Blame it on Rio

I don’t often talk about it, but I have a serious addiction.

 
It is pernicious It is overwhelming. It is something that I am powerless against and its urges literally strike me wherever I am. I can be at the breakfast table or the toilet when it digs its claws into me. I can be on the train commuting to the city or in bed late at night when I feel the need to feed it. I have fed my addiction on airplanes, cars, subways, waiting rooms, friend’s home, and swimming pools.

 
I am ashamed to say, that as old as I am, I still blame my parents for my addiction. After all, they did teach me how to read.

From the earliest days when Pooh and Piglet became my companion, I have a near insatiable desire to read. Early on I discovered, that books and stories could transport me far away from the reality in which I was living to a place more magical where instead of being at the whims of chaos I was a observer not subject to the laws of the universe that I was in. Reading brought knowledge of far away places and histories of peoples I had never of heard of. It sparked my imagination and made my world larger and more robust.

 
A normal day has me beginning and ending my day with reading. It starts with the morning paper which like my father before me I consume like whole cloth. I especially like the serendipitous often smaller stories that recount something amusing or interesting that has happened in some nook or cranny of the world that you would never know about unless you happen to read the newspaper that day. And while at times (excuse the pun) I am forced to read electronic editions I prefer the paper as I think the GUI better.

 
At lunch, when I am alone, I try to read a novel or a history. A good story well told that will allow me to temporarily hold at bay the problems of my day.
When I am walking Rosie 4 times a day I am usually listening to an audio book of some sort. While technically it is not reading but listening I often tag team a book where I both listen and read a book concurrently. I know. Disgraceful.

 
At night, like many, I enjoy watching television or video or whatever we call it these days. But usually, I multi task reading along with the programming. A magazine or e-story someone has sent me.

 
I read myself to bed every night and when as I find myself often, awake in the middle of the night, I read to forget the loop of thoughts that has caused me to awaken in the first place.

 
Covid 19 has totally screwed this all up.

 
I find no comfort in reading the newspapers anymore. Learning about the incompetence of the federal response or that the death toll in the United States is greater than the total population of my hometown is deeply disturbing to me. After reading about the ills of the world I have no desire to search for and find the stories that normally would delight and amuse me.

 
I don’t have the courage of my wife who reads the ink off of El Globo, our local paper, every day. She revels in getting as much information about the pandemic here in Brazil as possible. Like in the US the federal response to the virus has been pyknic and led by a man with less brains and charisma than Trump so reading the news is important for her knowledge base. However, I cannot muster the same courage for the US as the news does not change much each day. Donald Trump is still trying to cover his ass as opposed to saving lives and generating a unified, scientific approach.

 
So I don’t read newspapers anymore. Okay a cheat a bit.

 
Under normal circumstance the sturm and drang of the new cycle would drive me to fiction or a well told history. But sadly, this has not helped.

 
Science fiction is one of my favorite genres. It speculates about an untold future that helps accentuate the foibles and shortcomings of our current society. Sadly, our world today is too much like a science fiction novel. Incompetent former reality television star is elected President of the United States through Russian interferences and mishandles a pandemic that causes the death of hundreds of thousands in his country.
So I can’t read Science Fiction right now. It is too close to reality.

 
History is usually about leaders who find themselves in difficult or impossible situations but manage to find inner strengths and martial their country through the danger. The Splendid and The Vile by Erik Larsen is a book I read early on in this crisis. It is about the first year of the 2nd World War and Winston Churchill’s leadership that help bring about a victory in the Battle of Britain and the miracle of Dunkirk while inspiring his country to reach deep and come together. The comparison to our current leadership is maddening and so discouraging that I find the idea of reading about great leaders nearly impossible.

 
So, I choose not to read history right now as it makes me yearn for Teddy Roosevelt when we have Bozo with bad hair.

 
So how do I feed my addiction.

 
Most of the authors that I follow for the purpose of saying “nah nah nah nah” to the outside world such as Michael Connelly, Dick/Felix Francis, John Grisham, Harlan Coben, Walter Mosely, Phillip Kerr, Carl Hiasen, Stephen King, Lee Child, Michael Chambon to name just a few I am caught up on.

 
So I am asking you to be my enabler. Send me your thoughts on which authors and or books you read to help you forget the current reality so I can forget this madness of the current world and escape to a simpler, alternative reality.

 
Please.

I am not a very religious person although I pray to god almost every night. Especially, these days.

 
Part of the reason for this lack of religious dedication lies in the fact that while both my parents were Jewish neither (I thought) particularly embraced their faith. They grew up in an age where Science was the new religion. Where new discoveries about the universe were happening rapidly and changing the world view. Their age, unlike today, was an age of rationalism where facts were more favored than myth.

 
For my mother, I believe, this was compounded by the congregation she belonged to as a child. She attended, with many of the elite families of New York’s upper east side, Temple Emanuel. A beacon of liberal reform Judaism whose services sought to demonstrate that Jews could have their own place of worship on 5th Avenue. It was such a reformed version of the Jewish faith that bar/bat mitzvah were not carried out. Instead, confirmations took place.

 
Perhaps it was the watered-down faith. Perhaps it was the age of rationalism. Whatever the reason my mother could not abide by religion. She was a staunch agnostic at the end. Even requesting that no rabbi or Hebrew prayer be a part of her burial or memorial service.

 
Pop’s story was different. Unlike my mother he had extensive religious training. He was set to become a bar mitzvah but his opportunity to become a man in the eyes of god and the community were shattered on the night of November 8, 1938 when the Nazis burned down his temple. In his older years, he would speak wistfully of it. He wrote his children “Not one single synagogue was left intact in all of Vienna. That really screwed me up because I was nearly thirteen. You need to have a Torah to become a Bar Mitzvah and you need to have a table on which to lay the scroll while you read. And how was I to get a fountain pen now?”

 
I believed for years that the trauma of seeing your world destroyed. To be the subject of hate and prejudice on a daily if not hourly basis. To be the subject of degradation and hate and to have flee for your life, leaving your relatives to perish in the showers of Auschwitz, Dachau and Mauthausen made him embrace rationalism. Perhaps his world view was further honed by the time he spent in the army seeing the irrationality of war. Whatever the ultimate reason, he became a scientist embracing facts over fiction, logic over chaos.

 
As a result of their religious apathy, my parents made the active decision to raise us in secular communities. The towns in which we lived were predominantly Christian with a heavy pre-ponderance of Catholic. Ironically, this may have had the opposite effect that my parents had hoped for. While by and large I was accepted for who and what I was, Jewish, there were many who taunted and ridiculed me because of the faith of my ancestors. The fights started in elementary school with the taunts of dirty Jew and if I were to be honest, have never stopped.

 
I think the fights reinforced my sense of Jewish identity to the point where my brother and I begged our parents to give us a religious education and to celebrate our own bar mitzvahs. Our religious training was not that deep. Sunday school where I got to know the other Jewish kids in town and learn some bible stories and Hebrew lessons once a week to prepare us for our time on the bimah. To my father’s pride and mother’s happiness David and I both became Bar Mitzvah and then promptly stopped our religious training.

 
Over time, especially as I began to embrace adulthood, I would find myself searching for deeper meaning in the world. To scratch this itch, I would read books like Herman Wouks “This Is My God” and “The Language God Talks.” Or Rabbi Kushners “When Bad Things Happen To Good People” and “The Lord Is My Shepherd: Healing Wisdom of the Twenty-third Psalm.” Or Joseph Telushkin’s “The Book of Jewish Values: A Day by Day Guide to Jewish Living.” And literally dozens of other books on the subject of how to live a more Jewish and spiritual life.

 
In 1987, in a search for this spirituality, and a better understanding of my father’s life experience, I convinced Dad to go to Israel with me. It had a profound impact on my life. I dare anyone to go to Yad Vashem and not be changed forever. Or see your father weeping in front of a picture in a museum of a prisoner on a work detail because he recognizes him as one of his Uncles who was murdered by the Nazis. It was on this trip I learned that his original plan to escape Vienna ( one that would have succeeded if his parents would have let him) was to immigrate to Israel and become a Zionist by the name of Zacharias Ben Mordecai. Seeing the country of my father’s boyhood fantasy through his eyes bonded us together and from that point onward whenever we wanted to strike a deeper more emotional tone I would refer to him by his Zionist name and me by the name I adopted for that trip Daniel Ben Zacharias.

 
None of this, not the search for deeper Jewish spirituality or my trip to Israel drove me to join a shul or any other religious institution. I am not sure if it was laziness or the tithe required by most of the Synagogues I contacted.

 
But it did help me develop a “spirituality” and an acceptance of God and his place in the universe. It became my strong belief that religion and embracing of God is a good thing unless invoking his name is a way for you to denigrate those faiths which don’t see the almighty in the way that you do. God is God and as long as you believe in him/her then how you pray to him is your own business.

 
Which is why I find Donald Trump’s version of populism so disturbing. He seeks to divide and not bring together. It is the antithesis of what religion is supposed to teach which is ironically being embraced wholesale by a large number of Christian Evangelicals.

 
It is also the reason that I give a monthly donation to The International Fellowship of Christian and Jews. Not only does it seek to promote understanding and cooperation between religions but acts on it as well helping people of all faiths survive war, famine and persecution.

 
Occasionally, as today, they will send me emails that I find comforting. I thought their message of today, during Passover while the Christian world celebrates Easter, and while the world suffers through the Covid 19 epidemic particularly meaningful.

 
Today’s message was Deuteronomy 31:8
“The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid. Do not be discouraged.”
You’ll never walk alone.

I am sitting in the waiting room of a media company, in an office tower that rises from the forests of New Jersey. It is a little dated with a color palette from the late ‘90s all earth tones and neutrals. There is a light oak reception desk at one end, a conference room with smoked windows at the other, and sitting areas strategically placed around the room. Against a far wall a flat screen has the local news channel playing with subtitles.
I have exchanged pleasantries with the receptionist, and she has assured me that the person I am here to interview with has been notified of my arrival and “will be with you shortly.”

I have prepared heavily for this meeting as the job I am interviewing for is one I desire, and I have found that preparing for interviews or any meeting usually surprises and often delights those you are interviewing with. It always surprises me when people tell me they don’t prepare as intensely as I do.

 
Thanks to OneNote I have all my notes with me so as I wait for my interview to begin, I review them. He has an interesting background. A graduate of the Virginia Military Institute (the last military school to go co-ed and a beacon of the old south) he spent 6 years at one of the most notoriously cutthroat media companies in the world and got promoted 3 times. 11 years ago he joined this company where he has been promoted 3 times finally landing in the CRO spot. I notice from my review that there is a gap from VMI until he joins the work force and I wonder whether or not that means he has spent time in active duty. I also make a mental note that this guy is likely to be very disciplined (military), aggressive (you don’t get promoted the way he did without being on the bounce.) and smart (you don’t become CRO of a company this size without having some mental horsepower.)

 
My focus is broken by his assistant introducing herself and offering herself as a guide to his office. She is genial and apologizes for the delay in our appointment and explains that he had been called into a last-minute meeting with COO. I give her my best interview smile and tell her an interviewees standard lie. “I completely understand. These things happen.” It is accompanied by a large smile that I hope she views as genuine.
We walk through a set of glass doors and set out through a maze of cubicles where we are greeted by the CRO. He introduces himself and we shake hands. It is a good shake with just enough grip strength to make a good impression but not to overpower. Perhaps it is a guy thing but his handshakes is the first indication to me that I am going to like this guy. He guides me to his office which is quite large with a dark wood desk and computer station at one end and a conference table at the other. There are floor to ceiling windows which overlook the surrounding forest and in the distance the beautiful New York City skyline.

 
He gestures to the conference table and we sit down opposite each other. I take a good look at him. He is my age, trim as befitting ex-military, with brown hair going over to silver. He is wearing a tie with a sweater that reminds one a bit of Mr Rogers which is partially responsible for how I answer his first question: “How are you doing today.”
I replied, “It is a beautiful day in the neighborhood.”

 
As soon as it is out of my mouth, I mentally slap myself in the forehead thinking myself a complete idiot for giving this response. This despite the fact that it has been my standard response to that question for at least the last half dozen years.
The CRO provides me with a rueful smile, clearly knowing the reference, and asks me why I responded that way.

 
“OY’ I thought, this is not the direction I had hoped our conversation would take. But I have no choice. I explain to him that I had adopted that response to the question he asked years ago. Partly because it made a popular culture reference that most people understand but because of the greater meaning behind the response. That is, that no matter what is going on around you, it is a beautiful day if you make the personal decision to make it a beautiful day. I conclude this semi indulgent soliquiy by saying I give this response for the same reason I end my voicemail messages, incoming and outcoming, with “Make it a great day.” I told him “While we have no control over what the world gives us, we have a choice over how we deal with it. It is a choice. Our choice and probably the only thing we have control over in our lives.”

 
I knew to some this sounded a little sanctimonious. Even preachy. But my policy on interviews, good or bad, is to be as true to yourself as possible and if that did not match up with the person you were speaking with then it was probably for the better.
The CRO leaned back in his chair and cocked his head to the left and stared at me for second. “Oh god” I thought “He thinks I am a nut job.” Then he smiled and said “You know, that is what I say to my kids every morning.” And proceeded to go on a tear about how he was trying to teach his kids about attitude and how it was a personal decision and that getting caught up in a quagmire of bad thoughts and emotions was a choice not an obligation.

 
I was just thinking that our conversation about the job I was interviewing for had gone off the rails when he asked a question that confirmed for me it truly had. He said, “How did you develop this…this…philosophy.”
This made me pause. How honest should I be with this guy? But I have always been an in for a penny in for a pound sort of guy so I told him the truth. I said my father was probably my greatest influence and he was a hard core optimist despite having survived a childhood in Nazi Austria and managing to escape with his parents after the war had begun. How poverty, deprivation, prejudice and other obstacles never seem to diminish him. That he remained an optimist to his last breath. So genetically I was predisposed to optimism. But, over time, and through a lot of reading, I had concluded something that my father must have found naturally. That the only thing in life we can control is our attitude.

 
To my relief, as I shared with him my thoughts, he smiled and nodded his head. When I was finished, he asked “Have you ever read a book called ‘Man’s Search For Meaning’, I think the authors name is Frank or Frankel or something like that. I don’t know you can look it up. But I think you would like it a lot. It was written by a Viennese psychologist who survived Auschwitz.”

 
From there, the conversation took a more usual path talking about sales philosophy and what I would do to help them generate more revenue from digital sources. And, in the end he let me know that he would be recommending me for the job. I left floating on that thought.

 
Sales 101 is following up to any meeting. Making sure the person/s you spoke with does not forget who you are. I knew that for this meeting my follow up would have to mention” Man’s Search for Meaning” and if I was going to do that it probably would be a good idea to know what I was talking about. So I downloaded the book to my Kindle and banished myself to my favorite chair to read.

 
Reading is perhaps my third favorite activity but my intention when I sat down with my iPad was not to read the entire book. I thought that I would read a few chapters and get a sense of the book and from there be able to send the CRO a follow up that had enough mention of the book that he would think that I read it.

 
Three hours later I had finished the book.

 
In his treatise, Frankel describes his experiences in Nazi death camps, including Auschwitz, from 1942 to 1945. The memoir and meditation on finding meaning in the midst of suffering argues that man cannot avoid suffering but can choose how to cope with it, find meaning in it, and move forward with renewed purpose. His description of his time in the camps was especially poignant as many of my relatives had been sent to and did not survive Auschwitz. As the son of Viennese born psychologist, a former psychology student and as someone who has engaged in therapy over the years his description of logotherapy I found both emotional and intellectually satisfying.

 
But what really stood out to me was the last chapter The Case for A Tragic Optimism. He describes this as the act of remaining optimistic despite the tragic triad of pain, guilt and death. That life is potentially meaningful under any conditions when we turn suffering into a human achievement; can derive the opportunity to change ourselves for the better from any guilt we feel and use life’s transitoriness as a springboard to responsible action.
When I think about the book and what I gained from it all these months later I wonder if there was some type of divine providence that put the book in my hands before the Covid epidemic because if there ever was a time and need for Tragic Optimism, it is now.

 
Needless to say my follow up to CRO was outstanding. It got me the job. He said, I had a good attitude.

I got some very disappointing news yesterday.

 
As has been my custom since my original flight home on March 21st was cancelled, I logged on to the American Airline website to make sure my current reservation for May the 9th was good. Initially, I was relieved to see that my flight from Miami to Newark was still running and my seat reserved. But it did not show any flight that would have flown me to Miami from Rio. This was disturbing to say the least so I called American Airline and inquired to the status of my missing flight. Sadly, they told me that flight had been cancelled and service would not resume from Rio until early June. I asked them about options that could get me home earlier and after much clicking of the keyboard suggested that if I could get to Sao Paulo they had flights that were still operational from there.
I rejected this offer.

These days any place where people congregate pose a threat to your health and your life. Going through three airports to get home seemed like a high-risk situation and not a particularly good option. But even more than that I did not want to go to San Paulo as it is a hot bed of Covid 19 and as the most densely populated city in the Americas it was likely to be far riper with infection in May than it is now.
We spent the next one and half hours looking at different options. One possibility they suggested was that I fly to London on their partner airline, British Airways, and then on from there to NYC. While this would have been a long walk for a short glass of water, it would also be on a trusted airline where I had a little status, so I asked them to investigate. This produced an extensive hold where I explored other options that didn’t involve American or its partners.

Delta, which had service from Rio, was no longer operating those flights but I could fly on their partner airlines to Panama City then onto Atlanta and finally home. This seemed at least one airport too many with too many chances at failure so I discarded that option.

 
Riffing on the British Airways flight I explored Lufthansa and the idea of flying from Rio to Frankfurt and then on to Newark. My reasoning was if I had to brave two airports, doing so in Germany which has fought the virus more successfully than other countries, seemed the least of many evils. Unfortunately, the price for those flights were, excuse the pun, sky high and way beyond my desired price range.

 
United offered zero options.

 
A search of Orbitz and Kayak provided many options, some ridiculously inexpensive ($258 one way) but they all involved multi airports on carriers that were 2nd and 3rd tier where a cancellation could turn into a stranding. These too were rejected.

 
Eventually, the kind agent came back on the line. She was very sorry to inform me but British Airways would not honor any portion of my current ticket and as a consequence if I wanted to fly the Rio-London-Newark flight it would cost over $2000 including the refund on my ticket. So that option was added to the rejection pile.

 
I asked her what other alternatives she could offer. This produced another extensive hold during which Elaine asked me what I was up to. I explained to her with frustration, anger and sadness in my voice that my flights back to the states in May had been cancelled and that I was looking for other options.

 
She said , putting her arms around me “Stay with me my darling. We will be safe here. I will make sure to take good care of you. I don’t want to be without you.”

 
Needless to say this offer pulled at every fiber of my heart and soul. Of course, I didn’t want to leave her so I asked “Didn’t you say you were going to come with me?”
My wife, who consumes more information about Covid 19 than most news services replied, “Yes, but it is too soon. New York is still too dangerous.”

 
When I explained that in my opinion New York would be on the other side of the curve by the first week in May and that it was more than likely that the disease would really begin to take hold in Brazil by then. In other words, a perfect window in which to flee this country, she reiterated that it was “too soon” and that if I left in June she would come with me. And, that she would make us “very comfortable here.” And then she through in the kicker. “Did I want to leave her alone?”

 
I was at a loss of words. No I didn’t want to leave her alone. I wanted her to come with me in May. That Brazil has demonstrated even less competence than the United States in fighting this pandemic. If it were not for the health minister and the threat of Army intervention the President would have sent everyone back to work. That my profound fear is that when things get really bad here, as they are now in New York, the infrastructure of the country will break down and we will well and truly be fucked. How do I as a husband, who is still paternalistic enough to want to be the big brave strong man who protects and shows no fear that I am scared shitless at the idea of getting sick in this country. The idea of being treated for a possibly fatal disease in isolation with no ability to communicate with my care givers because of the language barrier is a nightmare to me.

 
Recovering from my inability to articulate, I told her the truth. Or at least a version of it. I missed our home in Chatham which, for both of us, had been our “shelter from the storm” of the outside world. Where we could easily be self-contained and where life was far easier than it is in Brazil. I told her that I missed our Rosie and our mutually reassuring snuggles something that as nice as Romeow is a cat could not provide. I told her I yearned for a decent hamburger, let alone Pizza, let alone a New Jersey Sloppy Joe (Authors Note: For those of you who did not grow up in Jersey not only do I feel sorry for you in general but because it is highly likely that you have never tasted this sandwich. It is not a Manwich. It is far more special. See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sloppy_joe_(New_Jersey)

 
She put her arms around me and said “My darling. I want you to stay. I will make you comfortable. I will make sure you feel safe.” I had to smile. This is the nature of our relationship. She or I can say one thing and the other knows the true meaning of what it is we are saying. As when she asks me if I want a cup of coffee and I know that means she would like a cup of coffee and would I please bring it to her. She knew when I said I missed be home that what I was really saying is that I missed the feeling of safety that our home in Chatham imbues.

 
When the ticket agent returned to the phone she told me that the only two options she could offer me were making my way to Sao Paulo and catching a flight from there or waiting until they resumed service from Rio to the United States in early June. After a few seconds of thought, I said “Book me a flight home from Rio in early June.”
She replied, “If you book this now, you cannot get a refund if you decide to change your mind.”

 
What I wanted to say was “Fuck you. You cancelled three flights on me and now if I want to cancel one you will ding me for it. Fuck fuck fuck you.” Instead I said “ Book the ticket please.

 
My wife hugged me and said “ My love you made the right decision. I am sooo happy.”

 
Later that day, I went for a long walk through our neighborhood. Instead of listening to my audiobook (Elizabeth George, Well Schooled Murder) I spent my time pondering whether or not I had made the right decision. In truth it had been a Siberian dilemma, with no options that were good. Go, and abandon my wife and risk catching infection from walking around airports ripe with virus for the feeling of safety at home. Or stay, risk a worsening infection in Brazil that might even postpone my trip home further but be with my wife so we could weather this storm together.

Around my third time pondering through this dilemma I saw a flutter of movement and a flash of electric blue in front of me. Perched on a Brumilla was the very rare and quite special Blue Brazilian Morpho Butterfly. Nearly 5 inches across and usually only spotted in April seeing one is very special. Seiing it made me flash back to a speech I heard years earlier from advertising legend Ray Mithun. Asked about the secret of success he replied “Well, I guess I just know what to do when a butterfly lands on my shoulder.”

 
A rare and beautiful blue butterfly had landed on my shoulder. Now I just needed to figure out what to do with it.

I have been very fortunate during the Covid 19 crisis.

 
I know don’t jinx things and it is a little like the guy who jumped from the Empire State Building and as he was passing the 50th floor someone yells how is it going and the falling man screams back “So far so good.”

 
So let me re-state, my opening sentence. I have been very lucky during the Covid 19 crisis. So far.

Before this crisis even got started, my wife and I had the opportunity to travel to Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia, Hong Kong and Macau. A trip that is impossible to take now or for the foreseeable future.

 
I have been able to visit my oldest and best friend who is desperately ill in North Carolina. He is not expected to survive until the travel bans are lifted and being able to spend some quality time with him before everything shut down is a blessing that I will always be grateful for.

 
When my wife was unable to travel to the United States as planned in early March, I was lucky enough to have the time and the means to be able to come to Brazil to be with her. Shortly after I arrived in Brazil the excrement hit the rotating blades and travel between the two countries ground to a stop. Had I not been able to come when I did, we both would have frozen in place without each other. While Skype and Zoom are helpful, hugs and midnight squeezes are far better when the heebee jeebees over Covid 19 hit. Her presence gives me strength and I hope I do the same for her.

 
We are well equipped to whether the onslaught of the pandemic. While no one can really ensure that they remain healthy during this time we can do more than most to stay healthy. We are surrounded by 2 sets of walls that allow us to practice social distancing easily. We have lots of soap. We have ways of getting food and groceries with a minimum of contact from the outside world. Should we get sick we have access to high quality health care not only here in Brazil but from the USA as well.

 
We live comfortably in a lovely home within a lovely community where everyday I find something new to marvel at. Our house is large enough so we don’t bang into each other constantly but not so big that we must go looking for each other. We have wifi that allows us to keep in contact with the outside world and as importantly download books, stream videos and the like that provide distraction during the tedium of self-isolation.
We have the means, at least for now, of surviving the financial crisis that the pandemic has created.

 
As I stated at the outset. I have been very fortunate so far.

 
My good fortune (so far) has allowed me time to ponder and think about the future. A sort of late middle age “What do I want to be when I grow up?” I have enjoyed my career in publishing and advertising. Not only has it put bread on the table but allowed me to experience the world in a way I don’t think that I could have fully imagined when I graduated from college. It has also allowed me to meet some of the finest people I know. But the advertising business, especially the internet side of that industry, is ageist where silver backs like me are more likely to be relegated to the scrap heap than prized for our experience and skillsets. But as my industry has shut down for the duration, and I have time to think, considering what I want to do with the next phase of my life seems to be a good idea.

 
Pondering what comes next has an additional benefit beyond just mapping a new course. It allows you to block the dark thoughts when they come. What if I get sick? What if Elaine gets sick? What if President Trump/Bolsonaro says/does something stupid again (likely). Is Rosie all right? Did I wash my hands enough today? Do I have enough water, TP, food, Ben&Jerry’s? When can Elaine and I make it back to the United States? What about Naomi (dated television reference)

 
All those things that go bump in the night can be replaced with what is next for me and for us. Don’t get me wrong those answers are not easy to come by. In fact, speaking personally, they can be excruciatingly difficult. But like all good problems that require significant brain sweat to solve, they also act like a balm that drives away the negative and allows us to embrace the positive.

 
Being able to think and contemplate the future is the greatest good fortune of all.
As Zadie Smith said “The past is always tense, the future perfect.”

I came down with a serious case of puppy fever in the spring of 2016.

 
It was not my fault. I had really done what I could stave off the illness for a long time. I already had a wonderful dog, Yankee, whom all agreed was, ironically, the cat’s pajamas. He was well behaved, friendly, obedient, loving and understood more words of English that most Trump supporters. He was more than a companion. He was my best friend.
Also, my wife, whom I had married only a few years before, was not a dog person. She was a cat person. In fact, our home in Rio in addition to having a cat named Alice was decorated with 100’s of representations of cats. Everything from some statues to pictures to photographs with my wife petting Cheetahs. Even though she adored Yankee, although admitting that he was the first dog that she had ever loved, it was clear that one dog was more than enough for her.

 
So where did I catch the contagion? How did I let it seep into my blood and eventually overtake me? Like many things in my life, I blame my sister. Prior to that spring she had been spending a lot of time on animal rescue sites considering adding a dog to her family. Eventually, on Fluffy Dog rescue, she had come across an adorable black dog with a white blaze on its chest and she had fallen in love. Eventually the dog would be named Bosco (a thoroughly adorable name) and my sisters’ family eagerly awaited his arrival with Bated (my sister’s married name is Bates) breath.

 
Their enthusiasm was hard to ignore. It reminded me of the period of time between Yankee’s birth and his arrival in New York City. How I had arrived home from work each day to watch endless shows on dogs and vets. How I had consumed book after book on dog training and would constantly stop dogs and their owners on the street to coo at the dog and ask questions about local vets of its owners. How on the fateful day that Yankee arrived in New York how it had been love at first site and how they first night I slept on the floor next to his crate so he would not be frightened. And the smell. The glorious smell of puppy came flooding back to be and it is then that puppy fever took me over.
I had to get a puppy. I required a puppy. Without a new puppy my life would be shit.
I knew the first obstacle I would have to overcome is my wife’s reluctance to add another dog to her life. Considering her feline proclivities, it would be very difficult for her. I knew I needed to provide her with a rational that was both logical and emotional. It did not require any stretch of the imagination to come up with a convincing argument. Yankee at the time was nearly 14 years old. I explained to her that he was very elderly in dog years and that the likelihood was that his decline, when it did happen, would be quick and that the thought of a household without a dog filled me with dread. On top of which, Yankee being such a superior dog, could help me train the pup and be a comfort to him.

 
I am not saying that convincing her was easy. It was not. She is after all a lawyer by training but eventually after a lot of back and forth she agreed. I contacted Yankee’s breeder and asked her to reserve a puppy for me. That I didn’t care what sex nor color although Red would be ideal. On June 4, 2016 I received the news that I wanted to hear. Our puppy had been born and the breeder wanted to know what I wanted to name the puppy. This was complicated. Yankee had been named because he was a doodle who was born on the 4th of July. Even a Red Sox fan such as myself had to name the dog Yankee but I had sworn that after years of taking shit from Yankee fans about the name of my dog, my new puppy was going to be named for my beloved Sox. Many names were considered. I was very partial to the name Fenway, but my wife could not relate to the name. So we added the name Rose for her color and we agreed upon Fenway Rose or Rosie.

 
The next 12 weeks were among the longest summers I have ever spent waiting in anticipation for the new addition to our family. We would celebrate every update, every photograph, every video of Rosie we could get. One video I recall was on one of Rosie’s first outside playdates with her litter mates. The breeder sat on a blanket with the puppies surrounding her as she cooed for each by name. When Rosie’s name was called she just stared at the woman who called her name for a second as if deciding it was worth while responding and then seeing another puppy jumping onto the breeder’s lap she galumphed her way to the woman, pushing the other puppy out of the way, demanding the earned love from the breeder.

 
Rosie arrived at Newark Airport on September 4 and from the time I saw her black nose sticking out through the grill of her shipping case I was totally in love. She smelled like puppy. She wagged her whole body not just her tail. She smelled like a puppy. And she wanted nothing more than to be loved by you.

 
But two truths became self-evident early on. First, that owning two dogs was not as simple as I thought it would be. Second, that Rosie was a very different dog than Yankee.
The first is best illustrated in housebreaking. The nature of being a puppy is that mistakes happen. Often when you are not looking. This results in a small mess or puddle that needs to be cleaned up and de-scented and a more vigilant eye. The problem is that when you have a male alpha like Yankee who is trying to teach this little bitch who is boss a mistake made by her is often covered by him and thereby compounding the mess and reinforcing to the little girl it is okay to piss on the floor.

 
That they were different became apparent on the first night. I had arranged for Rosie to have a crate separate from Yankee’s. I thought that it would be better if, at least for now, that they would sleep separately. I was as I had with Yankee been quite willing to sleep on the floor next to her as a comfort to her in this new place. I expected that she would respond as Yankee had. That is, after a few minutes of whimpering she would calm herself and would fall asleep near my proffered fingers. She did not. She cried all night. This didn’t disappear. I used to be able to leave Yankee the whole day in his crate without any problem. I could not leave Rosie for 10 minutes without receiving angry calls from our neighbors. It was months, after lots of consulting, aggressive training and frustration that we hit on a solution: putting Rosie and Yankee in a crate together. It seemed that our little girl hated to be alone.

 
A new pattern was soon established in our home. Yankee became the reluctant older brother to a very bratty sister who required all the attention. If any affection was shown to Yankee it needed to be immediately shown to her. If that love for Yankee lasted anything longer than the bear minimum Rosie would place her body in between you and Yankee suggesting that she needed to be the center of everyone in the known universes attention. She even had her own theme song. Alexa Ray Joel’s notice me whose chorus was.

 
Notice me, notice me, notice me, notice me
Face it, baby, you need me, don’t pretend you don’t see me, baby
Notice me, notice me, notice me, notice me
You can be the one to please me, honey

What was also apparent to everyone who met her was that she was a joyous dog. She loved people. She loved other dogs. She loved to play and was easily trained in most regards. She especially loved going to day care where she would the spend the whole day exorcising her inner puppy and come home to sleep her energy depleted.

 
She, along with Yankee, were great office companion. As I often worked from home and would spend the vast majority of my days without seeing and sometimes talking to another living soul, this was quite comforting. When I would work at my desk she would often go to sleep on my feet in the well of the desk. Or if I were reading or think very deep thoughts while horizontal on my couch she would often petition to be added to the bio mass already reclining.

 
Then one afternoon in March of 2018, Rosie inadvertently stepped on Yankees rear leg. His howl let me know the seriousness of his injury and I rushed him to the Vet. He was diagnosed with bone cancer and the next day we had to let him go. The devastation of that day is hard to describe but even two years later it is impossible to write or think about without tears.

 
The loss was hard all on of us and no doubt Rosie suffered. But she also saw how I suffered. She was a constant companion demanding that we love her and showering us with love. She would, while I was sitting on the couch, often jump up and lick my face furiously or when she would find me staring vacantly into space place her head on my knee to remind me she was there and she cared. She had figured out how to comfort us while comforting herself.

 
Over time, our days became routine. Just at or just before dawn I would wake and take Rosie for our early morning tramp. She being a late sleeper did not easily get out of bed but once outside she, like me, would revel in participating in the breaking of a new day. Me, enjoying the suns relighting the world often in vivid pinks and oranges and her exploring all the scents that had been left over night and re-establishing her dominance over the world by leaving reminders of her presence.

 
After breakfast we would retreat to the study, where I would endeavor to work, and she would endeavor to find the most comfortable position on a couch often twisting her body into impossible positions with little care that it was unladylike. Noon would bring another walk, usually a different route than the morning where she reasserted her dominance and challenged other dogs to play or signaled them that she was the toughest bitch in town.

Afternoon, when I could work no more, I retreated to the couch to take a nap. She seeing her space was taken would contemplate the situation and then crawl up over my body and find a nook I had not occupy to fall asleep. Often, I would go to the gym late in the day and leave her in the crate while I sweated the toxins of the day away. On my return she would never fail to give me a piece of her mind reminding me clearly that she didn’t enjoy alone time. This often produced a late afternoon walk where she fiercely defended me against the affections of other dogs letting them know I was her man beast.

 
When I cooked dinner she was my assistant in charge of anything that happened to fall on the floor. She assiduously watched me eat my supper even though her evening meal had been prepared at the same time until I gave her a treat.

 
After a relaxing evening there was one last walk where she again marked her territory letting any who cared to know that this neighborhood was protected by her. Once I made it to bed, and if Elaine was in Brazil, she would wait until just before I fell asleep to place her front paws on the bed to signal that I had the obligation to pick her up and place her in the bed. I almost always acquiesced which would result in an unwanted session of face licking until she would find her 2/3rds of the bed and fall asleep.

 
She became over time, as good dogs do, mans best friend. My best friend.

 
When I would travel, either for work or to visit Elaine at our home in Brazil, I would send her off with her good friends at “The Farm” run by the wonderful Jessica Valentino and her staff from Wonder Dog studios. There Rosie would revel in the open fields and the chance to play to her hearts content. Jessica would send me photos of a happy dog dashing about with other dogs literally having the times of my life. Instinctually, I knew that she would much rather be playing with her friends than with hanging about with me but whenever we were reunited, she never failed to show much joy and happiness at my arrival. That is before she went and found the couch and passed out from her exhausting time at the farm.

 
I left for Brazil almost a month ago with the strictest intentions of being home ten days later. But the world intervened on my plans and like so many Americans Covid 19 trapped me far away from those I love and cherish not the least of which is Rosie. My man’s best friend with whom I spent almost everyday over the past 4 years. I miss our walks. I miss her hogging the couch and the bed. I miss her bitching about leaving her alone. I miss her facials even when her tongue gets in my nose. I miss the sense of peace I get when she falls asleep with her head in my lap.

 
Considering all the things that are going on in this world, the 100,000’s of deaths, the millions made ill, the multitudes of un or underemployed, the nations and continents that are under protective stay in place orders why I am spending so much time talking about a dog who, considering the outstanding time she is likely having at the farm, may not be missing me at all. Because the greatest gift Covid 19 has given us is time.
Time to spend thinking and evaluating all we hold dear. Time to spend contemplating all things we value. Or as Queen Elizabeth stated so eloquently yesterday to take comfort that while we may have more still to endure, better days will return: we will be with our friends again; we will be with our families again; we will meet again.’

 
It is time to be grateful for all of the things we have in our life…even if it happens to be a bitch.

There is an old expression that says that the only two things that we are certain of in life are death and taxes.

 
This is no doubt true in a modern society where we live in collective communities where we make contributions to the common good. But I think that there are still parts of the world that don’t have taxes. I am sure that in parts of the Amazon the natives pay no tax although their contribution to the collective by hunting, fishing or farming might be a form of taxation.

 
The odd part of this expression to me has always been what was left out of this saying. The great irony of life is that one of its certainties is uncertainty.
And these days, of Covid 19 pandemic where all of the things we have grown to rely on from personal safety and health to free movement and propinquity to food supply and faith in government institutions are no longer certainties, uncertainty plays a greater role than ever.

 
I guess we could rail against the uncertainty in our lives. Especially these days. Or we could look at as what it is: A gift.

 
After all, It was certainly uncertainty that brought my wife into my life. As she and I have discussed many times it took many uncertainties for us to meet. It took me leaving a job, a ship being wrecked on rocks in Italy, two fathers struggling in their last months, a persistent sister and many other uncertainties for us to appear to each other at just the right time, in just the right frame of mind to fall in love.

 
The great joy of us, an aura that surrounds our love, is in the unlikelihood that it would happen.

 
It is also one of my life’s great irony is that a relationship that was born out of the uncertainties of life is one of the only things in life I can fully rely on. Even in the uncertainty of the world today.

 
Perhaps the “blessing” the uncharted territory of a world changed forever by a tiny bit of protein and fat called Covid 19 is it the gives us a chance to see the things we often take for granted with new appreciation. Things like:

 
• Our families. Mine are far away and the chance of my seeing my sister and her kids and even my brother and his family any time soon is remote. I worry about them and miss them and it has made me contemplate what life without them would be like. Which in turn has made me love them more and put into the attic any annoyances and squabbles we have ever had.

 
• Health care providers. I don’t know about you but even though I appreciated what physicians and nurses did, I took seeing them for granted. They were their to help me. Seeing how they have stepped up by putting their lives on the line for us and the devotion they have shown to find a cure for this evil piece of biological flotsam has demonstrated what heroes they are. I don’t think I will ever be able to see them without wanting to hang a medal around their necks.

 
• Health care workers. The lowest paid workers in the health care system often populated by immigrants and others who have a hard time finding work elsewhere are now helping make sure the world is saved. I want to thank everyone of them and when it is safe to do so again hug them. I want them to get a raise.
• Grocery Store workers. Underpaid, and almost never thanked before this crisis these folks are making sure that people don’t starve while sheltering in place. They allow us to survive while they literally put their health and wellbeing and that of their families on the line all while earning a minimum wage. They are on my hug list as well.

 
• The folks that deliver to me Ben and Jerry’s here in Rio. Really I would be lost without them but my admiration really go out to all the food delivery people who help feed us because lets be honest we have been doing a lot of stress eating.

 
• My friends. They have always been my rock and they still are. They pick me up when I am low, they are kind when I need a lift, they make me laugh often when I want to cry. I have always appreciated them, but this crisis has reminded me of the love I have for them and how vital they are to my happiness.

 
• What I have. Here in Rio my wife and I live in a beautiful home separated from the rest of the world by two walls. But just beyond our gates are favellas or institutional slums where folks live in squalor. We can afford to hunker down and wait for the pandemic to pass but those in the favella’s must work and put themselves in harms way every day. Should my wife or I become ill we will have the best medical care possible. They will have to wait on long lines and receive medical care that is inadequate and underfunded. I know I will eat and eat well. They don’t

 
To name just a few things that I appreciate more today than I did a month ago.

 
We can continue to fear the uncertainty of our pandemicized world. I think that is reasonable. Clearly there is a lot to fear. But we can also embrace the uncertainty knowing that it will give us gifts and new appreciations.

 
For me, every time I look at my wife I see the joy life’s uncertainties can bring so it is easier for me to embrace the positive. But I hope you can too.

Dear Pops:

 
You left us 7 years 9 months ago to go on that ultimate adventure.

 
I knew at the time there were not going to be any postcards. That it was highly likely you would not visit. That any conversations that we had would likely be ones where I did most of the talking and you did all of the listening.

 
Even after all this time I want to call you every time I sit down in an Admirals Club, or each time I see something that intrigues me and know it will fascinate you as well. I still hold onto hope that I will miraculously get some “minor memorandum” or story from you in my email. I am, like you, an optimist so I still look. Everyday. It just means that instead of calling you, I think of you. It means that instead of looking for your stories I write some with you in mind. It means that you are in my thoughts nearly every day and wrapped around my most heartfelt moments and yours whose spirit I rely on when I need courage the most.

 
It is why I decided to write you this note. A postcard to the edge you might say. Because it has been 7 years 9 months and a lot has happened in that time.

 
Remember that girl I introduced to you from Brazil. The woman I met on that cruise. Well I married her 6 years ago in our backyard. It was a real family affair. Cate was maid of honor and Oliver was my best man. Marissa catered the event. Mark bucked me up and made me laugh when he called me “pussy galore” in his best James Bond voice as he wanted to snap me out of sappiness because like you, I get emotional when my heart is full of joy. It was the singular best day I have ever had but I am sure you know that as both Elaine and I thought we spied you sitting on one the branches of an oak tree overhanging the yard.

 
Speaking of Cate and Oliver, you would be so proud of them you could not help but kvell. Cate is an accomplished equestrian who has gotten so tall and so pretty. She is funny, fun, and such a nice person. I have no doubt the two of you would sit and talk forever. Oliver too has grown and looks so much like you. He is a love muffin and fascinated by how things work. He is considerate and always willing to help. A hug machine who loves to take Rothkopfian challenges. He recently won $100 from me after winning a challenge inspired by our trip to Juarez so many years ago. He managed to sample a hot sauce with a rating of 2,000,000 scovils and not have anything to drink for 5 minutes. He and Cate would be a worthy companion on any adventure.

 
Marissa and Mark are also doing exceptionally well. Mark is COO of Victor Insurance. Marissa is taking after you and is a professor at Montclair State and is still writing. They just finished a major renovation of their house including a new kitchen/family room, bathrooms etc. It is gorgeous and has come in so handy in the past few weeks but more about that later.

 
I guess you already know that after 52 years the house on Rotary Lane is no longer ours. The house was too big for Elaine and I, didn’t fit David’s lifestyle and the Bates are firmly entrenched in Montclair. Getting the house ready for sale was a major chore and Marissa did an excellent job guiding that ship. So many details. The toughest part for me though was going through the attic and find all the ephemera of our family going back over a century and a half. Seeing how a family was created and blossomed and all the love that went into its creation. It made me understand, in a way I never had before, the love that was the foundation and the sustenance of our family. The memories so dear that you and Mom preserved them. They made me wish I had asked you both a million more questions before you decided to go on holiday.

 
All these memories captured in photos, trunks, scrapbooks and cardboard boxes also gave me strength to know even though the house you and Mom nurtured our family will no longer be ours it will endure because of the love you created for all of us.
And perhaps it is all those memories that has made it impossible for me to drive by the house since it was sold. I don’t want any memories of that house that have anything but Rothkopf’s in it.

 
The saddest news that I have to report is, sadly, the world is at war again. This time we are not fighting fascism. We are not fighting communism or totalitarianism. We are fighting a far more insidious foe. A virus call Covid 19 that has spread around the world killing 10s of thousand and infecting in just a few short months over a half million.
We should have been better prepared for this war. But the President of the United States decided to rely on hope instead of science, wishes instead of facts, bluster instead of honesty. Did I mention his name was Donald Trump.

Sorry, I know. We let down everyone from the greatest generation and elected a man not worthy of the office. Who could not lead us in a time of crisis because they only person he really cares about leading is himself.

 
Sorry for the outburst but he makes me angry.

 
The result of his inaction and reliance on everything but science is the US now leads the world in Covid 19 infections and soon to top the world in deaths from the virus. Almost the whole US is under shelter in place rules where you are not allowed to leave your home except to shop for groceries or other essentials, go to the Drs or other essential movement.

 
You would have been proud of me Dad. I had and have had survival supplies at the ready. It was something that you taught me to do. So I was ready with water, food (freeze dried), essential supplies like bleach, toilet paper, and even masks among other things so that we would not have to leave home for a month. But like you taught me, man plans and god laughs. When the excrement hit the rotating blades and the lockdowns ordered, I was caught in Brazil with no way to get home.

 
You will be happy to know that Elaine and I wash our hands at least 15 times a day. A habit you drummed into whenever and wherever we traveled.

 
The good news for Elaine and I is that the virus has not taken hold in Brazil the way it has in the US. We have self-quarantined for 17 days and are healthy and well stocked. Which is good because the bad news is that it is only going to get worse here as the President here is even stupider than Trump.

 
Marissa, Mark, Cate and Oliver are doing well. The newly renovated kitchen/dining room/living room has become a lifeboat for them. From what I can tell from them they are doing their best to keep the negative noise that is constantly appearing on social media, the internet and broadcast at bay by watching shows like “Hot Ones” and others that can distract from the horrors transpiring just beyond their windows

 
From the limited correspondence that I have from David and his wife Carla (Did I mention he got remarried? ) although they live in the epicenter of the US outbreak, NYC, they are following all precautions and doing well as our Joanna and Laura.

 
I have to tell you Pops that this crisis makes me miss you more than ever. You always made your children feel safe, like nothing could harm them if you were nearby. It would be a very comforting feeling to have you close right now. We could use your wisdom and your knowledge. Your scientific mind and with your copious consumption of information regarding the crisis I have no doubt would provide all of us with thoughts and guidance that would allow us to navigate this crisis with less fear, and far more knowledge and hope.

 
Which brings me to my ulterior motive in writing this note. Would you mind staying close for a little while. And if you can’t, if you have a big adventure you cannot put off, would you leave a forwarding address.
Because even though I know I will do all the talking and you all the listening knowing you are nearby will help. And maybe someday you might even whisper back.
NBL
DBZ

Last night, in the middle of the night, as my wife lay sleeping, I left our marital bed and silently padded down the stairs to the kitchen.

 
The reason for this early morning sojourn was a nightmare that I had. No, I was not dreaming of Covid 19 although when my wife had coughed a few hours earlier it had scared the shit out of me. (She is fine. Something went down the wrong way.) No Donald Trump did not invade my dreamscape. And no it was not a replay of the night Aaron Fucking Boone ruined my evening with a home run.

 
My dream was that I was at McDonalds. I had waited in a social distancing line and order a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, an order of fries and a chocolate milk shake. What made this dream so frightening to me is that I never go to McDonalds. Don’t really like their food as it sits in my stomach like a grease bomb whenever I, albeit irregularly, visit the golden arches.

 
I guess that I could blame my sister for this nightmare. After all, earlier in the day she had taunted me, via Facebook post, that Goldbelly would now deliver an 8 pack of Shake Shack’s fine burgers to your home. Her tease “I’d get this for you…. if you weren’t in Brazil….” Don’t get me wrong. My sister was not being mean. She genuinely would have sent me the 8 pack were I not in Brazil. And our family often uses teases to express deep and undying affection for each other.

 
No, the reason I blame my sister is that it sent me into a spiral of thinking about American Food. Specifically, about the American Food I miss.

 
Please don’t get me wrong. I am not food deprived. I have been eating very well here!!!!Perhaps even a little too well. But even after 8 years of visiting this country the food is very different. Farofa is not something that most people in the US have ever heard of. (Farofa is a toasted cassava or corn flour mixture and adds a rich sandy flavor to any meal in Brazil.) Feijoada, which is almost as much fun to spell, as it is to eat is a rich black bean stew that is traditionally served on Saturday’s so that you can have Sunday to recover. Then of course is the famous Brazilian Churrasco or BBQ where waiters circle the restaurant with roasted meats, Cupim ( the hump on a cows back that also means termite) sausages, chicken hearts, and the like which is currently unavailable to us because it doesn’t deliver well.

 
Even when, as an indulgence to me, Elaine agrees to order American style food, it is not the same. Pizza here, I am very sad to report, is just not that good. The crust is universally not crusty, the sauce not plentiful enough. and the toppings do not resemble American toppings. It goes well beyond Calabrese sausage being substituted for pepperoni or Italian sausage. One restaurant advertises a “frango Catupiry” pizza or a chicken with cream cheese pizza which is a sin (in my opinion) against the gods of pizza.

 
I guess we could order things like Burger King here but honestly, I cannot get used to the names of the sandwiches. Mega Stacker doesn’t seem as poetic as Whopper and while I know why you call something Rodeo instead of BBQ as it would be confused with Churasco but to this American it just sounds weird.

 
Ironically, the place that is most likely to send me American style food is Outback Steakhouse. That is right, a place that pretends to be Aussie is the place where I am most likely to get food that tastes like home. From there I can order wings which, although they call them Kookabura, look like finger licken, spice loving, blue cheese endorsed American version. Or ribs with American Style BBQ and Burgers with Australian names (Ned Kelly) but styled in an American Kitchen. They even have, wait for it, Ranch Dressing.

 
Here is the problem. Every time we have tried to order from those Mofo’s they have been closed.

 
Which brings me back to why my sisters post had so disturbed me that I had to have dreams of golden arches and special sauces with sesame buns. I am deprived. Deprived of the sustenance on which I was raised. Pizza with good crusts and normal toppings. Italian food that has gravy like Nonna used to make. Wings that are so spicy that your lips numb, and your only solace is blue cheese dressing. Not to mention Pastami, Lox, Bagels, and NJ Sloppy Joes.

 
Which brings me back to why I padded downstairs. While for most nightmares, like Covid 19 and other things that go bump in the night, where there are no cures, I thought I might have a cure for this one.

 
You see despite the paucity of American style food here, Ben and Jerry’s delivers. I knew that a little Fudge Brownie would go along way to restoring my equilibrium and allowing me to sleep.

And it did.

I have been thinking about home of late.

 
I suspect that it is normal for someone who is currently 4,829 miles away from his home in New Jersey to think of home.

 
No doubt this is exacerbated, when you have been forced to self-quarantine for the past 14 days because of a raging pandemic whose end is a pin prick of light at the end of a very long tunnel. Or where your understanding of the native language is rudimentary at best.

 
Or wondering, during long walks and short naps, what the true meaning of the word “home” is these days as we are being challenged by a new reality that brings us near constant images of fear, death and despair.

 
It made me recall the black and white lithograph that hung about my mother’s desk. It depicted a war zone with an active battle going on but in the middle is a home on a hill surrounded by a fence with a happy family living a secure life without a care for the war raging around them. That was how my Mom viewed her role as a mother, grandmother and friend. To provide sanctuary, love and enough room to be yourself free of the war raging outside.

 
I always loved that lithograph even while my sister detested it. What we could agree on is my mothers idea of home. A place where you were always welcome, always celebrated, always loved, place of warmth and safety that existed until she died when I was only 744 months old.

 
I have been very fortunate. I have been able to be a part of or help create a number of homes as an adult.

 
I live most of the year and my wife part of the year in our town home in Chatham. It is a community surrounded by woods and bordered by a river close to wear I grew up. It has felt like home since we moved in and since then we have been blessed with almost all happy memories. It is a place where we have always felt safe, warm, celebrated and loved.

 
My wife lives most of the year and I live part of the year in our home in Jardim Do Itanhanga in Rio. It is a community surrounded by woods and walls both around the community but our home as well. It is infused with the Brazilian sense of hospitality and it is a place where my wife has always made sure that I felt safe, warm, celebrated and loved.

 
But this morning my thoughts of home were, like everything else, being shaped by the pandemic. It occurred to me that as my wife and I scrubbed ourselves clean after a short foray (the first in two weeks) to the outside world how fragile our sense of safety had become in our current reality. That as much as we would like to protect ourselves from Covid 19, as many measures as we can take, that nothing is fool proof and that we worry about exposure almost constantly. Our sense of wellbeing has been pierced and will likely never be the same.

 
I think that is natural when something you cherish or hold dear is damaged to try to figure out who is responsible for this loss. I also think that it is easy to see the missteps, blunders, gaffs, and ham-handed ways the Trump administration has handled this crisis.
When two years ago they ran a pandemic simulation and discovered we were ill prepared they did nothing.

 
When they fired the NSC staffers in charge of managing our response to pandemics it was clear they didn’t understand the threat it could played which caused much delay, confusion, illness and death.

 
When the science community warned them to prepare for an onslaught from Covid 19 back in January they sat on their hands and said don’t worry which caused much delay, confusion, illness and death.

 
When the intelligence community begged them to take it seriously in February then said don’t be reactionary and did nothing which caused much delay, confusion, illness and death.
It was not to mid March that they began to take the virus seriously. But even then, their daily briefings were full of wishes not sciences, thoughts not facts, and self-aggrandizement instead of honest appraisals that could bring about positive action as opposed to back slapping which caused much delay, confusion, illness and death.

 
I find it sadly ironic that the party that put family values first has done more to destroy our sense of home..the feeling of warmth and safety…than anything that has happened to us in the 244 years of the republic.

 
I realized the sense of homesickness I have been feeling these last few days has not been for our home in Chatham, although I miss it and Rosie profoundly, but I am homesick for the days when families could gather without fear and with love. A time where fear was not the constant companion and where you needed little courage to leave home.

 
I hope that we will return to that time soon. I hope that the American electorate sees clearly the choices in front of it and chooses to fire the guy currently occupying the Oval Office as he has destroyed our sense of home.

 
In the meantime, we can remember times like these.

And know we will overcome.