Category Archives: Florida

Ratted out..

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No, we didn’t have Santa Claus come down our chimney last year. First of all, we don’t HAVE a chimney. And, being Jewish, Santa doesn’t usually visit our home anyway. Instead, as we awaited the first night of Hanukah, which fell on Christmas Day this year (for only the fourth time in the last 100 years and the first time since 2005), we had another not-so-lovely visitor to our home. 

The week before the holiday, while driving our Kia Sportage, Larry and I noticed that the windshield wiper fluid wasn’t coming out when we tried to access it. A check under the hood showed what we had thought. The holding tank was completely out of the fluid. 

“That’s weird!” Larry said. “This car is not even three months old! I don’t understand why we’re already out of fluid.” 

 Later that week, my brother Jay came for a visit. That evening, Larry and I drove Jay and our two friends to Calogera’s, an Italian pizzeria in Lake Alfred. After consuming delicious gourmet pizzas (Hot Honey! Formaggi! Artichoke!), we piled back into the car for our ride home. 

As soon as Larry turned on the car, we all noticed a definite aroma, and it certainly wasn’t coming from the boxed leftover pizza. As a matter of fact, it smelled HORRIBLE! Turning on the fan only made it worse. Despite the colder-than-usual-for-Florida temperatures, we opened up the windows and made it back to our friends’ house to drop them off.. They just didn’t depart…they dashed out faster than Santa’s reindeer.

When we got home, the three of us checked the inside and outside of the car for the problem. A mouse nest under the hood? An animal stuck in the wheels? Rotting fish we had accidentally left in the trunk from our recent shopping trip? To paraphrase Shakespeare, “Something is rotten in the town of Kissimmee,” but we were unable to find the source.

First thing the next morning, Larry and Jay took the Sportage through the car wash that included under carriage treatment. The odor wasn’t any better. The next day, Larry called the dealership for an appointment We would be dropping off the car on Christmas Eve, December 24.

On Saturday, Jay, Larry, and I met friends for a concert at Bok Tower Gardens. As we waited for the concert to begin, we told the friends we planned to meet—fortunately they hadn’t ask us for a ride—our stinky saga. 

“We think it’s a dead animal caught up in the car,” I told our friend Teri.

“Gee, I hope it’s not a cat!” said Teri, who loves felines and even volunteers at a Cat Cafe.

“Whatever it is or was, it obviously didn’t have nine lives” I quipped. 

Early Tuesday morning, I followed Larry in the Sportage over to the Kia dealership. Tyler, the manager, opened up the car door and was immediately hit with the stench of rotten flesh. Yes, we had no windshield wiper fluid because the hose connecting it was chewed up.

 “Looks like an animal got into the car,” he said. “You’ll need to leave it here so we can find the animal and check for other possible damage. 

An hour after we left, Tyler called us to give us the bad news. The mechanic had found a dead rat—a HUGE dead rat— stuck in the air conditioning unit. And there was more bad news. Before succumbing, the rat had chewed through more than the windshield washer tube. They would call us when the car was fixed and they were confident that the odor had been totally eRATicated. Err, I meant eradicated.

On Thursday afternoon, Larry and I got into our second car to pick up the Sportage. As we were pulling out of the driveway, Larry clicked the lever to wash the windows. No fluid was coming out. As Yogi Berra said, “It’s déjà vu all over again!” Had the rat gotten into both cars?

Tyler met us as soon as we pulled into the service port. It seemed our car was cause célèbre. The poor mechanic, despite wearing an industrial-strength mask, had almost lost his Christmas cookies while removing the eight-inch corpse. Maintaining his sense of humor, he had taken a picture of the dead rat, photoshopped a “Merry Christmas” sticker on it, and shared the picture with the entire service department and beyond.* Yes, they had seen rat damage. But ours won the prize for the biggest one ever seen in the dealership. 

Meanwhile, a check under the hood of the other car confirmed our worst fears. The rat had obviously frolicked in that car before making its way into my Sportage. After leaving the second car for another couple of days, our garage soon housed both rat-free vehicles. 

As I had been doing over the past week, I texted everyone who had been following our rat story with the latest updates. Responses included the usual “Oh no!” “Ugh” “Crazy!” and my favorite, “Happy Ratkanukkah!” I offered to share the picture captured by the mechanic, but only my brother and my son-in-law Sam took the bait. 

“It looks like a children’s stuffy,” said Sam.

“Yes it does,” I said. “Just don’t tell that to your stuffy-loving daughter!”

Through a Google search, Larry and I learned that our experience was not uncommon. “Rats love car engines because they provide warmth, shelter, and food-like soy-based wiring in modern cars,” a pest control website explained. Suggestions to protect our cars from future infestations included peppermint oil, mothballs, Irish Spring soap, and more expensive rodent deterrent options ranging from $20 to $60 on Amazon.. For the moment, we are depending on luck.

This was not our only expensive First World Problem this year. In January, a heavy rain storm had left a puddle of water on our kitchen floor. Hours after a roofing company had completed fixing the leak, we heard intermittent moaning sounds emanating from our attic. We originally believed the noise was coming from a distressed animal that had been trapped during the repairs. Five stress-filled days later, we realized that the “culprit” was actually a water pressure issue caused by the failure of the roofers to turn off the spigot of our outdoor hose. 

From perceived pests in the attic to real rats in the garage, I am more than ready to turn my secular calendar’s page to 2025. Happy New Year!

Source: LaJaunie’s Pest Control, “How to keep rats out of your car engine.” November 26, 2024. Click here for website.

*Most people will be happier if I don’t share the actual picture. So, instead, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, here is a picture of a rat stuffy. For those who want to see the picture in all its glory, email me at shapcomp18@gmail.com.

Rat stuffy

Does history repeat itself? Am I like my parents?

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In 2015, Larry and I sold our home in Upstate New York and relocated to a community in Central Florida. As Larry and I have fully embraced our new life in the Sunshine State, let us compare our retirement life near Orlando to my parents’ retirement years near Fort Lauderdale.

When the last of the Cohen children headed for college, my parents spent a couple of weeks each winter in Florida. When they retired, they sold the house in Keeseville and moved into their cottage on Lake Champlain. They escaped to Florida for two or three months in the dead of winter, splitting their time between short-term rentals and relatives’ pull-out couches. In time, they purchased a one-bedroom condo in Hawaiian Gardens, a complex in Lauderdale Lakes that they had heard about through a friend who lived at the complex.

After years of living in a community with lots of snow and with few Jewish people, they thrived in the sunshine and in the company of Yiddishkeit, fellow Jews who had moved to the Sunshine State from New York City and Long Island. Their lives fell into a pattern. They shopped at Publix and went to their doctors’ appointments in the morning. By noon, they joined all the other retirees by the small community pool. The women splashed around in the water while the men kibitzed on their beach chairs under large umbrellas. The conversation consisted of bad jokes, condo gossip, politics, and discussions as to which restaurants offered the best early bird specials. My mother had grown up speaking Yiddish to her parents, and my father knew a few expressions, so they started a popular Yiddish Club that met once a week. Dad played poker; Mom went to flea markets with friends.

Outside of my father’s occasional game of golf, my parents got their exercise walking back and forth to the pool. Deerfield Beach was only a half an hour away, but my father hated the sun, the heat, and the sand. As a result, my mother, who didn’t drive in Florida, limited her visits to the ocean to when her children could take her when we visited.

Hawaiian Gardens offered entertainment in the clubhouse, usually a singer or a comedian who had worked on the Borscht Belt. The performers weren’t paid a great deal, many were a little beyond their prime, and the audience could be downright cruel. During one of our visits, a woman singer

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was belting out Broadway tunes. When she asked if the audience would like her to do an encore, one of the residents yelled out, “No! You’re terrible! Get off the stage!”

Larry and I flew down at least once a year and joined them in their routine. In the morning, I would take my mother to the supermarket or the flea market. At noon, we headed to the pool. At three o’clock, no matter how beautiful the weather, we all went upstairs to get ready to leave their apartment by four o’clock for that day’s early bird special. The meals varied in quality, but there were tons of food with enough leftovers, extra bread, lemon slices, and a few Sweet ’n Low packets to take home for the next day’s lunch. Even when they relocated to a larger condo, their routine remained the same. And their lives always included visits from relatives and friends from New York as well as get-togethers with new friends they had made.

Although we enjoyed our visits, Larry and I could not picture ourselves living the sedentary East Coast Florida condo life that my parents enjoyed. When we moved to our adult active community in Central Florida, we felt we had found our own slice of heaven. Our home sat on a large scenic lot with plenty of room for family and friends to visit. Our community had two community recreational centers where I could take exercise classes and swim laps. Larry could play pickleball. We had miles of neighborhood streets where we could take long walks and longer bike rides. Many clubs and groups offered us innumerable ways to meet people from around the country and the world. Many of the activities revolved around the synagogue and the Shalom Club, but we also participated in club activities offered by groups with ties to Italy, England, the Caribbean, and Western Upstate New York. We had a full, diverse life.

Once we lived here for a few months, however, I realized how much we have in common with my parents. Has it been that different? We head to the pickleball courts, the pool, and fitness classes in the morning. Then we plan our doctors’ appointments and our trip to Publix in the afternoon. Flipped schedule, but…. We often head to our favorite restaurant by four o’clock so we can beat the crowds. Recent entertainment included a headliner from the Sixties whose toupee and fancy tux didn’t cover the fact that his body and voice were not what they were fifty years ago. The ocean is only ninety minutes away, but we don’t feel like fighting the traffic. We share a great deal of time with our family and our old friends from around the country. And, like my parents, we escape the summer heat by spending time in Frisco, Colorado. It’s not Lake Champlain, but at 9100 feet it certainly beats Florida’s summers.

Both of our children have visited us in our home in Florida. They and their families have repeatedly told us they were glad that we are so happy here. However, I doubt if either of them or their families would select the lifestyle we have chosen. Our daughter Julie and her husband Sam love living in the Rockies, where they have mountains, forests, and plenty of trails available for hiking and skiing. Our son Adam and his wife love living in San Francisco, enjoying all that wonderful city and California have to offer. I hope wherever my children live, they will enjoy sunny skies, good health, and lots of

activities to keep busy. Most importantly, I hope they find joy in wherever life takes them.

In her eulogy to Grandma Fran, Julie spoke of my mother’s legacy. “She taught me about the woman I’d like to be, one filled with love, generosity, wisdom, wit, empathy, and a belief that we can create our own happiness in life by searching for the blessings.” That is the life my mother, “Frances Fradel” Cohen, lived with her “Dear Bill.” May their memories— and the memories they shared with all who knew and loved them—be a blessing.

A version of this article originally appeared in the  July 2017 issue of the Heritage Florida Jewish News, a weekly subscription-based newspaper in Central Florida.

A version of this article originally appeared in the July 2017 issue of the Jewish World News, a bi-weekly subscription-based newspaper in upstate New York.

As a Jew, I fear what is happening in Florida

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“Have money set aside and have flesh on your bones.”

This was the advice given to a friend who grew up as the daughter of Holocaust survivors. Her parents instilled in her and her brother the need for hyper-vigilance in case the unthinkable happened again. The couple’s circle of friends, fellow survivors of Nazi Germany, expanded the advice to include a ready passport and a warm coat in which money and jewels were sewn into the lining. 

Since 2015, I have been researching and writing stories about Holocaust victims as told by themselves or their children. Each story relives in me the sacrifice, the terror, and the strength shown by the targets of Hitler’s Final Solution. And it comes down to this: Although they comprised a mere 1.7% of the population of Europe when Hitler came to power in 1933, over six million men, women, and children were murdered for the crime of being Jewish. 

Hitler’s campaign against the Jews didn’t start with guns and ghettos and gas ovens. It started in 1933 with words: slow building propaganda effort to denigrate Jews, their accomplishments, and achievements. Those words were reinforced with images: distorted drawings of Jews as controlling octopi, fat bankers, and Christ killers. Words and images morphed into book bans and book burning. These actions grew into increasingly more restrictive laws regarding where Jews could work, shop, seek medical attention, and live. By November 10 , 1938, Kristallnacht, “Night of the Broken Glass,” Jews had neither rights nor means to escape. Trapped, two-thirds of Europe’s Jewry were murdered by bullets, beatings, starvation, or the gas chamber. 

Unfortunately, the lessons of the Holocaust has done little to end Jew hatred. According to the Anti-Defamation League, antisemitic incidents in Florida have doubled since 2020, with 269 incidents of assault, harassment, and vandalism reported. This rise has been seen across the United States and the world. In a recent interview with Steven Colbert, Stephen Spielberg commented, “Not since Germany in the ’30s have I witnessed antisemitism, no longer lurking but standing proud with hands on hips like Hitler and Mussolini — kind of daring us to defy it. I’ve never experienced this in my entire life. Especially in this country.” 

On June 10, 2023, neo-Nazis had held a rally not far from the gates of Disney World, in which they waved posters with swastikas, Nazi flags, the Florida state flag and posters supporting Ron DeSantis, the governor of Florida. While other Florida leaders across party lines immediately stepped up to condemn the actions, DeSantis has yet to comment. As noted in an article in the 6/12/2023 Tallahassee Democrat, “While the governor has been quick to tout his pro-Israel support and legislation, his office has in the past been slower to weigh in on public antisemitic displays.”

Books and course work pertaining to the Holocaust have been caught up in Florida’s legislators fight against “woke” education. History of the Holocaust, an on-line course, and Modern Genocide were rejectedfor including topics on social justice and critical race theory. A third book was allowed after “politically charged language” was removed. 

As a result of complaints from parents in Martin County, Florida, Jodi Picoult’s The Story Teller, a novel about a friendship between a former Nazi SS officer and the granddaughter of an Auschwitz survivor, was taken off the district’s shelves for “sexually graphic scenes, including depictions of sexual assault by Nazi guards. Picoult, a bestselling author who saw 19 more of her books targeted by anti-woke advocates denounced the move. “Books bridge divides between people, said Picoult. “Book bans create them”

Florida’s current climate comes chillingly too close to what happened in Nazi Germany. Despite the fact that transgender people make up approximately 1% of the nation’s population, the Republican legislators in Tallahassee have passed bills restricting transgenders from using public bathroom, denying them gender affirming medical treatment and drugs, and limiting the rights of parents of transgender children. In response to Tallahassee’s attempts “to erase Black history and restrict diversity, equity, and inclusion programs in Florida schools.” the NAACP justifiably issued a travel advisory to African Americans, people of color and LGBTQ+ individuals

Since 2021, DeSantis and the Republican legislature have passed bills that, as reported in a 4/23/2023 Washington Post article, will give us an idea what “Make Florida America” would look like under a DeSantis presidency. Restrict third-party registration groups, which have long been in the forefront of signing up Black and other minority voters. Eliminate campus diversity programs. Prohibit state and local governments from making investments based on environmental, societal and governance (ESI) benchmarks. Ban abortions after six weeks, Expand “Don’t Say Gay” to include all grades (K-12) in public schools. Make it easier to sue news media for defamation and win. Make it harder to sue insurance companies. Allow gun owners to carry concealed weapons without permit or proof of training. Allow DeSantis to run for president without resigning the governorship and without having to disclose his travel records while campaigning around the country.

Florida residents have a choice. We can leave, finding a place—hopefully that does not require passport and a warm coat that conceals valuables—that is more accepting. Or we can stay and fight with our words and our images and our vote. Thomas Kennedy, a Florida activist, stated in a 6/27/2023 Miami Herald article that the current far-right climate may serve as a motivation for change. “If we don’t at least check these….far-right figures that are starting to create a laboratory for extremist policies in Florida,” said Kennedy, “the Florida of today could become the America of tomorrow.” Remember this as we celebrate our country’s birth and look ahead to our country’s future.

https://antisemitism.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/07/Antisemitic-imagery-May-2020.pdf

https://www.theguardian.com/film/2023/mar/03/steven-spielberg-says-antisemitism-today-is-standing-proud-with-hands-on-hips-like-hitler

https://itstartedwithwords.org/resources/antisemitism/timeline-of-antisemitism/

Bestselling writer Jodi Picoult denounces Florida book ban

https://www.miamiherald.com/news/politics-government/article276707966.html

.https://www.tallahassee.com/story/news/local/2023/06/12/nazi-flags-at-disney-how-has-ron-desantis-addressed-antisemitism/70312857007/
https://www.thejc.com/news/world/jodi-picoult-holocaust-novel-banned-from-school-in-inappropriate-books-row-5ciENrdr4HmK7DDw21I4ku

https://www.washingtonpost.com/nation/2023/04/16/ron-desantis-florida-proposals

First published in the Capital Region’s Jewish World, a bi-weekly publication.

I am a pickleball putz

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I am a proud pickleball dropout. After a brief attempt to learn the game from my husband Larry, I realized that being interested in something and having enough talent to play on the most basic level are two different things.

What? You haven’t heard of pickleball? Have you been living under a marinated mushroom? According to the 2022 Sports & Fitness Industry Association (SFIA), there are 4.8 million people who play the game in the United States alone. It is the fasting growing sport in the country. 

Until Larry and I retired, I myself had never heard about pickleball. Larry had been involved in sports his entire life—basketball, baseball, and track in his youth and running and cycling as an adult. When he turned 65, we both joined the local YMCA. While I took classes and swam laps in the Olympic-sized pool, Larry started playing the game with friends from Congregation Beth Shalom and other members of the Y. 

Both competitive and athletic, Larry fell in love with the game immediately. He found camaraderie as well as the ability—to quote Jimmy Buffet—“to grow older but not up.”

When we moved to Florida, one of the conditions for where we would live was contingent upon having aerobic classes and a lap pool for me and having pickleball courts for Larry. We both found what we were looking for in our 55+ active adult community. Larry joined the Smashers and found players at his level. To make his life even better, Larry found the Summit County Pickleball Club, (“We play with altitude”) near where we rent in Colorado every summer.

Pickleball not only provided Larry with a great form of exercise but it also provided a social outlet. In Florida, the Smashers had dances and breakfasts; in Colorado, the players had picnics and cocktail parties.

As a matter of fact, it was the social aspect of “pb’ing” at 9100 feet that got my interest. Larry was playing the game at least four mornings a week, and he was meeting lots of people. I, on the other hand, spent my mornings either hiking by myself or with my granddog or, occasionally, swimming lonely laps in a pool that accepted Silver Sneakers. Maybe learning the game would help me become part of a community.

So one day, at my request, I asked Larry to take me onto the Colorado courts during a time set aside for beginners interested in trying the game. After giving me some of the basic rules, Larry gently lobbed me a ball; I hit it. Hey! This wasn’t so bad! Slow lob, hit. Slow lob.”I got this!” I thought

When he started hitting the balls to me at the normal rate of speed, however, I could barely hit it. Only 30 minutes into my private lessons, a slim, athletic couple came onto the court.

“We’d love some lessons, too!” they said. Larry quickly repeated some of the basics, and the two of them took to it like “white on rice.” At that point, they told us they had been playing tennis their whole lives, so this was an easy transition.Larry then suggested the four of us play a game together. 

Now it was a completely different game. Fast lob, Marilyn miss. Fast lob, Marilyn miss. Soon Larry was covering both sides of our court to cover for me. 

You have to understand that I wasn’t even close to hitting the ball. My lifetime lack of hand-eye coordination, exacerbated by vision problems brought on by age, resulted in my swinging at lots of air. The ball was usually two feet above or two feet below my pathetic paddle.

So I did what any normal, mature adult would do in that situation. I told Larry I didn’t want to play anymore, went back to our car, sat in the front seat, and cried.

“I can’t do it,” I told Larry after he finished his session with the two tennis pros. “I hate it! I can’t see the ball. I can’t hit the ball. I can’t even move in time. I’m done.”

I was. And I am. I am in the eighth decade of my life. Up until now, I had proven myself lousy at tennis and baseball and racketball and squash, I have now proved myself to be lousy at pickleball. The benefits of being part of a large group—there are at least 1000 members of Smashers—are totally outweighed by how much I hate trying to hit a stupid ball with a stupid paddle that may result in my breaking a stupid bone.

“You should try playing with us,” some friends have told me. “None of us play that well, and we won’t care if you’re not great at it.”

“No thanks,” I tell them. “I’d rather walk or swim or bike or do an exercise class.” 

And after hearing about all my friends with pickleball-related injuries, I am happy to stick to what I am doing.None of them require hand/eye coordination. None of them are competitive, so I don’t have to always lose. Better yet, I won’t be the player that no one wants on their team. Yes, my short stint as a pickleball putz is over! From now on, my only pickle of choice is a Kosher one in a jar.

A version of this article originally appeared in the Jewish World News, a bi-weekly subscription-based newspaper in upstate New York.

Close Encounters of the Moose Kind

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As 2021 comes to a close, I have much for which to be thankful. The armadillo that took up residency under our house decided that we charged too much rent and moved out on its own before we had to call in an exterminator. Despite inflation pushing up the cost 25%, I still had the means to buy a 23 pound turkey for Thanksgiving at the supermarket, not necessitating my shooting one of the wild ones that wander our yard. And I am grateful that our close encounters of the wild kind have ended well for both us and the animals.

As Upstate New Yorkers, Larry and I rarely encountered threatening animals. Yes, we watched out for rattlesnakes while hiking the eponymous trail in Lake George. And, yes, our cats’ frequent skirmishes with skunks showed us the stinky scent of nature. But the closest I had come for most of my life to seeing “animals gone wild” was when we woke up to the sight of a herd of cows that had somehow escaped from a nearby farm grazing on the lawn of my parents’ cottage on Lake Champlain. When we opened the door to take a closer look, our Irish setter ran out and started barking at them, triggering a mini-stampede. At that very moment, our neighbor opened up her drapes to see a bunch of berserk bovines charging towards her sliding glass door. Local lore is that her screams still can be heard echoing throughout Willsboro Bay.

My first encounter with more dangerous beasts came in a 2012 trip to Florida. While Larry and I were waiting for the guided tour tram to take us through the Shark River section of the Everglades, I spotted a huge alligator less than 10 feet away. Naive—make that stupid!—me insisted Larry take my picture while I was kneeling near its tail. When I proudly showed the picture to one of the guides a short time later, she warned me against a repeat performance. “Alligators may look slow, but they can move quickly,” she said. “You were lucky you weren’t bitten.” 

After that encounter combined with research and “alligators in the news” stories, I now have a much deeper appreciation of these ancient reptiles. We usually have at least one alligator in the pond in our backyard, either sunning itself on its bank or floating just below the surface. It is not unusual to see one crossing the road or even lounging in a doorway or an open garage. Just this morning, a neighbor posted on our Next “Please be careful. There is a large gator is crossing the road on its way to Glendora Lakes.” We have learned to live by side with them by maintaining a healthy distance when walking near water and encouraging our guests to do the same.

Ever since her move to Colorado in 2003, our daughter Julie has shared with us her frequent close encounters with Rocky Mountain wildlife. In her first month there, she had to detour to avoid a brown bear who was helping itself to an unlatched garbage bin. Stories of other unexpected meet-ups with more bears, as well as elk, moose, fox, and coyotes, have always been part of our conversations with our daughter, her husband Sam, and since she could talk, our granddaughter. 

Julie and her Sam are both experienced backpackers and outdoors people. When they are hiking, they can recognize the presence of animals by their hoof prints as well as their scat (poop).They also know what to do when they encounter an animal, whether it be on the trail or in their backyard. Like alligators, the best approach is to distance oneself from any wild animal to avoid a confrontation. And they are sharing that knowledge with their daughter. 

Despite all their experiences, Larry and I had only seen wildlife from a safe distance. That changed this summer. We hiked up a popular trail and made our usual left turn only to find a huge moose less than 25 feet away. We quickly and quietly turned around and headed down the same trail. 

I shared the news with several friends on social media, many whose first question was, “Did you get a picture?”

“No,” I responded. “We just got the hell out of there!”

After waiting 18 years for our “Close Encounter of the Wild Kind,” I was not expecting to see another moose until 2039. However, less than three months later, on an early November before-the-snow-falls trip, my granddog Neva and I took a hike up to Rainbow Lake, my favorite spot in the world. On the way down, with only a slight pull on Neva’s leash as a warning, I caught sight of the back end of a moose in the trees about 10 yards in front of us. Now the seasoned moose-avoider, I quickly got us “the hell out of there.”

 While winding our way down a longer but hopefully safer trail, Neva pulled hard on the leash, straining to run after something. “Oh no!” I thought. “not another moose!” No, it was just a squirrel, which our granddog obviously rated higher on the “wildlife-of-interest” scale than a unpredictable half ton mammal. So much for feeling safer when hiking with my granddog!

Moose sitings continued. Later that day, when Larry and I avoided stepping in the piles of moose scat that adorned awns and sidewalks in the neighborhood. We learned later that soon after trick or treaters had headed home with their junk food stash, the moose had moved in and devoured all the Halloween pumpkins. 

The next morning, we were woken up to the sounds of our granddaughter clambering down the steps to the guest bedroom and her yelling, “Moose alert! Moose alert! A mommy and her two calves are in our front yard!”

Larry and I are now back in Florida, but we need to remain on the lookout. Oh well. At least alligators don’t leave scat. 

A version of this article originally appeared in the Jewish World News, a bi-weekly subscription-based newspaper in upstate New York.

Wrestle with COVID leaves survivor a changed woman

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“When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” Haruki Murakami

Ever since the first cases of COVID-19 were identified, America has been divided regarding wearing masks, gathering in large groups, or, most recently, getting one of the variants of the vaccine. Heated arguments have occurred in government institutions to sports venues to houses of worship to classrooms to local bridge groups. For Kathy Glascott, a COVID-19 survivor, such protocols are not a matter of personal choice but a matter of social responsibility.

A former elementary school teacher, from Buffalo New York, Kathy Glascott was the happiest she had been in many years.  She had retired to a 55-plus community near Orlando, Florida, and, as was her style, she showed up for life. She was involved in several activities including the British Isles Heritage  Club, the Western Upstate New York club, and SOL Writers. A widow, she met her significant other Mike through the community’s Singles group, and they were having fun, going to concerts and dances and traveling to places of which she had only dreamed.“It was like being a teenager again,” she said.

Then, in February 2020, the unsettling news of a virus later identified as COVID-19 began to emerge. Heeding the early advice of medical experts, Kathy sheltered in place and tried to avoid exposure. Short on groceries, she took a risk and went for a quick supermarket run. “I didn’t have a mask because you couldn’t get them” Kathy reflected months later. “Looking back, I wish if had the damn groceries delivered.”

Soon after, Kathy began to feel unwell..One evening, exhausted and exhibiting symptom of what she thought was bronchitis exacerbated by her asthma, she had Mike take her to the nearby hospital’s ER. She had no idea that it would be  5 1/2 months until she would see anyone except through a plate glass door.

Kathy was diagnosed with bilateral pneumonia and COVID-19 and almost immediately placed in an induced coma in the ICU. She has vague memories of anything from March 27 until she woke up from anesthesia on May 5. “During that time,” she wrote months later, “my body was assaulted by machines that were surrogates for bodily organs—a feeding tube, a respirator, and catheters.”

Meanwhile, her brother Brian Joyce, a Methodist pastor in New Jersey, kept her large family and many friends abreast of Kathy’s life and death struggle through posts on her popular FaceBook page. On three occasions, Brian gave the grim news that she had been intubated and was near death. Even when the medical staff removed her from her induced coma, she was not out of the woods. She remained hospitalized for another six weeks and later continued her recovery in a rehab center where she had to learn again to hold her head up, sit, stand, walk, and swallow.

Brian warned his FaceBook followers against what he called “COVID-19 fairytales.” “It would be nice if Kathy’s story demonstrated a victory over the virus,” he posted on August 1 as his sister entered her 19th week of fighting for her life.“In reality her recovery is a daily journey through pain, loneliness, separation, therapy, small victories, and moments of great success and rising hope.”

On September 6, 163 days after she had been admitted to the hospital, Kathy was finally released. For the first two months, she stayed with her neighbor and closest friend Susan Schulman.After Kathy moved back into her own home, she continued to rely on Susan,  Mike, and others to provide a much-needed network of support. 

Over a year later, Kathy is still trying to make sense of what happened and “to fix what’s broken.” She mourns the six months of her life she lost to the virus in which her only contacts were her ever-present, albeit, wonderful medical staff members. 

Although not confirmed by her doctors, Kathy considers herself as a “long hauler,” one of unfortunate 10% of COVID-19 survivors who experiences prolonged effects of the illness. In her case, she struggles with vision problems, a chronic cough, reoccurring bronchitis, neuropathy in her feet, frequent fatigue, and bouts of PTSD. “I’m better, but I’m not the me I was before Covid,” wrote Kathy on a post in her blog This and That:Musings on Being a Writer.“I have a new normal that makes me feel diminished, stressed, joyful, discouraged, and grateful all at the same time.”

Kathy also recognizes that COVID has affected not only herself but also those with whom she is involved. This is especially seen in the impact her illness had on her daughter, Brenda Glascott, a college administrator who lives with her wife in Portland, Oregon. “Ever since I woke her in the middle of the night on March 28 to say, ‘I love you’ before I was intubated for the first time,” said Kathy, “Brenda has had to make a number of hard decisions on my behalf. And she made each one with courage and love.” Kathy has said that the hope of seeing her daughter and others who sustained her and kept her fighting in her darkest hours.

As a survivor, Kathy feels a responsibility to protect herself and others.“I try to honor the concern and love shown me by not taking unnecessary chances and by practicing safe protocols.” Those measures include limiting her exposure to others and wearing a mask even though she is fully vaccinated.

She is an outspoken opponent of those who reject such measures on the pretext of personal freedom. “If you hate wearing a mask,” reads one of her FaceBook posts, “you’re really not going to like the ventilator.” In another post, she quotes George Takei, the American actor and activist. “Telling me you are proudly unvaccinated is like telling me you’re a drunk driver. You’re not a patriot. You’re not a freedom fighter. You’re a menace.”

A writer and author of three previous books, Kathy is working on a fourth that will recount in detail her own “harrowing dance” with COVID-19. “When I think about the many people who were affected by my struggle, I am humbled by their love and concern and grateful for the outpouring of prayer and support I received,” she said. “I hope to pay it forward by sharing my own experience and encouraging others to take the necessary steps to protect themselves and help curtail the spread and continuance of this terrible pandemic.” 

A version of this article originally appeared in the Jewish World News, a bi-weekly subscription-based newspaper in upstate New York.

Realizing What I Have Missed

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Up until now, I thought that maybe I hadn’t missed that much in the past 16 months. My husband Larry and I had our health, had managed to keep a level of contentment throughout the pandemic. We missed our family terribly, but we had frequent Zoom calls with our children and grandchildren.

Even throughout our two weeks in California, I had felt pretty good. Larry and I had hugged our fifteen and a half month grandson, overwhelmed with emotion. I knew I had missed a huge chunk of his first year, but I took comfort again from the hours on Zoom and FaceTime. We were starting our in-person relationship late, but I didn’t dwell on what we had missed. He knew us. He came to us. We savored every minute with our visit with our son Adam, our daughter-in-law Sarah, and the beautiful little boy who had been named after two of his great grandfathers.

But then, after our flight to Denver and an easy drive  up to Summit County, we hugged our granddaughter. (She had been warned: We would be hugging her so hard that she would squeak!) But who was this taller, more beautiful, more poised person? Where was the little girl with whom we had last hugged goodbye in Florida in March 2020? The gap between her and this person who     poured her own tea, rode a two wheeler, swam underwater in her community pool was so great. Yes, we had missed time with her, with her new cousin, with all my children that we can never make up. 

And I hadn’t realized how much I had missed our time in the mountains. On our third day, I finally made the hike up to Rainbow Lake, a short distance from our daughter’s home and our summer rental. As I walked up the trail, I took in the columbines and the wild roses and the aspens. Then I reached the lake, my happy place, the spot in which I find peace and contentment. How could I forgotten how much I love this spot over 9100 feet above sea level in the Rockies? Had it been almost two full years since I had sat on the log and drank in the beauty that surrounded me?

Larry and I had spent the Fourth of July in Frisco for at least ten years. We watched the parade down Main Street with Sam and Julie, then, six years ago, Sam and a very pregnant Julie. The next few years, our granddaughter watched from her carriage, then her father’s arms, and then as a participant on a tricycle in the Cavalcade of Children. 

This year, however, we headed out of town and, by 11:30 a.m., five humans and one dog were floating down the Colorado River. Sam manned the raft while Julie completed the entire trip, including some level 1 and 2 rapids, on a paddle board. Larry, our granddaughter and I found spots on the raft and took in the beauty surrounding us. We spotted a bald eagle perched in a tree, Canadian geese gliding along the shore, red cliffs rising above us, the Rocky Mountaineer weaving its way on the train tracks above us, fellow travelers on rafts and kayaks and paddle boards and inner tubes catch the currents with us. It was a beautiful Fourth, made even more special in contrast to last year’s isolation in our Florida home. 

The day ended with our granddaughter reading Go Dog Go, one of our favorite children’s book, to Larry while sitting on his lap on a rocking chair in her bedroom. Behind them, the window gave us a view the sun set in the aspen tree. 

As we finish our time in the mountains, Larry and I  have also been able to connect with the friends and extended “mishpacha” (family) that we had not seen since August2019. We took in outdoor lunches and evening concerts with dear friends from North Carolina. We celebrated our granddaughter’s birthday with Sam’s family by riding the Georgetown Railroad, eating lunch along side Clear Creek, and singing “Happy Birthday” over cupcakes and a candle-that-refused-to-stay-lit in a breezy park. After two full years, we are again finding our Colorado rhythm. 

Mann Tracht, Un Gott Lacht is an old Yiddish expression meaning man plans and God laughs. Recent events have shown us how unpredictable life can be, whether exemplified in a terrible pandemic that has lasted for months or a catastrophic building collapse that happened in seconds. On a personal level, these past eight weeks of my reconnecting with family and friends has made me  realize how much I  have missed, how much time I have lost, and how important it is to never take what I cherish for granted. 

A version of this article originally appeared in the Jewish World News, a bi-weekly subscription-based newspaper in upstate New York, in July 2021.