Life in the Time of Distancing

My sister-in-law, Ellen Berry, died last week in Florida after a three-year bout with lung cancer. She was 61.

She was a wonderful person and I will miss her. My wife Chris, her only sibling, was with her at home for five days before she passed. Chris was lucky to get a flight out at a decent price. She was in shock when Ellen’s husband Chuck called with bad news on Saturday morning, June 20. He came home from work on Friday evening and found her on the floor. She was rushed to the hospital and put in ICU.

Chris and I scrambled to get her on a plane from Cheyenne to Daytona Beach. She flew Delta on June 23 on a bereavement fare. She was thankful to be with her sister in the final days.

Chris stayed in Ormond Beach for the planned celebration of life. This morning, she called and said that it had been cancelled due to the coronavirus. In case you haven’t heard, Florida is one of the states where Covid-19 has spiked. Chris’s family decided that gathering for a wake was too risky for all, not just for the over-60 high-risk crowd but for everyone. Many young people have been admitted to hospitals in the last few weeks. They have also acted as disease spreaders, the Typhoid Marys of their generation.

It’s a sad thing when you can’t get together to send off a loved one. This is happening all over the world. We need these farewells just as we need the welcoming ceremonies for newborns. Joy and sorrow must be shared. It leaves a hole when it is not. Weddings, reunions, graduations all need to be shared. For those who can’t attend, the photos are gifts to be shared. They also provide mysteries for future generations. Who is that guy with Aunt Mary?

I feel that lack of togetherness today. Chris and I have been hunkered down at home since mid-March. No St. Patrick’s Day parties and now there will be no Fourth of July parties. I miss human contact. I grew up in a big family and we thrived on human contact. I’m also a writer and spend a lot of time by myself, just me and my imagination and my laptop. When I emerge from my den after composing a few pages of prose, I seek out people to bother. These days, most of that bothering is done by phone, e-mail, Zoom. My family members get together almost every Sunday on Skype. It’s a welcome connection. My siblings and their kids are mostly in Florida, a few hours’ drive from each other. I live in Wyoming, a few days drive or a day-long airplane ride away. We have family clusters in Georgia and North Carolina. A niece works in New Zealand and my sister and her husband live in Lyon, France.

While it is wonderful to see and hear relatives via laptop, I miss the in-person gatherings. In December, I attended my niece Meghan’s wedding in Atlanta. It was such a pleasure to shake hands and hug, so much of it in the four days I was there. It’s a small thing, this contact with another human, but now I miss it when it can’t be done. 

A pleasure center activates when we touch. It’s a rush. Sometimes, it’s scary or sad, as when a family member jets off to take a job a half-world away. Our rushed farewells are now at airport curbside. Maybe we get in a quick farewell as we hustle to the security line-up. Back in the day, you could see your wife all of the way to departure gate. You could hold hands and kiss right up until the final call. You could stand by the plate-glass window and see the plane back up and taxi out to the runway. If you were lucky, you could watch as it took off and disappeared over the horizon. Maybe it was worse to linger at the airport instead of being shooed away from the unloading zone by a robotic voice. 

My grandmother Florence, born a decade before the Wright Brothers flight, took my brother and me to lunch at the old Denver airport, Sky Chef I think it was called. We ate and watched the planes. There even was a balcony where you could stand outside and watch all of the comings-and-goings. I was fond of airports. I wasn’t always fond of flying, especially when I jetted away from loved ones, or jetted toward a loved one’s funeral.

Sadness has crept into everything. Hunkering down has had a price. People have lost friends and lost jobs. Police have killed people just for being black. We have a president and an entire political party that thrive on cruelty. We can’t go out to the brewpub and have a beer with an old friend. I wear a mask and I expect you to wear one even though I can’t see your smile.

During all of this, we have discovered humanity in unexpected places. Creativity, too. Let’s let those thrive as we figure a way out of this.

Michael Pollan chronicles "food movement"

Looking forward to reading this (from a Grist column by Bonnie Azab Powell):

In what is ostensibly a five-book review for the June 10 New York Review of Books, journalist Michael Pollan has an epic essay charting the emergence and character of the food movement. Or, as he puts it, "movements." They are unified, for now at least, by little more than the recognition that industrial food production is in need of reform, "because its social/environmental/public health/animal welfare/gastronomic costs are too high." (Pollan, of course, has been indispensable to the rise of this movement, even though he omits his 2006 best-seller, The Omnivore's Dilemma, from his list of its catalysts -- among them Eric Schlosser's Fast Food Nation and Marion Nestle's Food Politics.)

I've got those globalized food blues

I've written often on the subject of local food and local art and local politics.

I have a "local" fixation.

But why not? What has globalization wrought? Banks too big to fail that do. Corporations that have been granted the same rights as citizens. Bought-off members of Congress. Far-flung wars fought at the behest of oil companies and foreign oil suppliers. Tasteless food in corporate grocery chains. Publishing conglomerates that publish only sure-fire blockbusters by celebs posing as authors (Sarah Palin, etc.).

All that and more.

I'm just jumping on a bandwagon that has its roots in the farms and villages of our grandfathers. A movement that looks to alternative energy and backyard gardens and the neighborhood quilter and the farmers' market. Nothing big -- and that's the point. Big is bad. Big is too big.

So I keep observing local ideas taking root. In Cheyenne, we have two outdoor farmers' markets and a winter market just getting started. We have at least two organic/sustainable growers in northern Colorado -- Wolf Moon Farms and Grant Farms -- promoting their "Community Shares" program in southeast Wyoming. The Northern Colorado Food Incubator provides a focus for all the growers in the CO/WY nexus. Backyard gardens are sprouting all over, including in my backyard. I'm not the farmer my grandfather was, but I don't face feast or famine as he did in Iowa. I can grow some of my own fruits and veggies, and get the rest through farmers' markets and on trips to Albertson's or Safeway. Were I able to grow my own coffee, I would. I can at least buy the fair trade variety at the store.

This would all seem like so much aging Baby Boomer/naive Gen-X nonsense if it weren't for the many people engaged in local sustainability. I never talk politics with the guy from Brush, Colorado, who sells sweet corn out of his truck bed on September Saturdays. But we do talk sweet corn, and we agree on that. Small-scale tomato growers speak a common language. We speak tomato. Not tow-mah-tow. It's ta-may-tow, or maybe ta-may-ter or, simply, may-ter. I listen to other tomato growers because they most know more than I ever will.

We do have a common enemy in this country's corporate food system. It's making us sick. Not literally, unless you count the occasional tainted spinach or bad beef outbreaks. But it's short-changing our precious bodily fluids through processed foods. That food is also shipped long distances to our stores, burning fossil fuels and polluting the air and contributing to global warming.

Today, in Cheyenne, I saw cantaloupe on sale. August and September are cantaloupe months. That's when Rocky Ford varieties from southern Colorado come our way. I'll eat other High Plains cantaloupe. But in January, Albertson's features cantaloupe from Chile. It's summer in Chile. Chileans are whooping it up at the beach and eating cantaloupe. But how much did it costs to bring the fruit to Cheyenne, where the only beach we're frequenting in January is in our memories?

I received word today that a group of artists are getting together to talk about putting studios in the abandoned Hynds Building downtown. The building on the city's main drag has been sitting vacant for years. Various businesses, including one hotel conglomerate, have talked about buying and renovating the place. But then the economy tanked. If we can get artists in there in the meantime, all the better. Artists creating and providing some after-hours life to downtown. If you're interested in this downtown project, contact Rebecca Barrett at rebecca.barrett3@mac.com.

None of this is going to happen overnight. We only at the beginning of the (dare I say it?) surge.

But, to get this globalization monkey off our backs, we have to start somewhere.