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The closest that she ever came to flirting with an untruth was to claim that she was 5’2” tall. The only sign of anger that she ever gave was to include middle names when calling any of her four sons… Peter Michael, JD (Christine), Patrick Joseph, PhD (Maureen), Philip William, CDR USN Ret. (Kathy), and Paul Kevin.

Born in 1925 to Lebanese immigrant parents, Joseph and Labibe Frances, her heart was forever connected to her West Virginia roots.

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Her parents valued education and encouraged her to explore life pursuits unfamiliar to most women of her time. She sought a career in Physical Education, receiving her Master’s Degree at the University of Wisconsin at Madison. It was there that she met her soulmate, Peter Schloss (1922-2009).

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He too was the child of immigrant parents, Germans from Russia, and hailed from North Dakota. Fresh from his duties as a soldier in the European theater of WW2 he arrived at Madison to pursue post graduate work in Physical Education. Their origins could not have been more different. Arabic was the language of her home and German the language of his. She from the mountains of West Virginia and he from the plains of North Dakota. Nevertheless, education, athletics, and their shared Catholic faith were the bridges that joined Pete and Pauline’s otherwise contrasted lives. They married in 1949 and moved to Illinois where they made their home and pursued their careers.

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In the 1950’s Pete and Pauline became the proud parents of 4 sons. The “6 PS’s” made their home in South Holland Illinois, moving to Crete Illinois in 1966. Pete and Pauline remained lifelong residents of Crete, and parishioners at St. Boniface Catholic Church in Monee, Illinois. Pauline retired from her teaching position at Thornwood High School in 1988, and Peter preceded Pauline in death in 2009. Pauline’s indominable spirit and extroverted nature kept her engaged in many of her favorite pursuits, golf, bridge, Women’s Club, and cheering on her favorite teams from the Universities of West Virginia, Wisconsin, and Notre Dame. She was also blessed with the love of her 9 grandchildren and 26 great-grandchildren.

In her later years, Pauline assumed the role of family matriarch with accomplished grace. Her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren made their homes across the United States, but it was Pauline and her home in Illinois that continued as a bond for the family. She will be missed, but her legacy of love and devotion to family, friends, and community will live on in those whose lives she touched.

Peace Everyone. Peter Schloss

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NBC, CBS, FOX, NPR… Our eyes are glued to a world caught in the grip of seismic change. For most there is anxiety, for some it rises to fear and even panic, others are fixed with disbelief and disgust. This is not a time given over to the more moderate and passive emotions. But what about the children. What does this life appear like through their eyes.

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Recall if you will life as a 7 year old. The first 2-3 years are a haze of dim recollections, virtually no solid memories. The entire conscious experience of that child is compressed into a span of 4 years. Through the eyes of that child it takes FOREVER until the next Easter, birthday, or Christmas arrives! Those events will have only occurred 4 times in her memory, only celebrated at that point every quarter of her lifetime.

Put into perspective: I will soon celebrate my 68th birthday. For me birthdays are separated by only 1/68th of my lifetime… only 1.5 percent of my life now passes each year. For the 7 year old a year feels nearly 17 times longer. When a 7 year old looks back to when he turned 6 it is the equivalent of me looking back to when I was 50. Imagine the span of time and the experiences that occurred from then until now and then understand that this is what 12 months presents for that 7 year old child.

We live in a time of uncertainty that will pass and then normalize within the next 1 or 2 years. However, for the children a year or two can permanently define a childhood.
A child wakes in the night gripped with fear. Clutching a blanket to her cheek she wanders uncertainly into her parent’s bedroom. “Mommy, I heard a noise and I think it came from under my bed.” The mother gently raises her head from the pillow and with the lilt of a knowing smile screams, “SNAKES, I KNEW IT!! THERE ARE SNAKES UNDER YOUR BED!!!”

Absurd? Isn’t that what we do when in the presence of our children we glue ourselves to every “Breaking News” story? Do our children have the capacity to understand the anger, frustration, and fear that their trusted adults mouth? There is another option.

Recently I have witnessed afternoons where children are taking walks with their parents. They play ball together in the yard. One gentleman was building a fire in his yard that might serve to toast marshmallows and perhaps make “Someores” this evening. Parents are listening to their children’s questions and answering them. Neighborhoods are being rediscovered by parents through the eyes of their children and children through the eyes of their parents. These fortunate children and their fortunate parents may remember this as a time when life went on hold and it was a gift that will be remembered and shared as… “I remember back when your great-grandfather and I…”

Peace Everyone. Pete

PS: I share this wonderful and timely bit of prose written by Kitty O’Meara:
“And the people stayed home. And read books, and listened, and rested, and exercised, and made art, and played games, and learned new ways of being, and were still. And listened more deeply. Some meditated, some prayed, some danced. Some met their shadows. And the people began to think differently.
And the people healed. And, in the absence of people living in ignorant, dangerous, mindless, and heartless ways, the earth began to heal.
And when the danger passed, and the people joined together again, they grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images, and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully, as they had been healed.”

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The last few weeks have been tough. The Chinese might say that Christine and I are living in “interesting times”.

Her 101.5 year old Father recently passed away. Earlier this week we traveled to be at my 94yo Mother’s side as she faces end-of-life issues that have taken her from the home she loves into skilled nursing care and Hospice. Her nephrologist opines, “2 weeks, maybe 2 months… but it will be a peaceful passing.” Christine is home uncomfortably recovering from shoulder surgery that occurred yesterday and I have an orthopedic consult on Monday for a similar problem. As with so many others, we have both taken “social distancing” to heart courtesy of covid-19. For us this means temporarily becoming “virtual parents and grandparents” via Facetime.

I find that I am drawn to each “breaking story” of the emerging pandemic. A few years ago I read an excellent book, “The Great Influenza”, by John M. Garry, that chronicled the Spanish Influenza Pandemic of 1918.

My interest in those events is not casual as it has spanned decades to my pre-teen years. In the early 1960’s my family lived in South Holland, Illinois. At that time it was deemed the “Onion Set Capital of the World”. Instead of the rows of subdivision houses that now define that community there were endless rows of onion sets growing in expansive farm fields.

 

Migrant workers annually swelled the little community and briefly caused a shift in the demographics from primarily Dutch immigrant roots to Mexican ones. I ran those fields and explored the forests beyond. It was in those woods near Thornton Illinois that I came upon a long forgotten cemetery.

Then there was barely a hint of a road through an overgrowth of saplings, vines, and trees. However, among the thicket I saw an irregular array of tombstones. Some from as early as 1910 and others dating to the late 1920’s. What captured my attention were the dozens of graves that dated to around 1918, most of which were younger adults and children.
Returning home I told my parents of my “find” but drew little interest and no information from them. The South Holland Public Library (where I was a “frequent flyer”) offered no insights. It was not until years later that I learned of the 1918 Spanish Flu Pandemic and connected the dots to that abandoned cemetery.

The internet provided a little more information: Mount Forest Cemetery was founded in 1909 as a Negro cemetery at the southern extreme of Cook County. It closed in 1939. During the pandemic of 1918 a portion of the cemetery became a potter’s field for some of Chicago’s African American influenza victims.


(All images in this post are from the internet.)

Statistics, whether about the Spanish Influenza Pandemic or covid-19 are faceless and nameless. In 1918 the world population was 1.9 billion, with the United States population standing at about 105 million. Today, those numbers are about 7.7 billion and 350 million respectively.

In 1918 nearly a third of the world population is believed to have contracted the virus and the mortality rate is estimated to have been around 3 percent. Covid-19 is believed to have a 2 percent mortality rate. I have heard folks say that 2 percent is no big deal. However, when one applies that to current population figures a different image emerges.
Estimates place the world death toll in 1918 at up to 50 million.

The United States suffered over 500,000 deaths. Covid-19 seems to be just as contagious but slightly less deadly. Nevertheless, with a population density that is 4 times greater than in 1918 it is little wonder that health experts have been alarmed from the beginning. If 30 percent of 350 million become infected and there is a 2 percent mortality rate then the bottom line reads 2 million Americans might perish. What these “numbers” fail to take into account is the impact upon the lives of those who spend weeks and months struggling through recovery, unable to work. Approximately 30 million Americans are without health insurance. For them a health crisis is also a financial one. We face a health care system likely burdened beyond its capacity.

While the “statistics” are sobering, it is my memory of that cemetery that remains foremost in my thoughts. Each one of those tombstones was a real person and behind that person stood a grief-stricken family.

Prudence dictates that we listen to the experts… take to heart the mantras of “social distancing” and conscientious attention to hygiene. In 1918 Philadelphia and St. Louis were the 3rd and 4th largest cities in the United States. In the face of that emerging epidemic they took polar opposite approaches to the contagion. St. Louis imposed a shutdown of large events and gatherings. Philly hosted a huge War Bond Parade (over 200,000 in attendance) that became a hotspot for community contamination. More than 12,000 died of influenza in Philadelphia while the toll in St. Louis was 700.

Prudence is not panic. Panic is a shopper mindlessly buying a basket full of toilet paper that they have no logical need for.

Panic is shelves being emptied of every form of canned good in a frenzy of impulse shopping. Again, the lessons of 1918 can be instructive. The virus will run its course. There will be disruptions, but it will not be apocalyptic. Panic buying does nothing tangibly beneficial for the shopper, but damages those who might need just a few rolls of that TP. Panic is a sad but understandable feature of what occurs when we abandon our consideration for others to join the stampeding herd.

Then there are the profiteers: Stories are surfacing of those who seek to turn social misfortune into personal gain. There is the “entrepreneur” who saw an opportunity to make it big by driving 1,500 miles and stopping en route at every pharmacy, Walmart, Target, and “Dollar” type store that he passed. He bought over 17,000 small bottles of hand sanitizer at a cost of a dollar or two each and then began reselling them on Amazon for up to $70.00 apiece. This outrageous example of gouging resulted in Amazon quickly closing his account. Now he is stuck with all of those dispensers while others in need of the product go wanting.


There is the “Christian” televangelist who sells toothpaste on his website, implying that it will immunize the user from covid-19… and the popular internet conspiracy pundit who preys upon his listeners by peddling phony virus “cures”. What of the “talking heads” who make brash and irresponsible claims for the purpose of stirring up controversy to drive up their ratings?
These are the human viruses that infect our society and for which there will never be a vaccine or a lasting cure.

Peace Everyone… and don’t forget to wash your hands. Pete

PS. A metaphor: Walking through a forest with his eyes closed a man bumps into a tree now and then. He is unaware of the forest that surrounds him until he opens his eyes. Without broad testing of the public we remain ignorant of the extent of covid-19 infections that run through our communities, aware only of those most critically ill.

William Alden Nichols, a charter member of the “Greatest Generation”, passed from this life on February 24, 2020.

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“Bill” was 101. He was preceded in death by his wife of 74 years, Doris Irene (Robinson) Nichols, son William A. Nichols Jr., and daughter Lelani (Albert) Himegarner. He is survived by his daughters Kathryn Wimett, Christine (Peter) Schloss, and son Robert “Bob” Nichols. In life he was a blessing to his grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren.
Bill lived a storied life which included his presence as one of the first members of the United States Armed Forces to occupy Hiroshima at the end of World War 2. For pictures and to read more of this man’s remarkable life please see the tribute posted in celebration of his Centennial Birthday:
https://mediationkc.com/2018/11/11/november-11-2018-william-alden-nichols-100-years-and-counting/
Peace Everyone. Peter Schloss

It has been a week since we returned to Kansas City and the time seems right to conclude the experience with some reflections.

First of all, it was not a “typical” trip for us. Since retirement 5 years ago the majority of our trips have been 4-6 weeks long, a few as long as 12 weeks, but none that I recall of just one week. VSecondly, we prefer to be “on the move” rather than stationary as we were in Cozumel.

Finally, we aren’t usually “beach people”, but find that the mountains and interior spaces are more to our liking. What was typical for us is the search for the unusual. We certainly found this over the course of our week on the island.

Ventanas al Mar, loosely described as our resort, was an exceptional experience but not for everyone. It is located 12 miles from town and is the only hotel on the east side of the island. There is virtually nothing but beach and waves washing the shore for miles to the north and south.

Electricity was furnished by a generator. The occasional flicker and “lights out” never lasted longer than a few seconds but gave a slight insecurity about continued reliability.
At most there were 40 guests which is near capacity for this small hotel. The staff of 4-6 was attentive and very friendly. They also cautioned us that the tap water was untreated and not fit for human consumption.

Our room was basic and pleasant. Glass doors opened to a sandy area above a cliff overlook.

This is the first place in Mexico that the morning sun illuminates.

The sound of the surf was constant and loud like a pulsing rocket engine. After 3 nights the roar was no longer a novelty and we began closing the glass doors at night. This had the unfortunate effect of denying us the pleasant breeze that made the night humidity more bearable. The hotel’s air conditioning system is turned off during this time of the year.

Breakfast (included in the price of the stay) was a pleasant fruit forward affair that included eggs and house made tortillas. Dinner was optional and we took advantage of it 5 of the 7 nights.

Our room cost $144.00 (US) a night. The dinners and drinks added another $450.00 to the cost of the week. Not unreasonable, but then hardly “cheap”.

The night before our return to the States was Valentine’s Day. The staff went out of their way to create a magical dinner experience with an excellent meal served under holiday lights, poolside, to the sound of a local music talent. We will remember that evening as the highlight of our stay in Cozumel.

The occasions that we dined in town were pleasant. One evening we enjoyed fine dining at a steak restaurant located at the farthest edge of the tourist area.
On another occasion the sought out a “locals’ favorite”. I doubt that it will ever make it on the list of cruise ship recommendations, but the mountain of roasted meats was astounding, excellent, and served at an incredible price. About $12.00 total for the two of us, beer included.

In an earlier post I chronicled the saga of our rental VW “Bug”.

There was a second rental car: A trusted local became aware of our experience and offered to secure a rental car for us for the last 3 days of our stay. He called a friend in the local car rental business. As intermediary using his cell phone he passed my questions on the friend and responded to me with the answers… “Is it a good car?”, “Si!”, “Do you take credit cards?, “Si!”, “Does the price include ALL insurance, taxes, and costs?”, again “Si!”.
The agreed price was 800 Pesos a day. For an additional 200 Pesos (cash) he would deliver the car to us at the hotel. Cool!
He arrived at the agreed time with the car, tailed by a young man on a scooter who would drive him back to town. From there things became a bit annoying and unsettling He wore a shirt with a rental car company insignia, different from the company name emblazoned on the side of the car. The paperwork bore the name and contact information for yet a third company. “That will be 2,400 Pesos, cash, plus 900 Pesos for insurance” said he as I immediately protested the price increase and change in the required method of payment. We finally settled on the 1,100 Pesos a day and agreed that I would pay for the rental in cash but at the time the car was returned. He did take an impression of my credit card “For security”.

But for a few dents and scrapes the car looked ok, certainly a huge improvement over the “Bug”. The rental worked out fine, but again there was an overriding sense of “What if…” that lingered until the car was returned. Incidentally, the return was not at a rental office but at the side of the road near the airport where we were instructed to wait for him. He would arrive by motor scooter piloted by his young friend. So much could have gone bad, but it ended well.

As a cruise destination Cozumel, like so many others, is packed with high end jewelry, perfume, and liquor stores. For each one of those there are another 25 souvenir and tee-shirt shops.

It seems that every local there is engaged in the art of separating tourists from their money. I quickly wearied of it and found little to recommend in the tourist district except for passible eating, a cold beer, and the occasional interesting street performance.


Mexicans that we encountered outside of that district, most notably Pedro at the San Gervasio Maya Ruins, were pleasant, kind, and helpful.

The traffic was brutal and unpredictable. There were motor scooters everywhere, often with as many as 4 people on board. Toddlers hung over the handlebars like hood ornaments.

We once saw a family of 5 traveling on a single scooter. toddler hanging on between dad and the handlebars, a young boy sandwiched between dad and mom, with an infant strapped to mom’s back.

Will we do it again? Possibly, but not the same way. I think that for a 1 week trip we would arrange 4 of the nights in a high-end “all inclusive” mainland resort and the remaining 3 would be on the island at Ventanas. I also think that we would explore the possibility of working in extra days for a side trip to one of the monumental Maya archaeological sites. For now we have our travel sights set on other destinations.

Later this year we plan a two month trip with our camper to Labrador and Newfoundland Canada which is the easternmost point of mainland North America.

I will probably work in a solo trip or two, and overshadowing everything will be the construction of our vacation home about 25 minutes south of Breckenridge Colorado.

Until later… Peace Everyone. Pete