My pastor is encouraging us to try to live ordered lives in this age of Chinese flu: Set an alarm to get up at the same time every day; pray; enjoy your caffeinated, warm beverage of choice; pray some more; bathe and dress for the day; attend daily Mass via the web; did I mention “pray?” There is no remedy for anxiety quite like spending time with the Great Consoler and, yet, it’s commonly the first practice to fall away in times of distress. I know this from the last six years’ personal experience of family chaos and trauma brought on by our daughters’ serious medical crises, and I still struggle to maintain the habit. Be better than I am.

But, having a child go through meningitis and chemotherapy and being concerned about infection has given us some advantages in the current crisis. We have masks and gloves and alcohol wipes. Not a lot, but some leftovers and a few extra to donate to medical providers. We keep a supply of rubbing alcohol, Clorox wipes, bleach, and TSP. If you don’t have all these readily available, hold that thought. I have other ideas.

I am lucky to be married to a good chef. She doesn’t get to cook very often, since her work extracts nearly every molecule of energy. She comes home frayed, and I hand her a beverage and wave to the meal that awaits. Her ability to feign delight is an ongoing theatrical production rivaled only by Agatha Christie’s “The Mousetrap” in London, and I appreciate the subterfuge. Long marriages require many small sweet deceits.  

The first weekend of the lockdown she decided to make fish stew. This betrayed a somewhat different approach to life in The Duration.

For a number of years, I have told people that while I might think people on the left are wrong in their beliefs, those same people treat my beliefs as illegitimate; that I have no right to hold different views than they. I believe that it peaked in the current gender wars, mostly because their views became less and less logical under even the gentlest scrutiny.

Now, the virus epidemic gives those people a whole new slew of issues on which, rather than make a cogent argument, it’s considered good form to simply say “how dare you!” That an intellectual adolescent the likes of Greta Thunberg was invited to the UN and literally made that argument foretold how bleak our future looks for any exchange of ideas.

I haven’t done a good job lately of telling Ricochet what I’m writing about and where to find it. I’ve resolved to change this. Sign up here for my free newsletter, which I’m now sending out every day (because I’m stuck in my apartment and I can’t go out to work).

These days, I’ve been writing about—what else—the pandemic. France is about ten days behind Italy and ten days ahead of the United States. So recently I’ve been writing about what Americans should expect, ten days from now, and unfortunately, this has proven very accurate.

I’m not sure how many Vietnam veterans might be out there in Ricochet Land. Perhaps a few; perhaps none. Our numbers are dwindling; we’re beginning to die out for one reason or another. Just yesterday, my VFW post provided the Honor Guard for another burial.

With each burial, it’s difficult for me to not think about my own approaching mortality. And, it’s equally difficult for me to not think about the path that took me nearly 9,000 miles from my home.