Waiting For Company, Part 3

We are at war.

I've heard that declaration many times when there is talk of meeting the challenges of the Wuhan virus.  This pandemic is described in wartime imagery, with words like "under attack," "invisible enemy," "front line warriors," and health care workers as "troops."

It's easy to see why our politicians and media use such imagery -- it promotes national unity and adds to the gravity of the situation, plus it encourages personal sacrifice from its citizens.  And it has been used many times before, with a war on terrorism, a war on poverty, war on drugs and a war on cancer to name just a few.



 

But being overly alarmist can have a negative effect on people by breeding fear, anxiety and panic (look at the empty shelves in supermarkets and the record sales of firearms).  So it's best to be careful when using the phrase "we are at war."

We already know that this emergency will be costly in terms of our economy and to those who die.  It will require extraordinary measures, even if we act quickly.

We as Americans, British, Italians and French (to name a few) must come together and solve this.  And if we don't act like we did during World Wars I and II, the world will have not only lost the war, but our future as well. 

In response, someone who loves  The Lord of the Rings put it perfectly when he said,  "It is time to light the signal fires and muster the Rohirrim!"




Having said that, I believe our country is at war with other enemies.  Ones not containing a single-strand of Wuhan virus, but ones that shares our television channels and spend taxpayer money:  the media and government officials.  For those of you who think I'm reckless in calling them my enemy, I don't know what else to say.  They're either ignorant, or on the other side.

Anyone who has listened to the media during one of Trump's coronavirus task meetings has to ask the question -- whose side are they on?  It may be rhetorical, but is their hatred for all things Trump so virulent that they will throw the country's future under the bus just to watch him fail?

Here's how shameful the media has become --

Some media outlets have refused to show the task force press meetings, claiming they are Trump campaign speeches.  Like always, they would rather you listen to their biased talking heads, rather than figure it out yourself.  Rest assured, if President Trump was making a fool of himself, it would be shown 24/7.

The media relentlessly pits Trump against his team physicians, trying to ridicule his comments as not being based on "science" as though that alone makes it true.  The President has asked for and been given advice from Dr. Fauci, Dr. Birx and Admiral Adams.  My fear is that he has put too much faith into pandemic models that have been proven wrong from day one.   To a fault, Trump has remained faithful to his medical experts and not questioned the models being used for the nationwide shutdown.  It's time to act on data-based proof, not the original China supplied numbers.

Nonetheless, when the media is rebuked by Dr. Birx or Admiral Adams, they scream racism or sexism, which is laughable considering how both physicians fall into the liberal's realm of identity politics.

I still view social media sites as part of the same bias.  How else can you explain censorship of videos and comments made by those who support the President or who provide potential cures for the virus?  Recently, UTube removed a controversial video by two urgent care doctors from California claiming it violated their community guidelines, including content that explicitly disputes the efficacy of local health authorities.  What a pile of you know what.   So doctors dealing with this virus everyday are wrong, but medical experts squirreled away in some academic school or bureaucratic government position are right?  Apparently only if you favor censorship.

The media refuses to give Trump credit for anything he has been right about.  Trump was right about the origins of the virus.  It has been mentioned many times and by a number of doctors in China that the virus came from Wuhan, with the likelihood of a lab, not a wet market, as being its source.  The President was also right about stopping flights coming from China, not to mention closing our Mexico and Canadian borders.  He's also right about touting hydroxychloroquine as an effective virus-fighting medication if issued under strict medical guidance. 

And lately he mused about using light, heat and disinfectants as potential treatments for fighting the virus.  Ultraviolet light is already being used and we commonly use disinfectants like hydrogen peroxide as a mouth rinse.  But of course the media twists his words to claim "Trump wants you to drink Clorox."

I don't know what's worse, the media twisting Trump's comments or people actually believing it.  So in the interest of those not smart enough to know the difference, please don't mix bleach with your salad dressing.  Not a good idea.

The media  -- on a national, state and local level -- continue to post daily death totals.  Did they do that with President Obama during the H1N1 pandemic?  Of course not, (so let me remind you -- 60 million cases in the United States alone)!  These tallies allow them to scare ignorant people into remaining compliant and permits the media to equate the death totals to gross negligence by the government (i.e., more deaths than the entire Vietnam War).  In other words, this current administration is so inept, out-of-touch, dangerous and untruthful that they must be removed as quickly as possible.  Or, at the latest, in November.

So while enemy number one remains the Wuhan virus, other stealth forces are at work.  They are welcomed into our homes every night under the guise of objective journalism.  What they are doing today is a far cry from what I learned going to journalism school.  This country and every small business -- be a restaurant or family run painting business -- is ill-served by our current agenda-driven media.  We all deserve much better.



 

Another front in this war is the actions of Congress and state governors to limit our civil liberties and control our daily lives.  Like some politicians have said -- "Never let a good crisis go to waste."

Early on, our government was saying "We must flatten the curve!"  It was an effort to reduce the number of people infected so hospitals could handle the sudden influx of patients.  It would also give our medical world a chance to find treatments or cures, further lessening the virus's effect.  Flattening the curve was based on the premise that until a vaccine was developed, nothing would stop the spread.

Well, flattening the curve has worked -- the number of infected and dead has been minuscule compared to the early model projections.  We've dropped projections from over 2 million deaths to under 100,000.  Like I said, that's great.

But now we are being told it's not enough.  Now we must prevent people from dying.  In the words of New York Governor Cuomo, "even if we save one life, it will be worth it."  I'm tired of hearing how one life is worth the costs of staying home.  Or how someone who doesn't stay home is selfish and risks killing innocent people.

What Cuomo and other elitists like him are ignoring is the health care costs of crushed lives and dreams, the human costs of lost jobs and careers and of nest eggs broken on the ground.  Have they anticipated the lives lost to depression, drug and alcohol addiction, suicide and despair in a country where abortions are considered essential, but heart stints and CT scans are not?

I fear not.  Or worse, if they have, then how do they justify one loss over the other?  I doubt their arrogance allows them to see the damage they are responsible for creating.

So we've managed to flatten the curve.  Unfortunately, we've flattened the economy as well. 

Today's unemployment report showed 30 million people without jobs over the last 6 weeks.  In just a few weeks we have gone from 3.5% unemployment to the worse unemployment numbers in our country's history.  It's probably not fair to compare the Wuhan virus's effect on America by comparing 60,000 deaths to 30 million unemployed, but it raises some serious questions.  Chief among them is does our government have the "moral authority" to lock us down?  Can they fine us or throw us in jail for public and private gatherings?

Democrat governors from Michigan, California, New Jersey and New York seem to think so.  The governors of New York, Michigan and New Jersey are showing their full, authoritarian tendencies by closing gardening centers and fining citizens who are not wearing masks or getting too close when in public.

Does keeping someone "safe" permit our elected officials to take away our rights? 

I've said this many times to my friends -- this is the first time doctors can remember when we quarantine healthy people.  Not the sick.  Not those at risk.  Proponents will argue that there's a difference between isolation and quarantine.  I don't see the difference when you are forcing the vast majority to isolate themselves from others in the interest of "remaining safe."

In addition, many medical professionals are saying isolation is actually hurting us.  I hate to repeat myself, but there are only two ways to defeat the Wuhan virus -- a vaccine (not coming anytime soon) and herd immunity.  Hiding in our houses will not accomplish either one.  So we are putting off the inevitable by isolating ourselves from others.  What we're not putting off is the destruction of so many people's dreams and aspirations.  For many restaurants and small businesses that make up the 30 million unemployed, that destruction is well underway.





So we are in a war with emergency measures in place.    Never in the history of our civilization have we so willingly given up so much without a fight.  Why did so many die in World War 1 and 2?  Or the Korean War?  Or Vietnam?  Had we lost, would America be much different?  The problem we have as a nation fighting this war is that too many authoritarian, "play it safe" politicians and members of a corrupt media are on the enemy's side. 

For us to survive we all need to be on the same side.

The Best Day of the Year

My shoes leave a trail of wet prints on the patio as I reach down to empty the planter of rainwater than had fallen overnight.  A slight breeze blows yellow heart-shaped leaves from the two lynden trees painfully positioned on the boulevard to my right.  Painfully because they continuously drop pea-sized fruit that attaches to a yellowish bract that litters the yard and garden beds all summer long.  For anyone in love with fall, and layers of clingy, hard-to-rake leaves, the lynden tree is your dream come true.

When I think of fall, I think of cooler temperatures, campfires, apple pie and football.  I also think of a few things that aren't so nice -- shorter days, dying flowers and putting the pontoon boat away for another winter.  Of the three, putting away the boat has to be the worst...



I had written those words last fall in anticipation of putting Muddy Waters to bed for another six months.  Fortunately, I didn't have it in my heart to finish writing the post, which I had titled "The Worse Day of The Year."

 

Most writers have a short list of reasons for not writing -- fear of rejection, fear of inadequacy and fear of criticism among them.  I think I found another one:  fear of doing something unpleasant.  And there isn't anything more unpleasant than putting your boat away, high and dry, for almost 180 days.  People have built houses, or gotten married and divorce in less time.  So it can be a big deal to not do something for half a year.  This horrible pandemic has only lasted two months, and it feels like forever.

My brother and I always remind each other how long we have to go before we can put the boat in the water.  Snow can be swirling past the window, with a forecast for more than 10 inches, and we will ask each other, "How long before we can put the boat in?  This blizzard can't last forever."

I didn't always love boating.  In fact, it took a while for Liz to convince me that we should buy a pontoon boat.  I'd always heard the worn out expression about owning a boat -- the two best days of owning a boat are the day you buy it and the day you sell it.  But since owning our pontoon boat, I can honestly say that's not true.  For us, the two best days of owning a boat are the day we bought it, and the week of April 15th when we can take it out of storage.

I think that means we'll be boaters for life.

Every year I make a Shutterfly photo book of my favorite memories.  Many of them include pictures from our time on the muddy Mississippi, enjoying sunsets, taking friends out for dinner on a sandbar or jumping in the boat during early fall mornings to go looking for white pelicans and tundra swans migrating their way south. 

They say pictures tell the story of a thousand words.  While that may be true,  they don't always tell the whole story...



The smell of grilled steak hangs in the air like the humidity clinging to the northern red oak and sugar maples above us on Wildcat Bluff.  As one of the highest points along the Mississippi River, the bluff overlooks Lawrence Lake Marina where a cluster of pontoon boats, houseboats, ski boats and cruisers are tied down haphazardly wherever there is room.

The acoustic sounds of Joe Cody and Dominic Orrico can still be heard as I back the pontoon boat away from the dock, careful to avoid the two boats on either side.  On board is a motley crew if ever there was one -- Paul, Kelli, Doug, Peggy and Liz.  We are scattered about the boat, with Liz pulling in the bumpers, while others retrieve their drinks that were left in their cup holders.  I aimlessly grab the iPhone and select an early evening playlist, including the Cranberries, Zach Brown Band and maybe a little steel drum music from Jimmy Buffet.

We have spent the last three hours enjoying the start of our weekend -- leaving work early to beat the mass migration of boats and people that will arrive between 4 and 6 o'clock.  That migration continues on Saturday and Sunday mornings as fast boats full of bikinis, inner tubes and cold beer rush to find a tiny patch of sand on one of the many sandbars between Dresbach and Genoa.


One of the best parts of the summer is coming down by boat to Lawrence Lake Marina to eat steaks on the grill, drink a few beers and listen to live music.  I'm sure there are many things to enjoy in places much bigger -- Chicago and Minneapolis have their rooftop bars overlooking city views, free music in the park or hitting microbreweries after work -- but I honestly don't know how anyone could have a better time than we do by grilling steaks and buttered french toast, indulging in adult beverages and meeting some of the nicest people you will ever know.  

 If you own a boat or know someone who does, it is the essence of a good life on the upper Mississippi River near La Crosse. 



I refocus on the business of driving the boat, which is challenging when you are surrounded by laughing people and trying to decide on dessert being handed out by Liz.  The boat has reached the main channel of the Mississippi where we pass a large mile marker jutting from the water.  Throughout spring, summer and fall, barges mark their turns by locating these green and white buoys.  At night, you can watch a barge's powerful spot light searching the river for these reflective markers.

From the front of the boat I could hear Peggy saying, " ... so Doug thought really hard, looked at the cards and said whale!"  The boat erupts in laughter, much to the discomfort of Doug, who looks skyward and shakes his head.  I had missed most of the joke, but vaguely remembered her telling this story before.  It had something to do with the letter "r" getting confused with a pirate's pronunciation of "arrr!"  It is a pretty funny story, one I'm sure Doug is going to take to his watery grave.

"So when are you and Liz getting a looper boat?" asks Paul, taking a sip of bourbon from his red solo cup.  

It's a question he's asked many times before and my answer is always the same.  "As much as I'd love to do, it's not going to happen.  I've been watching those videos you mentioned and I'm not so sure I'm ready for that."  I glance to my left to watch a ski boat speed by, its wake barely noticeable as our center pontoon cuts through the chop and keeps us riding high. 

Paul never gives up.  He says, "Come on, how fun would it be to travel down the Mississippi to the Gulf then cruise east to Florida?  We can follow you in our RV, then together we can float up the Intracoastal Waterway to New York City.  You and Liz could continue up the Hudson to the Erie Canal, then across to the Great Lakes."

"Yeah, we'd be living the dream!"  I agree, thinking how nice it would be to retire, buy a looper boat and take a couple years to make the trip.  It would be a great adventure and I could do some writing  along the way.  Stay in marinas, maybe take some time RV'ing with Paul and Kelli.  Drop anchor in the Florida Keys.  Enjoy the barrier islands near North Carolina and float by the Statue of Liberty in the Big Apple.  

Then I think about everything that will go wrong along the way -- storms will roll in, tanks will leak, engines will die, lightning will strike and fires will start.  In addition, I'll have to fix a broken part, unclog the head and investigate another strange sound.  I'll have no choice but to blow hundreds, even thousands of dollars on a suddenly flooded engine.  It's the price you pay -- the colossal ingredient -- for living the dream.

And like that -- POOF --I'm back to our perfectly good pontoon boat, and I feel pretty good about everything.  I notice Liz is keeping an eye on me, so I say in a loud enough voice that she can hear above the wind and motor, "It's just not going to happen, Paul.  But don't let that stop you from buying one yourself!"

I throttle the boat faster before Paul can answer.

As we hit our cruising speed, I trim the motor up a little to give us a nice smooth ride.  Liz and Paul keep everyone's drinks filled and more dessert is unloaded -- this time chocolate covered blueberries.  Since the sun is not setting until 9:00 tonight, I decide to head south toward Genoa.  It's the perfect evening, with temps in the upper 70's and very little wind.  At times like this I imagine myself standing in the bow of the pontoon and yelling "I'm the king of the world!"  I don't care if Leonardo DiCaprio beat me to it...   At least I'm not going to hit an iceberg and sink to the bottom of the Atlantic. 

Instead, I stand and bump hips with Liz to the sounds of Bon Jovi singing "Livin' On A Prayer."   Soon the whole boat is singing together,

"Whoa, we're halfway there
Woah-oh, livin' on a prayer
Take my hand, we'll make it, I swear
Woah-oh, liven' on a prayer!"

(It could be the rum, but I don't think I've ever heard us sound better.)


Eventually, we are past Brownsville and into the Upper Mississippi Wildlife Refuge, consisting of 129 acres of islands, among them Horseshoe, Turtle and Boomerang.  These islands -- home to the great blue heron, great egret and ring-billed gull -- are little more than sand and mud, with a little topsoil and ryegrass built in to hold them together.  But it works.

It is here, where the Mississippi widens to over four and a half miles wide, that  I find my love for the river at its greatest.  The busyness to our north, where the river snakes its way between La Crosse and Brownsville, has given way to the serenity of fewer boats, more wildlife and an occasional barge delivering grain, coal and oil.

Making the experience even better tonight is the sight of the  Queen of the Mississippi, a modern paddlewheeler taking passengers from Minneapolis to St. Louis.  I slow the boat and everyone grabs their phones to take pictures of the steamboat, inspired by Mark Twain and his wonderful stories of life on the Mississippi River.  

As if to acknowledge our pesky presence and perhaps to warn us from getting too close, the captain grabs the whistle handle and send a couple of long, low blasts.  A moment later, the echoes come from the surrounding bluffs as if the whistle has awakened the ghosts of previous steamboats that traveled this river almost 175 years ago.

A half hour later, we can see the towering power plant that marks the city of Genoa.  We've been discussing the possibility of driving to Door County next summer.  "We can stay at an Airbnb, rent a pontoon, kayak and explore the Green Bay shores we've never seen before," Liz says excitedly, her face flush from drinking wine.  "Sister Bay or Ephraim?  Or we could try Bailey's Harbor?"  

Her conversation fades as a train roars past, a reminder that we have approached the Great River Road and the railroad tracks that share this side of the river.  From our vantage point, we can see the train stretching for what seems like miles.

I gently throttle the boat down, the stern of the boat lifting as the wake overcomes the boat.  I then swing it to the North and back toward La Crosse.  Despite being the same river, we are about to  encounter a completely different ride.  Sometimes, when it's hot and windy, and we have been traveling in one direction, the simple act of turning the boat can suddenly bring instant relief from the heat and humidity.

Tonight, against this current, it should take us almost forty minutes to get back to Pettibone.    Plenty of time to enjoy the long ride home, watch the setting sun and re-tell stories we've told to each other many times before.

The bimini isn't really much use anymore as the sun is low enough that I need my sunglasses to shield my eyes.  By the time we are past Crater Island, the sun will be behind the bluffs and we will enjoy a nice orange and yellow glow tracing the tops of the trees before it gives way to a darkening cobalt blue sky.  

As we continue north, a quietness has settled over the river.  There are a few boats heading back to La Crosse, but they are spread out and don't infringe on our solitude.  As is typical on a warm summer night, tree swallows are darting, pirouetting and diving -- snatching bugs from the air like a second baseman nabbing line drives at Miller Park.  I'm reminded of a military air show where the Blue Angles aerial maneuvers are astounding.  Yet the jet's daring dives and banks pale in comparison to these swallows.


I drop my arm over the edge of the boat and with my hand I catch the warm water as it splashes up along the side of a pontoon.  It's my "dog sticking its head out a car window" moment, and it feels like I'm a part of the river.  It's amazing the water running through my fingers originates from Lake Itasca in northern Minnesota before mixing with other rivers that converge and fill the Mississippi River with their own stories and adventures.

As the conversations quiet and everyone settles into the realization that the evening is drawing to a close, we are reminded in our own private ways just how lucky we are to live near this great river.

 
And so the story goes.

Like I said, I haven't always loved boats.  Liz and I moved to Michigan after college and quickly fell in love with the eastern shore of Lake Michigan.  Like the love we had for each other, we also fell in love with the natural beauty of towering sand dunes, fire engine-red lighthouses, sandy white beaches and glorious red sunsets.  But as wonderful as it was, our admiration for the lake was always from the shore or crowded boardwalks filled with tourists.

It wasn't until we returned to La Crosse years later, that the idea of owning a boat became a possibility.  And with the boat came an understanding of the history that runs with this river.  A  reminder that tugs at you like the current does when you are up to your waste in the flow and you know that it would be far wiser to not venture further out into deeper water.  It is out of respect for our part of this river's history that I appreciate the opportunities we have while boating with friends or putting through the locks near Dresbach and Trempealeau.

While we are not making history on the river, we are a part of the history of this river.  For better or worse, our experiences become part of the same history where 29 sunken civil war ships lie near Yazoo, Mississippi.  Or part of the passage between the Fox and Wisconsin rivers where the first Europeans reached the upper Mississippi.

Christians believe we all came from Adam and Eve.  For many, you can say the same thing about the Mississippi River.  From its inauspicious beginnings in northern Minnesota to its sprawling river basin near the Gulf of Mexico, the river has embraced millions, if not billions of people by boat or land.

The best part is this experience is that it's never the same.  No matter how many times we go out, with friends or by ourselves, it is always different.  It's why I look forward to pulling the boat out of storage,  connecting the battery, cleaning its pontoons, wiping down the cushions and restocking everything we will use this summer.

Unlike the fall, when the rains begin and darkness comes too soon -- today is truly the best day of the year.

Waiting For Company, Part 2

I've never experienced an event quite like the Wuhan virus.  It has me going in one direction today and the opposite direction tomorrow. 

I feel like the character in Robert Louis Stevenson's 1886 novella Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  One moment, I'm in full agreement with the government's assessment of a very serious threat to people of all ages.  Yes, the majority are older, but I've been reading reports about children, college students and middle age people being infected with the virus.  I watch what is happening in New York City right now and I see fear and overwhelming conditions where people are being left to die in the hallways of hospitals.  The daily briefing from the White House has medical experts telling us to expect between 100,000 and 240,000 deaths in the coming weeks.

 

If I'm honest, my fear and anxiety (Mr. Hyde) show up after watching the evening news.  It doesn't matter where the news is coming from -- print or television -- 95% of it is bad news with daily banners (A FOX NEWS ALERT followed by ominous music)  showing the number of dead and infected.  It's quite depressing, and can drive a sane person, much less someone with actual depression, over the edge.  I may not physically change and become violent like Mr. Hyde, but my personality certainly changes from someone who is optimistic to one who feels like locking the doors and crawling into bed.

The next moment, I'm struggling with  the impact this virus is having on our economy.

This transformation occurs, without pain and disfigurement, when I am asked to take the same precautions in Wisconsin that someone in New York City is taking.

I think, do we really need to shut down the entire country?    All the medical experts tell us, yes.  Businesses must be shuttered, many with little hope of being re-opened.  Ten million people are unemployed because our government has told us it is in our best interest.  Honestly, the economic hammer is falling faster than people dying from the Wuhan virus.  And we're supposed to take it all in with a smile on our face and to color our sidewalks with a box of chalk.  Puppies and coloring books are coming next week.

Common sense (the Jekyll transformation) tells me the majority of people who become infected suffer only mild symptoms, such as cough and fever.  La Crosse County has reported only 20 cases with no deaths.  I talk daily to friends and co-workers who are doing fine.  Working from home, maybe, but other than dealing with communication delays and learning how to video conference, most are doing fine (thank you Lord).   I suspect many other communities are the same.

We are treating the whole country as one huge "hot spot." Applying the same extreme measures to every town whether it's a small, sleepy Mississippi River town or a Mardi Gras infested city like New Orleans.  By doing so, we have shut down vital businesses in many places not overcome by the virus.  Making it worse, the media is chastising American employers for "thinking of money at a time like this.  Why are they putting profit before people?"

As I said, my mood changes day to day.  I wonder which personality will win out -- Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde?  We all know how the book ends.


*        

And now, "Tales From The Pandemic":


Despite the poor weather, Liz and I are standing outside City Hall under a tent, listening to rain drum on the overhead yellow and white canvas material.  One by one, people are being issued into the building by a big burley police officer, wearing light blue surgical gloves.  He holds the door open for one person, then shuts it, until allowing another person inside.

As we wait, I look at Liz who is wearing her HealthyAire cotton mask (made in China!) and gloves she wears when shopping for groceries.  I am braving the weather and early in-person voting without the benefit of either protective device.  I am less comfortable wearing masks and gloves than I am limiting what I touch and washing afterward.  Although, with the temperature in the mid 30's I wouldn't mind a pair of gloves.

I am ushered into the building and told to "go right ahead to the left."  Despite the confusing instructions, I turn left and am told to wait by someone sitting behind a desk wearing the afore mentioned mask and gloves.  The floor is marked with yellow stripes marking a six foot safe zone.  A lady before me goes up to the desk and I move up one spot to the next yellow stripe.  I am reminded of the ending sequence in the movie "Men In Black," where some giant alien is playing marbles with the planet Earth.  Only this time someone is moving us like chess pieces on a board marked with yellow stripes.

Finally I move another spot and am told to take a pen from the table to my left.  Next, I am asked my name and address, then given an a slip of paper with a number on it.  "Please keep your pen and follow the yellow line into the next room," the female poll worker says, somewhat muffled by her mask.  "They will tell you what to do next."

I quickly find myself in another line with more yellow stripes.  As I approach another desk, with more people sitting behind boxes, I glance around the room.  For the first time in my life, I am standing in the Common Council Chambers.  The city's bright yellow seal, mounted on black fabric paneling, serves as a backdrop to the council chamber dais and reminds me of the importance of why I am braving the pandemic, even if it is just for primary voting.

"Next?" asks the lady sitting behind the desk to my left.

I walk forward to the last yellow stripe and extend the slip of paper I was given earlier.  She shakes her head, then says, "You can throw that piece of paper in the basket over there."  She regroups, then continues, "Your name and address please?" 

Next comes my driver's license, which I hold in my hand for her to see.  Without touching it, she confirms the name and address match the information in her book,  and hands me a narrow envelope with instructions on where to go next.  "Please keep your pen, take this envelope and go into the next room to get your ballot."

Following another yellow line, I am greeted by another lady, without a mask,  who hands me a ballot with further instructions.  In a serious tone she says, "When you are done voting, fold the ballot into thirds and put it into the envelope.  Do not seal it!  Another lady will take the envelope and wet it with a water stick.  You will then be done and can leave.  Please keep your pen."

"Thank you," I say and follow another yellow line to the polling booth, where I vote a straight ticket, fold the ballot, stick it into the envelope and walk another twenty feet -- at all times making sure I don't deviate from the exiting yellow line.

Finally, I hand the unsealed envelope to another woman who announces for the up tenth time that she is sealing the envelope with a water stick and that I am allowed to leave.  With one final nod from the police officer who let me into City Hall, I am escorted out of the building into the rain.  

In my hand is the blue pen I selected when starting.  A souvenir of the pandemic, I think tucking it into my coat pocket.


*


Despite the ominous threat we all find ourselves living through, there are bright spots helping us through this tough time.

One of my favorites is seeing the pictures drawn using chalk on sidewalks by children.  Since we don't have small children anymore, I don't know what is going through their minds.  If I suffer from stress and worry, it must be very worrisome for those who don't have the maturity to realize what is going on and when it will end.

Despite it all, they are giving us everyday messages of hope and love from little hearts, sunbeams and rainbows.  It serves as a reminder -- for me at least -- that we will find a way through this pandemic.  As one child wrote, "This too shall pass."

Another bright spot -- a Facebook post encouraged the entire state of Wisconsin to tune into their favorite radio station on April 4th at 2 PM and do a "Jump Around" -- a fourth quarter tradition done at Badger football games.  It will never replace the actual fun we have at those games, but it does remind us that we are all in this together if we bleed Badger red.  Rock on Wisconsin!

Because of social distancing, there are now Google Hangouts, ZOOM and Netflix parties, FACEBOOK LIVE and virtual happy hours.   I'm not usually one to embrace new technology, but I have to admit it's a lot of fun to hang out with friends and family all at the same time.  One of the things I miss most during these times is getting together with people.  And while it's not the same as sitting around the table playing cards, it's pretty nice seeing the smiling faces of those you love and miss.

Last but not least is the thought that this could have happened sometime in November, before Thanksgiving and Christmas -- when the days were getting shorter and the night colder and longer.  Instead, I have been out raking the yard, tilling the flower beds and watching the daffodils, irises and lilies emerge from their winter sleep.  I don't think I've ever seen so many people out walking their dogs.  Or raking their lawns, which is nice.  But one thing is consistent -- people will wave or stop to say hi.  Neighbors I've never talked to before come out of their houses to see how you are doing.

One of the more unsettling things about the last month has been how you look out the window and everything looks the same.  Your mind tricks you into thinking that nothing is changed.  You should be able to leave the house, jump in the car and pick up some hamburgers, tomatoes and buns.  But while everything looks the same, it's not.  You drive down empty streets, you walk into the grocery store and encounter empty shelves, people wearing masks, and a check out counter with yellow lines and plexiglass.  From your house, everything looks the same,  But when you get out a little ways from home, everything is different.

If this was France, England or Germany during World war II there would be collapsed buildings, others bombed into obsolescent while others were destroyed to cover one the reminder of the atrocities of the war.  When the "smoke and fire" of this war finally clears, we won't have to rebuild damaged buildings, streets and homes.  My hope is that we won't have to rebuild our damaged lives either.

To all of us waiting for company to come ring our door bell, remember the words of a little child with chalk in her hand.

"This too shall pass."