One Science Geek's Take on the Coronavirus

Coronavirus is all over the news, most of it fearmongering in the wake of the upcoming elections.  My husband has spent time since the outbreak in Asia, including countries where the flu exists.  I'm concerned but not panicked.  77% of those infected are in one small region in China which he did not visit.  Cases outside of China are tiny compared to the total population and the death rate in those under 50 is .2 percent (that's POINT two percent, and we are talking countries that often have third world health care). That's significantly lower than regular flu that killed 34,200 people in the 2018-2019 flu season ALONE in the US,  So I'm not freaking out like everyone did with Swine Flu, SARS, and Ebola. As a dual Ph.D. (science and criminal justice) I've taken more microbiology and organic chemistry than should be allowed by law making the six weeks of systems and spaghetti performance charts for the NA-265 look like a piece of cake.


I remember a few years ago when H1N1 popped up, here and in Mexico, there was much talk of conspiracies and Doomsday theories to keep peoples eyes away from the economy ("It's Captain Trips!! Start walking across Kansas for the great showdown in Las Vegas. Beware a man whose boots make sparks").   Even the poor pigs got bad press over this, with the virus originally being called the “swine flu” because laboratory testing showed that many of the genes in this new virus were very similar to influenza viruses that normally occur in pigs in North America. But in actuality, studies were born out that that virus was very different from what normally circulates in North American pigs. It was actually a quadruple reassortant virus, with two genes from flu viruses that normally circulate in pigs in Europe and Asia and avian genes and human genes.

Another thing that came up in the conversations was people referencing the WHO "level 5" warning.in the Spring of what I believe was 2009. Remember, if that sort of warning pops up again - this warning level is primarily a means to qualify and communicate 1) that this outbreak has crossed regional borders and 2) it has the capability to be spread between human(s). It is not a reasonable scale for giving an accurate indication of how serious or life-threatening the illness may be.

Unfortunately, the media takes that and runs with it even if the paucity of the facts doesn't add up to the level of threat they are going to make it out to be. Now, THIS is why we should keep medical and scientific discussions in Latin and Greek. Attach a catchy name like swine flu or China flu to illnesses and even journalists teleprompter readers can pronounce them.  Keep everything in unfamiliar and difficult to pronounce terms and you won't be able to whip people into a panic. With a populace already highly frustrated by the economy, leadership, or just modern stresses, with the media blasting "Run for your lives - WHO Warning Level 5 !" the mortality concerns of the outbreak are only going to be exaggerated and fear builds.

Yes, the 1918 Spanish Flu epidemic killed 10's of millions, with the cytokine storm effect resulting in the deaths of primarily the young and the healthy, as was the case in many SARS deaths, wherein, the immune systems of the young and healthy counteracted so vigorously it killed them. Yes, the 1918 flu was caused by an H1N1 strain. But the H1N1 subtype is now very common, causing many of the seasonal flu outbreaks over the past 90 years. The current vaccine even includes a strain of H1N1, first identified in Brisbane in 2007. Anyone remember the "Swine Flu Outbreak of 1976"? That was a rehash of the 1918 strain and it killed about 90 people, tragic yes, but not the 18 million of the original episode. I was a school kid, but I remember, especially the scary public service announcements, the ominous echo of kettle drums, bad acting, dismissive attitudes resulting in feverish visits to the hospital and the obligatory "old person death". Fear-mongering at its finest.

But if the new flu contains H1N1 and H1N1 subtypes have been around for years that have mutated, I still remember the Lysol cans from 20 years ago that said: "kills the coronavirus" (different strain than the China one). Should you ignore them?   NO. It's simple. The arrangement of genetic components of the new flu has never been seen before—whether in pigs, animals, or people. That, in and of itself, concerned a lot of folks.  Also, by being different from recent strains, the body's immune system may not be able to mount an effective response. Nor is there adequate data yet to see if this strain will target typical "flu death" groups, the very young and elderly, or go another course, even if that course results in few deaths. People will die from this current coronavirus strain, just like any flu strain. Any flu can kill you, not just one with a unique name.

Scientists are constantly studying new and old strains and the flu vaccine each year gets tweaked using such studies. The sequencing and resurrection of the influenza strain responsible for the 1918 pandemic have helped researchers to interpret the sequences of contemporary flu strains. We continually learn from the past,  If you look at sources other than the network news, there is accurate information out there (on medicine AND politics) There are many people, like myself, who have an identification with Orson Scott Card's concept of the Speaker for the Dead - someone whose job it is to make each death more than a statistic.

I have spent some time in a biohazard suit, and have some education in contagions. On my computer desk, there are a few plushie microbe toys from ThinkGeek. Yersinia pestis. My favorite -  the microbe some folks think was responsible for the black death. They've done some interesting historical forensic DNA work on the issue to prove otherwise, as not all scientists believe black death was bubonic plague in its pure form.

Certainly, there was the speed with which it killed, death often occurred within three days of the first symptoms appearing. Anthrax or a hemorrhagic-fever-causing virus similar to Ebola would be more likely than a plague to cause such a rapid demise, say some. But, in my personal opinion, black death was not at least primarily Y. pestis even as it does cause every symptom associated with the historical black death. The symptoms, the high mortality rate, the speed at which the disease spread, and the way the disease spread -- none of it jibes with typical bubonic plague

It's a puzzle, one that may give clues to other plagues that could pop up in our own backyards. Although pestis had evolved to be less fatal to its human hosts over time, it's really changed very little, the genome of the Black Death strain different from the modern & pestis "reference" strain by only about 100 nucleotides.  But each of those genetic differences can be found in at least one of the modern strains. Something made the Black Death "special", but we're not sure why,  rearrangements to the genome, are damn hard to determine from short fragments of DNA. One could try and resurrect the Black Death pathogen by modifying the genomes of the contemporary strains (oh, come on, it'll buff out!) in a controlled lab, where even an accidental infection could be handled with antibiotics. Perhaps they have.

It makes me really, really glad there are experts that continue to study this because the current China Coranovirus panic notwithstanding, there are pandemic threats that exist, and bioterror is not just a source idea for a "thriller" (and having found out by 2 days in Cardiac Critical care ICU that I'm one of those folks that can't take Cipro for a mild UTI or anthrax exposure, I am even happier.)

Yes, I'm a geek. A geek with a gun, and a little blue-eyed, plushy microbe named "Nessie" (though I do not yet have virus DNA sequences on my iPod).

So I wanted to say this, only as a Ph.D. in science and a Mom. Get a flu shot because "regular" flu is more likely to kill you than China's coronavirus.  If you see symptoms, stay home, do NOT go to work and spread it.

Use the same precautions you would use in any flu season- staying home if you are sick, washing your hands with soap and HOT water. (How long to wash? Sing the Happy Birthday song while scrubbing, that's the right length of time, but avoid doing that out loud or often or people will call for professional help). Avoid those openly sick, or if family, use normal precautions in their care. Seek medical help immediately with a sustained high temperature and difficulty in breathing  (the China coronavirus attaches to your lung tissue to replicate in a manner much more aggressive than regular flu).  If you've flown or traveled to a country where the virus is widespread call the hospital before you arrive so they can be set up for necessary precautions as you are tested. As for those face masks (normally made in China), they will NOT help you outside of keeping you from touching your mouth or nose) as they aren't sealed and the virus has easy access to your mouth and skin. Don't panic, take normal precautions, and wash your hands a lot.  You have better odds of winning the lottery than dying from the China coronavirus.

 Barkley and my first virus "plushie"

Dad's Home - An Update and a Memory

Selling Dad's home this  last year to pay for his assisted living was tough. So many things I wished I could have brought home with me, but our  small Bungalow literally does not have the space for it, my husband's family memories already taking up a lot of space in our basement, so thankful we could have them.

We donated to charity all that we could, the small bits of furniture, the family photos and the framed photos and mementoa that meant a lot to him were salvaged for his new little apartment, but everything not sold at auction and not donatable items was put in the giant trash bin (you have no idea how much stuff one collects in 75 years and I pray you never have to be the one to clean it up). I'd been helping pay for his home health care, but after a couple of scares and falls he realized himself that he needed to go into assisted living. (He's welcome to live with us but does not want to leave the place where his two wives and two children are buried and jobs in our fields are NOT available there unless we want a 3-6 hour daily commute). So the house sale was a blessing.  I've delayed my retirement (I know, I can actually retire in 2021, I'm officially "old") in case the house money runs out but we should be good for another year and a half.  After that, my income will cover it (he makes too much with his military pension to qualify for medicaid for nursing home care). He's 100 this year, every day is a gift.

So for today, a memory of when he still had the place. On the plus side he's really enjoying assisted living as he's got a  nice room with a view of the forest (I have Chewy.com send him suet feeder squares every month and their maintenance guy, who gets a nice tip when I visit, puts them out every week in his feeders that we set up outside his window).   He gets a lot more social interaction with people like him, including  a WWII Vet and a Korean Vet I met last visit who beat me at poker and his former neighbors and some of my late brothers friends visit him regularly.
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There are a collection of these on the rail of the deck at the family homestead. Can any of you guess what they are?


After just a few days here, Dad is looking better. The nasty wound he got on his arm when he fell, is healing. The doctor couldn't find any organic reason for his getting dizzy, but adjusted his meds, which has seemed to help. My brother R. and I put up rails in the tub and in the bath so he has a little help if he needs it. My stepbrother helped with a rail by the front porch.  Still he's much more alert, out walking the dog and still looking anything but 91.


My room hasn't changed. The rainbow? (there's a full sized one on the other walls). I was a preteen and bored. I wanted to paint the walls. Dad said I could, but I could ONLY use the leftover paint in the garage. That's why I have rainbows made out of 1970's aqua, hot pink, orange and gold. Dad refused to paint over them.


My toys are still on display. (low light, not the best photo)


The family room has a wall of pride for each sibling. Here's one from my big brother R. Mine just has some airplane stuff and some diploma things and ribbon stuff, nothing much to see . The brother's Submarine wall itself, is pretty impressive and there's an Air Force wall up as well.


Time for dinner. Dad is pretty much Mr. "Meat and Potatoes". I don't think I had Mexican Food until I was 19. "Exotic" was spaghetti with garlic bread. For him tonight, roasted pork tenderloin, steamed veggies tossed with butter and a few dried cranberries and of course, garlic cheese bread and a PBR. Gourmet he's not, and will never apologize for not being trendy. Game, fish he caught himself, vegetables from his garden, bread his family members baked. That's all he needs to be happy.


Mom's needlepoint, still all around the house.


Ash, (short for Ashley) retired fire truck dog, sleeps. She won't be more than 10 feet away from Dad, for just about anything. At 11, she's slowing down, but so is Dad. Fast friends, they are. Ash belonged to a family member. With a new baby in the house, they didn't have the time a senior dog needed. Dad had TOO much time. It was a perfect fit.


Afternoon chores, the garage needs some tidying up. In the wooden cabinets that Dad built by hand, a catch of memories. The tear came unbidden, as did the big smile.(Note: I had to capture this in my last book "True Course Lessons From a Life Aloft"  - "In the shadows, Dad stored fishing gear. Everything meticulously kept, even as nets rotted, laying in wait with that spent but alert quality that aging things bear as if they doubted the absoluteness of their eventual discard, as if they will be necessary and needed tomorrow.")

After the chores are done, time for a little snack for all. A hand tossed pizza crust sprinkled with roasted garlic, Tillamook cheese, basil and rosemary and than baked with spicy marinara to dip it in.


You can't have snacks without a rousing game of cribbage. Dad, with referee Ash, won. Didn't just win every game He SKUNKED me on the last round. Of course, he then calls my brothers to tell them.


What kind of thing is that, rubbing it in that you are the king of the game board. No one else in the family would do such a thing!


I certainly wouldn't :-)

Tools

"Some say a gun is a killing instrument. Man is a killing instrument. A gun is only a tool, from which we have the pure mechanical force which can keep one alive or take a life. As a tool, it is as weak or as strong as he or she who holds it, as good or as bad as the collective soul that keeps it in working order. "

- Brigid, Home on the Range

Things That Go "Click click Click" In the Night.

C

Time: 4 o’clock a.m.-ish Place: The Johnson household, primarily bedroom areas. Abby Lab sleeps there, the doors to the living and dining room closed so she has the den/office (former master bedroom), our bedroom (and its deep walk-in closet with a dog bed), hallway and master bath to roam. Lorelei, sleep apnea snoring dog, is happily in her bed in her crate with her favorited stuffed toy in the living room.

Sounds: “Click click, click click.” “Whump!” - as a dog body hits the floor in the hallway outside the bedroom. "Heavy Sigh". “Click click click click click. Click Click Click Click”

 Husband Action: Gets up due to all the toenail noise on the hardwood. Finds small female fuzzy sweater fell off doorknob onto floor in front of the closet basically preventing a 85-pound hunting breed dog that can leap several feet into the air for a dog treat from entering the closet to sleep until the alarm. Removes sweater roadblock. Dog goes into closet to sleep.

Redhead Wife Action: Didn’t wake up, took opportunity with husband out of the bed to steal the remaining covers.

Garage Life - A Memory of my Submariner Brother

The song posted above, that I listened to this morning bought back so many memories. It was six years ago - my brother, a retired Submariner, working for Electric Boat, recently having died and myself still commuting between Indianapolis and Chicago as a newlywed not yet transferred to our Chicago office.  On that day, I headed out in the wee morning hours, back to the Newlywed Range where I'd be working from home that week. Between on-call and some travel, I'd not been home in two weeks and I missed it all, the dust, the grass that needed mowing and as always, that shop smell.  Partner in Grime was able to spend both weekends with me, driving down to Indy while I was on-call, but I missed home. 

Abby Lab, our new rescue settled right into her dog bed, happy to be back, and I headed on downstairs, to run a load of laundry and tackle a project downstairs. The Shopsmith stuff was in the garage with the latest British car project, but the walkout basement (with single bath) had been converted to a shop, with one corner of tables and cabinets (and a big tub sink) for prepping and brewing (the Range is known to make some wicked mead).

It's shadowed and it's old and it has little in the way of modern conveniences. But I like it that way.  It's a place where tools are old, wood is honed, metal is bent and burnt offerings are offered to Lucas, Prince of Darkness (or Dimness, depending upon your religious persuasion). It's easy to spend hours down there without realizing it, the space between tasks still composing time, yet consisting of minutes that no longer run straight ahead in diminishing allotment, but rather run parallel between, like looping bands of wiring, without apparent ending.

It is only when the light fades and the stomach growls that one looks up and notes the time, setting down the tools, rendering the machinery mute, returning upstairs to the house, a faint shadow against the steps in the fading West.

Most of my neighbor's cars arenow are parked in the driveway, their garages full of "stuff", boxes, bikes, lawn and exercise equipment, you name it.  When I was a kid, it seemed most of our cars were actually IN the garage. Ours was a dark green ranch house with a dark green Chevy Malibu in the garage.  Outside, at the front edge of the lawn, there was a huge tree that Mom loved, that draped its branches over the driveway like a canopy, filling up the gutters with leaves every year. 

No one seems to have their cars in their garages anymore. Is it because we now, as a society, amass more "stuff", or are we more transitory, moving more often, with those things that are precious to us, left in boxes in the garage in between?   It's a little bit of both, perhaps.

When I would spend my vacations visiting Dad after my Mom died, it seemed I always found a reason to visit the garage.  There was always an extra freezer out there, full of an assortment of bundled cow,  mysterious Tupperware labeled "Brussels sprouts" and "creamed peas" which we found out too late, were actually cookies that Mom squirreled away for Church Basement Ladies functions, knowing we'd not raid the "creamed peas".  There was lefse from the Son's of Norway Bake Sale.  There was always ice cream.

In the corner were he and Big Bro's golf clubs, in front of them, space where we used to park our bikes. My last one was a Huffy 10 speed that Dad waited hours to bid on at a police auction of unclaimed bikes, knowing how much  I wanted a new yellow Schwinn,  knowing he couldn't afford $100 for one.  He got it and cleaned it all up so it looked new.  I wasn't what I'd wanted, but it was much more, as it was offered with quiet and undiluted love, the faithful care and attention that most don't put into anything anymore. That was a lesson that I may not have recognized then, but I do today.

The biggest decorative item in the garage was the tacky Mexican bullfighting picture he bought for he and Mom's first home which was immediately banished to the garage.  It joined a well-used dartboard and other works of fine art that found a home in Dad's "man cave".

Off to one side of the garage was a big workbench, with cupboards built above for storage.  To the day the home sold, it had not changed, except for the calendar, always the smiling, buxom girl in shorts and a T-shirt or a swimsuit, selling tools or beer.

In the shadows of the other side of the garage were deep storage cabinets where Dad stored all his fishing and outdoor gear. Everything was meticulously kept in place, even as the fabric of the net rotted, laying in wait with that spent but alert quality that aging things bear as if they doubted the absoluteness of their eventual discard, as if they will be necessary and needed tomorrow.

There's just a single garage door. There's probably a small dent in the bottom of it. I tried to ride my bike at warp speed INTO the garage when the car was out and the door was partway up, planning on ducking, just not ducking enough.  It knocked me clean off my bike, but no permanent damage was done, really (twitch twitch). But the windows that once brought light in are covered so not to let potential burglars peer in to see if anyone is home, the neighborhood, no longer being the safe haven that it was.

In the driveway, there used to be a little VW Beetle,  Mom's official  Bug out Vehicle which later became my car. But the Chevy was always stored in the garage, but for that rainy weekends where we set up the Lionel trains on large pieces of sheet plywood, spray-painted green, sitting on trestles. Old Pringle containers were fastened underneath to hold the tracks, and we'd run the trains along frantic loops of a track until our stomachs growled and the fading evening light illuminated them like silvered spider webs that run off into the distance.  Only then, on Sunday night, were the trains put away amidst the other supplies.

When the weather was good, Dad would work at his bench while we'd get a Wiffle bat and send that ball down the drive towards the road, into that conundrum of physics and aerodynamics that never failed to fascinate me.  More than one go-cart was assembled out in the drive with Dad's advice and more than a few of his tools.

As we got older, the trains we played with were replaced by Big Bro's first car. He and his friends were forever tinkering with something they bought cheap and fixed up.  One day while I was hanging around, just to be close to him,  as he was changing the oil, he handed me a  wrench and said: "let me show you how to do this".  I asked, "why?" His voice stopped for a moment, though his tone remained in the air, like when the needle is lifted off an old record album by the hand of someone wondering if someone else hears the same music.

I was listening. He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow and said, with a steadiness that told me I needed to listen, "   you need to learn how to do some of this yourself.   I won't always be here, but you will always have yourself." 

Salt and truth. He knew me better than I knew myself.  To my Dad I would always be his little girl, to protect and to care for.  But Big Bro recognized that  I was not the type to be happy dependent on someone, fated to dependency, to settle for flesh and bone durable enough to do battle for both of us, while I stood in the shadows, the inviolate bride of silence, doomed to fail. He saw that, though it was a while and some tears before I learned it for myself.

So I learned how to change my oil and a tire, to do a basic tune-up, and keep my car in running order. While female classmates were frosting each other's hair blonder, I was putting Purple Horny Headers on my VW Bug (it was still a Bug, but you could hear me coming 5 blocks away) while we listened to an old transistor radio.  I learned the safe handling of tools and what was used for what purpose, working together out in the garage as if our forms were joined by some mechanical arm. We'd work until my arms ached, fading light drowsing on the floor like a drop cloth, slowed down by fatigue but still motion, still inevitable. Only when Mom, or later Dad, called us into supper, would we quit.

On my last trip out to check on Dad before his house went up for sale as he went into Assisted Living by his own choice, I made my trip to the garage as I always do.  The car was gone, he'd given it to my brother when he wasn't able to drive any longer and when my brother passed it went to his son.  In its former space were boxes and boxes of life, all of Big Bro's things, carefully packed for his children to take, most of the clothes going to charity, a few pieces of his sub memorabilia on my dresser now, the rest, simple, still shadows.  Still, I could see past them, to what was there, so long before.

I stayed just long enough to take out the trash to the barrel outside and to check the freezer to see if I needed to buy Dad some more ice cream for his last few days in his home.  It was hard to see inside, my eyes misty, breathing in the bracing density of cold air laced with pine and motor oil, a smell I loved, even after all those years. It is the smell of morning's breath, full of wood and silence.

Before I closed the garage door, I stood for just a moment, looking deep into this familiar space, out onto the driveway, shaded by Mom's old tree. For just a moment, the boxes were gone from my vision, replaced by a memory of hands and tools and laughter. I could almost see my big brother there, the shifting green shimmer of persistent leaves creating an illusion of shadow, of form within, working away until Mom called us in for supper.

It was in that driveway he finally collapsed, tending to Dad as we both have always done.  We later asked ourselves, if he'd tended more to himself, and less to the family;  had he shared the pain he was hiding, would he have had a few months longer?  But that is just who he was, always a submariner, always on the quiet watch, the risk and the fear of death second to those things which men store within the depths of a human heart.

The tragedy is, not that he was gone so soon, but that he was no longer here to see what remained, the hearts he repaired, the things that he built that can't be contained in one's hands. He went full speed up to the end, not wanting to extinguish his thirsting heart, but only to slake it.

As I stood on the step from the garage to the laundry room, hitting the button for the garage door, I  took in the sight, the smell of it. I can't imagine him not being here, something that just IS, like the loud CRACK of a bat hitting a Wiffle ball, the bounce of a bicycle off of gravel as kids come careening into home, the way an old baseball game seeps out of a transistor radio as a loved one works away, sounds that echo even as the door closes and darkness descends.

 - Brigid

Hair of the Dog

I have friends that get together each month to sample different types of Scotch.  It's an evening of camaraderie, sensible drinking, and lots of old stories.

A recent selection was as above  The group overall preferred the  Deanston  I've found it just a tad too sweet for my taste, but overall, a very nice choice.  Of the four the guys selected, I like the Benriach, a wonderful inexpensive scotch for the new palate, nice, but more complex than some of the others in its age and price group that are more well-known names. The little bit of almond (marzipan?) undertone is a surprise along with the peat.

But it's always fun to try new ones, or old ones that seemed too expensive, until one day you realized you don't work your rear off and have people occasionally try and kill you just to drink cheap hooch.

This is a group with some history.  This is a group that knows what's important.  Duty, honor and really good scotch.

The one that got the most attention for that Monday Night Scotch Club, if only for the Donnie Darko style ghost dog on the bottle (since re-designed) and its somewhat unique original Twitter launch (seriously?  Twitter?) was the Cù Bòcan from the distillers Tomatin.  It gets its name from the legend of a spectral dog, Cù Bòcan, who has haunted that Highland village for many years, his legend embellished by his increasing fractious behavior (I'd be cranky too if a peated beverage was only made one week a year).

Sightings are rare, once in a generation, it is said, and always terrifying. A distillery worker, out walking late, was once relentlessly pursued by the formidable black beast, steam spiraling from flared nostrils, fangs showing against a maw, dark as spilled blood, only to have the creature dissolve before his eyes, as he reached out a trembling hand in mercy.  He stood there, the taste of ash on his tongue, as all that was left was but a vacuum of bitten silence as a dark cloud of smoke disappeared across the moorland.

I wish the beverage drew me in as well as the tale.   It's perhaps just showing it's youth, I'd be happy to try it again in a couple of years.  But it's very sharp citrus, almost too sharp, at first, though tempered with a bit of ginger.  Then there is the initial promise of burned love letters, drying down to overcooked popcorn and peppered ash. The feel on the tongue was the butter intended for the popcorn.  It wasn't bad, but for lack of better description, the Scotch Club simply labeled this one as "Chewy and Oily". 

The Hound of the Baskervilles, it wasn't.

Still, we'll see how that old dog matures, it might be a nice surprise in a few years as the distiller was quite candid when they stated in the launch that the first batch was only 18,000 bottles and the peated element is only aged 8 years, even if in some nice virgin oak, bourbon and sherry casks. 

But I admit, I was suckered in by the ghostly dog story. What is it about a ghost story that draws one in? Few people truly believe that headless ghosts haunt Celtic castles, that restless spirits chase the shadows in every abandoned old farmhouse. Most of us go through life, not observing what was not meant to be observed.

But sitting in a darkening room, the light dancing on a glass bottle or two, the taste of smoke and the moors on one's tongue, one can't help but summon up the genuine wonder for those things that are never truly explained. I believe that despite our outward desire for explanation and logic, most members of the public would rather tell stories of haunted trestles than listen to a litany of logic.
For despite our modern conveniences, our science, and technology, can we not be surprised that modern man still feels that shadowed belief in spirits, haunting those places in which they were once so affected, when we ourselves scarcely separate ourselves from past lives and past longing, ever hovering over bygone times and all their emotions, in late-night, darkened hours, lingering in the past places in which we were loved. Hoping in the dark misty hills of our hearts, we will remember and be remembered.

For despite our technology, we are still dreamers. Certainly, I know one woman that is, even if she is still a big kid at heart.

As Shakespeare said.: We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

Whether our dreams are that of coherent order and forensic logic or haunting memory of those places we wish we could revisit, I can't help but think just how small my being is. How infinitesimal within the world's workings, the grand chaotic design. As the wind picks up a howl, across open land,, I'll light a small lamp.  For suddenly, I feel very insignificant. Insignificant and small, as moonlight flits amongst the shroud of tree branches, the wind tapping on the window like a ghostly finger, the night but one last lamenting kiss.

Off in the distance, comes the keening howl of a dog. - Brigid

Mondays

Meetings all day. I'll be back with you all later.