Haiku

I wanted to write
A haiku for the ages
Turns out, I could not.

– Alan Smason

Confronting Mortality

"Sentence of Death" by John Collier  ©1908 Photo courtesy of the Wellcome Collection

It's now been nearly two years since my mother of blessed memory passed away. It has been a constant reminder that my time on this planet is limited and will be of a yet to be determined length. I am now in a position to enjoy my life and choose freely what it is that I truly want to do.

But the fact is I do miss her terribly.

I have no illusions. I am almost 70 with a number of interests that keep me constantly busy, yet there is a gnawing feeling that I am keeping myself occupied because I have no one whose life interests me beyond my own and more than those other pursuits. My sister calls me a narcissist. I say I am lonely. We're probably both right.

Since I created it, this blog has always been my most personal, creative outlet for releasing my feelings about a great many things. But the one thing I have yet to consider fully is my own pending mortality. 

I've always had great pluck. That's the term Baden-Powell referred to Scouts who were always cheerful and ready to render assistance to others. In truth I should have never deviated from achieving Eagle Scout, but I made a conscious choice in seventh grade that I needed to concentrate on my bar mitzvah. Imagine how that plays out today when I do so much work with the National Jewish Committee on Scouting and the National Association of Masonic Scouters (NAMS) to help others achieve the rank of Eagle Scout.

Eagle Scout is all about establishing goals in life and seeing them through to completion.

I have now realized a number of goals I could not have imagined 20 years ago. I am an acknowledged theatre critic and a TV personality for the past nearly 13 years. I am the publisher or webmaster of several websites that keep me constantly challenged and I have just completed a three-year position as president of the American Jewish Press Association.

So where to from here? While I am still the president of NAMS, that term of office will end in less than a year and I have only a few remaining months to achieve a lasting legacy for that organization, much of which was obscured due to the COVID pandemic. Once again, man plans and G-d laughs.

I have determined that more than anything else I want to travel. I want to see places I've read about and I want to experience life on this wonderful world with a childhood abandon that only death itself will stop. I am off on a whirlwind adventure and I want to see what else is out there before I have my final breath and release my mortal coil. 

This will not be a cheap endeavor, but to do less would be costly to my inner soul. I feel like Tony in "West Side Story." Something is coming. 

It makes me very excited to know that I can do this at an age that many of my contemporaries are not able to do. I am lucky that I have not so many aches and pains as others. I still have all the original parts working. My hearing is still very good and while my vision is not perfect, my corrective lenses still afford me a good view of my surroundings. The extra package I am carrying around my belly shows that my sense of taste and smell have also not been diminished much. 

So I am off. I am embarking on the first of several planned excursions of what I hope will afford me the memories of a lifetime in what limited time I have left. I hope to circumnavigate the globe and have many tales to tell while still maintaining my other interests. Let's see how this first journey turns out. I am curious to see if the extra effort and cost I am paying is worth the experiences. I truly hope I have made an excellent choice, but it's all about the mystery of life. 

We never know if the choices we make are predetermined by G-d. I would like to think they are and that there is a great protector who knows better than me about what I should be doing with my life. Being productive is doing His work. Being nice is making the world a better place. Using my felicity of writing will make others feel and think about things they may have considered too, but didn't put down in print.

I've never had illusions about my effectiveness as a writer. I know I can write better than most, but I am not elevating myself above others like Shakespeare, Hemingway, O'Neill and Keats whose abilities have established them as luminaries for past and future generations. Reading has always been key to writing and I enjoy reading well crafted works, whether they be novels, plays or poetry.

So for now, I am signing off. Hopefully, this missive will be the first of several to come of logs of my journeys to come. I need to do this desperately. 

Perhaps, on one of these journeys I will find that someone who will make me slow down and concentrate on her (and us). But in the meantime I must say Bon Voyage! 

On Becoming an Orphan

Annette Smason, center, with son Alan, left, and daughter Arlene, right.

For 67 years I knew the constant love and dedication of the woman who bore me. I depended upon her for my sustenance as an infant and for my protection as a toddler. During my tender years, she shielded me and protected me from the hurt that others might have brought upon me and she defended me when my actions required a benevolent hand.

As I matured, she did what she thought best for me, sometimes it was really what was best for her. But no matter, she was always my lynchpin. Even when she was problematic, she was my problem and I dealt with it.  After my father passed away, we became inseparable. It was what many might consider a controlling relationship, but as the years went by, it became obvious that I was needed to help her through life's major and minor travails. 

We dined together most nights for more than 25 years, not because she wanted my company, but because she needed a chauffeur and someone to fend for her. She was not capable of ordering for herself, so I did it for the two of us. She was not capable of ordering correctly and steadfastly refused to eat more than half of what was brought to her.

In the past, I would allow her to pass the leftover food to me and it helped me with not having to decide what to eat for lunch the next day. But after Hurricane Katrina and my diaspora from New Orleans for almost two years, I began to keep kosher at my home.  Everything she ate out was not allowed inside my home. She would still pack the other half of her meal and would now leave it for whoever was at her home the next day. She never ate leftovers.

In the larger scheme of things, dealing with leftovers or having to eat out every night are not big deals. I dealt with it and kept a brave face as I enabled her. My sister, who lived in Cleveland, began to be more involved with her after her New Year's Eve stroke in 2019. It was not a particularly well-timed medical incident as she was transported against medical orders to a hospital best equipped for gunshot and knife victims and not suited to helping stroke victims. Her doctor did not have admitting or medical privileges there either. She was in the hands of Medical School students for the most part, many of whom were on holiday duty with a scant staff. 

Once she came home, her options were very limited. My sister decided she would not live long in a skilled nursing facility, due to her nature. She opted for in-home hospice care instead. Her demeanor became much more agitated and confused. My very presence would cause her blood pressure to rise by several points for no reason. It was very troubling, but I remained aloof. I was there for her if she needed me, even though we no longer ate out any longer.

The last 19 months of her life were a slow and steady decline, punctuated by at least one other stroke. Had Hurricane Ida not deprived her of electricity and air conditioning, she might have survived a few more months and made it to her 90th birthday.

But now she is gone and I am bereft. The pain of her departure from this world still persists to this day, the first anniversary of her passing. Watching the funeral and commitment ceremony for Queen Elizabeth II today recalls within me just how terribly much I miss her.

May her memory be forever a blessing. 

SIMANIM

Why do we eat apples and honey? 

It’s an answer you all need to hear. 

Like the honey, the apples are sweet 

 To ensure for us all a sweet year.

But that's not all of the foods

That we eat at the head of the year.

While simanim are ritually eaten,

Their meaning is not always clear.

So, let us start with Rosh Hashanah

If that is what you would wish.

Rosh is the word meaning "head."

That's the reason for the head of a fish.

Symbolically, we often eat dates.

T'marim is the word in Hebrew.

The letters suggest the word "end"

Of bad things that make us feel blue.

Even the challah we eat at our meals

Is round, not oval, for a reason.

It reminds us that a year, like a circle,

Continues from season to season.

Now pomegranates, that is a mouthful.

The rabbis say each of those seeds

Is an opportunity to do mitzvahs –

What we all know as doing good deeds.

in Yiddish the word meren means two things

It means increase, but it also means carrots.

So we eat carrots in the hope that this new year

Will see increase in our worth and our merits.

The last item on the menu is your selection

The pri chadash or "new fruit" you must choose.

That completes the cycle of new foods

That are sampled at new year's by Jews.

©2021 Alan Smason

Condiments

 

I asked the man for mayonnaise

He gave me mustard instead.

I told him I prefer white, not yellow

To sit upon my bread.

 

To see him look at me in disgust

As he handed me that jar

Made me wonder what it was I did;

Had I really gone too far?

 

But, no, I was in my rights to say:

“I do not like that spread.

And as for ketchup, I confess

I just don’t like that red.”

 

“Some would grab a packet or two

Of spicy barbeque;

But brown is ugly and not right.

I see it. Why can’t you?”

 

“Relish on a sandwich with a shade like green

Is not understandable.

And orange is a color I won’t allow

To pass my mandible.”

 

“That Thai satay is much too brown

And srahacha is just too pink

Salsa is crimson; it’s out too.

That’s just the way I think.” 

 

“’You are what you eat,’ as the pundits say,

Which is why I won’t eat black.

 The colors of the rainbow may appeal to you,

But they’re not what I will snack.”

 

“So out with chutney and out with honey

They will never be on my diet.

Just give me my white mayonnaise

Or I will not be quiet.”

 

The man with the mustard heard my thoughts,

But I was shocked by what he said.

“I don’t hate those condiments half as much

As the color of your bread.”

 

©2020 Alan Smason

The Worst of Times

CHARLES DICKENS 

Dickens needs a rewrite. "It was the worst of times. It was the worst of times." I'm sorry, but this pandemic has turned me from the most hopeful of optimists into the most despairing of pessimists. 

What started out as a reasonably expectant period of one, two or three months of sequestration has dragged on now through a fourth with no end in sight. 

What began with just a trickle of cases of coronavirus in February rapidly increased to a scenario where hospitals were bursting at the seams at the end of March and early April. Nursing homes shuttered as the virus began to ravage elderly populations most at risk from the disease. Outside visitors there and access to prisons were denied to all but essential employees. Personal protective equipment (PPE) including masks, gowns and gloves were in such high demand that hospital workers and frontline medical staffs were asked to reuse the items against common practice and safe and sage medical advice. 

Spare ventilators became the rarest of medical items and states competed openly on both the worldwide market and within a system for federal allocation of these life-saving devices. Doctors were fearful they would have to decide which of the sick were more deserving than others to receive vital health services. Would a 75-year-old cancer patient be passed over if a 29-year-old athlete were also sick? Epidemiologists predicted overrun ICUs and emergency rooms bursting at the seams. Doctors, nurses and medical administrators worried about which patients they would have to turn away.

It was a national nightmare.

But then, people began to respond. They stayed home. They washed their hands regularly and became mindful of not touching their faces. When they did journey out to a store for food or water, many of them wore masks so they wouldn't spread the virus if they had it. They wiped down their bags and washed off milk cartons. Schools shut down and students came back home. This was a picture of a united America that, like hard-ravaged Italy and Spain, was intent on keeping the future infection rate and deaths down.

A steady decline occurred. At one point, New Orleans held an unenviable position as one of the worst rates of infection in the country. It now boasted a remarkable turnaround. No one ran out of ventilators and a field hospital located in the Ernest Morial Convention Center set up strictly to treat COVID-19 patients, was shut down. Clearly, several markers showed remarkable progress being made in the city and throughout the state. Still, the death toll was huge.

Louisiana prepared to enter Phase I of a return to pre-pandemic normalcy. The numbers of available testing kits went up and more and more people were testing to see if they were infected. The crisis seemed to have abated, even though the death toll continued to rise.

But then, around the time of Independence Day, Louisiana began to take its eye off the ball. Residents outside of New Orleans began to let down their guard. They gathered without masks and celebrated the nation's birthday with abandon. Large numbers of residents openly questioned the wisdom of wearing masks, relegating it not to a health matter, but to an exercise of political freedom.

The infection rate began to climb again and with it more deaths. 

Recent news reports suggest the state's previous reports in April may have been underreported by a much as 16 times the actual incidence of infection. Another recent day showed more than 3,000 cases of COVID-19 as having been recorded, a record that stretched all the way back to the end of May.

We are making progress, but it is in the opposite of our desired direction. Instead of being squarely into Phase III, we are still in Phase II throughout Louisiana and the City of New Orleans has pushed back on an easing of regulations for bars and gyms so that they are either closed or are only operating at the 25% capacity allowed under Phase I. 

Many businesses are on life support and many others, like world famous K-Paul's Louisiana Kitchen, have announced plans to shut down entirely. Federal subsidies to keep employees hired and unemployment benefits for millions of Americans are all running out within days.

On top of all of this we have an ongoing  national discussion on Black Lives Matter, how to reshape policies that unfairly profile segments of our society and how to stop systemic racism. Mobs tearing down Confederate statues are understandable, but those that select targets like the Lincoln Monument need to check their motives.

Then there's a presidential election going on too. In a normal election year, tensions would be heightened and rhetoric would be sharply up. This year is no different and, indeed, medical life-saving measures such as wearing a mask have become highly politicized. As we move toward November, this national discussion will become more contentious. 

If there is one department, where hope remains high it is in the spirit of Americans to rise above the derision and to connect through social media and apps like Zoom. If we are ever to come out of this fray with our heads held high, it will be because of our listening to one another and becoming part of the solution, not continuing the problem.

So, Dickens was wrong. It is the worst of times and the worst of times. How we deal with it may help shape what America looks like on the other side of our recovery. And when we do look back on this, may we recall that it is a far, far better thing that we do than we have ever done before.

Cabin fever coronavirus style

Seen under an electronic microscope, the virus that causes COVID-19.

You can't see it. You can't smell it. You can't taste it or hear it approaching. And if you should touch it, you won't even know that you did until two weeks later. That's a pretty accurate assessment for what we are all fighting with the threat of COVID-19 (coronavirus).

For good or bad, we have taken collective action in what may prove to be a judicious application of resources available to us now or, conversely,  might later be viewed as a set of grossly overprotective and unnecessary medical measures. In any case, I would rather err on the side of overkill rather than be caught unprepared and unable to respond to this very real threat.

The danger to me personally is minimal. I am at the age where authorities say I should be concerned, but I am in very good health and have a better than average immune system. The threat is not only to me; it's to my elderly loved ones and friends, most especially my 88-year-old mother, who is now in frail health.

I would not want to put her at risk due to my careless and unthinking actions. Also, who knows? Statistically, most victims have been elderly patients. Yet, the first two people who have died in New Orleans since the outbreak of COVID-19  were both in their 50s, one 58 and the other 53 years old. While they did each have underlying medical problems, the threat to middle-aged adults is very real. One of the more recent victims – a member of my own religious community – was 84. Others were octogenarians and nonagenarians. That does not give me a reason to be consoled in any way.

The problem for me is that I am by nature a very gregarious creature. I enjoy meeting people and talking, walking and greeting them. I find nothing more frustrating than to keep myself entertained and in a virtual bubble.

But this is the new normal and I am going to have to make the necessary adjustments to accept this as both necessary and in the best interests of all concerned.

Except for take out, there's no restaurants. No bars. No parades. And, for me, the worst reality check, no theatre. For a theatre critic, the thought of how to cope is almost surreal. Given the lack of open theaters, it is understandable that the public would be less focused on the plight of the actors, producers, technical and administrative staffs who collectively are the grease behind the monolith of local theatre.

But theatre is the salve that calms society in hard times and we need it during this crisis more than ever. The sooner theatre is restored to our city, the sooner we will know we have weathered this storm and moved past it.