A friend of ours once said, “I don’t want to be alive after the last person who lived before there was television is gone.” He’s no Marshall McLuhan, but he gets it—the medium is the message, and the message is not all that great. More of a pollutant.

Diana, The Crown, Windsor, The Great British Baking Show. Enough with Anglophilia!

Smart phones, tablets, even computers—they’re all a form of TV. Once TV was unleashed on the world, its narcotic effect drove us to want more phosphorescent screens with moving images, in more places.

I listen to more radio than ever—partly a function of living with a person who is blind. There’s a ton of smart stuff on the radio, and I wouldn’t have known it if Beth wasn’t such an avid listener.

I don’t watch TV news. I don’t like Fox and I don’t like MSNBC or CNN. That we’re clutching our pearls about social media’s influence is a little quaint—after all it was cable news that invented the twitchy, nervous, fearful, desperate, reactive news cycle. It perfected bottom-of-the-screen crawlers that read: Breaking News: Election Still too Close to Call. (Breaking news: there’s no news! But keep watching!)

And now we have streaming. Which is just TV on steroids. It better feeds the addictive quality of screens. In the past, we had to be present on Tuesday evening when “St. Elsewhere” was on, or hope we catch it in reruns in the spring. Otherwise, well, we didn’t see it. Now, we can binge watch. We can have anything we want when we want it. Sort of.

The volume of stuff is off the charts, and to distinguish themselves, more and more programs seem to have jumped the shark before their first episodes. A high school teacher turned drug kingpin. A money launderer moves to Missouri. It’s like craft beer: “This IPA is insanely hoppy.”

“Oh, well, our IPA is more insanely hoppy, and it has avocado!”

Then there is the sort-of-historical stuff, the worst of the ilk being docudramas about the British royals. We have a friend in Britain who rails against the royals. And against Americans fetishizing them. It’s as if he’s saying, “Don’t encourage them!”

Couldn’t agree more. But then, against my better judgment, Beth persuaded me to turn on The Crown. Everybody loves it. They talk about it on Fresh Air. We have nothing better to do, so I think, why not be like the cool kids?

If you’re waiting for something about a change of heart, don’t hold your breath. I’ll take St. Elsewhere, or LA Law, or hell, The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

I’ll just say my favorite part of The Crown was the warning that was superimposed with the program’s audience rating: I read it out loud without providing context for Beth—as I am wont to do with odd billboards and other curiosities. It’s a bad habit in any situation, but especially when you live with a person who can’t see. Beth squints, trying to understand. And then I explain myself.

“Sex, nudity, language, smoking,” I said. She squinted. I had no explanation.

The irrepressible Regan Burke, author of “In That Number.”

I am pleased to feature author Regan Burke as our Saturdays withSeniors guest blogger today. News stories this month inspired me to assign “Transition Team” to her writing class this past week. “Focus on a significant change in your life,” I told them. “Who helped you through?” The long-awaited publication of Regan’s memoir In That Number: One Woman’s March From the Streets of Protest to the Halls of Power motivated her to write this 500-word gem about transitioning from a life of chronic pain to her life now as a successful published author, and the team of doctors, writers, bookstores, friends and editors who helped along the way.

by Regan Burke

A few years ago I finally transitioned away from chronic pain through bibliotherapy. Dr. John Stracks, the CEO of my Bibliotherapy Transition Team, introduced me to the writing-for-healing workbook, Unlearn Your Pain. One of the book’s first lessons asked me if I had any particularly stressful or traumatic events in my childhood. If I answered yes to that little ditty, my next assignment was to describe any of the following:

• deaths
• moves
• taunting
• teasing
• emotional or physical abuse
• changes in schools
• changes in family situations

Every time I completed a paragraph, pain slipped away. Not only from the sciatica ripping down my leg but also from the stenosis at the base of my backbone that had been squeezing the life out of the nerves in my spinal canal. The mysterious agony of fibromyalgia began to subside as well.

I was writing away my pain.

The next part of my transition team came with a memoir writing group. On my first day I came with no writing of my own and listened to stories about the family cat, road trips to the West and baking cookies with Grandma. My stories were about an alcoholic family that turned out alcoholic children. I had no fond memories of family vacations or beloved family pets. I slid out of that classroom into the endless dark corridor. A class member caught up to me and urged me to come back the following week.

“I can’t write like that,” I said, “my writing is too dark.”

“Everyone has their own story to tell. Come back and tell yours.”

And so I did. My classmates read their written stories out loud. I heard my words fall loosely on the table in front of me. Shame kept me from lifting them up and out. Pain relief continued at a more dramatic pace as I wrote and shared stories of my distressed childhood. A year or so in, my words managed to reach across the table to the writing teacher, then to Veronica, then down one side of the table and up the other. I created my own blog and posted my weekly writing for public view. Public!

Readers nurtured me with their comments, wanting more. More!

“You should write a book,” friends said.

“A book?” I said. “Never thought of it.”

And then I did.

Writing teacher Beth Finke included one of my stories in her memoir, Writing Out Loud. When I submitted a writing sample to Tortoise Books, publisher Jerry Brennan emailed, “I heard you read your story from Beth Finke’s book at the Book Cellar. Send me your manuscript.”

Manuscript? I had written 500 words a week for four years, but I didn’t have a manuscript. Beth told me to find a big room, spread all my stories out, then pick them up one by one in chronological order and number them. “Then you’ll have a manuscript,” she said.

From Jerry Brennan’s edits, I revised, revised, revised. Each sentence brought its own ache. This twenty-five-year old physical torment transitioned to an end with the final chapter of In That Number.

I have enormous gratitude for all those beautiful and gracious souls in my transition team.

You can order any of the books mentioned in this blog at your favorite bookstore, and learn more about In That Number at www.reganburke.com. And mark your calendars: Regan will be on WBEZ-FM with Reset host Justin Kaufmann this Thursday, November 24 at 11:20 a.m. Chicago time. Outside of Chicagoland? Just tell your Smart Speaker to “play WBEZ.”

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If you’ve had a personal experience with COVID, it changes how you view it. Having had a very personal experience with it back in March, it’s been maddening and infuriating to watch our country go without a national policy, and to watch so many of my fellow citizens behave in selfish and reckless ways.

As a consequence, it’s sadly very clear that if you don’t personally know someone who’s had it, you will. And sooner, rather than later. And that first friend or family member will be at the top of a growing list. I’d lay money on it.

Planning a Thanksgiving get-together? Use this nifty tool from Georgia Tech. Click the number attending then hover over your town or county. And afterward, maybe thing again.

We know a fair number of people who have tested positive and many have fallen seriously ill. In the beginning, we chalked it up to city life and a dense population. I’d been going to the office as usual before contracting it, often taking the subway. My daily life simply made me more vulnerable.

But we’re clearly in a new stage. The rest of the country, rural or not, is catching up. And it terrifies me. Our list of friends who’ve had it increased by two last week, one of them from the Chicago suburbs, the other downstate. They’re both health care workers who have been meticulous in their anti-COVID protocols and have escaped until now.

In one case it infected our friend and her colleagues in her clinic, leaving their department strained. The outbreak was traced to an intern who’d done a shift, and who, for some insane reason, had attended an in-person training. Apparently, a good many of the participants had also tested positive.

Our other friend has been on the front lines for a major regional medical provider. That’s including administering COVID tests, and tending to sick COVID kids who’d contracted it on spring break. She’d sort of assumed it was inevitable, and even took a B&B to avoid bringing it home to her family. She miraculously avoided contracting it—until a week or so ago. She got pretty sick but the virus has cleared and the worst symptoms have subsided—except for the smothering, lingering fatigue. It’s like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. It was a slog just getting out of bed every morning. I’d wake up, have a coffee, feel pretty good and work at my computer and then…90 minutes later BAM! Napping wasn’t a luxury, it was mandated by my body. And then, it was murder getting out of bed again, and repeat.

Don’t let uninvited guests join your Thanksgiving.

Our doctor friend is experiencing that now. But she has to go back to work tomorrow. Because the provider she works for is down 200 staff to COVID right now.

And it’s going to get worse. How much worse depends on us. As I wrote in an earlier post, “Let’s take care of the people who take care of us.”

We’ve been using a little app called Marco Polo to send video messages back and forth with distant friends for the past few weeks. One of them told us that she was agonizing about whether or not to go home for Thanksgiving for a planned gathering. Her sister was adamant that they both should stay away. And she issued a pretty effective warning she’d heard:

Don’t let your Thanksgiving celebration cause Christmas funerals.

PS: It’s not the flu. Just ask Chicago Tribune columnist Heidi Stevens.

PS #2: It’s not the flu. Just ask R&B performer Jeremih.

Today’s guest blogger Vera Dowell with sons Kevin and Scott on the beach in Kailua.

I am pleased to introduce Vera Dowell as our Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger today. America celebrated Veteran’s Day Wednesday, and the piece Vera read in class this week reminded us that military families deserve our thanks on Veterans Day, too. The prompt I’d assigned was “Exactly What I’d Hoped For,” and Vera’s essay was just that!

by Vera Dowell

When Duane opened his letter from the US Air Force and shouted, “We got Hawaii!” I squealed, we hugged, and (Duane claims) that brought on Kevin’s birth two days later.

In the spring of 1965, Duane had traveled to Washington, D.C. to request an overseas posting for his Air Force assignment as a pediatrician. He was told there were no possible openings for him overseas, but there was a place in Hawaii. “I won’t place a doctor there unless he requests it, though.” Duane wisely calculated that three years in Hawaii beat two years in Rantoul, Illinois. He quickly volunteered for the Hawaii assignment. “I can’t promise you anything,” the officer added.

I crossed my fingers, and we got exactly what we’d hoped for.

The planning began: farewell visits to our families, packing one group of belongings for delivery by ship, another that would travel with us, and a third for storage on the mainland. Our car needed to get from Illinois to San Francisco to be shipped to Honolulu. We agreed that Duane would drive it there by himself and I would fly there with the boys. An early morning flight seemed best for a three-month-old and a 21-month-old. Turns out businessmen liked early morning flights, too. Oh my god. What a startling preview to the year ahead of me, handling two small boys alone in an environment completely new to me.

We were lodged temporarily in a Waikiki motel filled with other military families. That was fun! Duane spent the day at work while I watched the children play and visited with wives to learn the ins and outs of military life. In the evening, the four of us walked over to the beach, picked up supper, and reveled in the perfect weather.

Our belongings had not yet arrived the day we moved into our Hawaii home: a rental in suburban Kailua, complete with a fenced-in back yard filled with tropical trees and flowers. Children’s toys, my books, dishes and kitchen supplies were among the missing, but we were assured they’d arrive soon. The next morning Duane drove off to Hickam Air Force Base, leaving me with two little boys. The beach wasn’t close enough to walk to. I knew no one. I began to feel sorry for myself. Here I was, in the most beautiful place in the country, with two healthy children. What was the matter with me?

We started frequenting a pleasant little park across the street when…KA-Boom!! The boys got the chicken pox. First Scott, then Kevin. That ruined a month. Our household goods still hadn’t arrived. I was going stir crazy.

This was not exactly what I had hoped for.

The boys recovered, and one morning at the park I met Carol, a League of Women Voters activist with three young children. A friend, a soul-mate and a lifesaver!

We bought a second car, our household goods arrived just before Christmas, and Hawaii evolved into exactly what we’d hoped for.

Trainers at the Seeing Eye school encourage us to talk to our dogs as they guide us. “Remind them you’re there,” they say. “It keeps them focused.” Since the pandemic hit, I’ve been taking one, and sometimes two, hour long walks with Luna every day. What happens when I run out of things to talk to her about? I sing to her instead. This blog idea came up on one of those sing-along walks. I narrowed the titles down to songs I listened to as a child and in my young adulthood, and my focus here is on the title of the song, not the lyrics. Here goes:

1. Every Breath You Take (The Police) Before 2020, I took breathing for granted. Not anymore.
2. Fever (written by Otis Blackwell and Eddie Cooley, performed by everyone from Peggy Lee to Beyoncé) High fevers are a common symptom of COVID, and when Mike took sick on March 17, his fever spiked at 103 ° and stayed there.
3. I Can’t Get Next to you (The Temptations) Mike and I separated into what he referred to as our “two kingdoms” at home for a week before he collapsed from fever and was taken to the ER.
4. Gimme Shelter (Rolling Stones) Sheltering in place became the norm.
5. We’re All Alone (Boz Scaggs) With Mike in the hospital, new Seeing Eye dog Luna and I were at home alone for ten days.
6. Puppy Love (Donny Osmond) See above.
7. And I Miss You (Everything but the Girl) I missed Mike.
8. Telephone Line (Electric Light Orchestra) I worked on my skills with VoiceOver (the speech synthesizer that comes with every iPhone) to text and answer the phone when Mike called, or when caring doctors, social workers, friends and family contacted me to see how Mike was doing.
9. Don’t Stand So Close to me (The Police) Determining just how far away six feet is without being able to see is not easy. I give it my best guess when out alone with Luna.
10. Signed, Sealed Delivered (Stevie Wonder) Mike still in the hospital. Friends and family members signed me up for gift cards at small local establishments, restaurants sealed hot meals into to-go bags, nearby friends picked them up and delivered them to our lobby. You know who you are, my friends: thank you.
11. Does Anybody Really Know What Time it Is? (Chicago) Is it just me? I have a hard time keeping track of what day it is, too.
12. Only a Fool Would Say that (Steely Dan) January 24: “We have it totally under control. It’s one person coming in from China and we have it under control. It’s going to be just fine.” March 6: “The tests are beautiful. Anybody that needs a test, gets a test.” May 21: “So when we have a lot of cases, I don’t look at that as a bad thing. I look at that as, in a certain respect, as being a good thing because it means our testing is much better. So I view it as a badge of honour. Really, it’s a badge of honor.”
13. Makes Me Wanna Holler (Marvin Gaye) Chicago Tribune columnist Heidi Stevens quoted Mike in a column when he was still hospitalized and I was waiting to be approved for a COVID test. He told her it was frustrating to watch the news from his hospital bed and hear President Donald Trump deny that the United States lacks sufficient tests. “Setting aside partisanship,” Mike said, “That’s really insulting. It’s insulting to be lying here and hearing that. It’s insulting to me, but also to all the people working here so hard and having to figure out who to give tests to and who not to, because they don’t have enough of them.”
14. Here We Are (James Taylor) Mike gets released from hospital, spends three nights at a COVID Hotel, and finally comes home COVID-free.
15. Dizzy (Tommy Roe) COVID-free doesn’t necessarily mean symptom-free. A “longhauler” now, Mike still gets dizzy while taking walks.
16. We’re Gonna Zoom, Zoom Zoom The theme song from a 1970s PBS children’s show becomes my theme song for the memoir-writing classes I lead.
17. Long Ago and Far Away (Joni Mitchell) Running into old friends out and about, giving them hugs, traveling to visit out-of-town family and friends, having people in for dinner, visiting elementary schools to give presentations…Seems like decades ago now.
18. So Far Away (Carole King) See above.
19. Happy Together (The Turtles) Neighbors start bringing chairs down to local park, and on hot days little kids bring sprinklers, too. While wearing masks and social distancing we catch up with each other. Temperatures are falling now, but hey, we all own warm winter coats! We pledge to continue meeting outside this winter.

Have a song title to add to the list? Leave your suggestions in the comments!