Author: patcamerino

A prolonged viral attack usually comes with a warning, even though its initial outbreak may be a surprise. This was the case with COVID-19, a pulmonary infection quietly originating in China before exploding into a pandemic which has devastated our society, now and for the future. Similar conditions pertain to another event, one that might be designated as “Snovid-21.” The difference is: COVID-19 starts with a fever, Snovid-21 with a freeze.

This climatic attack began quietly on the long weekend celebrating both Valentine’s Day and Presidents’ Day, i.e., February 14 and 15, 2021. The ground in Houston, Texas, became white with snow; the air was frigid with temperatures below 10o – conditions extremely strange for the Gulf Coast. Conditions which lasted for seven days of woeful existence. Almost a month later, calamities which arrived with the cold-air-mass remain. Some wonder when they will be healed. After all, the results of Harvey can still be seen four years later.

Unlike a physiological viral attack, Snovid-21 actually began as a beautiful event. Although the weather forecasts predicted at least six inches of snow, an unheard-of occurrence for Houston, the visible covering was only an inch high, but still impressive, around the neighborhoods of Eagle’s Trace. The grass, sidewalks, and roads became a single surface of white. Roof tops changed from dull brown to sparkling brightness; their eaves remained covered with snow for an inordinately long interval, even after the ground, itself, was visible, once more.

For the first twenty-four hours, children of all ages, along with doting, laughing parents, constructed snowmen a couple of feet high – an improbable edifice for this part of the country. Some may have even tried to construct a snow-angel, even though the results would not be as durable as those seen in the north. Although the snowmen may have remained for days longer than would have been possible after previous snowfalls in Houston, the beauty of the event was short-lived.

The unusual cold air seized the south to a degree similar to that of the grip of a pulmonary virus on human lungs. Pipes froze. Pipes outside and inside. In homes and in businesses. Eagle’s Trace had its abundant share of water gushing from wounds in all of its buildings, in its ceilings and walls. Just as medical teams operating ventilators are required for the life of patients infected with COVID-19, maintenance teams roamed the corridors of Eagle’s Trace to operate growling pumps and industrial fans to “remediate” the moisture which, if left unattended, would lead to the growth of mold and to the ultimate un-livability our apartments. Just as “mitigation” has become the new word for attention to the concerns of COVID-19 patients, “remediation” has arrived to attend to Snovid-21 victims.

The water pressure in Houston fell dramatically. Lines were turned off. When pressure was restored, the city’s residents, including those of Eagle’s Trace, were instructed to boil water to be used for drinking and tooth-brushing. Parts of our facility were without water for several days; our own building, Pecan Grove, was waterless for only twenty-four hours. Bottled water for consumption was available; fluid for flushing toilets was not. In describing the results to our grandchildren, once the conditions had improved, I said that the fragrance of my bathroom had brought back vivid memories of the outhouse on my grandmother’s farm. One of my grandsons asked for an explanation of what I meant by an “outhouse.” I told him. I was also pleased to say that the dedicated staff of Eagle’s Trace had tried to “mitigate” the situation by bringing a bucket of water from the swimming pool to allow for one flush during the height of the turn-off.

In addition to the lack of water, completely for a time and undrinkable for several days, we were without electricity for a day, but only a day. Our two sons in north-Houston had to rely on their own generators, which they had thankfully purchased for previous, more routine post-hurricane outages. At least, we had access to the elevators functioning on ET’s own generators.

Without water and electricity, meals were not available in the local dining facilities. Nevertheless, the committed staff brought a daily meal to each apartment. The entrees were limited, but more than sufficient for survival. Once more, Karen and I agreed we had made the “right decision” sixteen years ago to move to this particular retirement community.

As had been the instruction for COVID-19, to take-cover-in-place to limit the spread of the virus, we were now urged to hunker-down during the days following this initial freezing weather. Traffic in Houston is notoriously dangerous at such times. Fortunately, with even more businesses closed because of Presidents’ Day, let alone because of the ongoing pandemic, it was easy for most citizens to comply with these instructions.

However, without electricity and access to a smart-phone, Karen and I could not use the normal electronic alternatives to keep us occupied. Reading next to a window was one available option. Another one was to catch catnaps in a comfortable chair, while surrounded with a cozy blanket. The only problem with either recommendation was that my EZ-boy recliner needs external power to lower the leg-rest. It’s a challenge to get into or out of the chair when it remains in a reclining position. During one fifteen-second return of power, I was able to readjust my recliner for a more comfortable position. Karen’s operates, fortunately for her, with a built-in auxiliary battery. On the other hand, I was lucky that when our power was lost during the middle of the night, my adjustable bed was in a flat position. Hers was not.

Having only a non-functioning recliner to deal with, I was very fortunate while under attack by Snovid-21. Many other Texans have suffered so much more from this onslaught. People throughout the state have much to complain about regarding ERCOT’s mismanaged electric grid. Others still have non-potable water. Many have homes which will be under “remediation” for months, if not years.

Within the last weeks, three anti-viral drugs have been approved for use toward the prevention of COVID-19. Karen and I, along with some eleven hundred people affiliated with Eagle’s Trace, have been vaccinated. On the other hand, there is no vaccine available to ward off another Snovid-21 attack, should one come again. It is said that our frigid weather in this part of the country is a one-hundred-year event. They have said the same thing about our floods, which now appear annually! One hundred years pass more quickly than they once did.

Time, itself, does not vary. Grains of sand pass through the middle of a figure-8 glass at a constant rate, be they measured in minutes or hours. Drops of water in an ancient water-clock move at a fixed number per unit of time. The duration from one new-moon sliver, when a white thread becomes visible in the darkness, to the next new-moon sliver, remains constant over a year composed of twelve moon cycles, even if the planet’s rotation around the sun takes a few days longer than that. The perception of time, however, varies. The conditions for this variation are not fixed. This is the case for this time of coronavirus.

A year ago, Karen and I stopped attending Eucharistic liturgies at Epiphany of the Lord in Katy, Texas. The Archdiocese of Houston limited weekend masses throughout its territory, because of the risk of viral infections during the services. We searched for an on-line or “streaming” mass and, after examining several possible sites, finally settled on one originating at St Anthony of Padua in The Woodlands, Texas. The sanctuary photographed well; the homilist was usually acceptable, in both what he had to say and how he said it.

Our weekly at-a-distance participation occurred for an entire year. Finally, with the administration of two doses of Pfizer vaccine, and with the modification in the guidelines for assemblies for mass within the Archdiocese, we returned to attendance at the five-thirty Eucharistic celebration at Epiphany, almost one year following our self-imposed exile.

We had been absent for fifty weeks. Sitting there, before the liturgy began, it felt to me as if only a single week had passed. The purple altar cloth was still there, as it had been during each service in every previous Lent. The only visible change consisted of white ribbons blocking entrance to every other pew. Social distancing was to be maintained. The masked congregation spoke the same responses, used for two millennia in one language or another. There was a cantor without a choir to lead members of the community in song, now muffled slightly more than at a regular Saturday evening liturgy in the past.

Time is the interval between two events. The flow of time is constant. But the perception of time’s passage vanishes upon returning home. I have also had ths same perception when I would return to the Jesuit Retreat Center in Grand Coteau, Louisiana, for my annual Ignatian week-long silent meditations. I would drive onto the grounds, enter the foyer of the House and feel as if I had never left it. I had an identical encounter when I returned to Epiphany, having been gone, physically, for an entire year. This was, indeed, the feeling, the sense of, returning home. Yes, being home is being in the place which you never really left, no matter how long you have been away from it.

Homeward bound is the feeling of warmth one experiences when returning to a place of comfort. On the other hand, you can return to the place where you have lived and yet not be homeward bound. Home is not a geographic location associated with your past. Homeward bound is not merely to be headed toward a place where you once lived, but rather being “bound,” being united, being at oneness with the place at which you arrive, the place you desire never to leave.

Being homeward bound is being timeless; there is no perception that time has passed. What has occurred continues to occur. Being at home is continuing a conversation with a friend in the exact moment the two of you parted months or years ago. Nothing has been lost; nothing needs to be regained.

When this occurred with my return to Epiphany, I was very surprised. I had not realized how much “at home” I had become with this place. This feeling has been manifested upon my return to other religious locations – the Retreat Center at Grand Coteau and Christ the Good Shepherd in Spring – come to mind. For secular places, there is our current apartment at Eagle’s Trace with its homeward bound feeling experienced after a visit to places where relatives and friends reside.

I also recall places where I would have expected to feel “at home” but did not. Once, I had been visiting in Niles when I saw a newspaper ad that my grandparents’ house was up for sale. I was able to convince the realtor I would like to see the place even if I had no intention of buying a house in my hometown. During the walkthrough, I remembered what each room had once held, what events had occurred within them. But I did not feel “at home” regardless of having spent considerable time there in my younger days.

There had also been a visit when I happened to drive by my parent’s former house on Seneca Street and saw that a construction crew was tearing out its interior as part of a major remodeling. Once again, having convinced the workers that I had lived there during my teenage years and would like to see it for a few minutes, I was able to walk through rooms where my life had existed, and my dreams had faded. Although I could recall each location in the house, I failed to be at home in any of them.

However, I am able to be homeward bound in my memories, in my imagination. There are recollections of sitting at my cousin’s kitchen table drinking coffee with her, with her husband, George, and my wife, Karen. Although Rosemary died almost fifty years ago, I still am at home with my memories of those hours spent in pleasant conversation.

Memory has its own perception of time – of events long ago that still exist as vividly, perhaps even more so, than those lived only an hour ago. It is with this perception of time that I can return home. It is with this legacy of memories that I remain homeward bound.

Every young couple – and old ones, too – have a favorite song. For Karen and me, ours has been “September Song.” We listened to its words and melody when we were dating and at our wedding as well as at its annual celebrations – along with those times when the music was suddenly played during the autumn of the year. The month of September, itself, has been a special month for us. September is the beginning of that magnificent season when the forests become aglow with reds and golds. It’s the time for the next cycle of events to start. My own annual year began, not with January or even July (as some fiscal years do), but on September 1 with the opening of the academic year. For more than eight decades, September and its moments have been magical. This is no longer true in September 2021.

This year, this month does not begin with magical moments. It begins with a storm called Ida. Her winds and waters have brought devastation to New Orleans and the Gulf Coast as well as New Jersey and the Northeast Coast. Floods overflow not only the bayous of Louisiana but also the subways of New York City. The residents of Philadelphia and New Brunswick suffer along with evacuees from Houma and Grand Isle. Meanwhile, in the West, lands and towns burn to the ground because of raging fires. California’s forests are closed. Lake Tahoe is a smoldering ruin. In 2021, September’s song is one of tragedy, not of hope.

This September also marks the end of our twenty-year war in Afghanistan. Usually, the end of a war calls for joyful celebration, for the arrival of a longed-for peace. Not so for this two-decade conflict thousands of miles from our shores. For many, now is not the time for rejoicing but rather for finger-pointing, for the assignment of blame. We see the videoed deaths of our military and of Afghan children and ask “why?” Why were we there; why did we leave? Why did we leave the way we left? September’s song is one of death, not of hope.

This September we remember what destruction occurred on the Eleventh day of the month, twenty years ago. One hundred floors of the Twin Towers in New York City collapsed to create a mountain of rubble, brought into existence by two airplanes. The largest office building in the world had one of its five sides crash down as the result of a third terrorist-piloted airliner. A fourth flight ended in a field in Pennsylvania, because of the courage of its passengers who thwarted the actions of still another terrorist pilot heading toward our Capital City. September’s song is one of terror, not of hope.

This September we continue to suffer and die from a pandemic virus. Many once held the expectation that this attack would be concluded by the use of a new vaccine. Although the method for the elimination of COVID-19 became available several months ago, there are vast numbers of people who refuse to accept it. They claim the vaccine was developed too fast, without proper testing. It’s too experimental. Some claim the liquid to be injected contains nanoparticles the government will use to track them down. Meanwhile, our children wonder about the safety of returning to school this year. Should face-masks be mandated or left up to the discretion of parents, school boards, or the state or federal government? For an unexplainable reason, our citizens would rather die than lose their so-called freedom and live. In 2021, September’s song is one of confusion, not of hope.

This September there continues to be angry people who exhibit road rage or shopping center rage, depending upon the location where they feel extremely threatened or merely annoyed by another person. In Texas, everyone is now allowed to carry a gun, openly or concealed, with neither training nor a license to purchase the firearm. In Washington, D.C. and around the nation, there are those who view the invasion of citizens into the U.S. Capitol as being exuberant tourists and not rabid insurrectionists. Throughout the country there are those who are deeply angry about changes in abortion laws, in civil rights, in our culture, itself. In 2021, September’s song is one of division, not hope.

This year there are many versions of a September Song. In the past there have also been alternate words depending upon the singer. The lyrics of the currently popular group, Earth, Wind, and Fire, differ significantly from those of the early musical, “Knickerbocker Holiday.” Even Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra could not agree on the role of the young man and his song for young women. Nevertheless, the two crooners were in agreement for the chorus: “Oh, it’s a long, long while from May to December … But the days grow short …When you reach September … When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame … One hasn’t got time for the waiting game … Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few … September, November … And these few precious days I’ll spend with you … These precious days I’ll spend with you.”

These are the words Karen and I recall in the memory of our heart. Now at the outset of our ninth decade, they are even more relevant. We live together in the moments of our own September. Our days dwindle down to a precious few.

These words should also be the words others might follow. Our life ahead of us has fewer precious days than the ones we have left behind us. These days should not be a time for tragedy, death, terror, confusion and division. These precious days must be days of hope … days to spend together with the magic of autumn leaves. “Autumn Leaves,” of course, is still another song. Another promise for completion, for expectation and for hope.

[The following is a reflection I gave to the Eagle’s Trace residents at a Thanksgiving Service held on November 23, 2021.]

Once again, we’ve listened to the story of the Thanksgiving prayer offered by the Israelites almost 4000 years ago, as recorded in the Book of Deuteronomy. This is a story about a people who made a journey, an Exodus, from a land of oppression to a land of freedom.

This story tells of how – once they had settled there and had brought in their first harvest from this new land – they gathered together to offer the first fruits of that harvest to the Lord God. They bowed down and worshiped him. And then they rejoiced together.

Almost 400 years ago, another pilgrim people journeyed from a place of oppression to live in a new land of freedom. They, too, survived that first year in the wilderness they had discovered there. They, too, harvested the first fruits of the land over which they had labored.

Both the Israelites and the Pilgrims of Plymouth joined with strangers among them – with those who did not share their same beliefs – and they celebrated. Together, they rejoiced around the tables holding their mutual harvests.

Today there are those among us who, sixteen years ago, began a new journey as they moved to Eagle’s Trace. Over the following years, our neighbors have grown ten-fold as we opened new communities and plan for even more.

It was two years ago, back in November of 2019, that we last gathered together to celebrate our common gratitude for the nation in which we live and for this community where we reside. It was a time before very many of us had ever heard the word: coronovirus.

That was a time when our image of a Thanksgiving celebration focused on a Norman-Rockwell-painting in which family and friends surround a table bearing a huge turkey and all the trimmings. It was a celebration for giving thanks for all the good things that had happened to us during the previous 12 months and for the material possessions we had obtained since our last, annual dinner together.

However, the words from the Second scriptural reading we heard this morning – from the Gospel according to Saint Luke – strongly suggest we should give thanks, not for the things we possess, but rather for the trust we have in our Lord God, our merciful Father, who provides everything we now have … or will ever hope to have.

The people of the original Exodus placed their trust in the Lord God to lead them from Egypt to the land of their ancestors. The pilgrims from England placed their trust in God to lead them safely to a new land, a “New” England. And we, ourselves, have trusted God and have made significant changes late in our life to come here to Eagle’s Trace and new beginnings.

There were some Israelites who, during the Exodus, wondered why they were making the journey. They recalled their homes in Egypt and thought about returning to the supposed security of their former captivity.

During their first harsh winter in Plymouth, when so many died, there were some who longed to return to the security of England – even if it might mean giving up their freedom to worship as they wanted.

However, both the Israelites of the Holy Land and the Pilgrims of Plymouth trusted in God and in one another. They remained in their new lands, with their new ways of life.

Today, we too, continue to exist in days of anxiety, days in which it may be difficult to give thanks when we are burdened by the cares of the world
●… cares about covid-19 and other illnesses, other diseases of body and spirit;
●… cares about climate change, about floods and fires and other uncertainties about the physical world we will leave for our grandchildren,
●… cares about civil and cultural unrest and the political world we will leave for our grandchildren,
●… cares about moral attitudes and events and the spiritual world we will leave for our grandchildren.

Nevertheless, we are invited, once again, to give thanks for the assuredness that the Lord God will protect us from external harm and give us internal peace.

As we continue to be stewards of the resources needed for our personal and communal health and welfare, for our lives and those of the generations to follow, we trust that God will continue to extend his blessings to us – as well as to the birds of the air and the flowers of the fields.

We also offer our hope that we, ourselves, may grow in trust, the foundation for giving thanks to God.
● Trust in our own self … that we will not bring harm to our own well- being … through actions we do, or fail to do.
● Trust in others … that together we can find a common ground for our mutual life and welfare … both here in our community of Eagle’s Trace and that of our state, country and world.
● And finally … Trust in a God who unites our diverse humanity with bonds of understanding and an interwoven fabric of life.

Each one of us carries in our pockets small bits of green paper that bear the words, “In God We Trust.” This morning, as we gather together to offer our mutual giving of thanks, let us resolve to carry these words not merely on these pieces of paper … but to engrave them within our own hearts … “In God We Trust.”

And most important of all, when we give thanks …. either gathered with companions on the road we travel together… or alone in our room … let us recall that where our treasure is, there also will be our hope, our trust and our thanksgiving.

{Reflection given for Eagle’s Trace Thanksgiving Service: November 23, 2021. Text: Deut 26:1-11; Lk 12:22-34}

In very ancient days, the year began on March 1, along with spring planting in Europe. Back then, September really was the seventh month of the year. However, Julius Caesar, deciding he, himself, needed his own month, converted the fifth month, Quintilis, to “July.” Later, Sextilis was set aside for his heir, Augustus Caesar. The Julian calendar, lasting in Europe until its revision by Pope Gregory VIII in 1582, changed the first month of the year from March to January, a name based on the Roman god, Janus.

This god has two faces, one looking forward, the other backward. Janus is the deity for doorways, as well as for beginnings and endings. Millennia later, the month bearing his name remains two-faced. January 2022 is an excellent example of a two-faced month.

At the beginning of both 2020 and 2021, I commented on that plague called “COVID-19.” At the start of the contagion, there was no need to designate the viral strain as alpha. Little did we believe we would see the days of “omicron.” Now, we wonder if the time of “omega” may ever arrive.

Yes, there was a time when this country, or at least the then-current President, believed the virus would be completely gone in a few months. After all, Chinese products never last long; surely this would be equally true for his “Hong-Kong” virus. On the other hand, it was also the time when many believed our own democracy would never end, would never even be challenged. That belief coexisted prior to January 6, 2021, less than three weeks before the inauguration of Joe Biden, who, many believed, had stolen the election from Mr. Trump.

A year ago, I wrote my impressions of what should have been only a short-lived nightmare. Surely, in my waking hours, there could not be an insurrection and the storming of the Capitol building by flag-waving citizens, weaponized against Capital policemen, who defended the building and the Congress from physical attacks. These defenders were crushed by the arrival of men and women seeking to eliminate the Vice-President of the United States so that he could not lead a Congress that would certify an election which would not return Mr. Trump to the Oval Office.

On this January 6, 2022, there are increasing numbers of people who believe there was no insurrection in Washington, D.C., a year ago. Those seen in video coverage and in photographs were merely happy, peaceful tourists desiring to see Congress in action, doing the right thing.

Political investigations continue to review the matter before reaching any conclusions on what happened and what should be done, if anything, to prevent any recurrence of overzealous tourists entering the Capitol building. It is difficult to say whether the country will continue to be influenced by the “Big Lie” or by the “Real Truth.” Perhaps the designation will depend upon which historians survive. I, myself, am reluctant to comment on how so many individuals can take the wrong side in what should be factually based observations, made within a two-faced political system.

On this January 6, 2022, there are almost three-hundred-million people, worldwide, who have had confirmed cases of Covid-19, regardless of its Greek-lettered strain. There are approximately fifty-eight million confirmed cases in the U.S. and almost five million in the state of Texas. The number of deaths in the nation is rapidly approaching one million, those in Texas about seventy-five thousand.

These numbers continue to increase despite the fact that there are vaccines which can reduce both the incidence and the severity of the viral onslaught. However, many people refuse to receive a vaccination against Covid-19. They maintain the vaccine, itself, is harmful, that it may promote the spread of the virus. In addition to avoiding the treatment, they protest against vaccinations being mandated by federal authority, in any manner similar to the one used for other public health diseases.

The unrelenting spread of the coronavirus has resulted in a lack of personnel for transportation systems and for health care facilities. Given the number of infected teachers, many parents with school-aged children need to address educational policy about sending students to classes in person or using on-line instruction. I, personally, am thankful I do not need to make such decisions for my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Even college students have their own educational issues for their in-person or virtual learning. Social life for everyone continues to have questions about appropriate behavior for us individually or in groups.

Meanwhile, here at Eagle’s Trace we, once more, have limited services as a result of under-staffing because of the increasing numbers of those with coronavirus symptoms. Residents may go maskless, others must wear masks in public areas. Residents can gather for some events, but not for those in which active social contact might result. A New Year’s Eve dance had been considered but finally cancelled. Wine clubbers can drink only in small groups in the living room with its open-bar, indicative of continuing strange times.

Throughout the Archdiocese of Houston, questions continue to be addressed about the appropriate responses people should take. Cardinal DiNardo has allowed a full return of the Sunday liturgy – with or without a required mask or social distancing, depending upon the individual’s preferences. Communion is distributed with only consecrated hosts, not with the chalice of consecrated wine. Karen and I have returned, with masks, to Saturday evening mass at Epiphany of the Lord, but are more willing to participate in a streamed service than we would have once considered.

We still limit our shopping in the real world to Kroger’s. We avoid shopping malls, but there are indications many customers have returned. Without Amazon-dotcom, Karen would not have received any Christmas presents from me. She, herself, prefers telephoned orders from Land’s End or other specialty catalogs. Fortunately, the two of us have not been impacted by “supply chain” problems, which have influenced on-line orders as well as empty displays in those stores surviving two years of economic hardship because of COVID-19.

We did manage to celebrate a Christmas Day dinner with most of the family at Del Pueblo, our favorite Mexican restaurant, with its exceptional Margaritas, along with a gift exchange at Ken’s house. We are trying to return to a “new normal” much like the “old normal.” However, it’s unlikely that anything will truly be normal for months to come, if ever.

January, as well as Janus, continues to have two faces. January 6 may become like September 11 or December 7 and be called another day of infamy. On the other hand, on the other face, January 6 is also the true Feast of the Epiphany, the celebration of the arrival of the three wise men who followed a star to Bethlehem, some two-thousand years ago.

January 6 may continue, over the years, as a “manifestation,” a showing forth of the Prince of Peace. I, myself, can continue to hope and pray that the face of Rebellion, of Confusion, of Division, of non-Civility may be hidden, and the face of Peace, of Reason, of Unity and of Civility may be revealed, at last.

Evidently Vladimir Putin wants history to recognize him as the one who “Made Russia Great Again.” He was born in 1952, when the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was beginning to challenge the United States for world leadership. With the destruction of the Berlin Wall, in December 1989, and the collapse of the USSR, two years later, into more than a dozen separate republics, Putin’s world changed dramatically.

Putin, a former officer in the KGB, recalled the time, more than a thousand years ago, when the Rus, a Nordic tribe, had settled around Kyiv (or in Russian, Kiev), and had begun the cultural history of Russia. In late February of 2014, as President of Russia, he decided to retake that ancient land. He sent troops into Crimea, the southern peninsula of Ukraine. At first, these invaders bore no markings indicating that they were Russian troops; they were known merely as the “little green men.” Within a month, soldiers, now marked as Russian troops, had gained control of the area, allowing Putin direct access to the Black Sea, a long desired Soviet goal. The Ukranian military left the Crimean Peninsula by the end of March 2014, but sporadic fighting continued in the eastern, Russian-speaking, areas of Ukraine into the current year, 2022.

During the winter of 2021-2022, Putin moved more than 150,000 Russian troops to the northern, eastern and southern borders of Ukraine. Then on February 24, 2022, proclaiming the eastern Ukranian areas of Donetsk and Luhansk to be independent nations requiring Russian military assistance, he dispatched his troops across those borders. He had informed his invaders that they would be warmly received by the Ukrainians, who desired help in overthrowing the neo-Nazi government controlling them from Kiev. However, a former comedian of Jewish origin, Volodymyr Zelensky, who was now the President of Ukraine, had a different view. He has encouraged, with unflinching resolve, to lead his countrymen in a defense of their freedom. When asked how a government-in-exile might be made possible for him and his colleagues, he responded with a unique punchline: “I need ammunition, not a ride!”

In the last fortnight, the world has changed, once more. Every western nation, except North Korea, Syria, Venezuela, and Nicaragua, has come out against Putin’s invasion of Ukraine. China has attempted to remain neutral, while the Scandinavian nations and Switzerland, having been historically neutral in European affairs, are now joining the West with uniform economic sanctions against Russia. Because of these financial actions, the economy of Russia, itself, has collapsed dramatically.

Before the invasion, the Russian and American exchange rates were somewhat equivalent. Two weeks into the war, one ruble is worth less than one US cent! Western banking systems have discontinued their interactions with Russia. Within the last few days, the United States has banned the import of Russian oil, although recognizing that the cost of gasoline, rapidly approaching $5.00 per gallon, will have an economic impact on both ground and air transportation.

Of course, the main cost of the war has been the loss of life to Ukranian citizens as well as the hardships accompanying the massive exodus of women and children from their country. Ukranian males of military age are not allowed to leave, being essential to the nation’s military survival.

The movement of two million people has brought grief that has not been seen in Europe for the last five decades. On the one hand, Poland, a significant destination for escaping refugees, is rightfully being praised for allowing them access and promising that they can remain for three years, if they are able to cross the border on foot or to wedge themselves onto the half dozen trains arriving each day from the East. On the other hand, there are those who have been critical of these efforts, since, in the immediately prior years, refugees fleeing from countries of the Middle East have been met with huge resistance. However, this openness of the Poles to their fellow Slavs should not be surprising, given the interlaced histories and cultures of the Polish and Ukranian peoples. This mingling has been part of my own personal history.

My Polish mother maintained there are familial branches which are of Ukranian origin. Her sister Violet, my godmother and favorite aunt, married Charles Weida, whose father was born in the village of Terka, only a few miles from the Ukranian border, and was, probably, of Ukranian origin. Their eldest daughter, Rosemary, who was my most beloved cousin, married George Karnofel, who was of Ukranian stock. They were married in the Ukranian Catholic Church, rather than in the Roman Catholic rite, since it was required that in such a “mixed marriage,” the wedding ritual of the husband must be followed. Although Rosemary continued to be a practicing Roman Catholic and raised all of their children as Roman Catholics, she had to be buried in the Ukranian Catholic Church, which follows the Byzantine rite. However, unlike the Greek Orthodox and Russian Orthodox Churches with similar Byzantine rites, the Ukranian Catholic Church does recognize the primary position of the Roman Catholic pope as well as the role of its own Ukranian patriarch.

These religious overlaps were brought home to me when Rosemary died in April 1986, shortly after I had been ordained as a Permanent Deacon. The pastor of St Peter and Paul Byzantine Rite Church invited me to serve as a deacon at her funeral. Fortunately, there was a Byzantine Rite deacon whom I could mimic during the celebration of their elaborate liturgy. One of the events I vividly recall is the distribution of communion. Ukranian Catholics receive the consecrated bread and wine simultaneously. The deacon, using a small-bowled, long-handled spoon, picks up the consecrated host, in the form of a crouton; dips it into the cup of consecrated wine; and inserts the spoon into the open mouth of the recipient, while inverting it so the wine-soaked host is deposited onto the person’s tongue. As the Byzantine priest informed the visiting Roman congregation, just open your mouth and the clergy will do all of the work!

My mother, who did not learn English before entering the first grade, told me she could understand both the Ukranian and Russian spoken by relatives and neighbors, but could respond only in Polish. She also commented, once, that Nikita Khrushchev spoke Russian like a peasant! When I was older, I wished I had paid more attention to her linguistic abilities and had learned to speak Polish when my tongue was nimbler.

Although all of the neighbors who lived near my grandmother’s farm were natives of Poland or Ukraine, the majority of the Slavic residents in my hometown lived in an area called “Roosha Field,” even if they were not really of Russian origin. Although there was teasing among the various Slavic speaking friends and relatives, not unlike that between Aggies and Tea-Sippers, there continued to be a united culture among them. This cultural unity continues even today, although Mr. Putin may have misjudged the political reality of those who wish to live independently under a blue and yellow flag rather than one with three stripes of white, blue and red.

When Putin thought that the invasion of “The Ukraine,” a former region of Russia, would reunite his country, because of their common ancestry originating in Kyiv/Kiev, he did not fully appreciate that cultural identity is not equivalent to political identity. A language you can understand is not the same as a language you speak daily. Alumni from the universities located in College Station and in Austin may acknowledge that they are all “Texan” in their culture and heritage, but their loyalties to their schools remain distinct. Nordic mother “Rus” gave birth to separate nations; but once twins, conjoined at birth, have been separated, they can never be rejoined, no matter who attempts the union.

Postscript: It is now a month after the invasion began. Kyiv has not been taken; other cities have been destroyed. Ukraine forces are attempting to recapture Russian controlled cities. Over three-million Ukrainians have left the country. Moscow’s stock market remains closed. The price of gasoline in the U.S. approaches $7.00 in California. Mr. Putin, no doubt fuming at the failure of his “special military operation,” which was to have lasted less than a few weeks, has modified his stated goals. He apparently is not as interested in eliminating the “neo-Nazis” as he had originally planned to do; his new goal is to incorporate the eastern areas of Russian-speaking Ukrainians into Russia.

Over the years I’ve grown accustomed to leaving people, and events, behind. The leave-taking began more than six decades ago, when I left home to enter college. I suppose my lack of homesickness, or any regrets associated with leaving, were minimized as a result of my view, at the time, that my so-called “home life” was not overly satisfying. My family of origin could readily be described as “nonfunctional.” The same might be said of high school friendships. On the other hand, I did have a decided feeling of homesickness when I arrived in Ithaca, New York, to begin my graduate studies. My years at Kent State had been very rewarding in so many ways. At Cornell, I missed the familiarity of the campus I had loved and the friends I had made there. Most important, there was my separation from Karen, who still had her senior year to finish before we would be married. When I had met new, fellow graduate students at Cornell and had settled into my own apartment, the “left behind” syndrome ended. It did not return during all of the moves that followed.

I have had many changes of address over the years. During my time at Kent State, I never spent two consecutive years in the same place. This was equally true for Ithaca. During my first year, I had a room in a private home, with facilities shared by other students, before I moved into an apartment which, later, became my first place for living as a newly married couple. We lived in two other locations in the years before I graduated. There was even a transfer to another apartment within the same building, before our daughter was born.

The moves continued. Two years in Hanover, New Hampshire, with a different address for each year. Then, two years and two more places in Corvallis, Oregon. My five years with the NIH saw residences in Bethesda, Wheaton and Rockville, Maryland. Fortunately, we had only one house in Amherst, Massachusetts. I actually enjoyed each move.

With a new address, came an opportunity for a new life, especially when a new city was involved. The major disadvantage resulting from our multiple moves was a drastic decrease in being able to visit with our own parents. When we lived in the East (Ithaca and Hanover), Karen and I journeyed to Ohio for Thanksgiving, Christmas and summer vacations. Karen’s parents and mine managed to visit us for a few days in both of those college towns.

My parents traveled to Oregon for three days, long enough for them to see the zoo in Portland and experience the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean, while picnicking with us on the beach. Our return to the East Coast allowed for brief visits by Karen’s parents and mine in both Amherst and Bethesda. Each set of parents was able to spend a Christmas at one place or the other, as well as a birthday for a grandchild or, in the case of my folks, a First Communion for Deb and for Ken. It was because of the difficulty our children had in getting to know their grandparents that we made the decision, once I had retired, to remain in Houston.

Our three kids had become Texan at heart. Deb left for San Antonio for her senior year at Trinity University, having spent the first three at Syracuse, along with a semester-abroad in London. When she returned to the Alamo City following her graduation, with brief interludes in Lubbock, Texas and Eagle, Colorado, her absence from the immediate family did not seem to be a challenge. The drive-time between Houston and San Antonio allowed the three of us to visit every few months. Now, Karen and I engage in a more limited driving, we have continued to meet for lunch some place in between – from Columbus through Schulenburg, Flatonia, Hallettsville, and Gonzales to La Grange.

Ken no longer drove to and from College Station, and Christopher finished his college drives to San Marcos. They married and settled down with their own families in the general area of The Woodlands, making visits with them possible for holidays and special occasions, as well as whenever we could coordinate our individually busy schedules.

Until recently, our grandchildren’s generation was firmly established with Houston as its focus. The ones who went off to college in Texas returned home and found wonderful spouses. They began to gift us with great-grandchildren. But times do change.

One of our granddaughters, Kirby, married Stephen, who began to establish his own career in finance. His company provided him with a year-long reallocation to New York City. Upon returning to Houston, he was offered a new opportunity in Atlanta, Georgia. Kirby and Stephen moved there a year ago, to become the first of that generation to live outside of Texas.

Two weeks ago, her father, Chris, mentioned that he and Kelly were buying a house in Gadsden, Alabama, about a two-hour drive from Atlanta, and would be moving there. He had retired from being a high school administrator a few years ago; Kelly had also retired from her full-time position teaching high school mathematics. Their younger daughter, Kennedy, could readily continue her nursing career in a hospital in Atlanta. I suddenly felt left behind.

While it’s true I had never really thought much about how my own parents might have felt about my own cross-country moves, I now realize what they might have experienced when I left home, even with my recognizing the problems we had during those years when we lived in the same house.

Traveling is much easier, now, than when Karen and I left Ohio for the East, West and Southern Coasts. Nevertheless, recent events have brought about a new orientation for me. The months of follow-up for the COVID-19 pandemic have had their own impact on everyone. There are also the normal effects of passing into the second half of my ninth decade. While I realize our own parents were able to visit us occasionally, it is less likely that Karen and I will be able to travel to Alabama and Georgia.

Having chosen to remain in Texas, where our own children and grandchildren have lived, I intellectually appreciate Chris and Kelly wanting to be near their own children and grandchildren-to-be. At the same time, I admit there is a realistic question about my own future interactions with them. When they finally do move, which is still an unknown date and will remain so for many months, I wonder: “when will I see them again?”

The answer is not known. The aging process, itself, is coupled with an appreciation of human mortality. Karen and I were not present for the demise of our own parents. We had, once, expected that our descendants would remain in Texas for the remainder of our lives and would be available during our final days. This is no longer a certainty. At the outset of these reflections, I entitled them: “Left Behind.” I trust this designation should remain and the words should not be changed to “Right Ahead!”

There are several reasons why I take the time and make the effort to jot down items for my legacy in words. The process results in a journal, a written record of my thoughts and the events which brought about those thoughts. I began doing this more than seventy years ago, when I was experiencing the lonely years of being a teenager in Ohio. Theoretically, these notes may provide an insight for my grandchildren and their descendants about life in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries.

These past seven decades have been a significant part of the Second Elizabethan age, an era with as much excitement as the one encountered by an earlier Elizabeth, the daughter of Henry VIII, who experienced his own extremely personal events that, unlike mine, have had worldwide repercussions.

Today, September 19, 2022, is the day of the funeral of Queen Elizabeth II. For the past ten days, the world, let alone England and its associated lands, has been enthralled with the pomp and circumstance of this event, which has been met with meditative silence, fond memories of a distinguished woman, and puzzlement about the fate of the British monarchy under the reign of Charles III.

There are not many of us who recall Elizabeth’s coronation on June 2, 1953, the day before I, myself, graduated from high school. My own recollections concern radio broadcasts and newsreels seen at the local movie theater. On the other hand, there has been 24/7 coverage by television and social networks of every jot and tittle associated with her funeral. There has even been media coverage about a bishop dropping a piece of paper next to her catafalque. Commentators have been speculating about his thoughts regarding whether he should have picked it up! (It appears someone did pick it up when the camera was focused elsewhere!)

Many Americans and other non-British observers have expressed deep sorrow about the Queen’s passing. Their active interest has mirrored the sadness shown throughout the world for the death of other celebrities. Princess Diana is still recalled with great fondness long after her death in a Parisian car accident. Others have had similar reactions with the deaths of Elvis Presley, John Lennon, or John Denver. One of my own earliest memories is how my parents grieved over the death of FDR. I, myself, recall my thoughts about the assassination of JFK. However, my own grief for the death of any of these, or other, celebrities is minimal in comparison with the expressions recorded in public media for the passing of Queen Elizabeth II.

My lack of deeply expressed sorrow pertains to the death of people I have known personally, as well as those who are known only through public accounts. Yes, I have felt momentary sadness about the death of friends or relatives, but not to the extent apparent in others. If I actually believe in life-after-death and a final reunion with God, there is no reason for me to grieve the earthly departure of anyone. They continue to exist in a condition of complete love. I should be happy for them. Any sorrow I might feel would be the result of a loss of the pleasure they brought to me, a pleasure that should be recalled with joy, not sadness.

Yes, my cousin Rosemary still exists within my active memory as someone whom I greatly loved and dearly miss, although she died in April 1986. I’ve lost other cousins, as well as all of my aunts and uncles, but I am not sad that they no longer exist in this world. I also recall with great fondness, interactions I’ve had with close friends who died long ago, but there is no sadness, no grief, no feeling of loss, per se. Memories should be ones of events that once brought pleasure and continue to bring joy.

Pomp is defined as a show of magnificence or splendor. The glory of God is also a display of magnificence and splendor that is all-enveloping. Pomp and circumstance have been present in an earthly form this past week on an island off the coast of Europe. I expect that, to a lesser degree, they will be exhibited in Houston, Texas, during the next week, since it was announced, today, that Joseph Fiorenza, Archbishop Emeritus of the Diocese of Galveston-Houston, died this morning; he was 91. Bishop Fiorenza, like Queen Elizabeth II, was loved and respected by many friends and followers. His funeral will, no doubt, be closely observed.

There are several times throughout my own life when I have been stirred by the magic of processional marches and their accompanying rituals. The black and white television images of a riderless horse come readily to mind as will, I’m sure, the red-and-gold-covered casket of a queen. The sound of Sir Edward Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance” can be heard by an inner ear. It is good to recall that he composed this music for the coronation of Elizabeth’s father, Edward VII, in 1902. Pomp and circumstance remain relevant for commencements, and not just for the conclusion of a well-lived life. Both processionals and recessionals are part of our complete opus.

It is now February 2023! Two years have passed since I wrote about our personal interactions resulting from COVID-19. There is now a new, semi-normal life. Individuals may still be concerned about the latest genetic strain of the virus, but they are not doing much more about it than they did before the epidemic began three years ago. As with many viruses, there have been numerous mutations, resulting in some strains being more infective than others. However, the Houston Chronicle has finally eliminated its daily statistics on the virus.

Currently, 6.8 million deaths have occurred worldwide, of which 1.1 million have been reported for the US. More than 670 million cases of viral infection have been attributed, globally, with 102 million in this country, and some 8.3 million confirmed for Texas. I, personally, know no one who has died because of the virus, although there have been deaths among relatives of those living at Eagle’s Trace, even if there have been no COVID-19 deaths reported for our own residents.

Our Medical Center has provided residents, those willing to take them, with two basic and two booster vaccinations. Only a few here have declined, although general acceptance of the vaccines has been limited, depending a lot upon one’s politics! With the anti-vaccination response evident by so many throughout the country, it would not be surprising if both smallpox and polio will return. Respiratory infections, in general, have increased, primarily in children. Adults are also suffering long-range fatigue following their recovery from COVID-19, itself.

Along with the physical fatigue, there may be a widespread psychological malaise. People are growing weary of the pandemic reports by the media. Perhaps, to offset this fatigue, video newscasts seem to focus, even more than they did previously, on details of mass-shootings of school children as well as attacks on Asians and other minorities! Police brutality and riots against authority make up the remainder of the nightly news. Fortunately, I do not follow the other, common social media outlets, which seem to focus on conspiracy plots and how the 2020 election was “stolen” from Mr. Trump, per his own accounts.

Social distancing is rarely practiced at the beginning of 2023. Stenciled footprints are still visible in many lines designated for public waiting, but few are occupied. Only a handful of people wear masks, either at Eagle’s Trace or in the grocery store. Karen and I have not visited a mall, together, since Christmas, 2019! While she was in the hospital, recently, for her hip-replacement, I did go to Memorial City Mall, adjoining the hospital, in order to buy her a Christmas present. Actually, I went twice, to purchase two gifts. The first visit was on a weekday, and the Mall, the major one for this part of Houston, was quite empty of customers. However, on Saturday afternoon, the crowds seemed to have returned in full force. I, myself, continue to order almost everything else from Amazon. I have not purchased any new clothes for the last three years.

With regard to religious gatherings, we have returned to the liturgies held at either Epiphany of the Lord or at St. John Vianney’s parish. Following Karen’s hip-replacement, I have returned to being the driver. However, I do not enjoy driving after dark, and Vianney is readily available with non-expressway traffic. Cardinal DiNardo now allows reception of the cup for those who desire to partake of it at Eucharist. Streaming liturgies are events of the past.

At this stage following the outset of COVID-19, much of the nation has returned to the behavior it exhibited prior to the epidemic. In fact, young adults may be even more anxious to return to a party-lifestyle than they were before being isolated. The older folks at Eagle’s Trace also seem to be in the process of setting aside the restrictions of the pandemic. The living room in the main building is, once more, filled each night with before-dinner wine imbibers.

Toilet paper is readily available in the stores. However, a dozen eggs, because of a new avian virus, may be bought for $7.00, over twice the price of a current gallon of gasoline! Only a few months ago, the prices were reversed. People, once again, are frequenting restaurants. Given the rapidly increased cost for all kinds of food purchases, I am reluctant to join in this renewed activity. Although the annual fee for maintenance at Eagle’s Trace, which includes funds for dining, have increased by 6%, it is still less expensive to eat here than at the “average” restaurant.

The cycle of life continues, as confusingly as ever. The new semi-normal life, as it becomes the new-normal, maintains its price-keeping pace. Reluctantly, I follow.

It began when Karen leaned forward and tried to cough, but couldn’t. We were at dinner on a Thursday evening in the Eagle’s Roost café where she was enjoying her fillet mignon. The bite she had taken was too large to swallow; she began choking but with no result. She stood up and tried to dislodge the meat but could not. She collapsed onto her chair, bent over the table and became silent. I have never been so scared in all of my life than when I sat across from her, and could do nothing. She was choking to death. I yelled for someone to call the front desk for the community’s first responders. There was a lot of commotion by surrounding residents and staff but it seemed that no one was doing anything to call for professional help. One of the dining-room residents said he was a physician and tried to perform a Heimlich maneuver but failed to bring anything up, since he could not get her to stand. She was lying on the floor when first responder Dustin and his partner arrived and began to perform CPR on her unmoving form. All I could do was stand there and pray.

My prayer, even then, seemed strange to me. I prayed that she recover, yet I simultaneously prayed for God’s will to be done. If she died, I knew she would be with Him in heaven. And yet I, selfishly, did not want to let her go, even though I believed she would not really depart from me. As Dustin administered CPR, she coughed up the bolus of fillet mignon and moved her legs. It was not yet time for us to be separated by dimensions of time and space. Responders from the local fire station appeared with their stretcher. As Karen awakened, she was placed on the gurney and moved down the hall to the waiting ambulance. I rushed along with my walker until we reached the elevator. She and the team went on while I anxiously waited for the elevator car to return.

She was examined in the ambulance; her vital signs appeared to be back to normal. Dustin and the other responders urged she be taken immediately to the local ER. However, she was adamant in not wanting to go to the hospital. Having been married for sixty-five years, I knew there was really no way for me to convince her to agree to the transfer. The two of us returned to our apartment; she in a wheelchair and I with my walker. She entered her recliner and I sat in mine. She rested comfortably for the remainder of the night; I did not.

The next morning, after meeting with Dr. Patel in the ET medical center, Karen reluctantly agreed for me to take her to the ER at Methodist West Hospital, fifteen minutes away from Eagle’s Trace. She remained there for the weekend. She slowly recovered from the inhalation pneumonia that resulted from her choking episode. Arrangements were made, with a lot of ongoing hassles, for oxygen tanks and an oxygen concentrator to be delivered to our apartment. (For some unknown reason, the oxygen company agents could not readily find Eagle’s Trace, even after explicit instructions were repeatedly given to the local office. Fortunately, Karen did not need a tank for her visit to a pulmonologist who agreed she did not require additional oxygen.)

A month later Karen has completely recovered, physically. She recalls almost nothing about the episode, itself. Shortly afterwards, she did ask about my standing in front of her with a pink box in my hands. That is an event which I maintain never occurred.

On the other hand, I continue to have my own emotional problems regarding this incident which, while terrifying during the time it occurred, ended with positive results. I fear that she may choke again. Any small cough while she is eating, brings about a terrible dread within me. I know she will take only small bites, that it is unlikely anything will go down the wrong way. But the fear persists. I fear losing her; this time with no return. I realize how much I depend upon her presence, her being there. It’s not a matter of doing without the actions she performs, of her not taking care of the housework in our daily lives. I know that I can do all that might be required for my own physical existence. It is my emotional and spiritual existence that would change.

I truly understand, now, that love is being present to the other. Our communication does not require us to speak. We can sit quietly together in the same room or do our own things in different parts of our home. Although love is being together as one soul, I prefer … for now … that the body is somewhere nearby. I realize that, in some year to come, this physical presence will be broken. I know that the spiritual bond will exist forever, but during my waking hours I prefer to dwell elsewhere. I need to see her whenever I look for her smiling face.