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“How are you?” has taken on a whole new meaning these days, and that meaning seems to change every week..

Two months ago, we were still saying “How are you?” in the usual way: a blithe, usually insincere introduction unique to Americans. We weren’t interested in the answers given in response, and I could still use the phrase to annoy my British and (some) European friends: “Why do you Americans constantly say that when you don’t care about the answer?”

Six weeks ago, after the COVID-SARS-2 virus (it’s official name) had clearly arrived, “How are you?” became a nervous, defensive question here in Oregon. We weren’t exactly surprised when February 28 brought the news of the first coronavirus case in Oregon. Washington reported its first case more than a month before, so we’d been keeping a wary eye on our neighbor to the north. And the national public health emergency had already been declared. We weren’t exactly surprised at the first Oregonian diagnosis. More like “resigned.”

“How are you?” shifted from “I don’t care about your answer, I’m just asking as a way to start a conversation” to “I’m asking because I need to know if I should back away from you slowly and do shots of hand sanitizer.” We were seeking a list of symptoms, not an easy entréinto chit chat.

A month ago, “How are you?” became a sincere inquiry (yet again, baffling my British friends). We really wanted to know. How are you dealing with the emerging surreal reality? How are you coping with self-isolation? How does your body feel? Do you have a fever? Do you need anything? How’s your mental health? How are you set for provisions and supplies? We said “How are you?” to tamp down on the burgeoning anxiety that things actually were spinning out of control.

Now it’s just wearing us down. Not insincere, just a bit tired and worn around the edges. How are you? Yeah … me, too … .



The insurmountable challenge I’ve faced in quarantine: time flows oddly. Too quickly and -- at the same time -- way too slowly. Our Governor here in Oregon issued the statewide stay-at-home order less than a month ago (March 13), which seems like just last week. Yet it also feels like March 82nd and the 17th Sunday of Lent (as I’m writing this).

I am doing my best to follow the “you’re now on deployment” advice from the Angry Staff Officer, an insightful take on quarantining at home if you haven’t read it. Over the past week or so, as the excuses have slipped away, I’ve gotten better at setting a schedule (though actually following it is another matter) and I’m back to working out a bit at home. And walking. A lot. Lots of walking.

Maintaining a good, consistent daily schedule has been a challenge to say the least. I’ve read about high-powered folks like Bill Gates scheduling their days in concise five-minute increments; most days, I can’t put on a pair of pants within five minutes (if I put on pants at all). But then I remember that Mr. Gates has a personal staff to manage all his scheduling and daily activities. I put that note in my post-pandemic planning: “Find a way to acquire staff.”

I’m typically waking up around 5:00 a.m., whether I plan to or not, and each dawn introduces a long day of possibilities. A bit of work, some cleaning around the house, maybe some time sketching out the garden or baking bread, plenty of time for writing and developing that podcast, plus a sunset walk to bookend a post-down workout. Plans upon plans. Some days, those plans work out. Some days, I forget where I’m at on that 16:8 fasting schedule and need a late morning power nap after my sixth donut. And when I wake up mid-afternoon after that thirty-minute (allegedly) power nap, the day is almost over, so watching TikTok and YouTube videos for the rest of the day almost seems like a good idea.

For levity and outright silliness, I’ve started giving the cats a military-style briefing at oh-six-hundred every morning: “Good morning, troops. Today, at thirteen thirty hours, we will be staging an assault on Mount Tabor. Weather conditions are expected to be nominal. We will join E-Company and their support units George (a brindle Boxer puppy) and Molly (a yellow labrador). You will -- of course -- remain here at headquarters. Maintain our supply lines and coordinate intelligence. The risk of enemy incursion, here or during our assault, is minimal … .” Unfortunately, the feline forces seem disinterested in assessing their state of readiness.

I’ve also gotten back to playing music much more often, which is one of several unintentional benefits of the quarantine. I was a music nerd as a kid, the first in my high school to get U2’s War on cassette and probably the first to discover The Clash. As a college radio DJ, I dove further into punk, especially the California skate-punk scene, and was all over grunge at its height. I went through a pretty dedicated blues phase, fell in love with 70s R & B, and through it all, maintained an interest in electronic music (starting with Brian Eno, Kraftwerk, and Tangerine Dream) sufficient to become a decent amateur DJ. I still regret selling my Technics 1200s to my roommate before moving to Washington, DC back in the day, but then again, if I’d stuck with DJing, I might not have paid so much attention to hip-hop while living in the District.

I fell away from music when I got “too busy” at work years ago. Sure, I stayed up on current artists (and won’t deny a certain bent for Taylor Swift), but music no longer filled every day. Lately, though, I’ve dug out some of those old Thievery Corporation and Danger Mouse CDs, I’ve hit a lot of 70s rock for nostalgia and comfort, and I’ve made it a point to learn more about jazz. And appreciate it more. I was never really into jazz, but looking back now, I think that I lacked a proper introduction. So I’m trying to acquire one.

I’m also taking some courses online. Coursera and edX are offering a huge range of courses for free or sharply discounted prices, Open Culture still maintains a compilation of about 1,500 free classes, and most colleges and universities are offering the same. I’m picking up my coding skills (hello, Python!) and re-taking that organic chemistry series I barely passed in undergrad. I’m also listening to Patrick Stewart read sonnet-a-day and taking tips from Adam Savage on how to use time in isolation wisely.

In one way, the CoronaCrisis hit at an optimal time for me. Since October, I’ve been in a period of career transition from my former job to … whatever comes next. When confronting major life changes in the past, my habit was to “take a little time to reflect” -- meaning a week or two -- and then dive into whatever opportunity next presented itself. This time, I decided to take six months for myself.

I was in a rather fortunate position. I had a decent side-gig I’d developed since August 2018 plus enough savings to meet basic living expenses for about six to nine months. Like fellow columnist, J. Don Birnam, I too am a lawyer, and extraordinarily blessed to be one these days. I can easily work at home. So last fall, I planned to take six months off and then -- starting in April -- begin a rigorous course of self-assessment, self-reflection, and self-discovery, just to lay some groundwork before reviving my career. Odd timing indeed. I’m still not sure what I want to be when I grow up, but I’m carefully nurturing some ideas and exploring some opportunities.

I’ve also tried my best to express thanks and appreciation to all the essential workers out there. Or really, “sacrificial workers” might be a more apt term: the folks risking their lives (literally), putting their bodies on the line for us (literally), just so I can continue getting fresh salad and eggs at the grocery store. Or lumber and hardware from the home improvement store at my convenience. Yes, I still deeply appreciate healthcare workers on the frontlines. I admire their dedication and sacrifice in the face of the medical equivalent of entrenched warfare with a virus. But folks like grocery clerks, liquor store cashiers, and fast food workers didn’t sign up for this. If anyone deserves credit for the economy suffering, but not collapsing, it will be them.

I’ve curated my own Enemies List, too. Nothing like a good disaster to put groups of people into stark relief. I can’t express enough admiration and appreciation for corporate leaders like Timothy Boyle and Mark Cuban -- any business leader who put the interests of workers ahead of earning profits for shareholders. Or folks like Jack Dorsey who are donating huge swaths of wealth to help others. Meanwhile, I’m sure the Devil himself is creating space in the Ninth Circle of hell for the likes of Jeff Bezos and David Green.

I’ve experienced a spiritual and religious resurgence over the past month, too. I’m Catholic, still more of the Vatican’s loyal opposition and borderline Episcopalian, but I’m rediscovering my faith. I’ve gone back to reading a couple books by Dr. Marcus Borg. I took a couple classes from him in graduate school, both of which were life-altering experiences.

I miss going to church. I miss the fellowship. But if I’m a Christian, I’m following the Great Commandment that Jesus set down above all else. And these days, loving my neighbors means staying the hell away from them as much as I can. For these months of self-isolation and staying six feet apart, I can find a way to gather with just two or three people until congregations are able to meet again.

I’m fascinated at how quickly some folks have adapted to the “new reality.” As a passionate motorsports fan, I’m thrilled with NASCAR, IndyCar, and F1 turning to i-racing events. If you haven’t watched any of the races, do so -- even if you aren’t much of a motor racing fan. Seeing drivers sitting at home, chatting about their lives, makes them seem far more human (and I’m just nerding out on the technology completely).

I make it a point to stay away from any news about politics. I stopped paying attention to national politics during the 2016 Presidential election. Watching a bunch of political leaders continuing to engage in political gamesmanship and machinations according to the rules Newt Gingrich set down 25 to 30 years ago was just too depressing. I stopped watching CNN and Fox News, or even listening to NPR.

And now? I watch a bunch of governors: Governor Pritzker and Governor Ricketts of my home states of Illinois and Nebraska, plus Governors Whitmer (Michigan), Cooper (North Carolina), Sunuunu (New Hampshire); DeWine (Ohio); Reynolds (Iowa); and Brown (Oregon), my current home state. I get my news about the coronavirus from them (and several websites, especially the Kaiser Family Foundation). If anyone is going to lead us out of this crisis, it will be the governors. And I just hope for the sake of the country that We the People collectively remember those who demonstrated leadership above all versus those who used the pandemic crisis as little more than cover for petty political gamesmanship.

Along with music, I’m falling back on my usual forms of entertainment and pop culture distractions. Videogames have been a huge help. I have NASCAR Heat 4, World of Warships, and Dirt Rally on regular rotation on the XBox, and I picked up a Nintendo Switch for work purposes. No, seriously -- for work. Among a few pursuits, I’m in a game development company with a friend of mine working on side-scroller that we may actually release this year. Thanks to the Switch and the kindness of a couple of Prophets, I now completely get the allure of Animal Crossing. I’ve also picked up Slay the Spire and a few casual games. And I’ve returned to regular sessions of Kerbal Space Program and Factorio on my laptop as well.

Additionally, I’m returning to more board games and tabletop RPGs. I picked up Tabletop Simulator (and thank you, Gabe Newell, for continuing some great Steam sales) and I’ve been checking out Tabletopia and Board Game Arena. I’ve also introduced some new players (and a Prophet or two) to Dungeons and Dragons. We’re using D&D Beyond and Roll20 to start a campaign. And while they don’t know it yet, the players have just kicked off with my adaptation of one of my favorite adventures as a kid -- the Rat on a Stick module for Tunnels and Trolls.



Overall, I’m doing fine. I’ll likely survive the pandemic and related crises, and I may even find some niche success or benefit in the coming economic depression. I’m lucky to be better off than a lot of folks, and in the unstructured time of the quarantine, I’m striving to become a better person.

This period of self-isolation is a collective forty days in the desert for almost all of us. Each week seems like the week after 9/11. The skies are quiet (with no planes overhead). The world seems to be pausing for breath. We will return to our previous lives. We will soon return to life being a hurry through which known and strange things pass.

We’re ground down to the bare essences of life. We’re seeing the trappings of the “old normal” and discerning the elements and practices of a good life apart from what used to distract us. When you can no longer engage in retail therapy, you realize consumerism isn’t that important. When you can’t obtain that immediate fix to your problems, you realize the importance of preparation and self-reliance. When immediate gratification is hard to get, you discover opportunities for delayed gratification.

I find myself yearning for my childhood in many ways. I grew up in the flyover states. I was born in Lincoln, Nebraska. My parents settled in Washington, Illinois a couple years later. I still spent most summers working on my grandparents’ farm in Boone County, Nebraska. Maybe it’s nostalgia for simpler times. Maybe it’s a desire to relive my youth. And there is definitely a desire to reconnect with friends and family.

I miss my weekly gaming groups at the Game Room and in Larry’s basement. I miss gaming conventions at Illinois Central College and GenCon events in Wisconsin. I miss walking beans, detasseling corn, and scouting cow pastures for thistles. I miss go-kart races, especially the WKA Winternationals in Daytona and the regional series at Blackhawk Farms. I miss summer computer camp at Bradley University. I miss the Hitchin’ Post and the Tastee Freez in St. Edward, Nebraska. I miss the Conestoga Mall in Grand Island. And Lake McConaughy. I miss plinking with my gamer friends (a group that -- on a per capita basis -- owned more firearms than most banana republics) and late nights at Steak & Shake bullshitting about the games we just played. I miss playing Tractics and Star Fleet Battles on a 100 square table in Larry’s basement. I miss just riding bikes with friends around Highview Estates during the day and skateboarding or playing kick-the-can at night.

I miss more than I will ever remember.

But above all, I miss the central tenant of deeply rural life: We must rely on each other or we will die. Abject American individualism is a myth. We who grew up on isolated farms and small farm towns know this. And I mean small farm towns -- less than 1,000 people. We grew up knowing that one bad hailstorm would lead us to starve, unless we could depend on our neighbors to help us through times of need (because we would do the same for them). We knew that a routine winter blizzard would strand us -- and likely kill us -- if we didn’t work with others to dig ourselves out. We relied on each other. We had actual barn raisings. We relied on a gentle form of socialism without even realizing it.

When I, my brother, and my cousins were living on the family farm during the summer, our grandparents didn’t feed us from trips to Whole Foods. We couldn’t afford it. We couldn’t afford to buy all our food from any grocery store -- Aldi, Winco, G&W, or the Piggly Wiggly. In fact, “store bought” food was looked down upon. We either grew or bartered for almost all of our food. My grams maintained a garden of more than an acre. We traded the popcorn and seed corn that my grandpa tilled and harvested for eggs and chickens. My cousins and I maintained pastures that we leased out to neighbors who raised cattle there; our compensation was a slaughtered cow or bull in the fall, which my grandmother put up in the freezer for the next year. From what I remember, the only things we ever bought from the store were milk and ice cream.

Maybe I’m waxing idyllic. Maybe I’m waxing prophetic. But my greatest hope for the outcome of this pandemic is that a majority of us remember what we have forgotten: American individualism has always been balanced by American collectivism. In an age when idiotic, fascist, neo-fuedalists label any sort of community effort as “socialism,” we should remember that the greatest American triumphs have always carried a whiff of socialism. American democracy at its best has always relied on a mix of ideological approaches. We have always shone brightest when remembering that We the People established these United States of America as a more perfect Union to promote the general Welfare as much as anything else. We’ve forgotten that over the past few decades. Maybe we’ll start to remember that the blessings of American liberty start with looking out for each other.

For now, though, it is Easter and a fine spring day, and we all have the time to appreciate both in whatever ways we wish. We can pause for a moment in the midst of the pandemic, set aside the clouds of doom and tragedy, and just for a moment, see that the sky still is blue and find a bit of hope that we can and will get through this.