TubaOrNotTuba

Right now, my social media stream (actually, a trickle) is watching the weather. Specifically, a winter storm warning. Here’s the catch. It might be snow, or rain, or snow and rain, with wind, or without. In fact, the only detail I can extract from the summary is that the sun probably won’t shine much for a couple of days. But, it might.

A good test of one’s ability to judge a situation is by comparison with the “take” of others. I depend on it, given my social distance from the rest of the world. Be it the crazy plan to break the hedge fund bank, or the decision to stop ordering fish sandwiches in the local sub shop (confession: I didn’t), I appreciate seeing how the late night hosts interpret things. So far, we seem to be singing from the same page in our hymnals.

Trying to calculate your risks in the pandemic? If the numbers didn’t change so quickly, you might manage an educated guess, but right now… not so much. Turns out that the mutating virus doesn’t play fair with vaccines. Nor does the discovery that we’re not getting the necessary number of doses from those tiny flasks; as much as we have the “wrong” sort of syringe, the number of doses drops from six to five. And our masks? Perhaps we should double the thickness, and wear them outdoors and in.

To play a game, you have to understand the rules. Doesn’t matter the game, really. Football, high finance; all depend on the players knowing how to win (and lose).

Perhaps I lack a key element in my personal culture: I never played for a team. Behind us, historically, the team sport has a place of reverence. And cheering for your favourites isn’t the same thing as actually getting out on the field (or the ice; Canadian culture…)

The market for vaccine appears to be evolving. Over the last couple of days, various news stories hint at delivery delays, due to (in the best documented case) the retooling of a production facility. Of course, the rest of us know little about how the industry functions, so politicians are now having to field questions from the press over the validity of contracts. Can we stop with the silly stuff, and wait our turns? This goes as a rebuke to the couple who flew into northern Canada, lied about their professional status, and scored a couple of doses for themselves in an isolated village. Regular stuff, right? I will wait for the call that I’m next in line for a needle to the arm. I won’t (can’t) cheat with my deep pockets.

If ever you want to mark a criminal, have them commit their crime in a home where drywall mudding is in progress. Worse than life in a flour mill. I was downstairs, briefly, and came back to the surface covered in a fine layer of dust. Ambient. No actual sanding while I was there. Just contact with, well, just about everything. Methinks that the cleanup will require patience and a strong vacuum. To be followed. Oh, and sending the dog beforehand just exacerbates the problem.

In my lifetime, there has been one major discovery. I’m referring to exploration, here; I can remember when the first photos came back from the other side of the moon. Looked, pretty much, like this side. That’s not important. These were photos of a place that none had ever seen.

One of my preferred social media sites has a goldmine of old photos, from the town where I attended high school. I’m fortunate enough to remember lots of details from that era. BC (before children). Anyhow, when we were impressionable teens, we knew that there was a famous recording artist from the area. And, according to scuttlebutt, his girlfriend when he was younger (as in, our age) was none other than our teacher. I mean, before she was a teacher. Younger. You know what I mean.

History, without focus, is the core of our myths. But, when you take  a particular incident, and you attach a date and names, then you move into a more personal space. My ancestors, at least some of them, came to this area about two and a half centuries ago. I have the dates, and the names, and the ship (the Alexander) and the tales, due to substantial effort by a local history group.