First, apologies for the absence last week. To be honest, stuff got to me.

Second: The stuff.

Beth and I have faced a lotta stuff. What distinguished us early in our lives is that we experienced medical stuff pretty early in our lives. We did not have contemporaries who grasped it. But we were young. Resilient.

Now, it’s like the Doors song: “No One Here Gets Out Alive.” Or without a health crisis. And man, it’s hard watching.

We’ve had two friends diagnosed with serious forms of cancer during this COVID thing. And a relative who also entered the hospital for less dramatic, but trying, circumstances.. We’ve reached the point where there  are now visiting hours, once a patient is admitted to a room, but early on there was not. And in the ER, people are still their own. You watch them march off with a stranger.

A friend lost a mother in assisted living and hadn’t been able to spend quality time for months. A friend has a father in assisted living and sees the father through glass. We have not seen our son Gus since February.

These policies that keep us apart, I’m certain, are wise.

These people, who act irresponsibly about masks and the like, are not.

Yesterday, August 28, was the 57th anniversary of The historic March on Washington, where Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his “I Have a Dream” speech. Today’s Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger Rita Sussman was there that day, and she generously agreed to let us publish her memories of that historic event.

by Rita Sussman

A few months after I’d graduated from Cornell, my friends and I took the train from New York City to march with thousands of others through Washington streets. Heady with empowerment, we urged bystanders along the way to join us in this historic crusade.

Dangling our feet in the cool of the Reflecting Pool at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial, we were flush with the excitement of merging our individual selves in the ocean of bodies sprawled on the mall. I strained to hear the voices of amplified civil rights activists, while laughter and conversation — even some guitar music — threatened to drown out words of incitement and inspiration.

Masses of people extended far beyond the few small spaces we occupied. There was constant movement within the throng, greetings bubbled among comrades unexpectedly reunited, couples leaned against each other, and friends lounged on laps. Alongside demonstrators from all over the country, I was saturated with this moment’s importance and the impressive force for change we represented.

In the heat of that August afternoon, a hush settled as Dr. King took the podium, beginning his speech with a reference to the Emancipation Proclamation:”One hundred years later, the Negro still is not free.” Towards the end of his speech, prompted by Mahalia Jackson’s cry: “Tell them about the dream, Martin!”[Dr. King veered away from his prepared notes to describe his dreams of freedom and equality. The “I have a dream” part mesmerized his listeners.

In 1960, when I was a college freshman, I had ridiculed President Kennedy’s ”My fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country” inaugural address. Sitting by the Reflecting Pool three years later in 1963, my friends and I scoffed at King’s stentorian delivery and dismissed the idealism which inspired it. Not having the benefit of historical hindsight or schooling in public oratory, we were singularly unimpressed. We’d heard words like that before, promising a new birth of freedom even though Negroes were being beaten and discriminated against and still were segregated throughout the South.

Fifty-seven years later, I am tolerant of young progressive activists just embarking on their political journey, not yet comprehending the full scope of a nation’s political landscape. I remember my dismissive attitude towards Kennedy and King and the years I voted for Dick Gregory (rather than the “apologist” Hubert Humphrey who ran against Richard Nixon) and for the candidate affiliated with the Socialist Workers Party — all in order to register my disaffection with mainstream politicians. Like me, a 21-year-old college graduate who thought society needed to be restructured rather than reformed, some young people today think deciding not to vote — even if it contributes to a Trump electoral victory — is worth it. Better that than cast their ballot for Joe Biden, a middle-of-the-road liberal who would “sell out“ their radical agenda for true change in this country.

Looking back on King’s speech, much has changed for Black Americans. His dream of full equality in a just society, however, is still that: a dream. Could we, the young people of yesterday and protesters of today be right? Gradual reform is not enough!

Todays guest blogger, Michael Graff, and their dog Lana.

Back in march I wrote a blog post explaining why online memoir-writing classes wouldn’t work for me. Five months later, I’m leading three classes a week via Zoom.

What happened? I learned to accept help from writers who were offering to help make it work.

Sharon kindly volunteered to lead the Wednesday “Me, Myself & I” class virtually, and a writer in each of the other three classes stepped up to handle Zoom details while I teach from home. Today’s guest blogger, Michael Graff, is one of those generous souls. He hosts and moderates Zoom for the weekly class I lead for Village Chicago, and his encouraging words early on helped build my confidence. Here he is with his take on Zoom:

by Michael Graff

For several years I’ve taken classes at Northwestern’s Osher Lifelong Learning Institute, or “OLLI.” One class I participate in is a political discussion group. This spring, just after our semester’s first class, word came out that all OLLI programs were indefinitely cancelled.

It made sense. The entire world was shutting down. All the activities I participated in and places I frequently visited were closed. I was profoundly disappointed.

My wife and I had just begun adjusting our lives to social distancing when I received my first invitation for a Zoom chat. I’d never heard of Zoom before, but my wife had. She’d attended a class through the vehicle.

Suddenly, I was using Zoom a lot. I met with friends, family, and my condominium association on Zoom. A friend from my OLLI class texted to ask if I wanted to join a weekly Zoom chat with other class members. I did, and at that meeting someone raised a question: Why doesn’t Northwestern temporarily reestablish class via Zoom?

The initial response was that it would never work. Undaunted, our groups moderators scheduled a practice session to give it a try. The idea spread throughout OLLI, and within a couple of weeks many of the Northwestern OLLI classes were up and running on Zoom.

At about that time, I learned that The Village Chicago suspended all classes. Our upcoming series of memoir classes would not meet. I suggested to Beth that we hold a Zoom reunion with our group. Beth was skeptical. Then I contacted classmate Hugh Brodkey, and between the three of us we proposed trying a Zoom gathering to see if enough people had an interest. After that, Beth and The Village decided to re-establish our memoir class on Zoom. So far we’ve completed two six-week sessions since the pandemic began.

Meanwhile, when my Socially Distant Olli class neared its end, one of my group’s moderators asked class members to express our feelings about online learning and how Zoom had affected us. I emailed my assessment of Zoom:

Dear………

I’m impressed how well our class adapted to Zoom. In fact people are more cooperative and more respectful in tone to one another because we’re all making sure that each of us can be heard. On the other hand, I miss some of the animated discussion and occasional bickering that bubbles up, but there are certainly fewer fist fights.

However, the day I led our group in a discussion about prison reform, I felt awkward addressing my laptop instead of live people. Several times I lost my place and train of thought. I knew that I’d have done a better job live, but I’m learning and I’ll do better next time.

Zoom makes it easy to come to class, but I miss my routine of riding my bike or taking the bus to Northwestern’s downtown campus, running an errand, stopping to have lunch before class, or simply stopping at OLLI’s cafe to pick up coffee or a snack.

But I’m a social person, so most of all, I miss the time before and after class when we all visit with each other.

This past semester, we lost one of our dear classmates. She was a lot older than I am, but often she sat near me and we’d talk before class began. Her obituary revealed she’d lied to me about her age last fall when she told me it was her 90th birthday.

She was 95!

This woman was such an animated person, I’d have believed her if she’d claimed she was eighty five or younger. I appreciated her sharp wit, the deep depth of her intelligence, and her lifetime of experiences. I’m grateful to have had that chance personally to know her. Had I only known this woman through the lens of Zoom I wouldn’t have had that opportunity. It would have been my loss.

Zoom, along with other venues, has brought a lot of us back together again, but it’s not perfect nor is it the complete package. I’m glad we’re continuing our group on Zoom. I look forward to the day when we can meet again in person, but I appreciate having what we have.

Back to me: stay tuned for Part Two next week, when I describe Zoom from a Blind Teacher’s Point of View.

I am pleased to introduce Hank Bliss as our featured Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger today. I’d intended to wait until November to publish the essay he wrote for my “When I Ceased to be a Child” prompt, but after the Democratic National Convention this past week I decided now is the time.

by Hank Bliss

LBJ being sworn in on Air Force One, November 22, 1963.

I was in my second year of graduate school at MIT and was leaving a classroom around noon at the end of a lecture. In the hallway someone exclaimed that the president had just been shot. It took a few moments before I realized that she was talking about the President of the United States. The rest of that day and the ensuing Thanksgiving weekend are a blurry mix of walking around in a daze, talking to people I knew and didn’t know, and simply trying to make sense of what had happened.

Most people appeared to be genuinely in shock but some seemed not to care, and a few even seemed happy. The latter was a surprise which remains with me to this day.

Before that rifle shot I was (I think) a typical kid. Where I lived, the concept of domestic vs international didn’t exist. World War II was over by the time I was 6. Korea was a matter of checking the front page of the Chicago Tribune to see the shrinking Pusan Perimeter before turning to the sports section for the real results of interest. I did bicycle around Europe with three friends between high school and college but to me it still seemed like visiting someplace close to Chicago, except for one thing: it took longer to get there.

I came of voting age in college and my parents sent me literature claiming a vote for Kennedy was a vote for the Pope. I voted for Nixon, giving little thought about the significance of voting.

At the time of Kennedy’s assassination, most Americans, including me, had never heard of Vietnam and had no idea where it was. That weekend marked my emergence as an adult. It was not an “aha” moment. I did not purchase a T-shirt advertising it. In fact, it wasn’t until this weeks prompt that I thought about it in these terms. But I began to be interested in what was going on in the world.

Vietnam became a household word and I eventually became anti-war. I had a commitment to serve in the military — and maybe go to “Nam” — and I determined that one must honor a commitment. As much as we may disapprove of the conduct and actions of our elected President, we mustn’t applaud his (or her) removal by other than constitutionally allowed means.

After all this, I better understood my discomfort with members of my own family who cheered at the death of Eleanor Roosevelt in 1962. And so the story and progression grew. I am an adult and a better person today, in part, because of that terrible Thanksgiving weekend in 1963.

A couple of vignettes from 2020:

With drawbridges raised, it took some effort to get in and out of downtown Saturday. Photo: AlmightyWorm

Saturday we escaped our concrete jungle in downtown Chicago for the verdant back yard of friends in suburban Glen Ellyn. Well, we ended up inside because of rain, but the thought was good. (FYI, we all were safe. Apart from the continuing good signs about Beth’s and my likely immunity, our friends had just undergone a series of tests owed to safely getting together with family. If that isn’t a 2020 sentence, I don’t know what is.)

It was delightful, as it always is with this group. But we had to earn it. We’d decided to take the Metra (a Chicago-area commuter line) out to the burbs. But we almost didn’t make our train. Beth called her favorite cab company, Flashcab, to order our ride to Ogilvie Transportation Center. We got a message that a cab had been dispatched. But within minutes we got another message that they were looking for a driver. Beth called and learned that the original driver was north of the Chicago River, and because all the drawbridges were up (precautions to prevent potential looting Saturday night), he couldn’t get to us in a timely basis. The dispatcher said he’d look for another driver, but it might take a while. So, Beth canceled and I ordered a Lyft. It came quickly but…you know, the bridges were up on east-west streets, too, meaning we couldn’t get across the bridge on Madison Street to get to the station.

We doubled back and found the lone downtown bridge that was passable at Harrison Street. Beth and I and Luna rushed into the station five minutes before our train was scheduled to depart. All ticket windows were closed, so we headed straight to the train. Everyone had masks, and distanced. We expected to pay for our tickets on the train—but there were no conductors, and everyone rode free.

We took a Lyft back, and luckily, our driver had once lived in our neighborhood — he was able to craft a long, Rube Goldbergish route to our place.

The view from the dashboard as we entered the WTTW parking lot

On Sunday, I got a Zipcar and we went to our first ever, maybe THE first ever, drive-thru shiva. I wrote about our friend Jamie Ceaser in an earlier post. Sadly, her mother Ollie passed away recently. It’s been a rough go for Jamie and her family—her mom was in assisted living. For a while they couldn’t see each other, and in the last weeks they could have five-minute visits.

Ollie had a good run, though, making it well into her nineties. A traditional shiva—where the family is visited for days by loved ones to commemorate a death (they “sit shiva”) wasn’t possible. So, our intrepid friend Jamie set out to organize a drive-thru Shiva. When we were notified of the time and date, Beth asked Jamie, “How does a drive-thru Shiva work, I’ve never been to one.”

Beth’s goodie bag.

“I’ve never been to one, either,” Jamie replied. “I may have heard about it or made it up!”

Well, it worked great. Jamie tapped the local public television studio, for whom she’s done a lot of work over time, and they granted their parking lot for the event. I followed Google maps and as we entered the lot, we were greeted by a sign with an arrow that said, “Ollie’s Drive-Thru Shiva.” We followed arrows to the right, then a sign directed us left, where we rolled down windows an passed slowly by tables that displayed photos and mementos of Ollie’s life. As we approached the last table, covered by a canopy, our friend Jamie approached. She handed us two goodie bags she’d assembled. Affixed to each bag was a photo of Ollie labeled “Ollie’s Bialy’s Goody (Bye) Bag.”

We chatted with Jamie for just a bit and moved on so she could greet the next car. We pulled into a spot and Jamie came back and we talked some more. Then a mutual friend walked up and we all got caught up with one another.

All around the parking lot people chatted, masked and distanced. It was strange and terrific.

Two of Ollie’s mahjongg tiles were included in my goodie bag.

When we got home, I opened my bag. Two bialys. (They were terrific.) A small, restaurant-sized tub of Philadelphia cream cheese. A plastic knife and a napkin. A large card with a collage of photographs from Ollie’s life on one side, and a note about Ollie and how much she loved games—especially mah-jongg. A second card included a more formal and detailed tribute to Ollie.

And finally, there at the bottom of the bag were two mah-jongg tiles.

To close out here, in Ollie’s honor, I’ll share this brief, poignant homage from one of the cards in our goodie bag:

Ollie Ceaser was a game lover. She played lots—crosswords, canasta, solitaire an, of course, mah-jongg. This tile is from one of Ollie’s mah-jongg sets. It is a little piece of Ollie, and we would like you to hold it close.

Conjure up a favorite memory, say a prayer, keep it in your home, place it in your yard.

Think of Ollie when you see this and send love as we continue to keep her spirit alive.