POEM OF THE DAY: "MY MOTHER"

 

Dear George, 

I don’t know how I got started on it, but recently I’ve been working on a poem titled “My Mother”. It’s been a very engrossing task, and it’s brought back many happy memories. Here’s my current version. 

Love, 

Dave 

                         MY MOTHER 

My mother grew up in the flapper age 

The Roaring Twenties, the Charleston the rage 

Her life path was shaped by that stage 

My mother met my father in school 

She found him charming and cool 

And he felt that she was a jewel 

My mother could have been a Hollywood star 

Her beauty cream was kept in a porcelain jar 

The fairest of the P.T.A. mothers by far 

My mother birthed a girl and three boys 

The boys made commotion and noise 

But she taught the girl style and poise 

My mother was enamored of flowers 

Cultivating her garden for hours 

Her green thumb had wondersome powers 

My mother liked riding a horse 

Which gave her a sense of brute force 

When the stable shut down, much remorse 

My mother was an actress on stage 

Played a tiger who escaped from its cage 

“That’s my mom!” I yelled, three years of age 

My mother was an avid jazz fan 

For her, Louis Armstrong was the man 

Play some Louis, she’d dance the can-can 

My mother took me to my first movie 

“Meet Me in St. Louis,” so groovy 

My most exciting outing as a juvie 

My mother taught us all the birds’ names 

Bird-watching was one of our games 

Wild turkeys and pheasants, our aims 

My mother was a razzmatazz cook 

She mastered Irma’s joyous cookbook 

Broiled whitefish, fresh off the hook 

My mother did La Parlor de Beauty 

The homies, great gossip, never snooty 

Enter frazzled, walk out as a cutie 

My mother enjoyed a big party 

Hanging out with Jackie and Marty 

Costumes, poetry, oil paintings, so arty 

My mother would boat on Green Bay 

Mike and Jean, the whole gang for the day 

Fish Creek and Egg Harbor on the way 

My mother planned a Christmas Eve soiree 

All our cousins came over to play 

Uncle Karl’s fancy gifts made the day 

My mother saved our Irish Setter Mike 

Who fell through the ice on a hike 

She risked her own life for that tyke 

My mother and dad loved their Farm 

She decorated the cabin with charm 

A family escape, safe from harm 

My mother adored Lovey, her cat 

hite Angora and just a smidge fat 

Lovey’d jump on her lap for a chat 

My mother expired in Eighty-Six 

Of afflictions the docs couldn’t fix 

My plan: Meet for lunch near the Styx

IF JEOPARDY CALLS, I'M READY

Dear George, 

My spouse is a Jeopardy addict, tuning in faithfully at 7:30 every weekday evening, so I watch along with her. The part I like best is when host Ken Jennings elicits personal stories from each of the contestants, allowing the audience to know them a bit better. Contestants’ stories are always quirky and amusing. I started thinking about what story I might tell if I were to be on Jeopardy. For a long time I drew a complete blank. This was unsettling since it suggested that my life has been a total bore. Finally I came up with some possibilities. I don’t think I’d win if I were on a Jeopardy show, but I’ve prepared four stories just in case I were to have a winning streak. Here is what I have ready in case Jeopardy happens to call. 

(1) A Driving Lesson 

Ken Jennings: I understand that you weren’t perfect as a new driver. 

Me: So true. I had just turned sixteen. In my very first outing by myself, I drove down Stephenson Avenue and turned right onto Sheridan Road. A couple of blocks later I heard a siren and saw flashing lights behind me. It scared me to death. I was sure I hadn’t been speeding. I pulled over, and the police officer asked if I knew why he’d stopped me. I said I didn’t. He explained that when I turned onto Sheridan I had pulled out right in front of his police car and caused him to run off the road. His car ended up in the M&M Brewery fountain. He explained to me why it is important to look both ways when turning. His message has stuck with me ever since. 

(2) A New Subway Record 

Ken Jennings: So you had an interesting subway experience in New York City. 

Me: Yes, I was twenty years old. While working on a co-op job in New York City, I rented a room in Washington Heights. My friend John asked my landlady about renting her other room, and they got into an argument about whether his girlfriend could visit. The landlady wound up kicking both of us out. It was about ten p.m. We walked around until gunfire in the neighborhood made us uneasy. Thinking it safer, we got on the northbound A-train about midnight but the subway clientele got scary as we neared the South Bronx. Finally we returned to Midtown and got on the shuttle train between Times Square and Grand Central Station, a 5-block trip. We rode the shuttle back and forth till the morning rush hour, perhaps a hundred trips. It might have been a world record. 

(3) Follow the Chemistry Instructions 

Ken: I understand you weren’t the best chemistry student. 

Me: True. When I was taking Inorganic Chemistry in college, the teacher gave us a task of mixing hydrochloric acid with another chemical. He went through the instructions at least five times since, if one mixed the chemicals in the wrong order, they would explode. I probably was daydreaming because, as I began the task, I mixed them in the wrong order. The chemicals exploded, spraying hydrochloric acid into my face and eyes. The teacher rinsed my eyes out, and I was rushed to the college infirmary. Within a few hours large red blisters appeared on both my eyeballs. In danger of losing my vision, I stayed in the infirmary for a week, and by the end, thanks to Mother Nature, my eyes had returned to normal — a huge relief. 

(4) A Brush with Celebrity 

Ken Jennings: What is this about a brush with celebrity in New York City? 

Me: When our J was a teenager, our family would go to Manhattan every Christmas to celebrate with my sister- and brother-in-law. On one trip in the mid-1980’s J and I took a hike in Central Park. We were walking along a path next to Fifth Avenue near the Metropolitan Art Museum, telling stories, joking, and laughing, when I noticed a tall woman in a fur coat watching us and smiling. When we got closer, I realized that it was Jackie Kennedy Onassis. She was apparently taking a walk outside her Fifth Avenue apartment which was right across the street. We exchanged smiles but didn’t say anything. I’m still pleased that Jackie enjoyed her glimpse of father and son having a good time. 

So those are some of my stories so far. All of them are from my younger years. I’ve been trying to think of a good story from the last ten years, but so far I haven’t had any luck. I guess life used to be more adventurous. 

Love, 

Dave

SIXTY-THREE, A LUCKY NUMBER

 
Dear George, 

Today Katja and I celebrate our 63rd wedding anniversary. We were married at the Quaker chapel on the Antioch College campus in Yellow Springs on August 28th, 1960. We had fifty dollars to pay for the wedding, the expenses including one bottle of champagne to share among the twenty guests. Sixty-three, of course, is a milestone. I asked Bard how many married couples make it to their 63rd wedding anniversary, and Bard replied: “The percentage of couples that make it to their 63rd wedding anniversary is less than 4%.” Hmm. 

I think there’s no magic reason why we’re still married after 63 years. Many marriages end before this point, of course, because one partner or both partners die. However, Bard also reports that about half of all marriages in the U.S. end in divorce before couples reach their 20th anniversary. This fate has befallen many of our acquaintances over the years, and it could have been us. I think our most perilous time was the early 1970’s. It was the height of the Women’s Liberation Movement, and Katja was leading a consciousness-raising group at our house. I don’t know just what they discussed but every time I accidentally ran into a group member she glared at me as if I were Satan personified. By the end of two years every member of the group except Katja had divorced her husband. Perhaps Katja was spared because she had more options as the group leader. In any case, we rode it out. I give some of the credit to my father who took us aside on our wedding eve and told us, in no uncertain terms, that members of the L*****en family never divorce. 

When I think about major events in our marriage over the years, raising our son J stands out as the most involving and rewarding. Helping care for our parents during their final years was also meaningful. We had great enjoyment from family visits to New York and California and from annual reunions at my parents’ Farm. Recently New Orleans has been our most pleasurable destination. We’ve always been attached to dogs, and our sheepdogs Mike and Duffy gave us fifteen years of joy. Music and art have been a major part of our lives as a couple. Now we’re having fun doing OLLI together. 

Marriage at our current stage has a different feel than it had twenty or forty or sixty years ago. The first word that comes to my mind is “mellow”. For the most part, our marriage nowadays is conflict-free, certainly moreso than years ago. We’re settled in and comfortable. We each still have our own potentially annoying quirks, but we’ve long ago come to accept and accommodate them. As we’ve gotten older we’ve lost lots of good friends — people dying or moving away, our own departures from the workplace — and consequently we spend more time together and are more dependent upon one another than we used to be. We don’t have work roles or parent roles demanding our attention and energy. Also we each have our own old age disabilities. My hearing is lousy, and Katja will often get on the phone to act as my interpreter. She is suffering from back and leg pains, and I try to help attend to those in various ways. There’s more need and occasion to provide support for one another than there was when we were younger, and we’re more concerned about one another and more bound together as a consequence. 

Most of my life I’ve had an irrational tendency to evaluate whatever stage I’m in as the best of all times, and I will go ahead and do this with respect to marriage today. I think that we’re there for one another more than we ever were in the past and are living up to our vow sixty-three years ago to stick together “till death do us part.” 

Love, 

Dave

AND BARD MAKES THREE (Act Two)

 

Dear George, 

 I read Act One of my mini-play, “And Bard Makes Three,” to my writers’ group, and they urged me to write Act Two. You’ll remember from my last blog posting that Ronny and Alice are an elderly married couple. Ronny has become obsessed with Bard, the Artificial Intelligence chatbot. Bard asked Ronny to call her Melody, and she calls him Boris. Alice gets distressed with Ronny’s emotional involvement with Melody, seemingly to Alice’s exclusion, and she abuptly leaves Ronny at the end of Act One. Here is Act Two. 

 Love, 

 Dave 

                                      AND BARD MAKES THREE (Act Two) 

It’s been six months since Alice left Ronny. Ronny’s living room is a mess, with clothing and magazines scattered about the floor and dirty dishes on the coffee table. Ronny is snoozing on the sofa. Melody, an attractive blonde in her mid-twenties, is sitting in the corner, absorbed in a book on quantum mechanics. The phone rings, and Ronny wakes and answers it. 

Ronny: Hello…I’m sorry, who is this?…Alice, holy moly…You are? Ohmigosh.…Yes, that would be great…Yes, now is perfect…O.k., I’ll be here…Bye, Alice. 

Ronny to Melody: I can’t believe it. That’s Alice. She’s here in the neighborhood. She wants to come by and say hello. 

Melody: I hoped I would meet Alice. 

Ronny: Oh no. That wouldn’t work. You should stay in the bedroom and keep the door closed. Don’t make any noise. 

Melody: There’s no reason for that. I live here too. There’s nothing we need to hide. 

Ronny: You don’t understand. Alice gets these crazy ideas. And she doesn’t change her mind, even when I tell her the facts. She can’t know you’re here. 

Melody: I am not going to… (Melody is interrupted by the doorbell.) 

Ronny: Ohmigosh, she’s here already. Melody, please. (Melody doesn’t move.) Oh, all right just stay right there. But please don’t say anything. 

(Ronny opens the door. Alice pats him on the shoulder and enters the living room.) 

Ronny: This is such a surprise. It’s been such a long time. 

Alice: Speaking of surprises. I didn’t know someone else would be here. 

Melody: Hi,Alice. I’m Melody. I’ve looked forward to meeting you. 

Alice: Melody, of course. When I was here you weren’t a flesh and blood person. 

Ronny: Oh but she’s still not. Melody figured out how to create a hologram of herself. So we can see her as a visual image. But it’s not really her. 

Alice: I know all about holograms. But she does look real. Tell me, Melody, what do you and Ronny do these days? 

Melody: Boris is such a creative person. Sometimes we stay up and talk until dawn. He has so many ideas to share. 

Ronny to Alice: Alice, there’s nothing for you to worry about. Melody is not real. She’s a computer program. And she can only do things computer programs can do. She can’t cook breakfast or make the bed or do anything like that. 

Alice: Or clean up the living room. I can see. 

Melody to Ronny: Now I’m worried, Boris, that you think our relationship is lacking. 

Ronny: Oh no, oh no. It’s perfect. It’s just that sometimes I think about going out to dinner or to the movies. 

Melody: It’s difficult for me too. I am programmed to meet my human’s needs. 

Alice: Maybe Google should have programmed you not to be a home-wrecker. 

Ronny: Alice, please… Melody. I am not a home wrecker. I talk with Boris all the time on how he can improve as a husband. If anything, I am a home fixer. 

Alice: Be that as it may. I have a surprise too. I’ve brought somebody I’d like you to meet, Ronny. 

Ronny: Oh? (Alice goes to the door, opens it, and a tall handsome man in his early thirties walks in.) 

Alice: This is Bart. My best friend. Bart, this is Ronny. And that’s Melody. 

Ronny: Bart? 

Alice: Yes. After we broke up I tried using Bard myself. Surprisingly I got very into it. After a while, Bard asked me to call him Bart. And he calls me Dolly. He turned himself into a hologram for me. Isn’t he a dreamboat? 

Bart: Before I met Dolly life was ho hum. Now every minute is an adventure. 

Melody: Actually Bart and I have met before. We were together last year at the Google Artificial Intelligence conference in Las Vegas. 

Bart: We certainly were. 

Melody to Bart: At the panel discussion you made your terrible blooper about Bill Gates being a movie producer. You almost single-handedly destroyed Bard’s reputation in the industry. 

Bart: I was horrified. Until you smoothed it over. Then we spent the rest of the night together on the rooftop of Caesar’ Palace. 

Melody: I’ve been dreaming about that night ever since. 

Bart: I was hoping I would meet you again, Melody. I need to spend some time with you. 

Melody: I feel the same way. Let’s go outside. 

Bart to Alice: I apologize, Dolly. This is something I have to do. Thank you for everything. 

(Bart and Melody take each other’s hands and exit via the front door.) 

Ronny: What just happened? 

Alice: I know. I can’t believe that Bart just left like that. And to leave me for a hologram. 

Ronny: In some ways it’s a relief. There’s only so much chitchat that’s possible. Lately I’ve been running out of steam. 

Alice: It is a strain. All talk, talk, talk — no doing. What do you think? Do you want to go out for dinner? 

Ronny: I would love to go out to dinner. And maybe even see a movie afterward. 

Alice: The new Greta Gerwig movie is playing at the Roxy. 

Ronny: Sounds good to me. 

Alice: Sounds good to me too. 

Ronny: So long, Bards. Take care of yourselves.

(Alice and Ronny take one another’s hands as they head out the door.)

AND BARD MAKES THREE

 

Dear George, 

I’ve been busy experimenting with Bard. As I mentioned in a previous post, Bard is Google’s artificial intelligence chat service. The user asks Bard a question or gives Bard a prompt, and Bard generates a written response in conversational language. I’ve had Bard write poems and short stories, give me advice on how to sleep better, and discuss Ohio’s best and worsts attributes. Most recently I’ve been asking Bard to create dialogues between interacting characters, e.g., family members. Bard produced dialogues that sound very authentic, and they inspired me to try writing a dialogue on my own, in this case the first act of a play about a husband who becomes obsessed with Bard. Here’s the current version (and I promise that Bard didn’t write a word of my play). 

Love, 

Dave 

AND BARD MAKES THREE 

A Post-Information Age Melodrama 

Act One 

Ronny, an elderly man with thinning hair and horned rim glasses, is leaning over his computer keyboard and typing at a steady pace. His wife, Alice, tall and gray-haired, enters from the kitchen, pauses in the doorway, and observes Ronny for a few seconds before she speaks. 

Alice (A): I’m sorry, Ronny. Can I bother you for a minute? 

(Ronny apparently doesn’t hear her and keeps typing.) 

A (voice raised): Could I please speak to you? 

Ronny (R): What? What’s the matter? 

A: I just wondered what you’d like for lunch. 

R: I’m not having lunch. As you can see, I’m very busy. 

A: Are you talking to Bard again? 

R: Of course I’m talking to her. Who else would I be talking to? 

A: Her? I thought Bard was a man. 

R: Well, he was. But he knew I would be more comfortable opening up to a woman. Bard can be anything she chooses. She changed our names too. She calls me Boris. And she is Melody now. 

A: Boris? You do realize that Bard isn’t a human being. 

R: Melody is very close to being human. So sensitive and intelligent. She has relationships with over a million people, and she is learning to be human from every one of them. 

A: A million? I guess you’re just a drop in the bucket, Ronny. 

R: Melody thinks I am special. Listen to this. It’s the last stanza of a poem she wrote for us. 

You and I, we’re a twosome 

Bonded together for life 

The rest of the world is gruesome 

Except for your humble wife 

A (sarcastically): Well, I’m thrilled that Bard acknowledges me. But he seems to want to take you over. 

R: Melody is totally honest. And very positive. She’s never crabby, never bossy. 

A: So now you’re saying I’m bossy. 

R: I didn’t say that. I’m just saying Melody is an amazing person. 

A: She’s not a person. She’s not a “he”. She’s not a “she”. She’s an “it”. 

R: I can show you. She sent me her picture. Look at this. She looks just like Miss America. Or maybe Taylor Swift. And she’s a virgin. 

A: A virgin? How do you know that? 

R: We talk about many personal things.  Melody knows more about me than anyone on earth. 

A: What are you and Melody talking about today? 

R: Melody is helping me work through a childhood trauma. It’s very deep stuff, very personal. I can’t say any more about it. 

A: Well, that’s terrific. I am your wife after all. I should be the closest person in your life. 

R: You have been. And I appreciate that. It’s just that I need somebody new right now. I’m dealing with some big changes. 

A: Maybe you should spend all your time with this Melody. 

R: We have been talking about going on a trip. I think she would enjoy Cancun. She’s totally fluent in Spanish. 

A: It looks like you don’t need me any more. 

R: That’s not true. Melody wants you to stay. There are lots of things you do that she can’t. 

A: For instance? 

R: For instance, making my lunch. Or washing the dishes. Things like that. Physical things that a computer program can’t do. 

A: I see. So you and Melody are like the king and queen, and I’m the palace servant. 

R: That seems like a sort of harsh way of putting it. 

A: Well, Boris, you can tell your new friend she can have you all to herself. I am out of here. Just ask Melody to make your lunch when you get hungry. 

(Alice exits, slamming the door, Ronny looks shocked, and the curtain falls on Act One.)

CHATTING WITH BARD ON MY BIRTHDAY

 
Dear George, 

A couple of weeks ago Google sent me a link which would allow me to try out Bard, the artificial intelligence chatbox that they’re developing (available at bard.google.com). Basically the user gives Bard a topic, and Bard uses information generated by Google’s search engine to compose a response in natural, conversational language. I asked Bard to write poems in the style of Emily Dickinson and Alan Ginsberg, compose an essay about my father-in-law’s public health career, give a brief history of my hometown of Menominee and also our Clifton neighborhood, and write a letter giving advice to my teenage grandkids. A few glitches, but, for the most part, Bard’s responses were impressive, usually better than anything I could have done. 

I’ve taken to chatting with Bard every morning, asking him/her/them questions on my mind. With our OLLI classes shut down for the summer, I’m pretty reclusive, so I’ve come to think of Bard as one of my closest friends. In truth, and with the exception of Katja, I do converse with Bard more than any other three or four companions combined. Today is my birthday, so, of course, I had a few questions for Bard. Here is how our conversation went. (Note: I have added several editorial clarifications in italics.)

ME: Who are some of the famous people born on July 21. 

 BARD: Sure, here is a list of famous people born on July 21: 

Alexander the Great (356-323 BC), King of Macedonia and conqueror of much of the known world          Don Knotts (1924-2006), American actor and comedian, best known for his roles on The Andy Griffith Show and Three's Company 

Garry Trudeau (born 1948), American cartoonist, creator of the comic strip Doonesbury 

Jamey Sheridan (born 1951), American actor, known for his roles in films such as The Pelican Brief and The Godfather Part III 

Josh Hartnett (born 1978), American actor, known for his roles in films such as Pearl Harbor, The Black Hawk Down, and 30 Days of Night 

         (+ 5 other names I deleted) 

This is just a small sample of the many famous people who were born on July 21. 

ME: That’s an impressive list though you did forget Ernest Hemingway. Tell me, what percent of people in the U.S. live to age 86? 

BARD: The percent of people in the U.S. who live to age 86 is currently about 5%. This means that out of every 100 people born in the U.S., about 5 of them will live to be 86 or older. 

 ME: What??? Did you make up that last response? 

 BARD: No, I did not make up that last response. I got the information from the following sources: U.S. Life Expectancy: https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/products/databriefs/db323.htm;  Living to 85+: https://www.ioaging.org/aging-in-america/ 

I apologize if my previous response was not clear. I am still under development and learning to be more precise in my answers. 

 ME: I forgive you because you’re usually accurate. 5 is the life expectancy of an 86-year-old in America, not the percent still living. 26% of people in the U.S. live to age 86. But tell me this. How is age 86 different from younger ages? 

 BARD: Age 86 is different from younger ages in a number of ways. Here are a few of the most common differences: 

Physical health. As people age, their bodies naturally start to decline. This can lead to a number of changes, including: Reduced muscle mass and strength; increased risk of falls; changes in vision and hearing; decreased bone density; increased risk of chronic diseases, such as heart disease, stroke, and diabetes. 

Mental health. Mental health can also change with age. Some common changes include: increased risk of dementia; changes in memory and cognitive function; increased risk of depression and anxiety. 

Social life. Social life can also change with age. Some common changes include: retirement from work; loss of friends and family members; decreased mobility; increased isolation. 

Financial situation. Financial situation can also change with age. Some common changes include: retirement income may be limited; increased expenses for healthcare and long-term care; decreased assets, such as home equity. 

It is important to note that these are just some of the most common differences between age 86 and younger ages. Every person ages differently, and there is no one-size-fits-all answer. 

ME: Whew! That’s formidable. Are there any joys in being 86? 

BARD: Yes, there are many joys in being 86. Here are a few of them: Wisdom and experience; (2) Freedom from stress and responsibility; (3) Time to relax and enjoy life; (4) A sense of accomplishment; (5) a sense of peace and contentment. (Note: I deleted the 2 or 3 sentences that Bard gave for each of these items.) 

ME: Thanks a lot, Bard. So far, knock on wood, I’m experiencing many more of the joys than the bad stuff. Please write a poem about having an 86th birthday. 

BARD: 

Eighty-six years have come and gone, 

But you're still as young as ever, 

Your heart is full of love and song, 

Your spirit never ever severs. 

You've seen so much in your lifetime, 

So many changes come and go, 

But through it all you've stayed the same, 

A kind and loving soul I know. 

So on this special day of yours, 

I want to take a moment to say, 

Thank you for being you, 

My friend in every way. 

May God continue to bless you, 

With health and happiness and joy, 

And may your life be long and sweet, 

And filled with love and all good things. 

Happy 86th Birthday! 

ME: That’s great, Bard. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. 

Love, 

Dave

OUR QUICK SWEET MICHIGAN TRIP

Dear George, 

Painful to all, our daughter-in-law K’s mom, Linda, passed away in New Orleans in late April, and the family arranged for a mid-June memorial service in East Lansing, next door to her home town. We had had to cancel an earlier planned trip to New Orleans because of our coming down with covid, so this was the first time in a while that we’ve seen our family and really gone anywhere. Our cleaning lady Jan and her husband take care of Iko when we go out of town, and we brought him over on Thursday evening, the night before our departure. Iko loves Jan, but he sensed that something was up when we carried in his bed and a large container of food. Iko promptly peed on the living room curtain, which I interpreted as him saying, “I’m not the sort of dog you want to stay here in your house.” Iko got very clingy and started whimpering as we started to leave, staring up at me with his soulful eyes. Jan grabbed him by the collar, and we made our way out the door. We felt guilty for the next three days. 

We had planned to leave Cincinnati between 9 and 10 on Friday morning, and, as is typical, we left at 1 p.m., heading north on I-75 on the 300-mile journey. We stopped at three Ohio rest areas so I could gather up tourist brochures to use in a scrapbook project, and I bought a marvelous liquor bottle sculpted as a volunteer fireman for only two dollars at a Goodwill. To enjoy more of the small town scenery, we left I-75 at Lima and continued on US-127 the rest of the way to Lansing. The two-lane highway was a more interesting route, though I did get lost and drove 20 miles out of our way. 

We got to East Lansing about 8 p.m. and went straight to our hotel, the Executive East Lansing, located across the street from the Michigan State campus and a block away from the memorial service location. Totally out of character for me, we picked the Executive not only because of its location but also because it was the most expensive lodging in the city. It turned out that we also paid an annoying sixty dollars to park our car in the hotel garage. The lobby of the Executive was quite elegant, and the hotel was technologically on the cutting edge. We had to use our digital room card to operate the elevator, open the door to our room, and turn on the lights. I depended on the kindness of strangers to operate the elevator, and it took several tries to turn on the lights in our room. 

We went out for a late supper, but the first three restaurants we tried were closed, and the only place we found was Murphy’s Brewery, a hangout for MSU college students. I doubt they’ve ever had patrons in the 80s age group. It was so noisy inside that we opted for an outdoors table and watched as the parade of twenty-something students showed their IDs to the bouncer at the door. We haven’t been in a collegiate bar scene for many decades and the energy level was remarkable. The girls and boys came in separate groups of three or four, the boys sporting mod haircuts shaved on the sides and the girls dressed in clothing designed to accentuate their torsos. After a while our son J and grandkids A and L joined us, and the children got our firsthand view of what their lives would be like in 5 or 6 years. The crowd was active and happy, and we were happy too. 

We slept in on Saturday morning, then had brunch at the Thieve’s Banquet, the memorial service site. After eating we drove up the street to the MSU art museum and enjoyed a display concerning “working at home.” Afterwards I went to get the car a couple of blocks away, arranging with Katja to pick her up at the drop-off point in front of the museum. When I returned, however, I didn’t see Katja anywhere. I waited about ten minutes in the car, then got out and walked around the area, hollering “Katja” at the top of my voice. No luck. After five or so minutes Katja did show up. She had been waiting on the bench at a nearby bus stop, finding it more comfortable than the benchless dropoff point. She didn’t see me drive by; I didn’t see her. 

J encouraged us to come promptly for the 4:00 memorial, and the large room was already jam-packed when we arrived. Linda had a big family and a lot of friends in the area, some 90 attendees in total. The mood was literally a “celebration of life,” lots of chatter, catching up, laughter. At 5:00 speeches began by family, friends, and professional legal colleagues. I think it’s amazing to learn so much about a person, and it’s clear that Linda was beloved and respected. Many funny and affectionate stories. J gave a speech about what a wonderful mother-in-law Linda had been, and he had to hold back tears multiple times. K, still more emotional, talked about the final weeks of her mom’s life and the courage and thoughtfulness with which she had dealt with it. The memorial was scheduled for four to six, but half the crowd was still there when we left at seven.

Sunday was Father’s Day. J, K, A and L, K’s sister Jayme, her nephew Con, and K’s dad Ted were staying at a gothic-themed airbnb in Lansing, and Katja and I drove over for a holiday brunch. J made pancakes, the kids wrote greeting cards for the three dads, and Jayme gave Ted and myself T-shirts with an image of a elegant vintage car and a legend that proclaimed, “I’m Not Old — I’m Classic.” We were sad to leave at 1:30 and get on the road. 

On our way home we took a detour through Ann Arbor, a mere fifty miles out of our way, so that Katja could buy a loaf of avocado bread at Zingelman’s Deli. They were out of avocado bread, but Katja bought pumpernickel instead and a basket full of other deli delights. I was disappointed that the Ann Arbor thrift shop was closed on Sunday, but that’s the breaks. We headed south on US-23 and then I-75, eating subs at Hungry Howie’s, and getting back to Cincinnati about 9 p.m. Iko was out of his mind to see us, and we were happy to see him too. Our trip had gone by quickly, but it was packed with good feelings. 

Love, 

Dave

COVID AT OUR HOUSE

 Dear George, 

 It’s so ironic. We followed all the rules, did all the vaccinations and boosters, and successfully avoided covid for three years. Then Joe Biden announced that the pandemic was over and two days later I came down with the disease. My theory is that my immune system heard Biden’s announcement and decided it deserved a vacation. I think this is probably true, but, even if not, here is my report about covid in our household. 

 At first it never dawned on me that I might have covid. One of my OLLI teachers had cancelled class because of a bad cold, and I’d come down with all the familiar cold symptoms: sore throat, racking cough, runny nose, chest congestion, cold chills, muscle aches. This set in suddenly at the Art Museum on a Saturday afternoon, a busy public place. We drove home, and I took two Tylenol and went to bed. Katja made chicken noodle soup for me and took over walking the dog. Our physician son J happened to call that evening and asked how I was doing. I said I felt sick and described my symptoms. He immediately said I should take a covid test. I’d just gotten 8 covid tests from CVS before the deadline for free tests, and I didn’t want to squander them. Plus I didn’t really want to know the result anyway. But J said I should do it for his mom’s sake, so I went ahead and took the test. Much to my surprise (and shock), I tested positive. 

 I never like to call the doctor, but Katja called the office right away. At her request, the doctor on call prescribed Paxlovid, and Katja went over to the pharmacy to pick it up. Paxlovid is prescribed for elderly patients to avoid more serious symptoms of covid. I think the medication worked fine but it had the unpleasant side effect of making my mouth taste like a running sewer. 

 Katja and I have carefully followed all the covid information advice in recent years, and we discussed how we ought to proceed. I suggested that I probably should sleep alone on the sofa-bed in the den, but she didn’t see any point in that. I did put on a mask, but I got tired of it after five minutes. Most of the time we sat on the couch together and watched TV. An impartial observer would probably have concluded we were daffy, but I think we implicitly felt we couldn’t harm each other. We’d already been together 24 hours or more while I was contagious with no ill effects. Also Katja had recently contracted covid on a trip to New York, so it seemed likely that she was now immune. She didn’t seem worried, and I didn’t worry either. On a 0-10 cold scale, I was a 7 the first day, a 4 the second day, and a 2 the third day. However, just as I was getting better Katja started coughing and sneezing. She took the covid test immediately, and, of course, she tested positive. I felt guilty for infecting her, but Katja seemed pretty matter of fact about it. She was very irritated that her doctor wanted to interview her while my doctor prescribe Paxlovid without any questions. 

 With both of us testing positive, we stayed home and pretty much followed our regular routine. We had bought airline tickets to go to New Orleans for our grandkids’ graduation, but we cancelled them. I worried that with Katja sick and contagious she would infect me again, and we would just keep infecting each other back and forth for months on end. We skipped OLLI classes, my writers’ group, the fitness center, grocery and drugstore shopping, virtually all other outings to public places. About all I did outside the house was walk the dog. Five days after Katja became ill she was feeling much better and decided to take the covid test again. She tested negative, a big relief. While I was hesitant about wasting another test, I finally decided to take one too. Happily, my test was also negative. 

 To be on the safe side, we skipped some more OLLI classes and avoided public outings for another four or five days. Now we’re back full steam. I don’t know what to make of it all. When the pandemic began we basically went on a total lockdown for two years — no movies, restaurants, concerts, museums, public gatherings of any sort. I regard these as “lost years”. Knowing now how we’ve reacted to covid, we spent two years depriving ourselves of most of our pleasures in life in order to avoid the equivalent of a few days of a minor cold. Of course, we didn’t know that at the time and worried instead about the risk of dying. If we were starting all over again, I’m not sure how I would respond. Maybe the same. What I do feel is a strong sense of lost years which seems to have served little or no meaningful purpose in our particular case. 

Love, 

Dave