The Way We Roll

I was fifteen in 1973. A high school sophomore with no driver’s license, lots of pimples, and like most other teenagers my age, plenty of insecurity. I suspect I must not have paid much attention to politics or world news, either, although I blame that on my tenth-grade history teacher. Not only did he make a subject I once loved as palatable as unsalted grits, but his idea of a good time was making us play a game he called ‘Current Events,’ Jeopardy-style. I never won. Heck, I never even placed. And I got the only “C” of my high school career sleeping through American History.

My whole childhood was a lengthy timeline of unsettling current events. Who wanted to play a game where you could name all of them? I have no memory of any point in my growing up years when the Vietnam War wasn’t raging and the focus of nightly news. (Thank God it was all in black and white.) There was social unrest with teens and college students protesting everything from the war to the Miss America Pageant. Free Love sent divorce statistics skyrocketing while marriage rates plummeted. The Drug Culture exploded, and the Watergate Scandal ruined my entire summer vacation—every single channel covered the Senate hearings, so I never found out how long Audrey’s marriage to Dr. Hobart lasted on General Hospital once she realized she was actually in love with Steve.

It was, to say the least, a challenging time that I don’t remember very well. And no, that’s not because I took part in the drug culture. I was a Baptist—I wasn’t allowed. I suspect it’s because it was all I knew and so it was our version of normal.

Then the shortages hit. An oil embargo in October of ’73 sent gas prices soaring, quadrupling almost overnight. This is one of the things I do remember. Lines and lines of cars—sometimes as much as two miles long—all waiting to fill up at gas pumps that sometimes ran out before it was your turn. You could only fill the tank on odd or even numbered days, depending on the last digit of your license plate number. Kind of hard to cheat on that one.

Early in the year, the stock market fell like a rock in a pond, down 45%, one of the worst declines in history. The oil crisis ignited an energy crisis and by the time Christmas rolled around that year, a weary public was discouraged from putting up holiday lights so we could “save electricity.” It was a huge blow to the Christmas spirit as well as Detroit as the automobile industry scrambled to produce fuel efficient cars for a public weary of waiting in line for a fill up.

In the middle of all that chaos, a little joke made by Johnny Carson on his late-night talk show set off a panic that nobody saw coming. Rob and I caught this little gem last night while we were avoiding the 2020 evening news and searching Roku for something funny to watch instead. Did you know you can still watch an entire episode of The Late Show with Johnny Carson? Me neither.

Making fun of an unsubstantiated rumor in November of 1973 that Japan was experiencing a toilet tissue shortage, Johnny’s offhand remark set off a panic in a year of shortages and stress and fear that emptied grocery store shelves across America of their very own toilet paper supplies. It was four months before people realized there was plenty to go around and they could stop hoarding paper goods.

And I thought we’d come up with a brand-new way to freak out. It seems there really is nothing new under the sun.

The Great Toilet Paper Shortage of 1973. It wasn’t really Johnny’s fault. His headline-inspired joke fed right into the social anxiety of a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year. And there wasn’t even a virus to blame it on. Ultimately, consumers were blamed for the shortage, I suppose because they . . . consumed. Too much. Well, that and the way the media handled the rumor. Nothing new under . . . you get it.

I don’t know if this is encouraging to anybody else, but for some reason, maybe because it appears I did lose a few brain cells in my childhood, most likely due to exhaust emissions and the overconsumption of white flour and sugar, it kind of encourages me right now. Yes, we’ve wiped toilet paper off the shelves, at least out here in the desert where I live. No, we didn’t need to. As a lot of people have pointed out, it’s a respiratory virus we’re dealing with, not an intestinal problem.

I guess I feel a little less stupid hearing that forty-seven years ago, when I was fifteen and couldn’t drive and had no money and depended on other people to buy my toilet paper, the generation before me lost the good sense God gave them, too, panicked about something that did nothing to eradicate the problem of Vietnam’s war or the energy crisis, and made their lives more difficult as a result.

It’s the way we roll. No pun intended.  But they survived. They didn’t learn anything and neither did we, but we all survived. Maybe this time I’ll remember and when the next crisis rolls around—pun intended—we’ll all pick up what we need and no more.

Nah. Who am I kidding? How does that saying go? “Those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it.”

I gotta pay more attention to current events.




With thanks to Adam Koford for the use of this great graphic! The original can be viewed at 
https://www.flickr.com/photos/apelad/5623164685/in/photolist-9yUbXg-7tJt19-qdLh-VK7Vf4-acXyhp-7u9jEK-5Dxedr-411W2-Mwf47b-8f4UXD-4rzDYD-5wspHn-5PACyw-dmN6Pz-TzudDQ-X7ADo-eKVLmo-4NSDz-WTetCe-23okvmA-VxrpCJ-JuJrd-2iFQ1X7-QdcN55-a4k4So-CqnLtc-YQBT-2iJJWW8-4iP4KZ-eKVLmb-4TePMn-5KWoCz-FAk2H-2byiNPL-6bnyBB-4iTceY-66SRjc-oK8P8T-24xfcMA-e2tYM-oAqeS-7qo4YD-hy7bQ-8EPV1M-DcS3W-8EbqXr-fCGMJC-E8qx1-BbiHR-283coZC

Losing It

I think even Groupon is getting stir crazy.

“Need Ideas For Your Night In?” the notification read. Curious about their hook as it popped up on my iPhone, I thought, sure. I’ll bite.  What have I got to lose? I can put my TV binge watching on hold while I stare at the ads on my cellphone for a few minutes.

It was amazing. Scrolling through their novel ideas of how to enjoy my unplanned-for staycation, I had to admit—I have no idea how Groupon stays in business.

Here’s a great way to spend the stimulus check President Trump is sending me, especially since all the stores around here are closed and there’s nowhere else to shop but online. I could buy a woman’s t-shirt decorated with a social distancing message on the front—that no one will see because we’re . . . right. See the fail there? Maybe the print is like, really really big, though, so it can be seen from across a parking lot.

Do a 14-day Detox. Boy, that sounds fun. Two weeks on the toilet, alone, flushing all my toxic anxieties away. Actually, I might think about that one. It’s a bargain, too, at $18.99. So, you can flush your money and other stuff all at once.

As if those don’t sound appealing enough, there’s a CBD Box Bundle Mystery Deal for half price. $9.99 for magical hemp in amounts that might be as little as 500mg or much as 5000 mg. That’s where the fun is. Will I get over my gloom about self-isolating or just feel so happy that I won’t care or even notice anything going on around me except for those cute little purple hippos that keep running through the house?

I could pick up a ceramic hair straightener for one-fourth its original value. Make myself beautiful for . . . no one. Rob finds me the most attractive when I refrain from spending money, so this idea is also flushable.

How about 80% off a Golf Group Package for One? Is it really a game, though, if you play by yourself? I mean, I’m not a golfer but I always thought the term ‘foursome’ implied the addition of three other people.

Here’s the one that really appealed to me. For only fifteen dollars I can buy one acre of land on Mars. You’ve got to admit, that one’s a screaming deal. It takes social distancing a little too far, but as long as Nancy Pelosi’s not there, I might consider relocating.

Right now, Uncle Biff’s California Killer Cookies are on sale for $7.99. I’m no marketing expert, but if Uncle Biff doesn’t come up with a better name soon, I predict the death of his cookie line. We’re all on edge right now and the last thing on earth—or Mars—that I want to do is eat something that promises to kill me. Just saying.

Here’s a fun idea. Build-A-Head. For the low, low price of only five smackeroos they’ll send you an oversized cardboard cutout on a stick of anybody’s mug that you want to hide behind. I had to think about that one for a minute and then I realized. Oh, it’s like a flu mask, but for your whole head and a large chunk of your body. It’s multi-purpose, too. With both your hands on the stick as you hold it up for protection, you can guard against touching any surfaces or breathing in bad air. There’s no way any stray germs could infiltrate. Heck, they won’t even recognize you.

How about a pair of WuHouPro Women’s Super Comfy Stretch Denim Bermuda Shorts? There are so many things wrong with this picture I don’t even know where to start. First of all, there’s an obvious marketing problem here again. I don’t want to wear clothing that either a) sounds suspiciously like it was made in or around Wuhan, China, or b) gives the impression of sarcasm. As in, woo hoo, I’m stuck in my house with an overstocked pantry and refrigerator—I might as well buy some super comfy stretchy Bermuda shorts so no one will know how overstocked I’d feel in my old jeans.

I could buy lots of bouquets of flowers and send them to friends and family, but how do I know the delivery guy isn’t allergic and didn’t sneeze into them first? Forget that one. There’s an offer for an ice cream gift card that’s good until the end of the crisis or until hell freezes over, as well as warm winter gloves just in case that happens. And the piéce de la resistance. A Universal Adjustable Neck Phone Mount—I assume so we can socially distance from our own phones. This one I like. Ever since I learned the government can listen in on my private conversations, I’ve stopped trusting those clever little devices. I mean, don’t you sometimes catch a fragrance of Chicken Kiev floating through the air and wonder, since you don’t have a Russian restaurant in the neighborhood, is someone name Natasha monitoring your phone call from a cozy little café table in Siberia?

Fine. You caught me. I already picked up the box of CBD Mystery Oils. There might be something wrong with them. Paranoia was listed as a possible side effect on one of the bottles.

Oh, there are so many things to spend my money differently on in these difficult times. And Groupon is right there to help in our times of crisis, with everything from ice cream coupons to super comfy stretchy shorts I can wear to hide the evidence afterwards. Whether I’m spending a night in or eight weeks with the dream of time off for good behavior, there is absolutely no reason for me to feel bored or anxious or suspicious.

I just wish I knew what those little purple hippos are up to.

Washing My Hands

It’s not that I’m having trouble sleeping. It’s that sometimes I have trouble getting back to sleep. It could be menopause, I guess. Or the room is too warm. Or the world is upside down. Something like that.

Unfortunately for women, we don’t have a brain built of boxes like men have. Ever heard that or noticed it before? Men have the amazing ability to compartmentalize everything. Every worry or project or relationship has its own box. They deal with one thing at a time. When it’s time to go to sleep, they slip into the slumber box and even if they wake up in the middle of the night, all the other boxes are closed up tight. Before you know it, they’re back in Dreamland.

Women, on the other hand, have minds made out of spaghetti. Everything in our lives is connected, lit up like a Christmas tree, 24/7. It’s just one big old plate of crisscrossing connections, like a superhighway where one road leads into another one and onramps and offramps interrupt the flow, lanes merging and diverting, and God forbid there’s a slowdown for road work. Is there anything worse than being stuck in the middle of a five mile long interstate parking lot with nothing to do but think about all the people and expectations and responsibilities and worries you were trying to run away from while you took a shortcut to the grocery store?

Some days you’re better off staying home.

Today was one of those days. Last night was one of those nights. I’ve been waking up at 4:00 after five hours of sleep which is three hours too little, and right when I turn over to try to find my onramp to Dreamland, too, I get detoured and find myself in the middle of a traffic jam. It could be an hour or two before I get out of there. It’s not a complete waste of time. I’ve been praying a lot. I’ve probably been praying for you. Eventually, when I run out of worries and anxiety and frustration and loneliness, I fall back asleep only to wake up and discover that all of yesterday’s problems were patiently waiting for me today—completely unwelcome, by the way. Sometimes in forwards on my phone.

You can’t even hide when you stay home.

I picked mine up too soon this morning and checked for messages. A text message from my sister brought a smile. Encouragement there. A message from an old friend waited for me via the messenger app, as well. A friend I used to go to church with but haven’t seen in years, we’ve circled each other’s worlds via Facebook a few times. How nice to hear from her, I thought. She probably has an encouraging word of faith and hope for me. What a great idea to remind people in your circle of friends that God is still on His throne, He’s fighting for us, He’s for us, and this too shall pass.

That wasn’t exactly the message.

I know people mean well. I also know how easily we get addicted to bad news. Bad news sells. It keeps people watching television and checking Facebook and worrying that the world is about to come to an end which, logically, means you must forward warnings to everyone in your friends list so they can sit in terrified isolation, too. That’s why I took Facebook off my phone last week. Which doesn’t mean I don’t check it—it just means it’s not as easy now and I don’t hang out there as long as I usually do. I’m tired of rumors and panic and tunnel vision. And I don’t need to be reminded at every single turn that the planet is frantic about how well people are washing their hands or whether it’s selfish to try to get fresh air when they leave their isolated existence now and then.

Home is a respite and a haven. It’s far more than a shelter. But “sheltering in place” is turning it into a prison.

So, I don’t live on Facebook. I don’t want to watch the news repeatedly. We don’t even have it on much in our house. The media, social or otherwise, isn’t just destroying the mental health of teenagers. It’s wrecking the peace of mind of adults, too. I’ve lived through a lot of crises, personal and corporate, and I’ve learned this—they always “come to pass,” they don’t come to stay. This one will pass, too. I believe God loves us and is working on our behalf. We are not living in judgment from heaven. We are not being punished. There is every reason to hope and look to better days. But I don’t want the peace that I cherish and fight for to be stolen by forwards and memes and good intentions that leave God out of the picture.

This is a time to build each other up. To encourage each other. See that word hidden in there, inside encourage? Give courage to one another. Honestly, I am more concerned about the fear that’s going viral than the virus behind it. We may be better than a heart surgeon at scrubbing our hands of germs right now, but we’re not doing ourselves any favors by forgetting to keep our minds free from attacks while we’re doing it.

Stay home? I do it all the time. But it’s not enough. Each of us has the responsibility to guard our minds and hearts and protect the peace that makes our homes havens of rest, too. That might just mean washing your hands of Facebook and the news channels for a while. It might mean asking your friends not to copy you on ‘good intentions’. And if you find yourself awake at four a.m. with no one to talk to after a long day of no one to hang out with, remember this.

You’re not alone. I’m awake, too. And I’m praying for you. Lots of people are praying. And God is fighting for us. He made us that promise, you know. “It came to pass.”

It didn’t come to stay.







With thanks to Joshua Pitcock for the impressive photo above. The original can be viewed at the following link: https://www.flickr.com/photos/captscurvy/2343799249/in/photolist-4z7zRT-jL9Xs-kTAX6-26giKE-L2CumV-4odL7x-6hQZKN-9fbTiM-4f9UhX-UQ81jv-nubvqT-5mxb7u-4f9S5B-4ffzy7-aCpKpC-4f9QEP-4fdQiL-4fdN3Q-4fdN37-4fdQAm-4fdP83-4f9RY2-4f9QFv-7zfYjF-djiHxQ-qjA2r5-mtTCfB-ReQHw-abAe4-GvgjN-5Q2tqn-G47du-4AuVW2-5q2UUe-EMUk9-23Q2L8z-vFDhU-4e6RV3-666tLi-CDAu-6VWVbb-dYy3Hv-3rwFZP-dAwUw3-55AsWm-2huFmEG-7neqKh-8suMQw-4f9PzT-vM4eC

Hero

My dog is my hero. It’s cold and damp and rainy outside, but is he afraid of getting wet? Nope. He’s seventy pounds of enthusiasm, leaping through the air in our backyard like one of those giant white bunnies you could win at the State Fair. Seriously leaping into the air. He does it all the time, not just when it’s breezy outside. He’s hilarious.

It’s obvious he doesn’t listen to the news. Doesn’t have his own page on Facebook. He’s completely unaware that the world beyond his backyard is in a state of panic. He’s just playing tag with the grackle who likes to taunt him from the tops of our oak trees. Just now his arch nemesis tricked him, landing in the neighbor’s lemon tree eight feet in the air behind the wall where my puzzled puppy sat facing me. Brody could hear the giant, black bird but couldn’t see him because he was facing the wrong way. I, on the other hand, had a front row view of the whole drama, the bird squawking, my dog’s head checking side to side, never thinking to turn around and look behind him. Guarding his yard, he’s at his happiest when he’s chasing away trespassers, following his own instincts, thinking his own thoughts.

Sometimes he stalks the wild lizards who hold poses on that wall like frescoes in relief. They’re the same color as the paint we selected there, but Brody, with his Superdog vision, can pretty much spot them from anywhere. Long, furry white tail held stiffly at parade rest, he lowers his head and sloooowly, inches at a time, like the stealth commando he is, creeps toward the cement wall in full view of his prey. In a nanosecond, at the very last stroke of the clock, the gecko slides sideways inside the safety of the block wall and Brody saunters proudly back to me, ready for praise and head rubs. He never even meant to catch the slithery thing. He just meant to scare it into submission.

A couple of weeks ago, he actually did snatch one, though. The thing he’d been chasing away like a nightmare in the dark. I don’t know why this one didn’t escape. Maybe it thought it was enforcing its boundaries, too. For a few tense moments there, it was like high noon at the OK Corral. Eye to eye, the two enemies stared each other down, ready to draw on their self-protection. But Brody, who can leap fairly tall bushes in a single bound, made the first move and, before El Gecko knew what happened, he was held tight in a canine clench.

I don’t know who was more surprised, Brody or his lunch, but he discovered he didn’t really like the taste of lizard and spit it out on the ground. The lizard, no worse for the wear, tucked his tail between his legs and made a beeline for the crack in the wall. I think they both learned a lesson that day. Big, white dogs mean business and tiny, little lizards taste terrible. It was a win-win from my point of view.

He’s not simply the terror of the lizard world. Any uninvited visitors get the same treatment. Like a lion in the African brush now, he glides across the grass and leaps up onto the wall, frightening away the dangerous monarch butterfly. On sunny days, he walks circles across the bright, sunlit pavers leading away from our back patio, where he tracks the movements of the deadly common housefly, victoriously stomping out their shadows while missing the essence of the insect. He’s ferocious, but a little misled.

He’s not fond of the hummingbirds we freely feed in the backyard, either. It’s not that he’s jealous of their sugary, fake red water where we leave it suspended from tall, metal hooks under the shade of our oak trees. He simply resents being divebombed by the frantic little interlopers. Either that or he sucks at tag. It’s probably a little of both. Hummingbirds are fascinating and beautiful, but pretty obnoxious sometimes. My grandmother stopped feeding hers when I was a kid once because of the possessive way they guarded the public feeders she provided, hoarding the sugary syrup, and attacking any other hungry or thirsty fowl—even their own kin.

“If they can’t behave themselves, then I’m not feeding them anymore,” Grandma declared, her Irish feistiness giving a red glow to her salt and pepper hair. It made me laugh. “That’s how hummingbirds are,” I told her. “Not in my yard,” she snapped.

Not in my yard. That’s Brody’s mantra right now. He believes in boundaries. He guards the gate to his yard. Nothing comes in or goes out without his approval or complete rejection. It’s only natural, now that I think about it. It’s his responsibility, and ours, to guard our hearts and minds. To preserve our peace and tranquility, no matter what’s going on over the back wall. Let the the grackle have its tree. The hummingbirds can chirp and fight each other for their sugar fix but they won’t get away with divebombing my dog. Even the lizards and the bugs are free game if they threaten Brody’s peace of mind. It’s his yard. His rules. His freedom to protect.

I don’t know about you, but right now I could really use a hero who thinks his own thoughts, follows his own instincts, and protects his yard from predators. Maybe I’m learning to be my own hero while I admire what comes naturally to my dog. Watching him is better than watching the drama going on around me any day of the week.

Better for my peace of mind. My health. And my soul.

We all need a real hero.

Ahead Of My Time

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” the gray headed lady asked.

“I want to be President so I can stop the war in Vietnam."

“Oh, honey, that’ll never happen,” she laughed.

Grownups always ask questions like that, as if a five-year-old could possibly narrow it down. The truth was, I wanted to be a nurse. And then a scientist. And an archaeologist. And a teacher if I had time. But mostly, I thought I’d be an inventor. Whatever nurses couldn’t fix or scientists couldn’t explain and archaeologists hadn’t discovered for teachers to teach, an inventor could take care of in about an afternoon. With time leftover to hang from the monkey bars.

It was a typical boring Sunday when I first got in touch with my creative side. We’d already been to church that morning with the other six people in our tiny congregation, but Baptists believed Sundays were for sermons and it always took at least two attempts for the preacher to get it right. That’s why I never saw even one episode of The Magical World of Disney or any of its Sunday night cartoons. By the time we got home, it was too late for Tinkerbell twinkles. Not even Professor Ludwig Von Drake or Mathmagic Land were part of my childhood. Sunday nights were for church, not fun.

“If I was a grown up, I’d invent a box that would make the World of Disney start playing after we get home from church,” I declared in a wistful voice.

“That’ll never happen,” my parents said. In 1964. Fifteen years before the first VCR hit the American market. We could have been so rich if they just hadn’t made me go to church every Sunday night. I knew it was a great idea. I was just ahead of my time.

When I was a kid, you only knew what time it was if there was a grownup around to ask. Owning your own wristwatch was a rite of passage. You had to earn the right to sport an analog timekeeper by knowing how to read one—digitals hadn’t been invented yet. There were a lot of styles back then, from pendant necklaces to pocket watches. But nobody ever wore one on their fingers. I wondered why.

“When I grow up, I’m going to invent a ringwatch,” I announced.

“That’ll never happen,” they said. Five years later we were in a jewelry store where, on display, I saw a selection of tiny little watches mounted onto rings. We could have been so rich. But I was ahead of my time.

Soon I grew up and gave up on inventions. I became a nurse to my children, a scientist in my kitchen, an archeologist in our garage, and a homeschool teacher. Technology was changing so fast, there were no new ideas left for me to invent just so other people could make money on them.

Then came Superbowl LIV—or 54, if you’re not familiar with the numerals invented by ancient Romans. February 2, 2020, Miami, Florida, and all the amazing commercials that are the real reason football fans support teams throughout years devoid of coronaviruses—so they can eat hot wings with friends and laugh at the genius ads created by Budweiser and FritoLay.

Not this year. This year the big winner was Hyundai and its new Smaht Pahk Sonata. A car that parks itself while you watch from the safety of the sidewalk to the amazement and gratitude of all your friends. No more DMV road tests with parallel parking skills. Just you and your instructor standing in front of a pizza parlor watching a driverless car do what most of America cannot.

I was thinking about this while my friend, Pam, and I were shopping recently. It was raining outside, and while I checked out, she got her car and picked up my soggy purchases and me at the front door.

“You’re an officer and a gentleman,” I told her as I ducked inside and buckled up. “You know what would be really great?”

“If you tipped me?” she asked, shaking the water from her hair.

“Exactly! Who cares if a car can show off and parallel park itself right in front of you? What we need is a sedan with its own valet feature. A car that will drop you off in front of Hobby Lobby, go park itself wherever shade can be found even if it’s a mile away, and then pick you up at the front door again when you whistle for it, all cooled off and ready to go. Now that would be smaht.”

She was silent while she considered my genius idea. “That’ll never happen,” she finally said.

“Why not?”

“You’re ahead of your time.”

Story of my life. It’s okay. I’m on to something new. An improvement on our overheating Tempurpedic mattress. Cooling vents that kick in during hot flashes, but just on the woman’s side of the bed so her husband won’t complain about freezing all night.

Just to be sure I wasn’t ahead of my time, I googled it, and you know what I found out? It’s already on the market. You know, either there are spies everywhere or else there are no good ideas left to invent. But I was determined to try.

What about a hamster cage that powers a paper shredder? While the furry little guy gets his exercise, the wheel generates enough energy to pulverize my junk mail.

Or an egg cuber, a space saving gadget that could make a round egg fit into a square hole. 

Maybe you're like me and multi-tasking is your thing. Wouldn't it be great if you could have your hands free to make dinner and still scroll through Facebook? The answer is a nose stylus! Sure, you'd look a bit like Pinocchio, but you'd be efficient.

I don't know how I come up with this stuff. The internet, of course. Every one of these ideas has already been invented. See what I mean? There’s nothing new under the sun. I’m too late to cash in on any other time saving contraptions. 

I’ve thought about it long and hard and all that’s left is the one idea no one laughed at when I was a kid. With all that time I'm saving, I could re-discover my inner five-year-old, head off to the nearest playground, and hang from some monkey bars.

There’s just one problem. Now that I’m past my prime, I’m no longer ahead of my time.

It’ll never happen.










My thanks to TopTenAlternatives.co for the use of the fun photo above. The original can be viewed at https://toptenalternatives.co/

Paddling A Sinking Canoe

Working his oars in a frenzy, the frightened man sat waist-high in water, half-submerged in his own boat. While spectators watched from a safe distance, he did his best to navigate the damaged canoe to the other side of the lake, succeeding only in holding his ground, making no progress. It was an exercise in futility if ever I saw one, a word picture for panic.

We are paddling a sinking canoe.

Social Distancing, the catchphrase of this new decade, has taken over the reason and faith of even churchgoers who used to gather and give hugs and shake hands. No more holy kisses. No more pats on the back. Now we’re supposed to wave from the safety of our cars and try not to make eye contact if we find ourselves inside a grocery store.

Did you know your head can literally fall off your shoulders if you shake it too much in disbelief? True story—I read about it on the internet.

Far, far away in another galaxy known as China, source of all cheap manufacturing, subpar outsourced chicken parts, and icon of socialism, this communist country succumbed to a coronavirus strain that turned an everyday virus into a supervillain. Fashionable face masks appeared in social media, frightening numbers were released across the airwaves faster than a sneeze, and suddenly the entire planet put itself in a voluntary lockdown. Toilet paper disappeared off store shelves as the rumor escaped that either a) all of it was manufactured in China so there would soon be a shortage due to the shutdown of toilet paper factories, or b) hoarding toilet paper was the way to protect ourselves from a respiratory virus.

The obvious problem with the first theory is that if the toilet paper we buy here in America is manufactured in China, the source of COVID-19, then using Chinese toilet paper infected by the virus would be a really bad idea. Congratulations to all the hoarders who successfully filled their garages with contaminated wood pulp. Once again, the silent scream of truth goes ignored—most toilet paper sold in these United States is also manufactured here. Or in Canada. Google, people, Google.

The problem with the second theory is that it only works if you use it to blow your nose. In that case, we should be hoarding Kleenex.

This is flu season. Spring. Every year. Without fail. While the groundhog stays, well, underground, cloistering himself away until the predicted arrival of warmer weather, the virus flourishes. But once the warm—and in our case, hot—temperatures show up, Punxatawney’s icon emerges and flus bug out.

This is a new virus strain. It's not the Bubonic Plague. No, there is no vaccine for it. There are dozens of influenza strains that show up every year and we don’t have vaccines for the vast majority of them either. Worldwide, there are approximately 290,000 - 650,000 deaths related to seasonal flu each year. Annually, in the United States alone, between 12,000 and 61,000 people die from complications of the flu, and the most people can say is, that's too bad. Or maybe, I had no idea. You're not the only one. Even the CDC doesn't have an accurate count of flu deaths every season because, according to their website as well as many others, they, and we, expect that many people to die of flu-related causes each year and they either aren't fully reported or they simply are not counted.

That may be the difference right there. For the first time in history, we are being pummeled in the face with continuous updates about coronavirus cases and deaths. I'd be scared under normal circumstances if we simply knew on a daily basis how many people are injured in their own homes each year while taking a bath or shower. 235,000 -- in case you were wondering.

But does that perspective help when it comes to the coronavirus? Nope. The President, pressured by public opinion, advisors, and this current election year, has declared a state of emergency for all these here colonies. I’d have to agree. Fear is a terrible emergency. Churches and schools are closing, March has been canceled, fire departments are limiting access to the public, and common sense is on a ventilator, not expected to make a recovery any time soon. Sadly, while the virus has taken the lives of cherished loved ones, another 330 million healthy citizens have succumbed to rumors and panic and socially contagious fear.

Not since 9/11 have I witnessed so much panic and fear mongering and suspicion in America, let alone the rest of the world. Two NBA players tested positive for COVID-19 and within days the entire sports season was canceled. The theory is that people who are not sick may be carrying the virus around unknowingly, Typhoid Mary-style. Every person you see could be a carrier. Suddenly, I’m getting emails from every business in possession of my email address—I’m going to take care of that as soon as I finish writing this little tome—reminding me to wash my hands.

My mortgage company wants me to sing my ABC’s and wash my hands. Really? I’m 62 years old and you think I don’t know how to wash my hands after I go to the bathroom or pick my nose or pet my dog or clean up a baby’s butt or handle raw chicken? This is what I pay my mortgage company to do, send me emails about washing my hands, covering my sneezes with my elbow, or throwing tissues in the garbage when I’m finished with them?

I’m not worried about catching a virus. I’m worried about my contact with social media.

Is there any good news anywhere that we can hold on to while we’re told to keep everyone else at a distance? There is. For me, numbers are a good place to start. I've been keeping tabs myself on a website called Worldometers.info. Seeing the way numbers are reported, doing the math, figuring percentages--all of that is factual. None of it is spun into a terror cyclone by a greedy media. Thinking for myself has become an exercise in perspective that pays off in better mental health than if I depended on any form of media, social or otherwise, for the truth.

Here’s the best news. Our bodies are made up of trillions of good bacteria—one hundred trillion of them. We are more bacteria than we are cells—there are 38 trillion of those. We’re designed by God to have strong immune systems that fight off viruses, and He’s given us good foods that will strengthen the microbiome in our gut which, in turn, protects us. He’s also given us strong minds and reminded us not to make ourselves vulnerable to fear. What He hasn’t done is force us to believe the truth.

Vaccines are not our best defense. There is no vaccine for the common cold, which is another coronavirus. The best defense is a good offense. Eat and drink probiotic foods regularly which feed and build your biome which strengthens and protects you. 

And here’s another amazing thing. Every time you give a hug to someone, not only does it reduce stress and lower blood pressure for both of you, it passes on your good bacteria to strengthen them. Eighty million of them with every handshake. Social distancing does exactly the opposite. The only thing it passes on is fear and suspicion. Good is always stronger than evil, I was just reminded—and that goes for bacteria, too.

Surrounded by an ocean of fear in the face of a respiratory virus, news like that is a breath of fresh air to me. I’d rather take my chances with healing hugs any day.




With thanks to New Media Consortium for the use of the above photograph. The original can be viewed at :
https://www.flickr.com/photos/nmc-campus/2073233284/in/photolist-26mUZJ1-7Qxr2B-8t7psY-9TBDxz-JM3ndx-m7mnQa-bcxibg-KyrCGf-bcxi8i-7Ry1v1-aqBDBX-Zhg3Y-cRPNW3-7FVYb-ocyFgH-23E8Vx-4acS2s-4acSsh-4acTgf-4acSSq