Pandemic Relief
Since the first whiff of news about a possible new virus on the march to America, our lives have changed. Fewer things to do or places to go. In-person conversations with good friends are 6-feet apart (barely qualifying as in-person) and when going anywhere, we’re now ‘all masked up’. Some of us are seeing a lot more of our family members, while others are not, separated by too many miles to embark on a visit. Zoom, zoom-room, zoom-call and zoom-meeting are now part of a wider lexicon. Since March the virtual meeting has become a communication option for people who six months ago only thought ‘zoom’ was about moving quickly. Ironically, sitting in front of a camera and zooming now means we’re not really moving at all. And yet, some of us are discovering humor, solace, entertainment and more within close quarters.
Writer Steph Fairyington decided—among a variety of options and after consultation with her spouse—to create time within the day to stay close to their four-year old daughter and develop coping mechanisms for the lack of extracurricular activities. As she chronicled her child-raising philosophy in a recent Washington Post essay, Steph began reading “Full Catastrophe Living” by meditation teacher Jon Kabat-Zinn. While that’s not a book title I’d be drawn to, Fairyington tells her readers that last year she created "a nightly routine following bedtime stories that included three deep breaths, moments of silence and expressions of gratitude. . . . Although the novelty of the routine amused her [daughter] enough to attempt the practice—a few deep breaths, saying something she’s grateful for—it very quickly devolved (or evolved?) into giggles and wiggles and epic levels of sarcasm that made her seem more 14 than 4. When I’d do a deep sonorous ‘om,’ she’d laugh her way through her own iteration which sounded like ‘ooooohhhhhhh.’ When I’d ask what she’s grateful for, she’d say, ‘Ice cream and farts.’ When she’d exhale too boisterously through her nose (not her mouth, like I told her to), snot would often surface on her face, unleashing spasms of utter joy.” Bottom line? They’re coping.
Let’s take a moment to consider what we know about crocodiles and whales. What most Americans know about whales they learned from three films: “Moby Dick” (a legendary giant and anti-social Sperm whale), “Free Willy” (oxymoron alert: a friendly Orca ‘Killer’ whale), and “Star Trek: The Voyage Home” (a pair of time-traveling humpback whales). Whales live in the ocean. Then there are crocodiles, which can be found throughout the tropics in Africa, Asia, the Americas and Australia. Actually, your studies probably already confirmed that there are crocodiles in Australia. Paul Hogan provided absolute scientific confirmation in the films “Crocodile Dundee I, II, and III”.
Earlier this month some day-sailors observed three humpback whales exploring the Alligator River in Australia’s Northern Territory. (No, there are no alligators in Australia. As with so many other things, the original European explorers got that wrong.) But there are two things worth noting. First, there are definitely crocodiles in the Alligator River. It’s loaded with crocodiles. Second, crocodiles are absolutely carnivorous animals, feeding on almost any moving objects in their path: fish, reptiles, birds, mammals and more. (More, in this case, occasionally includes unlucky humans.)
It appears that all three humpback whales spent a few weeks in the Northern Territory, having taking a break from ocean living and embarking on a 20-mile inland swim. Hey, it happens. A dozen years ago, two humpback whales were seen enjoying the waters of the Sacramento River Delta, before heading west to San Francisco Bay and returning to the Pacific Ocean. Locals named them Delta and Dawn. Returning to the land down under, two of the three wayward whales in the Alligator River seem to have quietly returned to the sea. (No evidence of a crocodile-whale encounter was found.) The third took a little longer. Once spotted, the whale developed a fan-base of observers who tracked the humpback as it took advantage of the high tide, and it too returned to the sea.
My final anecdote for fellow shut-ins is to tell you that there is another migration to Woodstock. Regular readers may recall that in August 2019 I wrote about the 50th Anniversary of Woodstock. The festival, not the town. The festival was perfectly chronicled and retold by Joni Mitchell in her marvelous song “Woodstock”, and no self-respecting Boomer would ever declare that they don’t know the song, never heard of the festival or hadn’t heard of the town. On this last point we'll cut you some slack. The purists will tell you that “hey man, the concert wasn’t in Woodstock. It was in Bethel, man.” The fact that Max Yasgar’s farm was more than 50 miles from Woodstock in Bethel matters not. Simple proof? Walk into a bar frequented by music-loving Boomers and ask, “Were any of you dudes at Bethel?” Crickets. Ask again, “Were any of you dudes at Woodstock?” Expect to hear “Yeh, man” or the more assertive response, “Dude!” which suggests s/he is insulted that anyone would have to ask.
The ghosts of Jimi Hendrix, Joe Cocker, Janis Joplin, Richie Havens, Sly Stone and others may still spend time in Woodstock, New York. But for everyone else, it’s becoming a little pricey. Peace and love have given way to a real estate boom. It seems that pandemic-weary New Yorkers—re-labeled “Cidiots”(as in City Idiots)—have been arriving in droves. Woodstock, the place, is happening again. In recent years people have been finding their way to the Woodstock area. Real estate prices have soared, private schools for their kids have long waiting lists (with tuition costs between $15,000 and $20,000 per year.) According to the Washington Post, the influx of people has accelerated during the pandemic. We’re not yet at that “will the last person leaving New York City turn off the lights” moment. The Bronx, Manhattan, Brooklyn, Staten Island, and Queens will always be there. But its like the sum total of the stress associated with living in semi-lockdown has literally driven city-lovers 100 miles north.
Among those who relocated really early are Don and Susan LaSala. They purchased a home 20 years ago. No ordinary home—musically and historically speaking—they purchased “Big Pink”. Doesn’t ring a bell? One summer the home was occupied by Robbie Robertson, Richard Manuel, Levon Helm, Rick Danko and Garth Hudson: The Band. These five musicians backed up Bob Dylan on some of his mid-sixties touring. In 1967 the house became one of the most iconic structures in music history when The Band wrote and recorded their first full album: “Music From Big Pink”. LaSala’s home is now available as a B&B rental at $550 per night. With restrictions.
Like I said, Woodstock is happening again. Inevitably, the recent influx has prompted a reverse migration. The Post quotes a local who “mentions a family who has decided to leave Woodstock, not because of density but to take advantage of the frothy, manic [real estate] market in Ulster County. They’re selling high and buying low. . . . They told me if the times were not so ‘nutso,’ they would have never sold.’” Nutso is, of course, in the eye of the beholder. And by buying low, their money goes further enabling them to move back into the city. In “Big Yellow Taxi” Mitchell wrote “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot”. These days it appears that parts of paradise are now very desirable parking lots. Fair is fair. The garden is always in the eye of the beholder.
Far left: "Om" adapted. Upper left: Humpback breaching in Sacramento River Delta, CC.
Lower Left: Big Pink CC.
