The Arm of Astra Zeneca

I'm half-vaccinated and so happy about it that I decided to share the experience with the whole nation. In fact, I briefly became the Arm of AstraZeneca in Canada.

Not exactly.

After Canada's slow and uncoordinated start on this "roll-out" business, we're getting going, but not quickly, and with incredibly poor organisation. Every day I check the little box in the newspaper that shows the percentage of the population fully vaccinated. We've been stuck on 2.1% for the last 3 days. It's not cheering. 

Damn, I thought, watching the news in the UK. If we still lived there, husband and I would have been jabbed by now. There is not much to admire in the way Britain has handled the pandemic, but its roll-out of vaccination has been a highlight. In the US, my parents, sisters, brothers-in-law, and almost all our nieces and nephews are vaccinated. 

Then a few weeks ago I learned that in Ontario, my age group could join a 'pilot' plan for administering AstraZeneca vaccines in pharmacies, rather than waiting weeks to attend massive community venues. I signed right up. Then came the bad press for AZ. I worried a little, but not that much. Public health experts I know at the university--an epidemiologist, a public health doctor, a biostatistician--not only reassured me, but got the vaccine themselves. I chose to go to our local independent pharmacy just around the corner from us.

When I arrived for my 12:20 pm appointment the place was very quiet. No queues, no crowds. A couple of people milling in the aisles. One person was in the small room at the back getting his vaccine while a woman with a serious-looking camera snapped pictures from the doorway. His wife, I thought. "Are you waiting for your turn?" I asked her. "Oh, no," she said. I'm with the CBC." She gestured to the other two people and I saw one with a clipboard and another standing next to a big-ass video camera. "Do you mind if we film you while you're getting vaccinated?"

"If it's okay with the pharmacy, sure," I answered. 

"And can we ask you a few questions?" Sure again. 

They then proceeded to enquire whether I was worried about getting the vaccine. Had I seen the news about the potentially fatal AstraZeneca side-effects? Did I really want to do this?  I told them what I thought about risk versus benefit, about my epidemiologically knowledgeable colleagues, about the importance of vaccination. I spoke cogently, I thought. Passionately, possibly. I argued well for the cause. The CBC appeared to listen. 

By the time I was sat in the chair in the clinic room, with cameras pointed at me from the doorway, I was not the least bit nervous. In fact I highly recommend having a news crew with you when you next get a shot. It's an excellent distraction. In gratitude on my way out I scooped up a few extra Werther's Originals on offer as post-vax treats to share with them. 

"You'll probably be on "The National" tonight or tomorrow," said the film guy. As I waited my 15 minutes for the anaphylactic all-clear he said, "So, are you getting better reception on your cellphone now?" Pardon, I asked him. "You know, because Bill Gates inserted microchips into each dose of vaccine." He grinned to show he was kidding. Probably. 

We don't generally watched TV news but we did for the next couple of evenings. I did not appear. Alas. 

And then I did. Not my interview, not the reasoned words about the importance of vaccination or the minuteness of the risks but a still shot (pun, yes) of my arm along with captions mentioning 'blood clots' and 'trouble'. Friends around Toronto and beyond began messaging me. "IS THAT YOU??" 

On second thought, maybe I'll skip the news crews for the second dose, whenever that may happen. I have no appointment, and according to the pharmacist, there are no plans in place. "They'll call you," she said. Who will call me, I asked. She shrugged. 

                                                    *******************************

It's utterly beside the point but I keep looking at the blouse I wore. I chose it with care: cap sleeves to allow the needle easy access; buttoned up the front for ease of disrobing later if my arm hurt. Tinted red, to match any blood. And I thought how I came to own that top. A decade ago, very soon after we arrived in Toronto from England, Pamela, a new colleague of my husband's--and now a good friend of ours--invited me to her house for a women's clothing swap. "Bring whatever is in your closet that you don't wear anymore," she said. I almost declined because I had nothing to offer; in preparation for moving across the Atlantic I had discarded everything I could. "Come anyway," said Pamela. "You'll meet some people." 

I needed people, having just left so many treasured friends, and I accepted. The other women were lovely and asked me about myself and about life in England. It had been a couple of months by then and I thought I had adjusted to living in Toronto but it turned out my balance was still somewhat shaky. As I answered questions about my former life (my job, running at the seafront, walking in the downs, folding the laundry, taking the kids to school...) I started to cry and couldn't stop. I took myself off to a dark corner until I regained some composure. "Try this on," said Pamela, and I did. It was the cap-sleeved red-and-white pin-striped top. It fit and became my first item of clothing acquired in Canada. Who could have guessed that ten-plus years later, I would wear it to Snowdon's Pharmacy for a vaccine against a deadly viral pandemic and that the CBC would ensure it would be viewed across the country. 

Now husband has an appointment to join the AZ pilot on Easter Sunday. I wonder what he will wear. 

PS He's now been done. We went for a walk on the beach with the dog before his side effects kicked in.  For the record, he wore a blue tee-shirt.

So. A Muslim, a Christian, and a Jew walk into a Zoom.

One year since the pandemic took hold. Almost eleven years since we moved to Canada. I conclude again that time flies whether you're having fun or not. I was reminded of the passage of time recently when a colleague at work emailed me to ask for a meeting. This is a woman who practiced medicine in her home country and then came to Canada to do a Ph.D., which she completed a few months ago. Huzzah, we all said. We'll celebrate you together--someday. 

She wanted to meet by zoom, of course. A paper had been rejected, a grant proposal denied. The typical slings and arrows of academic life. She asked me along with the distinguished, accomplished head of our research lab to join her in thinking about what to do next. How, she wanted to know, do I succeed?

Of course I agreed to meet. But at the same time I thought: me? Why ask me about academic success? My route has been unorthodox, indirect, and above all, not above all. I have not risen, per se. I do not have tenure. I am not a professor. People don't fly me around the world to address their conferences or convocations. Nor do I want them to. I like what I do and how I do it and who I do it with. I have been lucky to have congenial work situations in academia, engaging colleagues and interesting research projects across four universities: Durham, Newcastle, Sussex, and now Toronto--the latter three secured from the relatively precarious position of 'trailing spouse'. It's a little miracle, I suppose. I like the work-life balance I have achieved, possibly tipped a bit more toward life than toward work, but my career has always been essential to me. I am an anthropologist. Still, I have never considered myself an exemplar of professional success. I am a good-enough anthropologist, just as I am a good-enough mother and a good-enough wife. 

So this meeting gave me pause for thought (good-enough thoughts). 

The advice we counseled, the distinguished researcher and I, amounted to patience and temperance. Don't judge yourself so harshly, we said. Remember the papers published, the grants gained, the positions offered. List them, I said, in writing. This recent Ph.D. has accomplished much of which she can be proud. "And," said Distinguished Head, "Now that you have finished the degree, you can find time for some other activities in your life." As soon as I submitted my own Ph.D., I recall, I got engaged. I might be a good advisor on finding other activities. 

What also struck me about our gathering was its very Canadian, or perhaps Torontonian, character: a Muslim, a Christian, and a Jew joined on a screen, all women, immigrants who came to Canada from three different continents. Now here we were, discussing tips for life, success, and happiness in Toronto. L'chaim. 

My career in a bookcase.

Victory

Happy demo-cat 

When Barack Obama won the US presidential election in 2008 I felt euphoric. We lived in Brighton-Hove-Actually and my children remember that when the results were announced the next day, late afternoon for us, I opened the front door of our house and yelled "Y-e-e-e-e-s! Obama!". When The Guardian arrived the following day, I perched my then-five-year-old daughter on the kitchen counter and had her spread her arms wide to show the headline: Obama Wins! while I snapped a photograph.

In 2012, in Toronto, we hosted an impromptu election-results watch party in our rental house; the happy outcome pleased but did not surprise us, and the party doubled as a celebration of our puppy's first birthday. Win-win. 

And then 2016. The plummeting of spirits, the shock of despair, the bitter reality. We mourned collectively. We joined the Women's March in Toronto, daughter and I and husband too, alongside Democrats Abroad Canada and thousands of others who gathered at Queen's Park, the provincial capitol building. We carried placards down the wide boulevard past my office (the building next to that other building, as younger son calls it for its undistinguished frontage) to the US Consulate and on to the plaza in front of City Hall. On January 20, 2017, the day Obama had to cede the presidency to Trump, I joined a sad and sober read-in hosted by the anthropology department, where Latinate words and a lot of kleenex got us through the noon-time ceremony. "I'll be the most boring president you ever saw," Trump had assured us. Like nearly everything else out of his mouth or in his tweets, it was a lie. The bastard. 

And then, last week, January 20, 2021, piercing the heart of darkness that has been the previous four years and especially the last ten months, glory! A frabjous day if ever there was one, all the sweeter for the bitterness in which we steeped before it, culminating in the shambolic mean-spirited January 6th attempt at insurrection. The fear of more violence produced such agony of anxiety that the perfection of the day was almost difficult to believe. Such joy. The songs, the Pledge of Allegiance in sound and sign, the presidential speech, Amanda Gorman and her brilliant poem, the Field of Flags, the good ex-presidents present and the evil one absent. The amazing coats, Bernie Sanders and his homespun mittens. Kamala Harris, Vice-President, wearing purple, a blend of blue and red, subtle echo to the new leader's call for unity: "Disagreement must not lead to disunion," said President Biden. Amen.

Final thought: I hope that President and Dr. Biden did not suffer from the freezing weather. I wanted to send them mugs of hot tea. The specter of William Henry Harrison ("Tippecanoe and Tyler Too") hovered in my mind (1841 Inauguration).  Be well, Bidens. 

Now, do I need a new coat? 

Holidays Online

The holiday season was difficult for some people. On a recent wintry walk with our dogs, a friend talked about how much she missed Christmas with her extended family. In previous years she has complained mightily about these gatherings, about who shirks the work and who gives thoughtless gifts. The unwanted pandemic-induced sliver of a silver lining: newfound appreciation for annoying relatives. Here in my house things were not very different from usual. Some years we travel (last year, for instance, to celebrate my father's 90th birthday) but mostly we stay home. Because we have almost always lived far from extended family we are accustomed to capsule holidays. We celebrate Chanuka (make latkes!). We might be invited to a party or invite friends for a Chanuka dinner (make even more latkes!)  On the first night of Chanuka every year I recall that our food processor (a gift for subscribing to the Toronto Star) has broken (though the Star keeps coming), and that the potatoes and onions will need grating by hand. Lately daughter has pretty much taken over on the potato front, and dealing with onions has become much less onerous since we started keeping a pair of swim goggles in the kitchen. Middle child is particularly good at onions.

Back when the children were small and we lived in Durham, we celebrated Christmas as well as Chanuka, because everyone we knew--everyone the children knew--celebrated Christmas too. Simon grew up in a kosher home, and yet they celebrated Christmas. In the UK, a Christian state, Christmas has much more of the feel of a secular holiday. Where I grew up--back when I grew up--in suburban Los Angeles, it seemed as though there was an even split between Christians and Jews. You celebrated your own holiday and did not trespass on the other. "Are you Chanuka or Christmas?" was one of the first questions posed to a new acquaintance on the school playground, either just before or just after "How many brothers and sisters do you have?" and "Are you oldest or youngest?" I can still remember one boy, Steven D., who told us that he celebrated both Chanuka and Christmas. We disapproved; how greedy. He told us he had one sister and one brother. He was the middle child.

So I confess to an illicit thrill from buying and decorating a tree of my own back in those Durham days. A real one, which was a novelty even for Simon, whose family tradition involved pulling from the attic, assembling, and dusting off an artificial specimen. We learned as we went. Avoid the ones with the super-pointy needles (ouch). Make sure to ask about drop or non-drop. It turns out you need a special stand and that you have to water these things. Who knew? One year we brought home a living tree in a tub of soil. Sufficient to say it didn't. 

Celebrating Christmas did not mean we skipped Chanuka though. We indulged in both (I send my apologies to Steven D. across the many years and miles). We went through a lot of tinsel and wrapping paper as well as 44 candles. Many years each child lit his or her own menorah (wonky wooden structures with nuts and bolts glued on), along with our gorgeous family one, so four times 44 candles. The eighth night served as an excellent test of the smoke detector (as did any night on which we made latkes). 

Very occasionally we had extended family with us but more often, just us. This year, of course just us, but because the eldest had moved home for six months, it was all five of us. Such a boon; such a pandemic gift that I felt a little guilty at my joy. No wrapped box could have made a better present. Nonetheless, we tried. The kids organized, posted wish-lists on Google docs, shared links, demanded to know Simon's and my deepest desires.  A week before lighting the first candle of Chanuka came a night when all of us were online shopping for each other. As in, all night. WhatsApp messages flew and feet pounded up and down stairs ("you didn't answer my text!") doing deals about splitting one or another item with one or another sibling or parent or child. 

In my study the door would burst open and I would slam the laptop shut as someone, discovering an item was too costly, burst in asking ‘want to give X to Y with me?’ I had to cancel more than one order when communication went wrong and two of us ordered the same thing for the same person. At 3 am we all five, plus three pets, collapsed on Simon's and my massive bed. It had been nearly as exhausting as a December trek through a mall crammed with people and flashing lights, but a lot more fun and with a plentiful supply of tea.  At one point the bank disabled my credit card. The next day we called to get it turned back on and they explained that a purchase from Eddie Bauer was "out of character" for me. Too high-end, was the sub-text. I ought to be offended but in fairness it was an item on sale for half-price. Unfortunately somewhere in the kerfuffle we ended up with two of the same item. Luckily, they allowed returns. (Even more luckily, we are able to buy gifts at all. We know it, and we appreciate it, and we remembered to share with others.)

At the same time the youngest has been busy putting in her university applications. And she is about to turn eighteen.  I always knew this was the plan, that the kids would grow up, finish high school, go to university, take their places in the world outside our household.  It just seems too soon. In spite of her delightful poise, maturity, and knowledge of the world, I still find myself surprised that my baby is a proper young woman. 

Catch up, dearie, I chide myself. 

Meanwhile, eldest has flown the coop again, back to Vancouver to take up a job. We had a beautiful six months of reliving the days when the five of us all together under one roof did not seem like a special treat. It seemed normal. It was life.

Turn, turn, turn. 

Bluffer's Park

It takes a village

Family feud--snowball edition

Remembering Rochelle

The Colemans, about 1975

My mother-in-law, Rochelle Helen Coleman, died on October 13, 2020, age 81, at her home in Stanmore, England, during the covid pandemic. Her death was both expected and shocking. Parkinson's Disease had been diminishing her for years and by the end her life was not her life anymore but existence circumscribed by pain and immobility. We learned over the summer that she had only weeks or months left. So we knew, and yet not. Not the finality of it. 

Distance and virus compounded sadness. We live in Toronto; Simon's sister in Olympia, Washington. They both knew they had to get to London, and they did. They had to quarantine, and they did. They wanted desperately to see their mother one last time, to say goodbye--and they did. She, it seemed, wanted to see them, too, before letting go, and she did. Rochelle died less than twenty-four hours after Simon reached her. 

The rest of us, the in-laws, the grandchildren, the further scattered family, mourned with her husband and children via screens and devices. We never imagined it would be like this, an enforced far-apart sharing of grief. One of the advantages of Toronto when we decided to move here from Brighton was, for me, its near-equidistance from California and England. Five or six (okay, sometimes seven) easy hours on a plane and voilà--home. Now the 'voilà' has vanished. 

I remember meeting my future mother-in-law for the first time, almost a quarter of a century ago, when Simon and I drove to London from Durham, where we both lived, for a research  project. I felt awkward and uneasy in his parents' house. Loitering in a corner, I witnessed a sweet moment of warmth and tenderness between mother and son: they stood side by side, he looking down at her and holding her hand, she stroking his long slender wrist. I fell even more in love with my future husband. 

By the magic of remote communications technology I was able to share that memory with the mourners gathered at Rochelle's funeral. The rules in the UK allowed only ten people to attend in person, so the rest of us, whether in England or abroad, participated by Zoom. We were grateful for it. Even mediated by a screen the occasion was moving and meaningful and brought us together. It was still not the same as being there, though. I could not stand beside my husband holding his hand while he said a last farewell to his mother.

Eli created a website for his grandmother: 

Rochelle Helen Coleman

Expecting: US election 2020

November 3, 2020. Election Night.

I loved being pregnant, especially the second trimester. Pregnant enough to feel confident, not so pregnant as to be uncomfortable. During my third pregnancy I joked that the ideal family size was 2.5 children. I reveled in the anticipation of the new child without having to endure the grind of sleepless nights and soggy nappies. "Expecting" is not at all a euphemism for pregnant, in my book. It's the essence.

I have had that same feeling during this election season. The campaign's the thing. A sense of anticipation and possibility leavening the deadweight of the current presidency. I am avoiding close scrutiny of results-in-progress, but the information seeping in via messages from friends and family suggests it's a gong show. No surprise. We've been to 2004 (do I mean 2000?) and 2016. 

I've done a lot of grassroots campaigning in various US elections, as a teenager, as a student, as an expatriate, and more recently in Toronto for local elections.  Two years ago for the US midterm election in 2018 a few of us from Toronto went door to door, getting out the vote in Oswego County, New York, helping eke a narrow victory for our Democratic candidate Anthony Brindisi. Mainly, though, I've "phone-banked" from the comfort of home, calling voters in targeted states and using a prepared script to Get Out The Vote. "Hi," I said, dialing Pennsylvanians from my house in Hove in 2008, "I'm with Barack Obama's Campaign for Change." 

This year things got digitally enhanced. No phones required, just computers. I called voters in Iowa and Florida; I texted voters in Florida, Michigan, and Arizona. I learned that to encourage individuals to vote, my key script messages included "identity labelling" (Being A Voter), "social pressure" (FOMO); and "make a plan" (When, Where, How and With Whom?). All of that sounds great as long as you can get a) the voter to answer their phone and b) the voter to listen beyond, "Hi, I'm Leslie, a volunteer with the Florida Democrats..."

Nonetheless, in spite of the vocal blank walls I kept encountering, the experience was fulfilling. The phone and text banking sessions happened en masse on Zoom; cleverly chosen hosts kept us all entertained and on task. A team of volunteers trained us and one even sang to us: before the Florida phone session this evening, a lovely older gentleman sang "God Bless America" -- in Yiddish (Gott Bensch America). "I have chills!" typed people in the chat bar.

The two text-banking sessions at the end of October with Jason Berlin's Field Team 6 were wildly enjoyable. Way more fun than I could have imagined or deserved. At the first one, while text-banking Florida, the Zoom hosts comprised "literary luminaries," including authors Rebecca Skloot (The Immortal Life of Henriette Lacks) and Ayelet Waldman and R.O.Kwon and others. They introduced themselves and answered some questions and carried on chatting, often profanely and hilariously, amongst themselves as we texted. Click, click, click, guffaw. 

I was slow that first time, only managing to reach about 500 voters, in part because our messages did not target Democrats only but included voters of all stripes. A lot of the responses just said "Stop" and we had a canned reply:"Okay, taking you off our list immediately. Have a great day!" --which I amended to "good evening" because it was evening. Some of the replies were nasty and vitriolic, some indicated more politely their support for our opposition. To those recipients, our programmed response was along the lines of 'thank you for that information'. At the joking suggestion of one of the chatting literary luminaries, I began adding "Bless you." 

But sometimes there were actual conversations. Because our first--uneditable--message said, "Hi, NAME, I'm Leslie, a volunteer with Field Team 6. We are on a mission to end covid-19 with science by signing up Democrats to vote from home," which to be fair was rather inane, we got some crisp responses. "Don't politicize covid," said one. "Are you a scientist?" demanded another. But my favorite came from Darren, who replied, "That's cute, Leslie. 6 months of your mask enforcement hasn't ended anything." He went on to accuse Democrats of increasing division in America. "Of course that's the goal isn't it? A house divided cannot stand." His bitterness came through clearly. That's odd, I thought; sowing division and dissent is what we 'good guys' see those others, those 'bad guys'--those Republicans--as doing. Not us. I wrote back to Darren and told him that I too wanted to see an end to division in the USA. To my great surprise, Darren responded to my note with kindness, hoping that one day soon America's divisions would heal and we would come together. "Keep up your work!" he concluded.

"Thanks, Darren," I wrote in my turn. "And bless you."

Shondaland: Jeff Perry and Shonda Rhimes with Field Team 6

The second text-banking session with Field Team 6 was hosted by Shonda Rhimes, created and writer of such TV shows as Grey's Anatomy and How To Get Away With Murder. She is a favourite of my daughter. While we volunteers sent texts (that evening it was to voters in Michigan) using specialized campaign software, Rhimes and an actor from some of her shows, Jeff Perry, chatted about Rhimes'  life and career, about creativity, the storylines in her various shows, etc.. We texters could ask questions in the chat bar between our batches of messages. At the earlier behest of my sister-in-law, I asked Shonda Rhimes what she was currently reading; she said she doesn't read when she is writing, so, at the moment, nothing (disappointing). Then my daughter took a turn at the laptop while I had a break, and Jeff Perry, who my daughter had recognized from some favourite TV shows, spotted her young face and pointed her out. "Leslie Carlin!" he called to the remote crowd (we were logged in under my account). Perry focused on her and spoke of the hope we must give this generation and the hope we get from it, from people like her. "Are you, what, about 23?" he asked. She gestured downward  (we were all muted). She is 17. Perry continued to address her through his brief impassioned speech. Her eyes glowed as she said, "Mommy, he's speaking to *me*!" She looked at the screen and nodded and smiled and nodded some more. I think a political junkie may have just been born.  On top of it all, we sent GOTV messages to over 1000 voters. She's a fast clicker, my teen. She got pretty good at responding to the feedback. "Oh," she said, showing me one of the more profane ones, but she handled it.

Phoning Democrats in Iowa a few days later was much more grueling. I was shocked at the amount of information available to me: names, phone numbers, home addresses, locations of polling places, ages, genders. Of course a lot of the numbers were wrong, so the other information may not have been all that trustworthy. Still. I kept at it for 2.5 difficult hours before it closed down (the session, not Iowa). I called over a hundred numbers, did not get cussed at, and spoke to a few nice people. Another phone-banker couldn't hack it. "My stress levels are just too high," she wrote in the chat. "Sorry, I'm going to leave and go do some texting." My thinking is that it's like a dentist appointment. You don't enjoy it but you do it anyway. (Which reminds me...)

Today, election day, I texted 1100 Arizonans and then had to log off in order to join the phone bank to Florida, the one with the Yiddish serenade. The SwingLeft folks running this phone bank encouraged us-- about 200 souls, all told--to keep sharing our stories and successes in the chat. Some stories were good ones. 

For example, Sarah wrote: "OMG this guy answered with 'I’m taking a poop.' It was not a prank. He realized I wasn’t his girlfriend, cracked up, then hung up. I called him back, he apologized profusely, said 'I thought you were someone else,' then I gave him his polling place and told him he had an hour and a half. Best voter connection EVER."  We applauded her in the chat bar. Nick spoke to a woman who did not think she was registered, but he was able to inform her that she was. Off she went to the polls to vote. Rachel successfully organized a ride for one wannabe voter to her polling place. Her next voter asked Rachel whether she worked for the CIA. I too spoke to a few strange folks, a few nice folks, a lot of hang-ups, and one man who assured me he had voted for Biden first thing in the morning and since then had driven 12 people to their polling places (he was an Uber driver, but still). People are voting. The turn out is amazing. Victory for democracy, as people are saying. Democracy: the least worst system of government.

So, it's been a good campaign. Expectant, like the middle of a pregnancy. And now the painful birth of a new presidential term. I'm still avoiding the results. I'll wait for that plus-sized lady to sing, and hope it's a song about freedom, a song about justice, a song about the love between my brothers and my sisters, all over this land. We may have a long wait. 

Zoomerang: a small world, a New Year, and Ruth Bader Ginsburg

 

It is still 2020, this long year of the apocalypse, but it is no longer 5780. In September, Rosh HaShana, the Jewish new year, ushered in 5781. 

Which means that the crushing blow of losing Ruth Bader Ginsburg happened last year.

Normally during the High Holidays, a thousand or more people converge on the Jewish Community Center in Toronto for the prayer services offered by my synagogue. This year of course no such sizeable gathering is legal or prudent, so while a very few congregants attended in-person the rest of us watched a live-stream of the services.  

Live-streaming is a big deal. According to Jewish law you’re not supposed to fiddle around with electronics on high holidays, no connecting or disconnecting circuitry, etc.  (it says so in the four-thousand-year-old Torah, in a manner of speaking; it’s considered “work”). However, as the synagogue's president said during her speech, "We are adapting tradition to current practicalities." Connecting community takes precedence over obedience to ancient law. That’s the kind of religious sensibility I can get behind.

So I logged on Friday evening from the comfort of my home, wearing cozy sweats and bedroom slippers. I watched as the rabbi spoke and the cantor sang. (True confession: I folded some laundry at the same time. Also forbidden on a holiday—it is work--but, I thought, in for a penny, in for a pound.) A few minutes later, my screen went blank. I tried re-connecting. "Waiting for host to start this meeting," Zoom informed me. Again, again. Uh-oh. No luck.

I remembered the email I had received with a list of publicly-accessible Zoomed New Year services. At the top, starting with "A", I found Adas Shalom in Washington DC, which reminded me of "Adat Shalom"-- “Community of Peace”-- the first synagogue my family joined back when I was very young. Leonard Nimoy was a member of the shul, too--pretty much my one Hollywood name-check from growing up in LA. I clicked on their link and Adas Shalom's services flooded from Washington into my home. That synagogue had managed an elaborate electronic set-up, with four rabbis plus a cantor in separate boxes on the screen, along with a choir of remote singers. One rabbi was a very young woman who I thought must be a student; she delivered a beautiful meditation on prayer as an avenue of imagination, drawing on her own life experiences and as well on cognitive science research. So impressive! I thought that I must look up her name later. 

The thing about attending services on one's laptop is that the world comes through the screen. Anguished text messages began appearing: "RBG has died! What will become of us?" Moments after that, one of the more senior rabbis leading prayers said, "I'm so sorry. We've just heard that Ruth Bader Ginsburg has died." (Even the rabbis were tuned in to the outside world.)  "I knew her,"continued this woman.  I could hear tears catching in her throat. "And I'd like to talk about her a little."

I found myself making notes and forwarding them to the people who had texted me, including my sisters and parents: "The service I’m attending is in DC and the rabbi has just announced Ginsburg’s death. Apparently the rabbi’s husband clerked for RBG so she is now sharing her personal memories of meeting and conversing with the justice—one time while visiting her with their small children. Oh my goodness--- so lovely, this story, about her patience and engagement with a tantrumming child. ‘She was kind, she was loving.’ Also, this same rabbi co-authored a commentary with RBG, about women and oppression. Now she is telling a story of how when Ginsburg received an award, she credited her two office assistants and her housekeeper--all women--with helping her serve our country. Now they are displaying a photo of Ginsburg on the live-stream. We are reciting the Mourner’s Kaddish..."  

When the tears cleared, I mentioned my admiration for the other rabbi, the young one who gave the impressive, insightful sermon about imagination. The next day, my sister Rachel wrote to me: "Leslie, I shared your text with some friends. One of them was Suzie." Suzie and Rachel had been best friends since third grade at Platt Ranch Elementary School in Woodland Hills, California and continue to be close today, across years and miles. “Suzie says that your amazing young rabbi is in fact Miriam's older daughter, Sarah!" 

Miriam and I were good friends in sixth grade at that same school, Platt Ranch Elementary. 

So how did Suzie, who now lives in Ohio, know about my childhood friend’s daughter’s career? Because her own daughter, Alison, had developed a close friendship with Sarah at university.  Alison and my niece, Dana, had also serendipitously become dear friends at a university far from both of their homes. (And less coincidentally Dana and Sarah had attended the same same elementary school.)

Thanks to a broken internet connection, I had cast my Zoom net far from home, only to find myself back in the midst of ‘home’. A Zoomerang.

A small world. A wonderful world. Also a calamitous one. 

The following day, the link to my own synagogue was restored, so I joined services here (there?). I emptied the dishwasher (penny, pound) and listened to my rabbi speak about the times we're in, about how difficult they are, about how they expose the raging inequities in our world. These times, he said, are bad. But they also offer both an opportunity and an obligation to make our world a better place. "Let's not let a good calamity go to waste," he urged. 

I finished putting away the cutlery and thought, "Amen." 

For Ruth, and for our small world:

VOTE VOTE VOTE #USA

Taste the Difference

 It's true. I can taste the difference. Sainsbury's is right.

EGT

I used to laugh at the British on holiday in Spain or France or Greece or Italy. They toted along their own teabags from home."Honestly," I tutted. Now we do it, or at least we did it. We became tea smugglers: every trip to England involved stuffing ziplock bags full of tea. Our poison is Sainsbury's own brand "Taste the Difference" fair-trade Earl Grey. In bags, not loose. We're not that crazy.

We're also partial to Sainsbury's own brand Red Label orange pekoe, or 'naff tea' as we call it. But our true love is EGT. We even discovered that we had--inadvertently or at least unconsciously--given our children names that matched those initials. Maybe we are that crazy.

Naff tea

Between our own visits back to the UK and visitors coming to us, we have been able to keep ourselves in fairly constant supply this past decade. (We arrived in Toronto ten years ago today. Happy anniversary to us, eh?) But Coronavirus has kept us from the motherlode, from traveling at all. We ran through our not-inconsiderable stockpile some months back and turned to local versions: various supermarket own-brands, Tetley's, a few specialist tea shops. I thought I had adjusted; perhaps I had only imagined there was any real difference.

Yesterday morning my dear husband rose earliest and brought me a cup of tea in bed. We always start off with Earl Grey, and this particular brew was superlative. I knew he had opened a new packet just the night before and emptied the bags into our tea caddy. "This is so good!" I said. "Do you remember which brand it was? Longo's? President's Choice?" 

He looked slightly stricken. "It was Sainsbury's," he said. "I found one more box in the pantry." Damn it. There is a difference, and I had tasted it.

Red Label, we discovered, can be purchased in Canada through Amazon, at the cost of C$36 for 160 bags (500g). The same product at Sainsbury's sells for GBP 2-00, about 1/10th the price. Not for our pocketbooks, sadly. Sainsbury's own-brand Earl Grey cannot be had at all. Looks like we'll be slumming it, tea-wise, for the foreseeable future. 

Damn this virus.

The Suitcase Closet

I really don't like packing. I dislike flying. Unpacking is anathema. Travel is stressful. Moving is traumatic. But with all that said and acknowledged, my goodness do I miss being elsewhere and elsewith. I want to see my parents, my sisters, my in-laws, my niephews. My distant friends. I miss else-land. My kingdom for the seashore! For mountains and deserts and downs. Eldest son, still in Vancouver, sends me photos of views--and of himself--that make my heart melt.

I started this blog as a means of communicating with friends I was leaving behind in England--nearly a decade ago!-- and as therapy for myself moving to Toronto. I wrote a lot in the beginning, weekly or even more. I needed that therapy. As I settled into life in Canada, and as different social media flourished, the blog became more of an opportunity to comment on, fulminate about, or laugh at the oddities that differ amongst the UK, Canada, and the US. These points of difference strike me less often the longer I am here. The posts have become less frequent.

Then came CoViD19. Everything struck me, sometimes with the force of a fist, at other times more like the lash of a wet noodle. I began writing frequently again. I also started living on Zoom and its ilk which has had the weird silver lining of bringing me closer together with friends and family who live far away. Yes they are flat and confined to a square digital cage but so are my colleagues and neighbors. We are not all in the same boat, but everyone I know is on the same screen. I meet with them, I sing with them, I learn Hebrew with them, I discuss books with them, I consume cocktails with them.

It's been more than 90 days in captivity now and it no longer feels like a hardship. In some ways it is freedom: freedom from caring about clothing, freedom from being late for appointments, freedom from packing suitcases. I have gotten to know my house better than I ever have, its nooks and crannies and hiding places. All the rooms at all different times of day.  I am even more grateful to the bizarre circumstances that allowed us to buy this house at all (thank you Kate Watson!). With warm weather and quiet streets I feel as though I could just stay here. Stay put. Forever. In a neighborhood with a mixed and diverse population, a place where cultures blend, where black lives mattering is a daily reality rather than a bumper sticker.

I'm going to check the suitcase closet just to reassure myself they are still there, intact, ready to travel. As will I be, soon. Meanwhile I appreciate being locked in a house that has a suitcase closet.

NB (whatever that means): I meant to post this blog some time back but as seems common at the moment, time slid past. We're now on day 127 of lockdown. Daughter is keeping track: daily she does one sit-up for every day of lockdown. Elder son arrived in Toronto over 2 weeks ago. More on that.

Social Circles

It's been more than 90 days in captivity and I'm pretty used to it. So of course now is when Ontario decides we are ready for freedom. A few weeks ago the Ontario weather released us from the strictest confinement, allowing us to conduct porch visits or garden chats with friends and neighbors "in the round". It's been great. Yes we have to speak a little louder from six feet away, but that's good vocal exercise. No one could come inside our house, so no need to tidy up for visitors. Win win.

Then this week the Ontario government announced that everyone is allowed to mingle freely (hugs! kisses! indoors!) within a "social circle" of 10 people. Officials shared this news with panache, as thought expecting us all to start cheering like children at a party. As with so much governmental management of the pandemic, however, this is a plan that looks good on a surface that does not bear scratching. To wit:

This graphic has at its center a lovely young line-drawn couple in a big circle while surrounding them like orbiting planets are seven smaller circles (one containing another couple, the others all singles) to reach that magic number ten. All fine and good from the perspective of the lucky pair in the middle, the sun so to speak, but tough bananas for their satellites who are now confined (legally) to this one star system. Can the government not see that everyone wants to be the sun and have their own nearest and dearest orbiting them? To ourselves we are all "ego," as anthropologists call the person at the heart of a kinship diagram.

If everyone creates their own bespoke solar system, of course, the whole idea of confining viral transmission to these ten individuals topples under the weight of an ever-expanding galaxy of Venn diagrams. My first thought upon seeing the plan was "Oy! Has anyone on this committee completed high school math? With a passing grade?" Secondly I wondered whether the Committee, whatever and wherever it is, included psychologists or other social scientists. Elementary school politics are all set to play out here. "You  can be in my circle. You are not in my circle. Nyah, nyah, nyah." State-sanctioned bullying. State-*mandated* bullying. My friendship-deficient childhood flashes before my eyes.

Isolation and captivity feel like much less of a hardship in comparison (and I know that I write from the privileged position of having a comfortable haven in which to isolate. I am endlessly grateful for it.) Isolation has come to seem paradoxically like a form of freedom (Lockdown and Stockholm Syndrome). If I don't join a social circle will I have to tidy the house?

Nah.

So there.

Nyah, nyah, nyah.

Isolation = peace.

Lockdown and Stockholm Syndrome

When I heard some news source speculate about the lockdown ending in a few weeks I felt panic. No! Don't make me go back out there again with PEOPLE! It's as though I have developed a mix of phobias: claustrophobia and agoraphobia, resulting in a weird sort of Stockholm Syndrome. I am not  alone, it seems. What I don't know is whether our anxiety counts as 'phobia': an unfounded terror. 

This one might make sense.  

Since those reports we have gotten word that schools in Toronto will stay closed at least until the end of May and my first reaction was one of relief. I can’t imagine being happy to let my kids sit in classrooms or lecture halls or ride public transit. How will I feel, myself, about walking into a  seminar room or cinema or a theatre or an airplane? To wander a supermarket’s aisles, to be less than that hockey stick's distance?  Shudder. I have adapted to staying home.

I still enjoy strolls around the block and physically-distanced chats with neighbors. These are now pretty exciting events. Elder son played frisbee in a park in Vancouver. That sounds safe with gloves, or with hand sanitizer nearby. I take some nice solo bikes ride to the lakeshore, avoiding the busy bike paths and taking advantage of the nearly-empty streets and car parks, or over the Don River viaduct, a route I would not attempt in the full flow of usual traffic.

The dog and I explored campus a few days ago: hardly any people around, but some very contented Canada geese sunning themselves in front of New College.  Not quite as exotic as the penguins currently waddling through Capetown but we'll take what wildlife we can get.


Our household has developed a sort of captivity ecology, with each of us occupying not only different parts of the house but occupying them at different times. Younger son is nearly nocturnal, with a side of crepuscularity. I have watched him eat breakfast at five o'clock p.m. Daughter attends her high-school classes from under her duvet, sometimes requiring a wake up call not just before school but during: math at ten o'clock ("I'm up!") and then a further nudge to wake her for physics at noon because she has drifted off, cozy in bed.

We are cleaning house for ourselves again, a hardship that befalls us every few years, not only during pandemics. We divide the chores and tackle the wreckage twice a month. This past weekend younger son practiced the fine art of dusting (emphasis on the practice); daughter mastered hoovering. (I re-mastered it myself 2 weeks previous.)

But the end will come. It must, I suppose. It seems to me unlikely that we will emerge, blinking, into a rainbow-filled post-CoViD world, but rather will step tentatively into a new, CoViDious environment, one shared with the hideous virus, to which, somehow, we will adapt. Masks will figure. We'll have wardrobes of them dangling from specially-made hangers purchased on Etsy or Amazon. We'll be posturing before mirrors and asking in muffled tones, "Does this one go with my outfit?" 

What must be, will be. Such a shame, though. I only recently found my perfect shade of lipstick.  

Zeder: Passover 2020

The Carlin Clan's Transcontinental Zeder

We had a transcontinental (but not transatlantic) family seder via Zoom: a zeder. It was short and sweet. A best-of version. About half the time ended up dedicated to getting my parents' connection sorted out. First they could hear the rest of us but not see us, then we could hear but not see them, and so forth. We chiseled away at it, occasionally tempted to accept a partial solution, but no-- we wanted it all and finally we got it. The wisdom of the generations prevailed. Daughters and grandchildren offered advice. Sons-in-law wisely sat back and sipped wine. (They know the drill.) My mother, who has a close but tempestuous relationship with her phone and refuses to touch a computer, pressed the final button that made the whole thing work. 

I had found an online Haggadah that we could all share; my middle sister abridged it; and Simon led the ceremonies. In sum, it captured the spirit of Passover very well, and the spirit of these pandemic times surprisingly well too. We had the four questions and the four kinds of children and we dipped and dipped again; we tasted bitter and salt. The intoning of the ten plagues resonated more than it usually does. Would anyone believe me if I said I had smeared a bit of lamb's blood on mine doorpost? (Beware, angel of death.) We washed hands (of course). When we reached the 'Shulchan Aroch', the 'long table',  we signed off and scattered to our own time zones and small tables and enjoyed our festive but quiet meals.

Afterward, those of us in Toronto proceeded with a hunt for the 'afikomen'- a half-piece of ceremonial matzo essential for completing the ritual--and succeeded in finding it before the dog did. In exchange for its safe return by its captors--aka our children--we promised them an Easter egg hunt on the following Sunday. 

As Father Ted would say, it's an ecumenical matter.



I  

I 


can’t imagine being happy to let the kids outside to play with friends. I can’t imagine choosing to be in a crowd of people, to sit in a cinema or a theatre or an airplane or to wander a supermarket’s aisles. Okay maybe the kids can go to a park and play frisbee standing far far apart. Eli did that the other day in Vancouver.I can’t imagine being happy to let the kids outside to play with friends. I can’t imagine choosing to be in a crowd of people, to sit in a cinema or a theatre or an airplane or to wander a supermarket’s aisles. Okay maybe the kids can go to a park and play frisbee standing far far apart. Eli did that the other day in Vancouver.

Your Internet Connection Is Unstable: Life on Zoom

Who knew that, come the apocalypse, one of the main survival skills would be how to use Zoom? Good thing it's easily learned. Everyone's at it and the worldwide web is struggling to cope. "Your internet connection is unstable," my laptop tells me periodically. From Toronto I taught my 90-year-old father in Los Angeles to host Zoom meetings so he could continue to treat his psychotherapy patients.

I seem to spend half my life on Zoom (or one of its cousins; other brands are available). Take last Monday, for instance.  In normal times Mondays are tough: launching into a weekday routine, up early, dress nicely, pack a lunch or two. Long ago when our oldest child was about six years old, Mondays were further complicated by his after-school swimming lessons in Spennymoor, a village five miles away (and home to now-famous folk artist Norman Cornish). The complications involved school pick-up plus toting a small baby and a toddler, or negotiating complex child-swapping arrangements to enable carpooling. No matter how I sliced it, the Monday struggle was real. Our good friends across the street who also had swimming lessons in Spennymoor, but at a different time, simplified their evening: every Monday, they had frozen pizza for dinner. "We should do that too," eldest child suggested.

"Good idea. What kind of pizza?"

"No!" he said, horrified. "Not pizza. Not the same dinner. Something that we have every Monday."

We settled on pasta. Pasta with pesto or Bolognese or with tuna and peas and cream. Cook some broccoli or a toss a salad, and voilà. Manageable Monday mealtimes and a child who could swim. (That child is now at university across Canada, thousands of miles away, in a different time zone. He is a triathlete. Those swimming lessons came in handy.)

So, Mondays. This past Monday, two weeks after the Crack in the World--aka covid19--usurped our lives, we stayed home isolating as instructed, spending much of the day in pajamas. But thanks to Zoom and its ilk, Monday felt nearly as busy as in those days of yore.  First thing: roll out of bed, unroll a quilted mat, join a Pilates class on Zoom ("feel your core"). Next, don a wrap cardigan for respectability above the waist and attend a research team meeting on Zoom. Then a phone call with a friend who has just moved to Canada and now finds herself stuck at home with two preteen boys also new to this country. (She sounds amazingly cheerful in a situation that would have me curled up in a ball sobbing and drumming my heels.) While catching up with email correspondence I attend an arts talk on Zoom (of course) run by the Brooklyn Rail arts collective; this one features Paul D. Miller, aka DJ Spooky, a polymath with panache. (I want to read his The Book of Ice.) As a lunch break I sing in a Zoom choir led by klezmer musician Polina Shepherd, my friend and former choir teacher in Brighton. I had been missing singing with Polina; a silver lining of the enforced isolation is reconnecting with her and others. Then another Zoom meeting with colleagues from a different project and some more work.

Finally I scoot out for a speed dog walk and back home for some speed grooming. I tart myself up by donning a necklace and some red lipstick. I have been invited to a Zoom cocktail party! BYOB. I mix myself a very tasty Cosmo, my first drink in yonks, and arrive fashionably late by five minutes. The cocktail party works brilliantly, as does the cocktail. Six of us natter and laugh and catch up and commiserate. We're doing it again next week.

A side effect of Zoom Life is spending a LOT of time looking at myself. I feel like a film star. There I always am, on screen, up in the top left corner.

From my perspective, The Pause has spawned an explosion in online activity. Social isolation it is not. Physical distancing yes, but with a whole heck of a lot of social connectedness. I almost feel I am wearing out. Or Zooming out, perhaps.

In real life--Zoomlessly--I go outside at 7:30 pm to play Chopsticks on our porch (doesn't everyone keep an upright piano on their front porch? Why not?), making noise in support of the frontline workers who are doing their level best to save our damned lives. My plinking is paltry, though: these heroes get a far better show performed by Gus, our neighborhood bag-piper, around the corner.

So even without swimming lessons and small fry, Monday was busy. And after all that, there was still dinner to prepare. Luckily I did not have to think hard. It was Monday. I made pasta.

TMI: coronavirus, CoViD19, and corporations

In this time of crisis, information is useful. Social media and other electronic communications can help. For instance, I recently learned the difference between coronavirus and CoViD19* on Twitter.

Also in the "welcome" category are updates on policies and plans from my employer, from my daughter's school, from my synagogue. These are organizations to which I or my family belong and I appreciate knowing what is going on with them (although, Cirque-ability, notice of cancellation arriving more than 3 minutes before the start of daughter's 'aerial and acro' class would have been appreciated). 

Other messages that drop into my inbox, however, are decidedly not useful, desirable, or even, really, polite. These include numerous "updates" on their handling of coronavirus concerns from any business with which I have ever had a transaction. Chiltern Railways, from whom I once bought a five-pound ticket from Paddington to Oxford--which I then didn't even use-- a year or two ago seems to be sending me twice-daily emails. Ditto the Gap, Hyatt Hotels, Thrifty Rental Cars, and the UofT Bookstore. To these corporate entities, let me say that I do wish your employees and customers well, but I can't help seeing these communiqués as over-sharing, over-the-top, unnecessary and -- the cynic in me suspects-- as opportunistic advertising disguised as concern. 

How would they like it if I decided to write to them with my own twice-daily updates? 

Dear Chiltern Railways, 

Please let me inform you that, due to the current situation with CoViD19, today I bought more hand cream because my skin is chapped from frequent washing. The dog and I had a lovely, socially-distanced walk in High Park yesterday.  My book group is considering postponing the next meeting or holding a discussion online. I hope you find this news helpful and reassuring. 

Yours truly, 

Mrs. Trellis**  

Who knows? Maybe they'll be so grateful they will thank me with a five quid ticket to replace the one I never used. 


*Coronavirus refers to a family of viruses; the specific microorganism that causes CoViD19, or "COrona VIrus Disease 2019" is one called SARS-CoV2.

**I'm sorry, I haven't a clue.