What our grandparents' ration books say about our social contract

Wise words from my friend Julie. She posted this to Facebook. Paragraph breaks is mine:

A couple of years ago I visited with a dear and amazing cousin who was clearing out the apartment of her mother who had recently passed (a truly incredible woman, but that's a whole other story). Among the keepsakes she was sorting through was a book of rationing coupons from WW II. 

I had heard of these, of course, but never seen or held one until that moment. It was so poignant and powerful to look through them. There were coupons for butter and sugar and other household items; some were missing -- presumably spent by her family back in the day. Of course I was not alive then, but from what I've been told by family members, people proudly participated in the rationing effort. They pulled together in community and sacrificed for the war, denying themselves for the greater good, and feeling a great deal of pride about serving the cause. Many, of course, made the ultimate sacrifice, of their own lives, or those of their children or spouses. My mom lost her father to the war at the tender age of 9, and very nearly lost her oldest brother as well, who was shot down behind enemy lines and barely avoided capture. 

Anyone who knows me knows I'm no blind patriot -- I fully acknowledge that as a country we often fail abysmally to reach the aspirations set forth in our Constitution, and the toxicity embedded in our systems sometimes seems too much to bear or overcome. But something I am mourning right now is the prevalence of a warped belief by a significant minority of Americans that making even small sacrifices for the safety and well-being of our larger community is somehow a personal or patriotic failure, or worse. That wearing a mask, or social distancing, or getting a vaccination is "unAmerican." This is so upside-down. As flawed as being "American" can be, historically there is honestly nothing *more* American than sacrificing for the greater good. We can start with George Washington's requirement during the Revolutionary War that his troops be vaccinated against smallpox, which let me tell you did NOT involve walking into a nice clean Walgreens, having your arm swabbed with alcohol, and getting a quick little jab by a professional with a sterile, safe needle and a vaccine that had been rigorously scientifically tested. It was a dangerous, painful and ugly process and without it we would have lost the Revolutionary War. 

Fast forward to today, when a dear friend picking up take-out from a restaurant had a man attack her and literally threaten to rip the mask off of her face, because "we don't wear masks here." Some folks have been convinced that being selfish and endangering others is patriotic. It makes me so sad. I can't imagine how to heal it.

We love Lucy

I've got some bad news, but first I want to say that Lucinda the dog is comfortable and happy and, as I write, she's laying out in the sun in the backyard, looking very content.

Today, I learned that, very probably, Lucy, our beautiful, gorgeous brindle girl, has Degenerative Myelopathy. Now, I want to emphasize that, right now, she's very comfortable and, as I write this, she's walking just fine, and getting up and down just fine. But that was not the case this morning, and a visit to the emergency vet gave us this diagnosis. And it means our time together is not going to be quite as long as you would expect when your dog is only seven years old. 

Degenerative Myelopathy is a neurodegenerative disease in dogs, and it causes a progressive and irreversible deterioration and loss of function of the nervous system, especially the neurons in the brain. In essence, it “short circuits” nerve pathways from the brain to the limbs so that, over time, the dog loses its ability to feel or use its limbs. 

This could take a year. This could take as much as three years. This could happen in months. It usually happens over six months. We just don't know.

The good news is that DM is not painful, in and of itself, and it can be quite gradual. But there is no cure for this disease and it is fatal. Most owners choose to euthanize their dogs when they can no longer take care of their bodily functions, rather than allowing the disease to progress all the way.

We are, of course, devastated at the news. 

For the next four-eight weeks, we have to deprive Lucinda of what she loves most: walking and interacting with other dogs and all her human friends. We have to see how she's doing and if this was just a first sign of her disease, one that will slowly progress, she's going to get to resume our walks. But no more hiking, since we need to always be ready for the possibility we have to get the car for her. And no more playing with other dogs, at least not the dogs she loves most, because that could risk injury. The vet told me specifically: "no more sprinting." 

I'm now home, having been at the emergency vet for five hours. They saw her almost immediately to make sure she wasn't about to die, then did a more thorough examination three hours later. Stefan had to carry her to put her into the car, and she was gurneyed into the examination room after they tried to walk her through the lobby. For at least three hours at the clinic, she was lethargic, couldn't stand, and her eyes were half-closed, because her brain wouldn't open them wider. And now, she's walking through the house, bright eyed, like it ain't no thang, all medded up and wondering what the fuss is all about. 

Huge shoutout to Tanasbourne Emergency Veterinary for having tables and chairs and big gazebo covers all around the sidewalk of its office. I had had the wherewithal in the panic to bring the dogs' beds, so we were comfortable, in the shade - but I had no food, and my phone had 10% power, so I had to turn it off and use it only to tell Stefan when to come pick us up (he works quite nearby the clinic). It was just me, Lucy, Kobe (our guest dog for the next several weeks), and my thoughts for five hours. Not a good Monday. But I was glad not to have to be in the lobby. We were on the side of the building and left quite alone, and it was nice.

Huge shoutout also to Kobe, who just grooved along with it all, perfectly content, happy to be included. Got in and out of the car on command like he's been doing this with us for years. 

So, I won't be going on that big motorcycle trip in September after all, which is incredibly sad, as it's for Stefan's 50th birthday, and we were so, so looking forward to this. I hope he will still go and enjoy the Colorado dinosaurs without me. But I'm not going anywhere for a while. I've got a Mexican princess to look after. She's now on her bed next to the couch, enjoying the sedatives. I think I'll take some. 

Tuesday, August 24 update: She's fine today, the day after. Walking around like there is nothing wrong at all. We're not crating her, as the doctor suggested, but we are keeping her on the sedatives and not taking her for walks while she's on those meds. And I've reconfirmed I'm not going on our motorcycle trip, which is devastating, but not as devastating as this diagnosis. I'll be very, very sad to miss this trip. I would be shattered if she took a turn for the worse in the three weeks I'm gone. I'll consider it a gift if she's fine for all of September. 

I've learned that "The variable presentation between breeds suggests that there are environmental or other genetic factors responsible for modifying disease expression" from this resource. So her lack of good nutrition in the womb could have, indeed, contributed to how this disease has manifested. "Genetic testing remains the only reliable way to detect neurological disease associated with this mutation prior to death." We're going to get her a genetic test - ordered it today - and if it turns out that it's not DM, then I think the only other thing it could be intervertebral disc disease - which is also lousy. But given her droopy eyes yesterday, in addition to the back legs, I just don't see how it could not be DM.  It's not common in greyhounds, and we are relatively certain that's her dominant breed. In one study of 33 greyhounds tested, 3% had two copies of the mutation and were at-risk. However, maybe her dominant breed is boxer, and if that's the case, in one study of 3934 boxers tested, 29.9% were carriers of the mutation and 57.4% were at-risk/affected. And, no, I'm not getting a genetic test for breed - everything I've read says those are often inaccurate and meaningless - you would have to do tests from at least three different companies to see if they all said the same thing. And, honestly, now, it really doesn't matter. Her breed is Lucinda of Northern Baja, California, Mexico. 

Happier?

Are callous people happier than me?

Are people that learn that their neighbors need something and can completely ignore helping at all happier than me?

Are people that pass the buck happier than me?

Are people that avoid the news because "it's such a downer," or can watch it and not feel anything - sympathy, compassion, sadness - happier than me?

Are smug people happier than me?

I wonder. I really do. 

Are people who shrug and say, "Not my problem," happier than me?

I wonder.  

We went camping in June!

 For the first time in more than 15 months, we journeyed somewhere and stayed overnight and did not sleep in our own home. And for the first time in almost two years, we CAMPED. 

We didn't go far. Just 120 miles from our house. We booked two nights at Blackberry Campground, along the Alsea River in Siuslaw National Forest, Oregon. It was GLORIOUS. Yes, State Highway 34 is right there next to the campground, but there's hardly any traffic at night and well into the morning, plus, our campsite was right next to the Alsea River, and therefore, we slept like logs. It's a beautiful campground and we will definitely go again. I chose this campground because the one that I really wanted to check out at Alsea Falls was booked out.  

We took State Highway 47 from Forest Grove to McMinneville (which we've done a million times), then South on 99W through Amity, then right on Bethel Road, through Perrydale (where we watched the eclipse). Then to Dallas, and then on beautiful 223, which is just lovely - we rode it for the first time a month earlier and couldn't believe it took us that long to find it.  

Two miles south of the tiny community of Pedee, Oregon, on Polk-Benton counties border, there's a lovely roadside stop: Ritner Creek Covered Bridge. It's pedestrian-only now, and there are picnic tables inside and babbling Ritner Creek below. According to the official web site, 

In addition to its original use as a highway crossing over the creek, residents for nearly 80 years have used the Ritner Creek Covered Bridge for weddings, community picnics, dances and as a shelter from the rain.

We continued on 223 and then it was on to State Highway 34 and to Blackberry Campground. State Highway 34 is lovely, by the way. 

I almost hestitate to tell this, because I don't want everyone else booking the site... but campsite #14 is the best for motorcycle travelers: it is separated from all the other campers by both the day use parking lot - which this time of year, no one uses, because the river is too low for boats - and you are right above the river, and that's a wonderful sound at night, and because you have this fantastic unused parking lot to park your bikes and because you have the day use pit toilets almost entirely to yourselves! The campground wasn't full at all, but we were so so happy we booked in advanced, because it took any worry about arriving late and not finding a spot and, added bonus, we got the best site in the entire place.  

I brought street-vendor-sized flour tortillas, a can of black beans, a wee bit of salsa, an avocado and the last of our grated Mexican cheese, so we could have street tacos that night and mini-breakfast burritos (I brought six eggs too) that morning. Both meals were SO simple to make on our little backpacker camp stove. I'm really proud of my campground cooking skills - I think I am a great mix between deliciousness and convenience. I have no desire to spend an hour cooking while I'm camping. I'm not there to work. 

We got up early on Saturday and were able to leave to begin exploring quite early. I love staying in a campsite two nights instead of one, so that we don't have to bother with packing, we can leave it all and head out and explore and then come home to a setup campsite, ready for us to cook and enjoy the evening and sleep. We headed back onto Highway 34 and headed to the coast. The road goes along the Alsea River, and many of the street names off the road, up into the mountains, are very intriguing like the Alsea Riveria. There are some folks with beautiful houses along that river. I'd love to know just how high the river can get - when we were there, it was low enough to walk across (but I wouldn't advise it). 

My speedometer had stopped working somewhere after McMinnville, so I was worried about my speed, but Stefan said I was eerily always going the speed limit. I have said for years my nickname should be Speed Limit. It blasted us with rain at one point, but then, it stopped, the sun came out, and all was well. 

We turned left and headed South to Yachats. It's the usual not-attractive Oregon coastal town, but it was so surprising and, well, nice, to enter the town and be greeted by people on either side of the street with Black Lives Matter signs. It's a brave thing to do in Oregon! 

And now I've seen most of the Oregon Coast. And can say, with authority: there are way, way better routes through Oregon than the Oregon coast. That said, I will also say that the area around xxx is the prettiest part, by far, of the Oregon Coast. But the rest? You can skip it. 

I saw National Forest Service Road 5590 on Google Maps, making a loop, listed as 18.7 miles, and it looked doable for me on my KLR. I knew it was some kind of "main" forest road, since it showed up so prominently on Google Maps. It starts off as Yachats River Road from 101, and, in fact, it is mostly paved and lovely. You trade the coast for a lush green river valley, which I prefer! Early on at one point, you come to a fork in the road, and one sign tells you to go to the left, on a gravel road, 9 miles to 101, and the other says that Cape Perpetua is to the right, 11 miles. We were very confused, because Stefan says there's no way it was just 9 miles to the coast in that direction. A look at the map shows he's right. So, maybe someone scratched off the 1 before the 9? Anyway, I could see a Forest Service Road sign for 5590, going uphill, and up we went. The road was still paved, which was a shock, and after probably half a mile, we saw a sign for Keller Creek Day Use Area. It was a great place to park the bikes and have a look around. There is a sign there and an information board that has been updated with COVID info, and it has been mowed in the last few weeks, so it is still open, but it doesn't appear on GoogleMaps, which I find odd. 

Keller Creek Day Use Area has an area that looks like it would be perfect for swimming on a really hot day. I fear the locals regularly tear the place up, otherwise, it would be great for camping. It showed signs of recent damage.

A white Suburu outback with California plates went by, and the lone male driver looked at us like, "Is this really a road?" But he continued on. And so did we. I was stunned - while the road was barely wide enough for a car, the road was mostly paved! But when it stopped being paved, it REALLY stopped. When it stops being paved, it's wretched - in the rain, it would have been terrifying and dangerous. The conditions of this road must change frequently, per logging trucks and the rain. According to the Forest Service web site, the road was closed through May 15 and stationary logging equipment would be blocking the road - which, of course, we did not know because we didn't check first. But that explains the parts of the road that weren't there. I'm so glad I took that offroad riding class a few years ago - I never could have ridden this otherwise. I just would love to know why the road is mostly paved. Again, it's a very narrow road - had we met a car coming down, I don't know what we would have done. 

We never saw the white Subaru again... There is nowhere on the road where you can pull over and take in the view or rest, so I was really glad we had stopped at Keller Creek. 

The road brings you to Forest Road 55 eventually, which takes you to the well-paved road for regular passenger cars that goes up to Cape Perpetua viewing area, that looks down on the cape (it will be obvious to you when you hang a right for this road). 

Next trip, maybe we will do Ten Mile Creek Road / NF 56 which is connected to a slightly bigger loop than the aforementioned Forest Road: it becomes NF 5800 / Klickitat Trail Road, then becomes Cummings Peak Road, which is what we took on our this trip back to the coast on the aforementioned loop. 

While I'm not much for national forest roads unless someone has told us it's well-maintained, both of the aforementioned loops stand out so prominently on GoogleMaps, in contrast to all of the other roads, I knew they had to be okay. Here's a screen capture:

One thing about doing these roads: it's important to first look at updates on the Siuslaw National Forest, web site or the US Forest Service Roads web site regarding whether or not the forest service roads you are interested in are open or not. Turns out the forest service roads we took were closed for a few weeks because of logging and re-opened only recently. 

Less than six miles from our campground was East Boundary Road, which is also National Forest Service Road 5800. A guy in a parking lot (we meet a lot of those) told us it's possible to go from that road all the way to where we were, and a look at the map checks out. I just doubt I'm good enough for such a ride. 

Anyway, back to the Cape Perpetua Lookout: it's common for the parking area at the top to be full, and we were hoping that by parking at the overflow lot down below we would get out of paying the day-use fee. We're not opposed at all to day-use use fees, but two things: as near as we can figure, each of these sites wants you to pay at each site, and in one day, you're likely to go to six or so sites. That's $30! Added to that, each motorcycle has to pay - so, a van full of 10 people pays $5, two motorcycles with two people pay double. NO. We weren't ticketed, but I think that, indeed, we were supposed to pay, even given where we parked (there are self-pay stations everywhere). 

The lookout is totally worth the stop. It's breathtaking. No stop at the site is complete without seeing the Stone Shelter, a small, rustic one-room no-frills structure was built around 1933 by the Civilian Conservation Corps. It's meant to be a place where you can view the cape and the ocean and be protected from the elements. The CCC also built many of the trails and campgrounds in the area that are still in use today. During World War II, it became an observation station, looking for enemy boats or aircraft.

We didn't wear masks at this site. The wind was blowing, it was cool, and Dr. Fauci says we're fine outdoors and vaccinated, so we went for it. It's the first time I've been around people and not had a mask on. It felt so weird, like I was being a bad person. 

We ate outside at Yachats Brewing + Farmstore. Stefan loved his pulled pork. My vegetarian burger was... boring. I was trying to be healthy. Vegetarian burgers need SO much sauce and fixings to taste like anything. We're still not ready to eat inside, despite being vaccinated and what Dr. Fauci says. We don't drink and ride, and the only soda they had was their own, but it was so good, we had two glasses each! Yachats Brewing was the only place we saw in Yachats with outdoor seating, and we didn't see a park or anything where you could eat takeout (any picnic tables were in places where Oregon State Parks wants you to pay $5 a motorcycle to visit). We SO wanted fish and were really disappointed not to have it. 

We rode some more, further South, took more photos. But I was getting tired and cranky. We never saw a sign for Thor's Well, though we passed where it was supposed to be three times. It's an old sea cave that has collapsed, creating almost a “drainage pipe” to the ocean. It’s a seemingly bottomless hole that thrashes and sprays water as the waves crash in and out. Since it's on every map online and in print, we assumed there would be a road sign for it. Nope! I have read all about it online now and I still have no idea where you park to hike down to it. 

Going back North on 101, just as we passed the entrance to the Cape Perpetua campground, traffic came to a standstill. There was a crash up ahead. Took about 20 minutes of just sitting there to clear. We never did find out if it was motorcycle-related or not - there were several Harleys parked on the side of the road but I think they just didn't want to sit there waiting. That's another thing about 101 - if there is a wreck, the traffic shutdown can go on for miles and miles and miles - there's no way to detour. 

Stopped at a grocery for beer and cookies (we suddenly want cookies any time we go camping), then got back to the campsite and heated up some canned soup. Stefan was stunned that, after easily finishing off my little box of wine from the night before, I couldn't finish the second little box that night. I was so tired. It was a great day, but I was completely wiped out. We kept thinking we were about to get rained on before we were done enjoying the fire and the evening, but we didn't. It did rain in the night - it was a wonderful sound, in fact. 

The next day, we were in no rush to get home, so we took our time eating breakfast. We left the cookie package out while we walked around the campground and when we got back, realized the birds had successfully torn open part of the bag! The tent was dry despite the rain the night before, so we packed up and headed back to Waldport. We got gas and then headed North on 101. 

Stopped at Seal Rock, Oregon. No seals, but very pretty vistas. And the town itself would have been a great place to stop, especially the completely outdoor fish house, which was oh-so-ready for business, but at 10 in the morning, I wasn't yet ready for lunch. 

At a stop light, I saw a big brown sign - that means something scenic or historic - that said there was an "outstanding" sight: the Yaquina Bay Lighthouse. A lot of lighthouse sites are oversold and not all that great, but I wasn't ready for our trip to be over, so, what they heck. Well, THIS one did NOT disappoint! The lighthouse at Yaquina Bay is well worth the side trip! Sadly, both the exhibit at the visitor's center (but not the bathrooms) and the inside of the lighthouse are all closed because of the pandemic. But the scenery is absolutely magnificent. I realized then that, at last, I was having a great time at the Oregon coast. Only took 13 years to finally say WOW, I LOVE this!!!

I told Stefan a few times that I was disappointed I had lived in Oregon for 13 years and still hadn't seen seals. I saw them in California back in the 1990s a lot. But even in all our trips to Astoria, I'd never seen them. I had resigned myself to the reality that I was not going to see them. As I looked out at yet another viewpoint, I looked down at the beautiful gray rocky coast and... there they were! SEALS! Hurrah! Found the point where you can go down to the rocky beach and have a closer look (but not TOO close). I was so happy! I could have sat there all day, in fact. It was glorious. 

We pushed on. It was my first view of Newport, which is a really sad, depressing city, at least the stretch where you drive through. Added bonus: lots of Jesus signs and a billboard telling you evolutionary biology isn't real. Yeah, we drove right through. What a shame we didn't realize Otter Rock was a road we could take for a few miles pushing North instead of 101. 

Foodies love to hate on Moe's Seafood Restaurant. Welp, sorry foodies, but it's the best fried shrimp I've ever had. The fish in the fish and chips also never disappoints. The clam chowder is decent as well. We got takeout and ate out on a park bench in Lincoln City. Then we walked down street in ever-increasing wind to what turned out to be public beach access, with not only the actual sea, but a sea of seals on Salishan Beach, the beach on the other side of the sea. But we didnt' stay long: it was horrifically windy and a couple of folks looking addicted and desperate had me wanting to leave ASAP. 

101 turned inland, we got rained on and there was some gnarly wind (thankfully, a headwind rather than a side wind), and at last made it to Beaver, now in the pooring down rain. I've been to Beaver a few times, but from there, we either turn right from wence we came in the Nestucca River Valley and head up to Tillamook, or we turn around and go back. We stood under an awning, hydrated and put on our rain jackets. I texted our dog sitters to let them know we'd be late - the rain was pouring now and it was really slowing us down. 

We were hoping Nestucca River Road was open at last but, alas, it's not, so you still have to use the Bible Creek Road / Bald Mountain Road detour. By the time we got to the top of Bald Mountain, it was pissing rain. It was a deluge. We stood under the awning of the information sign in the parking lot at the viewpoint (but not the one up by the pit toilet) and felt miserable for a while. But it wasn't getting any better. We were also IN a rain cloud. I have never actually been IN a cloud. We headed down the narrow road, oh so carefully since my viser is crap and I had to have it open in order to see in the deluge. We got back down to Nestucca River Road and, by the time we got to Carlton, there was a break in the rain. 

We made it home before dark, which is an absolute requirement for me anymore. We were reunited with Lucinda and there was great rejoicing... 

Wow, I just wrote a travel blog! It's been so, so long... 

More about our travel adventures: www.coyotebroad.com/travel/

Haters are just... sad

If you don't like me, then:

• Unfollow me on Facebook if you are a FB "friend"; unfriend me entirely if you want to REALLY send me a message.
   
• Don't read this blog, or any others I write.
   
• Don't follow me on Twitter. Don't read my tweets. You might even want to block them. 

It's really that simple: if you don't like me, just ignore me online. No need to comment with a passive-aggressive or dismissive statement on something I'm excited about. I probably already sense that you are bothered by me, so I don't need yet another reminder. 

No, you aren't going to shut me up. 

Maybe my prolific online messaging annoys you. Maybe you don't like how freely I share my political views. Honestly, I really don't care. But I do care when you feel the need to comment on something for NO reason other than to be snarky.  

I have to wonder about you people who are so bent on undermining someone just because her personality annoys you, just because she rubs you the wrong way. You can't stand it when they are enthusiastic about something. 

How do you know if I'm talking about you? Go look at your social media posts and comments. How many of them are about something you think people will be genuinely interested in, how many are about something nice about your life, how many are you trying to be helpful, and how many are a negative post or comment, something passive aggressive, or one of those "Well, actually..." statements? 

I'm starting to feel sorry for ya. I'm really not worth a hater's time. Surely there is someone out there MUCH more worthy of your negativity? 

Also see:

Breaking her spirit.

Two new travel resources from me

A blog about something travel-related again! 

I've created two new pages on the travel-portion of my web site: one to encourage people to be better prepared for a public health crisis while traveling and one to encourage people to travel with respect to others and their surroundings. Both were inspired by the current global pandemic or current political climate. 

travel with respect
To be able to travel - and to travel abroad - is a sign of your privilege. You absolutely should travel if you are able - it's a wonderful, soul-enriching act. But never forget that to be able to travel depends on your economic status, your passport and how the world labels or categorizes you. To be able to travel is a privilege. People without your privilege see you, the person that has such. And, sometimes, they see your pity and condensation. Or your outright disrespect and arrogance. And that contributes how they see and treat all travelers - including me. These are tips for how not to be an asshole while traveling - and I can't believe anyone needs this guidance but, based on what I've seen - yeah, a lot of people don't know this.

Traveling during a global pandemic
Welcome to the reality that, while you are out having a great time far from home, an intense disaster, even a global pandemic, can break out and not only alter your travel plans but force you to evacuate and get home ASAP. It's actually always been a possibility, but while there were stories here and there of travelers stranded somewhere because of a disaster, or having difficulty re-entering their home country because they are coming from a place with a widespread disease outbreak, the novel coronavirus pandemic has brought home the reality that this can happen to anyone, anywhere. If you are going to travel before the global pandemic is over, these are suggestions that will keep you safe, keep others safe from you, and help you prepare beforehand in case you need to get out of a dicey situation.

I have no idea if these will really help people. I'm expecting criticism for being sanctimonious and a killjoy. So be it. 

Embracing the reality that the pandemic isn't over

The pandemic isn't over. So many countries haven't seen the worst of it. I am so happy to be vaccinated (Pfizer), but I know this is a pause, not the end, in lockdown life, because of variants, because unvaccinated people are providing a breeding ground and evolutionary laboratory for such. 

I know people are exhausted from thinking about the novel coronavirus and that most people in the USA haven't lost any loved one to COVID-19. For most people in the USA, this disease is still something abstract and just merely inconvenient, even with almost 600,000 deaths in our country alone and untold numbers of people who have long-term disabilities. I am not one of those people, but I'd like to think I would still be this alarmed even if I didn't know people who have died or are permanently disabled from this.  

This past weekend, I saw a neighbor I hadn't seen in many months. Lucinda adores him, so I crossed the street so she could greet him. He was thrilled. He asked how we were and I said we were fine, grateful we've been able to stay healthy and that we've been fully vaccinated, and that I'm so sorry for the people in our neighborhood who are still dealing with long-term effects from the virus. 

"People in our neighborhood?" he said with alarm. "People here have had it?"

This isn't the first time I've remarked to a neighbor about other neighbors having this disease - no names, of course - and that neighbor having NO IDEA, having thought he or she was living in a safe little disease-free cocoon. 

I walk my dog every day. I know most every person in my neighborhood by sight, if they have a dog or not, if they have an outdoor cat, when they bought their house, how many people live in the house, how often their adult children visit, if there's a baby on the way, if one of the kids graduated in May, and on and on. I'm not an Oregonian - I'm a Kentuckian, and I talk to people. I'm Gladys Kravitz and I have no apologies for that. People have piped right up with the info to me as I walk by: "I got COVID. It's been hell." I don't reveal their names to anyone, but yes, absolutely, I've referred to people in our neighborhood having this disease. And most of the time, the "What?!?" reaction is what I get from other neighbors. 

But it's not that ignorance and denial that fuels my pessimism. 

In July 2020, I wrote about how the novel coronavirus may never go away, even with a vaccine. There are links to the long articles I read that predicted this and that made me realize this wouldn't be something that would be with us for just several weeks or a few months, in contrast to what politicians and news folks were saying. This week, I came across this interview with the epidemiologist who worked with the WHO to help eradicate smallpox and was the science adviser for what many are calling a prescient film, Contagion. I really hope you will read the article in its entirety. It notes, in part:

If a third of the population, 30 percent, is not vaccinated, not wearing masks, and we’ve already got the variants in the United States—what do you think’s going to happen? Remember, what drives a virus is not how good we’ve been at vaccinating 60 percent. It’s the 120 million Americans who are not vaccinated, not wearing masks, not practicing social distancing, and who are congregating. And it only takes one little virus, and it’s everywhere, because they’re just not protected. Of those who aren’t vaccinated but had the virus, a high percentage have already lost their immunity or have waning immunity—there’s much less and much less durable immunity from getting the disease than from getting the vaccine.

That people are refusing to be vaccinated when the vaccine is available is outrageous. It comes from a place of privilege, of being willfully obtuse and not experiencing any immediate consequences from such reckless selfishness. I've used this analogy so many times, but it fits: imagine millions of people in the USA and the UK during World War II saying, "Screw these restrictions, I have a right to gas, to steak and to cosmetics, I'm going to do what I want because rations are inconvenient to the life I want to live." I think about people in the UK in particular, who went without things like oranges and chocolate for MANY years - they were still living with a lot of deprivation even in 1950.

I know people are frustrated that "the science keeps changing." It's not that science keeps changing, but our understanding of it does: we get more data, we get a larger group looking at that data, and sometimes, we realize that our understanding is wrong. For instance, it turns out, in contrast to what was said a year ago, in contrast to my own understanding, face masks DO protect the wearer, far more than scientists thought they did - but the reality is still that your face masks protect others even more. I love the pants analogy the most: pants don't protect you from getting some of your own pee on you, but they do protect you from getting pee on other people. Since I care about people, and I care about myself, I'm masking up - and apologizing to all the tourists I made fun of in my mind for about 15 years. 

Knowing what we know about masks, it should be that vaccinated people aren't wearing them and people who aren't vaccinated are. Instead, it's the opposite. And I'm one of those people still wearing a mask inside anywhere other than my house, despite being vaccinated. Why? Because I'm afraid of variants. Current vaccines may not work against the South Africa and India variants. Because I don't want to be permanently disabled: not being able to taste, not being able to sing or breathe deeply, being exhausted from just walking across the house, etc. Because I'm not ready to die. 

Do read this article, which has many interesting historical notes, like that the "Spanish flu" originated in Kansas, and why it got the "wrong" name. 

We're stronger and smarter than we're acting right now. That's what makes me so angry - we know better and we act like petulant children instead. I want to go to the movies, go to live theater, go to concerts, go inside and eat, and on and on - but if people don't radically change their behavior, I'll never be able to do any of that safely. And neither will they. 

I'm treating pandemic life now, in its current state in the USA, as a pause. We're going camping. We're eating outside at restaurants. We go inside to stores, wearing masks. We're planning a motorcycle trip for September and for 2022. Stefan is hoping to fly to Europe next year and see his parents. We're going to enjoy the pause, we're going to make the most out of it. But we're fully expecting this to be a pause in the pandemic to end - and fear what the next lockdown will bring in terms of people's behavior.