Posted on

A Journal of the Plague Year 2020–chapter 134

An end of summer must: ratatouille

Monday, August 17

At 3:30 p.m. on a mid-August afternoon, with dappled sunlight streaming through the trees, it feels like early fall. This wouldn’t be the first time for summer to depart prematurely from the East End. But is there more heat yet to come?

We’re largely being deprived of farm-fresh produce, since the sizable farm stands are some distance away and the best one nearby requires that you order several days ahead via the Internet. I guess that’s COVID protection for their workers and other customers, but it means you cannot simply show up and make a selection of the fruits and veggies that look best to you. So we’ll probably not be having much of the zucchini + squash+ eggplant+ tomato+ onion concoction known as ratatouille, nor are we likely to get our usual share of corn on the cob. Ironically, our best bet for farm-to-table veggies may come after our return to New York City and the Union Square Greenmarket. Even there, I gather, there’s regimentation and social distancing: Patrons must wait in line, single file, just to enter the market. You tell the vendors what you want—three corn and four zucchini, for example—and they hand you the stuff rather than allowing you to make your own selection from what’s displayed on a table.

There’s one large stand on Montauk Highway near Southampton where, during a typical October, drivers stop and whole families go in to select pumpkins. The same place has a playground usually crowded with kids. The stand is so popular that it regularly causes traffic jams. What will that scene be like this year? And what about the Water Mill pick-your-own apples stands? No picking without a mask this year, I suspect.

Today at lunchtime Emily and I split a mango, imported from Mexico. Local fruit in the coming season includes beach plums and Italian plums, both of which make very nice preserves and other sweet treats. So we can look forward to those. Also to pumpkin bread, which is super easy and always reminds me of New Mexico, where the B&Bs feature lots of it made with the local pignola nuts.

After lunch, we telephoned the doorman at our NYC apartment house, told him of our plans to return there in late August, and asked if there was anything we needed to know. We learned that everyone must wear a mask, that they prefer that there be only two people to an elevator, and that outsiders must have their temperature taken. Otherwise, there doesn’t seem to be much we need to know. We’re looking ahead with trepidation.

Dinner: two salads—more fresh mozzarella, Kalamata olives, celery, cucumber, and tomatoes with balsamic dressing; and penne with roasted red peppers, pea pods, red onion, and capers.

Entertainment: a little of the very canned Democratic convention…then nothing. We kept hoping to hear Bernie’s speech–but instead they kept showing one unwatchable, “real person” speech after another.

Posted on

A Journal of the Plague Year 2020–chapter 133

Sunday, August 16

On Friday, Emily’s eagerly anticipated Zoom chat with her primary care doctor was another near-miss. At first, she attempted to connect using her Zoom-ready laptop—but that didn’t work at all. Then, she tried to connect using her Android phone, and she and the doctor could each see one another but there was no audio. So the doctor sent her a message saying they should just have an old-fashioned phone conversation.

That seemed to work fine. Emily had many questions ranging from prescription dosage to records of old back X-rays. And she told the doc about her plans to have an early-September mammogram and to see an oncologist and a dermatologist. None of this really required video. The Zoom phenomenon remains shrouded in mystery so far as we’re concerned.

Dinner: canned Campbell beef barley soup and a mozzarella cheese, tomato, and basil salad with balsamic vinaigrette.

Entertainment: final episodes of the Netflix series The Trial.

Posted on

A Journal of the Plague Year 2020–chapter 132

Walgreens is always waiting.

Thursday, August 13

By 7 a.m., I could already feel the humidity building up. Some recent days have been uncomfortably hot, but over night it was cool enough to allow sleep.

In the mid-afternoon, Emily takes an inventory of her remaining prescription pills. This is preparation for her chat with her regular doctor, scheduled for Friday afternoon. Emily has received one e-mail alerting her to an upcoming Zoom video chat; another, alerting her to an in-person visit; and a third, of a phone visit. Which will it be?

Emily thinks maybe the video—unnecessary in most doctor chats, hardly a substitute for an in-person pulse-taking or body fondle—has to do with insurance. Maybe doctors need proof that they have truly had a patient visit, and Zoom provides that proof.

I tried to reschedule a phone chat with my NYU neurologist. I got past the reception desk and left a voice-mail message with the doctor’s assistant, requesting that she telephone me. No soap. I may never hear from them again. If they don’t make contact, I can try again in a few months. All I really need is a prescription refill.

Tonight’s dinner: a Greek salad with Kalamata olives, grape tomatoes, red onion and feta cheese, plus Chinese cold noodles with sesame sauce. An international smorgasbord to be sure.

Entertainment: two episodes of Netflix’ Italian series The Trial.

Posted on

A Journal of the Plague Year 2020–chapter 131

Wednesday, August 12

The telephone visit with the NYU neurologist failed. I waited by our phone for an hour—no call. I telephoned the NYU switchboard via a cell phone—so as not to tie up the landline—and gave someone the East Hampton phone number that the neurologist should be using, just in case there was any confusion. That operator seemed to be taking the phone number down very carefully, asking about it more than once. 

No-go. Later I checked with our Manhattan voice mail and found that the doctor had called me there three times. 

Why? I can only guess that this is another software-induced screw-up. No matter what I told the switchboard or the doctor’s assistant, the doctor relied on the “personal information” in the NYU computer system, which has our Manhattan phone number as primary. It’s probably set up so that she only has to push one button and that number is dialed.

Did the switchboard pass on my frantic messages? We’ll never know. 

The Netflix program Wasp Network is interesting on many fronts. It is an account of Cuban spies in the 1990s, posing as refugees and attempting to infiltrate anti-Castro Cuban-expat groups in Florida. One object of their infiltration was the group “Brothers to the Rescue,” which with its fleet of private planes, sometimes helped rafters attempting to escape Cuba. But the Brothers group also enjoyed prankster flyovers of Havana, rubbing Fidel’s nose in it, as it were. According to the movie, Brothers was also closely tied to the right-wing Cuban American National Foundation, to terrorist outfits that planted bombs in Havana hotels, and to Cuban-expat groups that ran drugs into the U.S. from Central America.

It’s rather a wonder that such a film, openly sympathetic to the pro-Castro Cubans, could even be made or shown in America. It’s hardly a low-budget job: directed by Olivier Assayas, the film features such box-office draws as Penelope Cruz and Gael Garcia Bernal. Perhaps the success of the cable-TV show The Americans, which features Soviet spies as its central and sympathetic characters, encouraged Netflix to stream Wasp Network. And like any good spy thriller, the film has a considerable measure of drama, suspense, and human interest. It’s just not anti-Communist. How is that possible?

Our end-of-the-day Peapod grocery delivery went well. There were few “out-of-stock” omissions, and surprisingly we got a large supply of Bounty paper towels. 

Dinner: leftover pork chops, corn on the cob, and a lettuce salad.

Entertainment: Scandinavian film Out Stealing Horses with Stellan Skarsgard.

Posted on

A Journal of the Plague Year 2020–chapter 130

Don’t drink me.

Tuesday, August 11

I’ve been reading some extremely literate mysteries by the English writer Julian Symons. So far, I have read The Belting Inheritance, The Detling Secret, The Immaterial Murder Case, The Color of Murder, The End of Solomon Grundy, and now The Blackheath Poisonings. The Detling Secret and The Blackheath Poisonings are set among the wealthy in late 19th century England—and so, in the country-house-mystery territory beloved by fans of Agatha Christie and scorned by such American masters as Raymond Chandler. But Symons is much more than a “cozy” mystery writer: His characters are complex, his prose is finely wrought, and his plots only give away their secrets on the final pages.

The Blackheath Poisonings contains a typically memorable exchange between two doctors. Considering the death of the head of the Vandervent family, the elder Dr. Porterfield counsels against an inquest and a post-mortem. The cause of death was just ordinary gastric distress, he says, and any suggestion to the contrary would merely cause embarrassment to the influential family. His younger colleague, Dr. Hassall, notes that established medical ethics insist that no death certificate should be signed if there is any uncertainty about cause of death. “A post-mortem is scandalous in itself,” says the older man. “If it should prove that the death was natural, then the doctor who had been so disobliging…could expect to lose a large part of his practice. Half at least…and it would be the better half that went—the carriage trade, as vulgar people call it.” In the end such cynicism wins out, and there is no post-mortem—which would have discovered poison in the dead man’s system.

Poison is out of favor today. When was the last time you read about anyone being poisoned, other than as a result of corporate malfeasance? No, knives or other sharp instruments are still allowed, but, other than COVID-19, the favored instruments of death today are firearms or explosives. I mean, guns are just so accessible, and you practically need a prescription to get any poison other than weed killer.

And speaking of digestive worry, Emily recently informed me that she wanted to take onions off of our shopping list. It seems the ever-informative Times is spreading the news about a salmonella outbreak in the current onion crop. Why some 500 people in the U.S. have been infected!

Seems like we have better things to worry about. Any onions we use are likely to be well cooked, and we always wash our knives and cutting board with Dawn dish soap and water. Meanwhile, if salmonella is your concern, 1,000 cases this year have been linked to the eating of poultry. 

Back to Victorian times. “One of the main reasons why poisoning became such a common means of murder in the Victorian era was, quite simply, ease of access,” notes a British Library blog. “Cyanide was everywhere, in everything from paints to daguerreotypes to wallpapers.” But the poison of choice was arsenic, which was both tasteless and odorless. “Readily available in a staggering array of forms from flypaper to cosmetics, it was comparatively difficult to detect,” says the blog.

So there you have it: more crimes of opportunity. 

Dinner: grilled pork chops, corn on the cob, and a lettuce and tomato salad.

Entertainment: Netflix’ Cuban spy drama Wasp Network.

Posted on

A Journal of the Plague Year 2020–chapter 129

Monday, August 10

Yesterday, my birthday, had its ups and downs. On the positive side, Emily gave me another haircut, so my bangs wouldn’t keep falling into my eyes. I cut my toenails. And we had a nice outing to the pond across from the Springs General Store, an area that was off-limits for some months but now seems to have reopened. There’s a wooden footbridge across the pond—it’s really more like a little stream at some points—where you can sit and watch the wild ducks frolic in the water.

The downside was plenty no-good: Emily placed an online food order to an Italian sandwich place, Villa’s. She ordered the Italian cold-cut sandwich that’s known as a Villa Combo, a pear salad, and two cannoli, all to be ready at 5:30 p.m. We received three—three!—e-mail confirmations of our order. But when we went to the place, the one person working at the counter said there was no such order. He kept showing me his tablet computer, inviting me to find my name and my order on it—otherwise, there was no order. Maybe we placed it at some other restaurant.

I gave up for a while and went outside to fume. Then I went back in and told him that we’d had three confirmations of the order. Again, he produced this tablet…and while I stood there, his lone coworker quietly slipped a tinfoil-wrapped submarine sandwich in front of him. The attached receipt showed our entire order. He got the salad and invited me to go to the refrigerated case across the store and get my own cannoli. 

Under non-COVID conditions, this would be just another minor headache. But it’s a smallish store, increasingly filled with other customers and there’s no social distancing. Placing the order on the internet and paying in advance was intended to avoid just this sort of situation.

On other fronts, I’m still spending hours on the phone attempting to get Optimum/Altice to restore our Internet connection. We enjoyed it for all of a week—then suddenly, it went kerflooey. I called the company yesterday and a know-nothing rep said there were outages on “our block, New Jersey, and the Bronx.” As if these places were right next to one another. Today’s rep—the second one of the day, I should add, as I was cut off by the first one—seems more together, but he still has to stick to the program. He had me reboot the modem and then, in response to my insistent demands, he offered to send someone out to look at our connection on Wednesday, August 19. (Today is the 10th.) 

I insisted that, as a new customer who has had a terrible experience so far, they should really send someone today. I just think they have never established a good cable connection and show few signs of doing so. There’s supposed to be a cable running from our house, then underground and under the street, over to where it connects to some device on the other side of Sycamore Drive. Instead, we have an above-ground cable, tacked up to a tree and running over the street at higher-than-truck level, then down another tree and finally connecting to their box. 

Back to the phone rep. As he was “looking for an alternative” time for a rep to come, he cut me off again. In all, he cut me off three times.

That’s where it stands at 9:30 a.m. I first telephoned them at 7:50.

Trying to put together an overall analysis of what’s going on, I’m tempted to say it’s just all my fault. But I think there’s an element of these companies attempting to use technology to lessen the need for actual human labor—and time and again, that doesn’t work out. The low-wage folks who must fill the sandwich orders or make appointments for Internet techies are overwhelmed. 

Tomorrow morning I have a scheduled video conference with an NYU neurologist. Absent an internet connection, of course, that won’t work. So I called NYU to say that a mere, old-fashioned telephone conference would, I’m sure, be fine. I explained my no-tech situation. And the appointment clerk immediately asked, “do you have a WI-FI connection?” 

You can’t win. She was probably multitasking—or on TikTok.

Dinner: leftover Villa’ Combo sandwich, potato salad, and a green salad.

Entertainment: If the Verizon mobile hot-spot will work, we might view the final episodes of Netflix’ Belgian thriller The Break.

Posted on

A Journal of the Plague Year 2020–chapter 128

Nap time? Midday rest periods may be natural.

Friday, August 7

My father always took a post-lunch nap. This seemed peculiar, even quaint to me—something old people did, though he was hardly old. Or maybe it was a holdover from a more-rural society. I didn’t know. 

He would come home from work for a quick and simple lunch, then a half-hour nap. I couldn’t do it. I asked him: How do you fall asleep? He said I should just lie really, really still and I’d drift off. But I couldn’t—even in early grades at school, when you were told to bring in a little mat from home and nap time was a regular part of the school day.

Now, the pandemic lockdown with its erasure of all meaningful tasks is encouraging me to reconsider. A post-lunch nap now seems eminently sensible—and what else is there to do anyway?

A little online research suggests that our current sleep patterns are very much a product of history. The ancients apparently practiced “biphasic sleep”—two periods of sleep with a spell of alertness in between. During the middle-of-the-night period of wakefulness, the ancients attended prayers, had sex, maybe did a few chores, and so forth. But, of course, the absence of much light placed a limit on activity.

The advent of the industrial revolution required workers to keep to a regular and often grueling schedule. Up with the 5 a.m. factory bells, labor for a 12-hour day, then off to home and early bed so you’d be ready for another day. 

Better lighting of streets and residences made longer periods of wakefulness possible. By the end of the 1600s, fifty of Europe’s major cities had candle or oil street lighting, and electric street lighting came to many cities in the late 1800s. (Manhattan had electrical “arc” lighting on its streets by the 1870s, and electrical systems in private houses appeared there in the 1880s, first in the domicile of banker J.P. Morgan.) By the 1920s, doctors were discouraging a biphasic sleep schedule, instead favoring a single eight-hour period of rest. But in Latin America and parts of Europe, biphasic schedules with a built-in post-lunch siesta, are still common.

Apparently, if people aren’t compelled to do otherwise, they gravitate to the two-period sleep pattern.

According to the BBC, in the early 1990s, psychiatrist Thomas Wehr subjected a group of subjects to a daily 14-hour dose of darkness. By the fourth week of the experiment, a distinct sleeping pattern emerged, during which the subjects would doze for four hours, then wake for one or two hours before falling into a second four-hour sleep period.

The seasonal variation of sunlight surely has a lot to do with sleep patterns as well. And then there is noise: There’s really no cessation of noise in New York City, with garbage trucks, sirens, and pneumatic drillers liable to punch holes in any sleeper’s schedule. So when we go back to the city in September, we’ll have to revise our sleep patterns all over again. 

Dinner: chicken paprikash, noodles, and a green salad with avocado.

Entertainment: Netflix’ offbeat Belgian crime drama The Break (La Treve)

Posted on

A Journal of the Plague Year–chapter 127

Sweet potato pie.

Tuesday, August 4

A spate of newspaper downsizings and closings has prompted lamentations from that bit of the press that is still standing.

The pandemic’s hit to newspaper ad sales, media giants’ takeovers, and industry consolidation have definitely led to a diminution of information about what’s going on in small-town and rural America. These may even represent a threat to democracy.

But not to get too carried away, the focus of many now-defunct newspapers was often not very profound. The Memphis Press-Scimitar, the afternoon paper that I have been writing about, was frequently viewed as a “scandal sheet” that gave exaggerated emphasis to the gaudy and sensational. Commercial pressures, a lack of resources, and the prevailing conventional wisdom stood in the way of better journalism.

Still, it was a journalism that some observers of American folkways would likely have found intriguing. It responded to the everyday concerns of the citizenry—especially when these concerns weren’t particularly weighty.

It was not unusual for a few of these citizens to show up each day at the entranceway to the Press-Scimitar’s large, open-space newsroom. And often, they’d come with stuff to show and tell—particularly, oddly shaped fruits and vegetables.

This was the oddball focus of one columnist in particular. It was a rare week that didn’t see a column by this writer accompanied by a photo of a weird veggie: a summer squash that happened to resemble Abraham Lincoln, say, or maybe a tomato that bore some resemblance to a mallard duck. The photo and profile of the vegetable would, of course, allow the writer to elaborate a bit about the life and times of the people who’d sired the veggie. What did they think of this and that? 

Other inevitable fodder for stories included society fetes at the antebellum mansions of one or another grande dame; whatever-happened-to profiles of schoolboy athletes of years gone by; and reports on the current doings of famous Memphians including golf pro Carey Middlecoff and Metropolitan Opera diva Marguerite Piazza.

Memphis was just an overgrown country town, many of its citizens said proudly. Why, it was a town that had more churches than gas stations!

For a while Memphis aspired to rival big-city Atlanta. But when financial pressures prompted the Memphis government to consider shutting down its bus lines, you’d start to hear: Well, Birmingham, Alabama did that and got along just fine. So which was Memphis to be: Mid-America’s big new city—or a nowhere-ville that envied a place where Black churches got bombed by the KKK?

The Press-Scimitar closed in the 1980s—a decade that was hard on such late-in-the-day publications.

Between the growth of the suburbs, where delivery was more difficult, and the rising popularity of television news, there seemed to be little future for an afternoon newspaper in the view of The Press-Scimitar’s parent company, Scripps-Howard. The paper’s best decades had been the 1930s and ‘40s, when it sided with the uprising against Memphis’ political boss E.H. Crump and helped get Estes Kefauver elected to the U.S. Senate.

By the 1980s, though, both Crump and the newspaper’s crusading history were very distant memories.

Dinner: Pasta with asparagus pesto and a lettuce and avocado salad.

Entertainment: concluding episodes of Britbox’ policier River.

Posted on

A Journal of the Plague Year 2020–chapter 126

Linotype machine operators in Chicago.

Monday, August 3

More thoughts about my summer job at the daily Memphis Press-Scimitar in the 1960s.

Coming from a family that consisted only of my mother and me, I found one of the hardest things about the job to be learning the names of all the staff members—maybe only 40-odd people. Nor had I as an 18-year-old spent much time conversing with actual grown-ups. So I learned a lot on the job about getting along with other people, figuring out their expectations, and even putting up with the outrageous blame-shifting attempts of colleagues. Somebody was always looking for someone to blame for their own screw-ups—and that’s where the underlings came in handy. You don’t get much more “underling” than a copy boy.

Memphis in the late ‘60s was still a very racist, segregated city. It was the site of a spring, 1968 sanitation workers’ strike and the murder of Martin Luther King Jr. One of the hottest stories in town should have been the explosion of talent at Stax Records recording studios, where Otis Redding, Carla Thomas, Sam & Dave, Booker T. & the MGs, and others were turning out soul hits by the dozens. But the Press-Scimitar largely ignored this: It was a paper aimed at the burgeoning white suburbs. 

Accordingly, a lot of attention was paid to sports (golf and football, primarily) and to “society” events. A half-dozen beefy guys were required to handle the former and a half-dozen women, the latter. Local politics and crime commanded the attention of only two or three reporters, while business news got only one.

Another amazing fact: There was no air conditioning in the paper’s large open-space newsroom. Temperatures on most summer days would be in the ‘80s and ‘90s, but we didn’t know any better. Nor were there electric typewriters: Everyone hammered out copy on manual typewriters that would be an embarrassment in any thrift/junk store today. 

This was also still the age of “hot type.” Typed and marked-up stories would be shipped from our floor via pneumatic tube, down to the composing room on a floor below. This area was much like a factory: Guys worked at linotype machines—keying in the stories all over again in order to produce the “slugs” of metal words that would then be used to make up pages of metal type. (If a story turned out to be too long for the space—well, the last few paragraphs would just be thrown away. Hence, the “inverted pyramid” form of journalistic writing.) These metal pages, in turn, would be used to make the cylindrical, rotary drums that would print the finished newspaper. Today, hot type is all gone—almost all printing is done via the chemical process known as offset lithography. 

And soon, even that will have vanished, as more and more reading is done on electronic devices. The trees—at least those that survive climate change—thank you.

Dinner: chicken salad with apples, celery, and walnuts along with a lettuce and avocado salad.

Entertainment: more of Britbox’ crime series River.

Posted on

A Journal of the Plague Year 2020-chapter 125

Supreme Allied Commander Eisenhower.

Saturday, August 1

Maybe it’s a condition of rural life or something, but I seem to fall asleep early and wake up with the dawn. Rarely can I sleep as late as 7 a.m. and I am often up at 5. And that reminds me of summers in the 1960s, when my job as a copy boy at the daily Memphis Press-Scimitar sometimes required that I report by 5:30 a.m.

I was privileged to have this union-wage job—acquired strictly via nepotism—although I didn’t much like it at the time. I wanted to have the summers off as I had during my childhood. Only later would I realize that the newspaper was interesting, and that I had been exposed to a vanishing way of life at one of America’s soon-to-be-extinct afternoon papers.

Reporting at 5:30 meant going in to the paper’s downtown office at an hour when few people were around. If I turned on the radio while I downed a little breakfast, I’d hear the farm report, consisting of news about the latest commodities-exchange crop prices and advertisements for herbicides. 

(An aside: During my childhood, schools in neighboring Mississippi and Arkansas had springtime cotton-chopping holidays. Rural kids had to join in the workforce to help rid the cotton fields of weeds. But before long, herbicides would do this work. That had a profound effect, even expediting the migration of rural laborers, most of them African American, to Midwestern cities.)

On the drive in to the office, I’d see few people around other than milkmen or other early-to-rise laborers. Once at the office, my work largely consisted of getting stuff ready for others who’d arrive later. That meant sorting mail or attending to a variety of machines that few remember today.

For example, there were the wire-service teletype and photo machines. In those pre-Internet days, Associated Press and United Press International teleprinters—which seemed like ghost-operated typewriters—would run all night, knocking out printed copies of stories generated around the world. There’d be foot after foot of printed-out news stories, which I had to rip off of the machines and deliver to the desks of the editors who’d consider using them in the Press-Scimitar.

I don’t remember what outfit was behind the photo machine, but it produced reams of photos of global news coverage. Newspapers are always trying to anticipate newsworthy developments, so when the photo machine wasn’t busy delivering shots of such happening events as civil rights protests or Vietnam combat, it would fill in with other stuff. And in the summer of 1968, that meant photo after photo of former President and Supreme Allied Commander Dwight D. Eisenhower. 

What was going on? Ike had long suffered from heart problems, and news outlets imagined that he might well expire that summer. He didn’t die until the following spring, but the papers were sitting on ready just in case.

Dinner: a mozzarella-cheese and sliced tomatoes salad, with asparagus on the side.

Entertainment: Episodes of Netflix’ Tabula Rasa and Britbox’ River.