Ann Carol Goldberg

We started out to buy eggs, driving to the 15th Hole Missy’s market, just a mile away, a wonderful local business and another of the assets to living here (including Julian CA and their famous apple pies and the wineries, mountain drives and hikes and Old town Temecula.) Not ready to return home, we started driving off-road, up the mountain toward Mt. Palomar in our old friend the Rubicon Jeep–and up and up and up we went. The GPS was providing the route. Paul is a stellar 4 x 4 wheel navigator and we took in the beautiful views occurring every inch of the way. (including the snow on the ground). Occasionally we would see vehicles heading down the mountain and anticipate a wide-ish spot to stop and let them pass. We conversed with many, full of smiles and hellos. They were doing what we were doing, fleeing he woes of our country’s most awful week. Our goal was the intersection with the paved descent road or the road to mount Palomar’s telescope site at (FYI) upwards of 6155′ above sea level.   

A friendly couple in another Rubicon paired with us on the descent, until we got a warning light about hot oil. Paul checked under the hood and all seemed OK. We continued and did catch up with our companion Rubicon. The ride down was as beautiful as the ride up. I did develop a bit of a headache from the high altitude, drinking as much water as I could swallow but now age sensitive to high altitudes. Turning onto Route 79 N we arrived home 2 1/2 hours later to safely place the eggs in a more serene place, the refrigerator. What a driver is my hubby Paul, switching to lower gears as necessary, whipping around the bumps and holes and having a ball. Whoopee! Live for every day, The sun is shining. 

Asking myself, what has changed in my daily life since all of this Pandemic started? I don’t have little ones to deal with, people to care for or other time demanding needs or responsibilities, financial woes, empty larders. I can do laundry on my rig, take a socially safe walk and so much more. 

My schedule as before and now? I still get up and exercise almost daily, make meals, search for recipes in my recipe file or on line, make phone calls, email, Facebook, text, Zoom ad infinitum, watch the news and volunteer in our wonderful Jojoba Hills SKP RV Park in California. Those have not changed. What has changed is my head full of noise–concern about what is happening in our world. 

Now the discovery and threat of a new vain of this Virus is in the news. Scary of course. The latest take by the experts is that it is not more dangerous, however possibly more easily contagious and it will respond to the current vaccine. ( I am now deemed eligible for a dose in my age group), that is over 75. Not “dangerous? Just keep performing the safety practices (mask, washing, social distancing and no group encounters). Ok, but we have heard this before, way back in February; False warnings, nothing to worry about, no government guidelines in place. Later this was the delegated to each state.  

The long awaited stimulus package has been past, long overdue to help so many.  How many have been evicted? How many children terrorized, under educated, psychologically weakened.  How many people have gone through their savings? How many have lost family members, never to share holiday tables again in the “back to normal” future? 

We must continue to honor those heroes and heroines in the hospitals and front lines with few ICU beds available, trying to care for the ill, avoid contamination, administer the vaccines and keep some sanity in their homes and their own heads.

So, my daily life is only affected somewhat. I can donate to causes, help my neighbors and family and friends with phone calls an zoom sessions. But my mind still races with the woes of the century on all of our shoulders.  Thanks for listening to my wanderings. 

My review;

First, a quote from a definition of the term Asylum as applicable to Jill Bialosky’s search for answers; “a place of retreat and security: a shelter from strife.”

​The collected elements this renowned poet and essayist has included in this work intensely reveal her pain and agony as she searches for answers after her sister’s suicide.  In her search for answers to her shock, disbelief, her denial and grief, she creates a canvas painted in “blood, dirt, leaves, tears, fog, sky, historical accounts of great suffering” and recent horrific events depicting a visual form in her reach for asylum, a sense of peace. It is a book of such force from the ugly to the sublime. I recommend this book to all who will read and reread passages, sometimes out loud to savor their strength, rhythm and true purpose in appearing in print; A quote from the NYT Book Review of ASYLUM, by Jill Bialosky. (Knopf, $27.) “Haunted by her sister’s suicide and by political and environmental collapse, Bialosky finds refuge in nature and language, all the ways the mind seeks / to keep itself from torture.”

“Reading Jill Bialosky’s poems feels like taking a slow and lone journey into the depth of the human heart, yet all the while being accompanied and guided by an intimate voice. “An urgent and expansive book, Asylum is a must-read for anyone who ponders over life and death and all that comes in between.” 

I read this book during the early stages of the Covid-19 pandemic, when we were all seeking answers and refuge from the unbelievable course of daily life. Grief, shock and the search for solace have been ongoing since those days as demonstrated by the vast number of essays, articles, documentaries and the methods of trying to cope offered daily in the world if news, books, film, psychology and self help and the road to a new future world for the human race. 

If you wish to learn more about this poet, a search will offer a plethora of information. And as always, I seek your feedback, comments and recommendations for reading or viewing.  

So many of us sheltering during Covid are finding time to delve back in time to our childhoods, to our ancestry and to our memories. I have reminisced in previous blogs and am not about to stop now; another memory triggered by a stop at our favorite cider mill in Rochester, NY.

As a young child through my teens, we would have frequent get togethers with a good family friend named Harry Suskind. He was a wonderful character and a joker in contrast to his lovely, more subdued wife and always brought me a pack of Black Jack (Licorice) gum. He presented the pack with great teasing– which hand it is in, which pocket or did he bring it to me at all–(of course he did) and it could have been in my hair or behind my ear, in my teddy bear’s ear or my comfort blanket that was always present until I thought it babyish. 

We recently took a drive into the country, well it used to be rural but has been enveloped by civilization and developers) to Schutt’s Cider Mill. For decades this has been our favorite place for fresh cider, apples and their (deadly good) fry cakes. We took our sons, our grandson or friends and savored their products. It has been years since we have been there but had a yen for cider during this Covid crisis. The parking lot was jam packed but we all had masks and kept our distance.

To my surprise the display in the photo was perched next to the cashier. Hence my trek into the past and Harry Jack (as I had dubbed him) Suskind. Black Jack Gum and the other flavors have been revived. I did not buy a pack because we had already checked out and the cashiers were on to other customers but I certainly will during our next visit. 

A bit of history from Wikipedia and such;

“In 1884, he (Beeham) began adding licorice flavoring and called his invention Adams’ Black Jack, the first flavored gum in the U.S. It was also the first gum to be offered in sticks. Black Jack Gum was sold well into the 1970s, when production ceased due to slow sales. It was re-introduced in 1986 and again in 2019.”

It is not news that I spent weeks in UVA hospital and rehab, cared for by a plethora of caring nurses and Medical staff with incredible care and love surpassing any expectations I ever could imagine. They all had case loads of 10 to 20 patients on the floor, yet they gave me their time beyond belief, listening to and administering to my needs of the moment. I learned about their lives in those weeks, mostly from the night crew who had more time to talk and share our stories. I will never forget these people.

“A’s story” She left UVA for home at 8AM to join her husband and their two grown children sharing her home  and pitched right in to cook, do chores and help care for two grandsons with severe disabilities involving breathing tubes, feeding tubes and more tough stuff and somehow got “enough” sleep to come back to work at night in good spirits providing loving care. She is a Heroin. 

“T’s story” He worked the day shift and again devoted long periods of time and care for us, his patients. He went home at 8PM to look after two disabled and elderly family members administering to their needs as he had done all day in the hospital and their 2 youngsters, sharing chores with his wife who also worked in a caretaker role on the night shift. Both heroes for sure. 

“M’s” story of Mexican descent and a US Citizen, worked the day shift sending the majority of her paycheck to her family in a poor area in rural Mexico. She cooked for herself and made extra servings to share with nearby relatives and elderly neighbors. She thought of others well beyond her own needs and came to work with a lilt and a smile.  Another Heroin.

What more can I say but Brava and Bravo for these generous and loving professionals. Having seen them in action from a receiver position, I made sure to sing their praises by contacting  the Head Nurse in charge of the staff and made sure they received their “gold stars of praise” on the bulletin board for all to see. That was all I could do as patients are not allowed to give gifts or money to the staff. I relate here, 3 stories of valor. Multiply these stories by millions of workers country wide, no world wide and try to imagine the scope of endurance, dedication and skill provided to ill people, Covid victims and our lives may pale in light of how they live, serve and survive. 

I truly believe that the virus called trump is more deadly than the virus called Covid.

The trump virus defies all protocols, masks do not block it, hand washing does not help and then out of the other side of his mouth, wear masks and so on, but his rallies are packed with people shoulder to shoulder, unmasked and in danger.  Panic attacks are rampant, depression, disbelief of our countries’ demise reigns supreme, suicides, mental health problems are surging, children are in shock, and suffer mentally. The whole world wonders at our dire state of keeping a sick, delusionary “president” in office. and woe is us if he is re elected. 

Children are still separated from parents, what sense does that make? Immigrants are still in camps, border fences are in place. I recently viewed a video featuring donald’s relationship with son Baron (now a tall 6’6”) who wants to be like his dad and play golf. The dad calls him his mother’s son, is that denial of fatherhood and what about love for Baron?? There are shots of loving attention and then shots of inattention seeming to be a  denial of relationship.

I did not foresee living the rest of my life ( now very much a senior) in angst about the future of our country, environmentally, governance wise, Supreme court wise, Health care wise, economically wise, education wise, immigration wise and peace wise. Our form of Utopian living was not forever. Trump happened and then Covid happened changing everything.

Against the voices in my head saying stay away, I turn on the news or read the news and suffer all over again. Our country is in a fast fall, divided, angry and on the edge of civil unrest. I read the term “soft war” as a lead up to total civil war and insurrection. All I can hope for is a planet of peace, common sense and love for each other for decades to come and the wisdom of generations following mine to learn from the mistakes and missteps of the past, a government that addresses the dire issues head on and does not resort to Bible flaunting when he doesn’t even believe in the Bible, defying science and trying to reign as a tsar, king or dictator. He is not up to any of that and needs to reveal his true tax return, his true colors other than gold, orange and yellow and pay for his criminality and transgressions. Can he ever tell the truth or express his true thoughts without saying I forgot or I never said that, this one is a liar, ugly, fat and more “horrible” (his favorite word) words. The voice in my head is bursting in pain. The title gave you forewarning. 

The book: What We Talk About When We Talk About Books by Leah Price

In her book, Price offers an intensive trip/trek/tour through the history of books from Codex to ebooks and everything in between. As I read the book, I nodded my head constantly; yes, I remember those issues relating to the printed world in flux. I was there, I lived it, breathed it and formed my own opinions about the changes.  My thoughts then transformed into memory lane about my childhood with books. I too read vociferously from an early age.

As a youngster, my dad and I would walk to the library on Monroe Ave; (Rochester, NY)  and later, when allowed to bike I would spend time picking books with the help of the friendly Librarian. Then, with my books in my bike basket, I crossed the street to visit the Monroe Record shop owned by Herman Surasky, violinist, colleague and good family friend in the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra. My dad played viola. Herman and I would talk Classical music and then he allowed me to take the 33 speed vinyls into the listening booth, don the headphones and listen till it was time to go home. (My books, like so many of us girls in the 50’s. I read all of the girls book series, poetry, girly prose and history and adventure. What a great life I had, knowing I am a lucky one with loving parents, clothing, food, shelter and a rich cultural heritage and still a kid and then teenager with many of the aberrations famous for those ages of defiance testing and practicing to leave the family “nest.”  I also, slowly became aware that some of my friends suffered some form of abuse, mental illness and and other aberrations of being human.  

I am guilty of performing some of the classic childhood acts of defiance; not always listening to their rules at home or out with friends, reading my books by flashlight under the covers or listening to radio broadcasts; Only the Shadow Knows, or a news broadcast reporting the 1956 Suez Canal incident, or swallows causing disasters with the new jet intakes on the planes. I would often be caught when they peaked in to see if I was asleep, being ordered to go to sleep now. But I believe they chuckled outside my door that I did pursue “culture.” My mom and dad slept in the next room over. (Dad snored LOUDLY) but somehow my mom slept through it and I read to my hearts content.

In my teens, I dared to bring “adult books” home and hid them in my tampon pad boxes also sneaking in time to read them. (My mom had entered menopause years before and never found the books in the box.) One book was entitled The Scapegoat, but a current search does not show the book I read,  .

Leah Price’s book is fully packed, dealing of course, with the transition to ebooks and the charges that our health, mental stability and well being was in jeopardy by reading electronically. She deals with the reading of printed books through the ages. She relates the era of self help books in the 70’s through the 90’s especially highlighting the effects and dreaded harm resulting from the printed word. “Men only should be allowed to read,” women should not read. Children could get ill from reading, so such detail.

Price enters realms I never have imagined: Books can be dirty (germ wise) Do not except books from AIDS victims, immigrants, prisoners, the poor, the homeless as they will carry disease.” In 1890, it was a librarian who invented the “book disinfector” to shield middle-class patrons from the germs of dirtier borrowers. This gas chamber for books, a “metal fumigator made from 16th wire gauge sheet iron, with angle iron door-supports and side-shelf rests,” provided a kind of analog virus protection for the trashy novels favored by convalescent girls.”

The scope of this book is immense, too large to try to tackle here. I highly recommend the book but be assured, reading it needs your full attention. (I was conflicted between choosing a remote, quiet space to read because if Paul was nearby I would blurt out quotes from the book that I felt he must hear.  It is as I implied, chock full of information and detail. What a big dose of research went into this book.

An aside; I have on order two printed books (100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marques and The Child That Books Built by Frances Spufford) because they are not available in Kindle format or at the library in the volume I wish to read but are high on my list of books to read. So I do remain flexible to a point. I cherish my printed books that live in our apartment but see them only a few months a year and spend time in my book-zoo, sitting on the floor by the bookshelves, loving , scanning and petting my precious printed books. On our motorhome, weight limits point to the ebook format exclusively but I am content and only happiest when I am reading a good book, always submitting reviews on Amazon with a rack of books in my virtual library. 

I am sharing this engaging article found in the New York Times, dated 8/7/2020. I share it in the hopes of providing a bit of a reprieve from the angst and travails of today’s changed world. The author is Jason Farago, a brilliant art critic for the Times, among his many other achievements.  Follow him through the artwork of revered Woodblock artist Katsushika Hokusai, whose body of work we studied on our visit to Japan in the spring of 2014 and found it unforgettable.  It is the 1oth piece in his cycle “Thirty-six Views Of  Mount Fuji.” Farago takes us through each detail of the image and zips ahead into more modern work in a 1993 photo series by the Canadian photographer, Jeff Wall,  “A Sudden Gust of Wind (After Hokusai),” and shot at a cranberry farm in British Columbia. There is so much more for you to discover. I hope you enjoy this bit of knowledge and escape from the daily chores for a good few moments. 

ps://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2020/08/07/arts/design/hokusai-fuji.html

For a biography link of this artist to to   https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hokusai

Here we are, still staying on our son’s farm in Virginia never having imagined what spectacular adventures awaited us; Dan and his old timey jam sessions along the trail toward Humpback mountain with hikers stopping to listen. My son is the very talented guitarist and mandolin player on the right.

My daughter in law  Malena and I have cooked up a storm, but she is the **star cook and innovative beyond belief.  We are the happy recipients of such glorious produce from the farm: blueberries, zucchinis the size of short but fat baseball bats, yellow squash, fabulous long and thin and bell shaped peppers, small sweet onions best when grilled on skewers. We await tomatoes, corn and there is a pumpkin already bright orange plus more to discover.

Fast forward to the last week of July. Long time friends, Leigh, Dan’s classmate from High School in Rochester and hubby Patrick visited the farm, a long time dream for a weekend of memory-making, adventures, non stop talk and food galore. The culmination of their visit was a hike along the Appalachian trail and sight seeing from the Blue Ridge Parkway. A few minutes after a 6′ distanced and somewhat teary goodbye we started back to the farm but were delayed with a stop to help an AT through hiker in trouble, then proceeded on our way home. Delightful news awaited us, Dan was going to be blessed with visits in one place by his 3 wonderful sons and one gem that calls him Dad and calls us Bubbe and Zayde. 

A new day and all of the boys are here having departed for a day of hiking in the wilds and walking in the town of Charlottesville. I took a late afternoon spur of the moment walk. The weather radar showed no rain after days of raging rain from the hurricane Isaias.  I am thinking of my cousin in Wilmington, NC and other family and friends who have been hit by this storm on top of all the hardships of this Pandemic. It started dripping from a seemingly blue but misty sky. I am only slightly damp and the cool drops felt so good. I arrived at the rig as the 6 guys (his four sons, Dan and Paul) started down to pick blueberries.

Tonight will be constant stories, chatter and a delightful dinner made by super chef Grandson Josh and 8 individual pizzas. So good and the photo is my pizza (made smaller for my size appetite. I ate 2 pieces and wished for a bigger tummy.

How hard it will be to leave this farm, But we will head to Rochester and lo and behold we have signed on to an OAT trip next April to Sicily and then hopefully next summer take that aborted trip to Alaska.

Tomorrow a large zoom gathering awaits us to celebrate my beautiful Aunt Dorothy’s 97th birthday. How can we top the last 3 months? 

Be well all.