The Autoclast – Page 3 – Mine & Mine Alone

A Different Kind of Freedom

My COVID Journals.

The numbers have come down, in the northeastern United States at least. Numbers are going up in the south, out west, in Texas. Coronavirus and COVID-19 aren’t going away anytime soon, but life in New York is almost normal again.

This was not the case three months ago. By mid-March, our local political leaders were starting to try to do something, anything, often contradicting each other and postponing vital decisions. We were told to stay home except for essential tasks, and in short order, various employers started work-from-home plans where possible.

I’m not going to look up the details of what decisions occurred when, or what the body count was week-on-week, day-on-day. I started keeping a diary, partly to keep myself sane. When every day is in the same 500 square-foot apartment, and more and more people are dying daily, it’s good to have a hobby.

In late March I seem to have been playing it by ear. Would I go out? Would I need to? What was my normal routine? Yet by early April I was writing “Stayed Inside” a lot.

There were some challenges early on. David and I talked about whether to visit one another and we decided not to, partly because he’s old enough to be (in the knowledge of that time at least) in a vulnerable group, and I was safer staying at home while he was out in the open for work. I also started a new job and got to witness the company figuring out how to do all the normal hiring things, like paperwork and delivering a new laptop – when I couldn’t go in to the office.

On April 5 I took my car for a drive around Manhattan. I don’t believe cars should sit idle too long, and it had been a couple of weeks since I drove.

On April 11 my paddling club had a virtual meeting using Zoom. After that, David stopped by, and we went for a walk. We both wore masks, I wore gloves, and we met in the garage, where he dropped off his bike.

On April 20, he dropped off some toilet paper for me, having bought a large quantity, on his way to work. I didn’t leave the building; I met him at the entrance.

By late April, I’d adjusted to a new routine. I would stay inside for a week at a time, and save my outdoor requirements for a single day. There are a lot of “Stayed Inside the Apartment” entries.

By mid-May, however, I was starting to venture outside more. On May 9 I drove to David’s and spent the better part of the weekend there. Later in the week, he had some downtime at work and was able to sneak in a dinner visit to my place.

By that point, the numbers were beginning to decline.

In early May I went kayaking a couple of times. My club had worked out some rules for keeping the total number of people at the boathouse low, as well as cleaning equipment. All the same I was very paranoid. Once, I walked home in my drysuit, wearing nitrile gloves, even though it was nearly eighty degrees and sunny.

Besides paddling, I ventured out more and more in general. My neighbors had a get-together in the courtyard. I met up with a friend for a walk. I was more willing to go to the store.

I still stayed inside a lot.

For the past six weeks, life has gotten progressively more “normal”, with frequent reminders of how not-normal things are. I’ve gone up to David’s house a few weekends, and in the suburbs, we can walk around in the yard without a mask. We went out for walks in parks, we even got to a point where, as you can see, I lost track of time – what did I do which day? Did I stay inside? Did I go to the store? The new normal set in. Whatever I did, it was “normal”.

I know I went to a suburban grocery store for the first time. Mask on, basket, sanitizer, do my shopping, stand in a well-spaced line after negotiating the one-way aisles. I’ve taken a first aid course in a state park – a small class, masks on, distancing as much as possible. I’ve developed a fatalistic streak even. I advocate masks and distancing and minimizing time away from home, but when things need to be done, they be done.

With takeout, and grocery orders, and occasional walks to get coffee or bodega runs . . . this is the new normal. We watch and wait to see if the numbers go up, or down, locally, nationally, globally. We silently judge people for wearing masks, or not wearing masks; for opening too soon or overreacting. That’s new normal too.

Wearing a mask is the simplest thing one can do. It’s a kindness to others; it protects oneself too.It’s frustrating, it’s silly, it muffles out voices, but makes a difference. Places where people wear masks have lowered their infection rates.

We can argue about whose fault it is, or how we should spend money to address the problem, but most importantly we have to address the problem. Official guidelines in the US are being treated as optional; speed limits where there is no enforcement. There is not enough testing, and therefore data, to make the kind of fine-tuned decisions that everyone wants. Too many politicians want to be the cool parent who lets their kids run free, only to find the have to be the responsible parent when they come back from spring break with a highly contagious respiratory illness.

The numbers are going up. Various states are rolling back their opening plans. I don’t plan to start another COVID journal. I hope I don’t have to. Nonetheless, July 4 or thereabouts marked a different sort of Independence Day.

Portal al Verano

Memorial Day Weekend: now with more memorial.

Here is the current state of affairs, as we walk over Memorial Day weekend here in the United States, into the summer.

In New York State, the daily death rate due to Coronivirus is reported to have fallen below 100. While terrible, that is amazing compared to the peak near 800 just a few weeks ago.

The state has also announced criteria for regional emergence from “New York on Pause”, and some parts of the state are reopening for business. New York City, however, is at least a month away from being able to re-open. Also while the state is allowing beaches to open, the city is not.

Farther afield, various states have lifted various restrictions on activity, and everyone is eying the effects. Meanwhile, the cumulative death toll due to Coronavirus is approaching 100,000 for the nation.

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve experienced a change in general emotional state. It’s a strange thing to remember how one felt just a short while ago, in contrast to the present.

I remember the end of March and early April, a period I generally refer to as, “when the city was on fire”, when every day brought new developments, new highs in infection rates and body counts, along with grim anecdata like refrigerated trucks being used as makeshift morgues and a Navy ship being brought in as a hospital. Death was right outside my window, right outside my door. Death touched every doorknob, every handle, every package, the slightest piece of mail.

I washed every grocery, and would toss my keys into a sink filled with soapy water when returning from outside. If I drove my car, I kept my mask on in the car. I stayed inside my apartment for over a week at a time, FaceTiming with David, using Teams with my co-workers, and Zoom with my club. It was a state of terror I hadn’t felt since the days immediately after 9/11.

Now, however, I’ve grown more lax. More data leads to changes in behavior. Supposedly surfaces are a less potent vector than other peoples’ exhalations. I still stay in my apartment during the week but have ventured out on weekends, either to David’s house or to walk in the park with him, to go to the grocery store or, in a couple of cases, to go kayaking at my club’s boathouse.

Three weeks ago I still felt like an astronaut; nowadays, more like a warm-water scuba diver. Some assembly is still required, but less than before, and it’s more routine.

Talking with others, taking in the news and the comments and the opinions all around, there seems to be an overall feeling of having shifted into a new sense of what is normal; whereas in the beginning there was a bit of a lark, ha ha we’re going into quarantine, oh my working from home is a zany new concept, look at me I’m baking with all this time on my hands. Now, there is experience on the one hand and a track record on the other.

We’re all experienced with whatever changes in our lives we’ve had to make. The novel is no longer new; it’s routine. For myself, I was already working from home before the pandemic occurred, and the only real changes have been 1) not going out for a daily constitutional and 2) not kayaking nearly as much.

The track record of governments and employers has come under scrutiny, and while it’s easy to forgive mistakes at the beginning (even if it’s debatable “when” this all began), three months since documented arrival of the virus in the United States and its subsequent spread, there is plenty of blame to go around.

Were controls put in place for people returning from abroad? Were necessary medical supplies procured or ordered? Were restrictions enacted wisely, and were they too soon or too late? What about economic adjustments for the thousands of businesses and millions of workers thrown out of work?

Also, not to forget, this is an election year, and America is less than six months away from its quadrennial decision about who gets to lead the country.

Summer is here, and the weather is nice. The world we live in today is not the world we will live in tomorrow; it certainly is not the world we lived in very recently. Things are better, but not good; improved, but disaster looms right around the corner.

That is the state of affairs as we pass through this gateway to summer.

A Walk in the Parks

An outing during the pandemic.

David and I saw each other in person last Saturday, the day before Easter, for the first time in at least three weeks. Work assigned him the week off – something kinda normal, not virus-related – and he needed to drop the truck off at work, with a plan to bike home.

I met him at the garage entrance for my building. We put his bike next to my car, and he put on some warmer layers and walking shoes. We were both wearing masks; I was also wearing gloves, and offered a pair to him. Fully sorted, we walked up to Fort Tryon Park.

This was a variation of my ongoing dilemma: do I invite someone in to my apartment, potentially violating the sanctity of cleanliness, or do I meet them outside, exposing myself to contamination? I know on the one hand that I am overreacting to the possibility of contagion, but on the other hand – the virus causes a terrible illness, and there is a non-zero chance of contracting it with every exposure to the outside world.

Well, I wanted to see my boyfriend, and at this point, there were some risks I was willing to take.

Walking along, we learned a new normal of monitoring spacing between us and Others; silently judging groups that spread out in a wide line, like volunteers looking for a missing person in a field, or groups of children or young people, randomly veering in and out of the flight paths of others. Some parents admonished their children to stay near. Some work masks, and others did not.

In the park itself, we felt things were a bit crowded on what previously might have been a normal day. We walked through the flower garden and quickly ventured down to one of the overlooks, gazing at the bridge and the Palisades across the water. It was a beautiful day, nary a cloud in the sky, bright with the promise of spring.

We continued on, following a path I don’t believe I’ve ever walked, taking the opportunity to explore as well as avoid the more commonly used paths. Eventually we connected back to the main route and went up some stairs to the Stan Michels Promenade, where we sat on a bench and David had the lunch I’d made for him – three-bean chili served over rice and eggplant, in a thermos jar.

We compared notes on making the chili, since we’ve both given it a shot. We also talked about roasting vegetables, and listened to music coming from a boombox not far away. I danced a bit, posing more than dancing.

On we went, until we decided it was more crowded than we cared for, and we walked back towards my neighborhood. Along the way, I wanted to stop at my local grocery store, and as we walked up the sidewalk from the east, the sun in our eyes, I turned into the store and there was a woman gatekeeping there.

We hadn’t realized there was a line, snaking back in the opposite direction, to the west. A well-spaced, orderly line of people wearing masks, under the scaffolding for some building work being done next door. I apologized; I felt like a jerk. Across the street we were able to discern the line for another grocery store.

Because of social distancing, it’s hard to make out the lines. They look like a series of people waiting for a ride pickup.

On we went, defaulting to my original plan of stopping at the Korean bodega. Here, there were two men standing outside, separate from one another, but they were not a line. I went inside and was able to get the things that were missing from my grocery order earlier this week, plus some additional items I figured I might need sooner rather than later. Korean bodega for the win.

We wanted to keep walking, so we proceeded to the bottom of the hill and walked over the pedestrian overpass to the bike path along the Henry Hudson Parkway. Usually I take this route walking or riding to the boathouse, but today we turned south and proceeded down the switchback that leads to the shoreline and the Little Red Lighthouse. All the while, still wearing our masks.

We passed some young men working out together, and a couple of skateboarders were at the top of the hill waiting for traffic to slow enough that they could ride down. We saw equipment at the base of the bridge tower, presumably related to the refurbishment project high above.

At the Little Red Lighthouse, the tide was low and we clambored down to take some pictures of each other in front of the lighthouse. We made light of the requirement for social distancing, staging each other in poses implying the presence of the other.

By then, the evening hours were creeping in, and David would still need to bike home, preferably in daylight. We made our way uphill, retracing our steps, across the overpass and to the garage, where the beginning occurred in reverse: he took off layers down to his biking clothes, put on his cycling shoes, and everything left went into his backpack. We said goodbye, both noting it was a special afternoon.

I picked up a package from my doorman, and once in my apartment followed my usual protocol: coat and outer layers, as well as shoes and socks, removed in the entrance; mask removed, keys and wallet dropped on the floor for later cleaning; gloves peeled off, followed by a thorough soapy washing of hands, arms, and face.

That was our afternoon together.

Food Under Orders

David reports that at the Northvale Shop Rite, they were only allowing fifty customers in at a time and, after eyeing the length, he and his friend drove to Stop & Shop, where there was no line. He lives near the state line between New York and New Jersey, and basically Shop Rite is in New Jersey and Stop & Shop is in New York, so whether this is a difference in states or stores, we’re not sure.

I have heard from other people in both states of lines at stores, a similar symptom with a very different cause as often compared to lines in the Soviet Union. There is plenty of food, though some things run out quickly. The challenge is that they want to keep people as far apart as possible.

At the Stop & Shop, aisles were designated one-way; like streets, presumably to help people avoid running into each other with cross traffic. One imagines a lengthy assembly line where the worker moves along the tracks, collecting their required parts for final assembly at home. Everyone wears masks.

Contrast all of this with my own experience in Manhattan. I have long used a grocery delivery service, one that until recently was excellent. They still are, but if you go to their website they basically advise to check delivery availability first, and nothing is available for at least a week.

My local “posh” grocer has had a delivery service for a while, and I’ve used it twice now. They’re not really that posh; they have some fancy things, but the non-fancy things are reasonably priced. The first time I ordered delivery, they delivered to the apartment in the other building, which is an easy mistake to make. Yesterday they dropped off my delivery in the right place, and early to boot.

In both cases though, my orders were missing items because they’re run out. There are methods they use to put in substitutes, but I expect they have their limits.

This leads to my chief conundrum: do I venture outside to seek these items on my own, or forgo them until the next time I need to order groceries?

I generally settle for the latter but two days ago, I realized I’d forgotten to order hummus, and it was too late to add hummus to the order, and I knew I would want hummus, so I put on my coat and shoes and extra layer of pants, and my mask and a scarf and gloves, and I walked up to the Korean bodega, and I bought not only hummus but some produce that the posh story had been empty of, and some chocolate, and some Omega-3 nut mix for snacking on. Oh and I picked up six bottles of wine from the wine store because I like them and want them to stay in business.

If only I’d known then what wouldn’t show up, I’d have gotten that. This leads me to realize I need to be more systematic about my grocery shopping. In the past, if I ran short of anything, my worst case was some inconvenience in having to ugh put on shoes and coat and walk five minutes up the hill, buy that thing, and walk five minutes back down.

Now, to do so means breaking a streak of staying in home. It means following my meager protocol of excursions, summarized more or less as:

There is a “dirty” coat that stays near the door and is not hung with other coats.
I wear gloves and a mask. A hat or scarf as well to cover my head.
I wear shoes that are easy to don and doff.
When I return, pants and socks stay in the hot zone.
Goods stay in the decontamination zone. Anything that requires refrigeration gets cleaned and stowed within an hour or two, but everything else stays in the hot zone.
Eventually items in the hot zone get either 1) washed in soapy water or 2) stowed once whatever material they are has been inside long enough for the virus to no longer be a threat.

It’s exhausting just thinking about it.

On the other hand, I’ve bought and cooked and frozen so much food that I really have run out of room and containers. I may not always be able to have what I want, but I have enough food that if I had to, yeah I could stay inside for two weeks.

And that, thankfully, is more than a lot of people can say. So, no complaints.

Touch

I count in my head the number of touches I need to accomplish anything outside of my apartment.

the door to the laundry room, coming and going, washing and drying: four.
to the grocery store: the two doors for my building, coming and going (4), the basket (1-ish?). Minimizing the handling of goods: five minimum, but not accounting for proximity to people in the aisles.
going for a walk: the four for my building door as above, although if I’m lucky I can draft on the doors that use mechanical assistance to stay open longer while still maintaining social distance.
to the garage below my building: the breezeway door, the door at the top of the stairwell, the door at the bottom of the stairwell. I debate whether it’s better to touch or hip-bump the first of those, which has a horizontal press-bar to open from the inside. In any case, yikes, that’s six touches just to go to the car.

And so it goes. As of March 20, we’ve not been ordered locked down, or quarantined, or “shelter in place”, in either the Empire State of New York or the great city of New York, but I have essentially been practicing that. I was already working from home before the outbreak occurred, so it’s been easy for me to simply stay inside as much as possible.

That said – when our mayor, who resisted closing public schools and was still going to the gym hours before a ban on that went into effect, said that New Yorkers might want to plan to shelter in place, that was the one moment of true panic I had. What groceries did I have on hand? Would there be a run at the market as nine million people across five boroughs rushed to stock up? Should I get in my car and evacuate to the suburbs, where my significant other has a house?

I decided to stay, mostly on two key assumptions. One is that, despite living in an apartment building in one of the largest cities in the world, I am alone in my apartment, as isolated as a person can get. The other is that, while David and I were planning to spend next week together, which we both have off, it’s not clear whether I’d be able to come back home afterwards, and the nature of his job is such that he is out and around people constantly.

Even at that, the job has changed just in the past couple of days. He works in television news, driving the truck, shooting and editing video, then transmitting it back to the station. They stopped having reporters do “man on the street” interviews, since that inherently breaks social distancing, and recently, he’s not been driving with reporters – alone in a truck.

A shared truck, mind you, though even that appears to be about to change.

This was the hardest decision of all. I was looking forward to a long week with my loved one, neither of us having to go to work, spending time with each other, and maybe getting some work done ’round the house. Even here I counted touches: the keypad on the lock, and visits to the grocery stores there.

It’s clear we’re in a different world now, and it’s one that will continue, in varying degrees, for months to come.

Coronavirus and COVID19

It’s Thursday, March 12, the day after the President announced that the US was banning flights by non-citizens from Europe, except the UK, for thirty days.

David called me last night to say he was working at the station and about to watch Fearless Leader. When I called, since it’s our usual talk-time, he asked if I was watching. Why would I be watching? Anything important that comes out of that man’s mouth, I can read a day later in a reputable news outlet.

“You should watch,” he said.

I’d missed the part about the travel ban at the top. I watched as the most deadpan, first-pass script-reading session proceeded apace. I had questions, but it would take a while to process. A great economy. Virus doesn’t stand a chance. It was clear what the priorities in this speech were.

David had been considering a ski holiday in Europe. Every year, he takes some kind of exotic ski trip, and most years in the past five, it’s been to Austria or Switzerland. Far from civilization, atop the peaks and glaciers of the Alps, he’s with a small group skiing from hut to hut for about a week. We had been worried about airports, but the majority of his time would be away from crowds.

There was a really good trip in the Alps shaping up, as well as some alternates in Norway. First he had to confirm getting the time off, which he did, but by that point the virus had spread to Italy, and we were wondering if or when it would get to Austria. That was perhaps two weeks ago, and if last week was a search of flights, this week was, the Austria trip was outright cancelled by the organizers, and now the entire continent was mooted.

We were both considering domestic travel, but at this point we would rule out airplanes. A driving holiday is about the most we would expect.

I already have one friend who’s holed up with his wife in a cabin in the Catskills, large quantities of dried foods (rice, legumes) handy, in a remote area where they can ride out the worst. His advice, only half-joking, mirrors two others I’ve heard from: go get the virus now. Get sick now, before the hospitals are overwhelmed. Get it, get through it, be done with it.

This sounds bonkers to me, at first. I understand the logic – embrace the inevitable – but that wouldn’t work for anyone who’s caring for others, especially the vulnerable. I would go further to say it’s almost a grasp at having control: I will choose the time of the battle, even if I can only choose to make it sooner rather than later.

In the meantime, the rapid escalation in the past forty-eight hours has me, for the first time, worried. Maybe I should be stockpiling food, and cleaning supplies, and deciding where I want to live in the event that I can’t leave for a few weeks.

For several months I have been one of those “work from home” people. It’s a topic deserving of its own post sometime, but suffice it to say, it’s been an adjustment. Now, however, it’s all over the news: companies are telling employees to work from home if at all possible.

The emails started last week, maybe the week before. I work for a consultancy, which is in turn owned by a larger consultancy, and between the two I get staffed at other companies, so I have been receiving all sorts of internal emails. We’ve gone from “no unnecessary international travel” to “we’re not sure how to handle the ban that was launched last night”, along with “Campus X is closed”, and of course helpful reminders on how to use technology to work remotely.

On the other hand, my more left-wing acquaintances have been reminding everyone on social media that not everyone has this choice to make. People who must be present – cab drivers, construction workers, store employees, and certainly doctors and pharmacists – can’t exactly do their jobs remotely. Many of these same people won’t have the safety nets that us office drones have, either: savings and other emergency funds to dig into if things get really bad. Furthermore, despite precautions, they’re inherently at greater risk than someone who is single and could, if she wanted to, stay in her apartment for days at a time.

The above all bears repeating even if you’re not a lefty-wing person.

Today, I had my first cancellation of a call due to “dealing with coronavirus” by a customer. I’ve previously had chats with others in the idle moments before a call properly starts – the small talk while we wait for others to join. It doesn’t feel like small talk anymore.

Part of adjusting to a work-from-home job was recognizing that I needed to keep some sort of schedule that isn’t driven by my calendar, and to get outside and go for a walk. At least twice a day I go for a short walk in my neighborhood, and I frequently put off little errands to ensure I have something to do each day: drop off sweaters for mending, pick up some salsa, go get a fancy coffee (Wednesdays, an almond milk turmeric chai latte).

But now I wonder, do I need to go to those places? Even doing laundry in my building, I wonder how many other people have touched the handle to the laundry room, how many have opened and closed the washer and dryer machines? Even the gym – I’ve decided not to go for a while, even though I’d like to work out more. Despite precautions, I’m not going to avoid thinking about the worst.

And yes, I am washing my hands thoroughly.

The latest – as of about 1430 Eastern, Thursday March 12 – in New York is that gatherings of more than five hundred people are now prohibited; New Jersey is capping gatherings at two hundred and fifty. This of course affects Broadway shows, as well as concerts and sports events. Some NYC public schools are closing as well; the challenge there is that public schools are often the front end of social services, so closing them affects far more than education: they are where many children get food, medical services, and counseling. The Mets (Museum, Opera) will be closing as well.

That is all there is to say about that.

Re-Enactment

I live near Fort Tryon Park in New York City, site of the Battle of Fort Washington, one of several important battles fought by the retreating Continental Army during the American Revolutionary War.

The park is near the top of a sizable hill in the area, and the lawn where the re-enacting took place is just below the redoubts where Margaret Corbin took her husband’s place in battle after his injury, continuing the canon fire against the oncoming Hessian and British troops. She was badly wounded, but survived.

I was able to briefly attend a re-enactment of the battle, an event held annually in the park. It was, as our local parks administrator put it, a low-key affair. A small tent formed the “headquarters” for the re-enactors. There was one fellow dressed as George Washington himself, and perhaps half a dozen Americans dressed in non-uniform “uniforms”, just as the actual Continental Army was.

About three redcoats showed up, mostly from New Jersey; according to one, Monmouth County has a sizable number of re-enactors. Driving over the George Washington Bridge (ironically) and its $15 toll was the greatest deterrent to British invasion.

Several amateur historians had laid out tables with printouts of articles and biographies they’d written. It was a bit windy, and cold; fortunately the New Leaf cafe in the park provided complimentary hot cider and small pastries. There were also laminated reprints of old newspaper articles about the re-enactment; one that I read dated back over a century.

One woman dressed in period garb led fifteen-minute “tours” of Margaret Corbin’s life. The main road through the park is named for her (Margaret Corbin Drive), and she’s something of a local hero: troubled childhood, married young, and followed her husband, who served as a cannon loader in the Continental Army. In the battle, as he fell injured, she took his place, and was later captured, but released to care for the inform, while many of her fellow soldiers were sent to languish in British prison ships in the East River.

I waited and waited for the battle to start; even the re-enactors were unclear as to when; I suspect they were waiting for a sizable crowd. Loudspeakers were set up playing Colonial-era fife & drum music; children played happily with stick-and-hoop sets, which looked remarkably more fun than is commonly expected in the modern era of franchise toys and mobile device games.

I spoke with a couple of the re-enactors, both on the British side. One was a woman who not only clearly loved the history behind the uniforms and gear, but was also very good at explaining it all, to children and adults alike. I asked her about the tall, pointed fur hats they wore, and she said basically, they were meant to make the already tall, robust assault troops known as Grenadiers look even taller and more robust.

A fellow re-enactor said he’d been at this for eighteen years, and later, seemed to take the role of commanding the other two troops as they walked in parade drills.

As I looked around, I tried to imagine the landscape largely devoid of human activity; mostly farmland, even Native American country. No Bronx rooftops, or long winding drive with an NYC taxi cab racing behind the Continental Army. Imagining the park without the grooming and care that it gets now, imagining what it would have been like to race up and down hills delivering messages, sighting cannons at incoming enemy troops; being fired upon, and stormed by large men in red coats, with burning matches hanging from their collars, hurling explosives and wielding large, pointy bayonets affixed to their muskets. Despite the small showing, the scene was very vivid to me.

Unfortunately, I gave up on waiting; it was cold, and I had work to do. Still, it was good fun, feeling a part of that history, and a part of the neighborhood. Having just completed reading a biography of George Washington, the battle and its importance in American history was still fresh in mind, and it was a great feeling to experience it, however vicariously, with a simple walk in my neighborhood.

Renaming History

“Man at the Community Board meeting wants to rename Fort Tryon Park,” said the Engineer.

“To what? Did he offer any other names to ‘try on’?” The Musician scooped up butter for his toast, and they settled down around the table.

“That is silly,” said Madame. “It has always been Fort Tryon Park.”

“That’s what the woman from Parks said. Fort Tryon Park. So named since the Revolution.” The Engineer carefully sliced his eggs open, to let the runny bits spill out. “But he opposed it since that was the name of the English governor at that time. Said the man tried to kidnap George Washington himself. Rather, he hired or ordered men to attempt that.”

“Sounds like he was just doing his job,” said the Musician.

“Well that’s what I thought. But also apparently the governor was considered cruel even by his own people.”

“The British?”

“Presumably so. All up and down the East Coast. He was governor of North Carolina before that.”

“Perhaps it is not so terrible an idea,” said Madame. “I mean, it is strange to keep a park named after an opposing side’s leader. Especially since everything else around here is named after George Washington.”

“Every melody has its counter,” said the Musician.

“I feel things should maintain their history no matter how ignoble. And, in any case, the woman from Parks said even the Americans back then called it Fort Tryon. Even though it was originally part of the Fort Washington defenses, after the Americans were defeated, it was renamed Fort Tryon and after the war no one bothered to rename it.”

“How strange,” said Madame.

“After that, it was essentially private property until the Rockefellers gave it to the city and it became the park it is today.”

“It occurs to me,” said the Musician, “that perhaps there is wisdom in keeping the name as it is. Would we even be talking about this Tryon man if not for the name of the park?”

“We could name it after Margaret Corbin,” said Madame. “She was the wife of an American solider who took his place on the line when he was injured. She only has the road named after her. Margeret Corbin Drive.”

“Now that is an idea I could get behind,” said the Engineer. “But the bigger question is, do we bother honoring our enemies, at least those we defeated? The British won the battle and renamed the fort, but lost the war. Perhaps little informational signs in the park.”

“I do not know. I only go there for the flower garden. And the view.” Madame sighed as she sipped her coffee.

A Close Encounter

Aunt Julie is not Mary Poppins.

Forties on 181

. . .the cars stand out on their own, irrespective of plot.

A recent film shoot brought an array of interesting, old-timey cars. There was a similar yet smaller array a few months ago, for what I later learned was a shoot for a film version of Philip Roth’s The Plot Against America, which is set in the early 1940s, in an alternate history wherein Charles Lindbergh defeats Franklin Delano Roosevelt for President, largely on an isolationist and anti-semitic campaign platform.

While that sounds bleak, the cars stand out on their own, irrespective of plot.

Black Cadillac, Film Shoot. July 2019
Blue Dodge. Film Shoot. July 2019
Buick Eight. Film Shoot. July 2019
Old Car. Film Shoot. July 2019
Box Truck. Film Shoot. July 2019

It’s the Caddy that really caught my eye. That thing was a beaut.

“Long, black Cadillac,” indeed.

While the Dodge was equally gorgeous, I was able to get closer to a Buick Eight, not quite as shiny, but seemingly all the more lovable for it.

Look at that grille!

And now, the interior:

Buick Eight (interior). Film Shoot. July 2019

Back to a time of bench seats and solenoid buttons. I had to wonder, what would people then make today of our touchscreens for everything from music to phone calls to navigation?

There were some more cars staged down the block. Here’s the rest.