Over the 15-plus years I’ve been leading memoir classes in Chicago many many people have suggested I offer an online course as well. “You’d get people from all over the country,” they say. “You could charge a lot, and you wouldn’t even have to leave home.”Not leave home? Being with my writers is what I love most about teaching memoir. Hearing Wanda’s classmates scramble to find her a seat when she arrives; sensing the drama of passing a bag of Scrabble tiles around to determine who picks “Z” out of the bag (usually “A” goes first, but sometimes I go backwards!); Bindy’s delight to hear an assignment that inspires a limerick; Janie reading an essay out loud for a fellow writer whose low vision prevents them from doing so on their own; the collective gasp when Bruce recites a particularly poignant phrase; hearing updates on our new Grail Café from writers who stopped there before coming to the class I lead in the neighborhood; taking in the ooos and ahs whenever Michael brings a show and tell to passs around as he reads his latest essay.

“Being right there to sense writers reading their stories in their own voices, watching how trust grows in a group of people who share life stories…to me that’s the most important part of what I do,” I tell the online pushers. “Eavesdropping before and after class tells me a lot, too, and you just can’t eavesdrop like that online.” I thank the friends for the online class idea. “But it just won’t work for me.”

Those online pushers are a determined bunch.

They power on, describe a site or program or app or whatever it is you call it where you can see everyone’s face on the screen. “You can see everyone there and watch their reactions right from home,” they reason.

“But I can’t see!” I remind them. That’s usually where The conversation ends.

Writers join the memoir-writing classes I lead for all sorts of reasons. Some want to hone their writing skills, some hope it will improve their memory, others want to collect their essays as a gift to their relatives. Some like the weekly deadline, some hope to get their essays published, others count on sharing time every week with a group who likes to hear –and share — their life stories. This post written by Dr. Jeremy Nobel in the Harvard Health Blog presents scientific data supporting a benefit many writers don’t anticipate when they first sign up: the idea that writing and sharing stories about your life can be “even lifesaving in a world where loneliness — and the ill health it can lead to — has become an epidemic.” From his blog:

Picking up a pen can be a powerful intervention against loneliness. I am a strong believer in writing as a way for people who are feeling lonely and isolated to define, shape, and exchange their personal stories. Expressive writing, especially when shared, helps foster social connections. It can reduce the burden of loneliness among the many groups who are most at risk, including older adults, caregivers, those with major illnesses, those with disabilities, veterans, young adults, minority communities of all sorts, and immigrants and refugees.

Dr. Nobel did not specify in his blog whether the sharing had to be done in person to fight loneliness, or if sharing online would work just as well.

When it was determined that the Thursday afternoon Village Chicago class would not be meeting in person for their fifth and sixth classes of this session, I decided to try an experiment: send an email with their prompt, assure them I’d still edit essays for anyone who wanted to send their assignments my way, then encourage them to “reply to all” and email their completed essays (whether edited by me or not, that didn’t matter) to their fellow writers to read at their leisure. I would email my comments to every writer who sent an essay, and Comments from their classmates would come to them via email, too rather than in person. I made it clear that students were not required to read the essays they received via email, but I encouraged them to do so and respond to help us keep in touch while classes were cancelled. Results?

• During week one, 20% of the writers sent essays to their fellow writers via email, and 6.66% of writers emailed their classmates with a comment.
• During week two, our final class of this six-week session, 6.666% of the writers sent essays to their fellow writers via email, and 0% emailed that classmate with a comment.

I know, I know. This is just a personal non-evidence-based very short experiment, and maybe it’d work if I used one of those apps, but really, I’m too busy washing my hands and spraying the knobs on the radio to learn how to download one right now. So I’m sticking to my guns. If I’m the one teaching, it’s gotta be in person.

Or so I thought.

I’ve mentioned Wanda Bridgeforth, our 98-year-old memoir matriarch, in this post and want you blog readers to know she is doing well. “I am not really affected,” she told me during one of our phone calls these past few weeks. “I stay home most of the time anyway!”

For the past three years, Wanda has been participating in the University of Chicago Medical Center’s Comprehensive Care, Community, and Culture Program and receives a personal phone call every three months to ask about her health and the quality of care she has been receiving. “But this past week it was different,” she told me over the weekend, marveling at how the doctor who called this time managed to be on the phone with all the study participants at once. “He could answer all our questions about the coronavirus and all that, they had 15 of us all on the phone line at once!”

I had questions. Could everyone on the phone actually hear each other? Wasn’t it scratchy? Was everyone polite? Didn’t people interrupt each other? “Oh, no, it was great! All very clear,” she assured me. “So listen, okay with you if I make some phone calls Monday morning, you know, to se how that works and if we can set something like this up for our class?”

Of course I said yes!

Back in the 1980s, between Beth’s eyes and Gus’ genetic predicament, our little family used a lot of health care. We had insurance, thank goodness, but we still ended up with substantial debt that took years to resolve. In our 20s then, we’d learned early what it’s like to structure our lives around the top priority: Remaining insured.

So I was a big single-payer advocate back then. On moral grounds, yes, because I think everyone should have confidence that they’ll receive decent health care, and they shouldn’t live in fear of not having insurance. But from a capitalist’s point of view, I also think the case for single payer is also strong. Because, while some folks are calling it socialist, you don’t have to be an economist to see we are wasting enormous sums of money on inefficiencies inherent in our splintered mess. That’s a lot of money that could be used differently. Like, oh, infrastructure, private investment, you know, all that stuff. (A recent study supports the argument of prospective overall savings, though, like all such things, there are doubters.)

But then, there’s the rub. No matter how I feel about it, the insurance industry and the health care industry are enormous. That’s reality, however we got here. And they employ a lot of people. Even if the political will materializes, the task of managing and coordinating the switchover is fraught.

And that’s why I no longer support single-payer, at least in the short run. I do support universal coverage. And those are two different things.

Most countries that offer universal coverage do not rely on single payer. They rely on fairly heavily regulated insurance industries. I’m talking about the cool-cat European joints that American liberals regularly point to as good examples.

We have an enormous and inefficient health care machine that includes a giant private insurance industry. To me, that points to moving toward a West European model—Switzerland, Germany, etc.—choosing what works from all of them. To me, that looks doable. It wouldn’t upend an enormous industry, at least not in the short run—and if it includes a public option, it could also be an avenue for gradual and orderly transition to single payer without economic calamity. People could gradually migrate on their own to the public option, and not be yanked out of whatever they have now.

On the other hand, flipping a switch and shazaam! Single payer! That seems impractical, a potential nightmare. (Anyone remember the Obamacare web markets rollout?) This isn’t like Medicare, where it was a from-scratch deal. It was new, not “instead of.”

Which brings me to Bernie Sanders and at least some of his followers. To that contingent, I’m a centrist sellout. To them, there is only ONE WAY, which reeks of a sort of progressive fundamentalism. And at times, an air of moral superiority. There is no acknowledgment that we both want universal coverage, and that’s a very large common ground. There is no acknowledgement of my experience — with the health care systems but also in various workplaces — informing my view.

As for Bernie, he seems to bristle when asked for mechanical details. And he doesn’t have any proxies out there supplying those details either. At least in a way that gives me confidence. He does have true belief—and as I said, in theory, I agree. If he exhibited some awareness of the practicalities of his plan, and how to address them, I might get on board.

In practice, that certitude he exhibits scares me. I suppose it’s exactly what appeals to some of his supporters. To me that certitude is, in itself, a disqualification. Because it seems to be his standard operating procedure.

But I have other bones to pick with him, and for want of another term, Bernieism. One is the long-running bull about the Democratic party sabotaging him. Ask yourself this: Why, when he eschewed the Democratic Party his entire career, regularly dumped on it, did he decide to run as a Democrat? Why put up with all those people you say are hacks? Why not a new party?

Because, well, he gets a ton of benefits. Like mailing lists and infrastructure and all that, you know, practical stuff. Infrastructure that all those people he and his supporters revile so much worked hard to build and maintain. Welcome Bernie! We’re glad to have someone who likes to urinate on us!

And don’t get me started on his hypocrisy regarding delegates and superdelegates. He’s completely flipped from his 2016 position. (Thanks, Elizabeth Warren, for calling that out.)

Will I vote for him if he’s the nominee? As early and often as I am able.

But I’ll have to hold my nose. And if you are a Sanders supporter, and it doesn’t turn out the way you’d like, I hope you’ll do the same.

As always, lots of questions. (photo by Jamie Ceaser)

On earlier visits to elementary schools in the suburbs, my Seeing Eye dogs would lead me to the transportation station in downtown Chicago to catch a commuter train to get there. Luna’s got it good. Yesterday our friend Jamie gave us a ride. Door-to-door. Many, many reasons to appreciate this so much:

• Freezing temperatures — if Luna and I found ourselves lost or turned around on the long walk,, for just a few minutes, we might have ended up with frostbite!
• Snowy slippery sidewalks.
• Salt (it can end up in Luna’s paws).
• The train we would have needed to catch left at 7:40 a.m., which meant we’d be approaching the train station precisely when commuters were getting off trains and rushing to work.
• And oh, yeah. I still have a cast on my broken right wrist.

Jamie drove us to Pritchett Elementary in Buffalo Grove, bought me a cup of coffee along the way, videotaped parts of my presentations there, and then drove us all the way back to our doorstep in Chicago afterwards. Thank you, Jamie!

The third-graders we visited at Pritchett School were sweet, polite, and very curious. The Q & A part of the presentation was entertaining, as always. A sampling of their questions:

• • Can you remember the names of all the Seeing Eye dogs you ever had?
  • How can you open a door if you can’t see ?
  • How did you get blind?
  • How long did it take you to learn to read and write Braille??
  • How do you write if you can’t see?
  • Do you cook by yourself?
  • How do you drive?
  • Can you write cursive?
  • This doesn’t pertain to you personally, but to all people who are blind, I guess: what happens if you are blind and you are allergic to dogs?
  • Does Luna ever bark?
  • If your dog is color blind, and she can’t see red and green lights, what colors can she see?
  • Do you like chocolate?
  • I have a dog at home, she’s not as big as your dog and she’s not black and her name is Luna, too, so how can I get a service dog?
  • How do you know what you’re eating if you don’t see it first?
  • Do you always have to say your dogs name before you tell her what to do?

For that last question, I picked up Luna’s harness and told the kids that when you’re training at the Seeing Eye school they teach you to always say your dog’s name before giving them a command. “If I just say the word ‘outside’ like I just did there, Luna doesn’t even notice, but if I say, ‘Luna, outside’…”. I had to stop talking right there, mid-sentence. Hearing the command, Luna immediately stood at attention and guided me to the door to the hallway! “I guess the Seeing Eye knows what they’re doing,” I said with a laugh. The kids laughed right along and applauded us as we left. Pretty good for her first ever school visit, eh?!

It happens at the end of every year: News outlets recap the biggest stories of the past 12 months. Only this year also marks the end of a decade, so we’re getting recaps of the past 10 years.

This practice has always aggravated me because, well, dividing time arbitrarily by decade has always seemed dumb. For example, 1969 was a lot more like 1971 than it was 1961.

The other thing about this practice is it seems sort of lazy. Instead of covering the news of the day the outlets repurpose work they’ve  already done.

But you know, I’m feeling pretty lazy this holiday season, so what the heck: I give you my favorite Mondays with Mike posts—but not for the decade, only since I started writing these things. And, I’m not going to lie: I couldn’t wade through all of them. Jeez, I didn’t realize how many of these things I’d posted.

So, here’s a somewhat random collection of my own favorites.

And this: I’m thankful to all of you who take the time to read this stuff each Monday. It’s flattering and humbling. Here’s to a great New Year, and see you next Monday.

A very happy anniversary
On the anniversary of Beth’s terrifying brush with mortality, it was nice to take stock.

My morning commute
The wonders of Chicago I experience on my walk to work.

Wayfaring stranger
A tribute to the late, great bassist Charlie Haden.

The saints go marching in and on
Remembering Flo, Beth’s remarkable mother.

The kindness of strangers
A visit with our son Gus at his group home in Wisconsin,

My partner’s partners
With Beth leaving to get her next Seeing Eye Dog a week from today, this one is still timely.

To our dear, wee Sheelagh
We were lucky to know her.

Our version of all right
Reflections on disability.

When Pick met Henry. And Mike and Beth met Henry and Pick…
The story of beautiful friendships.

Last week I wrote about how our plans to surprise our friend Nancy to see Elton John together went awry. But we still managed to have a lovely time.

It’s all about the dog.

Well, another plan has gone awry, and this one’s a little harder to swallow. We’ve had it all figured out for months: My organization, PHIUS, puts on a conference each year, and this year happens to be in D.C. Great! Beth and I made plans to travel ahead of the conference dates and stay with our friends Pick and Hank. I’d stay on for the conference, and Pick would usher Beth to the airport to come home on her own—with Whitney, of course.

But wait! There’s more! As regular readers know, Whitney has been showing signs of wanting—needing—to retire. She’s just not up to rugged city life any more. Well, Beth did the paperwork to get a new dog and she was scheduled to arrive in Morristown, New Jersey, December 2. Poifect! Instead of flying back to Chicago, she’ll hop a train to Newark, New Jersey, where the Seeing Eye will pick her up.

With all that sorted, our only questions were:

• Do we have a retirement party/Seeing Eye fundraising event for Whitney?
• If yes, when?

But wait, unfortunately, there’s more. Last week Beth got a call from the Seeing Eye. Well, the good folks out there know Beth leads an active life and that she lives in the heart of a bustling city. They know from experience that not every dog is suited to those circumstances. And, as it happens, none of the dogs that have been in training for the December class match the requirements.

On the one hand, I can’t say enough about the Seeing Eye and how careful and serious they are about making things work for their dogs and their human students. On the other hand, well, this kinda sucks.

December works because Beth’s off from teaching. I’d be gone at my conference for one of the three weeks of training, so that was good too. Plus, I love Whitney, but she’s really testing Beth these days. It’s time.

Now, Beth has to juggle her teaching schedule and make it work with Whitney another month.

Which is all doable. There’s just something to working so hard to getting used to something you didn’t want to do in the first place (retire Whitney, and going through the process of teaming with a new dog), getting wrapped around that, and then, dang.

For me, it’s an inconvenience. For Beth, it’s a bigger deal. The Seeing Eye dogs are wonderful, and improve the quality of our lives immensely. The Seeing Eye is a terrific organization. We’re grateful.

But junctures like this, well, it’s sort of like Beth’s talking computer. It’s terrific. It’s life changing. But, if Beth had her druthers, or I had mine, she wouldn’t need either.

But she does. And like she has done since 1985, she, and we, will do what it takes.

I’m still hoping for a German Shepherd.