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.

Help save the University of Wyoming Creative Writing M.F.A. Program

This comes from a Nov. 17 Facebook post by writer and UW prof Nina Swamidoss McConigley of Laramie:

Hey friends -- due to budget cuts, UW has proposed eliminating the wonderful, nationally-ranked creative writing M.F.A. program.

As a current student pointed out, this program is a vital way to provide a diverse set of writers fully-funded opportunities to write from and about an underrepresented place. Graduates from the program have published so many books -- last year, Kali Fajardo-Anstine was a finalist for the National Book Award.

If you care about the arts, communication about rural communities, and opportunities for young writers, it would mean the world to me if you could sign & share this petition to save the program:

https://www.change.org/.../university-of-wyoming-save-the...

You can also email your comments to: progrevw@uwyo.edu

This is a travesty. Many fine writers have been through the University of Wyoming Creative Writing Program. It sponsors many visiting writers and has strengthened state's writing community. Along with Performing Arts and Visual Arts, the program makes UW a destination for creative people all over the country and especially in the Rocky Mountain region. To jettison the program just as its value is being appreciated would be a terrible thing.

The state legislature has wasted years ignoring that hard times were coming for oil and coal, traditionally major sources of revenue. The handwriting was not just on the wall but everywhere you looked. Still, nothing was done and now we are facing the loss of an entity that helps make Wyoming great. Don't let them do this.

Sign the petition at the link above. Send your comments to progrevw@uwyo.edu

I earned my M.F.A. in creative writing at Colorado State University. I then went on to be the literature program manager at the Wyoming Arts Council and spent two years as assistant director of the National Endowment for the Arts Literature Program. The M.F.A. took me in unexpected directions. I was a published writer when I entered the M.F.A. program in 1988. I I had no idea there was such a thing as the Colorado Council on the Arts (now Colorado Creative Industries) that gave fellowships m to individual artists and grants to orgs to put on readings, workshops and festivals.

In grad school, I signed up for the artist roster that funds writers in schools. I had my first assignment to a school on the high prairie when I landed the job at the Wyoming Arts Council. My experience in arts administration was limited to a stint on the CSU Fine Arts Series. I helped bring some incredible writers to campus with a budget provided by student fees and grants to the local arts agency, the state arts council and the National Endowment for the Arts. My first grant to Fort Fund was rejected. Damn -- this is harder than it looks. When I interviewed with the WAC in the summer of 1991, I had no experience in what it took to generate money for arts programs. I was a writer with corporate PR experience and stints as a newspaper reporter. The WAC hired me anyway.

I'll write more about my arts council experience later. Now it's time to save the UW program that will allow its graduates to pursue writing careers and act as springboard to the arts administration world. Other grads teach on every level from K-12 to graduate school. They all are on a mission to present the written and spoken word to the world. A tall task. But we are up to the challenge.

As I was writing this, WyoFile published a piece by Jeffrey Lockwood, a prof who splits his time between creative writing and entomology (arts and sciences). He makes some good points in the essay but it comes back to this: UW can eliminate and outstanding yet small program in the liberal arts and nobody will care. As Lockwood tells it:

Perhaps the creative writing faculty and our students have done ourselves no favors by publishing essays, articles and books that are critical of powerful individuals and structures. However, our task as writers is the pursuit of beauty, truth and right — and this may not align with corporate profits, legislative orthodoxy and status quo ideology. I don’t want to believe that the cut is political retribution, although those in power have demonstrated their willingness to punish troublemakers. Rather, I believe that the university’s course of action is based on the assumption that there will be little or no blowback.

It could make all the difference if you found the time to communicate with the UW Board of Trustees, president and the (acting) dean of the College of Arts & Sciences. Or send your support to an email dedicated to public feedback: progrevw@uwyo.edu

Writers write. What are you waiting for?

Curiosity can lead an artist down exciting and dangerous paths

WyoFile's Studio Wyoming Review posted my review Friday of Georgia Rowswell's exhibit, "Crazy," at the Nicolaysen Art Museum in Casper.

Here's the opener:

The “Crazy” exhibit at The Nic sent me to my room to find out where my clothes come from.   

Dress shirts from the Dominican Republic. Pants from Cambodia. Sweaters from China. I have drawers filled with T-shirts: Made in Haiti; Fabrique au Vietnam; Hecho en Bangladesh. There are blue jeans from Mexico and sweatpants from Guatemala. I look at clothes labels when I shop. I hope one will read “Made in USA.” It’s a rare find in the 21st century. Our apparel industry went offshore decades ago and is not coming back. 

“Crazy – A Contemporary Quilt about Fashion’s Pressing Problems” opened at Casper’s Nicolaysen Art Museum in September and will be up through Dec. 27. It is one section of a solo exhibit, “Layer, Fold, Unfold,” that features Georgia Rowswell’s fabric art pieces made from thrift-store clothes. Also on display are her “Hot Yellowstone” series and several Wyoming landscapes in “found drawers and boxes.” 

The exhibit asks that opening question: Where do your clothes come from? Instead of a stern lecture, Georgia displays the answer across a wall at the Nic. A good question, one that sparked the Cheyenne artist's interest in finding origins for the many clothing items she collects at thrift shops to make her fabric art. Clothes have labels and Georgia collected items from 36 countries for what some might call a tapestry but the artist calls an embroidery. 

Read the rest of the story at WyoFile's Contemporary fiber art show tackles fashion's pressing problems. And then you can find out your clothing's origins. 

Georgia's curiosity about the origins of her clothes mirrors a similar question asked by author Katherine Standefer. After surgeons implanted a defibrillator in her chest at 24, she wondered about the origins of the materials that go into making this life-saving device. Her book, Lightning Flowers: My Journey to Uncover the Cost of Saving a Life, explores the author's quest to find out where the titanium, cobalt and other crucial elements and metals are mined. It's a dirty business. She also visited another part of the supply chain: the steel-and-glass "clean rooms" at the L.A. plant that made her device. 

I read the book and attended a writing workshop (sponsored by Jackson Hole Writers) conducted online by Katherine. I was curious about the same things Katherine was because I also have an Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator in my chest. A 2013 heart attack damaged my heart and the ICD is there in case I experience an out of control atrial fibrillation (afib) that could stop my heart. I rarely think about it these days but Katherine's book piqued my curiosity and taught me a few things that I didn't know. Part of her book is set in Jackson, Wyo., which brings her story even closer to home.

Curiosity prompted creation of some magnificent artwork and an exciting nonfiction book that reads like a thriller. We all should have such curious minds. 

Agnes McDermott: The open road in an open car

A recommendation letter written on official stationery from United States Post-Office No. 18859, Mason, Ohio:

July 27, 1914

To Whom It May Concern:

            This letter will introduce you to Miss Agnes McDermott, who was employed by me for three and one half years, as Assistant Post Mistress, at this office. This work consisted of general office work, together with some bookkeeping.

            As to her integrity, honesty, capability and Christian character, I have the highest respect, only words of praise to offer in her behalf.

            It is a pleasure for me to recommend her, and I do so knowing from personal observation, that she is worthy of any position she may seek.

            Very Truly,

            Orville L. Girton, Postmaster

Nice rec letter. It came to me with other family documents. It was in two pieces, paper brown with age, frayed edges. I had to tape it together to read it.

I see my 25-year-old grandmother leaving her job with the fresh letter in hand intent on seeking a new and worthy position in Warren County, Ohio, only 22 miles away from downtown Cincinnati. Mason had but 737 residents when Agnes joined the P.O.

I don’t know what Agnes did after leaving the P.O. I do know that she lived with relatives, her sister Julia and brother Leo. I know that she took a road trip with chums to Colorado sometime between 1918-1920. Or maybe she and her pals set off for Colorado the summer after she left the P.O. Whenever she went, it was no mean feat. Motorcars were such a new addition to the landscape that highways were almost nonexistent.

I have no “On the Road” journal entries from Agnes but I do have plenty from Lieutenant Colonel Dwight Eisenhower’s First Transcontinental Motor Convoy in the summer of 1919. Army cars and trucks drove 3,251 miles from D.C. to San Francisco in 62 days. You can read the convoy’s daily log online. The log reported that the roads that my grandmother and friends drove from Ohio to Colorado were chucky, pine brick, fair but very dusty, gumbo mud, sandy with some quicksand, soft sand gumbo and, intermittently, good gravel roads. West of North Platte, Neb., many of the convoy's vehicles had to be rescued from a 200-yard stretch of quicksand. Dust was a constant problem, clogging carburetors and fuel lines. Cars and Army trucks broke down and slid off of bad roads. 

Agnes didn’t get to travel across Wyoming as she and her pals detoured south to Colorado. Eisenhower & Company encountered lots of Wyoming wind (no surprise) and rickety bridges built for travel by horse and wagon. It was good that engineer unit was part of the convoy as they had to strengthen some bridges and rebuild others.

Eisenhower was late to cross-country travel. Between 1913-16, suffragists made at least three long-distance automobile trips to promote the suffrage amendment. The earliest, according to the Smithsonian National Museum of American History, was in 1913 when women drivers from all 48 states took turns driving cross-country collecting signatures on petitions calling for a national suffrage amendment. These women crusaders confronted some of the same problems as Eisenhower’s expedition although they didn’t have a platoon of engineers to help them over the rough spots. Sara Bard Field’s and Marie Kindberg’s 1915 tour in an open-air Oldsmobile included a “machinist” and she saw plenty of action. In 1916, Nell Richardson, Alice Burke and their kitten Saxon drove their “Golden Flier” 10,000 miles visiting cities coast-to-coast.

Grandma was not a suffragist. Somehow, she and her friends made it the 1,194 miles to Denver and explored the Rocky Mountains by automobile along dirt roads, some little more than one tracks cut into a steep mountainside that probably got its start as a mule trail or even a trail blazed by Arapaho and Cheyenne tribes. Grandma loved the mountains and returned to stay. 

Agnes may have used her post office reference while job hunting. She worked as a domestic when she met my grandfather, Martin Hett, at a Hibernian Club function. Cities with largest Irish immigrant populations boasted at least one chapter of the Ancient Order of Hibernians, named after references to ancient Ireland by the Greeks and Romans. Denver had three AOH clubs.

My grandparents were an odd match, this tiny ex-postmistress from Ohio a decade older than my tall, lanky and uneducated Irish grandfather. They were married in 1922 and had three children. The middle one became my mother, Anna Marie Hett.

I knew my grandmother as a nice lady who treated us kids to ginger ale and cookies. By the time I moved back to Denver in 1978, she had been dead for four years from complications of arteriosclerosis. In those days, it was called “hardening of the arteries” or that is how it was referred to by my mother the nurse. I was 23 when grandma passed, too busy at school to travel from Daytona Beach to Denver for the funeral. I couldn’t imagine her younger and pregnant, someone who gave birth to my statuesque mother and her sister and their 6-foot-5 baby brother who played college basketball. Whatever was in my mother’s DNA cocktail added to her husband’s Shay-Green mix, brought me to six-feet-tall by the seventh grade and my short but memorable stint as a high school b-baller.

I have nothing written in Agnes’s hand. I can find plenty of official documents online through ancestry.com. Birth certificate, death certificate, census records. Some blank spaces in her personal life cry out to be filled in but, it many cases, there’s nobody around to do that.

I imagine my grandmother tootling along with her pals in an open-top Model T. The road is rough, the way, dusty. She leaves behind her dreary old Ohio burg. She looks ahead, ready for new adventures in a new place. The wind riffles her hair. She can’t imagine that one day it will turn gray and she will be betrayed by the arteries bearing oxygenated blood to a brain trusted by the U.S. Post Office in Mason, Ohio.

But that is exactly what happens.

The week in pandemic news

I wish I could report to you that the pandemic is over. Alas--

Wyoming Dept. of Health, Nov. 14: Seventeen more Coronavirus-related deaths reported.

WyoFile weekly report:

Wyoming reached a critical point in its battle with COVID-19 this week as patient loads overwhelmed hospitals, healthcare workers and contact tracers, prompting the governor to announce plans to tighten health orders for the first time since spring.

Casper Star-Tribune, Nov. 15: Daily Wyoming coronavirus update: 613 new cases, 206 new recoveries (firewall)

Gillette News-Record, Nov. 13: County health officials ask Gordon for mask mandate

AP News, Nov. 13: Wyoming Governor: 'Knuckleheads' behind Covid-19 resurgence

Wyoming Daily News, Nov. 13: Wyoming Governor won't implement mask mandate

When faced with knuckleheads spreading a lethal virus: "We don't need no stinkin' masks."

Go to the Covid-10 Information page to find the Wyoming Testing Location Finder. Chris tested last week after she and some other staffers were sent home after a possible workplace exposure. She was negative. Took less than 72 hours to get results. She is now in quarantine for 14 days. We hope to see her again for Thanksgiving. 

Message for the Commander, France, 1918

A remembrance for what once was called Armistice Day and now Veteran’s Day.

My paternal grandfather, Raymond Arthur Shay, enlisted in the Iowa National Guard in 1912. He was promoted to sergeant in 1915. In 1916-17, he served under General Pershing’s command at the so-called Punitive Expedition on the Mexican border. In May 1917, a month after the U.S., entered World War I, Raymond Shay was in officers’ training school. He joined the 88^th Division as a second lieutenant and went off to France with the 88^th. He returned home to Iowa in May 1919. Later that year, he was diagnosed with a severe lung condition and sent to Army Hospital 21 (later named Fitzsimons Army Hospital) located in Aurora, then a tiny suburb of Denver.

At the urging of his daughter Patricia, Raymond wrote about his service in the Iowa National Guard that was activated for the Mexican Border War and World War I. He wrote his memories in cursive script on 19 sheets of yellow paper held together by a clip. It’s tough for me to read but readers from future generations will see it as we do hieroglyphics in Egyptian tombs; cursive is no longer taught as matter of course in public schools.

We called Raymond Big Danny. I can find some of the details of his service on ancestry.com resources. The stories are another matter. We listened to his stories as kids but they were so old that they might as well be The Tales of Arabian Nights. I remember a few snatches of his stories. The writing he left behind reminds me of those. How he had to arrest one of his troopers on a train bound for debarkation at a Canadian port. The soldier was a bit drunk and was waving around a loaded pistol, shouting about how he dared the Canadian Mounties to arrest him for his German name. One of Lieutenant Shay's duties was transporting bodies from field hospitals and burying them with honor at the new American cemetery in the Hericourt-Alsace Sector. General Pershing came to inspect the troops based in Gondrecourt-le-Chateau after the Armistice. Big Danny outfitted one of the division’s cavalry mounts with his own French Officers Field Saddle, one he bought himself because it was superior to the U.S. Army’s McClellan Saddle named for a Union general who was sacked by Lincoln and later ran against him in the 1864 presidential election (McClellan lost).  

Old warriors tell old war stories – it’s a tradition. I can appreciate them now since I’m getting old myself – 70 on my next birthday. I’m not an old warrior, just appreciative of their service to the country. I also appreciate the stories and want them to be told forever.

So here’s one remembrance of Lt. Raymond Shay, Headquarters Troop, 88^th Division, U.S. Army. Written in his own hand in Loveland, Colo., sometime in the 1990s.

Setting: AEF front lines, autumn 1918

At Div. Hdgrs I was given a message to deliver to C.O. of 1^st battalion 35^th Inf in front line position. We need motorcycles with side cars for this courier service. I was required to use a regular driver or rider as known then and so I rode the side car. We found Bat. Hdqrs easy enough but it was not exactly as 1 expected. When I asked for the Battalion Commander and said I had a message from Div. Hdqrs, a young 2^nd Lt. said he was. But C.O., I said, I expected a major but would settle for a captain. He said you will settle for a 2^nd Lt as I am C.O. and if I had a message deliver it. When I delivered the message I was still wondering where all the other officers were and asked the Lt. about this. He said well Belfort is only 10 or 15 miles down the road and they are all there living the good life.

The Lt. then asked me the 64-dollar question. He asked if I had ever been in No Man’s Land (that two-block distance between the trenches). I said no as my duty did not take me there. He went on to say one of these days this war would be over and I would be ashamed to go home and say I had never been in No Man’s Land. I said I had not thought of it in that light. I did say it would be better to go home and admit I had not been there than to go into that disputed land and not go home at all. He said I was wrong and he knew how to go out there and it would be safe if I did exactly as he directed. O.K. I said if I don’t go I suppose you will report me to Div. Hdqrs as a poor front line soldier, he said, no, you will get along fine.

He asked if my 45 Colt was loaded, if there was a cartridge in the firing chamber, now pull the hammer back and put on safety catch, hold the pistol in your hand and follow me. He said we would have to proceed with great care thru the communication tunnels as the Germans sometimes sneaked in at night and picked off our men at their convenience. We arrived at the end of this tunnel and were in the Front Line Trench and observation post. The Lt. said we are going out on No Man’s land. He said put your pistol back in the holster and do as I do, follow me, do not make any attempt to go for your pistol unless we are fired upon and that would do no good as we are out of pistol range out here.

We walked around slowly and he pointed to a tree on the German side and said there was a sniper posted there. During all this time, the trench artillery were shelling a small town the rear of the German lines, whatever they were hitting caused a lot of dust to rise.

The Lt. said we have been here long enough so you may return to Div. Hdqrs and tell them that you were in No Man’s Land with the Battalion Commander.

He was a great guy.

Blessed are the righteous as they win elections

On Saturday morning, Nov. 7, we learned that Joe Biden was our new president and Kamala Harris was our new vice president. I was elated. Chris danced around the living room. Millions breathed a sigh of relief. Millions more wept tears of anger. I know how it feels to be on either side. I didn't weep when Trump claimed victory four years ago. Stunned, for sure. Despondent, yes. Fearful for the fate of my country.

I was right to be afraid. 

What about the 71 million Americans who voted for Trump in 2020? That's 8 million more than voted for him in 2016. It's a good thing that Democrats and never-Trump Republicans spent the past year in GOTV efforts. We needed all of those 75 million-plus to elect Biden/Harris. We especially needed them in the battleground states of Pennsylvania, Georgia and Arizona.

So half of the country liked what the Democratic candidate had to say and half sided with Trump. There is no easy explanation. I know that some Republicans liked the expression of the T-shirt, "Make Liberals Cry Again," a clever twist on Trump's MAGA motto. They liked Trump because he hated the same people he did: liberals, experts, people of color, immigrants. That's not all of it. He made many people feel like they had a guy in charge who stood up for their interests when, in fact, he was doing the exact opposite. Evangelicals and conservative Catholics approved of his turning back the clock on abortion, the LBGTQ community, women. I don't attend church but I bet there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth in the pews on Sunday. Many Christians seemed content to support a leader who regularly practices the Seven Deadly Sins, who wipes his dirty feet on the Beatitudes.

I know that President-elect Biden tells us to have mercy on those who did not vote for him. I don't know if that's possible. Humility is at the heart of many of Jesus's teachings. Trump hasn't a humble bone in his body. He ridicules the meek, he lampoons the disabled. He shows no signs of empathy. His daily dealings give no evidence that he has ever heard of Jesus. The Old Testament of obedience and vengeance is more his style. That's why conservative religionists like him so much. They prefer to smite their enemies with a sword rather than work with them to make a better America. 

The past four years have been a trial for me and fellow liberals. The next four will be a different kind of trial. Some Democrats might want to do some smiting of their own. When the oppressed depose a dictator, they often turn out to be authoritarians of a different stripe. The guillotine was made for such times. So much easier to say "Off with their heads" than to negotiate with that head while it still has a body. Maybe in our speeded-up lives we no longer have the patience to deal with those different from us. Social media make judging so easy. 

I have no secret plans to share with Biden. He and his advisors will make some decisions that piss me off. We saw no negotiating in the last four years. It was Trump's way or the highway. When that changes, it will be a shock to us. But negotiation and compromise are American traditions. Let's embrace them again but be ready to stand fast on principles. Or, as Teddy said, "speak softly but carry a big stick."

Read it now or read it when all the election results are in -- "Trump Sonnets, volume 7: His Further Virus Monologues"

As of 11:30 a.m. on Friday, Nov. 6, we don't yet know the result of the presidential election. We do, however, know the result of Ken Waldman's "Trump Sonnets" series. The seventh book in the series arrived today. Subtitled " His Further Virus Monologues," it returns to the single-sonnet form that Waldman made so readable in his first five books. The sixth, "His Middle Virus Soliloquy," is what it sounds like: a long piece comprised of connecting sonnets, two to a page. A 63-page journey of Trumpist ramblings in poetic form. It's a book that urges you to go on Trump's breathless ride through his fevered mind. He is infamous for his rambling monologues at rallies of true believers.  The author gives shape to that.

I read Book 7 in a review copy. We were smack-dab in the pandemic and the election was weeks away. I read it with the same dread and bemusement that I've read the others. Flashing in my mind like a neon sign was this: We elected this man president of the United States? I would finish a sonnet, ask the question, and move on, enjoying the ride. Then something will remind me of that big question:

From July 24, 2020 sonnet: 

I know when I walk off the eighteenth hole  

on November 3rd, I am second to none. 

I'm very prepared for my second term. 

No president's done more in his first term.

I see him at one of his golf courses. I think Yikes -- this man is president! We all are doomed!

I expect different feelings when I reread volume 7. Who knows when we will get all of the election results? Who knows how the lawsuit-crazy Trump will react -- he's already filed a flurry of lawsuits over alleged voting irregularities. Will we get him out of the White House by Jan. 20? 

But I will feel all warm and fuzzy if he is denied a second term. I've already been enjoying memes on Facebook that belittle Trump and his minions. Yes, we can be sore winners too. And it's OK to take a few minutes to gloat. So, as he read what may be the final installment of Waldman's series, I too will gloat. It's been so long since I've had a chance to do that. I will enjoy myself while I can. President-elect Biden's real work begins next week. Trumpists are still in charge of the Senate and Supreme Court. We all need to get busy.

Waldman is a poet and performance artist so it's not surprising that he has developed a video and stage show to go with the sonnets. The video will get more use in the near future because performing artists aren't performing. Due to the president's ineptitude in dealing with the virus, most public spaces are closed. So don't look for Waldman and his partner Lizzie Thompson to be on the road again until 2021. Some have been cancelled and some have been rescheduled for the new year that all of us look forward to. Get more info at kenwaldman.com or trumpsonnets.com.

M.L. Liebler's Ridgeway Press of Roseville, Mich., published all of Waldman's series. Small presses publish many good books every year. Most poets would have few outlets for their work if it wasn't for places such as Ridgeway. Show them some love and buy a book from a small press directly or through an indie bookstore. You'll be glad you did.

What will the future think of us?

Wyoming has seen a huge Covid-19 upsurge in recent weeks. Wyo shows up regularly in the New York Times pandemic tracker. It shows those states with surges, represented by a tiny arrow pointing up. We're right up there with both of the Dakotas, Alaska and Iowa.

WyoFile's week 33 summary Friday said this: 

The White House Coronavirus Task Force coordinator visited Wyoming this week as the state cemented its status as one of the nation's hotspots for Covid-19 spread. 

As a press conference, Dr. Deborah Birx, wearing a mask, seated next to Gov. Mark Gordon, also wearing a mask, "emphasized the importance of mask use, widespread testing and limited gatherings" to beat the virus. As of Friday, Gov. Gordon had yet to issue a mandatory mask directive. 

On Friday, the Wyoming Department of Health reported 431 new lab-confirmed cases, a new single-day record. Nineteen deaths were reported last week, more deaths than in any week since the pandemic began. 

The Laramie County Health Department has mandated that everyone wear a mask starting Monday. If the past 33 weeks of plague shows us anything, many Wyomingites will ignore the mask mandate. Enforcement is being left up to businesses and individuals. At our hospital, you can't enter with a mask and getting your temp taken. Not sure how small businesses will treat the order. I don't go out without a mask. But I'm a Democrat and I believe in science.

I write this with the idea that someone in the future will read this and wonder about the Americans of 2020. As I researched a novel set in 1919, I read a lot of personal stories and small-town-newspaper articles about the 1918 flu pandemic. Some wore masks; others refused. Many died. Young people were vulnerable. In fact, they often died when older family members survived. It was brutal. I can look back from 2020 and wonder why everyone didn't wear a damn mask. I ask that today. I also ask: will anyone read 21st-century blogs 100 years from now?

A President Joe Biden can't halt the pandemic overnight. But he does have a plan. He will have to bring Americans together on a common goal. We beat the Great Depression, licked the Nazis and went to the moon. With real leadership, we can overcome Covid-19.

This is another problem that has to be remedied. We've learned the hard way that millions of Americans love a bully. They love Trump because he hates the same people he does: liberals, atheists, African-Americans, Hispanic immigrants, urban dwellers, and college professors, just to name a few. They want to marginalize, possibly even eliminate, us. Many are evangelicals who spend a lot of time talking about the Bible although they've paid little attention to lessons in the New Testament. They are a hateful bunch who revel in Trump's cruelty. 

What will they do on election day? Trump has given them carte blanche to disrupt the electoral process. It's naive to think they would not answer Trump's dog whistles. They could also be a factor if Trump loses. They are angry and well-armed. Their esteemed leader has been deposed and someone must pay!

Post-apocalyptic novels, movies and TV shows have been on the rise for some time. They have dealt with plagues, asteroids, environmental catastrophes, space aliens, and outside interference from foreign enemies, mainly commies. Nuclear war used to be a big thing. I can't think if many that deal with a Narcissist as president who tries to remake America in his image and who gets plenty of help from collaborators in the G.O.P. Was it beyond imagining?

I once wrote an post-Apocalyptic novel about a future war in Florida. The Cubans invaded, battles ensued and (spoiler alert!) the good guys won. It was a mess of a novel and a copy gathers dust in my bottom desk drawer, the place where all unpublished first novels belong. As it turns out, I only had to wait a few decades to find out that The End could proceed in the light of day right before our eyes. 

It may not come to that. We'll talk after election day.  

Countdown to the Nov. 3 election: be vigilant

We vote on Tuesday, Nov. 3. I should say that you will vote that day, if you are one of those people who likes to vote on election day. So many of us liked the tradition. Some of us even volunteered to staff the polls on E-day and assist voters. 

Why not this year? You know why if you've been paying attention. The G.O.P. is working overtime to intimidate voters and suppress turnout. Trump asked his goons to swarm polling places to allegedly make sure there is no voter fraud. Their mission should be easy as there is no such thing as widespread voter fraud. But there is the imitation factor. Trump is a bully and so are his fawning fans. They want to own the libs by going to the polls and intimidating grandma after she waited five hours in line. To use one of grandma's sayings: They ought to be ashamed of themselves. 

I voted absentee. So did my wife and daughter. We mailed our ballots via USPS for the primaries. That was in the summer before Trump's flunkies began screwing around with the postal system. For the general election, we dropped off our ballots at the County Clerk's secure site at the City and County Building. Many people I know did that, and not only in Wyoming. We just may be a tad more paranoid here due to the fact that Democrats are so heavily outnumbered by Republicans and Independents. 

If he wins, Trump will be insufferable. If he loses, he will be even more insufferable. He's enlisted a passel of attorneys to take the election to court. During his business career, Trump has never shied away from enlisting allies to bend things to his will. We could be waiting a long time for the results. 

My hope is that Democrats win the presidency and both houses of Congress. Then we can begin to straighten out the messes that Trump and the G.O.P. Senate have created. There's a lot of work to do.

"Sing, Maria" gets to the heart of the story

Fast-forward to the 32-minute mark for True Troupe's staged reading for Annie Shay's script "Sing, Maria" based one one of my short stories.

How to stop "the greatest threat to American democracy since World War II"

Just 16 days to the most important election of my time. 

My voting timeline stretches back to 1972 -- 48 years. In 1972 in Boston, I cast my presidential vote for George McGovern. He didn't win. Nixon did, and you know what happened next.  

I've voted for other candidates who came up short in the Electoral College. I've also voted for people who ended up in the White House. Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, Barack Obama. Pretty good record. Carter deserved a second term but Reagan swarmed the airwaves with his smarmy lies and he prevailed. I also voted for Hilary Clinton in 2016, my first vote for a woman as president. She polled more votes -- almost 3 million. But GOP gerrymandering and voter suppression, coupled with Hilary's flawed campaign strategy, doomed us to four years of Donald Trump via the Electoral College. 

The New York Times editorial board today outlined all the reasons we need to get rid of Trump. Read it for yourself, if you can get past the paywall. I subscribe because I need a newspaper of record to prove that we lived through the past four years. I could pay for other newspapers that would be almost as good: Washington Post, Miami Herald, L.A. Times. I like The Denver Post for its Colorado and regional coverage. The sports section used to be excellent. Cheyenne boasts of having the Capital City paper in the Wyoming Tribune-Eagle. I read it occasionally. I used to subscribe. My son delivered it through the freezing early morning hours of Cheyenne's long winters. Its legislative coverage is good and it does interview candidates leading up to elections. It covers Cheyenne Frontier Days like a Pendleton blanket. But day-to-day, it doesn't have the heft of a NYT and other big-city dailies. 

The NYT covers Trump with as much objectivity as it can. Its liberal bias is a given, although it's not always liberal in outlook. If you read today's Trump piece, you get a complete rundown of Trump's failures (a long list) and excellent reasons to vote him out. It's not as entertaining as reading QAnon posts, listening to Rush Limbaugh, or watching Fox News. Entertaining yet sickening at the same time. 

The Times board op-ed header was "End Our National Crisis." Here's the lede:

Donald Trump's re-election campaign poses the greatest threat to American democracy since World War II.

The piece goes on to list his transgressions, which are legion, and supplies good talking points to counter your crazy uncle's crackpot theories should you be able to gather with family for Thanksgiving. By Turkey Day, the election will be over but maybe not decided. Trump will not guarantee a peaceful transition. Gerrymandering and voter suppression continue. Trump asked his bully boys to come to the polls and intimidate voters which translates in Trumpspeak to "voters of color." One could almost feel as if this was an election in a Third World dictatorship in which U.N. election referees need to be called in. Jimmy Carter's election crews can't cover every polling place but they could try. Our county clerk has called for more election judges because most judges are closer in age to Jimmy Carter than to Kamala Harris. Many have been frightened away by Covid and threats from Nazis.

I've been an election judge, back when I I was a youthful chap in my 50s and early 60s. It would be much better to have a slate of young folks at the polls to report suppression tactics. I was a poll watcher back in the day, too, looking over the shoulders of judges to make sure they followed the rules. The Wyoming Democratic Party has put out a call for poll watcher trainings held virtually Mondays and Thursdays at 7 p.m. Get more info at the WDP web site or on its Facebook page.

Get out and vote and encourage others to vote. Pray or cross your fingers or chant for a return to sanity with Democrats in charge of the White House, Senate and House. We are going to need all the help we can get with the courts clogged with Trump flunkies and the Supreme Court in the hands of right-wing extremists.

Family stories feature twists and turns that don't show up on genealogy sites

Molly Reed Shay was known as "most beautiful" in St. Patrick’s Church, Iowa City, Iowa, 

So says a description printed in tiny letters on a genealogy chart put together by one of my relatives and now in my hands in Cheyenne, Wyoming, in this pandemic year of 2020.

Not sure if St. Patrick’s conducted a beauty pageant but highly unlikely in Iowa’s Mississippi River Valley in the latter part of the 19^th century.  It might have been an observation by a fellow parishioner, possibly a young man with an eye for beauty. It may have been a line spoken at Molly’s funeral in September 1905. Molly died in childbirth on Sept. 18 of that year. Her husband, Michael Francis Shay, might have said it as part of his eulogy if he could have managed to say anything after such a devastating loss.

Molly was not yet 40 and had already birthed five children, two girls and three boys, the eldest being my paternal grandfather, Raymond Arthur Shay. The sixth, Richard, was born the same day his mother died. Raymond later told his grandchildren, me included, that the doctor charged with delivering Richard was drunk. It was a terrible memory for Raymond, who would have been 11 at the time, old enough to be helping out on the Shay farm in what is now Iowa City suburb.

As I wrote this, I thought about what it was like to be 11. My mom gave birth to twins when I was a bit older at 12. I also was the eldest of what would eventually be nine kids. We lived in a drafty old two-story house in Wichita, Kansas. Imagine it was 1905 and we lived on a farm in Wichita’s outskirts and my mom went into labor at home and a drunken doctor came for the delivery and he botched it so that my mother died. Motherless at 12. It would have left a mark that I would feel all of my life.

I can’t say what it did to my grandfather. We called him Big Danny. I hung that nickname on him as a mouthy toddler. Baby Danny was my new brother in 1952 and Grandpa seemed like Big Danny to me. My reasoning is unclear. I was just a little kid with a big imagination.

Molly’s storied beauty passed down to her granddaughters. Muriel, whom I met as a kid growing up in Denver, was homecoming queen at her high school – it says so on the genealogical chart. Muriel’s brother Bobby “took his own life when his mother died in 1934.” Their mother Gertrude (Gertie) died at 33. Molly’s great-granddaughter, Christy, was “homecoming queen at Cherry Creek High” which once was the Denver area’s largest high school and adjacent to its swankiest neighborhood, Cherry Hills. I reported on football and soccer games at its stadium when I covered high school sports for The Denver Post.

Speaking of me, I am mentioned on the chart. Muriel’s other daughter, Jill Scott, was “born 12-19-50, 1 day later than Mike T. Shay. Movie pictures were taken of them when they were babies.” I never saw the film. My mother said that I was a beautiful baby and photogenic but that was my mother speaking.

One more family connection with the line of people spawned by Michael Francis and Molly Shay. Her daughter Marie married Glenn Schafbuch and their son Mickey, born in 1934, went into the Marines after college and later managed television stations in Denver and Portland, Ore. When I decided to move back to Denver in 1978, my father said goodbye and good luck and then suggested that I look up his cousin Mickey and see if he had any leads on jobs in local media. Mickey said he could refer me to KOA noting that they probably had jobs for researchers and reporters. I said no, that newspapers were my trade. He gave me a funny look that said “newspapers are dying, kid – TV is where the action is.” He did send me to talk to an old school chum, the managing editor at the Post, who liked the cut of my jib and brought me on as a high school sports reporter at the paper.

Later, when I was married and had a child, I gave up the newspaper game for the corporate life at Gates Rubber Company where I made the world a better place by telling imaginative tales about automotive and industrial rubber products. My boss’s boss’s boss, Chuck Sonnen, served in the Marines with Mickey. Not sure if he gave me, a Navy ROTC dropout and peacenik, any preferential treatment, but he didn’t fire me. I quit after an illustrious five-year career to pursue the creative writing game. I figured that was where the action was, for me, at least.

I'm not strong on foresight.

Hindsight is my beat.

Pandemic Year 2020: A casual lunch with old friends and poetry

Met my friend (and my daughter's godfather) Dick a few weeks ago along with his wife Mary. Personal encounters have suffered during the pandemic. It's almost like a vacation when you get a chance to see old friends in person. We were appropriately social distanced in Cheyenne's Outback Steakhouse in the middle of a Monday afternoon. The couple from Longmont had been at a ranch near Dubois for Mary's school reunion. Mary wore a maroon mask with her school logo, Dick wore a generic mask and I had on one from the Colorado Rockies. A few months ago I began getting masks that showed something personal. The Rockies seemed have cool ones and, after this season, need all the help them can get. I like Black Lives Matter and Biden/Harris 2020 and VOTE! I may spring for those as they also mean a lot to me and the country.   

My friends and I were arrayed at a distance at a three-top table. We talked about old times and ate a late lunch. Dick recited some of his new four-line poems. He is writing more concise verse these days because, as he said, nobody reads his 50-line poems. There is some truth to that. Even though I have plenty of leisure time, hyperactive lives seem to crave brevity even when it's not necessary.

Dick and Mary both are writers. Mary has published a great biography and is a weekly newspaper columnist. Dick writes poems about spirituality and religion, not unusual topics for an ex-priest. Dick wrote this poem which he read to me yesterday and e-mailed me this morning. It's worth repeating as it is rare to have a poem written for me. It's happened before but the occasions are so rare that I remember it. A former Wyoming Poet Laureate wrote me a poem of condolence after my brother died. It was a wonderful thing to do.

In ancient times (BPC -- Before Personal Computers) people wrote poems for all sorts of occasions. Traditionally, England's poet laureate had two jobs, to write a poem for the new year and one for the monarch's birthday. In the 1800s, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, expanded those duties to writing about important events. The best known of these is "Charge of the Light Brigade" commemorating a British regiment's sacrifices in the Crimean War. I once had to memorize the poem as punishment in after-school detention at St. Francis Catholic School in Wichita, Kansas. I still remember many of the lines: "Cannon to the right of them/Cannon to the left of them/ Cannon in front of them/Volleyed and thundered;/Stormed at with shot and shell,/Boldly they rode and well,/Into the jaws of Death,/Into the mouth of hell/Rode the six hundred." 

The Victorian Era spawned many a heroic verse. That came to a bloody halt in the Great War. 

But back to personal poems. Dick wrote one for me and I wanted to share as poems should be published, one way or another. 

Mike Shay 

by Dick Lechman 

I saw God in Shay 

in his backyard garden 

acting the plant master 

like his friend God, clay master

Thanks, Dick. I would like to think that God exists in me and is revealed as I tend my garden. 

 Amen.