Posted in A&I

Book Review: Owls of the Eastern Ice

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by Bonnie Tollefson

 

Editor’s note: this review was originally released with authorship mistakenly attributed to Jan Hines.  The Complement apologizes to Bonnie, Jan, and our readers for the error.

Subtitled: A Quest to Find and Save the World’s Largest Owl, by Jonathan C. Slaght, Center Point Large Print, 2020

The first thing I learned from this book was – Don’t make life decisions while hiking in the blazing sun in a bug infested bog – you could end up spending years freezing off valuable body parts. That is what Jonathan Slaght did. He had fallen in love with the Primorye region of Russia. For those of you as deficient as I am regarding Russian geography, that is the area to the East of Siberia. It is bordered by China, North Korea and the Sea of Japan. Jonathan spent 3 years there during his time in the Peace Corps and also did a Masters project for the University of Minnesota on the effect of logging in the area on songbirds. As he was trying to decide on a subject for his doctoral dissertation, it came down to aiding the conservation efforts for two birds – the hooded crane and the fish owl. Since that hot buggy bog was prime hooded crane habitat he decided to study the fish owl. Never heard of a fish owl? It is the largest of the owl family being over two feet tall with a six foot wingspan and scruffy brown feathers that blend very well into their forested habitat. Their primary food source is fish and frogs so their hearing is not as good as other owls. The easiest time to locate them is February when they leave their distinctive tracks on the side of rivers and make their eerie duet calls during mating. These facts led Slaght to spend five winters in the forests of the Primorye as he located nest trees, studying habitat, and captured live owls. He took measurements, finally discovered how to tell apart the male and female (it’s more white tail feathers), banded birds and, on a few owls, placed expensive GPS transmitters to determine flight patterns. In spite of bears, tigers, and temperatures well below 0, Slaght and his Russian research assistants were able to work out a conservation plan for loggers and others to protect this owl found only in Russia and northern Japan.

The book is available thru the Jackson County Public Library and as Large Print from the RVM Library.

The Organ Recital

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by Asifa Kanji

Organ recitals are torturing me. Who is wailing this time – my kidneys, my appendix? A sharp pain in my groin has me thrashing to the point of wanting to be put down, like an old horse who has seen better days.

Call 911. I trounced that thought in a trice.

Shoot me first. I would rather die in my own bed. In the ER, they would open up my body’s Pandora’s Box, bringing to light all that I didn’t know was broken. This would be the beginning of serving a life sentence of pills and pricks, medical probes, and compartmentalized boxes filled with little tablets. I lie there in a kind of rigor mortis, fearing that any movement will awaken the havoc-wreaking devil in my body. Slowly, the wave of pain subsides.

What if? What if I have cancer? What if?

It can’t be. See, the pain has gone. It was just gas. I have been full of it lately. I review everything I have eaten in the last 48 hours. Nothing unusual comes to mind.

This is the third episode in as many months, the voice from inside pipes up.

Yeah, so – look, I’m all better now. It is nothing.

Maybe if I tell myself enough times that it is nothing, my body will get the message and it will be nothing.

Are you sure you are ready to die? It is that same voice from inside, nagging.

Fear of illness devours me, chewing up my independence, my youth, my very being. Doctors will feed me with fickle hope and potions, drawing out my life, just because they can. I had sworn that I would let the cancer, or whatever disease, take me down. No treatment, just painkillers, I repeated over and over to my husband, my friends and my family. I have witnessed modern medicine do everything in its power to beat death as though letting people die is a failure. Please support me when I say I do not want treatment, I wrote in my living will. Now I wonder if this pain is death’s calling card.

This morning, the bleeding from my colon stopped. The violent tummy cramps stopped. I am nursing a cup of hot tea as I sway in my hammock. The wind chimes are singing a gentle, Zen melody. The song fades into quietness and then picks up again with the morning breeze. The grass and the trees smell so fresh, looking clean and bright after yesterday’s rain. They are enjoying the sun as much as I am. As for the hills, they are crowned with huge messy dollops of clouds, spilling carelessly down their sides. Oh what a beautiful morning. I cannot help having that wonderful feeling that everything is going my way.

I want to live. I want to be healthy. I want to write, especially my mum’s story, a legacy I want to leave behind for my nephews. I want to kayak in Antarctica, and camp out at Machu Picchu. If I am diagnosed with something big, maybe . . . Maybe I will seek treatment to heal my body. How quickly my principles are crushed when they bang against reality! For the first time I am beginning to believe that we are programmed to want to live, to survive, until death takes us. This is a new experience for me. I always thought I’d have the courage to say, “This is it!” and allow myself to die. I wasn’t going to be like my mother, my uncle, like so many of my relatives who just lingered – every caregiver’s nightmare. I always wondered why they didn’t stop their treatment. I certainly did not see them enjoy anything that I would call quality of life. In fact it was the opposite. They were dependent on me to take care of them and to advocate for them. That was not the journey I wanted to take. But now I see how hope seduces me, but, but . . . fear is knocking ever so loudly, wanting to be heard. I listen.

I fear my husband’s love for me will drive him to do everything possible to fix me, yes even bind me with duct tape or lubricate me with WD40. I fear that he will do so much for me that it would disable me and undermine my own fight to live. I fear we will go from being friends and lovers to patient and caregiver. I fear friends will turn into advisors, and in their need to heal me, they will infantilize me. I will become the person that my friends do for, rather than simply enjoy being with. There is nothing like illness to bring the good Samaritan out of everyone, paying their karmic dues forward, fervently hoping the same fate won’t befall them. Most of all, I fear the whispers, labeling me as the sick one. It would render me worthless, like I had had a lobotomy.

I remember well when David cracked his hip and was temporarily wheelchair bound. People would talk to him loudly and deliberately, using their kindergarten vocabulary, or would address their remarks to me (the wheel chair pusher) as though David needed to be pushed around because he was too stupid to walk, talk or think.

I have not told David or anyone about the bleeding. He would be terribly concerned, as would I if the situation were reversed. The difference is, I am struggling with myself and don’t have the energy to deal with his emotions. I am not ready to do the obvious, like see a doctor. So why should I put him through the panic?

Am I a fool? I could nip this in the bud with a checkup. The thought of having instruments shoved up every orifice, especially the ones at the lower end, makes me shudder like a sail in storm. What if they do find something serious? Maybe I should stop depriving myself of triple dark chocolate ice cream and freshly baked apple pie a la mode. After all I have done for my body, taking it for walks, feeding it nothing but the best, yet it is shedding my health, memory, energy like it were getting rid of bad debts. What the hell, I should just say yes to red wine, deep fried chicken, forget the salads, and die happily ever after. But I know death doesn’t come that easily. Fear and anger are holding hands again.

Skip treatment. Avoid the medical quagmire. Fall asleep in the snow, the voice goads me. You are lucky, there’s loads of snow up there, and it will soon be over.

Yes but. . . I want to have a going away party – you know, a wake while I am awake.

Forget that, my brain says, you are giving up a hell of an opportunity to go while the going is good.

S T O P it! screams the other voice at my brain’s tireless commitment of sending me to hell on a bullet train.

Oh, maleficent brain, be quiet and let me think about how I might handle a dire diagnosis. Let me dance with fear for a while. Let it lead me and teach me. I beg to differ with FDR. I don’t believe that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself, or that to fear is to lack courage or faith or love. It is only when I give my fears a voice that the seeds of hope and love are born. Finding out just exactly what it is I fear that I am able to come up with solutions. But having a conversation with fear is like talking to a belligerent teenager. I have to show compassion, empathy and give it space to come out and talk to me.

Becoming a helpless invalid is a real fear that is exacerbated by people’s well meaning and loving intentions. So how do I keep my dignity and self worth? How do I not become a victim, or fall into the trap of becoming a professional invalid? How do I avoid talking incessantly about all that hurts? Organ Recitals, a friend calls them.

I do not wish to bring attention to all that ails me. I don’t need a peanut gallery clapping their hands every time I am able to poop. I am both fickle and strong in mind, and have a tendency to design my life as I go. Should I be diagnosed with a major illness, throwing me into the briar patch, I have no clue how I will cope. But dear ones, should you choose to journey with me as caregivers, I have put together some thoughts on how you can support me, and help allay my fears and maybe yours. Knowing what to say or do in the face of death or illness is really tough.

So my dear friends and family, here is how to support me, should I seriously fall ill:

Tell me that life sucks, and HOLD the advice. I most likely know what is good for me. I need someone to listen, while I think out aloud and air my anger and my fears, tilling my own soil to plant hope.

Make me laugh. Do things that will make me forget for a moment that my body is falling apart.

Hold my hand, look me in the eyes and tell me that you love me. That will give me the strength I need.

If I can’t do it myself, paint my toenails in wild colors; give me a foot massage. Touch me. Hold me.

Sit and eat dark chocolate or sip a glass of good red wine with me.

Don’t greet me with, “how are you doing?” Instead start the conversation with the mundane. It’s a lovely day, or my god the traffic was awful. Took me twenty minutes to find parking or whatever else is on your mind. Ask me what I would like to do or hear about.

Don’t assume that just because I’m sick, I should be protected from whatever is going on in your life. Tell me your hurts, your pains, your frustrations, even if it has to do with me. Let us process and cry and laugh together. Most likely my brain is still intact. Tell me, because that makes me feel included rather than isolated.

Even if I need help eating or wiping my bottom, it does not equate to brain failure. Allow me to do things for myself, however awkward or painful it may seem to you. I promise I will ask for help, should I need it. Don’t be afraid to tell me “No” if I am pushing your limits.

Don’t feel sorry for me as it is a part of my journey. Painful experiences are like the thorny stems of rosebushes – they hold sweet smelling rosebuds, just waiting to bloom. Let us together not allow ourselves to bleed to death from the pricks of the thorns.

Let us see the illness that has befallen, not as an end, but as a new opportunity to live life in ways we haven’t before. Surely that is a more fun ride to go on.

My worst fear is that our relationship will change to one of caregiver, and the lump that needs looking after. When I am no longer able to care for myself, hire someone to come in to help. Please continue to go out and participate in life as fully as you can, for that is the energy I want you to bring and share with me. In that way, we’ll continue to enjoy each other and continue to build on the relationship we have enjoyed for so many years, even though life has taken a turn and suddenly we find ourselves on a different path.

There is so much written about caregivers and the sustenance they need. Avail yourself of that, but most of all realize that you cannot fix things for me, and that you are not in charge. Don’t waste energy in believing that if you could just get things sorted out properly and get all of the right people lined up, you could make everything better. It will be easier for both of us if you let me figure out how to deal with my illness or condition, and allow me to do it my way.

In return, I promise to also be there for you. I will try to remember that this is not just my journey, but for us to walk together, hand in hand . . . . until death do us part. May we have the courage to be there for each other, without taking away from each other’s life’s joys and pains.

Down the Shore

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By Eleanor Lippman

Two things always governed what my family did: financial and lack of imagination.

So, when it came to vacations, the only out of town location my family ever considered was Atlantic City, New Jersey, or as we in Philadelphia called it, “Down the shore”.

The financial part determined whether we even saw Atlantic City during the summer or whether we actually vacationed in Atlantic City and how long we stayed.

Preparing for a down the shore vacation, my father would empty out his delivery truck, moving its contents to the basement of our house, and we would pile in, three and eventually four children, two adults, and all of the paraphernalia needed for a beach stay. After unloading and settling us in at our temporary vacation house, he would return to Philadelphia to work. If our stay included a full weekend or two, he would join us late Saturday morning and on Sunday afternoon, he’d leave to go back home. He’d spend the two half days bravely sitting with us on the beach under an umbrella with several towels covering his legs completely. You see, my father, with his corn flower blue eyes, had skin the color of milk, skin that was so sensitive to the sun, any exposure would lead to misery. With one exception. My father drove his delivery truck with the driver’s side window down and his left arm resting half outside and half inside ready to signal his turning directions at all times. By the end of summer, the skin on his left arm was nut brown from his fingers to where his sleeve ended with a white band permanently there under his wrist watch. That arm never feared the rays of the sun. His right arm was always milky white.

During one of our beach summers, when we probably rented a place for two or three weeks, my father showed up briefly during the weekends as usual and on the day of our departure with the truck emptied out, he was ready to haul us back to Philadelphia. When he arrived to take us home, he had a big surprise, but, we had to guess what it was. No clues other than “something new”. All during the packing and loading the truck we pestered him with guesses. All during the ride home there were more, millions of ideas of ‘what was new’. We’d yell out a new guess and watch him grin and shake his head no.

We reached home and still hadn’t figured it out. After unloading our beach things and loading up the truck with my dad’s merchandise and still flinging guesses at him, my mother called us into the kitchen for dinner. I was probably about eight years old at the time and I remember my very last idea for what was new. As I stood in the doorway to the kitchen, I was certain the answer was “a new toaster”. Who knows what prompted that thought, but it was the best I could do.

I’ll never forget his big reveal. As his four children gathered around him, he was ready to tell. The answer: he had shaved off his bushy mustache. To this day, I still don’t know if my mother had guessed correctly.

Holidays at the Manor

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Elf Mischief

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The Elf on the Shelf has been making mischief in the Manor auditorium. Picture taken Thursday morning December 2.

Our Holiday Poem to You

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December Library Display

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by Anne Newins

The library volunteers have identified an eclectic group of nearly eighty books for your holiday reading.  Spanning a variety of genres, one common feature in the collection seems to be snow.  Below is a sampling of some of the books on display.

Cindy Bollens and Julie Mahoney

Romance:

The Snow Bride, by Debbie Macomber

Nantucket White Christmas, by Pamela Kelley

The Wish, by Nicolas Sparks

 Historical:

Log Cabin Christmas Collection, various authors

Snow Falling on Cedars, by David Guterson

The Winter Soldier, by Daniel Mason
Mystery:

A Fine and Bitter Snow, by Dana Stabenow

Blood on Snow, by Jo Nesbo

Arctic Chill, by Arnaldur Indridason

Books about polar exploration, poetry, and short stories are also included. The display is located in front of the fireplace near the main entrance to the library.

Fuzz – a book review

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by Anne Newins

Anne Newins

A new book by Mary Roach is guaranteed to bring a smile to your face. Author of six other intriguing books, including Bonk, Stiff, Spook, Gulp, Grunt, and Packing for Mars, Roach has an unusual ability to bring humor, science, and readability into one package. Her penchant for picking off beat topics adds to the fun.

Fuzz examines how various plant and animal species get into conflicts with humans, and in turn, how people try to control their predations. Spoiler alert: this is not a book for the squeamish. Animal control efforts often are barbaric. It also does not discuss the effect of climate change on animal populations.

Much of the book describes the efforts of professionals who attempt, almost always unsuccessfully, to control natural predators. Roach points out that humans often exaggerate the risk of dreaded species, noting that one’s odds of being killed by a cougar are less than being killed by a filing cabinet, and snowplows kill twice as many Canadians as grizzlies.

She quickly embeds herself with a wide selection of authorities across the world, including the Himalayas (leopards), India (macaques), Canada (Douglas firs), the Vatican (gulls and rats), New Zealand (invasive species), as well as numerous locations in the United States. Plant poisons, especially ricin, are described at length.

Many, many, many efforts are made to attempt to control many, many, many animals, especially in the United State—the list is too long to include here. Some countries, particularly Asian ones, are more philosophical and try to come to some level of acceptance of animals that move into their towns and cities. On a more positive note, there seems to be a growing effort to deal with the situation more humanely in the West.

Of course, I wanted to see if she researched some of our more perplexing Manor wildlife. I could not find anything about wild turkeys. But in a chapter subtitled “futile military actions against birds” she recounts an Australian effort to eliminate rampaging emus. In 1932, the Australian Minster of Defense dispatched machine gunners to Western Australia, where the emus quickly got the best of them. After six days, the machine gunners left in defeat, and “emus appeared in huge flocks along the road” to watch them leave. Somehow, this sounded strangely familiar.

Some of us have had unhappy experiences with ground squirrels this summer. Evidently, this is not new. During World War I, ground squirrels were portrayed as enemy sympathizers, and in a California squirrel eradication campaign, posters featured them in tiny spiked German helmets. The effort does not seem to have worked.

Fuzz is a more serious book than some of Roach’s others, although it can be side-slappingly funny. She is sympathetic to the animals and abhors the cruel methods used to control them. On the other hand, she recognizes that it is not realistic to simply ignore the problems they may create. Describing herself as a “vertebrate pest,” she is respectful of the efforts being made by the many scientists, wildlife officers, and others who attempt to cope with the challenges our fuzzy friends create, as well as their willingness to share knowledge and, often, their terrain with her.

A copy of Fuzz may be found at the RVM library as well as the County library. Many of her other books also may be borrowed from the County library.

MEDFORD TO PARIS —BY RAIL?

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NIT WIT NEWZ

(Nit Wit Newz is an unauthorized, often unreliable, on-line news source designed to keep Manor residents abreast of the inconsequential, trifling, and superficial events that dramatically shape and inform our everyday lives here at Rogue Valley Manor.)

   MEDFORD TO PARIS —BY RAIL?

Scene: International Olympic Headquarters in Lausanne, Switzerland.

Date: The Present

Under Discussion:  The possible addition of new events to the 2024 Summer Games of the XXXIII Olympiad in Paris, France.

Participants: Thomas Bach, president of the International Olympic Committee; nine committee members; a committee assistant; Jordan Mo, de facto manager of a delegation from the U.S.A; several U.S.A delegate members.

(The sound of a gavel.)

Thomas Bach: This meeting will come to order. Who is our first applicant?

Committee Assistant: Ms. Jordan Mo from the United States.

TB: Welcome, Ms. Mo, please introduce yourself to the committee.

JM: My name is Jordan Mo, and I’m from Medford, Oregon.

TB: Medford?

JM: That’s right, Medford—the fruit basket of the Pacific Northwest. It’s where Harry met David.

TB: I’m not sure we’re acquainted with Harry and…

JM: In fact, we have for you, Mr. President, a Harry and David Holiday Gift Pack of their sumptuous pears. You may wish to share them with the committee.

TB: Thank you Ms. Mo, but it is our policy not to accept gifts from those who are petitioning us. Please proceed with your proposal.

JM: I shall. We would like the game, Mexican Train, to be added to the events in the upcoming 2024 Olympics in Paris.

TB: I’m afraid this committee is not familiar with that event; can you give us a few details?

JM: Mexican Train is a board game that can be played by…

TB: Let me interrupt you, Ms. Mo. The Olympic Games have never included board games in our competitions.

JM: We are fully aware of that, Mr. President. That is why we came here today to make our case. We are almost a quarter of the way through the twenty-first century and it is well past time that the most important and prestigious sporting event on our planet, the Olympic Games, begin nurturing and promoting mental acuity as well as physical agility.

TB: Whoa, Ms. Mo. What exactly are you proposing?

JM: Healthy minds, Mr.President, healthy minds. I needn’t remind you that they are just as important as healthy bodies. Mexican Train, like most board games, requires the disciplined application of a person’s mental powers. But that’s not all, there’s another equally important argument to add board games to the roster of Olympic events.

TB: Really? And what might that be?

JM: Adding Mexican Train to your menu of events would eliminate the specter that the Olympics discriminates against one of the world’s sizeable demographic groups that heretofore has been disinvited to participate in the games.

TB: Ms. Mo, the Olympics have made a conscious effort through the years to include all nations, genders, ethnic and racial groups. We are an all-inclusive organization.

JM: Not quite, Mr. President. The Olympics have ignored the mature among us. I’m talking about seniors, yes, seniors like you and me. Age-ism is a terrible thing.  Certainly the Olympic Committee does not want to appear to discriminate against this large and influential group—the world’s seniors.

TB: Well, no, of course not, but…

JM: Seniors can, and do, play board games.  And they play them well, very well—I might add. Ignore us no longer. Mr. President, GRAY MINDS MATTER!

TB: Well, I did notice that message on the T-shirts your delegation is wearing.

JM: So you see, the inclusion in the Olympics of the Mexican Train board game not only promotes the importance of brain power, it provides the Olympics with a full spectrum of worldwide participation among all age groups, not just the young and restless. No longer would you be vulnerable to age discrimination allegations.

TB: Hmm.

JM: Moreover, you might consider this. I’m sure it has not escaped your attention, Mr. President, that there has been a steady erosion of television viewership of the games in recent Olympiads. That trend accelerated at the Tokyo events last summer. If I’m not mistaken, the sale of television rights is the largest source of the committee’s income. The addition of events that include older participants would certainly increase viewership among that large and significant cohort. Put simply: more viewers mean higher future television rights. Merely a reminder, sir.

TB: We’ll take that point under advisement. I must ask you: do you or any of your delegation have a financial interest in Mexican Train?

JM:  Oh no, no. I live at a senior community in Medford and introduced the game to a number of my fellow residents. We are all merely amateurs and have no connection to the Mexican Train Company. The game has not only taken off in interest among my community, but their level of skill has raised our players to world class status. Frankly, our team is ready to display their talents on the world stage. As an aside, I like to think that should you accept our proposal, our team stands a good chance of bringing home gold to Medford in 2024.

TB: Well, I suppose…

JM: Just imagine, Mr. President. If Mexican Train proves to be a success in Paris, you can look forward to adding chess, cribbage, Monopoly—all sorts of games to future Olympics. You now have the Summer Olympics and the Winter Olympics, why not an Autumn Olympics devoted exclusively to board games?

TB: Now, now, Ms Mo, as we say in the Alps—let’s not get too far over our bob-sleds. Your proposal represents a seismic change in the Olympics as we know it. And, in fact, it would present us with massive logistical headaches should it be implemented. Off hand, I’d say your chances are not that good. But, in fairness, you can be assured that the committee will give your proposal all due consideration.

JM: We ask no more than that. Thank you, Mr. President.

Committee Member #7:  Ms. Mo, excuse me. I wouldn’t mind having one of those Larry and Davis pears.

TB: Ignore that request please, Ms Mo.

Committee Member #7:  Sorry.

TB: Now, it appears that we just may have time for one more applicant proposal. Who would be next?

Committee Assistant: That would be a Ms.Jeanette Bournival. She’s from Oregon—Medford, Oregon. Her proposed event is a game called Rummikue—it’s a board game.

(A gavel raps three times)

TB: Meeting adjourned.

—A. Looney

Let Me (Try To) Entertain You

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RVM Programs and the Pandemic

by Bob Buddemeier 

Remember when?  Back in the (pre-COVID) day, almost every Thursday evening and some Tuesdays, there would be live entertainment in the Manor auditorium.  Mostly a wide variety of kinds of music, but also occasional dance, lectures, or other performances.  Programs are funded by the Residents Council, with occasional chip-ins from the RVM Foundation

All were booked and arranged by Mary Jane Morrison, chair of the Program committee.  Bert Chumbler handled the technical set up and advertising, and Ollie Sontag looked after seating and getting in the residents from the licensed facilities.  Jo Ann Basin and I helped out around the edges with programs, thank-yous, etc.  It was a comfortable routine, with auditorium-only shows – “live performers deserve a live audience” was Mary Jane’s position.

L to R: Mary Jane Morrison, Performer Marty Davis,  Bert Chumbler, Ollie Sontag

Then — the dreaded virus.  Suddenly, a whole new dimension was added to the “live” in live audience and live performers, and keeping them literally alive meant not having them present alive in person.

And yet, a locked down community needed entertainment and distraction more than ever.

As the saying goes, when the going got tough, the tough got going, and as soon as Mary Jane could get approval to have outsiders back in the auditorium, we started having Thursday evening programs broadcast on Channel 900. The process, over more than a year and a half of the pandemic, went through multiple stages as shown in the chart.   From the original regime, we went through the initial shut-down and then into the televised restart.

Restarting programs involved major booking problems – since people could not get together to rehearse, almost the only groups available were solo performers or husband and wife teams.  Until social distancing and lockdown controls relaxed, we could get no orchestras, choruses, dance studios, etc.  Fortunately, some of the local performers were ready to step in on short notice, and Sarah Karnatz graciously shared her list of Bistro performers, some of whom accepted auditorium gigs. Although artists are permitted to remove their masks while performing, all performers must be vaccinated in order to be booked.

An important contributor to the shift to Channel 900 presentations was Mike House, RVM staff AV technician.  He had always seen to the sound quality for the auditorium show, but now he took over the tasks of broadcast and recording quality control as well as on-stage sound.

When restrictions loosened up somewhat, more groups became available for booking, but the auditorium was pressed into use as a dining venue.  Both the shows and the dinners managed to get done, but it was sometimes an uneasy compromise.  While the auditorium was being used for dining, there were difficulty adjusting sound levels, and sometimes competing noise from the diners.  Some performers found dining sounds (dishes & chatter) bothersome and felt it lessened the quality of their performance.

As it sometimes will, progress happened, and RVM began to transition to new video equipment and software.  And as is almost always the case, progress was not smooth and simple – for a number of weeks it was necessary to record the performance on one Thursday, and play the recorded version on Channel 900 the next Thursday.  This arrangement was generally confusing and frustrating for all involved.

However, we are now back to relative normality – the broadcast system is working, the auditorium isn’t used for dining, and we are able to bring in medium-sized groups.  But set aside relative normality – will it ever be absolute?  Mary Jane says she hopes that we can go back to live audiences by September 2022 at latest – maybe Spring, with luck.  In the meantime, she says that “What is missed most is feedback from the viewing audience.  Performers often tell us how much harder it is to perform to no audience.”

As long as occupancy restrictions are in effect, we will stick with broadcast only rather than trying to ration a limited number of seats among the residents.  When restrictions are finally lifted, Mary Jane plans to try an experiment: “When we open up to a full audience (100-150) we’ll still broadcast over Ch 900 provided that there is still a respectable size audience in the auditorium – otherwise we’ll have to limit it to auditorium only.”

One of the other problems with broadcast-only is that we have no idea about the size or reaction of the audience.  If you are watching and enjoying the program, let one of the Committee members know.  It helps to ensure that the show goes on.