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.

I am pleased to introduce Veronica Cook as our Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger today. A former nun, Veronica worked at the Northern Trust Bank for years before retirement. Happily married and a longtime resident of Chicago’s Lincoln Park neighborhood, she says one of her most valued achievements was leading a task force to successfully procure one-and-a-quarter million dollars for a Chicago Park District project to rehabilitate North Pond into the wildlife preserve it is today. Now she values her participation in the Good Memories choir and in memoir-writing classes. When I assigned “So Long” as the prompt for the final meeting of Veronica’s summer six-week memoir class, she came back with an essay that ends with a valuable life lesson for us all.

Only For So Long

The Good Memories choir, back when choirs could assemble.

by Veronica Cook

Throughout my life I’ve found deep joy in making music, especially with others. So it was a glorious windfall to be accepted to sing and harmonize in the Good Memories choir under a professional like Jonathan Miller.

No audition necessary, no questions asked about experience or ability either. Want to sing? OK, you’re in!

I’m already nostalgic for the Summer Rocks concert we did last year. I was in my glory, belting out my favorite part in the Jersey Boys Medley, where the low voices (I’m one of them) are begging Sherry, “Why don’t you come on….come on…..come on!” We were in peak form, singing in the Sheraton Grand Hotel’s main banquet hall to close a conference of organizers for a senior living option called the “Village Movement.” We knew we’d aced it when they rose in a standing ovation!

Lunch afterwards was down on Chicago’s Riverwalk under a red awning, with countless boats providing entertainment. The day was perfect. I just wanted to stay and soak up summer and the warm glow of the music my friends and I had been part of. I wanted it to go on and on, but it could only be so long, and then the day was over.

After our weekly practices, fellow singers Sheila, Regan and I would stroll over to Bloomingdale’s and head to the tiny “Forty Carrots,” their seemingly undiscovered eatery on the sixth floor. We always found a table, and Brian would be there smiling, serving the latest savory dish created by their remarkable kitchen. He never rushed us. We’d just hang out in a comfy booth, sometimes so long that my husband would call to see if everything was OK!

Now I wonder if Brian found another job, because surely this small café is gone for good. This lovely time together, this charming place was only ours for so long.

No matter what “opening up” takes place in our city and neighborhood, singing in the same physical space together will be the last thing to happen. When will it ever be OK to :

1. be inside, and
2. sit close to one another, and most basically…
3. sing out, projecting our breath freely into the air?

By then, for many of us, time will have passed us by.

How could I guess that this totality of the Good Memories experience was soon to be in the past: all those delightful songs, the partnering with memory challenged friends, the rich camaraderie. Only a few months have gone by since the shutdown, and yet when I remember Good Memories, the overwhelming happiness of being with everyone in that choir seems long gone. It brings tears to acknowledge the reality: I only had it for so long.

This awareness is important. I need to realize that it’s like all the gifts in my life, even this very day, this present time. I need to pay very close attention, to profoundly treasure what I can only have…for so long.