Thank you, Pfizer.

 It's been over a month since my second Pfizer shot. Three weeks since Howard's.

I'm still a little leery about supermarkets and definitely restaurants, but gradually I've ventured into some of the places that, until March 2020, were commonplace.

Still there haven't been many encounters with people...close up and personal. We've visited neighbors we love, invited friends we've missed dearly to dinner. But we had yet to venture out too far from the safety of home.

And then daughter Terri called. Would we go to her house for Easter dinner? She, Chris and the kids would like to spend some time with us.

There wasn't a nanosecond's hesitation. We couldn't wait to see everyone, particularly the grandkids. Time went by slowly until Sunday and the trip up seemed to be in slow motion, despite being on the NJ Turnpike with traffic zipping by at amazing speeds.

Then, the hugs.

It was all about the hugs. 

So much to catch up on... son-in-law's remote career, Terri's volunteer work.

And grandson's full beard, work to finish his junior year in college remotely. Granddaughter's lovely smile, news of college selection with a May 1 deadline to commit. Tentative graduation plans. We knew some of it already from phone calls and texts. Still it was better in person, almost like hearing it for the first time. 

We were there for a little over six hours, but time flew. With summer coming, we hope to see more of all of them, spend some time at the shore with them when they move down for a couple of months. We will call and text until then, but it will be the hugs we look forward to once again.

Thank you, Pfizer. The vaccine is a miracle...and a blessing...and the gateway to being more normal than we've been for so long. We'll keep wearing our masks when we're out among people and we'll keep our distance. Maybe those things will continue for an indefinite time as we adjust to a new way of living. 

But for now, there are the visits, the dinners and, best of all, the hugs.

Dinner conversation

 Our friends from Florence are excellent conversationalists.

We enjoy their company and the ease with which we jump from one topic to another, often about our respective families, grandkids and what's going on with all of them. 

Now that all four of us are fully vaccinated, we jumped at the chance to have them over to our house for dinner, and those long-awaited hugs we haven't had for over a year. We had a lot of home improvement projects to show them. Covid gave us a chance to use our abundantly free time to paint, purchase new office furniture and continue the rehabbing of the house we bought three years ago that has required constant upgrading. 

Our friends appropriately oohed and aahed over our work. They will be welcome to come back since we thrive on praise and compliments.

Sometime between dinner and the delicious dessert they brought, the conversation turned to our ages and what might be coming in future years. Don't know how it got started, really; perhaps talking about our homes and how long we might be able to continue to live independently in a house that requires care. 

Anyway, we discussed our respective plans for talking with our kids about how we want to grow older. It started when, not long ago and out of the clear blue, our older daughter and her husband asked when we would consider turning over our car keys, being unable to drive safely any longer.

I admit that question threw me. Yes, I'll be 80 in August, a really big number I still can't wrap my head around easily. After all, I think of people who reach 80 as weaker, less sharp and infirm in some ways. But 80 means nothing to me except another year gone by, another year of trying my best to stay healthy and keep doing the work I enjoy.

But the question did haunt Howard and me. We started thinking seriously that our kids needed to know how we wanted to live out our days when we could no longer remain in our home or when we needed help to do so. That's a discussion we never had with them. And frankly, we haven't talked about it much between the two of us, either. Not the happiest of topics.

So we are taking stock of where we are now...preparing to update our wills, storing our advance directives and other important papers in an easily accessible place known to the kids and finally telling them we would like a family meeting this summer to talk about the whole topic of being the children of parents who need them.

Covid made me think about that. I thought long and hard about contracting the illness and not surviving. Would the kids know where things were? Would they know to whom I wanted certain things given? What would Dad do? How could they help him?

Now, healthy still and trying to be proactive, Howard and I will have that meeting. Then everyone can breathe easier, knowing what their roles will be someday down the road. Certainly not at 80.

A Bushel and a Peck

 I've only been fired once in my life and it was all her fault.

After two years of a job I loved, guidance counselor at an area high Catholic high school, I was looking forward to the third...when "my kids" would be graduating seniors and the year would be filled with college recommendations, job choices, June festivities. I'd been with that class since they were sophomores and felt they were all a precious part of my life.

Then, in August, I discovered I was pregnant with my second child. In those days, way back in 1970, we didn't know boy or girl...just happiness at wondering which and making plans to take a leave of absence for a month, maybe less, when the baby came in April. 

The school principal had a different idea. No leave of absence. No coming back to the job. Just a terse notice of termination of my employment. Oh yes, he did help carry the box that contained my office material out to the car. Big of him, wasn't it?

Why did I lose my job? According to the priest who made the rules in that school, a pregnant guidance counselor couldn't be seen roaming the halls or occupying an office where students might see her. After all, how did she get that way? Should tender 17-year-olds know the facts of life? What kind of example would be set by a married school employee getting pregnant? With pursed lips and righteous eyes, he had no other choice but to let me go.

So my sweet Erica, born almost a month early on March 3, 1971, caused me to be fired. 

She helped me turn a new corner in my life, added a distinctly wonderful definition to our family and has always made me glad she happened along. 

From babyhood, she smiled. She found joy in everything, a veritable jumping jack when she was happy. I suppose her big sister Terri would recall times when Erica (Ricki, we called her then) wasn't such a joy, but as with Terri, I don't remember anything but gratitude that they were there.

 

She "taught" her neighborhood friends, stuffed animals and pets. Solemn and serious, she filled out the roll book she'd requested for a Christmas gift when she was four and held classes in the family room. At about that time, she began taking French lessons from a friend, who told me Erica must have been French in an earlier life, so easily did the language come to her.

Today, she turns 50. She still teaches, remotely of course, helping her students learn to love French and the French culture as much as she does. She's still got pets and still smiles most of the time as she plans her wedding to the guy who won her heart by giving his.

Happy birthday, Erica. You were more than worth losing a job. You are a treasure.

Remembering Michael Schreiner

 It was July, 1995 and I walked out of the newspaper office I loved and into a new job as Communication/Information Officer for the Lower Camden County Regional High School District #1. I'd been hired just weeks earlier to work with the administration to attempt to ward off an impending dissolution vote by the seven sending districts. We felt knowing about the educationally sound things happening in the four schools would reinforce the good opinion of the voters and keep the district intact.

When we lost the vote, no one was more devastated than our superintendent, Michael Schreiner. He'd begun his career teaching in the district, rose through the ranks and was as much a part of the district, its faculty and students, as anyone could be.

And he cared for each of us who worked with him. He recommended me for a position in another school district, where I worked for ten years before retirement. But on my first day at Lower Camden County, Michael had already shown me who he was and I will never forget his kindness.

I'd been a founding member of the Voorhees Township Business Association and been active in the group since its inception. Once I no longer owned or was affiliated with a business in that township, I had to step out. It was difficult, but the rest of the members were dedicated and, to this day, would keep the organization strong.

I had attended my first administrative team meeting in my new "home" that morning. When it concluded, Mike suggested we celebrate my first day by going to lunch. I gladly accepted, seeing a chance to get to know my new "boss" a bit better. The longer he drove and the further we traveled, the more perplexed I became. Where was lunch, I finally asked. He explained that he thought I might enjoy The Mansion in Voorhees, a lovely place to visit and dine. 

When we walked into the building, I saw several familiar faces. Everyone scurried into the dining room. And it was then I discovered the luncheon was a farewell the Association had arranged for me...and, with Michael's complicity, I was able to attend on a significant day in my new career.

It was simple kindness. Mike could easily have expressed regret when approached about helping get me to the luncheon. He could have put more value on the work to be done in the district than on my personal pleasure. But that wasn't who Michael Schreiner was. He wore his heart on his sleeve for many of us with whom he entrusted it. He wasn't just a superior, a boss, the head honcho. Mike was deeply committed to the students he loved, the district he helped shepherd through difficult times and the faculty among whom he considered himself an equal.

Mike passed away on Feb. 6. I saw his obituary on Facebook, courtesy of a member of the Board of Education who had hired me way back then. We'd kept in touch, Mike and I, every birthday through all the years, and I had no idea he had been ill. Reading the obit through a haze of tears, I said a silent thank you to the man who taught me a lot about kindness and caring. May he rest in peace.

 It was probably around 1976 or so, maybe a bit earlier. My partner and I had just decided to incorporate our newspaper business and expand to communities outside our own. He was a minister, I was a guidance counselor. Neither of us had a clue about running a business. We just knew we needed to keep going what we'd begun.

Doug Leonhardt and his partner, Bob Sisko, had begun a computer consulting service, Solar Systems, Inc. We agreed we needed their expertise for our bookkeeping, and our 21-year relationship took off like a rocket. Every Friday, Doug trekked to Berlin to pick up our raw sales data. First thing Monday, he came back with our ledger, receivables, payables... everything we needed to function as a business. In his spare time, Doug coached me in rudimentary bookkeeping skills. To this day, I can't let even a stray penny keep me from reconciling my checkbook. I hear Doug scolding me to find that penny before it multiplied in subsequent months.

In off hours, Bob took dance lessons at Arthur Murray and entered competitions. He was good. Often, I stood in for his dance partner and loved every minute. We polkaed, waltzed and swung, foxtrotted and two-stepped. Bob was a natural; I struggled to keep up.

We were good friends. When the Rocky Horror Picture Show came out, we bundled into our cars every Friday night and went to the TLA (Theater of the Living Arts) on South Street in Philadelphia. Bob dressed as Dr. Frank-n-Furter and Doug as Dr. Scott. We laughed until we cried, danced and pranced and acted with the characters on the screen.

Eventually, my paper went to new owners, not without a great deal of sadness and regret. Doug taught me how to balance my books but he couldn't teach me how to be a good manager. I had to walk away with virtually nothing to show for my years at a job I loved. 

Doug and Bob moved to South Carolina. We kept in touch sporadically over the years. About ten years ago, he traveled north to visit friends and we met for lunch. When he joined Facebook, he posted his high school graduation photo, with a smart remark so characteristic of him.

About a month ago, something told me to call. I already knew Bob had passed a few years earlier and I was concerned about Doug. It was then I learned he had congestive heart failure, was in hospice care at home and wouldn't live long. We talked for some time...well, he asked me to talk so he wouldn't tire and I told him all my family news. Then we reminisced about our friendship and the years we had together.

Last Thursday, I called again. Weaker this time, he wasn't able to say much. I told him I loved him; he said "You, too." He said he was waiting, ready to leave. At 84, he'd lived a happy life.

Doug passed the following afternoon. He went as he wished...at home, where he and Bob had lived for so many years. All I can say is rest in peace, my friend.

Now we can breathe easier

 It's over. It's been a long four years.

More like forty, I guess. It's been so painful, so chaotic, I haven't been able to put thoughts down that satisfactorily expressed my anger, confusion and distress.

I'm like many Americans in that regard. We woke each morning wondering what awful thing would happen next, what new tweet would rain destruction on someone's reputation, some cherished program adopted to help those who needed it or to protect our planet.

We weren't disappointed. The midnight rantings kept coming.

Now, I write this knowing some who read it will already be ready to trash it, label it liberal nonsense and go back to their own tribalistic way of thinking. Fine. You're entitled.

But, in light of what we've survived, I'm proud to say the liberal label is part of what defines me. All of the liberal policies and regulations and successfully adopted causes have made life better for the 98%. They've given equality to the LGBTQ community, worked to create jobs, strengthen unions, give women equality and the right to control their own health options, and a slew of good things too numerous to list.

Yep, I'm a liberal, so imagine how hard the past four years have been on folks like me. Thousands of lies and distortions (thirty plus thousand, to be exact), name-calling, insults to great Americans like John McCain and Gold Star families, roughshod treatment of constitutional laws and norms... again too much to list.

It's over. Oh yes, I'm sure the cult of this past president will surface on social media and perhaps foment more violence in our nation's capital city and the Capitol itself. He won't be gone until the trial in the Senate is over and the verdict is pronounced. He won't be gone until the only place we see his name is in the headlines from the New York State law enforcement people who have a laundry list of charges to level at him now that he's not protected by the office he tarnished.

It was a refreshing, sweet and solemn Inauguration Day. I even felt warmth for George W. and Laura, who have been good public servants. I was almost proud of Mike Pence for upholding dignity for the absent president, who only showed how small a man he is by being petty and sulking on Air Force One while a real president was taking the oath. Being a loser is hard for a man like him.

It's over. I, and others who think like me, can breathe easier. We can watch the news without cringing with embarrassment or yelling at the screen with rage. Perhaps our blood pressure will return to a healthy level. 

It's over. An honest and fair election, vetted scores of times by courts across the land, gave us a new lease on life. Whatever comes our way now has to be far better than what came before. 

Week Nine of pandemic life

It has become a way of life, this pandemic.
Checking stats each day to see if New Jersey's curve is beginning to flatten.
Looking out the window just to admire the greening of the trees in our backyard.
Walking around the neighborhood, saying hello to people I don't know.
Vowing to know more of them when this is over.

My life has been on the indoor side for years anyway.
As an editor, I spend hours at the computer, often losing track of the time of day.
So being in the house isn't hard for me at all.
But for nine weeks?
With only a trip to the drugstore or a ride in the country to break the monotony?

Having an appointment with one of my doctors seems like a real treat.
A few minutes spent, yes masked, but sitting a few feet away from someone else.

What I am having the worst time with is my anger.
Daily, I watch tv footage of people marching, often armed, demanding that states lift restrictions, go back to "normal."
I listen to the medical authorities who say this unusual virus has already mutated once and is more contagious than it was at first.
I don't want to stay indoors for another two months, three months or more.
I want our curve to flatten enough that we can move about, carefully and with common sense, without sheer terror of contracting the virus.

But every person out there who is chomping at the bit to go to a restaurant, walk through a supermarket or attend a sporting event, puts me at risk. Puts my family at risk. Puts everyone with whom he/she comes in contact at risk.

How dare they?
How dare they put their selfish demands above the well-being of others?
How dare they force this quarantine to last...and last... and last.

Their selfishness is disgusting.

Yes, I am sympathetic to those small business owners who are suffering the loss of their livelihoods.
Yes, I believe some can open safely if they follow guidelines and rules.

But many Americans don't do that.
They think they are so exceptional that rules and guidelines only stifle their freedoms, not keep them safe.

We raise our kids to be concerned with others, to take care of people, to follow the Golden Rule.
Well, being outdoors in large groups, unmasked, standing shoulder to shoulder, while a vicious virus is still circulating from person to person is simply stupid.

And as a lot of people have been saying lately, you can't fix stupid.
You can only hope stupid isn't contagious and that eventually stupid is forced to conform to smart.