A poem a day keeps the nighttime devils at bay

Every night before sleep, I call up the Poetry Foundation page and read the poem of the day. It's an eclectic mix, featuring classical bards and contemporary voices. In the last week, I've read work by Grace Paley, Naomi Shihab Nye, and Amy Lowell. Lowell's "Lilacs" was featured the other night. I read it twice, not to make me tired but to fix the look and scent of lilacs in my mind so my dreams are more lilacs and less horror story. 

Dream experts say that we can do this, fashion our dreams before sleep. I'm only partially successful at this. Maybe it's a holdover from the bedtime prayer that my parents taught me. Here it is:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

If I should die before I wake

I pray the Lord my soul to take

The key element is "if I should die." This is not a comforting thought for a six-year-old. I say my prayer and settle in for a quiet night of hellfire and brimstone. It lingers there among the more positive terms such as sleep and soul and Lord. My late brother Dan often complained about his insomnia. I never thought to bring up the horrible prayer that we recited every night. The current version of the same prayer goes like this:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

May angels watch me through the night

And wake me with the morning light

Much more comforting to have angels watch me in the night. Most angels then were beautiful winged creatures bathed in heavenly light. So preferable to horned devils rising from the fiery pit. Our choice was clear: angel or devil. If we chose devilish behavior, we could confess the transgression in confession, say a bunch of prayers, and start over again. That was the wonderful thing about the American Catholicism of my youth -- a promise of better days ahead. If I disobeyed my parents or conjured unclean thoughts, I could spill it to the priest, a shadowy figure behind an obscuring curtain, the kind CNN reporters use when interviewing whistle-blowers or mobsters. Once released, I could say my penance and flee to play baseball with my friends or to sin again -- my choice. 

Lowell's "Lilacs" is a beautiful poem, one that the nuns may have made me read, although Sister Theresa was more likely to assign us rhyming couplets. A description of "Lilacs" called it a patriotic poem. Lowell was a Boston Brahmin, a New Englander to the core and related to Harvard presidents and famous scientists. She may have had to say the same bedtime prayer as I did. That prayer comes from The New England Primer, the first reading text in the American colonies. It was published by printer Benjamin Harris who so hated and feared Catholics that he fled to the Americas during the brief reign of James II. Quoted on Wikipedia, New Hampshire senator and former college English prof  David H. Watters says that the primer was "built on rote memorization, the Puritans' distrust of uncontrolled speech, and their preoccupation with childhood depravity." No wonder it's still sold online as a text for Evangelical homeschoolers. The primer was based on The Protestant Tutor and taught Puritan children their ABCs: 

In Adam's fall/We sinned all (with drawing of Eve being tempted by big snake and then, presumably, tempting Adam)

My Book and Heart/Shall never part (with drawing of Bible with heart on cover)

Job feels the rod/And blesses God (with drawing of Job plagued by boils and pustules)

My parents were diehard Catholics born in the 1920s teaching their 20th-century children a 17th-century Puritan prayer. This 21st century lapsed Catholic enjoys the irony. Meanwhile, I'll skip the praying and keep reading Heid E. Erdrich, Abigail Chabitnoy, Marilyn Chin, W.B. Yeats, Yusef Komunyakaa and many others. 

Now I lay me down to sleep...

When your hope shrinks, do a small thing to let the sunshine in

I tried to write a piece about the massacre of 10 innocents at the King Soopers in Boulder. Few subjects make me speechless but mass shootings are one of them. Archivists in 2121 may come across articles about massacres of civilians in the U.S. and thank their lucky stars that sensible gun laws finally were enacted in 20__ and that we would never see headlines like this again. That's as hopeful as I can be, that someday the U.S. will lose its cruel streak and the NRA will be bankrupt and all of our gun nuts will die from natural causes. There's hope in that. I liked these lines from a Naomi Shihab Nye poem I came across on the Poetry Foundation web site: 

When your hope shrinks 

you might feel the hope of 

someone far away lifting you up.

I'll write about the hope of small things. 

I bought a small grow-kit from Amazon. Nothing fancy. Just a metal tray, soil, and three seed packets. The chives and Florence fennel sprouted and are on their way to summer salads and desserts. I stuck some basil seeds in with my pot of Thai basil and still waiting for those. I planted chive seeds from hometownseeds.com but got nothing. I’m going to plant again today in a new pot and see if they do better. I like chives and you can put it in all sorts of dishes. But I can’t get it to grow. Best thing to do is buy some chives that already are far along and try not to kill them.

My herbs have taken over the end of the dining room table up against a south-facing kitchen window. The table is Formica laminate and is a remnant of 1950s kitchens. It’s in the mid-century modern (Mid-Mod) school of furniture. We had tables just like it when I was growing up. A perfect match for mac and cheese and meatloaf. I look at the table and see my mother and all of the many Susie Homemaker mothers of the era. My mom also was Anna the Nurse and knew when and when not to patch up our many wounds. When I was 7, our exchanges went something like this:

Me: Mom, I’m hurt! 

Mom: Are you bleeding?

Me: No but… 

Mom (kisses my head): Go outside and play – you’ll be all right.

Sometimes I was bleeding. She applied Mercurochrome to the wound and sent me outside to play. Writing about “Mercurochrome Memories” in ScienceBlogs, dblum writes that the bright-red antiseptic is a mercury derivative of a red dye discovered in 1889. The antiseptic version was developed 20 years later by researchers at Johns Hopkins, source of many of our magic potions and miracle meds. The FDA declared mercury a neurotoxin and it’s no longer made in the U.S. But never fear:

Science tells us that if once you were painted with Mercurochrome, your body has probably stored at least a trace for you. Nothing apparently too dangerous, just a reminder of your chemical past.

My chemical past. As a Downwinder from Colorado and Washington state, I already have some bomb-blast radiation in my body. And traces of lead paint – can’t forget that. I also have mercury in my dental fillings. And then there’s DDT. Damn, if I had known all this, I wouldn’t have lived to be 70 and (I hope) much longer.

I gave up ground gardening a few years ago when a spinal injury prevented bending and stooping. I grow my veggies in containers now. I’ve been successful although gardening at 6,200 feet in a semi-arid region continues to be a work in progress. My seedlings don’t go outside until mid-May. Most insects aren’t a problem but hail and wind and drought are. I keep growing things because it brings joy and I like the challenge of the cherry tomato harvest in August. You can get good ones at the store or farmer’s market. But I like to pick and eat them when they are still warm from the sun. It’s like eating sunshine. We all could use more of the simple act of nurturing a small thing to "let the sunshine in..."

Snowbound and Covidbound all in the same week

We received 31 or 36 inches of snow in our weekend blizzard, depending on who's doing the reporting. Anything more than 30 inches is a lot so I won't quibble. What I can say is that I haven't been out of my house since last Friday when I ran a couple of errands on a cloudy day with all the weatherpeople saying that you bastards are really in for it with this Snowmageddon. Pshaw, said I. But they were right. 

Our governor announced on March 12 that most Covid restrictions will expire on March 16. On that day, residents from Cheyenne to Casper were practicing weather-enforced social distancing. Cheyenne doctors and nurses were shuttled to work on a snowmobile belonging to a 17-year-old high school student. You can still get around our neighborhood on snowmobile.

By the time the snow abated on Monday, I could not open our front door. Snow on the porch was piled at least two feet of hard-packed snow. A winter snow is usually what they call "champagne powder" at Jackson Hole Ski Resort. It's light and airy enough to blow into a ground blizzard when the wind blows. When stacked up, it's great to ski in. You can glide and carve into it, blowing up white clouds as you make your way downhill. 

Snowmageddon snow is like concrete. I say "is" because it's almost a week later and our neighborhood is a snowscape. A plow made its first appearance yesterday afternoon. It made one pass down the street and then was gone. It created a path wide enough for one vehicle flanked by four-foot walls of snow. The mounds block our driveways so we're still stuck. Not sure what comes next. Melting is going to take a long time. Our food is running out. We are going stir crazy. 

In days gone by, I would have been out there with the shovel as I was in so many other storms. After the Christmas Eve Blizzard of 1982 in Denver, I was outside with my shovel on Christmas Day, shoveling my walks and those of my neighbors in City Park South. Chris and I lived on the top floor of a 100-year-old two-story house. We shared it with a lesbian couple who were our son's first babysitters three years later. We sometimes barbecued together on the tiny front porch. I never knew our neighbors in the basement apartment. 

Our landlord was the one-man Danish counsel for Colorado who owned a tie store downtown. His lavish City Park home had a security gate and was surrounded with cameras just in case the Swedes decided to invade. We sometimes drove over to pay our rent just to see how the other half lived. We wondered how working for Denmark in a remote outpost and selling ties led to such opulence. We imagined that a tie shop on a side street might be a perfect cover for a drug dealer or arms smuggler. We wondered what they made in Denmark that might find a black market in Denver. Cheese danishes? Fjord photos? Reindeer antlers? We didn't know much about Denmark.

So here it is Thursday and maybe I will get out of my driveway and maybe I won't. I haven't shoveled snow since my heart attack in 2013. I rely on a walker (a.k.a. personal mobility device) now. It's possible there exists a walker equipped with a snow blower but I haven't yet looked that up on Amazon. Even if I get in my car and get out of my driveway, I'm not sure about the condition in the rest of my neighborhood. I'm really stuck if I get stuck. 

Our neighbor Mike sent over a couple of teens to clear our walks. They did a good job and we paid them $20. We wanted to make way for the mail delivery person but we haven't got any mail since Saturday. I've been missing those fliers for vinyl windows and life insurance. I might have received a St. Patrick's Day card or two but won't find out for a couple more days. Over the years, I have seen USPS vehicles chained up and struggling through the snow. But chains won't help them get through big drifts of concrete snow.

Daughter Annie has been staying with us during spring break. She has many assignments due next week so we don't see much of her. She ordered a grocery delivery yesterday but didn't tell us. The Instacart person drove up in a massive SUV. She dropped off three 12-packs of Diet Pepsi and packages of toilet paper and paper towels. For edibles, she delivered a family pack of Chips Ahoy cookies, a bag of Cadbury mini-eggs, and a carton of eggs. We quizzed Annie about why she had paid a person to collect Cadbury mini-eggs and Diet Pepsi and drive these crucial, life-giving items through snow clogged streets to our house. We wondered why she hadn't asked us if we needed anything from the store such as bread or peanut butter or soup or spaghetti. You know, necessities for the snowbound.

We're still waiting for an answer.

State Legislature's Judiciary Committee advances pot bill

The state legislature continues its in-person, maskless session at the Capitol Building. As a group, they are a tempting target for criticism because most of them are GOP knuckleheads of the Trump and QAnon variety. If given half a chance, they would storm their own capitol just because they could. Many bill themselves as Libertarians, some even represent the Libertarian Party. That causes some unusual behavior. They voted a marijuana bill out of committee so the entire chamber can get into the fray. Both Dems and Repubs and Tarians have been known to smoke pot. But they too are growing tired of driving all of the way to Fort Collins to stock up on supplies. They also know that Colorado and other legal states are raking in the dough via steep reefer taxes and they think they might want to horn in on the action. Early estimates for a 30 percent pot tax show that the state could get $47 million in income the first year. That could take a chunk out of the current $500-million plus deficit caused by the decline of coal and the energy severance taxes it provides. If toking coal could have the same impact on the budget as it does heating up the atmosphere, the lege would approve its immediate use. 

But the bill has a long way to go before Grandma can get her hands on some Chugwater Kush or North Platte Knockout. But she may be the first one in line at the dispensary. Senior citizens have shown a real yen for pot legalization. Friends who worked on the recent Wyoming medical marijuana campaign said that the age group most eager to sign the petitions were 60-plus. The reasons are obvious. Nostalgia for all of those heady days in their teens and twenties is a part of it. When Colorado legalized weed, pot tourism, especially with Boomers, became a thing in Denver. It may not be as big now as more states have legalized it. But it may.

More importantly, pain relief. Old people such as myself have pains they treat with Aleve, and, in chronic pain situations, opioids. Seniors have traded in their poisonous Percocet prescriptions for a bag of chronic, some mint-flavored gummies, or even six packs of cannabis craft beer. Unlike our twenty-something offspring, we are less likely to get high and into our cars for quests to find the perfect munchies. We are retired and just stocked up on snacks at Albertson's Senior Discount Day on the first Thursday of every month (don't forget those e-coupons). We can settle into our Lift chairs, get high, and ask Alexa to play Dark Side of the Moon over and over and over again. 

The lege might stun us by legalizing marijuana. More than likely, they will defeat the bill and form an interim committee to study hot pot topics: Will legal pot turn our children into liberals? Will it make our athletes kneel for the national anthem? Will it attract hordes of BLM and antifa activists who will invade the capitol and, instead of breaking windows with flags or smearing shit on walls, will get everyone high and try to levitate the building? Important questions that need much mulling over.

La Petite Fadette: the novel by George Sand and the silent movie with Mary Pickford

"La Petite Fadette" is a novel by George Sand published in 1849. I'm reading it now after watching a 1915 silent film, "Fanchon, the Cricket," loosely based on the book. I'm a fan of the silents shown on TCM on Sunday night. In "Fanchon," Mary Pickford plays the lead. She was a darling of Hollywood at the time and in 1919 formed United Artists with D.W. Griffith, Douglas Fairbanks, and Charlie Chaplin. She plays Cricket, named for her small stature and hyperactive nature. Some people in the village consider her a witch because that's how the villagers saw her grandmother. Fadette and her little brother Grasshopper live with her in a tumbledown cottage out in the woods.

The cinematic Fanchon falls in love with the local hottie named Landry and scandal erupts because he is from a "good" family and she is not. Common plot line for many books and films. In the end, romance prevails and the two are married. The end.

As the credits rolled, I noticed that it was based on Sand's book. Wonder what the book is like? Despite my time as an English major, I never read any of Sand's numerous works. She's not really a part of the canon, at least when I was in grad school. Women authors were a few in the 1980s version of the big list. An oversight, as she was a woman author when that was very rare, author of many novels (one of my grad school mentors had the 28-volume English language set in his library). Sand was born Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin and called Aurore by friends and family. She lived the bohemian life in Paris, wore men's clothing, smoked, and had numerous affairs with the literati and some musicians, Chopin, for one. Victor Hugo liked her work. Sand spent time on the barricades during the 1849 revolution. 

No surprise but "La Petite Fadette" is quite different from the Pickford film. In the novel, Fadette is small and describes herself as ugly, obviously no Mary Pickford, although Fadette is not always reliable in describing herself. She is dirty and wears tattered clothes. Still, she exerts a strong presence. Landry protects her during the village's feast day and even dances the bouree with her, which scandalizes the bourgeoisie. I was taken with the character. She's more outspoken than I expected, less a victim than a young woman trying to find her way in the world. Like her grandmother, she is endowed with mysterious healing powers, which she utilizes late in the novel with Landry's twin brother, Sylvinet. 

The prose is a overwrought, keeping with the style of the era. Long passages of dialogue and description. The author inserts her own opinions. She obviously wrote at a brisk pace which left little time for editing. Chapter 20 seemed to go on forever as Fadette and Landry critiqued each other. By that point, I was attached to the main characters and into the story.  

I am a strong advocate of editing and revising. But sometimes we lose some of the sloppy humanity that's a part of all good books. Think about Dickens and Tolstoy. Dickens was paid by the installment as his work appeared serially over weeks and months. Tolstoy, well, if you've read "War and Peace," you are familiar with endless descriptions of formal balls, philosophical discussions, and Napoleon's very, very long siege of Moscow. It also was first published serially in The Russian Messenger. W&P is wordy and unwieldy. Tolstoy didn't even call it a novel, saying that "Anna Karenina" was his first novel. What can I say -- I see it as a novel.  

George Sand wrote 59 novels and 13 plays. The Russians, especially Dostoevsky, were crazy about Sand's work during her lifetime. She's been featured in at least four Hollywood movies. "A Song to Remember" with Merle Oberon as Sand and Cornel Wilde as Chopin. I can't say I'll read more of her books, although not all are available in English. I have read one, which should please my English professors. It pleases me, too. Oh, and I saw the movie.

Art and writing share a sense of mystery

My colleague Sue Sommers in the Studio Wyoming Review group opened up her latest review of an art show with this writer's quote: 

“I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.” —Joan Didion, “Why I Write” (1976, the New York Times Book Review)

This is a theme that I've stressed with student writers over the years. It's a cousin to a quote by Flannery O'Connor: 

“I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say.”

Before I spent a lifetime as a writer, I would have disagreed with these quotes. "I'm good. I know what I think -- it's right here in my head." I wasn't mature enough to understand what Didion and O'Connor were saying. 

The act of writing is a transition. The idea is a bit of ether, an unformed thing in our mind. Writing transforms what is in my head to another thing altogether. Writing, also an act of translation, gives shape to the idea. Sometimes, results surprise us. We also may be frustrated when the results don't seem quite right. 

It's not just the mind at work. It's also heart and soul, bloodstream and gut. The entire human ecosystem gets into the act.

This is what is so hard to explain to student writers. What is this thing that you are trying to tell me? Reach deep. What does it feel like? What does it smell like? Use your senses. 

My daughter Annie was writing a composition paper on sexism. She knew I had taught a lot of college composition classes. I read it, encouraged her to dig deeper. She wasn't really having it as the paper was due to next day. She insisted that she had satisfied the assignment and I couldn't really argue with her. The professor gave her paper a 90 and she was disappointed. I said nothing.

What could I say? I've spent decades in an effort to unravel my thoughts for the printed page/computer screen. I know the tricks of the trade. In the end, I'm not sure exactly what happens to turn the scrap of an idea into a finished story, novel, or blog post. I'm rarely satisfied with the result. But I keep at it because there's no way I can give up the pursuit. It's part of me.

Sue Sommers' review of "Bold Wanderings" at Pinedale's Mystery Print Gallery points out some of the traits and mysteries of creativity, whether you be artist or writer. Read the review for details (link at the top).

Senate Democrats go it alone in passing Biden's stimulus bill

NPR just posted this news. It bears reposting:

The Senate approved President Biden's $1.9 trillion coronavirus relief plan Saturday, securing additional aid for American families, workers and businesses — and a legislative victory for the Biden administration.

After more than 24 hours of debate, the evenly divided Senate voted 50-49 to approve the measure. Republican Sen. Dan Sullivan of Alaska was absent because he was in Alaska for a family funeral.

The package delivers a new round of financial assistance to Americans grappling with the impact of the pandemic, including $1,400 direct payments, an extension of supplemental unemployment benefits and an increase to the child tax credit.

Individuals earning up to $75,000 and couples earning up to $150,000 would receive the full direct payments of $1,400 per person. But those payments would phase out for individuals and couples who make more than $80,000 and $160,000, respectively.

The income cutoff was lowered after moderate Democrats demanded that the latest round of checks target lower-income families.

Federal unemployment benefits would be extended through Sept. 6 at the current rate of $300 per week and the first $10,200 of those benefits would be tax-free for households that earn $150,000 or less.

Read the rest here.

My comment: Rich Republican senators can now go home and tell their constituents how they're always looking out for the little guy. And by the way, why not donate your $1,400 stimulus check to my next election campaign when I will be screwing you over again.

Got 181 likes. Some commenters didn't like what I said. So what?

Both of Wyoming's senators are multimillionaire Republicans, Barrasso and Lummis. They have blasted our lone U.S. rep, Liz Cheney, for voting for Trump's impeachment. 

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It ain't spring yet, but I can see it on the horizon

In normal years, spring is opening up time in Wyoming. Bright morning sun streaks through the windows. We open the windows to let in the fresh breeze. Then we close the windows when the 60 mph gusts blow in. We wave to our neighbors the first time we see them outside since October. I check on the bulbs planted last fall t see if anything is blooming. That often happens with the spring snow, lilies making a show of it by bursting colorful heads through the white blanket.  

Spring 2020 brought a radical change. We closed down just as the weather turned nice. Houses became fortresses against the gathering plague. Schools closed. Jobs disappeared. Events cancelled. As the fatalities rose, we hunkered down. Stores delivered our groceries. Beer could only be bought by stealthy visits to drive-up windows where you almost wanted to whisper your order through your new mask that didn't fit. Our downtown craft distillery stopped bottling vodka and churned out plastic bottles of hand sanitizer. Overnight, Zoom became a thing.

This spring feels different. It won't officially be spring for another 25 days. But we yearn for it. Chris and I got our two Covid shots of vaccines that didn't exist this time last year. I've ordered seeds for sprouting -- I'm already a little late doing that. We are already a week into the Lenten season and it seems like a miracle that the plague is receding. I am blessed to be alive and among the vaccinated and I can pay my bills and buy groceries. I have a roof over my head. I'm retired so my 8-to-5 working days are behind me. 

I thought about all of this last night as I watched "Nomadland" on Hulu. Thousands of my fellow Americans live in vans and small RVs. They crisscross the country looking for a place to land and a place to work. They exist on disability checks and small pensions. Work service jobs when they can get them. Their humanity comes through in a film that features real people and real places. Credit goes to director Chloe Zhou and lead actor Frances McDormand who transforms from Fran to Fern in the film.

Some people opt as a life as a nomad. Others are forced into it due to substance abuse, mental illness, or circumstances beyond their control. It raises big questions about the state of our country. But it merely asks you for empathy which is in short supply after four years of the hate and greed of Trumpism. Not too much to ask. I came away from it with the same feeling I had after watching "The Florida Project." In it, a different kind of nomad moves from cheap motel to cheap motel in Orlando's Disney neighborhood.  The film shows a lot of heart notably in the form of the six-year-old main character.

We haven't yet processed the Time of Trump. If you carried a bleeding heart into the 2016 election, it has been bleeding since. We may be suffering from a type of PTSD, a reaction to four years' worth of daily outrages. Reading good books and watching good movies may help us heal. It may also help us to greet our human comrades with good will when spring opens our doors.

Message to Wyoming senators: Do your job, impeach Trump

An e-mail I sent to Sen. Barrasso this morning. I sent one to Sen. Lummis with slightly different wording:

Dear Sen. Barrasso:

I hope you are paying attention to the Senate proceedings of the Trump impeachment. Did you see the rampaging mob as it beat up Capitol police and carried the Confederate banner into the House of the People? Did you hear them call out for your GOP colleague V.P. Pence? They wanted to punish him for having the temerity to challenge Dear Leader’s tortured fantasies about the election. The mob’s goal was to do harm to people who disagreed with Trump and stymie America’s political process. They only partially succeeded, but people did die and the Capitol was ransacked.

I urge you to vote to impeach Donald Trump. Words and actions have meaning and Trump’s went into feeding a lie that the election was rigged. He sparked the riot and needs to pay the price. If not, he will get away with it and the next demagogue elected to the presidency will be smarter and more ruthless. Next time the mob will come for you.

You have a conscience and can change your mind. The electorate saw it during the votes to certify the election, during the hubbub surrounding Rep. Cheney’s vote for impeachment. You know what to do. You do.

Sincerely,

Michael Shay, Wyoming voter

Wyoming Legislature more interested in whinin' about Biden than in fixing state's budget woes

 The op-ed in Sunday's Wyoming Tribune-Eagle had a lot to say about the State Legislature's priorities during this time of big budget shortfalls. I got through the paywall to read it and you might be able to here.

The sum it up, the authors wondered why the GOP-controlled Lege is spending so much time whining about Biden's proposed energy policies rather than the issue at hand: Wyoming is broke. You would think the budget and revenue-raising would be tops on the agenda. But they are not.

The GOP also is spending a lot of time and energy to censure Rep. Liz Cheney for her vote to impeach Trump for the second time. The Wyoming GOP, still trustworthy Trump cultists, slapped Cheney's hand for doing something about what we all saw on Jan. 6 -- an insurrection to stop the certification of the Electoral College results. Biden won, of course, and on that day in Congress, that vote would be certified. Despite efforts by QAnon and Trump and his MAGA acolytes, any doubt as to the reality of the election would be banished.

You saw what I saw. Rioters wearing camos and carrying Confederate flags, took over the U.S. Capitol Building. They sought out members of Congress they detest and were going to do Gods-knows-what to them (they had weapons and nooses) in the chaos. I didn't believe what I was seeing. I do believe that they were doing Trump's bidding. The man is a power-hungry fascist whose main goals are accumulating wealth and power.

We finally banished him to Mar-a-Lago. And now he's being impeached. Liz Cheney was one of ten Republicans who joined Democrats in the impeachment vote. A courageous move, as events of the past month show. The Trump cult is alive and well. Some even think they can come to D.C. and witness Trump's swearing-in ceremony on March 4. Pathetic.

Meanwhile, the rest of us have work to do. The pandemic ("a hoax," Trump said) still rages, people are out of work, hungry and sometimes homeless. Pres. Biden got right into solutions which the Republicans are doing their best to sabotage. Acting quickly and decisively is crucial. Yes, impeachment will be a distraction but it must be done. The next demagogue elected under the GOP banner may be even more devious and power-mad than Trump.

We need to get involved and stay involved to make sure that doesn't happen. Everyone must vote and make sure that the Wyoming GOP does not chip away at our access to the polls. On my right sidebar are some orgs that are in the fight. I will write more about them in future posts. The Wyoming Legislature site tracks bills under consideration and lists contact info for your legislators. 

Be active, be noisy, be Americans. 

What does it cost to save a life?

I am pleased that WyoFile published my review of Katherine Standefer's nonfiction book, "Lightning Flowers: My Journey to Uncover the Cost of Saving a Life." In it, the author recounts her diagnosis of Long QT Cardiac Syndrome and how the cure can sometimes be as daunting as the ailment.

Standefer walks Planet Earth with an implantable cardioverter defibrillator (ICD). It's a high-tech device about the size of a Zippo lighter (remember those?) that surgeons implant in a cardiac patient's chest. If that person's heart experiences irregular rhythms or stops, it shocks it back to life. As one research center noted: "It is like having paramedics with you at all times." 

Tiny paramedics.

Standefer playfully calls this intricate medical device her "titanium can." When we met online in November, she said, "Welcome, Cyborg." 

Surgeons installed my ICD in July 2013 when I was 62. Read my blogs about it here and here. 

Standefer is at least a generation younger than me. However, her cardiac problem is genetic and is a killer. 

In 2009, she was a 24-year-old college grad living in Jackson. She busily balanced outdoor jaunts, a budding relationship, several jobs, and performing in a local band. In what Standefer calls "the last morning of my first life," she passed out in a parking lot and was rushed to the hospital. After tests, a cardiologist said she had Long QT Syndrome and needed a defibrillator implant. If she didn't get one, she was vulnerable to Sudden Cardiac Death which is as final as it sounds. Problem is, she had no catastrophic health insurance for a procedure that could cost as much as $200,000.

This is when Standefer's saga began. 

“Lightning Flowers” explores two questions, Standefer told an audience during a Nov. 18 Zoom reading co-sponsored by Jackson Hole Writers Conference and Jackson Hole Book Trader. The first is: What happens to a 24-year-old who passes out in a parking lot and tries to access proper medical care? And the second: What does it cost to save a life?

First things first. Wyoming residents without means have few options for procedures like this. She found out that Colorado had an indigent care program for state residents. She made the decision to leave her life in Jackson behind and move back to Colorado so she could get the life-saving operation. She did, but there were complications. Once in recovery, she wondered about the second thing: what is the true cost of modern medicine? Her journey takes her to the California lab that made her device and the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. She traveled to Madagascar and Rwanda. She interviewed miners and the impoverished people who lived with the poisonous byproducts of modern medical engineering. And then it was time to write the book.

The U.S medical establishment does one thing very well: research and development. New life-saving gizmos come online all of the time. I have an ICD and artificial knees. My diabetic wife is equipped with an insulin pump. During the Covid crisis, Moderna and Pfizer and others used new technology to develop a vaccine in record time. I received my first injection two weeks ago. I had a passing thought about all the materials the nurses used at the hospital. Syringes, vials, the medicine itself. Where does it all come from and where will it go? 

"Lightning Flowers" prompted me to ponder this question. Last night, the nightly news reported that people in developing countries are less likely than those in developed countries to get vaccinated against Covid. Some countries are raising holy hell about it and I don't blame them. It doesn't take much imagination to conjure a world war caused by lack of access to a cure for a plague. Countries that have vaccine supplies (looking at you, U.S.) are having a difficult time getting it into people's arms. One-percenters fly to places to get vaccine intended for the 99 percent, as in the recent case where a white couple traveled to the Yukon to get vaccine intended for elderly indigenous people. Capitalism at its worst. 

I am a First Worlder with insurance and access to miracle drugs. Millions of others do not have such an advantage. I aim to find out why and report what I find.

Meanwhile, read Standefer's book to trace her journey of discovery. Order a copy from your local indie store. Click the JH Book Trader link above. 

Wyoming Legislature committee advances bill to punish rooftop solar

I sent this via email to Senators Hutchings and Driskill:

This quote comes from a Jan. 21 WyoFile article:

Supported unanimously by the Senate Corporations, Elections and Political Subdivisions Committee, Senate File 16 -- New Net Metering Systems represents the third time in 18 months legislators have sought to cut the amount paid to customers who generate more solar electricity than they use.

We installed rooftop solar last spring and saw reductions in Black Hills Energy bills in the sunny months but not much difference since last October. It’s a work in progress. I still pay the going rates for natural gas heating and hot water. I also still buy coal- and gas-generated energy to prop up the solar. I buy locally and pay state sales taxes. I’ve lived in Wyoming for 30 years and done my best to make it a better place.

Is SF 16 just another way for the GOP-dominated legislature to smack down the solar power industry?

Wyomingites, especially us retirees, are finding that rooftop solar can save money when household budgets are strained by the pandemic. Why would you want to halt that? We are doing our bit to address global warming. What are you doing?

I advise that you spend more time in planning for the alternative energy future rather than bemoaning the fossil fuel past. 

Do your job. Defeat SF 16! 

Sincerely,

Michael Shay

Covid-19 still rages but health workers making progress with vaccinations

I received my first Covid-19 injection on Jan. 15. I saw a message Wednesday on the MyChart page of the Cheyenne Regional Medical Center. It said that those 70 and over could call a number and make an appointment for the Pfizer vaccine, part one. I called immediately and was surprised to get through the first time as the MyChart message said that lines would be busy and callers should leave a call-back message. I didn't have to.

On a cold Friday afternoon, I joined the queue at the CRMC Health Plaza on 20th Street. Three other oldsters lurked ahead of me but we all got into the inner sanctum quickly. The nurses briskly got us to the injection room. My nurse was close to my age. I handed in my paperwork and she shot me in my right arm, the one I use all of the time. That was the point, as movement is important on cutting down the pain and stiffness that goes with the shot. It must have worked as I had no pain and stiffness the next day although I felt a bit fatigued. That was my only symptom. My follow-up shot is Feb. 12 at the same time, same place.

I felt lucky to get my shot so quickly. When I posted the news on Facebook, I had a number of friends asked how I got an appointment. I gave them the news and the number to call. Not sure if they succeeded. You hear all sorts of stories. Busy phones, long lines, three-hour waits. Florida has had trouble as the Governor ordered shots for everyone 65-and-older, a teeming cohort in the Sunshine State. The vaccination stations were overrun. News got out that you didn't have to be from Florida to get a shot so "vaccine tourism" was born. A few days ago, a state government spokesperson announced that shots from Miami to Pensacola, Tampa to Daytona, were restricted to Floridians. So much for vaccine-based travel.

Chris was able to get her injection at the Laramie County Department of Health. She's a youngster at 64. But she works with children at the YMCA which moved her into the educator category and eligible for round one.

My daughter here in Cheyenne and my son in Tucson await their injections. They're youngsters yet I hope they get on the list sooner than later.

In their weekly Friday Covid report (Week 45), WyoFile wrote that health workers in the state had administered 28,889 first doses but less than 5,000 had received their second doses. That's a start. Wyoming has a population of about 580,000. Many live in rural areas which makes the task even more daunting. The Pfizer vaccine had to be stored at sub-freezing temps. Most hospitals are up to standards but not every town has a hospital or even a healthcare clinic. Many live way out of town and it's winter out there which could make travel by the 65-plus cohort even more challenging. 

We also have a new variant of Covid in the state. From WyoFile: 

Health officials, however, remain concerned about the discovery of the UK variant in the northwest pocket of the state, where case counts are soaring. The variant infected an adult male and early information suggests he was exposed to the virus variant locally, the Department of Health said.

State Health Officer Dr. Alexia Harrist was not surprised by the discovery, she said in a release. 

“However, this strain is more transmissible than previous COVID-19 variants and that is a serious concern,” she said. In fact, Teton County is being gripped by a surge that has prompted health officials to move it into the highest category for COVID-19 risk, “critical. 

Teton County is approximately seven travel hours from Cheyenne, and that's on a good day. Add another hour or two for bad weather. 

Still, Covid has shown an amazing ability to quickly cross the globe. Thousands of miles are no impediment to a virus. Other variants include California, South Africa and Brazil. The U.K. strain is rampaging across its namesake country. Now named B117, it has been found in 50 countries. Experts guess that it could cause a 30-40 percent increase in deaths. 

Johns Hopkins now counts 2,109,758 deaths worldwide and 419,058 in the U.S. Wyoming has recorded 571 deaths. 

So, get your vaccine when you can and always wear a mask. Stay home, if possible. And keep posted on news from the Biden administration. Those folks actually have a plan to coordinate vaccinations across the country.  

The 2017 Women's March gave us hope in the dark and dismal early days of Trump

I feel almost giddy as this week spells the end of Trump in the White House and a new president installed. A new day for Washington, D.C., and America. A new year. Promise is in the air.

On the night of Nov. 3, 2016, all hell broke loose. Hillary Clinton led the results, at least in the beginning. And then came Florida and Pennsylvania and it was all bad news from there. Chris and I left the Democrats' celebration party early. She went to bed. I watched the West Coast returns even though my heart was broken.

I joined a group of millions across the globe in the 2017 Inauguration Day women's marches. We held one in Cheyenne attended by locals aided by protestors from around the state, western Nebraska and northern Colorado. The crowd was estimated by the Cheyenne Police Department as 1,200 but it may have been more as the police are usually conservative in their crowd estimates. It was a big crowd in our Capitol City with a population less than 70,000. Did this old bleeding heart good. Read my recap of the event here. 

We only had a tiny idea of what the next four years would bring. Nature's way of causing us further trauma. It culminated in the Jan. 6, 2021, storming of the U.S. Capitol by by raging Trumpists. Many have been arrested for their attack on the seat of this country's duly-elected legislature. They stormed democracy when they stormed the building. Those filmed images will stay with me forever.

Come on Jan. 20, 2021!

What comes next after the Jan. 6 coup attempt at the U.S. Capitol?

We witnessed a coup attempt Wednesday at the U.S. Capitol Building.

Trump and his goons incited other goons to storm the Capitol and disrupt the approval of electoral college votes. They ended up trashing the place and killing a policeman. The mayhem delayed the counting of the votes until 3 in the morning on Jan. 7.

My daughter watched some of that day's CNN reports with me. She asked questions and I had no answers. 

She left for school and my mind wandered. I had attended two Vietnam War protests in D.C., in 1970 and 1971. D.C. Police were everywhere. At the May Day 1971 protests, promoted as "Days of Rage," President Nixon called in the National Guard and 82nd Airborne. Helicopters filled the air. Buses were lined up in a cordon around the White House. Federal drug enforcement undercover cops tried to blend in with the crowd, ready to bust pot smokers but there were too many of us so they just studied the freaks and took detailed notes.

These were the preparations for a bunch of longhairs. We were angry but unarmed. Would some have rushed the White House or Capitol and trashed those places? Maybe. They were angry about Vietnam. But were we prepared to interfere with a lawful election? Hell no. Many young men were angry when Nixon was elected in 1968 and 1972. We knew that it meant more Vietnam and a continuation, possibly forever, of the military draft. Most of us were there for peaceful protest.

Some Days of Rage protesters disrupted traffic and blocked the employee entrance to the U.S. Justice Department and engaged in various other acts of civil disobedience.

The police and military were more than ready for them. May 3 ended up being the biggest arrest cache ever in D.C. The jails overflowed and officials had to corral the longhairs at RFK Stadium (football season was long over). 

Where were these duly-appointed guardians of our democratic republic on Jan. 6, 2021? Nowhere to be seen. Until later in the day, after the worst was over.

This was an inside job and just the beginning of an old-fashioned coup. Are we ready for the next attack that may come on Jan. 17 or possibly Inauguration Day? 

We better be.

Paranoia strikes deep, into your heart it will creep

Happy New Year.

We are glad to say goodbye to 2020, the Year of the Pandemic. It also was the year that a majority of voters and Electoral College tallies booted Trump from office.

But not soon enough.

He's done plenty of damage to our democratic republic since Nov. 3. Call it a massive temper tantrum or Trump's reveal of his fascist inner self. He always wanted to the Da Boss or Der Fuehrer, as if he could ever be a leader to those of us with a heart and soul. 

Interesting reading in the New Yorker about America's authoritarian tendencies. Adam Gopnick writes in "What we get wrong about America's crisis of democracy." His main point is that authoritarianism is always with us and it behooves all of us to battle it all of the time. 

The default condition of humankind, traced across thousands of years of history, is some sort of autocracy... America itself has never had a particularly settled commitment to democratic, rational government. 

He goes on to talk about demagogues such as Barry Goldwater and Joseph McCarthy. Roy Cohn even rears his ugly head, as he did in "Angels in America." Cohn counseled McCarthy "in all things conspiratorial" and, not surprisingly, was Donald Trump's mentor.

As Steven Stills wrote and Buffalo Springfield sang: 

Paranoia strikes deep, into your heart it will creep. It starts when you're always afraid. Get out of line, the men come and take you away.

You are not paranoid to see an autocrat behind every tree. In the Trump administration, they are political appointees in very important positions. They also are GOPers elected to Congress and, alas, to the Wyoming State Legislature. Although they talk about them a lot, they don't believe in democratic principles. They are always with us, Gopnick says. He notes this:

The temptation of anti-democratic cult politics is forever with us, and so is the work of fending it off.

Damn. Just as we thought that all of our work is done here. Biden is in, Trump is out. Depending on what happens next week in Georgia, Democrats may even control both houses of Congress. Can we now rest on our laurels, as bloated as they may be from 10 months sitting in easy chairs avoiding the plague?

No.

The authoritarian Goldwater said something about eternal vigilance. That's what we have to be -- eternally vigilant. No rest for the weary, those of us whop have been involved in progressive politics most of our lives. We work hard to get Democrats elected and then relax. While we're at play, the bad guys are marshaling their forces, raising money, and forming PACs and think tanks to capture the next election cycle. Scary news this morning: Trump is the GOP front-runner for 2024. He will be merely 78 at election time, the same age President-elect Biden is now. If Trump wins (God forbid) he will be 82 when he gets impeached in 2028, the same age Generalissimo Francisco Franco was when he died in 1975 just in time to be a buzz-phrase on SNL: 

And this just in -- Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead!

After a year such as this one, it's painful to hear that our work is not done but just beginning. We can never let up. Retirees such as me cannot go to Florida and play pickleball all day. We can go to Florida but, the first thing to do after buying up all the sunscreen in Walgreen's is seek out fellow Democrats and get involved. Voting is important but just a tiny piece of this. Work for candidates. Volunteer for good causes. Attend city council meetings and, when necessary, speak up on behalf of accountability. Write biting letters to the editor and use humor when appropriate -- this will make friends among progressives and befuddle authoritarians such as Trump who were born with no sense of humor. 

Democracy is not easy. If it were, everyone would have it.

Some blog posts just don't grow into fully-formed stories -- and that's OK

Time to take stock of the year that was.

I wrote 67 posts this year. Published posts, that is. I wrote 10 or more that I didn't post. They just never jelled or I lost interest. The drafts linger on my site but will be banished with the new year.

When family members were quarantined and not working in the spring, we started hauling boxes filled with books up from the basement. I was tasked with separating the keepers from the ones to go to the library store or, when that closed due to Covid, downtown's Phoenix Books. Probably sent six or seven boxes out the door, just a fraction on those remaining. In one box, I saw a tattered copy of "Hells Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga" by Hunter Thompson. This was before "strange and terrible" morphed into "fear and loathing." I really liked it when I read it in the early '70s during my Gonzo period. I didn't want to emulate Thompson's life but I did want to write like him.

I began to read "Hell's Angels" and got hooked. Read it all the way through in a couple of days. I tried to frame an essay about it but could not. Thompson's style I still liked. But I didn't like the sexism and racism. The Angels were noted for gang rapes and Thompson was cavalier about it. We liked the Angels for their outlaw image, at least we did in our youth. Their attraction has waned over the decades. I don't really find anything constructive about them. In my blog, written before the election, I wanted  to paint members as diehard Trump fans but failed. It's a gross generalization to label motorcycle thugs as Trumpists. It's also a mistake to think that all bikers are gang members. Your local attorney is as likely to ride a Harley as your local mechanic. My neighbor is an IT guy and he rides and works on his very expensive Harley. My late brother Dan rode a Harley and he was an air traffic controller. 

The Angels still exist but haven't been the same since Altamont and neither have the Stones. I gave up and put "Hell's Angels" in the discard box.

My conclusion: Thompson documented a lot of what happened in 1960s and '70s America. But, really, how much fear & loathing can a nation bear?

My next subject that didn't jell was about the Boy Scouts of America and its magazine, "Boy's Life." I was a proud Scouter in Colorado, Washington, Kansas and Florida. The Scouts seemed to be something I could count on to be pretty much the same whether we were snow-camping in the Rockies or avoiding water moccasins in the Florida swamps. I read Boy's Life from cover to cover. It was all boys back then, stories about knots and campfires and lifesaving. There was always a feature profiling heroic Scouts. I liked the cartoon about Pedro the Donkey. 

Girls are now part of Scouts and it's about time. As you probably know, the BSA has been roiled by the same sex abuse scandal that rocked the Catholic Church. Girls can now be Scouts and for some reason the mag is still called "Boy's Life." I guess an ancient organization such as the Scouts can move only so fast. They have that in common with the church. My youth involved Scouting, the church and basketball. I abandoned one of those when, in the ninth grade, I discovered girls. I do believe I would have welcomed girls into my Scout troop but it was the 1960s which was a lot like the 1950s in Central Florida. 

I just lost interest as I wrote about Scouts, much as I lost interest in becoming an Eagle Scout when I got my first kiss. Reading a current issue of the magazine did not revive my interest although I was oddly pleased that Pedro the Donkey had made it into the 21st century. 

This is what happens with writers. Not everything we begin has an ending. I have a two-drawer filing cabinet filled with rough drafts and beginnings. Stored on this PC and OneDrive are many finished pieces and many fragments. What seems like a good idea at the time never grows into a finished product that can be published. And not everything is published in any form, whether as a book or a story in a journal or a post on Blogger. That's not easy to understand when you start out but it becomes clear if you stick with it. I have, for some reason. Writing is important to me and no matter how many setbacks come my way, I stick with it.

Add up all the factual fragments to build your preferred family history

"You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ... back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame ... back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory." -- Thomas Wolfe, "You Can't Go Home Again" I pull most of the family information I post here from a box of letters and documents sent to me by my sister Molly. She challenged me to discover ways to assemble a family history from the disparate fragments. That's just what I've done, composed fragmented stories from memorabilia fragments. Find examples here, here and here.

Life is composed of fragments. We humans try to make sense of those fragments, infuse them with meaning. Writers try to link fragments into a meaningful whole, meaningful to us and to our readers. It's kind of like that screen blurb on certain movies: "Based on a true story." 

Any family tree tells incomplete stories of a person's life. I took a few from a family tree sketched on what is now a large, tattered sheet of liver-colored construction paper. Someone, and I don't know who, took the time to put down the names and details in what looks like a thin-point Sharpie. Many of these details you won't find on genealogy sites. 

My Grandfather's brother Thomas died on April 1, 1918 at 20, possibly a casualty of the 1918 flu pandemic. He was old enough to be a soldier in the Great War, as were his two older brothers, but no mention is made of that. But he was a "Natural Born Farmer, good with horses."

Grandfather, whom we called Big Danny, was also good with horses as every good cavalry officer should be. We heard the story a hundred times about how Gen. Pershing selected Big Danny's mount to ride while inspecting the troops in France in 1918. 

His brother Bernard  "served on the USS Cassin (Destroyer) WWI." He went to Ft. Lyons Hospital in Colorado Springs from "1920-22 "for a service connected disability." Upon release, he became a salesman. His son Dick was a Navy pilot in WWII who was "shot down, rescued someone, and received Navy medal." 

Big Danny spent time at Fitzsimons Army Hospital in Denver in 1920-21 for a service-connected disability which was said to be pneumonia or possibly TB. Later, he became an insurance salesman.

My great-grandmother Molly, a woman I identified in an earlier post as "the most beautiful in St. Patrick's Church," had a sister Annie who "ran boarding house, did not marry." No dotted lines run below her listing to link her with other names. Since Annie ran a boarding house, I'm sure she had stories to tell. She probably had family stories to tell too. Here's one question I'd like to ask Annie: How did you, sister of "the most beautiful in St. Patrick's Church," end up as the old aunt who runs the boarding house? Thomas Wolfe's mother ran a boarding house in Asheville; Thomas was one of the boarders. He had many stories to tell. He died too soon.

The name Annie resonates with me. My mother was Anna Marie, my mother-in-law Ann Marie, and my daughter, Anne Marie. Anne is derived from Hannah and means "favored, grace."

My great great grandfather, Irish immigrant Thomas O'Shea, father of Michael Francis who married  the beautiful Molly, married Mary Burns and emigrated to the U.S. "about 1860." At some point, he "changed name to Shay." Not sure why he changed the family name. Maybe he was trying to simplify, jettison the O' and simplify spelling to Shay. The Irish were used to the O' and Mc parts of Irish names. Ellis Island personnel should have been, too, as hordes of Irish came over in the late 1840s and early 1850s to escape the potato famine. Maybe he was trying to pass as non-Irish. Admitted to the U.S., he could have trundled right over to Manhattan and landed a job.

Hello, my name is Tom Shay. I'm definitely not Irish so you can immediately give me a position in the executive ranks of your large Anglo-Saxon firm. 

Anybody would buy that line if they could understand what Tom said in his thick brogue and if he wasn't dressed in a cowpie-streaked farmer's overalls, wearing a straw hat, and brandishing a pitchfork. His neck would be red, too, as redneck was slang for all Irish who worked outside under the unfriendly sun. 

Welcome to the firm, Tom. Let me show you our secret handshake. 

Fantasy, of course. He was a farmer in Ireland and he was a farmer in Iowa. And father to eight kids. 

Big Danny (I mentioned him already)), grandson of Thomas and an Iowa City native, returned to his hometown after World War 1. Left to his own devices, he might have joined the ranks of Iowa farmers and Iowa Hawkeye fans. Having a 'hawkeye' means being "particularly observant, especially to small details, or having excellent vision in general." But Big Danny's hawkeye failed to notice a festering lung ailment that took him first to an Iowa army hospital and then to Denver's Fitzsimons. Big Danny married a nurse, got a job, bought a house, raised a family, and lived in Denver for the rest of his long life.

In a photo in front of Big Danny's house, my brother Dan and I wear army uniforms and carry rifles. I am 9 and he is 7. At the end of the year, we would be in a station wagon on our way to Washington state. We returned briefly after a stint in Kansas. We left six months later for Florida. Dan never returned to live in Denver. I did but couldn't stay.

You can't go home again, as it turns out.

Nursing home signs should read: Welcome to the Titanic. There are no lifeboats

I don't always read the AARP Bulletin. It's a good publication with lots of helpful info for retirees like me. But, you know, there are books and the Internet and football and writing and "Queen's Gambit" on Netflix. 

This issue of the Bulletin carried a red banner crying SPECIAL EDITION and below that this header: "Covid-19 & Nursing Homes: An American Tragedy." It grabbed me because my stepmother died of Covid in a Florida long-term care facility. And I have been reading other articles on the subject since March and have been shocked with how many people my own age have died. I am 69 now but next week is my birthday and people in their 70s and 80s with underlying conditions are most vulnerable. I soon will be in that cohort.

This comes from the WyoFile weekly pandemic report, 12/11/20:

The Wyoming DOH has reported 321 Covid-19 deaths. That includes 128 in November, the most of any month so far. Many of these have been related to long-term care facilities. Wyoming now ranks third in the country for its rate of nursing-home-related deaths, the Casper Star-Tribune reports.

So there's that. And this subhead from the Bulletin:

In one of the most devastating health debacles in our nation's history, some 54,000 residents and workers in long-term care facilities died of causes related to the coronavirus within four months of the first known infection.

The article spans the 18 weeks from Feb. 29 and the first death in a Seattle nursing home to June 22. The best things are personal stories of patients, family members and health-care workers. Cami Nedleigh relates the story of her mother, Geneva Wood, a resident of the Life Care Center of Kirkland, Wash. Wood went into Life Care in late January to recover from a stroke. She was supposed to be released in early March but fell and broke her hip the last week of February. She stayed in Life Care. 

This from Wood: 

My roommate was coughing. Everybody was saying bronchitis. The I got a cough and could barely breathe. Thought it was pneumonia. I remember them saying I had a 102 fever. I guess I didn't know enough to be scared.

And Nedleigh: 

Mom got better, thankfully. She's a tough old Texas broad. But Mom's roommate didn't make it.

The article conjures scenes of chaos and bravery. In the first week of March, 27 of 108 residents and 25 of the 180 staff had the virus. And nobody really knew what it was and how to treat it. This led to many deaths.

Timothy Killian (Life Care spokesman): We all grew up with these movies about pandemics, in which the government vans swoop in and take control. As the situation escalated and the facility went into lockdown and people started dying. I kept expecting some type of coordinated response, but we saw nothing of that nature.

The facility, of course, gets some of the blame. Killian had obviously seen "Contagion" and "Outbreak." In the latter film, a monkey has the virus and ends up in a California small-town pet shop and starts spreading the virus. The commanding general of the national response team won't act because he knows the virus came from an Army bioweapons lab. Epidemiologists Dustin Hoffman and Renee Russo sneak into the site and start doing their good deeds while the evil general (the usually heroic Morgan Freeman) makes plans to seal off the town and bomb it to destroy the evidence. The most memorable scene takes place in the town's packed movie theater. A virus carrier coughs and we see spit flying around the room in slow motion, landing in people's mouths. Aw hell no, you might say. And you'd be right. 

It hits a bit close to home. Covid carriers were still going to movies in March and spreading the virus to seatmates. Asymptomatic carriers were going out to crowded bars and attending parties. The virus was in pandemic heaven, latching on to many new human hosts and spreading which is what viruses do.

You can read parts of the Bulletin story at the AARP web site. Kudos to David Hochman and contributors for the story. It appears just as the FDA approves the Pfizer vaccine and hope emerges. That doesn't help the many dead and dying in the U.S., almost 300,000 at last count, with a 16 percent fatality rate in long-term facilities. Compare this to the total U.S. fatality rate is 2.3 percent. 

This final quote is from Judith Regan, a publishing executive whose father, Leo Regan, is a resident of the Long Island State Veterans Home, site of 32 deaths:

The residents and staff are being led to slaughter. He is on the Titanic, but there are no lifeboats.

Op-ed: Wyoming native argues for survival of the University of Wyoming Creative Writing Program

I don’t subscribe to our local newspaper, the Wyoming Tribune Eagle. I am not boycotting it for political reasons or because I was the subject of an investigative report that portrayed me as a dirty dog. I just can’t access its content online unless I subscribe. Headlines I can read. Obituaries too. But not news, sports and op-ed which are my favorite sections.

I bought a copy today because it featured an op-ed by a former coworker at the Wyoming Arts Council. Linda Coatney wrote, “Finding my voice included endangered UW writing program.” She traced her evolution as a writer from a 10-year-old poet to a shy high school writer to creative writing workshops at Casper College to enrollment in UW’s master’s degree program in creative writing. And now that program is slated for demolition by the UW Board of Trustees. Why? Because our wingnut legislature failed to plan for a future where the state cannot depend on oil-gas-coal revenue due to the fact that fossil fuels’ day in the sun has set. If only we could have seen this coming.

Read Linda’s column for a stout-hearted defense of the program. Buy the Dec. 3 edition and turn to page A7. She may let me repost the column here once it plays out on the printed page. I am a print guy after a career as a newspaper reporter and editor and stints as a corporate editor, much of that time at the Arts Council. I write in a journal. I read books. I once was a paperboy and so was my son.

I also write for Wyoming’s online newspaper, WyoFile, and keep this blog which will celebrate its 20^th anniversary on Blogger in January. A few days ago I blogged about the UW situation. To read, go here.

The UW Creative Writing Program is tiny when compared to engineering and business and geology. That doesn’t make it any less important when it’s time to cut budgets. In fact, it may be more important to a state that is trying to leap into the 21^st century after spending so much time in the previous one. The creative economy was a major topic during my 25 years at the Arts Council. I like to think that I played a small part in making that a reality and not a dream. It takes time, of course, and Covid-19 showed us how vulnerable the collaborative arts can be. Pandemic precautions have shut down concert venues, theatres, arts conferences, art galleries, author readings and just about anything else that powers America’s arts and entertainment businesses. Artists and arts presenters have found clever ways to promote their work online and even in-person with creative masks and appropriate social-distancing.

Go read Linda’s op-ed and send your thoughts to UW. Or comment here and I will pass it along.