single-parenting AND the zombie apocalypse. I can do one or
the other—don’t think I could manage both.) With unexplained coughing in the
house, I had to avoid grocery stores. I also thought I might look odd shopping in
stilettos. He willingly agreed and delivered groceries the next day.

He texted a few days later to see if we “needed anything.” I wondered what kind of
madness this was (we don’t talk or text) and then remembered it was pandemic days
so anything was possible! Yes, we need things! We need so many things I can’t keep
my head on straight—puffers and nose spray and a restart on life and most of all
frozen pizza!

When he showed up again with bagsful of groceries, I was wearing my holey,
unwashed sweats, a much more accurate depiction of my state.
Claudia Laroye, British Columbia, Canada

Self-isolating at home without a formal order
Air Canada announces that its last cross-border flights to the United States will be
March 31st, with a moratorium on flights for the month of April. I call Nicolas with
this news so he’s aware of what his options now are. We both cry. It is so hard to
have him so far away in New York City, in the American hot zone epicenter of the
virus. But he’s going to stay with Layla. I tell him we can always ask Layla’s dad to
drive him to the border where my brother Marco could pick him up. But it’s a bit of
black humor.

This is so difficult and I’m fearful for him. I hope his youth, health and strength will
be enough.

On the brighter side, cousin Sean invites us to participate in his squat challenge.
Our age plus one each day. Nonna knocks it out of the park and does 80. It is a
great idea to keep fit as our gym has been closed for almost two weeks and squats
are easy to do at home. Though certainly not easy to do.
Victoria Lynn Smith, Superior, Wisconsin

Sheltering at home since March 18
Journal entry May 8
Only two daffodils bloomed, but the tulips showed great hope. Yesterday I counted
nine tulip buds that were ready to burst open in red. This morning I walked to the
back garden and found one red tulip with its petals fully opened to the sun. It
caught my eye with its vibrant red. I looked at the other buds to see how close to
blooming they were. Gone. All. Gone. Sheared off by some animal’s guillotine teeth.
Probably some overly cute bunny. This has happened in past years, and this year we
have lots and lots of bunnies in the neighborhood, so I wasn’t surprised to see my
tulips decimated. What’s different is that I wanted to have a good, wailing cry. But I
stuffed my tears because if I started, I wondered if I’d stop.
The Last Tulip
Adrienne Pilon, North Carolina

Sheltering in place long before the order, due to possible Covid-19 exposure
The days roll on and it all feels like waiting.
Things have slowed down for us, all four together again in the house. We cook, we
linger together in the evening when the forest green behind the house turns to
black. We wait on the back deck for the foxes to emerge. They are beautiful, with
their pencil bodies and brush tails, slipping like smoke through the fence, stealing
figs off the tree before they can ripen. They are determined and brave and cavalier
and cautious all at once and I admire this, and think, “be as a fox,” because I don’t
always know how to be in this place where we have landed, this world, this
pandemic. Or how to be for my family, my grown children with their interrupted
lives. The foxes look up at us every so often, their masked faces not afraid, but
careful. Not scared, but curious. We are still as we watch them. They will come out
again the next evening and the next, and the next, I hope. So we wait. “Be as a fox,”
I tell myself.
Charlie Becker, West Hollywood, California
It’s strange how I feel like I’ve been through this before. I wonder if anyone else
feels this way. Maybe that’s why I’m extra sad today. Back in 1982, when so many
healthy gay young men started to pass away without warning, we all just held our
breaths. Why was this happening to us? Doctors first named it “GRID”. Every minute
we looked for symptoms that might haunt us, like purple skin lesions or horrible
night sweats. We lived in fear of each other but needed each other more than ever.
We went to Louise Hay meetings for love and support. Even when the HIV test was
developed there was still no treatment. Who wanted to know he had a strange new
virus if there was no therapy? I didn’t. I was afraid to have the test for years. My
friends and I became celibate and avoided others who looked sick. Was it an
epidemic or pandemic? I remember this went on for years until effective meds were
created. But no vaccine has ever been developed. It sure sounds familiar to me
today, all of this news about the coronavirus. But this time everyone is affected. We
are all quarantined and living in fear. Will my experience make me stronger? Will
there be a cure? A vaccine?
Veronica Scharf Garcia, Bergamo, Italy

Sheltering in place since February 28
We arrived in Italy when there were just 4 cases in the whole country, but very
quickly our region Bergamo, became the epicenter of Europe. We are U.S. citizens
who love Europe and are currently traveling in Europe for the last two years, living
out of a suitcase.
I. Bergamo. Gouache on paper.
Lara O’Brien, Dublin, Ireland

Time passes easily, carefree and relaxed . . . if you don’t think about death or
finances.
Nature has her volume turned up so high, or is it that we humans have ours turned
so low? Now that the golfers are gone, walking on the golf course in bare feet is a
once in a lifetime luxury. There is a meme that shows Ireland in winter, summer and
autumn, grey, dreary and rainy, and then Ireland in Covid and the sun is shining
intensely.
We are all in lock-down and Mother Nature is running riot, naked and hot.
I try not to post pictures of the mountain and the cliffs, as the gorse is in full bloom
along with the wild flowers, and looks much too beautiful, while just a few miles
away the highrise apartments are caging people who can’t walk anywhere beautiful
within their 2km limit, at all. I never looked at the beauty of Howth as inaccessible,
only free for all, but now . . . well, I say my gratitudes in whispers.
Michael Romary, Ada, Ohio
Sheltering in place since March 7 with an immune system problem coupled with
post polio
When the pandemic started and Ohio began its shelter-in-place the PBS radio
station out of Toledo played “The Star Spangled Banner” around midnight one
evening. For the first time since the inauguration in ’17 I felt a sense of unity as a
country, even a rallying of belonging. A couple of weeks later, as the count of those
who were dying began to be tallied, they played the “On the Transmigration of
Souls” by John Adams.
That is what it is. We are watching souls unknown to us at this time, watching them
leave us. And some still don’t understand that self is made of many, not just the
inside of the membrane of one’s skin.
Judith Beth Cohen, Weymouth,

Massachusetts
I regularly walk in the 17th century cemetery near my home. We’re cautioned to stay
inside, especially people like myself—over seventy—and I rarely see more than one
or two people here with their dogs. On a chilly day, I walk among the graves of New
England colonial settlers and their descendants, four hundred years’ worth of
bodies.
As I wandered past the familiar tombs I thought about another epidemic: “The Great
Throat Distemper” of 1751. Though only about 100 died, that was nearly 10% of the
entire town population. Those folks would have remembered that The Black Death
had killed 1/3 of the European population in 1349, but do comparisons matter if it’s
your loved one who is suffering?
The Great Throat Distemper caused a cough and throat so thick with mucus that
breathing became difficult and many children choked to death. The Reverend
Cotton, buried here, berated his parishioners for showing “no correction” despite
their losses. By May 1752, the pandemic had subsided, but with so many deaths the
colonists needed two new cemeteries. That throat distemper was diphtheria,
unknown at the time and until 1923 there was no vaccine. Absent from here are the
natives’ bodies. For thousands of years they’d lived on this land until more died of
European diseases than from any epidemic.
Catherine Young, Richland County,

Wisconsin
Our last child is finishing her senior year of high school, and we spend each day on a
tight online school schedule while we catch up on farm chores without distractions.
My situation is quite different from people working in public. I’ve lived for decades
with immune-compromising disability and only leave home with mask and protective
behaviors—which, oddly, in the time of Covid19, everyone else is learning to do. I
miss connecting with my rural neighbors who do not use the internet, and I long for
ways to write with others online. I wish for everyone to use this time wisely to
discover what we can do better.
When I see news of shouts and guns and threats from crowds incited overnight,
wanting everything as it was—wanting answers—I cannot understand that they would
let go these peaceful times, these blessed times, where skies clearly open to stars
free of haze, and stars begin to see us most clearly. Maybe on this day, no plastic will
be fashioned, no plastic destined for ocean. Maybe there will be no traffic jam.
Maybe we will take time, this pause, pregnant with spring.
Patrick Hansel, Minneapolis, Minnesota

I’ve gone from putting on a mask to go outside to putting on a mask when I get up.
I’ve gone from wearing gloves to the supermarket to wearing gloves to the bathroom.
I’ve come in close contact with a confirmed case of COVID-19.
Lots of “C’s” Come. Close. Contact. Confirmed. Case. COVID.
Maybe I shouldn’t have gone on Monday to bring Communion to Charlie (more C’s).
His last communion. I took precautions. Never took off my mask. Wore double
gloves. When I got home, I took all my clothes off on the porch—except my
underwear—put them in a bag. No one saw me, I think. I took a long shower.
Tuesday: Charlie died. Wednesday, his wife and children tested positive. Thursday:
my doctor tells me to isolate at home for 14 days, keep contact with those in the
house to a minimum.
I can’t kiss my wife. I can’t hug our daughter when she comes home from a night of
restocking groceries. My beard itches from wearing a mask all the time. My hands are
dry as toast. When I go to our only bathroom, I disinfect the hard surfaces, but I
wonder: can coronavirus live on toilet paper?
I don’t have symptoms. I feel OK, but I really miss human contact. It’s been four days
now, and I have ten more to go. If I had to grade myself on how well I’m doing, I’d
give myself a C. That will have to do.
Lee Hammerschmidt, Oregon

Pencil and watercolor on watercolor paper.

My partner has a PhD in public health and in the beginning of the pandemic when
she delivered the first of many dire prophecies that proved correct, I mocked her as
Dr. Debbie the Doomsayer. Teasing being a two-way street, knowing I can’t get a
haircut from the shuttered shop down the road, she now calls me Bozo the Clown.
A few days ago, I binge-watched “Naked and Afraid” episodes until midnight. Debbie
ridicules my interest in the show, but if worse comes to worst, I can start a fire with a
few sticks and a shoelace, set up a deadfall trap, and barbecue one of the squirrels
who snatch seeds from our squirrel-proof bird feeder.
Debbie hasn’t allowed me to go any farther than the dumpster and the mailbox. I
decided I needed the vitamin D of sunlight and the endorphins of exercise, so I
stepped onto the patio and flung handfuls of deer corn toward the forest. At 74, my
passing arm isn’t what it used to be.
My 100-year-old mom—a flaming extrovert—is still locked down in her room at an

assisted living facility in California. She misses bus trips to the Indian casino and
playing cards with her poker buddies. Her gambling urge was temporarily satisfied
when residents sat apart outside their doors to play hallway bingo.
Xavier Queipo, Brussels, Belgium

It was on that day the desert invaded the town, or the town became a desert. No
people, no traffic, no places to hang around. Trapped in their own labyrinths of
passions, thousands of people in their homes became Minotaurs dreaming about the
end of this nightmare, dreaming of having something to celebrate, of finding the way
out of the maze and coming into daylight.
As all of them, I am right here in my maze. I get entangled in dreams that contain
other dreams. I stretch. How surprising it is to be alive!
Gills appear in my throat. Rows of scales emerge in my armpits. My pelvis is twisted

as a glove. The central anus. Concealed and cold sexual organs. Thorns emerging
from the back tear my flesh with the poison of paralysis. I move forward by leaps.
Membranes between the legs. The sea’s fragrance floods my chest. Nostalgia for the
seaweed, the coral reefs. For the waves and the tritons.
I am at sea. Thorny fins. Membranes between the feet. I advance diving. My heart
beats differently. It is so difficult to live in a solid world! Everything is so strange!
The desert occupied the town and I am here in my maze, dreaming about the sea,
unravelling the gelatin of the days.
Juliet Wilson, Edinburgh, Scotland

March 26: Shops and businesses in the centre of Edinburgh have been boarded up,
expecting civil unrest any day now. Lots of people across the country opened their
windows at 8 pm to applaud NHS staff. Surely it would be better for us as a country
to pay them better and ensure they get the protective equipment they need?

March 27: I can entirely see the need for social distancing to defeat the virus, but it
does feel ever more like some practice run for fascism.

April 1: The only April Fool’s joke this year was a soap company advertising a
cabbage and compost scented soap to aid social distancing. Decided it’s finally time
to embrace contactless payments as it offers a definite reduction in risk of infection
from keypads. The way we need to think these days . . .
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This is a COVID-motivated, mixed-media triptych. The left image depicts the

Laura Culberg, Seattle, Washington

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Ellen K. Reichman, Kirkland, Washington

Karen Egee, Brunswick, Maine

We are lucky, our little family, lucky for now at least.

Gabrielle Trumbly, a videographer and Jennifer Paulson drive from Portland to

Miriam Karmel, Minneapolis, Minnesota

Elaine Nussbaum, Scappoose, Oregon

David Etheridge, Phnom Penh, Cambodia

George Bandy, Alexandria, Virginia

Woke up with a dream of me laughing.

Why, I do not know.

Amy Louise Rubin, Baltimore, Maryland

May 27: I bloom to survive. Escape into my garden. Hug my universe.

Nesta Hatendi, divides her time between

Johnny Stone, Raleigh, North Carolina

Journal entry May 31

Ilene Millman, Hillsborough, New Jersey

Isabel Learza, Baltimore, Maryland

The Big Deep Sea: Waterfall

All Things Rainbow

Kurt Schmidt, Fitzwilliam, New Hampshire

“Why did they do it?” he asked.

On watching a TV commentary about the threat from chemical and biological

“Why do the terrorists hate America?”

Suzanne Iuppa, Aberdy , Snowdonia

David Etheridge, Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Last night’s gecko droppings are on the desk—she eats dengue-infected

The weirdness gets old. I saw my ophthalmologist, Dr. Haines, yesterday. He

Rich Bates, Columbus, Ohio

We are bored. I am growing weary of my own company. We are getting punchy. We

Patricia McTiernan, Arlington,

Susan Milord, Rome, Italy

Lori Drawl, Cortland, Ohio

I decided to try to paint portraits while self-isolating. These are two of my

Bryce at Bryce Canyon.

Diane Kendig, Canton, Ohio

Reading Lesley Wheeler’s poem “Energize”:

Marilyn Palasky, Summerlin, Nevada

July 19, 2020

Julia Spring, Manhattan, New York

David Rock, Rexburg, Indiana

Mary Fontaine, Dahab, Egypt

David Kopelke, Queensland, Australia

The main resurgence of COVID-19 is in Melbourne. This is about 30 hours by road

Dian Seidel, Chevy Chase, Maryland

Ellen Reichman, Kirkland, Washington

My older grandson wrote us a letter. In the mail. He said he wished he could

Johan Fremling, Uppsala, Sweden

Barbara Kivowitz, San Francisco, California

Judith Krummeck, Baltimore, Maryland;

Nicoletta LaMarca Sacco, Roscoe, New

Sarah Merrow, Baltimore, Maryland

Darwin Curtis, Potomac, Maryland

Rim Chon, New York City, New York

Debby Kaspari, Norman, Oklahoma