How I felt in the lumber line at Home Depot next to an unmasked mouth breather…..
Corona Project: build an outdoor shower. Gas powered post hole diggers are like riding God’s own corkscrew down into the earth and hanging on for the ride. At one point it got away from me and did it’s own thing for a few out-of-control revolutions before bashing into the side of the house long enough for me to regain control.
Me and carpentry is like watching the apprentice clown ring in a three-ring circus. The clown car arrives and I do nothing but walk in tight circles constantly looking for pencils, tape measures, bubble levels, spuds. finish nails, driver bits, countersinks, chalk lines, t-squares, and my mind. Patting my pockets, digging into my pants, checking my phone. Sometime aphasic while I have a brain fart and get dyslectic in front of the miter saw. Kneeling, crouching, standing up are accompanied by grunts and crepitus. Tape measures hide from me.
I think about building a boat as I chop up the red cedar. But I know if this shower could float, it wouldn’t. My joinery skills are self-taught from YouTube. Who knew a Skil saw could cut dadoes?
Every fall I bitch about planting the tulips. Then this happens.
Hats off to the Town of Barnstable, in particular the Harbormaster and Department of Natural Resources for embracing online renewals and payments for things like dinghy permits and clamming licenses.
While I used to consider my mooring renewals to be one of those annual chores that had to be performed in person lest I lose one of my precious moorings, there’s something to be said about finally being able to tick off the nagging little things like clam licenses without driving down Capt. Phinney’s Lane to the Harbormaster’s office to hand over a check and get a laminated permit and a red license holder. Now I can just hand over a credit card online, get a PDF of the permit and store it on my phone with Evernote. If I need a physical copy — which I do — I’ll just print it out at home, laminate it myself, and keep a hard copy in my boat bag along with my Mass Audubon card for access to Sampson’s Island, my boat registration, and the other ephemera I need when I’m on the water.
Governments have been a bit slow to embrace online payments, but now with everyone looking for a way to transact essential business without infecting themselves or others, it appears the coronavirus pandemic has forced the issue and motivated various public services from tax collectors to the state’s registry of motor vehicles to move as many transactions online as possible. My driver’s license expires in two weeks, and alas, when I went to renew that online I got rejected and will have to make an appointment to show up in person to get a new picture taken. But other than that, the Harbormaster in particular has really made a difference for me this spring by moving more of its permits and payments online.
After the usual crisis obsession with the news wore off for me after President PineSol speculated about disinfectant injections and ultraviolet enemas, I turned to my favorite information delivery device — the good old book. Here’s what I’ve been reading and not reading the past six weeks.
- Station Eleven, Emily St. John Mandel. Apparently this is a bestselling post-apocalyptic flu book. I thought it sucked but I finished it. Cormac McCarthy she ain’t.
- The Stand: Stephen King. I’ve read it twice before and it’s still one of his best, but this time I didn’t make it very far.
- Travels in Siberia, Ian Frazier: this as part of my research into my own book about Bethuel Handy’s shipwreck on the Siberian coast in 1858. A masterpiece of travel writing and one man’s obsession with an amazing place. That led me to ….
- Great Plains, also Ian Frazier: a nexploration of America’s great middle ground. I’m half-way in.
- The Baroque Cycle, Neal Stephenson. On the recommendation of my brother in law I started this uncompleted trilogy again. I’m in the first volume, Quicksilver, set in Boston and London during the plagues of 1666 and 1721. Loving it.
- Barry Lyndon, William Makepeace Thackeray. Stanley Kubrick pulled this obscure gem off the shelf and made my favorite film from it. The book is brilliant.
I wondered yesterday (while tending a pile of burning brush) when the CCBL would make the tough call to cancel this summer’s baseball season. It seemed inevitable, and now it’s official: no Kettleers this summer.
For a lot of players at the top of their game, this has been a year of lost opportunities, the kind of year for an athlete with pro ambitions that can’t be shrugged off as a bye. For some, this summer was going to be their best chance to show the pro scouts what they could do. Now they will continue to workout on their own, trying to stay in shape without a team like every athlete in the world who has been benched by COVID. Wondering like the rest of us when the bleachers will reopen and the ump will yell “play ball!”
The Olympic athletes who have spent four years preparing for Tokyo, the marathoners who planned to run Boston, my niece Allison’s volleyball team and my nephew Ted’s soccer season are all on hold, paused, all held up by the big viral rain delay.
These are the days that history will remember with asterixes and footnotes. The year of suspensions and cancellations. The year nothing was played. The kind of disclaimer that Ted Williams was tagged with because of his service as a Marine pilot in WW II and Korea, the “what-if” speculation of what he might have achieved if war hadn’t cancelled the game.
My condolences to the volunteers that make the Cape Cod Baseball League such a gem, to the Cotuit Athletic Association (who just broke ground on new visitor stands), Coach Mike Roberts, his staff and all the college players we won’t get to meet and welcome to the village in the summer of 2020.
My percipient friend Ben emerged from his Upper West Side COVID cave in beleaguered New York City yesterday morning, alarmed by the crash of oil prices enough to share a Financial Times story that in effect (if I read it correctly) said oil was selling for negative $37 a barrel. Today the New York Times quoted some oil trader as saying that if you had an empty oil tank that you could make $37,000 simply by accepting a 1,000 barrel delivery.
My favorite part of the NYT story was the comparison of all those supertankers now steaming from the Persian Gulf to America full of worthless oil with the Cold War bombers that missed the recall signal and were still approaching the coast in Fail Safe.
I get it, but I don’t get it. If the energy industry can’t make a buck because the world took a mulligan this spring and stopped driving and flying and cruising, then pretty soon there won’t be anyone left who can keep pumping and digging the stuff out of the ground until we drain the tanks and need more to refill them. And so on and so forth.
But what if …..(after this all sinks in and becomes the new normal), that along with handshakes, a third of the world decides that going forward it doesn’t need to drive to the office, take the girl’s travel soccer team to the tournament, or book a 10-night cruise on the Princess Corona? What if we decide it’s cheaper and healthier to keep eating rice and beans and working through the cans of Hormel chili in the pantry than going to Fudruckers for a Blooming Onion and the Fire-Breathing Wings? What if we stop driving the minivan every day to the hardware and drug and liquor and grocery and convenience stores and just have everything delivered to our doors? Does the great divide in society become one between those who can be “virtual” and those that have to show up and punch a clock? Do cities decline and suburbs get bolstered? The unforeseen is breathtaking, but for the life of me I can’t say with any convinction what will change as I’ve been avoiding people for decades and feel no regret that I won’t be able to attend my 40th college reunion, because I didn’t go to one before.
If I were going to search for the opportunities to emerge from this collective global trauma, I’d say the safe bets would be on developing the measures to anticipate the next pandemic. Sure, it took 102 years for a pandemic to remind us a microscopic virus can make more of an impact on more people than terrorists flying jets into buildings, but it’s a sure bet that some things are going to change now that we’ve experienced one in our lifetimes.
One of history’s great lessons is that most historical events or crises have little to no direct impact on most people. The Battle of Waterloo was a great battle, but in terms of direct impact on people it meant nothing more than wounds or death or medals for those who participated that day in Belgium. When a crisis is completely pervasive, when the threat is — to use the current phrase of the zeitgeist — “existential,” then history is pretty clear on how human nature reacts, responds and adapts to the invisible enemy of a virus. First is the pressure on science to explain and detect the threat and then defeat it. Second, once science fails to save the day by figuring out a vaccine or successfully launching Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck into space to drill a hole into the approaching asteroid and blow it up, mankind tends to declare everyman for themselves and turns to magical thinking and prejudice to explain the inexplicable. The 1918 Spanish Flu epidemic also saw a failure of Federalism as President Woodrow Wilson refused to acknowledge the problem and Governors and Mayors tried an uncoordinated hodge-podge of public health measures ranging from locked down borders to imposing curfews and bans on public gatherings.
But the Spanish Flu didn’t render twenty-five percent of the population unemployed. In fact, it wasn’t really that much of a crisis for the simple fact that it occurred in a disconnected, un-networked world where there was very little news, and very little data. My grandfather may have felt differently after coming home from school in Portland Maine one day to learn his mother had died from the influenza. But he hadn’t been pulled from school and sequestered at home for weeks prior to her death because the apparatus to do that, the entire field of public health and pandemic response simply did not exist.
This crisis is unique in the history of plagues for one reason — the pervasiveness of instant communications and the ability to quarantine vast segments of the population while remaining in operation thanks to the instant communications enabled by the Internet. If there was no 24-hour news cycle to fill with pointless, divisive debates about whether calling the virus “Chinese” is racist or not; if every skeptic and crank like myself lacked a Twitter account or a blog to vent their spleens or comment on the news, then a great deal of the anxiety behind the COVID crisis wouldn’t be able to spread. But spread it has, and ironically as the virus goes viral, the data scientists are turning to such Internet hits as the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon and the 2005 World of Warcraft “Corrupted Blood” plague to better understand how people spread the coronavirus.
I think the remaining months of 2020 will go down as one of the most important periods on history’s timeline, months that will mark the start of some substantial and long-lasting changes to civilization. In the short term, as oil falls to a negative price, as Neiman Marcus and the New York Sports Club files for bankruptcy, as unemployment overwhelms the old software that pays its claims, there will be more fear and more divisiveness to keep us awake at night or howling at the television set. In the medium time frame — the six months remaining until the election here in the US — the crisis will continue to be politicized and the conversation will grow ever more partisan and bumptious the closer we get to an election likely to wind up in the courts.
But in the long term I turn to Barbara Tuchman, one of my favorite historians, who wrote in her collection of essays about the craft of writing history to remind “…people in a despondent era that the good in mankind operates even if the bad secures more attention.”
So yes, we can celebrate clean air and views of the Himalayas for the first time in decades. We can celebrate the immense collective discipline we exhibited when we stayed home to flatten the pandemic’s curve. But to look at the current climate of messy histrionics and political theatrics and be afraid, to wonder if we’ll ever go out to dinner again or take that cruise to Guadalupe, we should once more turn to Tuchman and her prescient words, written in 1973 as the House voted to impeach Richard Nixon:
“Nor should we be paralyzed by fear of exacerbating divisions within this country. We are divided anyway and always have been, as any independently minded people should be. Talk of unity is a pious fraud and a politician’s clicne. No people worth its salt is politically united. A nation in consensus is a nation ready for the grave.”
I’m a grandfather for the first time.