Survival Training

Wow!

In the last three weeks, it feels like three months have passed! Every day our lives are changing as we face a deadly pandemic in our country. Although we are confined to home, and seem to have lots more time than usual, the time we have crawls.

Maybe it's the fear we're all feeling that changes our perception of time. We're all wondering if any of us will survive; whether we will survive.

To help you feel less afraid, I want to give you a message of survival, but be warned: it is not a message about how great you are, how you can accomplish your dreams, how this will all go away if we close our eyes and sing Kumbaya. (Confession: I love Kumbaya. My family has accused me of singing it at every funeral and pet grave. Hmm. Maybe they're right?) Still, this is not that kind of message.

Once, on vacation with friends, we visited Arches National Park in Utah. The scenery and hikes were spectacular. We decided to hike to the top of that famous arch that is in all the scenic magazines. I believe we intended to watch the moonrise. However, as darkness settled in, members of our group became uneasy. By full dark, they were just plain scared.

"There are mountain lions here," one woman said.

I shrugged. "We are four women chattering, they'll stay away from us."

"But what else is out there?" She didn't seem comforted by my mountain lion assessment, and had gone on to worry about bears.

That night I wondered why I was not afraid. In fact, I realized, I have very little fear of the wilderness. I am aware of dangers – such as the mountain lion that might have been watching our little group huddled in the dark on top of a giant rock – but I feel prepared with knowledge and experience to survive any encounter.

So where did I acquire that knowledge and experience? How did I gain confidence in the back country? When did I learn survival skills?

I learned as a child.

From my earliest memories, my family went camping, as far away from human habitation as my dad could get. We all learned to catch fish – my first catch was at 7, after my two little sisters! – to stay within shouting distance of camp, and to go downhill to water if we were ever truly lost. We were warned about the dangerous animals in the Rocky Mountain forest.

So much that I learned, I cannot even remember! I must have been told that screeching magpies and blue jays usually signal a predator nearby. I must have learned that if lost and hungry, I could always search for grubs in dead logs (Eww!). I must have learned how to use leaves and even pine needles for toilet paper, and to climb a slope carefully so that I wouldn't break a leg.

These lessons did not come as cheerleading: "Atta girl! Good job!" They came as calm, clear warnings. They were about my survival, not about my self-esteem.

There's a difference, isn't there?

I believe I am confident about being in the wilderness because I was taught survival skills, not how to accomplish something. The language of survival training is precise: "Here's what you do if you get lost: go downhill until you get to water and stay there." While my parents obviously hoped I would never get lost, they prepared me for it by explaining exactly what to do. If I actually became lost, they would not be there to cheer me on, I would be on my own.

We are in a time of survival. We are separated from each other, from the very social networks that often sustain us, encourage us. We lack comforts, such a TP, and food. We wish this whole thing would end tomorrow so we can get back to our lives. We obsessively watch the news or news feeds, counting the virus cases and deaths in the country, in our state, in our town. Our fears build.

Here is a survival message from me to you. By the time this pandemic is over:

·         We will have learned how to wipe our butts in inventive ways. (Personally, I'm saving up newspapers. Aint' comfy, but gets the job done.)

·         We will have improved our skills at Scrabble, Monopoly, jigsaw puzzles, Trivial Pursuit, chess, backgammon …

·         College dormitories might be obsolete! And also college cafeterias! (I did a lot of flirting in my college's cafeteria, so – Dang!)

·         We will appreciate our jobs, bosses, co-workers more than ever, or else we finally will leave that crummy job.

·         We might choose a new career path, such as health care; or leave a career path, such as health care.

·         We boomers will finally learn how to be on the internet beyond email and Facebook.

·         We will value Social Security and health care more than ever.

·         We will all have stories about our version of the illness: the fever, the fatigue, the lack of eggs in the house, the cough.

·         We will all know someone who died of coronavirus, probably from our own circle of friends and family.

Like being in the wilderness without survival skills, this is a scary time. Prepare yourself by being informed, keeping your family informed. Like my parents taught me what to do if I got lost, you can teach your kids about the reality of their lives right now. "Stay inside, keep a 6 foot distance from others, hands away from face, report if you feel hot or have a cough."

If I had a magic wand, I would load it with magic to reduce fear, and wave it over the whole world. I don't.

But I do have confidence. By this time next year, people will once again shop for toilet paper when they feel like it. The economy will be crawling back to health. Most of us will get sick, but we will be alive by this time next year.

See you next year, on the other side!

Chickens and Bedtime

Chickens wake up at the crack of dawn. Literally, as soon as a teeny, weeny bit of light creeps across the sky, chickens open their eyes.

This is a blessing and a problem for people with roosters.

Roosters, when they wake up, lift up their lovely, red wattled heads and announce to the world that the sun is coming up. "Cock-a-doodle-do!" they shout in English.

Roosters -- well, all chickens -- are very dumb, so they must think that the rest of the world is as well. They shout about the sun coming up over and over. "Cock-a-doodle-do! Cock-a-doodle-do! Cock-a-doodle-do!"

If you live on a farm, and getting up early is helpful, you might not mind this organic, annoying alarm clock. You might welcome it in the same way city folk welcome the loud, clanging of their mechanical alarm clocks.

Wait!

Does anyone welcome the sound of an alarm that wakes them from a deep and happy sleep? Doesn't matter the alarm, does it? We all dread it.

Sidebar: This is something retired people look forward to: no alarm clocks any day f the week. Unless we fill up our schedules with volunteer commitments and grandparenting obligations, we get to sleep in. I recommend this. End sidebar.

So roosters and hens awake with the first tiny glimmering of the sun. Roosters crow about it, which is why most cities, if they allow people to keep chickens, don't allow them to keep roosters. Can you imagine the racket if every other home had a rooster crowing at the sun every day?

Hens don't crow. Probably they blink their eyes, stretch out their wings, turn to each other to start gossiping and planning their exciting day of eating.

On the other end of the day, chickens put them selves to bed.

No kidding!

They are very dumb creatures in so many ways, but this is one great thing about chickens: at dusk they head for their roosting spots. By dark they are safe in their chicken house, nestled up against each other, falling asleep.

One time, my sister watched our house and chickens when we went on vacation. After the first day, she called us in a terrible panic. "I've been chasing the chickens to get them to bed, but I can't get them into the henhouse! They're all gonna get eaten by coyotes! I'm exhausted! What should I do?!?!"

We said, "Oh, dear. Take a deep breath. Make yourself a cup of tea. Wait. Wait a half-hour or so. When you go outside, you'll find that the chickens have put themselves away for the night."

She was very offended that we hadn't told her this vital, and surprising piece of information about chickens. She was right, but we are so used to this wonderful chicken blessing, that we hadn't thought about it.

I sometimes wonder if people would be as enchanted by chickens if they had to round them up every night and carry them to the roosts.

So besides giving eggs so generously, this is a great reason to have chickens: they put themselves to bed at night without any complaining or whining or requests for bedtime stories.

Did you know this about chickens? It's a great reason to get some, don't you think? Go tell you parents, siblings, city council.

My Vaccination Story, Part 2: No Joking

Last week I told the story of how I contracted hepatitis as a child after the kids in my school were vaccinated.You may recall that my parents, for religious reasons, chose not to have us kids vaccinated. Because of inadequate sterilization of needles, our entire community became ill with hepatitis, including everyone in my family. I have been infected with hepatitis every since.

Fast forward from my six-year-old self to my young adult self. I was teaching at a tiny rural school, married, and expecting to start a family one day. That's when I learned about measles, which had just erupted among the students in my school, and pregnancy.

Measles, when contracted by a pregnant woman, affects her baby in serious and deadly ways. These babies are born with complicated mental and physical defects. Many of them don't survive into adulthood.

I was terrified. I didn't want my future babies to have birth defects – especially if I could prevent it. Other diseases were similarly bad for gestating babies, but the information about measles really shook me up.

I went to our school nurse, who was a county health nurse, as well as a ranch wife. She was absolutely unflappable and no-nonsense with children. I asked her how I could get vaccinated.

Okay, she was flapped by that. She wanted to know why I was asking such a thing, why I didn't already have vaccinations, etc. After hearing my story, and accepting that I wasn't teasing her, she and I planned for me to receive the normal round of vaccinations along with the children when they got theirs.

So there I was, standing in line with the Kindergartners to get my vaccinations. They eyed me skeptically, like maybe I had forgotten to get in the teacher line or something. I assured them I was there to get my vaccinations, just like they were. Fortunately, me and the five-year-olds were not stuck with needles, but only had to stick out our tongues and swallow the vaccinations put there.

I have never, ever regretted this decision.

According the Centers for Disease Control (CDC), "Congenital Rubella Syndrome (CRS) [German measles] can affect almost everything in the developing baby’s body." Because of the vaccinations I received at that little, tiny school, I didn't have to worry, when I was pregnant, about being around someone who was sick with measles that could infect my baby. Maybe my baby would have disabilities anyway, but I had taken significant action to prevent that. The relief was huge.

I made sure my own children were fully vaccinated. Would I have done so if I knew the pain for babies of getting shots at the tender age of six months, and later shots for ____? You bet. The pain of the shot is nothing compared to the pain of coping with a child with birth defects.

I read the material about possible side-effects for my babies, and I was willing to deal with those side-affects from vaccinations in order to make sure my children were safe from terrible diseases, particularly measles. Remember, I had side effects from a vaccination I never received, and recovered and led a normal life 

What if I had known about the possibility of vaccinations creating autism?

I believe I would have gotten the vaccinations anyway.  The fear of my babies or grandbabies being infected by measles – or something worse – far outweighed my concerns about potential personality problems such as autism.

Autism is a serious condition. I have a sister who probably fits on that scale and maybe I do too. (I prefer to claim that we come from a know-it-all, nerdy family.) Remember, we did not receive vaccinations, yet have autism attributes anyway. 

The evidence showing that vaccinations cause autism is not nearly as strong as the evidence that measles causes extremely serious birth defects.

Birth defects have been an area of social concern for decades. My uncle was born in 1936 with one leg longer than the other, and his sister – my mother – gave donations every year to a birth defect foundation. Parents are much more savvy now, and they try to figure out why their child has a birth defect. They challenge the system, including the FDA, about medicines dangerous to unborn children.

Certainly, more babies are now born without the effects of measles. Thank goodness!

To all parents who are feeling reservations about getting your children vaccinated, I urge you to protect your grandchildren by getting your girls vaccinated at least. I urge you to get your sons vaccinated to keep them from getting measles and possibly infecting unborn babies they may come in contact with.

If you are a young adult and you were never vaccinated – and you do not have a religious concern -- consider doing so immediately. If you can't afford to go to the doctor, please find a clinic and tell them your story. They will help you. There are many, many programs available to help people maintain healthy lives, and vaccinations are part of that.

Young women in particular, you will not regret protecting your future babies from birth defects.

My relationship with vaccinations is complicated. Yours doesn't need to be. 

Get your children vaccinated, get yourself vaccinated, make sure your grandchildren are vaccinated, as soon as possible. 

Protect our unborn babies.

My Vaccination Story, Part One: No Poking

As a child I was not vaccinated. As a young adult, I took every vaccination imaginable. Why the change? And why at that time?

My parents, for religious reasons, did not have any of their children vaccinated. Therefore, when I was six years old in 1960, and our school held a district-wide vaccination campaign – probably against small pox – my parents declined to have us participate.

At my elementary school, the needles were not properly sterilized (a common problem before disposable needles) and those who received vaccinations contracted hepatitis.

Hepatitis is a virulent disease and easily transferable. Our entire community came down with it, including every single person in my family, although none of us received the vaccinations. 

I sat at our dining room table, too ill to lift my fork; watching my father and baby sister struggle to do the dishes. My littlest sister reached up to take a dish from our father, dry it awkwardly with a giant dish rag, then reach up to set it on the counter. That's the only time I ever saw my dad do dishes. The rest of my family were too sick to help.

Meanwhile, my mother lay in bed, covered with blankets because she was shivering. Our neighbor sat with her but could do very little by way of comfort. My mother was the color of dark brown mahogany stain. I wondered if she was dying.

I was told, frequently, that hepatitis was in my blood forever. That I should never ever, EVER give a blood transfusion because my blood could make someone who was already sick, even more sick. Perhaps even kill them. So, of course, no blood donations from me. (Yes, that is a sigh of relief from me in the background.) I didn't really want to give my blood away, but I would have if called upon to help friends or family in need.

Other than not giving blood, hepatitis didn't disrupt my life significantly. All my doctors knew about it, all my employers knew about it, all my dear friends had heard the story many times so they knew all about it.

But then my husband and I applied to serve in the Peace Corps. They wanted to know about that hepatitis because serving in second and third world countries could put me at risk, or I could put others at risk. Fortunately, by then, medical advancements had sorted out that there are several forms of hepatitis, caused by different forms of infection. Although mine was part of a community infection, it tested among the safe varieties. I could serve in another country with no fear – and also give blood. If I wanted to!

So because of a bad vaccination incident, I became infected with a terrible disease that was safe as long as it stayed inside me. I can understand parents who fear the effects of vaccinations on their children. My family was very ill, and I was affected all my life by a vaccination, but I didn't even get poked by a needle!

 Next week, the rest of my story.

Of Elves, Time Zones, and Sweating the Small Stuff

I do a lot of research as a fiction writer. It's one of the things I try to get out of.

I wanted to write a historical romance, many years ago, and I wanted a setting that no one had heard of so that I wouldn't have to do any research. I chose Wales; actually the border between Wales and England in the 900s. Seemed like an unknown time and location. I guess if I didn't know something about that bit of history, I would make it up (Horrors!" gasp my history professors). Or maybe I already knew enough to fake it. Or maybe teenie weenie elves would work on those parts -- at night – while I slept. Actually, I didn't have a plan for lack of knowledge on my part. So I dived into the story, figuring I would locate the rare books on the topic if I really needed to.

Turns out there were many books about the history and archeology of Wales and England. Dang!

Another story I wrote was about sparrows. Pretty simple topic, eh? Surely a peek in a nature book would suffice for research. But what does a sparrow chirp actually sound like? Luckily, I now have use of the internet, so I was able to listen to the chirps of little sparrows all day long. And what do magpies sound like? (Foolish me, I put them in this story with sparrows.) And how would a flock of sparrows attack a pile of garbage – say a hamburger and fries – on the roadside? And would there be a thorn bush in the same setting as rose bushes?

Oh no! More research. Dang!

I tend to write historical fiction, so of course, I must do some research if I want the time and setting to seem realistic to readers. Historical research quickly turns into serpentine rabbit holes.

For example, I wanted to know what time of day President Garfield died in 1881. I knew he had been shot by an assassin, that he lingered for several weeks, that telegraph notices about him were printed in every newspaper in the country. And I knew that he passed in the evening. My question: what time did he actually die, and when would citizens in later time zones be told?

What a rat's nest of information I stumbled upon. First, there were not yet time zones in 1881! How then, did people know what time it was (besides looking up at the sky and guessing)? Every town had jewelers and/or watch repair shops. Usually, these shops had a clock outside their building. Every day they would use a sextant (used by captains at sea to plot their location on the globe) to determine the exact location of the sun. From this reading, they would set the clock on the street, and people in town could then set their clocks.

Time zones as we know them, were developed by the railroads and passed into law in the early 1900s.

All that research, just to find out I couldn't use time zones in my story. Grrr.

I am currently reading The Silmarillion, by J. R. R. Tolkein. This is the backstory of his epic fantasy: The Lord of the Rings. Oh my goodness! The Silmarillion is the creation myth, god legends, and cultural development of the Elves of Middle Earth. In the back, are pages and pages of index to locate names and places, a map of the area of the stories, genealogy charts of the elf families and the human families. If all that isn't enough, there is an extensive appendix about the elven language. An entire language!

Talk about research!

I whine about research involving sparrows, but he did the fictional research for a vast fantasy.

Research is required for all genres of fiction: historical, fantasy, and future; thrillers, romances, and mysteries; children's, young adult, and erotica. To write good stories requires research.

Dang!

Imagination Police

A controversy has erupted over whether a white woman can, or should, write a story about a family from Mexico. This is being labeled as "cultural appropriation".

The general complaint goes that a person from one culture cannot realistically write about another culture.

This is, I believe, another version of "write what you know".

To which I reply, if we could only write about what we know, including our culture, there would be no Carrie, written by Stephen King, a middle aged man, about a teenaged girl with telekinetic powers. No one that we know is telekinetic, but King wrote about it anyway. He had no teen girl experience at all because he is a man. Therefore, should he be shamed for having appropriated a gender and a fantastical power?

What about Jules Verne? He wrote about crazy stuff like submarines, hot air balloons traveling the world, and journeys into the Earth's core -- all before the 1900s. He could not possibly have known about these events, nor could anyone else in his time. Therefore, should he be shamed for writing fantastical, futuristic science stories when clearly he had not lived in those times yet?

Then there is J. R. R. Tolkien. He was never an elf, orc, or hobbit but he wrote about them with confidence. Fortunately for him, there are no living Elf communities to take him to task for writing about them when he never was one.

I understand the discomfort of having someone not like me -- a man, for example -- write a story about someone like me -- a woman. Sometimes men do a terrible job of this, and it shows.

But then we have the novel, Memoirs of a Geisha, a beautiful story about a young woman in WWII Japan. The life of a geisha is depicted accurately -- at least to me, an American woman with an interest in history. Imagine my surprise to discover that it was written by an American, who lived in New York City, far from Japan, and who was a man. Is it less of a story for this? Not at all. If anything it shows what an accomplished author he is.

All my examples have been of male authors. Is this current fad of cultural shaming directed more at female authors?

But of course, my argument applies to almost every female author, as well. If they only wrote what they know, we would not have J. K. Rowling's tales about a boy wizard because Ms.

Rowling has never been a boy, nor a wizard. We would not have Georgette Heyer's delightful Edwardian era romances because Ms. Heyer did not live back then, and therefore cannot know it.

In fact, every single piece of historical fiction could be challenged and their authors shamed for writing about something they themselves never actually experienced: Louis Lamore,

Dorothy Dunnett, Taylor Caldwell, James Clavell, Lindsay Faye.

This is control of the most egregious sort: thou shalt only write what thou knowest, or thou wilt be shamed for having written. How dare thee!

Writing a novel, even a short story, takes a huge amount of effort. A good novel involves hours and hours of research that no one else ever sees. If the research and writing skills are strong enough, an author can write a very good novel.

But that's not all, is it? To write a work of fiction takes imagination.

Imagination is what makes Tolkein and Rowling so stunning. How did they imagine all that and still function in the real world? Our brains are on display for our imaginative powers whenever a novel is written. Every single novel, and there must be billions in the world by now, is a person using their imagination.

To those who decry the novel written by a white woman about a family from Mexico, I say: she used her imagination. Are you going to make her effort illegal because she is not herself from Mexico? Are you going to make novels written by Mexicans illegal if they are about other cultures than their own?

We already know that we can barely control human speech. Imagine trying to control human imagination!

It would be impossible -- and also, humans being thinking, rebellious creatures that we are, more people would use their imaginations. Teens would riot in the streets and movie moguls would testify to Congress, demanding that they be allowed to produce whatever fantastical stories they choose.

To this fad of cultural appropriation shaming, I say: Shame on you, you shamers. Unless you are prepared to develop and implement the Imagination Police, be quiet and enjoy reading a good book.

Better yet, write one of your own. Your imagination -- and the rest of us -- will thank you for it.