COVID-19 Deaths Month 6: August

The virus is the dominant force in our world right now. It dictates what rules need occur. We must be like the reed and bend lest we break. The basic news still applies. Wear a mask. Wash your hands. Six feet apart. Isolate.

Our numbers have been better this summer than I expected them to be. We moved through Phase Three of reopening New York into Phase Four this month, which means most things can be open as long as they can follow covid protocols. Most restaurants spent the last couple of months building outdoor seating and spaces, waiting for this, even while doing take-out orders. But we’ve seen, in town, businesses already flaunting the rules by letting people sit inside their restaurants to eat. They got in trouble for it. We’re not supposed to gather indoors with more than 10-25 people, depending on the size of the space. Our local covid numbers are getting traced back to bars and restaurants and gyms. But the death rate is not climbing as much.

It’s been a long half a year. Even this introverted hermit is feeling the absence of the little social contact I had come to rely on. It propels me to be vigilant about safety protocols so that we can get through this sooner than later.

I check the total dead each day. I have a list of numbers. Every night at midnight I light my ancestor altar. I call on those who weathered plagues and mysterious illnesses that swept through villages and cities. I call on my foremothers and fathers who lost loved ones, and those who lost their own lives in such times. I ask them to guide the dead. I ask them to watch over the living. I ask them to wrap the world in some measure of peace.

And I chant the number of souls who died that day. I chant it seven times. I wish them ease. I wish them peace. I sometimes cry for their families, for the ones who died alone. Especially for the ones who died alone. Viruses don't care about human need. I try to remember that.

It's a simple ritual. It keeps me mindful of what is happening outside of my own isolation.

 

In August, we lost thirty-one thousand six-hundred and thirty-five Americans.

31,635

That's near the total population of the city of Jamestown, NY in 2010.

Since the rise of the pandemic 206,637 Americans have died of it.

 

Over 200,000 Americans have now died of COVID-19.

 

 

Light a candle. Say a prayer. Wear a mask. Wash your hands. Stay six feet apart. If you think you are ill isolate yourself for 72 hours. If you think you have been exposed quarantine yourself for 14 days before exposing anyone else to you. Video chat with your loved ones. We can do this. May we all come out the other side.

 

 

[Statistics gathered from this W.H.O. website. They have changed as the numbers have come in, so there is some wiggle room around the exact number.]

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A Contemplative Poem for the Month

 

When I Am Among the Trees

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

 

~ Mary Oliver

My Family and the Ratification of the 19th Amendment

Great-grandma Minnie Ruston in the glasses, center.

On August 18, 1920 it was written into law that voting rights could not be denied based on sex. Suffragettes had been protesting for the right to vote for decades. An early Women’s Rights convention was held in Seneca Falls in 1848, seventy-two years before the amendment was ratified.

This photo is of an unknown group of women from around the 1920s. My 1x great-grandmother Minnie Ruston is facing the camera in the glasses in the center. She was the daughter of a prominent business owner, fire chief, and Mason, Hiram Wicker. I have not yet been able to identify these women. There are other photos of the white-haired woman in the back row with the black robes on, but I am uncertain who she is.

Suffragette white in 1917?

[It’s important to note, considering how long women had to fight for it, that many states responded by passing laws to limit the freedoms of black citizens, including voting rights. It wasn’t until the Voting Rights Act of 1965 that black women (and men) had the full and legal right to vote. That’s forty-five years after the Amendment.]

It made me wonder where my ancestors were in their lives in 1920. It was only 100 years ago and my female ancestors could not vote. I’ll never know what they thought about women’s rights to vote—I know that not all women were in support of it, though I have learned enough about some families to make some educated guesses. So I searched our archives for photos of my ancestors who were alive at the time, within a few years, and here they are:

My 1x great-grandparents Royal Levant Eaton and Hattie Eva Smith-Eaton were 47 and 38 years old with three children. My grandfather Mark Dutcher Eaton was 5 years old, the youngest in the second photograph. They were living in Auburn, NY where Roy was working as a prison guard.

Royal’s mother Theresa Cordelia Tenney-Eaton was 70 years old, living in Somerset, NY with her son Hubert and his family.

Hattie’s grandmother, my 3x great-grandmother Eliza Marsh Bird-Dutcher was 83 years old living in Somerset with her daughter Carrie and her family. Here she is, on the left, with her son-in-law's mother, Sophia Sears-Smith. Sophia died soon after this was taken, a decade before ratification.

Frank Ruston tucking his head. Either with his wife Minnie, or Minnie took the photo.

Minnie Wicker-Ruston and son Dickie and daughter Ruth, my grandma, around 1922.

Emma Whitcher-Wicker, front right, with sisters Ellen, Harriet, and Frances, l-r.

My grandmother Ruth Emma Ruston was 4 years old, living with my 1x great-grandparents Frank William Ruston and Minnie Estelle Wicker-Ruston in Lockport, NY. Frank and Minnie were 32 and 30 years old and he was employed as an accountant. Minnie’s mother Emma Angeline Whitcher-Wicker, 75, lived with them.

Frank’s parents Charles Evan Ruston and Ruth Ireland-Ruston, 73 and 59 years old, were both first generation immigrants living at their own home in Lockport.  He was still employed by the Harrison Manufacturing factory. (In my childhood it was the Harrison-Radiator factory.)

Robert George Art and Margaret Loretta Burke-Art were both 28 years old, living in Lockport, with two young daughters. He was working as a blacksmith.

Robert’s parents, my 2x great-grandparents, George Art and Katherine Pils-Art, 50 and 49 years old, were both employed by the wealthy Kenan family as their private gardener and housekeeper. Here Katherine is with other housekeepers, second one in from the right.

Margaret’s father, my 2x great-grandfather Frank Burke was 57, worked as the watchman for a city building in Lockport. He’s listed as married, not widowed, living with five of his children, though his wife Eliza Conners-Burke is not included on the census report. She would have been 54 at the time. I don't have any photos of them.

My 1x great-grandfather Harold Riddle, in the light suit, was 17 years old, living at home with my 2x great-grandparents Lafayette Riddle and Frances Ann Gillette-Riddle, 47 and 43 years old. With five of their six children in Newfane, NY.

Harold and Elsie in 1924 when they married.

My 1x great-grandmother Elsie Elizabeth Durant was 16, the last Durant child still at home. My 2x great-grandparents George Durant and Emma Louise Burnah-Durant, 51 and 53, lived in Lockport, NY where he worked at a Block Company. His father Albert died earlier that year in Vermont. His mother Rosella Lavalley-Durant, my 3x great-grandmother, 82 years old, was working as a housekeeper in Vermont.

Rosella Lavalley-Durant

I do not know what they thought but I know where they were and who their descendants became. I know my great-grandma Minnie was an avid photographer and these photos of this group of women survived all these decades later so they must have been important to her, and so they are important to me.

Same group of women with Minnie behind the camera.

COVID-19 Deaths Month 5: July

I spent the whole of the month isolating in a cottage with my parents. We all isolated for two weeks beforehand. Even though I usually only see them a couple of times a year, there was a tinge of mortality in the air that made those hugs sweeter, and each touch, each connection more meaningful.

Our month-long visit was a balm that I needed. Events occurred that made it fortuitous that I was present. But even as much as I needed the break it was mitigated by the sea of visitors without masks in the nearby park and shoreline. Each morning walk I ended up using my cane to lift up discarded (and mostly unused) masks. My faith in humanity is shaken.

I have started having nightmares about needing to be intubated again. I have damage from my previous intubation during my accident so I am at-risk for COVID-19 complications. I see every maskless face as a threat against my health.

I know that the virus is taking lives across all continents, not just in America, but my heart can only bear to keep my eyes on this land. The global numbers are disheartening. And if this is going to be a long haul, we need to take care of ourselves. We need to care for each other better.

 

But here’s the other thing I noticed. I found respite in my time in nature. I saw evidence of nature blooming in our absence. There were more kinds of birds than I have seen at that shore in 20 years, more wild patches of flowers. It was breathtaking. It gave me hope for the world, in spite of humanity.

 

The basic news still applies. Wear a mask. Wash your hands. Six feet apart. Isolate.

I check the total dead each day. I have a list of numbers. Every night at midnight I light my ancestor altar. I call on those who weathered plagues and mysterious illnesses that swept through villages and cities. I call on my foremothers and fathers who lost loved ones, and those who lost their own lives in such times. I ask them to guide the dead. I ask them to watch over the living. I ask them to wrap the world in some measure of peace.

And I chant the number of souls who died that day. I chant it seven times. I wish them ease. I wish them peace. I sometimes cry for their families, for the ones who died alone. Especially for the ones who died alone. Viruses don't care about human need. I try to remember that.

It's a simple ritual. It keeps me mindful of what is happening outside of my own isolation.

 

This month's death toll declined! It feels like we have a bit of breathing room. For as disgusting as the carelessly discarded masks are, we must be doing some things right.

 

 

In July, we lost twenty-three thousand eight-hundred and fifty-one Americans.

23,851

That's near the total population of the city of Kingston, NY in 2010.

Since the rise of the pandemic 175,002 Americans have died of it.

 

 

Light a candle. Say a prayer. Wear a mask. Wash your hands. Stay six feet apart. If you think you are ill isolate yourself for 72 hours. If you think you have been exposed quarantine yourself for 14 days before exposing anyone else to you. Video chat with your loved ones. We can do this. May we all come out the other side.

 

 

[Statistics gathered from this W.H.O. website. They have changed as the numbers have come in, so there is some wiggle room around the exact number.]

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A Contemplative Poem for the Month

 

Do not be dismayed by the brokenness of the world.

All things break. And all things can be mended.

Not with time, as they say, but with intention.

So go. Love intentionally, extravagantly, unconditionally.

The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you.

 

~ L.R. Knost 

Hamilton and Me… Well, How One of His Pals Shaped My Family

Daveed Diggs as Lafayette in Hamilton (left)

My background is in theatre and I love theatre of all kinds, including musicals. I’m sure by now most people have heard of the musical Hamilton if they haven’t seen it for themselves (or listened to the soundtrack on repeat). You don’t need to know the show but it’s a brilliant way of making history accessible and relevant to our current society.

Among the patriots fighting for freedom from English monarchy rule and taxes was a Frenchman named Marquis de Lafayette. He fought in the American Revolution on the side of the colonists. He was a celebrated hero of the war in America for decades afterwards.

A Bit of Bio

Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de La Fayette was born to a wealthy family in France and commissioned as a sous-lieutenant with the musketeers at 13. He believed in the American war and after spending three weeks with high society in London and being presented to King George III, the young Marquis snuck away to America, defying his French King’s decree that no French soldiers were to fight for the Americans.

To get himself to America he used his wealth to buy his own ship, docking in North Carolina before continuing to Philadelphia. He was 19 when he fought alongside George Washington. Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de La Fayette was known to his comrades as Lafayette.

After the Revolution, Lafayette returned to France and was a key figure in the French Revolution and the government that came after. In 1824, he was invited to be a guest by President James Monroe at a multi-state celebration of America’s 50^th anniversary. He had initially only intended to visit the 13 original colonies but he was met with such fanfare that he visited all 24 states, meeting up with his old friends from the war. He collected soil from Bunker Hill, the site of an important battle, and took it home to France.

The real Marquis de Lafayette.

When he died May 20, 1834 his son George Washington scattered the soil from Bunker Hill over him. Lafayette was 76 years old. He was sometimes called “The Hero of the Two Worlds.” President Jackson gave him the same memorial honors that had been given to Lafayette’s friend George Washington. Congress urged Americans to follow similar mourning practices for the Marquis. You can tell how beloved he was by the places across America named for him, like Fayetteville, North Carolina.

Lafayette’s Legacy

One of the curious ways in which he was honored was by people naming the next generation of men after him, by his full title. My 3x great-grandfather, Marquis de Lafayette Riddle, was one of those babies. He was born the year after Lafayette’s American tour. I'm hazarding a guess that he went by Lafayette in his day-to-day since that's what he named his son, my 2x great-grandpa, Lafayette Riddle.

When I encountered that name my first thought was, Hey! A Marquis! But then I wondered why a Marquis would be farming in Batavia, NY. I thought there was a story there. I went onto Ancestry.com and plugged in the first name Marquis de Lafayette and left the last name blank.

This is a list of the names that came up on the first search page. I don’t know what are census takers’ misspellings and what are evolutions of the name but I left them as is:

M.D. Lafayette Furby b.1824, New Jersey

Marquis de Lafayette Riddle b.1825, New York

Marcus D.L. Norvell b.1836, Tennessee

Marquis de Lafayet Beall (alive in 1841), Mississippi

Marquis D.L. Branham b.1843, Tennessee

Mercus de L. Corter b.1844, Tennessee

Marquis de Lafaette Munro b.1844, New York

M.D.L. Paddock b.1846, Kansas

Markes D. L. Raynor b.1847, Ohio

Marcus D.L. Burriss b.1847, Kentucky

Margaris de Lafayette b.1849, Missouri

M.D. Laf Hill b.1849, Alabama

Margins D.L. Handley b.1850, Indiana

M.D.L. Dotson b.1850, Virginia

Marcus D.L. Batson b.1850, Michigan

Margais/Marques D.L. Beeson b.1853, Indiana

Margaris D.L.F. Harrington b.1856, Massachusetts

M. de L. Cash b.1857, Virginia

Marquis D.L. Williams b.1858, Missouri

Marquis D.L. Greer b.1859, North Carolina

La Fette D. Ginn b.1876, Georgia

Marquis D.L.F. Gorham (resides in 1889), Indiana

The names must have been passed down through the families over time, as this man was born 110 years after the original Lafayette’s death:

Marquis D.L. Rogers b.1944, California

Trivia fact: My 9x great-grandfather George Bunker owned the famed Hill that would later be part of the Revolutionary War battle (though he died the landowner a good 110 years beforehand), that Lafayette would take soil from for his own gravesite.

COVID-19 Deaths Month 4: June

Most of my friends are working from home. All of my friends in the entertainment world are facing uncertain futures. There are still areas of the country that are not enacting safety protocols. There are still people who think the virus is a hoax. A lot of my friends are in the kind of jobs that require them to work and interact with the public. I worry for them. 

There is grief this month, in the events and gatherings that are being necessarily canceled. Virtual versions are happening and, while they are better than nothing, it is also highlighting for me how much physical recharging I receive from them. This year I must find another way.

We entered Phase Two reopening in New York but places like indoor restaurants and malls and movie theatres and gyms and amusement parks, etc are still closed to the public. I have seen parks registering more use and traffic than usual. (It’s worth noting that most public restrooms are closed.) A lot of businesses that can be open now have to scale back on their employees because of the small size of the business so there’s no one to do extra work of cleaning out the bathroom after someone uses it. Right?

Due to my extended isolated recovery I may have been better prepared for all of this seclusion. But it still affects me. It may just take a little longer. So many Americans are already over the isolating and some others have not even started it. I worry this country is too large to come together to care for each other and halt the spread. I worry that the summer months will bring carelessness with it.

The global numbers are disheartening. The speed of this virus is unsettling. And if this is going to be a long haul, we need to take care of ourselves.

 

We are learning more everyday. The science will change as we learn new things about this particular virus. It's important that we stay open to that. The basic news still applies. Wear a mask. Wash your hands. Six feet apart. Isolate.

I check the total dead each day. I have a list of numbers. Every night at midnight I light my ancestor altar. I call on those who weathered plagues and mysterious illnesses that swept through villages and cities. I call on my foremothers and fathers who lost loved ones, and those who lost their own lives in such times. I ask them to guide the dead. I ask them to watch over the living. I ask them to wrap the world in some measure of peace.

And then I chant the number of souls who died that day. I chant it seven times. I wish them ease. I wish them peace. I sometimes cry for their families, for the ones who died alone. Especially for the ones who died alone. Viruses don't care about human need. I try to remember that.

It's a simple ritual. It keeps me mindful of what is happening outside of my own isolation.

 

In June, we lost forty-seven thousand one-hundred and twenty-six Americans.

47,126

That's near the total population of the city of Binghamton, NY in 2010.

Since the rise of the pandemic 151,151 Americans have died of it.

 

 

Light a candle. Say a prayer. Wear a mask. Wash your hands. Stay six feet apart. If you think you are ill isolate yourself for 72 hours. If you think you have been exposed quarantine yourself for 14 days before exposing anyone else to you. Video chat with your loved ones. We can do this. May we all come out the other side.

 

 

[Statistics gathered from this W.H.O. website. They have changed as the numbers have come in, so there is some wiggle room around the exact number.]

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A Contemplative Poem for the Month

 

Mindful

 

Everyday

I see or hear

something

that more or less

kills me

with delight,

that leaves me

like a needle

in the haystack

of light.

It was what I was born for —

to look, to listen,

to lose myself

inside this soft world —

to instruct myself

over and over

in joy,

and acclamation.

Nor am I talking

about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,

the very extravagant —

but of the ordinary,

the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.

Oh, good scholar,

I say to myself,

how can you help

but grow wise

with such teachings

as these —

the untrimmable light

of the world,

the ocean’s shine,

the prayers that are made

out of grass?

~ Mary Oliver

 

COVID-19 Deaths Month 3: May

The virus is taking lives across all continents. At the end of this month we passed 100,000 dead Americans. I now believe we will need to sequester ourselves through the summer. I continue to pray that it does not get worse. In New York we entered Phase One of reopening, but it’s still tightly controlled. Those who can open have strict protocols they must follow. Still no gatherings.

None of our stores are open 24 hours anymore as they need the night to deep clean before they open again. Some stores have special senior hours in the morning so that they don’t have to worry about crowds.

There are talks of reopening more if the numbers stay good, at the same time that there are news and media reports of customers shooting people and getting angry and spitting on retail employees because they’re being asked to wear a mask. A lot of my friends work the kind of jobs that require them to be in public and interact with people. I am hearing stories. worry for them. 

We need to cultivate patience and compassion. They will help us help each other get through this.

I check the total dead each day. I have a list of numbers. Every night at midnight I light my ancestor altar. I call on those who weathered plagues and mysterious illnesses that swept through villages and cities. I call on my foremothers and fathers who lost loved ones, and those who lost their own lives in such times. I ask them to guide the dead. I ask them to watch over the living. I ask them to wrap the world in some measure of peace.

And I chant the number of souls who died that day. I chant it seven times. I wish them ease. I wish them peace. I sometimes cry for their families, for the ones who died alone. Especially for the ones who died alone. Viruses don't care about human need. I try to remember that.

It's a simple ritual. It keeps me mindful of what is happening outside of my own isolation.

 

In May, we lost forty-five thousand nine-hundred and thirty-eight Americans.

45,938

That's near the total population of Freeport, NY in 2010.

Since the rise of the pandemic 104,025 Americans have died of it.

 

Over 100,000 Americans have died of covid-19.

  

Light a candle. Say a prayer. Wear a mask. Wash your hands. Stay six feet apart. If you think you are ill isolate yourself for 72 hours. If you think you have been exposed quarantine yourself for 14 days before exposing anyone else to you. Video chat with your loved ones. We can do this. May we all come out the other side.

 

[Statistics gathered from this W.H.O. website. They have changed as the numbers have come in, so there is some wiggle room around the exact number.]

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A Contemplative Poem for the Month

Small Kindnesses

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk

down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs

to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”

when someone sneezes, a leftover

from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.

And sometimes, when you spill lemons

from your grocery bag, someone else will help you

pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.

We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,

and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile

at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress

to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,

and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.

We have so little of each other, now. So far

from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.

What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these

fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,

have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”

 

~Danusha Laméris