Pandemic Diaries

Karen Egee, Brunswick, Maine

My husband and I moved to Maine from Boston suddenly, to help out my 85–year–old father when the pandemic hit
Journal entry early April

I dream of a damp trail through the woods. It is one of those dreams that seems totally real. I can see puddles of water pooling over pebbles. Through the water, I see a layer of brown pine needles covering dead leaves, covering dark earth, the edges dotted with piles of melting snow. 

“This,” I tell myself in my dream, dreaming that I woke up, “This trail, these woods no longer exist. Remember? Coronavirus. Remember? It’s all gone.” 
 
Then I start waking up for real, slowly, in layers. It’s still dark. It’s true. It’s not true. Pandemic. Big red numbers on the news, unfathomable numbers, more dead every night. That map on the front of the newspaper with our city and cities everywhere covered in overlapping blood red circles. Hospitals overflowing, people dying without loved ones there, doctors, nurses, others, risking their own lives to help. It is all true. 
 
But the path in the woods where the dog and I walk every morning does still exist. Later, when it’s light, after I feed him and let him out, after I check the paper, before I digest it, before I scramble eggs and fry bacon for my husband and father, we will walk along that path in the woods, he wagging, sniffing, trotting ahead, me breathing in cool air, my feet maybe getting wet through my sneakers, where the snow is mostly melted, in the puddles of my dream. 

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

Elaine Nussbaum, Scappoose, Oregon

September 10

Gabrielle Trumbly, a videographer and Jennifer Paulson drive from Portland to Paulson’s childhood home of Molalla, fifty miles southwest of Estacada, to record the fire surrounding the town. Paulson and Trumbly leave when it becomes too dangerous, but locals post on Facebook: they are members of Antifa and have come to commit arson. This is not true, but rumors rage like wildfire, and are almost as hard to squelch.

September 12

In his book Rage, Bob Woodward reveals that Trump knew how bad Covid-19 was, back in the beginning of February, but told the public, “. . . like a miracle it will disappear.” Almost 200,000 people have died of Covid-19. There are 2,236 active fires in the Western United States, and Portland’s air quality is the worst of any major city in the world.

September 13

It seems like a pleasant fall day with fog caught between the branches of scraggly firs, and the smell of wood smoke in the air, but the Air Quality Index is 422. When I deliver supplies to the Fire Evacuation Center at the fairgrounds, a Country Western band plays to empty chairs set up in a field. The song they play is “This World Will Never Be the Same Again.”

Miriam Karmel, Minneapolis, Minnesota

Sheltering in place since early March without visitors
Journal entry September 6

I plan to make pasta with pesto for lunch, as if I were matriarch of a large family that gathers on Sundays. Alas, it is only B & moi. I am grateful for his presence. Still. He is on the front deck reading a book about Frederick Douglass, a birthday gift from Jessica. I’m upstairs, making entries in my morning notebooks.

I contemplate a glass of wine with our lunch, as if we are Paola and Guido Brunetti, at our fictional flat in Venice, he back from a morning of sleuthing, me having finished grading papers. Oh, to be in Venice! But I am trying, oh am I trying, to be here, in the now. Why is it so hard? 

We have a late lunch. Pasta with pesto made with basil I picked from the pot on the back deck, part of my make-shift container garden that has given me solace during this unsettling time. Leftover salad. Wine. Pellegrino.  I set the table in the dining room. I set out a small vase of zinnias (picked from another pot on the deck). Cloth napkins. White dishes. We sit down, unfold our napkins with a flourish, toast each other. We pretend the family is gathered around us. Everybody is laughing. Chattering. Telling stories. The grandkids are well behaved. B and I are so happy! We invent conversations with them. When we finish eating, I turn to B and say, “They left so early. I miss them already.” 

Elaine Nussbaum, Scappoose, Oregon

September 7

While we pick grapes in the backyard, the sky turns milky white. Blasts of hot air stir the leaves — still green — to a frenzy. There is a strong smell of smoke. I find Fires Near You on-line but can’t load the app. David drives up the road for a better view. I call our neighbor who thinks it’s blowing up from fires in Southern Oregon and California, which could be true. The internet reveals that a Gender Reveal Party Goes Wrong in Yucaipa, California. Gender reveal parties often involve fireworks. Thirty major fires burn in California, but the wind is blowing from the east.
 
September 8

The sun rises, a dull orange orb in the gray sky. Yesterday, an east wind event blew up a human-caused fire near Estacada, a suburb southeast of Portland. Started in dry grass, it soon spread to timber and rough terrain. In Detroit, Oregon, fifty miles — as the crow flies — south of Estacada, fire SURROUNDS the town. A volunteer fire-fighter films as he drives his family out through the dense smoke, fire licking at the edges of the frame. Is this normal? his son asks. No, son. It is anything, but normal.

September 9

Where I live in Scappoose, the Air Quality Index is 375. Anything over 300 is considered Hazardous. A young woman rides her bike down a quiet side-street. The sky is gray. She does not wear a helmet. She is not wearing a mask. She smokes a cigarette. 

Rosanne Singer, Baltimore, Maryland

Journal entry October 2

Like so many of us I have been keeping social distance from people throughout the day, every day—on my daily dog walks, as I maneuver past fellow customers in grocery stores, when I spend a rare visit with a friend outdoors and even when I see family. I’ve been learning over Zoom, attending events on Zoom and sadly had to say goodbye to a loved one on Zoom. So it has been a remarkable treat to teach a memoir workshop in person at a senior residence in Baltimore. Of course, every precaution is taken—I use hand sanitizer, fill out a health questionnaire, have my temperature taken, wear a face shield and stand alone on an auditorium stage while masked participants work at socially distanced individual tables in the audience area. But together we have found a way to make this an emotional, intimate experience that bridges the physical distance. Each week participants bring in a written piece that is part of their life story. They share it out loud and listeners gently ask questions or comment. Even without a microphone or shouting we are able to hear each other. One week a woman read us a remembrance of September 11th when she worked close to the World Trade Center and experienced the shock and trauma of that morning but also the humanity and kindness of those around her. She wasn’t sure she would have the courage to read her story out loud, but she did and received what felt like an emotional embrace from all of us in the room. I took this photo from the stage on August 27th.

Kim Klugh, Lancaster, Pennsylvania

Journal entry September 19 

Woke up to a beautiful day for our son’s small, backyard wedding at his fiancée’s
home. This mini-wedding became plan B since the gala event scheduled for October had to be postponed until 2021. This day has been marked on my wall calendar only since mid-summer. It’s the only box on this month of 30 days with an actual scheduled event. Two weeks ago, I bought my garden party dress and shoes without being able to try them on at the store. 
 
We’re part of a twelve-person guest list. Small hand sanitizer bottles sporting the catchy phrase “Spread love not germs” and hand-made masks are the new backyard wedding favors.  
 
The bride and groom wrote their own vows, an aunt shared a reading written by my son, I read a poem, the bride’s mother shared a reflection, my husband coordinated the ceremony, and the bride’s sister was the wedding official who signed the marriage license. Even the bride’s horse cooperated and stood by the fence during the ceremony, wearing his new, rose-bedecked halter. 
 
The wedding cake was a cinnamon roll cake baked by the aunt; trays of assorted whoopie pies rounded out the dessert table. An uncle delivered the toast, and we drank to the couple with Prosecco served in plastic champagne flutes. It was intimate, surprisingly elegant, and oh so joyful. Best day of 2020!  

David Etheridge, Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Journal entry August 10

Online is fine for Phnom Penh students with good wifi, but outside the city the service is poor or non-existent. And students from the provinces don’t have the hardware. “At home, I share smartphone with my younger sister and mother,” pings Linna. Ratanak in Kampot runs his laptop off his phone hotspot which for several courses a week is expensive . . . and these days who’s still working in Kampot? Have a 9-student roster — 5 turn up and another 3 check in but have wifi problems and leave; 1 is absent. 
 
I hear wind blowing. Kimchen’s gone to a riverside restaurant where the wifi is better than at home.  “My internet interrupt now,” pings Sreyleap. Linna chats that she can’t talk during class because she’s at Cafe Joma. Ratanak’s microphone icon bobs:
 
“Ratanak, why are we listening to your rock ’n roll?”
“Sorry, teacher.”
“Please … or I mute you. Now . . . Does everyone understand the hypothesis?”
 
You ask the question and get nothing: 
 
“Does silence mean ‘Yes, I get it.’ ‘No, I don’t.’ Or ‘I don’t care.’”? 
 
Silences are exhausting. In the classroom, you read a weak smile or a face, and reformulate. But zooming, students don’t show themselves, so silences are inscrutable, almost always empty.  
 
“Today my internet is so super slow,” says Sreyleap. 
“Stay with me, please.”
“Okay, teacher.”
“And we’ll finish early.”
 
*
 
Telegram pings: “Please remind ur students to pay tuition fees.” Sreymom.
 
We’re not state funded, so we take the future on faith. Haven’t seen a pay check in three months. Sreymom asks if I’m stressed. “Only when I think about it.” It’s my Covid gift to the developing world: Work in the air, get paid by the wind. . .  it’s all right here, right now in the tropical heat with lousy wifi.
 
“Stay w/ us, teachers,” pings Sreymom.

George Bandy, Alexandria, Virginia

Journal entry August 31 

Woke up with a dream of me laughing. 

In the dream, Freda and I are in our bedroom but we’re much younger—maybe thirty. 

Two beds: one in the closet & the one we were using by the window. 

A male friend is there & some unknown young woman is sitting on an old couch I got rid of fifteen years ago. My friend goes in front of her and turns the TV down without comment, then goes back to the bedroom. 

Why, I do not know. 

I apologize and tell her my friend must think he’s in his own apartment. She ignores me, caught up in I Love Lucy on the TV. I get my friend. He says somebody’s left us a Mac. 

I laughed throughout the dream, so much that I woke up, wide awake laughing and felt great. First time I’d ever done that. VERY GOOD!
 
My vacation from the pandemic!

Amy Louise Rubin, Baltimore, Maryland

Journal entries May and June 

The mandalas came out of my survival instinct, along with my desire to create.
They also came from feelings that I could not express and the need to see and create beauty in a tragic time.

Nesta Hatendi, divides her time between Zimbabwe and Australia

Journal entry September 21

Morning! Phase Four Melbourne style. We have not yet approached the intended targets, so we can all go about our business. People are getting restless, complaining about loss of personal liberties. But the restrictions are working and numbers are going down—for now. Daniel Andrews has just held his 81st consecutive press conference and announced two deaths and 11 new cases. We are living macabre lives when we are fixated by the yo-yoing of daily life and death figures of anonymous people who we are further dehumanizing as statistics.

Before leaving the house earlier, I heard heavy footsteps on the wooden floor of someone coming to boil the kettle for their early morning tea. Monday morning, ready for working from home. I left all that and walked around the block, round the playing field where early morning dog walkers congregate and their pets ignore social distancing. Down the sloping pavements and then I took a new route. I started to feel disoriented, only to discover I was on a street near home. How did I manage that? The longer I stay here the more I realize that this will always be a foreign land. I dream of home where my only current connection is WhatsApp group messages from distant people living their lives in the new normal. Covid-19 should never be allowed to determine my life, living with me like an uninvited houseguest.

Johnny Stone, Raleigh, North Carolina

I am a 93-year-old widower. I live alone. I love to write and draw. I have 5 grown children and have been sheltering in place since May.

Journal entry May 31

At 9:46 a.m.  My oldest son Junior called to check on me. Phone call was short and brief. Just wanted to know if I slept well and what I ate for breakfast. Remember Dad, don’t go outside. Okay. Love you.
 
At 11:33 a.m.  Tracy my youngest son called to check on me. He thinks he is my father. Loves to give advice and counsel. But in a loving way. Dad, you need to start taking vitamins. Dad, you can get exercise if you walk from room to room for 15 minutes a day. I told him I would feel like a mouse in a maze. He laughed and encouraged me to stay limber. Don’t get stuck on the couch watching those cowboy movies all day. Alright. Love you.
 
At 3:15 p.m.  Lisa called. My youngest and only girl. What’s up, Dad? Have you been drinking enough water? She knows I hate drinking water so she promises to drop off some flavored water and also a gift. After badgering her, she told me gift would be my new companion. A Betta fish. See you soon, Dad. Love you too.
 
At 7:12 p.m.  I received a call from Kevin. Just called to see how you doing, Dad. He was in a terrible car accident a couple of years ago and had to learn how to walk again. I asked more questions about him than he did me. Just hearing his voice and knowing he’s doing much better was good enough for me.
 
At 9:48 p.m.  Soon as I heard Hey Daddy-O, I knew it was son Stan. He calls me Daddy-O because he says I’m a cool dad. He lives in San Francisco. He told me a client of his died from Corona. It started with blood clots in the legs. So most of our phone call was questions about how I was feeling. Any unusual pains, Dad? No sniffles or headaches?
 
At 11:58 p.m.  Going to bed after watching news and eating a nice piece of NY strip. Best part of my day was all the check-ups from my kids. This corona thing has really increased their communication with me. I love it.

Ilene Millman, Hillsborough, New Jersey

Journal entry August 6

Today was Shlomo’s Bar Mitzvah, the day the family was scheduled to stand together, her siblings’ feet for the first time on the continent where Melissa has lived for ten years, the day for the coveted picture — all our children and grandchildren encircling us. Instead, the wonders of technology delivered the event to us, sort of and for a while.

Via live stream we were able to view, see and hear Shlomo give his speech (in Hebrew so his friends could understand. We’ll wait for an emailed English translation.) Marty gave his Poppy speech via Zoom (wearing white dress shirt, jacket and tie above, shorts below).

Binny ran around pointing his cellphone video, so we could get a feel for the excitement of the dancing, the celebration, while the photographer moved around snapping photos. He instructed us to hold our iPad in a particular direction, placed a smiling Shlomo in front of the screen. Like moving props around a movie set, he adjusted our positions, snapped several shots and informed us a photo of us with Shlomo would appear in the Bar Mitzvah album. Surreal.

And then, the link was lost. A not subtle metaphor I’m afraid. One minute you’re there, albeit some two-dimensional rendition of proud grandparents, and poof you’re gone. But there’s that line, from Hirschfield I think, “. . . that you came to love, that was the gift.” Going back to living with less, I’ll try to see it.

Isabel Learza, Baltimore, Maryland

Sheltering at home since March 13  
Journal entry August 8

When Terrylynn invited me to Asa’s art show in their back yard, I was tickled to hear about her five-year-old art spirit daughter living across the street. Saturday afternoon their yard filled with masked neighbors, even Janet, who rolled her walker up the hill to be there, a week after her hip replacement. 
 
Asa’s paintings and drawings were mounted on black cloth that covered the fence. 
She made her first painting at the beginning of the shut down, when the family had to cancel their annual visit with her Nana in Bermuda. She looked forward to the visit all year. But no flying out over the ocean this year. Her first painting, “The Big Deep Sea: Waterfall”, came from her sadness and fear of deadly Corona that kept her from her grandmother. It’s a big dark abstract painting, overwhelming, like drowning.
 
Terrylynn said Asa wanted the paintings and drawings to be in chronological order;
and moving along the fence, we could see/feel a shift. She painted “The Big Mind Imagination Town.” And once she understood her imagination could take her places, she made colorful drawings of the playground she couldn’t visit and the July 4th fireworks she wouldn’t get to see. And rainbows started appearing — a Rainbow Castle Gate, a Rainbow Waterfall. And a beautiful Rainbow Palmtree to bring her close to Nana in Bermuda. It seemed that Asa had found her way through the fear and strangeness of Covid times into joy.

Kurt Schmidt, Fitzwilliam, New Hampshire

Sheltering in my home with my wife since March
Journal entry September 11

Our country feels as unsafe today as it did nineteen years ago on September 11, 2001.

Although dismayed at watching the tragedy of 9/11 alone at home that day, I didn’t feel the anxiety that permeated the voices of the TV reporters as they described the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. Perhaps I’d lived too many years with my own demons to be frightened of the anonymous jihadists. It was with a calm voice that I described the course of events to my son when he arrived on the school bus and allowed him to see replays of the events on TV.

I wanted to assure him that God would keep him safe after we watched disturbing TV images of Islamic terrorists crashing planes into the World Trade Center in New York City. But I had no clue how God and terrorists fit together.

“Why did they do it?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“If they exploded a nuclear bomb in Boston, would it reach this far?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think they have a nuclear bomb.”

“Why did those people jump off the top of the World Trade Center?”

On watching a TV commentary about the threat from chemical and biological weapons, he asked, “Do we need gas masks?”

I said there was no need to worry about things we couldn’t control. “Don’t worry. We’re going to be all right.”

“Why do the terrorists hate America?”

I felt then like the Englishman in the old movie Zorba the Greek, when Zorba asks him in a moment of agony, “Why does anybody die?” The Englishman says, “I don’t know.” Zorba says, “What’s the use of all your damn books if they don’t tell you that?” The Englishman says, “They tell me about the agony of men who can’t answer questions like that.”

Today I write about the agony of being attacked by another enemy — a pandemic that is ubiquitous.

Suzanne Iuppa, Aberdyfi, Snowdonia National Park, North Wales   

Alone since March 23rd, I had not seen any family since December 25th
Journal entry August 31
 
The sand is very fine, a light creamy yellow, cool and a perfect dampness a few inches underneath, for building sandcastles. He brings his spade up, full of angel-fines, and puts it into his bright orange bucket. I am digging a hole with my hands big enough for him to stand in.
 
I show him how to level the top when it is full, with his spade. He shows me how to tip the bucket over­ — tap tap tap. It’s delightful to see the castle turrets, real in the air. And to knock them right over! To stand in a tunnel and let Grandma cover your feet, shins and knees; then to break the mold. 
 
He has done this before. Perhaps once?
 
We decide it’s best for him not to wear his nappy into the ocean. It’s the warmest seawater temperature of the year. He shows a good respect, wanting to hold our hands to run into the waves. He watches the wet sand accept his feet and close over his ankles, with the real power to petrify. Then he runs across the breakers, shrieking. He knows to fling himself down in the magic strip where the surf is just coming in, and feel his whole body halfway between two elements. Above us, clear blue sky and it feels like last day of summer, but everyone is so aware of it. We are stealing it back for one day.
 
On a wide, wild Cardigan Bay beach, usually littered with a host of stranded jellyfish 
— not a single one.
 

Katy Stanton, Westminster, Maryland   

Journal entry September 9

Today is the second day of # Scholar Strike. Difficult to strike from my teaching responsibilities but I keep reminding myself that my abstinence from labor for these 48 hours is making a point — that I stand in solidarity with others for racial justice and against systemic racism in all its ugly forms. To focus, I rest in The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin, listen to the interviews of Isabel Wilkerson.

My college teaching until March was a joyful expression of what matters a great deal to me. I could live and learn with young people, so vibrant with their tattoos and neon hair and pronouns. I felt an adrenalin rush walking across campus, a place to explore creative ideas and indulge in deep thinking.

Then Covid hit, and I was told to prepare for online teaching in one week. My fun, part-time two-day-a-week gig turned into a 24/7 anxiety attack in front of the computer screen. No one seemed able to read instructions that took me hours to compose. Everyone had questions in my email Inbox. Students were in different time zones. Some who had loved class disappeared into cyberspace. The learning curve has been steep. Last Monday I set up a discussion forum for classwork, but students couldn’t access it. Those attending remotely wrote sarcastic comments in the chat and never turned on their cameras to show their faces. 
 
I do not feel like I am teaching, merely surviving the pandemic and hoping to help my students do the same. I dream of a future where I will not worry when a student coughs or be afraid to read a thesis statement over someone’s shoulder. 

For today, I am with my colleagues and students, on strike for racial justice, dreaming we will soon wake up to a better world.

David Etheridge, Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Journal entry July 28

Last night’s gecko droppings are on the desk—she eats dengue-infected mosquitoes, so fair trade . . . freaks me once a day darting out from under the bed. She doesn’t move quickly up the wall; she moves erratically.
 
*
 
Listen to old Zeppelin tracks and weep—the tunes take me back, take me don’t know where and I ache for lost time. How did I get from Kashmir to here?
 
*
 
For a Saturday there are fewer people out although all the street hawkers are there and BBK market is fully open. Most wear masks except Westerners. I don’t notice, so barge into the pharmacy, but on the way out I see that people wait outside to go in one at a time. Try to keep at least a meter distance, two if possible, but others don’t observe that protocol. 
 
Temperature check at AEON Maxvalu Express, then a westerner is too close and I say, “Step back . . . please.”
 
“Oiy, I stand wherever.”
 
I don’t know where the line is between fear of Covid and careful of Covid. I’m a wear-a-mask-all-the-time guy. There are too many “que sera, sera,” insha’allah, “if it’s God’s will . . .”, and “I don’t believe it” folks wandering around. I’m not afraid of Covid . . . I’m afraid of people. And it finally happens—at Thai Huot I’m temperature checked and set off the alarm, 38C (100.4F). She stops me and I panic. “Where to buy food? Who doesn’t temp check?” And she holds the gun under the ceiling AC draft for a few moments, then checks me again and I’m okay. I shop here; she checks my temp. We know each other.

Sue Fagalde Lick, South Beach, Oregon

Sheltering in place for 6 months
Journal entry September 3

The weirdness gets old. I saw my ophthalmologist, Dr. Haines, yesterday. He pronounced my eyes “perfect.” At 68, that’s a relief. He did not say anything about the embarrassing moment when he came into the examining room and found me crawling on the floor looking for my hearing aid—which fell off as I was adjusting my COVID mask.
 
COVID protocol included calling from my car when I arrived, just like at the dentist’s and the veterinarian’s office. “Jeremy” told me they had a seat available in the waiting room. Half the tan chairs were blocked off. Exactly one masked gray-haired person sat in each section. Jeremy took my temperature (97.7) and handed me a pandemic questionnaire: had I been sick? did I know anyone with COVID? had I traveled anywhere? 
            
After the assistants called two old ladies in, Jeremy scurried out with wipes to sanitize the chairs where they had sat. 
            
When my turn came, the assistant led me past the inner waiting room where people usually wait and talk to each other while their pupils dilate. The chairs were shoved against the wall, the TV off. 
            
The exam was quick, tense as I leaned my chin on the machine and Dr. Haines stared into my eyes. Usually he keeps up a constant chatter, but not this time. “Perfect,” he said. “Congratulations.” He offered an elbow bump, and I left, squinting in my dark glasses as I walked out into the blinding sun.

Rich Bates, Columbus, Ohio

Journal entry September 4

We are bored. I am growing weary of my own company. We are getting punchy. We are regressing to infantile behavior. Yesterday, Sharon complained of my not clearing the almond butter wad off the shared spoon I handed her to dip her own dollop of apple-wedge-smeared-nutty-delight so I chased her around the kitchen waving it wildly as if to smear on her smock! She screamed; I giggled. I am deranged! Sanity is becoming a casualty of this isolation. 
 
I try journaling (ala Cameron, Way of the Artist and Progoff the Jungian) and grow numb with stream of consciousness idiocy. I try meditating without my Zen sanga and nap sitting upright. I read insightful tomes explaining the causes for the rise and devastation of this demagogue and nod off after 10 minutes. 
 
I watch the birds flutter at the feeders and am mesmerized into catatonia. I am learning to distinguish the variety of bird calls of each species, but wonder at the shrunken life of a 15X20 foot condo patio vs. an 8 acre farmstead in the midst of thousands of acres of open farm ground and the half globe of an endless sky stretching to an endless horizon. But memory serves and I return to tiny but explosive things—a goldfinch watching me as he plucks a kernel from the feeder, chops it in half, letting the tailing fall while he tongues the remainder down his throat. A song sparrow splashes in the mini bird bath and then serenades me from the crab apple overhanging our fence. 
 
The telescope collapses to the microscope but life still pulses. Maybe.

Patricia McTiernan, Arlington, Massachusetts

Journal entry March 22

I’m two weeks out from turning 60, which this year seems like crossing a chasm. The coronavirus is more lethal in “older people,” which is now defined as those over 60. (One study I read about tonight has “older people” as those over 50.) I also read 
something about ventilators—that they will give them to people with labored breathing, and that the average adult takes 12 to 20 breaths per minute. I timed myself, and I took only 9 breaths for that one minute as I sat in my reading chair, fairly relaxed. Does that mean I’ll be in better shape should I get the virus or worse shape? Has 30 years of swimming several days per week strengthened my lung capacity? Or does the fact that I take an immune suppressant for an autoimmune disease mean I’m doomed? Does the fact that I don’t have children and grandchildren make me ineligible for a ventilator, should I need one? Or does my age work in my favor there, given I’m on the younger side of “old age”?
 
I know I need to stop reading. I need to make a schedule. I need to do so many 
things. Life is going to change so drastically. I’m retiring, and the world should be my oyster—and I cannot leave the neighborhood.
 
When the sun shines, it’s like a beckoning to go outdoors, but then I remember: it’s 
dangerous outdoors. Stay 6 feet away from everyone. Don’t breathe.

Susan Milord, Rome, Italy

Journal entry, March – August

I couldn’t see my Italian sweetheart for two and a half months. He works in IT for the Ministry of Health, definitely an essential worker. When we were finally permitted to see one another, I was nervous: what might he introduce from the outside world? “I don’t think you have to worry,” he laughed. “I work in what is probably the most rigorously disinfected building in the entire country.”
 
I occasionally teach conversational English. Two students switched to Skype lessons; a third, a dear neighbor who’s a lawyer, had just started working with me to prepare for an interview in English. We continued meeting in my home, taking all necessary precautions. We were, however, definitely breaking the rules. “If we’re caught, at least I have a lawyer to defend me,” I told him.
 
I feel for the many businesses impacted by the lack of tourism, but on my rare visits downtown it’s so delightful to see families enjoying all sorts of spaces that are usually packed with tourists. For a time, at least, Rome belongs to us, the people who live here.
 
These last two months I’ve managed to go out nearly every day. Mostly it’s to take a brisk morning walk, stopping at the outdoor market on my way home. Sometimes it’s to run an errand. Whenever I leave home, I have my mask on. In fact, most people wear masks when they’re in public. We’ve learned to smile with our eyes.

Lori Drawl, Cortland, Ohio

Journal entry August 15

I find it ironic that the pandemic hit in 2020, a numerically symbolic reminder that hindsight is 20/20. 
 
I often find myself recollecting my deceased Grandma Helen’s painful tales of the plague from a century-ago. She was nine years old when the Spanish flu struck her family in the Appalachian foothills of Belmont County, Ohio. It was January 16, 1918, when her mother succumbed to complications from the flu just nine days after giving birth to baby Flora. Two days later, her maternal grandfather also died. Within the next year, her Uncle David died.
 
As the oldest child in the family, Grandma Helen found herself in the position of surrogate mother to her five younger siblings. Unfortunately, Flora died in August from the likely preventable ailment of “diarrhea”; however a child being raised solely by her nine-year-old sister probably didn’t stand much of a chance. Her father resorted to alcohol to cope and became an abusive tyrant.
 
A microscopic germ wreaked havoc on this family leaving emotional scars and lifestyle coping mechanisms that even affected future generations. Grandma Helen became a bit of a germ-a-phobe, sometimes bordering on hypochondria. As a child, I recall her over-protective nature and hypervigilance to exposure to any contagion, no matter how minor.
 
Grandma’s memories provide 20/20 hindsight to a cautionary tale. With clear vision, I don’t complain when asked to wear a mask, wash my hands, and socially distance. The consequences were very real in 1918 . . . and are again in 2020.

I decided to try to paint portraits while self-isolating. These are two of my grandchildren who live in Las Vegas (Liam & Bryce).

Diane Kendig, Canton, Ohio

Journal entry April 17 

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

 Reading Lesley Wheeler’s poem “Energize”:
 
. . . how, lord
did I get to Boston
I drove theoretically . . .” 
(from The State She’s In 2020)
 
. . . where she gets her mother out of the hospital, sets her up in an apartment, I think, how, lord, have I gotten back to Canton? Theoretically I flew in four times to get Dad into an apartment—and then I moved here.  
 
And now the fallout of the Corona virus for me today is relief that Dad is not here for it. The first year without Dad, and for once, I am glad he did not have to live, not through this. If I had managed to bring him home, it would have been nursing beyond me, as I’m the world’s worst nurse. If my family had talked me into leaving him there, he would be medicated into submission by now, and I would be outside his window, sobbing.
 
And for me and my husband, home alone together, having survived in adulthood the deaths of one sibling, four parents, and a beloved single aunt and having been, each of us, the one lone family member there for each of those who died, we remain ready for whatever comes.

Marilyn Palasky, Summerlin, Nevada

Sheltering in place since March 17
Journal entry July 18

It’s 116 degrees on the thermometer outside the kitchen window, says Tom my resident ventilation expert. Really, he has certificates on his wall from his coal mine bossing days in Southern Illinois. When he says the AC can’t keep up, no more stove cooking or baking, I take note. The peaches are ripe; what to do when it’s too hot to cook?

It’s 126 degrees today in Death Valley just a little East of us . . . I think about the peaches which might be cooking themselves in the garage. Tom’s asleep at 9pm; before dawn is the coolest time of day for golf. I finished my re-write at 11ish after mentally romancing those peaches all day . . . reminiscing about the girlhood backdoor bushel of peaches left for my mom and us girls to can-em-all. Dare I make a pie?

July 19, 2020

My mom’s Audubon bird clock hooted midnight. I set the blanching pot on to boil, put the bowl of ice-cube water next to it, set the stove to 375 degrees—Ta Da—personal peach processing set to begin! Sweetheart, this is the essence of pleasure . . . to hold a Summer warm fuzzy fruit, plunk it into roil boil float, fork it into freezing cold water, slide its thin skin off with both hands. Then, place the whole slippery roundness in one hand while I halve it with the little knife in the other. The best part is slicing through the halved roundness in your palm: 8Xs half, 1X length. Zup. Pie!

David Etheridge, Phnom Penh, Cambodia

February
 
[Prime Minister] Hun Sen says that he’d rather have Cambodians infected with the virus than anger the Chinese by evacuating students from Wuhan — “We will keep them there, so sorrow and happiness in any circumstance can be shared.”
 
Sreymom says, “What leader doesn’t look after his people?”
 
March
 
In BKK 1, [Phnom Penh community] Cambodian laborers and Chinese capital work through the night to build glass tower gardens like Shanghai . . . and you see a head-shaven barefoot monk in a saffron robe wearing a black face mask waiting for a tuk-tuk under a streetlamp . . . and in that flickering yellow light . . . he could be an extra in a zombie apocalypse movie . . . and you joke about him but he believes in something . . . and you don’t know what to believe these days . . . so you believe in nothing . . .  And it’s like that.
 
April
 
Watched The Salzburg Connection, 1972 movie, and binged on 10 episodes of Gracepoint (aka Broadchurch ITV series) with Vanessa yesterday. Today it’ll be The Fall.
 
May
 
After Anyza’s illegal crossing into Thailand, she zooms into class from just over the border at Aranyaprathet.
 
“Thank you so much teacher for your good advice. Especially for your kindness when we have a mistake.”
 
Anyza’s pregnant and working in her shop. She asks about prepositions of place. She unmutes her zoom camera phone which is on the floor tilted up, and she’s in shorts and crop top, leaning in and out of the camera, and suddenly I’m a voyeur.
 
June
 
Monks are expert at cremating skinny Cambodians, but not so effective with thick-boned Europeans . . . your $500 goes only so far. On the third day you’ll receive your spouse’s ashes in a box and a Lucky Market bag with charred anklebone pieces. As part of the new entering-the-country Covid protocol, the Ministry of Health charges tourists for testing, quarantine, and $1500 for cremation if necessary, so no messy bits or plastic bags.

Julia Spring, Manhattan, New York

Three and a half months of somewhat lessening quarantine
Journal entry, July 31

There are tiny ants in the bathroom eleven stories up, and we have an onslaught of water bugs like never before. The pandemic is pushing against the air conditioning at the windows, and my sister-in law has gone downhill in every way since she entered rehab for a broken hip at the start of March and got trapped there by the quarantine. The Times has an article about how the City is now subtropical; the piece of ginger I stuck in dirt months ago sends out a shoot, proving the point.
 
I’m not really interested in dystopia but I have a sudden image of decay: Manhattan taken over by roaches, ants, reptiles; population decimated by Covid, TB, malaria. Kudzu, mangrove, other trees and creeping plants, cover the collapsed skyscrapers until all that’s left is gently rolling tropical jungle on my island, shrunken by rising waters.

Sue Abare-Gritter, Truth or Consequences, New Mexico

Journal entry, August 4

Retired. 25 miles from the nearest small town. Stay at home doesn’t impact one much under these conditions. Oh, the occasional trip for needed groceries and doctoring. Masks, yeah, in the car, in the truck, in the house and hand sanitizer too. Otherwise, oblivious to it all except for the intrusive news.
 
Last friend visit in March. No family in the state or even a nearby state. Phone calls vital. Anniversary today. Normal celebration includes going to dinner. Nothing in New Mexico has dine-in. 
 
Ok, a bit of a lark and whimsy mixed, drive 120 miles to El Paso; stay in car, have our favorite steak dinner delivered curbside. Drive home, finish cooking on grill, celebrate. 
 
Quarantine for two weeks because we left the state? Nah, never stepped on Texas soil. That should count for something.  
 
Birthday in a few days. Found patio dining at a Las Cruces fav. Today’s temps, 100 plus, no end in sight. Sigh. Reservation made.
 
Adapt.

David Rock, Rexburg, Indiana

Journal entry, March 27

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

Mary Fontaine, Dahab, Egypt

Journal entry August 3

For the last three years, I’ve been living in Dahab, a Bedouin town on the southeast coast of the Sinai Peninsula. Here, there are no masks, no lock down, no physical distancing, no information. The coronavirus must be here somewhere, but officials aren’t talking, and people go about their lives as usual. It’s like we’re not in the world. In Cairo and major Egyptian cities, 10 hours from where I am by car, 90,000 people are infected, so I fear it’s just a matter of time. One day everyone here might just drop dead.  
 
I read and watch the US news in despair, deeply depressed by the devastation there. So far, one friend has died, and another has been very sick for two months. I’m worried about my daughter in CA and my sister in SC, but flights home are infrequent, so I couldn’t get there even if it were safe to travel. I’ll have to continue to watch this disaster film from afar, fearing for family, friends, and people throughout the country and fervently hoping the election will remove the incompetent and seemingly uncaring government responsible for the widespread suffering.

David Kopelke, Queensland, Australia

Journal entry August 5

The main resurgence of COVID-19 is in Melbourne. This is about 30 hours by road from us and two states away. Despite what Trump has said, Australia is not “devastated” by COVID-19. Yes, there has been a 500% increase in infections; but Australia was recording only a couple of cases a day and we are recording now over 500 a day. So, I guess it is accurate to say that we have had a 500% increase. However, when compared to the US, this is still not a lot. We are currently recording about 11 deaths a day. 

Unfortunately, some Australians are getting very tired of the whole thing and we are starting to get more and more people not taking the issue seriously. Victoria, the worst affected state, has around 800 cases in lockdown yet the police found over 300 were not in quarantine. This is been why there has been such a jump in the number of COVID-19 cases. Our governments are taking the matter seriously with lockdowns and border closures put in place. 

My state had three people go to Victoria, party, then lie on returning to Queensland. They all caught COVID-19 while in Victoria. They are now facing AUD20,000 fine and up to 5 years in jail. Unfortunately, many of those who are breaking quarantine have missed out on government financial support. They are lowly paid and if they don’t work, they have no money to buy food so they go to work even though they are sick just so that they can feed their family. 
 
This week, the government introduced paid pandemic leave to address people working while sick.

Although only a small group, there are some who are critical of the steps that the federal and state governments are taking. The mostly right-wing media gives high-profile to those who like to attack the rules such as having to wear masks or stay in quarantine. These people use scripts direct from the US claiming Magna Carta and other ridiculous legal bases for not having to follow the law. They haven’t even bothered to change the measurements to metric when arguing and use American language.

I loved my time in the US. You are so fortunate to have such a beautiful country (and green, it is so tiring everything brown and dead) and I found the people lovely. This was despite knowing that so many were carrying guns and would be just as happy to shoot you as say hello. 

Dian Seidel, Chevy Chase, Maryland

Recently returned from Pathumthani, Thailand
Journal entry March 1–August 1 

March 1: My husband and I are eager to return home after a stint teaching together in Pathumthani, Thailand. After restocking the pantry and sorting through mail, we rush to visit family, then arrange get-togethers with friends. 
 
Two weeks later, we are caught up in the pandemic. Only essential businesses are open. Our dates with friends become phone calls. In public, people maintain “social distance.” No one hugs or shakes hands. Instead, some Americans adopt something like the Thai wai greeting, palms joined at the chest, head bowed. Thailand issues similar stay-at-home orders. Schools close around the world.
 
In summer, the coronavirus rages like wildfire across America. It’s unclear whether students will return to class in fall. But Thai schools re-open on July 1. We see photos of our kindergartners. Their school uniforms now include masks and face shields. Only two students sit at tables meant for six, but every child is back in class. 
 
The first case of coronavirus detected outside China was in Thailand, but the epidemic is not out of control there. Scientists don’t yet understand why. Maybe the widespread use of masks, maybe the tradition of the wai, keeps germs from spreading. Or maybe it is just good karma. In America, normal activities are suspended. We spend every day together and rarely leave home. We have time to spare. Time to remember Pathumthani.

Ellen Reichman, Kirkland, Washington

Sheltering in place for 151 days
Journal entry April 15  

Maya Angelou—“Hope and fear cannot occupy the same space. Invite one to stay.”

I choose hope. I must say though, it doesn’t seem very hopeful right now. I am one of the fortunate ones. I’m not alone. Jim and I have each other. And our dog. But we are of age. We do have underlying health issues. So, we remain in our cottage. Except for walks. The store. That’s it. 
 
Last night I dreamt I saw my son and grandkids. They were behind a sheer curtain. I ran to open the curtain, and when I did, they were gone.
 
When will I ever see them? Here I am in Seattle. There they are in Washington DC. Will it be safe to fly? I don’t even see my daughter who lives close by. Distance.
 
At 71, my days are precious. Kind of like dog years. Each day is like 7. And, for my grandsons, 5 and 8—each day is also like 7. As they grow. And change.  

My older grandson wrote us a letter. In the mail. He said he wished he could transport himself to our house. I framed the letter. My heart is cracked wide open.
 
But I still have hope. 

Johan Fremling, Uppsala, Sweden

In Sweden we have had a little different approach than many other countries.
Our instructions are that people over 65/70 years of age should keep away from other people. We all have to be aware and keep distance from our fellow citizens.

A crazy world. A lost ship. A ship without control. A ship with no captain. A ship crowded with the fools in charge of the world for the moment, Trump, Putin, Orbán . . . A ship without contact with the ground, the water. A ship with no engine or sail, no steering wheel, no direction. A leaky ship that not yet has reached open water, so we still have time to change the direction. Yes we can!

Barbara Kivowitz, San Francisco, California

Sheltering in place since March 15
Journal entry July 27

I want to be twenty-five again. Not that this was a great time. I was confused. I had no clue that I was beautiful and intelligent. On a good day, I thought I was nonexistent.
 
I want that freedom to doubt that things weren’t likely to get better. Now I know they’re not. I want that young skin and black tar hair. I want more time.
 
I want the Beatles to get back together. I want to live in Laurel Canyon and be the only one Joni will really be friends with. I want to be Van’s brown-eyed girl.
 
I want to still be precocious. I want to be discovered. I don’t want to wait any more for the night watch to find my decaying body.
 
I want to eat everything and not gain weight. I want to leap over mountains and crack my head on the sky. I want both to fly and to be invisible. But if I had to choose, I’d choose invisibility. I already know it so well.
 
I want to go back and hug my dogs again. And follow them to the end times.
 
I want the parents I never had. And I want to tell the ones I did have that I get it, now, I really do. Thank you.
 
Thank you to every molecule and vapor and gene sequence that makes me yearn to start over again. Because that means that in this life, I really did learn something.

Julie Gardner, Bainbridge Island, Washington

Journal entry August 1

Dear John, 

Today, a teaspoon jammed the garbage disposal. No power. I felt underneath for a reset button. Couldn’t find one. Unplugged it. Tried again. No power. Enough already! My mind raced. Should I get a new one or get rid of it? Either way, I’d need a plumber. Who? How long will I have to wait? 

I always think of you at midafternoon coffee time, the way you started that ritual for us on your first day of hastened “retirement” due to the side effects from chemotherapy. As I sat sipping, something told me to find the reset button. I put on my glasses, got up, turned on the light, found the red reset, pushed it, then flipped the switch. Power restored. Thank you. Perhaps loving nearness is always here—if I pause and take time for it, for you.

I often need to hit the reset button. I’m guessing I’m not the only one. A few weeks ago, I sat on a curb with a mask on, far from the people at the Farmer’s Market. I enjoyed the music and memories of being with you, family and friends during your last Saturdays. I wrote and recommitted to life and love.
 
Resetting my life without you hasn’t been easy. I’m doing okay. I have a small pride each time I conquer things I leaned on you for, and I miss having someone to do life with. Coffee with you reminds me, I’m alone. And not. 

Judith Krummeck, Baltimore, Maryland;
ex-Cape Town, South Africa

Essential worker since March 18, WBJC broadcaster
Facebook journaling

3/18 
Radio, apparently, is “essential” work—who knew? Certainly not me, until I was exempt from the governor’s stay-at-home order. 
 
4/18

“. . . Whether consciously or unconsciously, our music choices reflect not only who we are, but also the times in which we collectively live . . .”

4/29 
When you pop out of a door unexpectedly with the lower half of your face obliterated by a mask and the surprised passerby says, “Hello, lovely!” you can only think, “Bless his heart.”
 
6/14
I’ve accepted the challenge to list 7 books that I love—and I’ll make it audiobooks from my commute during the past year #Librofm 
1. The Ninth Hour — Alice McDermott
2. Circe — Madeline Miller
3. Testaments — Margaret Atwood
4. The Dutch House — Ann Patchett
— And, in the time of Corona —
5. Mythos: The Greek Myths Reimagined — Stephen Fry’s singular take on mythology is an escape from the frightening reality of the pandemic 
6. The Other Bennet Sister — Janice Hadlow’s alternative ending for Mary gives me hope
7. The Long Petal of the Sea — As they try, too soon, to end the stay-at-home, Isabel Allende takes me inside the chaos of Spain’s civil war and Chile’s military junta
 
7/14
I’m luckier than most. I get home feeling like a germ bomb—and spend the next twenty minutes washing my hands and mask, and cleaning my glasses and iPhone—but at least my life hasn’t blurred into a shapeless timetable of forgotten Zoom days. 

Nicoletta LaMarca Sacco, Roscoe, New York

Journal entry July 22

Our adult son, diagnosed with autism at 2, now 22, is sheltering with us. In self-quarantine, after so many years struggling, it’s a strange new respite.
 
There have been advantages to the quarantine.
 
“Mom, I just wanted to say I enjoy talking to you while I’ve been here with you and dad.” 
 
Be careful what you wish for, as our son articulating this was a shock. My mouth might have stayed open for a couple of beats. 
 
“Mom, while I’ve been here with you, I’ve been wondering what my chemical cocktail does. I don’t want to be robbed of my dignity anymore, so I asked the psychiatrist. Just throwing meds at me like spaghetti at a wall isn’t effective.” 
 
I could have fallen off my chair hearing Sonny’s self-advocacy. A first.
 
“After all, there is no cure for autism.” 
 
He has a photographic memory, and can be tortured by repetitive thoughts playing like a tape, he says, looping over and over. He explained exactly why he found the overall approach to be a sham. 
 
I’ve never felt more proud of him. Bravo for standing up for yourself, explaining your needs to the doctor, and grabbing the autonomy you deserve. You grabbed what’s yours. Bravo.

Sarah Merrow, Baltimore, Maryland

Journal entry July 16

Our Baltimore rowhouse has been comfortable for sheltering at home; the connected houses on this block are several rooms deep, but only 16 feet wide. All have covered front porches separated by sturdy railings, so physical distancing is easy to accomplish without awkwardness or apology. 
 
During our enforced isolation I’ve been learning to play the ukulele, and last week decided to get a little fresh air and play on the front porch. I quietly strummed and hummed, thinking I was alone. But after finishing a tune, my neighbor Jim popped his head around the corner of his rocking chair and said “that was lovely, thank you.” A few minutes later a young woman two houses down called out “I enjoyed that. I could play the bongos with you!” She introduced herself, then clarified that she didn’t actually own a bongo drum, but that she would buy one in order to play with me on the porch. We had a good laugh over that. She continued, “and this is my friend, Noelle. She is too shy to say hello, but she is learning to play the kalimba!” “That’s a thumb harp, right?” I asked. “Yes, it is!” came the answer, and together we realized that with Jim’s sweet singing voice, a ukulele, bongos, a kalimba, and maybe a glass of wine, we had the promising beginnings of a pandemic porch band. 

Darwin Curtis, Potomac, Maryland

Journal entry, sometime in April

There is much talk today about the negative effects of isolation; about the human need for companionship. About the third day of my time in solitary, I began wondering how I might counter that negative effect of isolation. My first initiative was to try talking to myself. But I found myself quickly numbed by boredom. At the end of my second attempt, I realized I had gone sound asleep for half an hour. 
 
I ran through a mental list of creatures who might keep me company, all of which bellowed or barked or snarled or bit. Then I hit the gerbil. Referring to Google, I read that “gerbils are very social animals who need the company of their own kind in order to be happy.” I wasn’t up for a morose gerbil and I certainly wasn’t ready for mingling with a pride of gerbils, even jolly ones.
 
On the same page, Google offers the thought that “Hamsters definitely can be friendly and enjoy the companionship of their owners.” I knew hamsters to be good listeners, which is unusual among vertebrates. But loquacious? Would I want to acquire a maybe binge-eating hamster without much to say? Or which mumbled? And Google adds: “There are hamsters who . . . make it clear that they prefer to be on their own.” I had second thoughts.
 
As my isolation deepened, I remembered that when I was a little kid, my Aunt Mary Claire had given me two goldfish in a small bowl. In my mind’s eye I could see them belly up and floating. But that was an idea: fish. Well, there was the question of common interests. Fish do seem to enjoy eating fish which are smaller than they are. I, too, enjoy eating fish which are smaller than I am. Beyond that, I could not identify significant areas of rapport. And what does one do with the fish when it’s time to clean the aquarium? Fish? No.
 
A couple of weeks further into solitary, I reopened the subject after asking myself, “Who was that furry old gink with the white beard I just glimpsed?” Maybe, I thought, he’d like to chat. Then I remembered that, at the beginning of my auto-incarceration, I persuaded myself there was no reason to shave. I had just passed a mirror. That furry old gink was me. 

Rim Chon, New York City, New York

Sheltering in place for 70 days
Journal entry May 20

It’s been tough being culinary challenged and quarantined at home alone. Trying to figure out what to eat, breakfast, lunch, and dinner every single day is exhausting. 
 
I’ve rediscovered cottage cheese. It’s delicious and one big spoonful does the trick for a quick hunger fix. I’ve had baked potato as dinner more than I’ve had in the last decade. Instant ramen used to be a treat. Now it feels depressing. 
 
And grocery shopping for food? Forget about it. During my tri-weekly grocery trip, I come home with random items that don’t add up to anything, like a bunch of scallions because I saw an Instagram post about re-growing scallions in a glass of water using the chopped down roots. Now it’s a race against time to eat the bunch before they wilt in addition to the fast re-growing new scallions. I put scallions on everything I eat. Scrambled eggs, fried rice, even on my spaghetti. Bought one avocado, which was carefully monitored for four days. After checking the internet and several texts with my chef sister, it was turned into an avocado toast, topped with scallions. 
 
A triumphant culinary day. 

Debby Kaspari, Norman, Oklahoma

Sheltering in place since early March 
Journal entry July 7

I’m keeping track of my pandemic experiences with a series of “Quarantine Pantry”
paintings. They depict whatever it is I’m hoarding or craving or obsessing over, and
they’re rendered in soft pastels and presented as formal still lifes, side-lit on a blue
cloth with a black background.

The series includes bottles from my craft cocktail obsession, a package of ramen
(our pantry is stacked with cases of it), chocolate bars and sweet potatoes, canned
garbanzo beans to commemorate the week I discovered aquafaba’s magical
meringue-like properties, a bag of flour that for a while was worth its weight in gold
on Amazon, and 5 tomatoes and cucumbers from a victory garden we compulsively
planted across every inch of our small yard. And, of course, the leading index of
COVID-19 anxiety: toilet paper.

Julie Nelson, Iowa City, Iowa

Sheltering in place since March 13
Journal entry July 13

Woke up dreaming. We were in a bakery. No, it was a restaurant, a close space, completely packed with people bumping into each other, could not get away. Did not have a mask. A horrible image in the dream of dead faces in the garbage cans, waking with a start. All day, memories came to me. A moment, a person, some small happiness from long ago. Mom in the gardens by the Cathedral wearing her kerchief. Swimming out to picnic rocks. Walking in a blizzard in Burlington, laughing so hard we could not see. Riding bikes in Rock Creek Park. The morning I drove to work down Connecticut Avenue on 9/11, me singing with radio on, windows down, the radio host that September morning changing our lives forever with the announcement of the Twin Towers as our lives are changing now. Riding the double decker bus in NYC in 2012, on the upper deck, the city streaming by as we coasted past the Flat Iron building, Macys, all over Manhattan Island until without realizing where we were the bus stopped by the church near to the Twin Towers, turned into a memorial, and though we hadn’t meant to we got off at the stop. Dust coating the air of the chapel, still. Wept at photos in the museum, all the people we lost then, (are losing now). Saw name of a college friend who died in the South Tower that day, etched in marble. How I never knew.

Dick Klenk, Westerville, Ohio

Sheltering in place since March 15
Journal entry July 12

My grandson Aidan has played baseball tournaments the last 5 consecutive weeks starting June 11th. All have been in Central Ohio, mostly within an hour’s driving time. Games have been on varying starting days, as early as Tuesday of a week, and going into Sunday, depending on their success. They have won 1 tournament and played in the championship in 2 others.  
 
Of their 27 games, I think I have seen 24 or 25. It has been a wonderful change from “house arrest”!!! Our craziest traveling was driving from Lakeside, where we were staying for a while, to Chillicothe—about three hours and 45 minutes. Games do not draw crowds of any size, primarily the same cast of characters—parents, grandparents, & occasional unwilling siblings.  
Social distancing—mostly
Masks—sometimes
Outdoors—yes
Hot—for sure. 
All in all—WONDERFUL!!!!  
 
As one of our friends said recently, “you guys have had a lot of dashboard time since mid-June.” 

Ken Felt, Phoenix, Arizona

Sheltering in place since March 13
Journal entry June 24

I should be in Ft. Wayne, Indiana, now at the National Power Wheelchair Soccer tournament playing for United power wheelchair soccer team. 
 
But that tournament and all the soccer practices since March have been cancelled because of Covid-19. This was the first time in my life that I ever participated in any kind of organized sports team. At 71, I joined this soccer team and although I am its oldest player and certainly not the best, I found myself incredulously the most physically fit. Most are quadriplegics, have muscular dystrophy and need to be lifted into the soccer chairs. I don’t. Yet.
 
I raised the most money to get the team there and now here we are. Landlocked.
United had a slim chance of winning anything. But this would have been my first national tournament. My Indiana Phi Delta Theta fraternity brothers were planning on being there. So were my grandchildren, my daughter, son-in-law, niece and sister. 
 
Today, instead of being in the thick of tournament fever, I spent the morning washing poop out of our little dog’s long matted hair. He and I have missed our grooming. Maybe I can keep growing my hair and wear it in a ponytail for next year’s tournament.

Eric Steiner, San Francisco, California

Day 102                                             
Journal entry July 1

In my former incarnation Mondays came much too soon, too frequently. Vacations were never quite long enough. So many books, so little time. Be careful what you wish for.
 
Now Mondays are indistinguishable from any of the other days. Vacations consist of leafing through old travel diaries. Books are piled higgeldy piggeldy, mostly unfinished. If I get desperate there’s always War and Peace. 
 
I’m required to stay at home. But life isn’t bad. My apartment is bright and cheery and I’ve hunkered down in worse places. The people in my building slip notes under my door offering to run errands, do shopping and just be there if needed. Maybe it takes a crisis like to restore a sense of community. I hope it lasts long after coronavirus is gone.
 
I do watercolors, crossword puzzles. I move tchotzkes and pictures. What I do is not socially redeeming or morally uplifting, but neither were the things I did prior to this New Normal.
 
Earlier I had a video visit with my doctor. Couldn’t do that when the Black Death was the Pandemic du Jour. A triumph for technology, but just a little bit frustrating for both of us. 
 
As Adam may have said to Eve way back in the Garden of Eden, “Eve, we’re living in interesting times.”

Paul Rousseau, Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina

Sheltering in place since mid-March
Journal entry June 30

I don’t know her whereabouts, the last fourteen years obscured by distance, physical and emotional. Nevertheless, I text her each year on her birthday and on the anniversary of her mother’s death—the fourteen obscured years—with no response. Still, I squint at the pixeled screen and hope. Give her time I’m told, “She’ll come around.” So I’ve waited. However, the pandemic has added urgency. I’m seventy; I may not have the time.

Dorothy Rossi, Louisville, Colorado

Sheltering in place since mid-March
Journal entry June 30

In the backyard a robin glides gracefully on his path. My reaction is to ponder about life’s mysteries, meaning and purpose. There is a nest nearby. What this means for the robin, I do not know. For humans we await new life with dreams, anxieties, hopes and fears. Not known for living in the moment, our world of present, past and future frequently collide.
 
The robin builds his nest, takes care of his young, and travels within his range. This bird awakens hope in my scarred soul no matter what is happening in my world.

Molly Jones-Quinn, Rockville, Maryland

Sheltering in place since March 14
Journal entry July 1

Welcome to Ingleside at Rock Creek, where the Covid 19 lockdown has given us unusual opportunities to travel . . . on Zoom. With the prospect of the forced cancellation of our semi-annual Spring Poetry Reading, we poets had to find a way to salvage it. We oldsters weren’t exactly sure how to use Zoom, but an enterprising staff member quickly figured it out. And for those residents who were not active computer users we found it was possible for them to call in and participate on the telephone. 
 
One of our most prolific poets had recently died. The opening poem (Our Friends Have Passed Away) gave way to a man’s deep voice reciting two of Tom’s favorites: Psalms and My Furniture. We imagined him joining us from heaven! That was the longest trip we imagined, but several of our residents who had been traveling when the lockdown was announced, joined in from places as far away as northern Michigan and the Hudson Valley in New York state. Our attention ranged from the sublime (Fourteen Ways of Knowing God) to the ridiculous, a meditation on Weeds. After assuring ourselves that we are The Very Model of Social Distancing, we Zoomed off to our Zumba class . . . 

Fiona Jones, Dunfermline, Scotland 

Lockdown beginning to ease after 3 months
Journal entry July 2

Family conversations in lockdown be like: “So where did you go for your Covid walk today?”
(Covid Walk, noun: The single daily outdoor walk from home, as permitted by UK government during COVID19 lockdown.)
“I went up the hill northwards—and guess what I saw! A tree like a city: everything lives in it.”
 
So from then on the tree has a name: the City Tree. A metropolis of busy thriving life within its roots and trunk and asymmetric branches. A tree that’s been treeing for centuries, long enough to stand there treeing the rest of the trees how to tree. 
 
We’ve seen more trees in Lockdown than in the twenty years we’ve lived here. Birch trees, white-barked, light-foliaged, airy. Oak trees, slow-growing, late-leafing, in attitude more fighter than dancer. Horse chestnuts unfolding bat-wing leaves and blossoming like candles. Beech trees, so thick-canopied there’s little but mosses and mast underneath, yet full of holes and niches and food-chains of crawling life. The City Tree is a beech. 
 
Trees are comforting presences: old but not garrulous; alive but never demanding. You can heal, you can dream, you can think under trees, and envision the World After Lockdown Ends—what it should be like. I think we should fly less, buy less stuff, spend less time travelling, more time walking outdoors. I think we would live longer, breathe better that way. 
 
The trees told me this, and they ought to be right. They’ve lived long enough to tell us how it’s done. 

Martha Strom, Brooklyn, New York

Sheltering in place since March 16
Journal entry June 26

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

Susan Felt, Phoenix, Arizona

Sheltering in place since March 13
Journal entry June 17

Amanda and Michael and the kids are back home. We all survived.
 
When Michael called in April to “explore” the possibility of coming to Phoenix to escape Chicago during this global pandemic, our tepid “of-course-we-would-love-to-see-our-grandchildren” response revealed the conflict that rumbled beneath.
 
First, there was the 28-hour straight through drive he was suggesting. Our seven-year-old grandson has rheumatic heart disease. He’s as high on the vulnerability list for Covid-19 as his wheelchair-bound 71-year-old grandfather. We’d been isolated in our home since early March. 
 
Then what about those public bathrooms? Roadside “nature” stops. Eating? Car trouble? Falling asleep at the wheel come hour 18? Quarantining for two weeks once you get here?
 
Our daughter. Our son-in-law. Our grandchildren. We live for our visits with them.
 
But this time, it was hardly, we can’t wait to see you.
 
He painted a compelling picture. When will we ever have this opportunity? The Chicago cousins can be with their Phoenix cousins. We can have Papa Ken and Nanasus’s school with our grandchildren. Our family can be together. Take walks. Watch Netflix. Bond. Do puzzles. Play charades. 
 
Catch the coronavirus. Fall apart. 
 
Such was the need to seek sunshine, a swimming pool and an outdoors where their children could play without fear of navigating crowds of unmasked Chicagoans, that they came. They spent a night in a hotel, thus eliminating the possibility of falling asleep at the wheel. Handled food and nature responsibly. Quarantined for two weeks. And stayed an extra week.
 
They are back home putting together a trampoline to keep the kids active until parks and the lakefront are reopened. Michael was right. When would we ever have this time again? 

Karen Webber, Baltimore, Maryland

Sheltering in place since mid February
Journal entry June 20

This morning, I do know why the cage bird can’t sing.
Singing is outlawed in this time. 
As a cantor, I remain silent. 
 
With the screen door ajar, motorcycles, trucks and a car backfire mingle with Mozart. I re-read this poem. It provides another meaning. I am a singer. I am partially defined by the notes I intone. In this time, it is dangerous to sing. I am told droplets like tiny crowns flung from my throat land on the bat mitzvah girl’s bangs, her father’s cheek, the rabbi’s ear. I haven’t done an in person bat mitzvah in 6 months. Singing loudly is worse than cantare dolcemente. But, for our safety, we must simply mouth the words. 
 
I imagine from my balcony, in the green space below, I see masked singers, 6 ft apart sporting sky blue masks. How terrifying that singing can hurt other people. I can sing at the top of my lungs to birds in trees, especially red cardinals. And if I were a bird, I would carry away my grey hair swatches and weave them into a nest. I have been grey for awhile. But now, I wake up each morning feeling a decade older. 
 
I venture from my apartment, for necessities only; short walk, short drives, dinner in boxes. 
 
So, until they craft a vaccine here I sit, cage door swung open with me unmoving.

Meryl Baer, Ventnor, New Jersey

Sheltering in place since March 23
Journal entry May 14

The big event in my life this holiday weekend is the opening of my Little Free Library, a ‘take a book, return a book’ free book exchange. The library has been ready for weeks, but I was reluctant to open because of the pandemic. I decided to delay, but felt now might be the time to open. I placed two small bottles of hand sanitizer inside. No announcement or advertising. I will place a picture on my Facebook page and eventually mention it on the Nextdoor app. I can’t wait to see the interest the library generates.

Karen Leathean, Northern Territory, Australia

Journal entry March 24

A trip to Casuarina Shopping Centre showed me closed and boarded up food court spaces. Usually busy, a place for some retired groups to enjoy a coffee and interaction. Now tables are collected together and wrapped in acres of calico cloth. I wonder if a local fabric shop gleefully sold yards of this fabric. A few outlets still offer take-away only. Seniors who met in these places—where are they now? 
 
Security appears to be a growth profession. Wandering around giving people a warning to purchase essentials and move on. Despite Northern Territory virus cases only resultant from overseas arrivals, and as yet without community spread. Perhaps these high-visibility vest wearers just enjoy the power?
 
Every time I buy something, I ask, ‘are you happy to take cash?’ expecting to be told, ‘no, cards only.’ 
 
Extent and randomness of empty shelves continues to startle. Paper towels, empty as if manufactures all agreed to limit production. Eggs, my daughter suggested, might be scarce due to long distances they must be transported. We are more than 3,000k from the closest egg farm. 
 
The new normal of staff members offering hand sanitiser and trolley wipes is clearly visible as are floor markings declaring how far apart supermarket patrons must stand. 
 
I am disappointed to note long queues snaking from the Centrelink (Unemployment office) despite early tropical heat. But vanishing jobs is one reason I can afford time to travel to Darwin. 

Linda Shapiro, Scarsdale, New York 

Sheltering in place since March 24
Journal entry May 4

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

Orman Day, Laurel, Maryland

Sheltering in place since March 15
Journal entry June 15

Not long after questioning whether a friendly poltergeist had hidden her hearing aid in a candy bowl, Mom was jarred by more paranormal activity in her locked-down rooms. For her 101^st birthday on May 28, Mom received a bouquet of flowers and gas-filled “Happy Birthday” balloons. After a few weeks, the flowers wilted and dropped their petals and were whisked away by the facility’s cleaning lady. 
 
Drooping somewhat, the three multi-colored balloons remained huddled together in a corner of the front room. Then, defying scientific explanation, one of the balloons floated into Mom’s bedroom. 
 
“I have framed photos of family members on top of my dresser,” Mom told me during our daily phone conversation. “It floated down and stopped in front of different people to look at them . . . like they knew each other.”
 
She returned the balloon to the front room, but later, the balloon wandered back to the bedroom and landed on her pillow. Creeped out, Mom feared the balloon wouldn’t let her sleep, so she anchored it to the teddy bear in the front room.
 
On Saturday, ever-cheerful Melody rolled a serving cart into Mom’s front room to deliver punch and cookies. It was Melody’s birthday—so Mom, who had to restrain herself from giving the aide a great big hug—presented the errant balloon to her. Giggling, Melody tied it to her cart. Relieved to be rid of the mischief-maker, Mom smiled and waved as the balloon bobbed out the door. 

Marc Frazier, Chicago, Illinois

Sheltering in place since March 16
Journal entry April 30

I want to read a long, old-fashioned letter. Or write one. I want the old ways. In any form. I cross Lombard Avenue heading toward Buzz Cafe for a to-go latte. Everything is to-go now. We can’t pause for long, except within the confines of our own walls that grow closer daily. That kind of claustrophobia. I note the boarded-up 7-11, another economic casualty. A squirrel dashes up an old oak. I walk around Barrie Park. Yellow tape surrounds the playground. A slight mist begins. 
 
A group of soccer players kick a ball around the field. They are not supposed to be there. The parks are closed. Do I turn them in? It seems we are always monitoring others’ behavior. Asking whose rights come first. In Catholic grade school we were taught to respect our elders. So many are being rolled out on gurneys these days from nursing homes. No more than 10 spaced-apart mourners can attend the service. In Italy they say the younger generation is now virtually without grandparents. After my three times around the park, I head back home, not just where the heart is but everything. I want that feeling of longing to be back in the warm nest of my home after a trip away instead of hunkering down in it as my place to shelter. What I need is someone to blame. 

Marianne Lonsdale, Oakland, California

Sheltering in place since March 17
Journal entry May 8

Just wrapped up the daily “watercooler” zoom meetup with my work group. The fifteen of us are spread out in California, Colorado and North Carolina. Rhonda, our boss, does a remarkable job of keeping the group connected. We know each other better than before this mess started. Rhonda leads us in an origami exercise. I suck at origami and lose interest after about the third fold, but I like being part of the gang. We’ve made birds, a dog, a cat, flowers, a cup, a box and much more.
 
What I do like is the daily doodles. After origami, we doodle. We write the date on a 
piece of paper or in a sketch book. Sometimes we write out the words, like May First, sometimes just numbers, 05 01. And then we doodle, adding scribbles, flowers, robots, houses. We draw for about 5 minutes and then we hold our creations up to the screen and chortle in delight at each other. I’ve been a secret sketcher for years, too embarrassed to share, but I’m eager to hold up my doodle which usually looks like the work of an unruly kindergartener. 

Martha Henry, Cambridge, Massachusetts

Sheltering in place since March 23
Journal entry May 26

After the long weekend, I had no idea what day it was until I looked at my phone. Had to drop car off by 7:30. Got there at 8:00. Pandemic makes for easy parking.
 
Walked home along the river. Morning fog just burning off. Not too many people. Not even tempted to yell at runners not wearing masks.
 
Herring, or whatever those small fish are, swimming in a frenzy at the edge of the brown river. Splashing, occasional fins breaking the surface. Must be spawning or something to do with sex.
 
This weekend, picnicking lovers back in the parks. COVID cases down, at least for the moment. 
 
For better or worse, everything loosening up. Geese families along the bike path. Goslings growing fast. Their numbers already thinned from crossing the four-lane road. The few solo rowers seem the most free of all of us. No masks. Width of river to themselves.
 
Garage called as I crossed the Elliot Bridge. Radiator leak worse. Either replace for $500 or wait for smoky breakdown on some random highway. So glad I didn’t donate Civic last year. How would I have carried a week’s worth of groceries? “Fix it,” I tell the guy. I too want to keep moving. 

Stephen Kingsnorth, Wrexham, Wales, UK

Sheltering in place since March 17
Journal entry April 28

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

Orman Day, Laurel, Maryland

Sheltering in place since March 15
Journal entry June 5

Several days ago in yet another loud-volume transcontinental conversation, my 101-year-old mother complained to me that she was without the use of both hearing aids. One aid went kaput because she wore it into the shower. The other one she couldn’t find after taking it off to yak for an hour on the phone. Without success, the facility sent numerous staff members to search high and low for the lost aid, which Mom was convinced had tumbled into the unreachable bowels of her couch. 
 
Finally my sister Laurel was able to get the water-damaged aid repaired. Because she’s been steadily losing her sight, Mom couldn’t look for the lost aid on her own and figured she’d resume the search when the lockdown ends. Then, just after midnight today, she woke up hankering for a sweet and fumbled her way to a bowl filled with butterscotch candies. Smacking her lips, she reached into the bowl . . . and pulled up her hearing aid. This morning she phoned and asked, “Ormie, do you think my room is haunted?”

Jyoti Minocha, Vienna, Virginia

Sheltering in place since March 14
Journal entry May 8

I call my mother and my sister who are in lockdown in New Delhi, India. They haven’t seen the sun for weeks. They are in a containment zone and are not allowed to walk on the road outside their street without official permission.  My mother, who is 94 and bedridden, says bless you, child, I’m doing well. When are you coming? These calls leave me despondent, so I try to space them out.
 
In the afternoons we sit on the deck and watch the sun slant towards the west. The rules of sunset are immutable, like the rules of the virus, I think. The sun will never change course in the middle of setting and decide to go east instead. The thought calms me.  
 
Cardinals and bluebirds hop between the branches of our tree line and I watch them in fascination, as if I’m seeing them for the first time. And maybe I am. I never knew that the evening shadows in our yard rode on the cries of so many birds. 

This is the world of natural laws, where there is honesty and transparency and predictability. 

The virus is part of this natural world and that thought, when it comes, is surprisingly soothing. 

The evening hour on our deck is the most rejuvenating time of my day.

Cindy Cramer, Gig Harbor, Washington 

Sheltering in place since March 16
Journal entry May 8

My 15-year-old calls out from the darkness of his bedroom. “I think this is one of those things we’re always going to remember,” he says. “Like people who lived through the Great Depression. And we’ll wish we didn’t live through it, but we’ll always remember this time.” I pause, wondering how to respond. “I think you’re right,” I finally say. The only other thing I can compare it to is 9/11, but that was quick, the clear lines of our grief laid out in a matter of hours. 
 
I wonder what my boys will remember of this time. I hope they remember the board games we played in the evenings. The family walks along the trail near our house. The luau we had in the living room, wearing aloha shirts and cheap leis bought online, because our long-planned Spring Break trip to Hawaii had evaporated. The oldest one driving the family car in the YMCA parking lot, practicing even though there might not be any Drivers Ed this summer. 
 
I hope they look back and count missing school as their biggest loss. I worry about their grandparents and their aunt. I hope their losses are normal teenage losses, and not holes in their family. For now, I hope they sleep well at night. Leave the worry to me. I’m older. I can take it.

Lisa Rigge, Bay Area, California

Sheltering in place since March 17

I have been compiling a series of self-portrait contour drawings expressive of my inner state of being. These black ink drawings shaded in with pencil are based on self-portraits and teachings by Elizabeth Layton. I work with my dreams and the dreams of others a lot, especially since COVID19, when many dreams have taken a dark and anxious turn.

Dream Journal entry April 13th
 
I sit at a table with 2 unknown men. There’s a glass on the table, half full with a dark liquid. Beside the drink is a book I’ve written and published, an accomplishment I am proud of. I know that if I drink this drink, I will die. But, I’m not afraid of dying. One man picks up the drink and takes the sip. He hands it to the man next to him, who sips it as well. This man hands it to me. I, too, take the glass and drink the rest of the liquid. I wake up before I die.

Amie McGraham, Scottsdale, Arizona

Journal entries March 11-15

March 11
3 airports, 2 airplanes, 2 nursing homes, this tiny state with more pine trees than 
people, a skeevy Best Western, another fucking hospital and I have lost. An. Entire. Day. Something pushing me from motel to the long wooded driveway up to the hospital. Patches of snow. Yellow-gray sun slowly dropping. A meditation room. Blue stained glass and peace elusive. Mom asks me: “Is my daughter coming?”
 
March 12
Brunswick-Bath Best Western “Plus.” Unclear what qualifies that superlative. 
Not their bitter coffee. “Everyone looks for pots,” says the breakfast area server. 
“It’s not in pots.” Continues wiping down the table, spray bottle of disinfectant 
hooked to her belt loop.
“I’m glad you’re cleaning the surfaces,” a white haired woman remarks. “I was going to attend an . . . event in Portland Saturday but I’ve decided against it.” 
No one comments. What would you say? That’s too bad? Sorry to hear? Good idea?
Meanwhile, a questionable president addressed his flock in a stilted feel-good speech last night. No one feels good about this. 
 
March 13
Of course. I’m in dementia hell, hotel hell, virus hell. Exited hospital hell, 
Mom back at the Vicarage, so there’s that. 

Blood transfusion? No. Palliative Care? No. Hospice visits? Again, NO. Mom is . . . changing. She looks chalky. Translucent. Doing that weird hand thing, 
moving her bony fingers through the air as if directing an orchestra. 
 
March 15
6:39 am. Can’t get out of bed. I —
Mom’s place on lockdown. Dad’s place quarantined, 2 positive cases.

Dotty LeMieux, Marin County, California

I’m a lawyer and a political consultant and am sheltering in my office
Journal entry May 10 

Why is it the old people who are expendable? 

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

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

Naomi Karp, Washington, DC

Sheltering in place since March 13
Journal entry April 16

My dad’s mishpachah was wonderful. Zayde chanted every syllable at Brooklyn Passover seders. Bubbe made kreplach soup and had soft skin. But they were dime-a-dozen Eastern Europeans from the shtetl. 

Mom had the more exotic if frightening tale. A teenaged refugee from Nazi Germany, she escaped because Aunt Eugenie married a State Department guy. They’d lived through Kristallnacht, Grandpa’s Dachau stay, and losing the family distillery, “Borato.”
 
Now that they’re scattered, an electronic thread sews my maternal side together. The first email had the unlikely tagline “Seasons Greetings?” Cousin Frank in Germany, 90, wonders how Die Familie is surviving this viral nightmare. “Though the civilization-whitewash of us humans is rather thin, let’s all hope that things will improve and that the world might be just a little bit better.”

Through the miracle of “Reply All,” letters ping-pong around the globe. A cousin in Providence shares joy: a new grandson born, named for his grandpa who survived Hitler. Another explains Die Familie’s Argentina branch. The Third Reich brought them south. Later some moved to Israel, Brazil, Mexico, and even Deutschland. Who knew?

Greg splits time between England and China, but is social distancing in the Nevada desert. We’re a modern Diaspora. 

Emails still fly around our pandemic planet, sparked by a rabbi’s exhortation: “Every embrace that we avoid must become a verbal expression of warmth and concern.” I feel the heat of the family hug.

Jeanne Cook, Northfield, Vermont

Sheltering in place since early February due to an auto-immune disease
Journal entry April 30 

Yesterday the sun was high at one o’clock. My friend Jane came to visit and we walked in my garden, six feet apart, looking for new growth. I could see tiny leaves of thyme in the clay pot. I saw, intensely, blue miniature flowers I never saw in my garden before. They must have come here on the wind. Green shoots on the rose bush and lilac. Magnolia buds about to burst. The strange thing is, I’m losing my vision, fast. I can’t read books anymore, or recipes, or medicine bottles. But yesterday there were those blossoms and new growth. And I could see it! Hard to explain—how if the sun is high and the light is just exactly right, no shadows, no reflections, high contrast, sometimes I can see beautiful detail. 
 
Today is dark and rainy and the world distorted and blurred. There are holes in this text as I type it on my huge screen. But for one hour yesterday, there was clarity and those blue blossoms, tiny and vivid, are imprinted on my thought. I will carry them with me out of the darkness of the pandemic. Thank you for coming, my friend.

Sarah Barnett, Rehoboth Beach, Delaware

Sheltering in place since March 14
Journal entry April 6

Half of me prepares to die; the other half pretends to live. The first half writes “just-in-case” instructions. I list financial accounts with beneficiaries, passwords for the computer and confidential files. 

What else? Who will deal with my stuff—notebooks, photos dating back to the 1930s, my mother’s jewelry? What about items I treasure that no one else will care about—one aunt’s china, another’s knick-knacks, anything my deceased daughter ever touched? It won’t matter, I tell myself. It’s not like I’ll be watching. 

My other half remains strangely calm, at peace, almost happy to have no obligations, no place to go. No decisions about what to wear. No worries about leaving my dog Blue for longer than usual. No concerns about driving at night. My days are filled with the inconsequential. What to have for lunch, which pair of yoga pants to wear, which direction to take to walk around the neighborhood, which TV series to watch. 

The half that foresees a future decrees that I use this time to decide where/how to live these last 10.5 years assigned to me by the life expectancy tables, approximately 5.9 of them without Blue. 

Shannon Pool, Cottage Grove, Oregon

Sheltering in place since March 14
Journal entry June 1

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

Luci Huhn, Union Pier, Michigan

Sheltering in place since March 15
Journal entry May 2 

We have a stone dog at the end of our driveway. Dalmatian. Puppy. Cement. Painted white with black dots. Years old, worn and chipped. Paws broken off, so it’s nestled in the hostas. Wears a bandana, color coded for the season. I look out and see a little girl sitting with the stone dog. She’s probably only three or so, just a little larger than the pup. Sometimes sitting with her arm around it, sometimes laying over it, sometimes hugging it, sometimes standing next to it with her hand on its head. Doing a number on the hostas, but it’s early in the season, I tell myself, they’ll recover. 

Has someone left her here? I see her parents a bit down the road, carrying her orange scooter, though it’s a tiny scooter, looks only ornamental, and she’s too young to ride it. They have relinquished her to the dog. The dog is her sanctuary. The dog is her playground, I realize. There are no playgrounds now, they are not safe to touch or to breathe in, but this pup is hers. I go through the front door and half-way down the drive. Not close. Her parents tell me she loves the pup, she won’t leave it. In the spirit of all that we are giving up, all that we are handing over, every day, I tell her the pup doesn’t have a name, ask would she like to name it. She tells me it’s a boy, his name is Dots. 

MaryAnn Moenck, Rural Western Wisconsin

At home with my husband since March 11 except for grocery runs and care packages dropped off at Mom’s assisted living in Maplewood, Minnesota. I last hugged my 95-year-old mother on March 5. 
Journal entries May 10 to May 17

May 10
Mothers Day. Did nothing. It sucked.

May 11 – May 12
Crabby Mom. Helicopter at 4:30 a.m. Failed video connect. She is giving up. I am disheartened. Cause of death: Abundance of caution.

May 13
I ordered an oversimplified tablet for Mom that will give us video chats. It’s a glimmer . . . Waiting on rain to plant our garden. The dirt is hard and dry. 

May 14
We planted the vegetable garden today. After weeks of poor quality lettuce in the store plus Covid concerns, I am looking forward most to fresh salads this summer. The lettuce row looks colorful, bright, and mouth-watering. 

May 15
First mowing of the season, and perfect weather. I am appropriately tired now at bedtime. Curbside supper from WaterShed while the rest of Wisconsin goes crazy with the Wisconsin Supreme Court opening the state abruptly. Supreme, my ass. Idiots! 

May 16
Ran the new tablet to Mom’s. Saw her through glass. She had a bad day, even told me the 8-inch tablet was too heavy to lift. I drank more wine than necessary after that. 

May 17
Triumph. “I love this thing!” Mom said, during our first video chat. She is just inside of capable with the new tablet. Online Scrabble with Mike and Ginny. They kicked our butts. Inch and a half of rain, badly needed. Good day. Goodnight. 

Julia Justo, New York City, New York

Journal entry May 19

NY Subway Driver, part of my photographic project about the effects of the pandemic on New York City, seeks to recognize and honor essential workers that put their lives at risk to make sure our community continues to function.

Stephen Young, Providence, Rhode Island

I work as a driver for Meals-on-Wheels and volunteer at my local food bank
Journal entry May 18

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

Orman Day, Laurel, Maryland

Sheltering in place since March 15
Journal entries May 7 and May 28

May 7
 
A phone conversation with Mom, who’s 101 this month and locked down in her room in an assisted living facility in California. 
 
Me (shouting): “Hello, Mom, what have you been up to?”
Mom: “What have YOU been up to?”
Me (shouting): “Not too much!”
Mom: “What?”
Me (yelling): “Not too much! Are you doing anything exciting today?
Mom: “I’m going to change the battery on my hearing aid.”
Me (yelling): “Don’t break it again.”
Mom: “How’s the weather back there?”
Me (hard of hearing myself): “What?”
Mom (shouting): “How’s the weather back there?”
Me (shrieking): “I don’t know. I haven’t looked out the window yet!”

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

Kamyar Amin, Hindås, Sweden     

Art entry March 28
 
Covid-19 did not affect my daily life in Sweden the way it did the rest of the world. But I always felt this strong disorder and chaos. This series was my interpretation after watching the news one day. I used pastel and beads and I used cardboard because I wanted to be able to peel it off.

Kathleen M. Churchill, St. Germain-en-Laye, France        

Sheltering in place since March 14
Journal entries March 17 – April 4
 
March 17
H. arrives today. We seal the hallway to his room, ceiling to floor, using duct tape and thick plastic trash bags. I’m not sure how long he’ll be quarantined in there (M. just popped her head in to say two weeks). 
 
March 22
Seven days tomorrow since we’ve left the house. All week, police have been stopping pedestrians and motorists asking to see permission slips we are meant to carry with us. Yesterday, in balmy spring sunshine they were megaphone shouting “rentrez chez vous!” Go home!
 
March 25
We sneak into the forest for walks. Beneath budding trees, as far as you can see, small white flowers sheltering in dark greenery make a floral carpet, paths winding through, as if in a fairytale.
 
March 26
People who have never run, jog down the empty street—they look not yet defeated.
 
H. doesn’t leave his room. M. calls to him through the plastic. Sometimes he answers, sometimes he doesn’t. We put out food. Much of our days are spent worrying about our sons.
 
March 28
Evening cocktails in the garden. H. climbed out his bedroom window and sat in a chair under the blossoming chestnut tree while we huddled by the house, talking with him over the phone. 
 
March 31
Lapis blue skies. Last night strong winds blew open windows, dislodged shutters banging from their locks.
 
April 4
From my bedroom I can hear the train going to and from Paris. I wonder who, if anyone, still rides it.

Merry Benezra, Nova Scotia, Canada          

Sheltering in place with my cat Kali under our Provincial State of Emergency since March 22
Journal entry May 11
 
I dreamed of thirst, was thirsty overnight but too deeply asleep to do anything about it. A newspaper article about pandemic drinking mentions the problem of alcohol as a sleep disruptor, but I am finding it the very opposite. It is like wading into the Ouse with rocks sewn into one’s sweater pockets—effective. But it occurred to me to give some thought to my liver, or kidneys, or whatever organ has the difficult job of cleaning out the toxins. So I will make an effort to drink only one spritzer and refill with San Pellegrino. 

Yesterday I went upstairs to slip an apple cobbler recipe under Adele’s door. There was an ambulance in front of our building, and EMTs in full pandemic gear. It turned out that Winnie had fallen, yet when she left on the stretcher she seemed in marvelously good spirits. The excitement brought Clarissa out into the hallway, masked; she reported brightly that she has lung cancer, but that it is on, not inside, her lung, and it is shrinking. Adele came out and we triangulated at two meters apart to chat, each one holding her corner.

It was cold and drizzly and I too stayed indoors all day, in a funk and not even doing the 10-loonie apartment jog. Some of the trees are generating ragged green buds. Soon, or within a week or two, they should come into full leaf. Rain, here, is the magician that pulls summer out of its hat. I cannot wait.

Eric Forsbergh, Reston, Virginia              

Sheltering as much as possible since March 20 while providing dental services for emergencies only
Journal entry April 15
 
As a dentist, I am in a high-risk category, because I work literally in the patient’s mouth. Our office is open for emergencies only. If someone has an oral abscess, we need to treat them so they don’t overburden the emergency room.  
 
We take all precautions available to us, including personal protective equipment, but the N95 masks are on back order, and we have none of them. We take temperatures, and ask if patients have fever or cough. 
 
I worry about the healthy carriers of COVID19, who are shedding the virus. Also, there will be patients shedding virus who are not yet sick. My face has to be 18 inches from the patient’s mouth. Using the drill, there is an aerosol mist which spreads to a five-foot radius from the mouth. Contaminated with virus or not, it settles all over me and my assistant. Our necks are exposed, as are the backs of our heads. 
 
My wife and I have discussed this. I’m 69. My good health is my best protection, but, honestly, I expect to get the virus. We can’t get near our two children, each married, and each with a baby under six months. Including their spouses, I ache to hug all six of them.
 
I struggle with the chance of infecting my wife, and have offered to live in the basement. But she’s decided we’re in this together.                             

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

Veronica Scharf Garcia, Bergamo, Italy

Sheltering in place since February 28
Journal entry April 2020

We arrived in Italy when there were just 4 cases in the whole country, but very quickly our region Bergamo, became the epicenter of Europe. We are U.S. citizens who love Europe and are currently traveling in Europe for the last two years, living out of a suitcase.

Lee Hammerschmidt, Oregon

Journal entry April 29