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.

I am pleased to introduce Anu Agrawal as our Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger today. Anu immigrated to America from India in 1969 and is a writer in the “Me, Myself and I” memoir class that is meeting via Zoom now. Her husband Pawan sat in for a while when the class was meeting at the Chicago Cultural Center, and it was easy to believe Anu when she said the two of them “kept the postal service on their toes” while living apart from each other early on in their marriage. What a charming couple!

by Anu Agrawal

Peeking into my closet the other day, I came across one small black suitcase. This suitcase came to America with my husband when he came here for the first time nearly 52 years ago. I should be jealous of this suitcase: it has been my husband’s companion for a longer time than me! Maybe that is why I have kept it hiding in the back of my closet all these years.

I still remember when my husband was leaving India for America. My sister-in-law (my husband’s elder brother’s wife) packed his suitcase. She did a good job packing everything neatly. She used the space to its max. At that time I’d been married for three months only, so in their opinion I was not mature or experienced enough to do such a major job. I was just fine with that. I did not want to be blamed if any of his stuff was left behind.

One year later, when I came to America for the first time, she packed my suitcase, too. After leaving them behind and coming here, I became more mature and independent.

Anyway, back to the suitcase. This suitcase is made of soft vinyl. It does not have a zipper, just two clamps and a belt in the middle to close it tightly and lock it. When it’s closed, anyone can still insert his or her hand in the sides and pull out the things from it. At that time in India, this kind of style worked: most of the people traveled by train and kept their luggage with them under the seat where they could keep an eye on it.

On this suitcase my husband’s name is written in white bold letters which was the requirement for air travel. I do not know what kind of ink was used, but even today it is quite bright. This suitcase is going to stay with us forever. Its existence is a constant reminder of the warmth of India and adventures of America.

This suitcase probably will survive longer than us. Our grandchildren can preserve it as a family antique. It will be a physical proof of their grandparents coming to America.

Every time we leave our condo, Beth asks two questions of me:

This trusty walking stick is a lingering reminder of the virus.

Do you have your mask?

Do you have your cane?

They are related questions. I wear the mask because it’s required in our building and in Illinois, yes, but more because I want to be part of the solution—and help stop the coronavirus.

And part of my motivation is I don’t want anyone to have the lingering after-effects of coronavirus that I do—recurring dizziness and loss of my sense of balance.

The cane is mostly a security blanket—I rarely need it—but I do need it sometimes. I’ve identified triggers and I try to work around them. If I go from a wide open sidewalk to a narrow passage, that’ll do it. If I pass from deep shade to bright sunshine, that does it. Turning my head up, down, or over my shoulder does it. Downslopes at curb cuts sometimes do it.

I feel like I’m going to tip over.

It really sucks.

I also still get winded very easily. Part of that is the inability to exercise vigorously during my hospital stay and recovering at home. But that’s not all of it. I still have a tightness in my chest that comes and goes. And for a month, crushing fatigue made multiple naps a necessity, not a luxury.

But I still count myself as lucky. I’ve learned from many sources—friends as well as news media—that there are a group of us coronavirus survivors called “long haulers.” Our friend Lynne is one of them—she suffers from the same loss of balance that I do.

But my lingering symptoms pale compared to some of my fellow travelers. From this NPR story about two women who are still suffering long after first diagnosed:

According to reports earlier this year from the World Health Organization, about 80% of coronavirus infections are “mild or asymptomatic” and patients typically recover after just two weeks.

That hasn’t been the case for Roberts or Nowell. Months later, both women are still experiencing symptoms of COVID-19: shortness of breath, chest pains, vomiting, and neurological symptoms that range from headaches and fatigue to hallucinations and jumbled words.

It’s a good story—I hope you’ll read/listen.

I can tell you that all aging jokes aside, the neurological stuff is real. I’ll be mid-sentence and then just go blank. Not losing a word blank, blank like I forgot what I was talking about.

Now, that and dizziness could be a leftover from my fall. But I have had an MRI that showed nothing problematic. And well, I only fell because of the virus.

So, if I see you out and about you better be wearing a mask. Otherwise I’ll whack you with my cane.

Like me, Janie is an avid swimmer who hasn’t been able to do so for a long while.

I am pleased to feature Janie Isackson as our Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger today. A retired educator, Janie is in the “Me, Myself and I” memoir class that used to meet at the Chicago Cultural Center — it now meets via Zoom. The class counts on her for book suggestions, and Janie generously agreed to share her latest list here, too. Notice how it reads as part book list, part memoir:

A Family Who Encouraged Reading

by R. Janie Isackson

When my Grandparents came to America from Russia, my Grandma insisted that her family speak English. Not Russian. Not Yiddish. Not Hebrew. English. She was in America now. She knew that speaking English would teach her the language of her new country.

Anytime you heard Yiddish spoken at my grandma’s house, you knew someone must have done something dreadful: older family members used Yiddish to keep grown-up secrets from the kinder (children). I will never forget the time I heard the Yiddish phrase “Zie glochnicht redden” in a conversation between my Grandma and mother. Translated, this meant, “She doesn’t like to read.” Horrors! A travesty so heinous it required their secret language.

So that was my upbringing: we were all encouraged to read. I’ve updated my book suggestions with books I have read within the past year (give or take a month or two). An initial next to the book acknowledges the recommender. These are books I appreciate. Here goes:

• Friend (M) suggested, in her words, “a beautiful book,” Bridge of Clay by Marcus Zusak. Ditto. The writing is elegant and poetic, a favorite kind of novel for flashing forward and back in time, which some might find puzzling. My husband Clifford gave up after 90 pages; then later he persisted, telling me to tell those who have begun the book to soldier on. If you are one of the many who loved The Book Thief, then consider yourself warned: Bridge of Clay is quite different. For me it is a college Chaucer class: confusing and vivid. Also the novel is a valuable insight into a life in Australia and Poland that many of us can appreciate.
• Friend (D), an avid reader, said that, like Bridge of Clay, another book about parental abandonment is Where The Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens. Kya, the main character (some in the town call her The Marsh Girl), raises herself completely alone in rural North Carolina. Her scientific knowledge and prowess are extraordinary, allowing her an adroit yet lonely survival.
• The Other Americans by Laila Lalami is a story of a Moroccan immigrant family who comes to live in California’s Mojave Desert area. Each character, especially main character Nora (a composer) serves as a kind of prism for the mystery and focal point of the story: a hit-and-run accident. Each character is a chapter depicted in vivid prose.
• When Beth let me know she was reading James McBride’s biography of James Brown, Kill ’em and Leave, I jumped, not quite as James Brown does, but figuratively. An author and jazz musician, James McBride combines lyricism, directness, and the history of race in our country as if he is composing a James Brown song.
• The novel Circe by Madeline Miller is one of those books where I feel myself shaking my head, astonished by elegant prose. The author appeared on PBS NewsHour this past winter when her book was selected for now Read This and said she wanted readers to see a reviled character in Greek mythology understood. To me, Circe seems a combination of Kya in Crawdads and Elphaba in Wicked, viewed as initially wicked but becoming sympathetic characters, surprising the reader.
• In the novel Nothing to See Here by Kevin Wilson, the children in the book set themselves afire anytime they become troubled or angry. Those who should protect them “put up the mask” until Lillian the main character becomes their temporary nanny. I appreciate authors like Kevin Wilson and John Irving who switch genders successfully. They deserve generous applause.
• People of a certain age who read News of the World by Paulette Jiles (recommended by S), will think about the cowboy movies in theatres when we were growing up. Those movies of yesteryear at the Northtown, Adelphi, and Howard Theatres were not sensitive lessons for us (although my favorites were Calamity Jane and Westward The Women). News of the World will soon be a movie made by Tom Hanks. The book feels like a combination of the true Old West in 1870 and a great John Prine song.

There are so many more novels to applaud. I will end this to-be-continued list with Lillian Boxfish Takes A Walk by Kathleen Rooney (and recommended by S). I am awestruck by how the author, a young woman, captured the life of 84-year-old Auntie Mame-like Lillian Boxfish. This terrific book is based on the life of Margaret Fishbaum, a poet who did advertising for Macy’s in the 1930’s. My mother thought I might major in advertising. Lillian Boxfish/Margaret Fishbaum is a woman I admire: a woman who reminds me that I would not have been successful in the world of advertising!

Behave, everybody!

I think we’ve mentioned Half Sour, our neighborhood restaurant-tavern, more than once here. It’s become our new local—at least when we could have a local.

While I was in the hospital, Beth ordered takout from Half Sour fairly often, thanks to all of you who treated us with gift cards! After I was released from the COVID hotel and certified disease free, I was able to do pickup duty, too. It was fun to see the owners and check in on how they were doing — through a takeout window — even if we all wore masks. A life-size cutout of Mayor Lighfoot was there at the window just to make sure we were being good.

Well, it’s been open for service since early June now. And it’s been nice to enjoy semi-normal times there since things opened up. First it was outdoor patio plus tables next to big windows only. Now it’s 25% occupancy, including sparce seating at the bar.

We’re taking a calculated risk when we go there — but it doesn’t feel like it, because their staff is terrific about wearing masks, making sure customers wear masks (anyone who walks in without one gets a free new mask!), and generally doing what we all should be doing. The windows are wide open whenever possible, and, like I said. it’s nice to every once in a while feel just a little like we did back in say, 2019.

Last week, though, there was a scare. I got a text from a friend saying Half Sour was closed — did I know anything? Welp. Here’s a classic, maddening story from 2020:

One of the owners had to go out of town because of a family emergency. So, a friend, who is not an employee, came in for about four hours on a Saturday. She served as hostess during brunch and wore a mask the entire time.

Last week she started having some symptoms and got tested. It came back positive.

So, Half Sour closed for two days, hired an industrial cleaning crew, and paid $150 a pop for testing 15 employees who worked that day. They also put the news out on the Half Sour social media outlets to make customers who were there that day.

Happily, none of the employees’ tests came back positive. Oh, and on her second testing, the original person who tested positive tested…negative. The first one was a false positive.

The bad news is our favorite local lost two days of business and a chunk of change on testing. (Also bad news: really, we still have to pay for tests? What a country.)

The good news is Half Sour is back open, and they continue to model responsible behavior. For them, it’s not a calculated risk to let people in, it’s survival.

If everyone is as responsible as they are, Illinois can stay open—and so can Half Sour.

Wear the mask, wash the hands.