April 2.  Not only are we in the middle of a pandemic, Max and I are getting ready to move from the home where we have lived for 30 years.  In a normal time, that would be a daunting task: do you have any idea how much stuff accumulates in a large house in 30 years' time?  A lot.  But now, when the world has slowed and we haven't, it seems as if the job will not get done.

And yet it must.

Where we are today:  The governors of some southern states, Florida included, have finally issued some semi-stay-at-home orders.  I fear that Florida's edict is too late to do as much good as it could, but at least it's something.  The governor made his order only after talking with President Trump.  I think he didn't want to upset the President, but he was getting a lot of heat from other government officials to shut down the state.  On another front, while states such as Kentucky and Oklahoma are getting the hospital supplies they need, Michigan and a couple other states are not.  The President has said that governors of states that ask the Federal government for help should show appreciation.  Apparently, the governor of Michigan, a woman (imagine that), isn't being appreciative enough to get what her people need.  This is beyond comprehension.  Lives are at stake and are being chosen based on a narcissist's whims.  And so far, almost 5,000 Americans have died, many of them without anyone at their sides - the virus.  Unimaginable.

And then, my friend Terry lost his wife this week - not to the virus, but to a horrible disease called pulmonary hypertension.  We had hoped that her double lung transplant would save her, alas, to no avail. And I don't know whether the virus kept Terry from her as she slipped away  So the week goes and brings more sadness.

Beating out my general anger over things such as "appreciation" is a deepening sense of despair.  I'm not afraid.  I'm not feeling claustrophobic.  I'm feeling as if nothing will ever be the same.  Not only is the world changing around me and so many others, but my world is changing, too.  We are leaving the home where innumerable people have come, dined, drunk wine, sat around the fire, and generally enjoyed just being.  In a few weeks, that will all change, and I have come to realize how much a part of my life that is.  I will still be able to play the piano, although I do not play as well as I used to, I will still be able to laugh at funny movies, and I will still love Cary Grant in anything.  But the part of my life that centers around feeding people with food and togetherness will go on hiatus.

Perhaps someday, we will be able to go outside again without masks, without the threat of a virus that kills people, and perhaps someday, I will again try to feed people's souls.

We have been inside since March 15, me more than Max.  It has been an interesting time, but I do believe it is starting to wear on me.

Where we are:  New York has been hardest with the coronavirus (Covid-19), with people's becoming sick and dying at an almost-unheard of rate.  The City is setting up field hospitals at the US Open Tennis compound, in the Javitts Center, wherever they can find places large enough to hold thousands of patients.  A Navy hospital ship has docked in New York, and it will be for non-Covid patients.  The City is pretty much locked down, with Governor Cuomo's issuing a stay-at-home order.

Other states suffer as well, but not nearly as much; regardless, almost 200,000 cases have been diagnosed, and the death rate is above 2%. 

Missouri's governor refuses to issue stay-at-home orders, refuses to shut down businesses, refuses to do anything that might make it appear that he is defying the President, who takes this pandemic with his usual nonchalance and lack of candor.  Regardless of that, Kansas City's mayor has issued an order, as has St. Louis's.  Missouri's cases jumped by 600% yesterday.

How we got where we are:  Beginning when the first signs of this virus started showing up, the President started issuing edicts with no basis in fact.  He began early, telling the country that the US had only 15 cases, and that they would soon be down to zero.  He then said that the virus would "miraculously," and that's a quote, disappear in April.  He never issued a stay-at-home order.  He then said that we can't shut down the economy for this virus; after all, car accidents kill 41,000 people a year and we don't shut down the economy for that.  He later dictated that we would open the country back up on Easter.  It would be a "beautiful" day, with churches packed full of joyous worshippers.  This week, however, for some reason, he listened to Dr. Fauci and Dr. Birx, two infectious disease specialists who are now-household names, and said that Easter will not work.  He said we should plan to stay inside through April.  Even with that, Dr. Birx said that if we do EVERYTHING right, EVERYTHING, including STAYING AT HOME, we could lose 100,000 to 240,000 Americans to this virus.

People other than the President have also been denying the obvious.  Not everyone is staying home.  Hobby Lobby tried to stay open.  Then they laid off people via e-mail.  Bass Pro refuses to shut down, and Kansas City has said that if they don't shut down, law enforcement will be called. 30 governors have shut down their states, including Kansas.  20 have not. 

While others' lives have changed immensely - schools have shut down and kids go to class on Zoom, no church services, no choir practice, restaurants make only take-out food, and fast food drive-through is open - my life has remained pretty much the same.  I spend most days indoors anyway, grading papers on line, practicing law by filing documents on line, talking to people on the phone, and writing my column.  The largest difference is that Max is home now, as the Missouri Public Defender, unlike the governor, is taking this seriously and has issued a work from home order.  He works in his chair downstairs, and I work in my office upstairs.

We are getting along fine - and by that I mean we are able to withstand the being at home all the time AND being at home all the time and not arguing about anything.

I find myself becoming angry when I think of how this entire episode has been mishandled by the government, specifically the President, and how we as Americans are not being led in a meaningful way.  As much as I didn't really care for George W. Bush, I admire the way he got us through 9/11.  If you recall, he was on Air Force One when much of the tragedy was unfolding, and Dick Cheney told him to stay away from Washington.  Bush defied him, came back, and led us through the next dark days, even going to New York and speaking to the workers over the bullhorn.  We should expect leadership like that.  We are not getting it, and I am afraid that because of the four weeks of denial, our country will suffer unimaginable loss, much of it unnecessary.

I need to write every day, because I want to have a record of these days.  I think they will go on for some time, and I hope they are never repeated.

An Advent of Sorts

Preparing to sell our house is proving more difficult than I would have imagined - not the actual selling, but PREPARING to sell.  The house must be clean.  The little projects must be finished.  The closets must be cleaned out and organized.  The windows should be washed (notice I said "should" - I don't know if we'll get that far).  Extraneous matter should be thrown out so that clutter disappears.  The kitchen should be scrubbed until it gleams.

All of this is overwhelming.  It's as if we are getting ready to move without putting anything in boxes.

And then, when we start the "little projects," others raise their ugly heads.  A few years ago, one of our sewer pipes broke - it was a clay pipe from 1937 - and we had to dig down to replace it.  To do that required that we break up and remove part of a 12-foot sidewalk that led from the driveway to the back door.  We have always meant to replace it, but never have.  We really wanted to design a more attractive and inventive walkway, but we never could find anyone who was interested in envisioning something different.  So we gave in - a sidewalk it is.  But who will pour the concrete?

Finding someone to construct the thing was head-spinning.  First, one must get bids - many bids.  Then, one chooses the person.  Then the two of you must put together a schedule.  And it turns out that he can't do the project right away through no fault of his.  So the sidewalk waits.

Then we cleaned the shower surround so that it would be pristine white (why I didn't want it pristine white for me is beyond me).  As we cleaned, we found a few cracks in the grout that meant we need to re-grout the whole thing.  Fortunately, a reliable handyman is able to get to that chore within the next week.

The next step is polishing the kitchen.  I confess to being afraid to go in there, because who knows what we will find that must be done?  But go in we will, and we hope that it is just the next step as opposed to the next three steps.

Slowly but surely, the beautiful house at 1020 South Barrett is being brought to its finest - just in time for a new family.

Travelogue continued

Crested Butte, Colorado, has a robust arts community.  While we were visiting, we spent much of Saturday downtown at the arts festival, where artists from all over the country displayed their wares.  Some of the art was just okay, but some was really interesting and pretty.  Of course I found something purple - a "silent oboe," according to the artist.  It looks lovely on my office wall, especially because it is now surrounded by a Georgia O'Keeffe print and a little handmade card bearing one of my life's mantras:  "Cinderella is proof that a new pair of shoes can change your life."

As we were exploring the festival, we found the beer and wine tent.  The tent had a "no waste" policy, which meant that we paid $15 for a metal glass full of wine, and I do mean full, and then all refills were $5 each.  The only down side was that we had to stay in a fenced-in area while we imbibed.  The forced imprisonment turned out to be just fine, however, because musicians entertained us as we drank cool wine on a hot summer day.

My favorite was a woman who played the electric violin and was accompanied by a man on a very interesting instrument: a cajon, which is a box-like thing.

The percussionist sits on top of it and plays rhythm on the box's body.  The placement of the percussionist's beats on the box determines the timbre of the sound emanating from it.  This guy also played a high hat cymbal with one foot and a tambourine with the other.  It was fascinating as well as beautiful.  The violinist played classical music, some ethereal-sounding Mideast folk songs, and even a few jazzy tunes.  We could have listened all day.

But art called, and so we drank our wine and continued our sojourn down the closed-off main street.  We found a photographer from Springfield, Missouri, a city a couple of hours away from both my home town to the south and the town where we now live to the north.  Her technique is interesting, but I was unable to fall so in love with any of her stylized photos that I had to take one home.  Eventually, we went back to our hosts' home and prepared for another trip downtown, this time to eat sushi and attend a jazz concert at a cool little fine arts center.

Though I am a "foodie," I had never eaten sushi - raw fish and rice and the other things that go with it - because it seems to me that raw fish should be eaten somewhere close to the fish's home.  Missouri just is too far away, as is any other place we visit. However, our friend is a doctor, so I figured if anything were to go wrong, he could make sure that I lived through it.

We asked him to order our dinner, and I was very surprised to find that I enjoyed just about everything I put in my mouth.  I didn't put eel in my mouth.  I don't know.  There's just something about an eel.

After dinner, we had some time to kill before the concert, and so we hung out at the fine arts center that was hosting a month-long music festival.  As we were enjoying the lobby, I heard piano scales coming from the auditorium, and so I followed the sound and found myself in front of a pianist who was playing scales the way my college piano teacher wanted me to play them.  I never quite got there, but this woman was showing me how it should be done.  When played skillfully, even scales can be beautiful.  She explained that she was getting ready for a free concert the next night, warming up, and getting used to the touch of the piano.  I understand.  Playing a piano that is "different" can be intimidating, especially if the action is different - meaning that the keys are harder or easier to push than the keys on my piano, the one on which I, um, practice. 😏

Eventually, we got to the part of the evening I had been anticipating - a jazz concert presented by two musicians I had never heard of.  Both had traveled from Denver where they both studied and taught; the pianist was originally from Cuba, and the clarinetist/saxophonist was originally from New York.  Of the two, the pianist was better - he played with passion and precision.  The clarinetist, however, was having a bad night.  He squeaked about as often as I did when I was in high school, and as he continued to do so, he became more and more frustrated.  His frustration caused more squeaks, and, well, you get the idea.  Regardless, the music was worth hearing, and I was thrilled to be at a real concert in a very intimate setting.

Eventually, we headed back to our home away from home to get some shut-eye before we began our slog back across Kansas the next day.

We're Not in Kansas Anymore

As a native of Southern Missouri, I am used to the gently rounded Ozark mountains, carpeted with deciduous trees - oaks, maples, hickories, and others whose names I do not know.  In the summer, they radiate green; in the fall, they color the landscape with reds and yellows. The trees resemble skeletons in the winter, and they are the earliest harbingers of spring when their yellow-green leaves begin to show, creating an palette of barely colored softness.

The Colorado mountains are not like the Ozark mountains.  They are sharp and rugged and steep, with boulders peeking through haphazardly strewn evergreen trees.  Sometimes, the mountains cannot hold the trees - no soil is visible on the rocky terrain. Perhaps this is why these mountains are called the "Rockies."  And while the Ozark mountains can make a person feel as if he or she is a part of the plan for the Earth, the Colorado mountains easily point out the insignificance of man in the whole scheme of things.  We can climb the things, but they are still bigger than we, and will be here long after we are gone.

Such was my observation on our first full day in Crested Butte.  We actually went several miles away to Black Canyon, where our hosts, Geary and Jan, had planned for us to take a guided water tour through the Gunnison River, which is a tributary of the Colorado River.  For the most part, the river is lazy and gentle, but the views are spectacular.  Our guide informed us that the canyon is easily 2250 feet deep and that three dams control its flow.

Though we were quite safe, I admit to being a little nervous about being in an excursion boat so soon after the Duck disaster in Branson.  As we began our river journey, black clouds began to swirl, and it occurred to me that the weather could change here as easily and as quickly as it does in the Ozarks.  Though I seem to be turning into a worrywart (resembling my father), I was able to talk myself down and actually enjoy the ride.

Before we got to the ride, however, we had to get down to the river.  We walked down 232 steps - at least that's what Geary told us - and then we walked about half a mile to get to the boat.  Of course, that meant that we walked a half mile back and then climbed those 232 steps to get back to the car.  At a high altitude, all those steps wore me out.  I knew I would feel each one of them in my hamstrings and glutes the next day, but what better way to get a workout than be out in perfect weather and beautiful surroundings!

Our day ended with a home-cooked meal - steak au poivre with appropriate accoutrements, and that included a bottle (or two) of cabernet.  Bedtime came right on time!

Kansas, Continued

Getting up in Goodland gave us another seven hours to drive before we reached our destination, but another 90 minutes or so over I-70 in Kansas and Colorado.  Although I complain about the boring drive, I must give some credit for at least a little nice scenery.

The wind farms that dot the landscape in western Kansas and eastern Colorado loom on the horizon like skinny, white trees.  We can see them from a distance of several miles, standing there, silent, ethereal, arms waving gently through a breeze we cannot feel.  As we approach, they grow larger and appear more like sentinels for travelers, watching over them and the highway.  And then we pass them, and they are gigantic windmills, of a size that is hard to imagine, humongous blades turning sometimes swiftly, sometimes slowly, sometimes not at all.  Somehow, though, they offer a sort of comfort, and they give us something to look at besides the flat Kansas countryside.

On this trip, too, we have noticed several fields of corn that seem to have withered and died for some reason.  The stalks are green, and the sheathed corn is visible, but the scanty leaves are curled and shapeless; I imagine that some farmer has lost a great deal on those fields this year.

We finally reached Limon and turned south toward Colorado Springs.  Instead of driving on an interstate highway, we then were on an old-fashioned two-way, two lane highway, driving by farms with piles of junk in the fields - rusting equipment and trucks, "stuff," falling down pens for unseen animals.

Eventually, we reached Colorado Springs and began the first final leg of our trip toward Crested Butte.  We found that we would be arriving in Cañon City around lunchtime, and so I once again called up Trip Advisor to find a place to eat good food.  The first place we looked was Burger World, but when we approached, the place was very crowded, which probably means it is very good, and it looked as if we would have to eat outside.  We didn't want to do that, and so our second choice was Muggs, which was a combination sports bar and cafe.  The food was all right, but I would choose another place should I ever again find myself in Cañon City.

What we did discover was that we were at the home of the Royal Gorge.  I had no idea.  This is why I should always ask Kevin Schroeder to plan our trips.  He finds everything interesting on the way to a particular location and then plots the path toward them all.  We had already missed Pike's Peak because we hadn't thought about it ahead of time, and by the time we decided, "Hey!  It might be nice to go see Pike's Peak," we found it to be a hour and a half away.  Neither of us wanted to add that much time to our trip, so we said, "Next time."

I wanted, however, to see the Royal Gorge, and because it was on the way to Crested Butte, we wouldn't really lose any time.  As we made our way up the lane that led to the visitor center, I was preparing myself to walk across the bridge spanning the Gorge.  An unfortunate acrophobic, I thought I could probably do it if I set my mind to it.

But when we got there, we found out that admission was $27 per person, and that was the only way to walk across the bridge, see the educational film, ride the gondola, and get a tour.  We looked at each other and said, "Next time."  I usually am a pretty good planner, but this time, I did not plan well at all.  I must make a note to myself for our next trip.

We made our way back to the car and began the real final leg of our trip to Crested Butte.  Our hosts would not be arriving until late that night, and so Max and I would have time to kill once we got to the house.

After unloading the car, we went to downtown Crested Butte and were charmed by the old-fashioned looking, artsy town.  We strolled up and down the main drag, looking for a place to eat some dinner and have a cocktail and finally settled on Montanya (Trip Advisor's number 1 rated restaurant in town), which is a rum distillery and small plates restaurant.  Because the weather was nothing short of perfect, we were able to eat outside and watch the parade of tourists and locals while paying attention to a beautiful border collie waiting patiently for his mom and dad to finish eating and take him on his way.

As for the food, I had never had an Old Fashioned made with anything but bourbon, but an Old Fashioned made with Montanya's rum was just as good.  Max had a rum Manhattan, and pronounced it as delicious as the ones made with bourbon we usually have in Little Rock at the Capitol Bar and Grill.  We ate some house-made potato chips and shared a ramen noodle bowl with miso broth, fresh enoki mushrooms, and baby bok choy.  It was perfect on a perfect evening - not too heavy, but enough food to satisfy, and enough cocktail to bring a long travel day to a perfect, relaxing end.

Travelogue - To Colorado Across Kansas: The Earth is Flat

Thinking that visiting a good friend who now lives in Colorado sounds like a good idea - that is, until we realize that the trip means cruising through Kansas, east to west.  Nothing.  Nothing.  80 miles and hour, and nothing.  Will it ever end?

A few things, however, have changed the landscape - not the real one, but the landscape of what one can expect when pushing the pedal to the metal in hopes that the drab and drear will disappear more quickly.  The internet is one of those things.

If a person is not driving - if one is merely a passenger - one can spend hour upon hour reading Facebook posts, e-mail, updates from Messenger, and the latest baseball scores on Bleacher Report.  If one has an agenda, for instance, if one knows that he or she will be in a certain town - or close - at the lunch hour, Trip Advisor will provide all kinds of information about places to eat because other brave souls have done so before:  where restaurants are located, the names and locations of the top 10 restaurants in that town, how much it might cost to eat at any of those restaurants, and on and on.

Eating at a local restaurant in a little town is a little bit adventure and a little bit gamble.  Just because the food might have been good the week before means nothing in connection with what it tastes like today.  But as opposed to eating at Applebee's or Burger King, it's usually worth the risk.

So in Junction City, we tried Negril, a little Caribbean/Jamaican joint in the middle of the street that looked as if it needed a good going over with bleach on a stick.  This was unexpected.  Who could imagine finding a restaurant owned and run by an obviously immigrant woman – a woman of color, with an accent, who prominently displayed pictures of Barack Obama – in good old Red Kansas?  And yet, there it was.  Negril had been praised mightily by many who lived in Junction City or had passed through for some unknown reason.  The dish most raved about was goat curry.  While I am adventurous enough to go to Negril, which needed a paint job and a cleaning crew for the ladies’ room, I am not adventurous enough to try curried cabrito.  I did, however, inhale the chicken curry.

I do not particularly care for dark chicken meat.  Though I reveled in eating the drumstick when I was a child, as an adult, I find the meat to be somewhat chunky and greasy – all in all, unappealing.  So when the owner served the curry to me, I was distressed to see that the chicken meat was from three drumsticks and was still on the bone.  The cook had, however, cut the leg so that the useless bottom part was amputated, and what was left was the meaty upper portion.

I have no idea what she did to those drumsticks.  I assume she stewed them in the curry sauce, but whatever she did, I ate it with relish – and not the pickle type.  The meat was tender, flavorful, and definitely not greasy nor chunky.  It fell from the bone with merely a touch of my fork, and then it disappeared into my mouth, never to be seen again.  The curry was served with rice and peas, which were cooked to perfection – tender, but not soft.  Apparently, I need to learn how to cook chicken legs.  Max had the jerk chicken, which I tasted, and his chicken leg was just as tender as mine – and as flavorful.  It did not however, come with a sauce.  The star of that plate was the jerk seasoning.    I decided not to eat all the food on my plate so that I would be able to enjoy another meal that day – after all, what is travel other than an opportunity to find and eat good food in different places?

And that is just what we did.  I had made a reservation for a hotel in Goodland, Kansas, for the night, and so when we arrived, some nine hours after we had begun our travels that morning, I again went to Trip Advisor for some advice about where to eat dinner.  Everybody and his brother suggested Tequilas [sic] Mexican Grill.  So we went there.

The food was good.  Unfortunately, or fortunately (however you might look at it) however, we have been spoiled by El Tapatio in Sedalia.  El Tap's salsa is superb, the rice is delicious, and the refried beans have not only flavor, but also texture.  Tequilas was lacking on all three counts; however, Tequilas had larrupin’ good marinated pork, which I ordered, and Max liked the shrimp in mango sauce, but he didn’t particularly like the sauce.  Neither did I.

We had a reservation at the Holiday Inn Express in Goodland, which turned out to be a good bet.  Although it is not the newest iteration of this chain, for $100, we got a clean room, a clean bathroom that was big enough for me to put on my make-up while Max brushed his teeth, an in-room Keurig, and as much breakfast as we wanted for free.

All of these things made driving through Kansas tolerable.  I don’t really have anything against Kansas, other than Kris Kobach and the fact that the horizon could convince anyone that the Earth is flat, but driving through is simply tedious.  I know of no other way to describe it.  Regardless, we found bright spots that made it just fine.