Out of Lockdown: On se déconfine

My favorite poet is Emily Dickinson and confinement has made me feel closer to her. She was a recluse, never leaving her father’s home, where she lived till her death. She gardened, wrote, walked her dog at night, and baked bread and cakes. Except for the dog part, it sounds a lot like the life I’ve led these past two months. In many ways, it’s been a good life, contemplative and relaxed. I’ve followed an inner rhythm and lived at a slower pace, which can only be good for a hyperactive person like me.

But I’m one of the fortunate ones. I have not lost my job, I never go hungry, my French health insurance never lets me down. Though I live modestly, I sit on a cushion of security that most Americans lack. It is not hard to understand why many are ready to get back to work—while risking their lives.

Which brings me to the heart of the matter: on May 11th, lockdown came to an end in France. After 55 days of restricted freedom and more than 26,000 deaths, the French are going back to work and school and discovering that ending confinement may be even harder than putting it into place.

At the time I write, Schuylkill Countians have not yet attained the degree of freedom that today is mine. You are still under a stay-at-home order. Schools are closed; strict social distancing is required (though, some county residents tell me, too many people are taking their cue from President Trump, refusing to wear a mask). Governor Wolf has put in place a three-color system, red, yellow, and green. Residents of northwestern Pennsylvania can move around more freely because their region has been declared “yellow.” No county has yet been given the “green light” to fully lift the stay-at-home order.

Even as confinement comes to an end, the map of France is splashed with green and red. In red regions, such as Paris and its suburbs or large parts of eastern France, parks remain closed though many retail stores have reopened. In the Paris region, affidavits are required to use public transportation at rush hour: you must be able to prove you are on your way to work. Otherwise, commuters risk a 135 € fine.

In green regions such as mine, we no longer fill out an affidavit each time we step outside, but that does not mean we are free to come and go as we please. We can travel 100 kilometers (62 miles) from home, but if we go further, we must have a good reason: a medical or family emergency. Even those of us who might want to go for a 100-km ride just to see a bit of countryside must carry some proof, such as an electrical bill, of where we live. Otherwise, we’ll end up with one of those 135 € fines.

The 100-km limit was partly chosen to keep Parisians close to home. Like New York City in the United States, Paris has been the epicenter of the coronavirus pandemic in France. On what used to be a “normal” workday commuters streamed into the city from as far as 100 kilometers away. Now that we are no longer under a stay-at-home order, workers can return to the city, but Parisians cannot leave it to escape to beaches, mountains or the open countryside, much further away.

In all of France, at the supermarket, in the retails stores that opened this week, at the hairdresser, customers are not required to wear a mask—though it is highly recommended. Employees, hairdressers, store-owners will be wearing one themselves. The problem is, there are simply not enough masks to go around. The Parisian metro system and the national rail company SNCF, however, do require them: no mask, no ride.

In hopes of buying a box of 50 disposable surgical masks for 25 € at the local supermarket, residents of my region must first register online. They will receive an email when the masks are available and they must reconfirm their order. Then they will be given a pick-up time. If they miss it, their masks will be sold to someone else and they’ll have to start the process all over again.

I myself have opted for cloth masks. A woman in my village makes and sells them for 5 € a piece. Across France, some municipalities distribute free disposable masks; others hand out a cloth mask, one per person. For the moment, free masks are being distributed in the underground corridors of the Parisian metro. From May 13th onwards, those without one will receive—yes—a 135€ fine.

Masks, masks, masks! They are now part of our lives, as are hand-sanitizer and social distancing, not always easy to respect. This morning I went to the local recycling center, open for the past week. I had packed my car with a winter’s worth of yard debris, including the branches of a very prickly rose bush. Emptying my bags into a deep bin, I dropped one. To get it out (no bags allowed in the bin!), I got pretty intimate with the man standing next to me. I was wearing a mask. He was not.

Here in France, we’re stepping out after a period of highly restricted freedom of movement. It feels strange, in some ways good, some ways bad. It feels good to no longer fill out a paper each time I go outside. Yet, on the downside, the invisible predator is still lurking everywhere. We have almost daily examples of new “virus clusters” (the French have adopted the English word) in places where people have let down their guard.

Cafés and restaurants remain closed at least until June 2nd. In Paris, outside gatherings that involve alcohol have been banned. We are all called upon to be cautious because a second wave of the virus may be just around the corner and health workers have hardly recovered from the first. It has now become our duty to protect them by protecting ourselves as we “déconfine,” a new word in French, invented especially for the occasion.

In a couple of weeks, we’ll know more. Readers, I’ve had a head start on you and I’ll soon let you know how my “déconfinement” is going.

Coronavirus, Grandparents, and Nursing Homes

My grandmother was picture-perfect. She looked like a grandmother from a story book. Her hair was white, held back in a bun, and she wore wire-rimmed spectacles. That was her word. Whenever she misplaced them, she said, “Now where are my spectacles.” She wore cotton dresses with a floral print, that zipped up the front. On her feet, she wore what we called “old-lady shoes,” round-toed black oxfords with a heel.

I have few memories of my grandmother walking. Mostly she sat, to hold us or watch TV. She liked wrestling and her favorite wrestler was “Haystack Calhoun.” When she offered us candy, she gave us chalky mint lozenges or horehound drops. Both were a disappointment, but we enjoyed seeing her go to the server, open a cupboard, and then take out her glass candy dish.

My grandfather dressed the part of an elderly gentleman. When he walked from Greenwood Hill to the liquor store in downtown Pottsville, located at that time on North Centre Street, besides wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, he put on a suit and tie and on his head, a bowler hat. At the liquor store, which in those days was little more than a counter where customers placed their order, choosing from a fixed-price catalogue, he bought a gallon of Manischewitz Concord Grape.

He carried it home and into the kitchen, where he sat at the table and drank his wine from a Cheez Wiz glass. When my grandmother complained he was overdoing it, he had his set reply: “Christ too was a winebibber.” If it was good enough for the Lord, then no one, not even my grandmother, had the right to criticize.

My grandparents lived with us, or rather, we all shared an apartment house, my family on the ground floor, my grandparents upstairs. My father bought that house in 1960 so we could all be together under one roof.

My grandfather died at home a year after we moved in. He was “senile” as we said in those days and his hobby was hammering nails into anything made of wood, doorframes, doors, his bed, his dresser, a chest of drawers, anything! We children watched. He took his work seriously, but we laughed behind his back.

When my grandmother died in 1964, for the first time, I saw my father cry.

My picture-perfect paternal grandparents died at a time when, in Schuylkill County, there were no assisted-living facilities or nursing homes. The closest thing we had was Rest Haven, two old buildings sitting atop a hill in Schuylkill Haven. It was for poor people. It was not for people like us.

I never knew my maternal grandparents. My mother was raised by her grandmother and aunt. Of her grandmother, my mother exclaimed, “She was a tartar!” Without knowing exactly what the word meant, we understood no one stepped on our great-grandmother’s toes.

No one stepped on our mother’s either. She too was a tartar, a person given to a violent temper, who could prove to be unexpectedly formidable—that’s what Merriam Webster has to say.

By the time my mother was up in years and starting to go downhill, Schuylkill County had its fair share of nursing homes and assisted living facilities, a term that first came into use in 1966, two years after my grandmother died at home. Our mother wanted nothing to do with assisted living. She wanted to stay in her home, but she did not want to share. No one was going to get a foot in her door, unless of course it was one of her three daughters.

In 2010, when my mother started falling and forgetting on a regular basis, I lived in France and my two sisters were raising their families while working full-time. We were not ready to move back home, but we found alternate solutions, other people ready and willing to live with her. My mother’s response: If it’s not one of you, the answer is “no.”

In the fall of 2010, she moved into Providence Place, located on the other side of the woods behind her home. In 2012, she died in Rest Haven. I was at her side.

This is a painful story, one that stirs up doubt and guilt, and I stick to the bare facts. My sisters and I did our best, but we wish we would have known how to do better.

I evoke this story today because of what is happening in nursing homes all over Europe and the United States. Covid-19 is spreading rapidly within these closed and often poorly equipped communities. Betsy McCaughey, a former lieutenant governor of New York, claims the virus has transformed nursing homes into “death pits.” Horror stories abound on both sides of the Atlantic.

In France, where we are living under a strict lockdown regime, deaths in nursing homes account for nearly half the victims of Covid-19, and nursing home residents have been dying alone, cut off from their families. As they approach death, they cannot be accompanied by their loved ones nor by priest, pastor, imam or rabbi. Funerals are postponed till a “later date.” The dead go alone to the grave.

Lockdown or “confinement” began in France on March 17th. On April 20th, visits to healthy family members in nursing homes were once again authorized. On May 11th, we will begin to gradually emerge from lockdown. In two short months, France will have changed. Practices as old as civilization itself will have been disrupted: accompanying the dying, accompanying the dead.

Today I imagine the pain and utter despair of all those whose parents or loved ones have died of Covid-19 in nursing homes. “Death pits,” “slaughterhouses,” how can anyone be at peace hearing such words? How can the families of victims come to terms with the death of a loved one?

Like me, many were simply trying to do their best. How could they imagine what is happening now? Who could have helped them to “do better”?

Once again, coronavirus has turned the world upside-down, downside-up. We live in a society that idolizes the young and the new. The old we prefer to forget, and we’re all too ready to overlook the underpaid workers who take care of them.

After the pandemic, there will be no “getting back to normal.” “Normal” as we knew it is dead. In the post-pandemic world, one thing is certain: we’ll sure have a lot to think about.

The Three Musketeers in These Coronavirus Times

In March 1844, readers of a French newspaper called “Le Siècle,” The Century, discovered the first episode of a serialized novel that went on to become a blockbuster worldwide. In the first chapter they met a young nobleman named d’Artagnan whose ancient but impoverished family lived in a crumbling castle in Gascogne, closer to Spain than to the faraway capital of the Kingdom of France.

In that first chapter, d’Artagnan sets off on a cob horse for Paris, hoping to make his fortune as a musketeer of King Louis XIII. By the time he reaches the outskirts of the capital, he is on foot, with only enough money to rent a room in a garret not far from the Latin Quarter. The first time he steps outside, he literally bumps into the three musketeers. Young d’Artagnan begins by challenging them to a swordfight. Before it’s over, Athos, Porthos and Aramis, the three musketeers, and d’Artagnan have vowed to remain friends for life.

“All for one and one for all!” We all know the line and in one form or another, we know the story. Since 1844, The Three Musketeers by French novelist Alexandre Dumas has been translated throughout the world and adapted to stage and screen right into the 21st century.

“All for one and one for all!” Now there’s a motto that resonates in these coronavirus times. Another motto that comes to mind is E pluribus unum, “Out of many, one.” It dates back to the first days of American independence and appropriately, this 13-letter motto engraved on the first great seal of the United States expressed faith in the new nation born of the original 13 colonies.

In 1831, while on a mission to the United States to study the American prison system, Alexis de Toqueville, a French philosopher and political thinker, devoted most of his time to observing American society instead. The result was the two-volume study Democracy in America. One of his observations was “there’s nothing less independent than a free citizen.”

That may sound strange to the ears of a people who fought a war for independence in order to become free citizens of the United States. Yet, if we reflect upon de Tocqueville’s words, we understand that freedom is synonymous with responsibility. “All for one and one for all,” as the three musketeers would say. We’re only as strong as the weakest among us and we are responsible for each other’s care.

As the number of cases of coronavirus rises throughout the United States, as in France, health workers fight not only the virus but their own exhaustion after weeks on the job, the time may have come to think about what it means to exercise our freedom collectively.

This is what we do when we respect the rules of social distancing. We protect ourselves and most importantly, we protect others. In France, every evening at 8PM, many open their windows to applaud doctors and nurses working to save lives. Those same doctors and nurses would like their fellow citizens to applaud less and respect “confinement” more. With warm spring days upon us, too many forget and step outside, crowding city streets.

And while some of us stay home, others are at work. At the end of an interview with a doctor in a Parisian hospital overflowing with cases of Covid-19, just as the newscaster was about to sign off, the doctor asked if he could say a word more. He wanted to thank the cleaning staff of his hospital. Every day they were on the job, working in a dangerous environment with little protection. Without them work in the hospital could not go on.

Nor could we do our shopping for food without the checkers and grocery stockers working in supermarkets. Right now, more than ever we need the drivers of delivery trucks, the behind-the-scenes workers filling on-line orders, farmers producing our food and all those working in factories so we can procure the basic necessities of daily life.

All of them are free citizens working collectively, exposing themselves to danger, and doing it for us.

With the arrival of coronavirus, we’ve entered a new world and what awaits us on the other side of the pandemic, nobody can say for sure. Yet societies in Western Europe and the United States have somehow been turned upside down—and especially downside up.

Not so very long ago, French President Emmanuel Macron was calling for a “startup nation,” a nation of independent entrepreneurs with little need of government in their lives. He turned a deaf ear to the demands of the nation’s public hospital system and to its underpaid staff. Now, that public hospital system has become the backbone of the nation. Doctors, nurses and aids work tirelessly, and without them France would fall apart.

France is a highly centralized country, where the president makes decisions for the nation. The United States is a federation, where states retain certain rights. In times of crisis, however, governors look to the President for guidance. At this time, the President of the United States seems to be looking out for Number-One—not the nation, but himself.

“All for one and one for all!” Captain Brett Crozier, the former captain of the aircraft carrier "Theodore Roosevelt," understood those words when coronavirus swept through his ship and his first thoughts were for his men. For that, he lost his job. As did last Friday, April 3rd, Michael Atkinson, the inspector general of the intelligence community, who told Congress about the Ukraine whistle-blower complaint that lead to the impeachment hearings of President Trump. Mr. Atkinson’s main concerns were the common good and the truth.

It’s not about you, Mr. President. It’s not about me. It’s about us all, free citizens who, in a time of deep worldwide crisis, must learn that our freedom is dependent on the wellbeing of each and every one of us: “All for one and one for all!”

Listening to Mother Teresa during Lockdown in France and the USA

Because of the coronavirus pandemic, I am sitting at home, in “confinement,” the term employed by the French. It’s been almost two weeks and I’ll admit staying inside does not weigh heavy on me. I have a garden; I spend time there each day. I’d like to go for a long walk, but walking outside for pleasure, initially authorized, has been scratched off the list of things we can do. Too many people were rushing to parks and woodland paths. The crowded beaches of Brittany and the Riviera made it look like France was on holiday. The government put a stop to that.

Now we are limited to shopping for food or medicine, helping family members in distress and going to work if we have a certificate from our employer. We can also walk or exercise outside for an hour each day, remaining within a one-kilometer perimeter from home. Day by day, the physical boundaries of our lives shrink a bit more. At the time I write, there is serious talk of extending our “confinement” to 60 days.

As for journalism, all over the world, the corona virus, like a greedy pacman, has gobbled up all other topics, an unfortunate side effect of the disease.

But I think I’ve found a way to tell you about my recent trip to Calcutta (Kolkata), India. While in that teeming, vibrant city, my friend Sarah and I visited the mother house of the Missionaries of Charity, founded by Mother Teresa, at 54A A. J. Bose Road, a building that would look like a warehouse if it were not for the shutters on the windows to keep out the heat. From our hotel, Sarah and I walked there along Ripon Street through a busy Muslim neighborhood bustling with street vendors.

The mother house is spartan and clean. Visitors can view the simple room where Mother Teresa slept or enter the chapel, home to her tomb. There I sat among the sisters and other visitors in relative silence. Outside, the city roared.

Many readers remember, I’m sure, the 1995 visit of Mother Teresa to the convent of the Missionaries of Charity in Mahanoy City. When Pope Francis declared her a saint in 2016, Saint Joseph’s Church, where Mother Teresa attended mass, became the parish of Saint Teresa of Calcutta.

In Calcutta and elsewhere, Mother Teresa is a controversial figure. Some feel she gave too much importance to death over life, not providing adequate medical care to those she and her missionaries found lying in Calcutta’s streets. In her day, Indian relief organizations felt she stole the spotlight, diverting attention from their dedicated work among the poor. Still others believed one of her goals was to seek converts, turning Hindus away from their faith.

Yet, she and her missionaries gave themselves wholeheartedly to the words of Christ: I was hungry and you gave me food, thirsty and you gave me drink, homeless and you took me in. And some of the words of Mother Teresa herself could serve as stepping-stones to guide us through the current worldwide health crisis:

“Discipline is the bridge between goals and accomplishments.”

At this time, the goal is to limit the spread of Covid-19. We can only do that if we are disciplined and take lockdown seriously. We all saw the images of college students frolicking on the beaches of Florida because the governor of that state refused to close them. If politicians are not doing their jobs, then individual citizens must discipline themselves to take the steps necessary to stop the virus’s spread. Healthcare workers, cashiers in supermarkets and all those who must go to work will thank us. A great site for guidelines is provided by Johns Hopkins University: https://coronavirus.jhu.edu/

“Do not wait for leaders; do it alone, person to person.”

Currently, we are required to practice a strange kind of charity. We’re giving the most when we stay away from others, keeping a safe distance from neighbors, strangers and even family members if we ourselves are contaminated by the virus. Here in France, where Covid-19 struck earlier and peak contamination is expected in the coming week, I cannot emphasize enough how important “doing it alone” is.

Nor can we wait for leaders. In Europe, in the USA, they have reacted instead of acting. And some have profited. After a briefing on the virus on January 24th, aware of the dangers to come, some US Senators sold off stocks as President Trump told the American people, “It will all work out well.” At that time, he knew, they knew, a whole lot more than us.

“Everybody today seems to be in such a terrible rush, anxious for development and greater riches.., so that children have very little time for their parents. Parents have very little time for each other, and in the home begins the disruption of the peace of the world.”

Here Mother Teresa puts her finger on one of the true “pathologies” of our day, the rushing, not after riches, but what it takes to pay the bills; and in some families, members have more time for their phones and screens than they have for each other. Paradoxically, in lockdown, families find themselves forced to spend time together, and in cities like Paris, where public parks are closed, togetherness is more a challenge than a pleasure.

As one mother said on a call-in radio show in response to the advice of writer-adventurer Sylvain Tesson, who has spent much time alone in Siberia, “I’d love some solitude. For the moment, I’m teacher, cook and cleaning woman for a family of six and confined to a small apartment.”

Let’s just hope that the “disruption of the peace of the world” does not begin in the tight spaces where families are confined.

“It is a kindly act to assist the fallen.”

On the other side of the Covid-19 pandemic, a new world awaits us. In the US, on Friday, March 27, President Trump signed the $2 trillion coronavirus relif bill. Once again, let’s hope the banks and big business don’t take it all. Americans workers are being laid off without severance pay, families cannot pay the bills, many are going hungry and risk losing their homes, and as opposed to the French, many are without health insurance. These are certainly the people Mother Teresa would put first.

As should President Macron, as should President Trump.

While our leaders decide who gets aid, I’ll let Mother Teresa conclude:

“If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.”

Eyes Open to the World

Suddenly my world is bigger. Now it crosses continents, climates, and cultures very different from my own. I am richer for having firmly planted my feet in another part of the world.

I am standing in a palace in the Old City of Dhaka in Bangladesh. Called the Pink Palace by some, it is also known as Ahsan Manzil, “Beautiful Home.” For generations, it was the residence of the provincial governor or “nawab” of Dhaka at a time when the city was part of India and Britain’s colonial empire. This title was passed from father to son, and the ruling Khwaja family invested its personal fortune in furthering education and expanding rights for the Muslim population of what was then East Bengal.

In 1947 India gained independence from Great Britain and the new state of Pakistan was created, uniting the Muslim populations of the western and eastern regions of British India. In 1952, Ahsan Manzil was purchased by the state of Pakistan. Not until 1985, after a devastating civil war which ended in 1971 with the creation of the People’s Republic of Bangladesh, did the palace become a national museum.

As I wander through the home of former nawabs, located at the heart of a crowded, throbbing bazar, I’ll admit I’m not much impressed by the museum’s collections. There’s some furniture from the late 19th century, some silver, some porcelain and local artefacts. Frankly, I’d guess the place was ransacked long ago, the most precious pieces finding their way to museums in Paris, London or New York.

But I’m not here for the collections. I’m here to get a feel for the place. My first surprise, a moment of wonder, is the view of the Buriganga River. It enters my field of vision as I climb the steps of the Pink Palace, making my way between clusters of young men and women who talk and flirt on the steps or wander in the peaceful gardens while outside, the city roars.

This is my first view of the river, of the palm trees lining its banks, of the shallow-bottomed boats that ferry passengers from one bank to the other, of the ferries that will soon pull anchor and travel for twelve hours till they reach the sea, of trucks delivering fruits and vegetables to be sold in market stalls, of the ever-present crowds. The air is hazy, a mix of humidity and pollution.

I’ve been in Dhaka for a little more than two weeks. Upon arrival I was afraid of the crowds, the mosquitos (dengue, zika, chikungunya!), the intense, unstoppable traffic, the people looking at me. It was exotic, almost too exotic. Standing on the steps of the Pink Palace, looking out at the river, I now find the city beautiful and real. I like it here. I’ll be leaving soon but wish I could prolong my stay.

Inside the museum, I stop to look at some old books in a mahogany bookcase. I’m soon joined by a young man. This happens frequently. The people of Dhaka are curious about us “bideshi” or foreigners. He laments that the books are locked in a case. Wouldn’t it be better if people could take them out to read? He is earnest. He wants to get his hands on those books. He is hungry to learn.

I have a flashback to one year ago. I am in a classroom at the university. My students, their eyes fixed on the screen of their phones, are too busy to listen to me. What could an old fogey, deeply versed in literature and history, have to teach these tech wizards? Their agile fingers navigate between apps as they check in on friends or media stars. Compared to Kim Kardashian or a “coucou” (hi!) from a VBF, how can I compete?

Don’t get me wrong. They like facebook in Bangladesh too. High school students surround me. In a country where tourists are estimated at about 60,000 a year, they don’t meet many foreigners. They want to shake hands and take a photo. I’m sure I’ve turned up on many a Bangladeshi facebook page, yet I’m not sure I’d encounter such curiosity and eagerness to learn in Paris or New York.

At the Liberation War Museum dedicated to the memory of Bangabandhu Sheik Mujibur Rahman, the father of Bangladeshi independence, young people come up to me and speak of their love of country, of their pride in the struggle that lead to the break from West Pakistan. They have telephones, but they’re not always on them. They have eyes open to the world.

Is this one of the signs of “old fogey-ness,” blaming everything on “those cell phones”? Perhaps. And it is all too easy to idealize a place one does not know well, like all those Americans visiting Paris who decide they want to live there forever. I’m not ready to settle in Bangladesh, but I do want to return and here are some reasons why:

Young people want to learn and teachers are more important than their cell phones.

Life is hard, bone-tiring, yet people smile and even sing. From my bedroom window, I observe construction workers across the street from the home of my friend Sarah. After a long, hard, dangerous day, they rinse off with a hose, splashing and singing.

People have vitality and want to create. They create art. There’s Tiger Nazir, a painter who gives a prominent place to the Royal Bengal Tiger in his work. Or the 2019 film “Made in Bangladesh” (official trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5uCtl_2nIyU), based on the true story of women organizing a union in the sweatshops of Dhaka. They also create businesses, like Sarah’s sister Sharmeen, who is marketing her “Feisty Tiger Hot Sauce” on-line (check it out at https://www.feistytiger.com/ ). They create street food, like the many itinerant cooks who line the sidewalks of the city.

Everywhere people are busy, working hard at hard jobs, fighting for their rights, and in some cases, risking prison or even death.

There are not enough hospitals, infrastructures are lacking, too many people live in poverty, yet in terms of vitality and general good humor, Bangladesh could make a killing exporting some of its optimism to down-in-the-mouth-countries like the USA or France.

Yes, I loved my trip, and next month I’ll tell you about a connection between Schuylkill County and Calcutta, India.

Happy Birthday to You, to Me!

Today I’m celebrating a birthday and so are you—if you’ve been reading me from the start. Ten years ago, in January 2010, I published my first Paris-Pottsville Connection. Back in December 2009 I stopped by the office of the Republican Herald on Mahantongo Street in Pottsville to meet with the then editor. I exposed my idea. He told me he’d give me a chance but in his opinion, it couldn’t be done.

No, it couldn’t be done. Readers in Schuylkill County would not be interested in what I had to say about France or connections between the anthracite region of Pennsylvania and the City of Light.

Ten years later, I’ve discovered—and I hope you have too—that there’s lots to say, the list of subjects seems endless, about Pottsville, France and other places in the world. No matter where you go, people are people, for better or for worse, and our common humanity and the joys and pains we share make life interesting everywhere.

I miss Pottsville and often think about the town. I also have my very personal connections, my sister Susan Hahner and her husband Bob, their daughter Sarah, her husband Darren DeArment and their little daughter Philomena. My sister Jane Graup and her family live in southern Schuylkill. Through them all, I keep a finger on the pulse of the region. Thanks to the Republican Herald, I keep up with what’s going on.

On recent visits, I’ve walked the Bartram Trail with my friend Father Bob Reiley. With my sister’s dog I’ve wandered along the banks of the Landingville Dam and the old Schuylkill Canal tow path. With Father Bob, I’ve also climbed to the top of Sharp Mountain to take in a panoramic view, north and south, of the rolling crests of the Appalachians, coal land to the north, agricultural valleys to the south. And I’ve admired that special winter beauty of Schuylkill County. I love the contrast of white birch trees with their red-tipped branches shivering against black culm banks.

In the summer, I think you’d have to travel to a tropical rain forest to find a place as lush. Oh, that high humidity! Trees drip with green and mist creates an aura over hills and valleys. The mosquitos love it, so do midges. I remember when I was a kid, we used to walk around with a stick of punk in our mouths, waving our heads from side to side to keep the bugs away.

It’s easy to feel nostalgic about the “good ol’ days,” back when Pottsville had a “real” downtown and its sidewalks were packed with shoppers. One of my games to ward off insomnia is to fill all the store fronts with the shops that existed when I was a child: Matt’s Kiddie Shop, Dimmerling’s for men, the Grace Shop for women, Mortimer’s Jewelers, Mister S, Knapp’s Leather Goods, Gittleman’s Shoes—I could go on and on.

I am an old-timer now and I have lots of memories. I even seem to remember the Mansion House, which once stood at Centre and Howard, across from the Episcopal Church. It was torn down to expand Sears Roebuck Department Store. Today it is a parking lot whose asphalt monotony is relieved by a bronze statue of Pottsville’s own John O’Hara, looking eternally dapper in the shade of a sycamore tree and some shrubs.

I wonder if I truly remember the Mansion House or has a photo seen in a book or in the Republican Herald (Schuylkill County Memories) tricked my memory? I love old hotels with second floor balconies. The Manion House had one. That’s where guests sat and rocked above the hubbub of all the goings-on on Centre Street.

My mother told me about all the excitement the day the circus came to town, arriving by train at the Reading Terminal on the Boulevard. The entire troupe would then march up Market Street, the broad feet of elephants stirring up the dust, giraffes straining their necks to grab a few leaves from trees along Garfield Square, lions and tigers roaring in their cages, excited children lining the route all the way. In the 21st century we’ve become kinder to animals (though not necessarily to humans) and many animal acts have been eliminated from circuses. Yet, remembering my mother’s stories, I wish I’d been at the parade.

I also remember my Alma Mater and the teachers who marked me. Anyone who went to PAHS back in my day remembers Mr. Robert Koslosky, our beloved art teacher. And all my English teachers counted for me. I was in the first class taught by Ms. Sherrill Silberling, who made English literature come to life. Only a year ago, I reconnected with my freshman English teacher, Ms. Phyllis Mass. She was more than a teacher to me. The year I was in her class, my father died. She stepped in and took care of me. In January 2019, we met after forty years and now I have a friend for life.

Dear, dear Pottsville. In large part I write these articles because I want to remain connected to you. I hope I have, and I hope faithful readers will continue reading in the years to come.

This month I’m writing my article early. When you read this, I will be in Bangladesh and believe it or not, there too I will be pursuing a Pottsville connection, visiting dear friends whom my sister Susan and my niece Sarah know. When I first arrived in Paris in 1991, I taught at a bilingual school. In January a new girl arrived in my class. Her name was Sarah, she was eleven years old, and she had just about the wisest eyes I’ve ever seen. I immediately became interested in her and we became friends.

At that time, Sarah’s father was the Bangladesh ambassador to France. Later he became ambassador to the United States. My sister and niece joined me on visits to Sarah’s home in Washington D.C. and we were treated like royalty, served delicious curries and other specialties of Bangladesh—and of the United States too, including a moist, delicious carrot cake.

Next month I’ll be writing about this Pottsville connection with Dhaka, Bangladesh. For the moment, I say “Happy Birthday” to you, to me, and may there be many more.

Who’s the Grinch this Year?

Three days before Christmas, I’m sitting at my desk in my house because I don’t have much choice. I can’t go to Paris. There are almost no trains, except those running before 7 in the morning—but not every day. And once I got there, how would I return?

Two weeks ago, I tried a ride-share. It was inexpensive and the driver was courteous and kind, but getting to our rendezvous point in the suburbs of Paris was like running in a “suitcase race” (I was dragging one behind me). Who can run the fastest, climb or descend stairways in two or three giant steps? I may have not won first place, but I did make it in time for my ride.

Nor can I travel to the South of France, where I was supposed to be spending the holidays. The train I was supposed to take was cancelled and replaced by a bus. A trip that was supposed to take five hours was extended to nearly twenty. Not worth it, I’ve decided. I’m staying put.

All these inconveniences are a result of the current strikes in protest of the French government’s proposed reform of the national retirement system—or systems. At this time, the rules governing retirement pensions are very different between the private and the public sectors, and within each, there are many different plans, each with its own criteria determining how benefits are accrued and when one can retire. It is complicated! Reform is in order. Then why are the French so up in arms?

It may just be that the government is behaving like a grinch and that’s what making people so mad.

A few decades ago, the French entered the workplace young, some before the age of eighteen. Those who will reach the current official French retirement age of 62 in 2025 and who will have worked a full 43 years are now being told they must stay on. Otherwise, they’ll have a penalty for life if they leave before age 64. They have paid their dues and are distressed by this proposed change so late in the game.

As for the younger generations, a new system based on points is being putforward. Even if you work only a few hours a month, you would earn your points, which is not the case with the current system based on the number of trimesters worked. This new system would become universal, applying to both private and public sectors.

I feel like I got out just on time. The proposed system will be especially hard on teachers, already underpaid in France compared to other countries in the European Union. It will also be hard on transport workers, who will lose many benefits.

Yet there is a need for reform. Nearly everyone agrees on that, but to many it seems the government of Emmanuel Macron has gone about it the wrong way. There have been “consultations” with union leaders, but no negotiations and the government has shown little openness to compromise, the prime minister Edouard Philippe and members of the president’s majority claiming they know best.

This is hard for the French to take, so hard that many are willing to put up with the hardships imposed by the strikes even if it means altering holiday plans.

But what about a Christmas truce? Couldn’t the striking workers of SNCF, the French national railway company, have returned to work for the holidays? They’ve left people stranded all over the country, scrambling for others means of transport. Aren’t they being grinches too?

The decision to maintain the transport strike has caused division among labor unions. Within certain unions, the rank and file are not in agreement with their leaders, in favor of the truce. Union foot soldiers are ready to man the barricades, even on Christmas, believing the cause more important than sharing a Christmas feast with family and friends.

Speaking of feasts, there are some grinches lurking on your side of the Atlantic too. At this time, an estimated 14 million Americans are suffering from food insecurity. In their wildest dreams, few of them could imagine a Christmas feast à la française, with oysters, smoked salmon, foie gras, buttery snails, a turkey or a goose, chestnut stuffing, glazed turnips, salad and cheese, accompanied by champagne and fine wines, with to wrap it all up, a creamy pastry Christmas log. A vast majority of the French can afford this menu for Christmas Eve, which is when they do their celebrating.

Despite the specter of 14 million Americans going hungry, the current administration plans to make major cuts to SNAP, Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, by changing the eligibility rules in 2020 for up to 3 million people, including children. For the USDA, this will permit 5 billion dollars in savings over five years. In 2019, President Trump authorized 14.5 billion dollars in MFP (Market Facilitation Program) payments to farmers, much of it going to big agrobusiness.

Now who’s the grinch here? The current Secretary of Agriculture Sonny Perdue is a climate change skeptic and a hard-liner on immigration. While governor of Georgia, he signed into law some of the nation’s strictest measures against illegal immigrants. As head of the USDA, he maintains a “helping hand” must not become a “handout” and that’s why he also wants to get tough on SNAP applicants.

Meanwhile, in Bethlehem, a tiny helpless baby, a refugee whose parents are on the run, nestles on a bed of straw in an unheated stable, counting on a mother’s love and lowing cattle for warmth. When Joseph and pregnant Mary inquired about a room at the inn, some grinch turned them away. He wouldn’t even let a pregnant woman inside to get warm at his fire.

There have always been grinches with hearts “two sizes too small,” as Dr. Seuss wrote in “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” back in 1957, creating the American equivalent of Dickens’ Ebenezer Scrooge. Both the Grinch and Scrooge had a change of heart before it was too late. They were conquered by the Spirit of Christmas and their too-small hearts expanded and opened to love.

Who’s the Grinch this year? You, me, everyone, anyone who refuses to recognize in the helpless, the hungry, the homeless, or that next-door neighbor or coworker who drives us crazy, a brother, a sister, someone worthy of our love.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and Happy 2020 to all, even to the grinches among us!