Conventional wisdom isn’t always wise, according to The Atlantic.

I have a friend who grew up on Long Island whose mother lived in a nursing home in New York. Lived, as in past tense. She died of COVID last year.

Now, she lived a very, very long life—she made it to 99 (she would’ve been 100 last week). Still, my friend was suspicious, skeptical, and angry with Andrew Cuomo. He wondered if perhaps COVID didn’t have to end his mother’s life.

The disease is so diabolical. When I got it about a year ago, I didn’t know who/where for sure I got it from, and just as important who I might have spread it to. But we do know now that Cuomo’s policy of moving COVID patients to nursing homes to make room in hospitals wasn’t such a good idea. And we know, from efforts to suppress counts by his staff, that they knew it wasn’t a good idea a long while ago.

Combined with the other stuff that’s floating around about him, I basically see in Cuomo much of what I despised about what’s-his-name. (Though, that’s nearly infinite.) It’s only right to call him out. I must confess, in real time, I was suspicious of his fireside chat deals. Look, we weren’t getting it from the President, and governors had to be the calming influences. But he (like Giuliani post 9/11) just seemed to like the limelight a little too much.

I hope he resigns.

Apart from that, it’s time to take stock of the past year in terms of different responses, if only to narrow down the practices that seemed effective. And doing that requires an open mind. As in, what if some states that opened more things earlier fared better than predicted? What did those states do? Might come in handy someday, but let’s hope not in a long time.

Take Florida, for example. Those shots of crowded beaches were sensational, but, they were outdoors, misleading, and, it’s not the whole story. I found this Wall Street Journal opinion piece terribly interesting. Partisanship being what it is these days, the author frames it as who gets the last laugh: Governor DiSantis of Florida or Cuomo of New York? (I’d rather not laugh with either, but you get the point.)

That part’s a little petty but the numbers quoted do not lie. (It’s behind a paywall, so sorry if you don’t subscribe, but here are some highlights from the piece titled “Vindication for DiSantis”:

The Sunshine State appears to have weathered the pandemic better than others like New York and California, which stayed locked down harder and longer.

Mortality data bear out this conclusion. The Covid death risk increases enormously with each decade of age. More than 80% of Covid deaths in the U.S. have occurred among seniors over 65. They make up a larger share of Florida’s population than any other state except Maine. Based on demographics, Florida’s per-capita Covid death rate would be expected to be one of the highest in the country.

Nope. Florida’s death rate is in the middle of the pack and only slightly higher than in California, which has a much younger population. Florida’s death rate among seniors is about 20% lower than California’s and 50% lower than New York’s, based on Centers for Disease Control and Prevention data.

That was partly because Florida took a targeted approach early on to protecting the elderly:

The (DiSantis) administration halted outside visitations to nursing homes and bolstered their stockpile of personal protective equipment. Florida’s government also set up 23 Covid-dedicated nursing centers for elderly patients discharged from hospitals. Nursing-home residents who tested positive and couldn’t be isolated in their facilities were sent to these Covid-only wards.

Later surges led to new lockdowns in states like California and New York, but Florida didn’t lock back down:

The fall and winter lockdowns don’t appear to have made any difference in the virus spread. Between Nov. 1 and Feb. 28, there were 5.8 new cases per 100 people in New York, 6.4 in California, and only 5 in Florida, where businesses could stay open at full capacity. But the economic impact of the lockdowns has been enormous.

Employment declined by 4.6% in Florida in 2020, compared with 8% in California and 10.4% in New York. Leisure and hospitality jobs fell 15% in Florida, vs. 30% in California and 39% in New York.

Now, the author cherry picks a little: There are states that did do lockdowns doing better than Florida. But it’s worth looking closely at what has worked in any state.

You can disagree, and you can review the data yourself and perhaps conclude otherwise, but Florida has made measured, and yes, data-driven tradeoffs. (Unlike Texas.)

If we find ourselves faced with circumstances like this again, we’ll need all the effectiveness we can get, no matter what we think about who or where the ideas come from.

I am pleased to introduce Andrea Kelton as our Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger today. A retired educator, Andrea has been in the “Me, Myself and I” memoir class at the Chicago Cultural Center for 15 years (another longtime writer in Andrea’s class, Sharon Kramer, has generously volunteered to lead that class via Zoom now).

When Andrea joined our class in 2006, of course I couldn’t see the low vision magnifying reading glasses she wore to read her essays. In 2007 she read an essay about losing a job, and that’s when I learned she’d been diagnosed with a progressive eye disease called uveitis in her twenties. Glaucoma started setting in in 2009, and now she uses assistive technology to write poignant essays like this one.

Loss

by Andrea Kelton

What happened to my crayons? I’d left them on our cement porch stoop, right next to my Queen Elizabeth coronation coloring book. And now they were gone. Replaced by a bright shiny waxy rainbow pool. My astonished six-year-old brain searched for an answer to this puzzle. I never knew a hot summer sun could melt my best Crayola’s. But I didn’t feel sad. This transformation left me with a sense of wonder.

Andrea’s store front, replete with plants.

The fabric of my life is like everyone else’s. Woven with losses, big and small. A favorite necklace or all worldly possessions lost to divorce or fire. My keys. My vision. My ability to drive and my public school teaching career. I’ve lost too many friends to cancer, including Dave. My most precious person in this wild, wonderful world.

But here’s the thing: In every situation, change rose from the ashes of loss.

Like the business Dave and I started after my vision loss set in. All three Kids & Clay storefronts were fitted with large plate glass windows. The counter under the window at our 4901 N. Damon store was three feet wide. I threw pots of all sizes, filled them with plants and arranged them on the counter. The plants loved the bright Western exposure. They grew. And grew. And grew. Two jade plants ended up THREE feet tall and two feet wide. Passersby started stopping in to ask about buying a plant. I had to tell them that I was a pottery studio and not a plant store.

One day a woman came in to Kids & Clay and brought me a plant. When she first bought it, it had fit perfectly on a little table in the corner of her living room. The plant grew and no longer fit. “Do you want it?” she wondered. I took the plant off her hands and suggested she buy a silk plant for that corner. It wouldn’t grow. It wouldn’t change.

On this planet, life is change. And change is transformation. So both life and loss are change. Both life and loss are transformation.

I’ve spent most of my life trying to accept change. Trying to live one day at a time. Trying to enjoy the moment. In the hopes that someday I will return to that magical six-year-old mindset when change left me filled with wonder.

Matthew Whitajer

I’ve written before about how much I appreciate the free audio book program the Library of Congress provides for people who are blind or have physical disabilities that prevent them from reading print. This year marks the 90th anniversary of the Pratt-Smoot Act, the legislation for the “Books for the Blind” program, and to celebrate, the National Library Service (NLS) is sponsoring a concert.

Jazz musician Matthew Whitaker has been a patron of the NLS music service for many years, and if you’re a fan of television’s 60 Minutes you may recall an episode a year or two ago featuring him on piano. He’s a highly gifted performer, age 19, with a lot of credits so far and a couple of albums out besides.

In normal years, the National Library Service would have held the concert in the Coolidge Auditorium at the Library of Congress, with an interview preceding, and a reception to follow. This year is not a normal year, so instead, they’ve pre-recorded the concert and an interview the National Library Service Director Karen Keninger did with Matthew.

Full disclosure: Karen and I got to know each other when we both were in New Jersey training with our Seeing Eye dogs in 2012. She returned home with new dog Jimi that year. I came home with now-retired Seeing Eye dog Whitney and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She is the one who alerted me to this historic anniversary. The celebratory concert streams free of charge on YouTube and the Library of Congress Facebook page at 8:00 pm Eastern Time today, March 3, 2021, and I’ll be tuning in. The interview is available at 8:00 a.m. Eastern on the Library of Congress YouTube channel.

No time to watch right now? No problem! The concert will remain on YouTube for two years, so if you miss it today, you can still catch it later. As Karen says, “If you like jazz, you won’t be disappointed!”

Another version of this post was published earlier on the Easterseals National blog.

On Friday I opened an email from Bethesda Lutheran Communities, the operator of the group home where our son Gus lives in Watertown, Wisconsin. The gist of the message was that Bethesda had agreed in principle to sell its Watertown services to another organization, Broadstep. For those who don’t know what the heck I’m talking about, Bethesda announced last year that it would be closing its residential operations in Wisconsin, at least partly due to the financial burdens COVID has caused.

Gus has been cared for by Bethesda since 2002, so it was a shock to our system, to say the least. A case worker has been trying to find a new placement for Gus, and in fact, we turned down an opening at a home in Racine based on the hope that Bethesda would find an organization that would take over Gus’ house. That would be ideal—he wouldn’t have to move, and current staff could even be retained.

The tour continues!

It was a tough call. Beth leaned toward taking the spot—if we held out and the sale never occurred, Gus would still have to move and we might not have much say later on. Plus, Racine is considerably closer to our home in Chicago.

The flip side: Gus has caseworkers, staff, and doctors who know him. (Finding doctors and dentists who are willing to treat developmentally disabled people like Gus is not all that easy.) And, you know, it was simply a case of the known vs. the unknown.

We held out. And it looks like it’s going to work out. I almost broke down and cried while I was reading the email. I didn’t think I was walking around and thinking about it consciously. But it was apparently weighing on me more than I realized. What a relief.

So, Friday was already a great day. But wait, there’s more!

Beth and I had a date night. Sort of. We’re both very big fans of Todd Rundgren. In my mind, he’s up there with the likes of Stevie Wonder, Ella Fitzgerald, Prince—you know, transcendent talents. When I was in high school I wore out the grooves on Rundren’s “Something Anything,” a double album (plus an EP) that was all about…teenage angst. He wrote everything, played all instruments and produced the album. He’s always been innovative, and has produced a bunch of successful albums by other artists.

As we cultists say, “Todd is God.”

This is a terrific review of the “Pittsburgh show.”

Well, he’s doing a “tour.” It’s goofy, but if you play along, as we did, it’s a lot of dumb fun. He and his band actually perform every show of the tour live in Chicago. But, each night the stage and backdrop changes themes by city, and he peppers in the appropriate “Hello Cleveland” remarks. Even the clock display is set to local time.

We signed up for the Chicago date. Beth decided we should go out for a drink in advance, as is our wont in normal times. She got dressed up and even wore…lipstick. Me, I was my dumpy self. We went to our local, Half Sour, which can now have indoor dining at reduced capacity. When asked what we were doing that night, we said, “We’re going to a concert!”

When we got home I hooked up my MacBook to our TV, and I blue toothed it to our stereo. Which is a fine piece of HiFi, by the way. (My nerd self soldered the amp together from a kit. It has tubes and everything.)

We connected to the stream at around 7:30, in advance of 8:00 start time, and it was weirdly kind of real. Stage hands were running back and forth hooking stuff up. Behind the stage, we got the images of the Chicago skyline, the lake, etc. There was a familiar pre-concert anticipatory murmur—because 19 people are allowed to attend in person each “date.” It’s pretty tightly controlled—attendees must present evidence of a negative COVID test within 72 hours of the concert. People were comfortably spaced, and between attendees were video screens, each displaying the faces of virtual attendees who’d bought VIP passes.

The footlights were dimmed, the fans roared as much as 19 people can roar, and the band came out—a horn section, three sequined backup singers—in all 11 counting Rundgren. The sound was marvelous from the first note.

We rarely order delivery food, but for this occasion we had Chinese delivered. It came about five minutes into the performance. While I was downstairs in the lobby picking it up, Beth said she started to cry when she heard the horn section, realizing how much she’s missed live music.

We applauded. We hooted. We jumped up and danced. The video production was superb—it came off as slickly as a fully edited and produced documentary concert film.

At the end of the two-hour performance (the guy is 72, and Mick Jagger has nothing on him) we even did the thing you do after a music or theatrical performance—you talk about it. We called our friend Nancy, whom we knew had also “attended.” On speaker phone we marveled at the arrangements, the sound, and, well, it was joyous.

It wasn’t quite the real deal. But thanks to Rundgren’s imaginative, innovative artistry, it was pretty damn close.

Can’t wait for the real thing.

I am pleased to introduce Lola Hotchkis as our Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger today. Lola’s cousin Nancy is a friend of mine and describes Lola as “the writer in the family.” Retired after a successful career in business, Lola lives in the Chicago suburbs with her husband and joined our class once I started teaching via Zoom. This week’s assignment (in honor of COVID-19 vaccines) was “Shots” and prompted Lola to write this sweet slice of Americana.

Editor’s note: I am fortunate to have a few dear friends named “Nancy” — read closely and you’ll discover which one of them is Lola’s cousin.

Fred Gaier’s Shots

The hand cream recipe.

by Lola Hotchkis

My father Fred earned his pharmacy degree at the University of Illinois Chicago in 1940 and worked in a neighborhood drug store until drafted by the U.S. Army in 1942. Safely stationed in a Skagway, Alaska, hospital pharmacy, his memories of war time were good ones.

After the war, all Dad wanted was his own drug store. He found a store for sale, borrowed money from his uncle, and Gaier Drug Company, Inc., was established in 1947 at the southwest corner of Rockwell and Leland in Chicago’s Lincoln Square neighborhood.

Young Mary Faust’s uncle Bill sold insurance to the Gaier family. Knowing that Fred was single and a good catch, he brought his niece Mary to the store for a soda. The rest is history: Fred and Mary got hitched in September 1948. The drug store became the family business and the family fun.

Mom’s sister Jackie also had a family business. Uncle Eric rented organs and Jackie would play for events. Aunt Jackie recognized the talent in their daughter Nancy and trained her in the profession. To attract Christmas business, Eric would move an organ into the drug store window and grade-school-aged Nancy would play.

One of Dad’s friends dressed as Santa to entertain neighborhood children. He was positioned in a back corner in front of the public telephone booth and close to Dad’s domain in the back. Dad kept a bottle of bourbon conveniently located among the medicine bottles.

When he saw winter on the horizon, Dad brought home flu vaccine to his family. He would boil needles, carefully fill a syringe, and each of us received an annual flu shot. That’s why I’m not shot adverse.

Dad also made his own hand cream to sell in the store. The family helped produce it in our kitchen. Dad boiled the ingredients on the stove, then poured the hot liquid into thick white jars. Each family member was assigned a share of jars at the kitchen table. Our mission: Stir the liquid in each jar with a wooden tongue depressor until it solidified. We’d keep asking Dad, “Is it solid enough yet?” When the answer was affirmative, he’d give us new jars of liquid to stir while he capped and labeled the finished product.

Dad’s health suffered over the years with that bottle of bourbon in the back. His friends loved to come and visit. Each was offered a shot of bourbon. Each had one shot, but Dad had one shot with each friend.

Dad loved his store but the competition from Walgreens and Osco won out. No one would buy a corner drug store in 1968, but Osco came calling with a job offer. The district manager was smart. He helped clean out the store, bought the inventory that could be used, and placed Dad in the Osco closest to Rockwell and Leland. His customers followed, but I’ll never forget the day Dad put the key in the door for the last time.

He cried.