Category: America Collection

America Collection
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On Outliving Your Friends

by Fran Johns

How to cope with loss upon loss? What do you do about shrinking Friend Lists?

(Author photo)

My friend Carol (above) went to the E.R. late the other night after another fall. I sent her off with a heavy red sweatshirt and a good book but without my company; there are limits to friendship at 11:30 PM. She’s back now, with nothing but praise for the Kaiser E.R. staff; also with a brace to help the fractured vertebra heal and the makings of a doozy of a black eye that’s going to be with her for a while.

So I’m not losing Carol any time soon, I trust. This is good.

But I lost sleep thinking about her, and other friends in other hospitals and hospices and stages of decline. Almost without exception they are younger than I am, a detail that does not go unnoticed by anyone, especially my nonagenarian self.

In the past few months I’ve bid farewell to four longtime friends. Another, two years past her diagnosis with Bulbar ALS (I wrote about that recently) is talking with her family about the approaching date on which she will use California’s legal Medical Aid in Dying.

Another friend who plans to use the CA law obtained his life-ending medications (you must be a terminally ill, mentally competent adult to qualify for the law) about a year ago. Then he defied the odds, and his cancer, by staying alive. That’s the best part about “terminal” illness and nonagenarianism both: you can read statistics all day long but there’s only one you. 

Losing friends is tough at any age, but when you hit the 80s and 90s it can wear you down. So I offer three pieces of advice from a lofty, elderly viewpoint:

  1. Don’t let go. Being sick and dying, especially the dying thing, can be lonely business. Show up if you can, whether or not you know what to say. You don’t have to say a word beyond, “I wanted to be here.” If you can’t show up, send word. Call, text, send cards and notes. Drawings, pressed flowers, emails, one small sticker on a postcard. Care.
  2. Adopt. Specifically, a few people a few decades younger than you. No legal formalities required, just find some available young people and focus your interest and energies on getting to know them. Ask about their interests, joys, problems. Have them over for pizza. Send them texts and emojis, even things with actual stamps on them. Getting to know younger generations is eye-opening fun — and they’re not likely to up and die on you tomorrow. (With my kids and grandkids all over the globe I have an entire, ever-expanding West Coast Family.)
  3. Count your blessings. Then pay them forward. Reach out to survivors in days & weeks after a loss. Support causes the departed supported. Redouble any good works you’ve been doing in his or her honor. Be kind. If the world’s a little worse for their loss, make it a little better.

The thing that matters most about losing friends is what you do in remembering them. Some day others may remember you with kindness.

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(I’m returning to WordPress in fits & starts; thanks for dropping by. While I struggle with this platform and my aged WordPress account I’m finding that Substack is easier and friendlier. You may find other writers there whom you enjoy, and you can always follow them for free — including The Optimistic Eye, which is my official franmorelandjohns Substack.)

America Collection/General interest
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On Being “A Writer for The Atlantic”

by Fran Johns

How to handle seeing my own words on these pages?

The bottom line? I have become officially insufferable.

I mean, I’ve had stories and essays in a lot of fine publications over the years of my long and happy career. But The Atlantic? Nahh, never going to happen. Yet there it is.

Up until now the pinnacle of my literary success was reached a few years ago when my Brooklyn lawyer friend Peter Flemming, with whom I had a running competition for most letters published in the New York Times, was going over fact-checks with a Times editor. He mentioned our competition to the editor who replied, “Oh, Fran — she’s one of our regulars.” Which, I had thought ever since, would be on my tombstone if I were planning to have such a thing (unfortunately, I am not.)

But now here is my byline, right smack on the same e-page with the byline of Anne Applebaum. Eliot Cohen. Hua Hsu and Jason Liebowitz. If that’s not literary validation I don’t know what is. They may not be writing home about being on the same page with Fran Moreland Johns; I get that. But they probably don’t have Big Head issues either.

I have Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. to thank for all this. The idea that I would ever thank RFKJr for ANYthing other than his retirement from public view is nothing short of ludicrous. The man is a threat to humankind. Evil doesn’t even begin to cover it, IMHO.

I said as much in a letter to The Atlantic in response to their excellent cover story (that piece was by Michael Scherer, but who’s name-dropping?) on RFKJr. In the same inbox with a message saying they would be running my letter was an email from an Atlanticeditor, my new best friend Adrienne, asking if I’d be interested in writing an expanded essay on the subject. Took me about seven seconds to hit Reply.

And thus began one of the happiest writing experiences of my literary life. I was asked almost apologetically if the fee would be sufficient — please don’t tell them I’d have done it for $25; later when I apologized on my own behalf for ineptitude with the online reimbursement forms I received an immediate response from an actual person telling me everybody had issues with those forms and that he enjoyed my description of them.

Over the several weeks of writing/editing/etc — these folks fact check their fact checkers — whenever I’d get a copy of something checked or edited its subject head would say things like “Your wonderful article.” I’m thinking of collaging and framing these.

I still haven’t seen my article in print, other than the page proofs (above.) Those of us in the dying breed of print magazine readers still don’t really believe anything until we see it on an actual piece of paper. But surely The Atlantic won’t change its mind and pull my article before the print edition goes in the mail?

Now if only Robert F. Kennedy, Jr were smart enough to read The Atlantic.

America Collection/General interest
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Optimism Is Still Alive and Well

by Fran Johns

Don’t just take my word for it. Here’s an expert making the case

Photo by Ahmed Zayan on Unsplash

If anyone’s noticed, this space has been quiet for many weeks thanks to some website glitch I understand about as well as I understand neuroscience. A very tech-smart friend has been working on it, doing things I also absolutely do not understand. But as it seems to be working for a while I thought I’d try posting this, which recently went up on my Substack, The Optimistic Eye. Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

We are not alone, we battered optimists of the world!

Within our ranks is none other than economist Yuval Atsmon, Senior Partner and Chief Financial Officer of McKinsey & Co. Atsmon, who is based in London, “advises companies on strategy and growth-led transformations, and leads McKinsey’s global finance function,” which one understands if one is in the rarefied universe of multinational management consulting. Mostly what this writer knows of the distinguished Mr. Atsmon is that he formerly lived and worked in China, and writes frequently about AI — neither of which would seem to be foundationally optimistic. But he is.

My also wise friend Mary Trigiani, who speaks Art, Italian and Management (check out her Substack) posts compilations of worthwhile articles for her business-oriented followers. Her latest included Atsmon’s article “The case for optimism in uncertain times,” and The Optimistic Eye simply could not resist. The entire article (actually meant for financial gurus and not for the likes of this right-brained writer) is linked for your reading enjoyment; but a few universal takeaway excerpts follow.

These times could hardly be less certain. We have an incompetent president miring us ever deeper in an un-thought war that is wreaking global havoc. An administration turning its back on climate change, healthcare and people in need and Lauren Sanchez-Bezos on front pages with her campaign for Most Photographed Bosom. The only certainties sometimes seem cause for pessimism. Still — 

“When the world feels this uncertain,” Atsmon writes, “optimism can look like denial. But that depends on how broadly you frame the past and future.”

Maybe that’s half the battle. If we simply frame the past and the future more broadly, it brings the present down to manageable size. Atsmon argues that the long arc of progress indicates our “capacity to solve problems and expand what is possible has consistently outpaced our ability to foresee the future.” A future in which Donald Trump is only a comedic footnote and may it soon be so.

“It is sensible, then,” Atsmon continues, “to assume that the future will continue to be shaped by breakthroughs we cannot yet imagine. Critically, believing this is vital to making that future unfold.”

By this point, I was hooked. I am a believer.

In the long arc of history, Atsmon’s arguments could apply to far more than business management. Economics, global health, climate change, even politics. Bad news can be here today . . . but gone tomorrow, and with something better the next day.

Atsmon explains that this is not just about having a sunshiny disposition or ignoring reality, or even a matter of the “low probability” business. “Buying a lottery ticket and believing you’ll win the big prize is harmless; betting everything on winning is not.” But he points out that pessimism isn’t any great alternative:

“An old tale illustrates this: A thief sentenced to death by a tyrannical king makes a bizarre proposal to teach the king’s favorite horse to sing a hymn within a year in exchange for his life. Asked why he made such an absurd promise, the thief answers, “A lot can happen in a year. The king may die or lose power, the horse may die, or the horse may sing.” And any of these outcomes beats certain death.

A lot can still happen in 2026. The Democrats may win Congress, King Trump may lose his hold on the Republican Party, horses may sing. By the 2030s, sanity and clean energy may be returning. In the 2040s I do not plan to be around, but my guess is that the planet will be.

“Optimism oriented toward a longer time horizon,” Yuval Atsmon argues, “is valuable and fundamental… Long-term optimism is not just descriptive, it’s generative: it helps to shape a better future by motivating the search for solutions.”

Let’s hear it for optimism, long-term and short. Thanks, Yuval Atsmon.

America Collection/General interest
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How to Sleep Tight, All Night 

by Fran Johns

WHY IS EVERYONE (ELSE) HAVING INSOMINIA PROBLEMS?

Photo by DON RANASINGHE on Unsplash

What’s with all these stories about insomnia? I feel as if every time I open up my laptop there’s another piece about someone having trouble sleeping.

I went looking for what’s keeping us up nights.

Maybe it’s the total chaos we wake up to? Snowstorms and firestorms and windstorms? Maybe we’re all getting older? Nahh, couldn’t be.

In any event, I sleep like a baby. So I decided to go public with the answers to insomnia. Herewith:

Weighted blanket. Just take my word for it. Or read one of those surveys about how they relieve anxieties and calm your aches and pains. (As long as you’re older than two; don’t weight down your two-year-old please.)

Forewarning: The rest of these solutions should be read in light of the fact that I lost my sleeping partner seven years ago; the following might require partner buy-in. Since I still have the California King-size bed, though, that leaves room to strew books and magazines all over the duvet and still allow for the following: 

Food and drink. Cozy camomile tea is good for bedtime. But what if you feel hungry during one of those bathroom wake-up moments? (Taking bathroom breaks without really waking up is a learned skill. Work on it.) Still . . . I keep a glass of ginger beer on the bedside table just in case.

More food and drink. If a swig of ginger beer as you slide under the weighted blanket doesn’t do it, a few minutes of a good book and in-bed snack time generally work for me. To that end, along with the reading matter atop the duvet I keep a ziplok bag of peanut butter filled pretzels. Unfortunately I shared this information once with my dentist, Dr. Suezaki, who shook his head sadly from side to side and said, “No bueno.” Don’t discuss this with your dentist. No bueno will stick in your head and try to wake you up. We do what we have to do.

Dealing with the cares of the world. Even if you studiously avoid thinking about the news after three in the afternoon, the brain sometimes still kicks in. How to save democracy — a problem that can rarely be solved at three in the morning, can nevertheless be sublimated to worrying about problems closer at hand: a deadline looming on a job not even started, a leaky faucet you meant to fix, a letter un-written or email un-sent. Once you’ve reduced wakefulness to a personal level — 

Turn on the light. Did I warn you about partner buy-in? I think so. Once the anxiety bots are awake in your brain you go on counter-offensive. To this end I keep a pen and notepad handy so without rummaging around I can make a list. The list will include, item-by-item, everything I will get done first thing in the morning. This does not mean it ever really gets done; but the anxiety bots don’t know that because they’ve all been moved from your brain to that notepad. Five minutes later — 

Back to the blanket. Slide underneath, gently weighted back to sleep for the rest of your requisite eight hours. Possibly even sated with a few pretzels and a swig of ginger beer.

Please don’t tell Dr. Suezaki I wrote this.

America Collection/General interest
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AIDS: Victories and Sorrows

by Fran Johns

A PERSONAL STORY OF LOVE, LOSS & DISMAY ABOUT TODAY’S LEADERSHIP

Photo by Everton Vila on Unsplash

In the 1990s I led an HIV Support Group that was officially part of my church and comprised of an evershifting number of men I loved best of any motley crew I’ve ever known. They were of every known religion and degree of irreverence. Jim, the last surviving member of the clan, died of natural causes last year, having dodged AIDS along with his partner; partner Richard was lost to a freaky post-surgery accident more than a dozen years ago.

Every new disastrou healthcare headline reminds me of Jim.

Jim was the #1 source of my pandemic survival. Having lost my husband in 2019, not that long after Richard had died, the two of us found a spectacular anti-loneliness mechanism for negotiating those pandemic days . . . and eventually, years.

Mobility-challenged from a long-ago case of Guillain-Barré Syndrome, Jim was pretty much confined to the third floor apartment he and Richard had shared for decades. As it happened, their place was on one of the steepest blocks of San Francisco’s Mason Street, making its front window almost level with the sidewalk a few yards uphill. I would stand precariously on the sidewalk while he leaned out his window; he always promised to call 911 if I lost my balance so they could dredge the Bay for my body after it rolled downhill and into the waters.

To be confessionally honest, toward the end of the pandemic I did sneak inside a couple of times for us to remember what indoor face-to-face encounters had been like in days gone by. 

In those olden days Jim and I had witnessed the worst of the AIDS pandemic and, finally, its slow but eventual end. We remembered one longtime member of the AIDS Group who said, at what would be our last formal gathering, “I’ve spent more than a decade focusing on death; now I just want to focus on living for a while.”

That shift from death to life was thanks to development of antiretroviral therapies that slowly transformed HIV from a death sentence into a manageable chronic illness. It was work that required public and private cooperation and the dedicated efforts of local, state and national agencies. It led, eventually, to San Francisco’s being at the forefront of a global challenge to “Get to Zero” — zero new HIV cases, zero deaths and zero stigma. In three decades there has been almost uninterrupted progress toward this lofty but attainable goal.

The current administration has thrown everything into reverse.

Some $8 million have been stripped just from local agencies doing this humanitarian work. If you can look up the chain to the destruction of science-based agencies and communities all the way to the formerly unequalled CDC without tears you must be without a heart.

Our old HIV Group had one confirmed curmudgeon who regularly proclaimed there was no hope for himself or the world. Everybody else would find something that made that one day worth living and would wear ourselves out saying “C’mon, Tom. One day there’s going to be a cure. A vaccine. A treatment.” Tom died early on, angry and cursing fate as with so many young men who had good reaason to curse.

When Jim and I talked about those olden days, as we invariably did, we often joked about how Tom had been proven wrong, because vaccines and treatments were indeed on the way to eradicating the scourge of HIV-AIDS; and how Tom would’ve scoffed and said, “Just wait. Something’s going to screw it all up.” I sorely need a chance to joke around with Jim today.

So where, in this column that regularly looks for good news, is the good news for the future of American health?

“Don’t quote me,” said another old friend recently — so of course I’m quoting him, “but there are sane scientists everywhere who are just waiting out the ignoramuses in charge of our national health today. We’re still moving forward. Despite the tragic losses of the last year, science is still science and those of us comnitted to it are not going to give up. We’ll get to zero.” He teaches at a prestigious California university. He’s tenured. He believes most who have lost their good jobs will come back once U.S. healthcare gets back on track.

RIP Jim and Richard and Tom and so many beloved others. We’re on a dark detour but we’ll still Get To Zero.

America Collection/General interest
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Tips from a Master Storyteller

by Fran Johns

GEORGE SAUNDERS HAS A FEW GOOD WORDS FOR WRITERS (AND READERS)

Photo by Lê Tân on Unsplash

George Saunders’ interviewer led off with a semi-familiar quote: “People forget what you said, and they forget what you did, but they never forget how you made them feel.” Saunders makes you feel better about yourself, and the world in general.

Speaking to an overflow crowd in San Francisco while on tour with his new book, the renowned writer (Congratulations, by the Way; Lincoln in the Bardo and many others) and teacher (in the creative writing program of Syracuse University) stuck largely to discussion of his new novel, Vigil. Vaguely reminiscent of his Booker Prize winning reimagining of Lincoln’s struggle to accept the death of his young son, Saunders’ new novel takes place at the bedside of an oil tycoon en route from this world to the next.

But in almost throw-away comments during his recent talk were several gems worth sharing. The talented writer/teacher, whom you would imagine to be well in control of his thoughts, more than once spoke of “blurting out” something, and whether or not the writer can “trust that blurt.” What a literary comfort: the notion that the blurts we all have — sometimes rapid fire all day long — might be worth trusting.

I may steal another phrase from a passing commentary. Speaking of raising characters (and events) “to the highest level,” Saunders asserted there’s value even with unsavory characters being raised “to the highest level of jerkitude.” Jerkitude is everywhere today.

But it was the kindness factor this writer was listening for, and Saunders did not disappoint. In a recent New York Timesinterview, David Marchese mentioned Saunders’ being thrust into “a public role as something close to a guru of goodness after his convocation speech to Syracuse graduates.” That speech, “extolling the life-altering virtue of practicing kindness” evolved into his wildly popular book Congratulations, by the Way. It was interesting to find, in discussions with a few of the 1,000+ attendees before and after the San Francisco event, how many had come just wanting to be reassured of goodness in the world.

Saunders with interviewer Vendela Vida (Author photo)

I spoke with a half-dozen attendees afterwards, none of them disappointed. “Even if his satire is sharp and sometimes wicked,” said one; “somehow his characters embody basic goodness.”

After his talks, Saunders traditionally stays to personalize signed books and be snap-photographed with fans and readers. With lines snaking around blocks it has to be an exhausting time even if you know you’re selling a lot of books. (I passed on the line, but had bought a ticket that included a signed copy of Vigil. Now a few chapters in, I give it multiple thumbs-up.)

Bottom line: Reading (books!) is essential, especially if you want to write. Writing is a craft that needs constant work; drawing tips from a master, when you get the chance, is a bonus. Also:

Kindness is never wrong.

America Collection/General interest
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When the Glaciers Melt Away . . .

by Fran Johns

WATCHING THE PASSAGE OF TIME AT THE ENDS OF THE EARTH

Svalbard 2019 (Author photo)

There were polar bears — though far fewer than we’d hoped; there were walruses and seals and the occasional reindeer or Arctic fox. But what took my breath away was the beauty: shimmering white and muted azure as far as the eye could see. 

I visited the Svalbard archipelago, between the coast of Norway and the North Pole, in June of 2019 on a trip sponsored by Climate One. Spotting wildlife and taking in the beauty of the scenery were high on everyone’s list, but the main purpose of the expedition was to see — up close and personal — what the warming climate is doing to this northernmost cap of planet earth. It is not pretty.

Everywhere were the signs of melting sea ice and shrinking glaciers. Probably the most dramatic moment of the entire trip came when we witnessed glacier calving, as a giant chunk of a nearby glacier sliced off and into the sea. (Climbing on land was its own additional reward.)

Hiking the Svalbard mountains (Author photo, 2019)

Today there’s an expedition underway — this one seriously scientific and definitely not for tourists — at the other end of the world. They are already gathering important data and with a little luck they’ll be able to leave instruments in place deep under the sea that can prove invaluable to climate scientists (and others) going forward.

I’ve been following independent journalist Miles O’Brien (you can too!) who is aboard the South Korean icebreaker Araon near the Thwaites Glacier in Antarctica. Thwaites is also known as the Doomsday Glacier, for reasons you probably don’t want to focus on right before you try to go to sleep. Hint: Thwaites is melting faster than we might wish, especially any of us living on a coast that would vanish under a ten-foot sea level rise.

It’s been several weeks since the Araon left New Zealand, and much success has been recorded, including arrival at Thwaites on a crystal clear day. But the weather didn’t cooperate long enough for helicopters stashed onboard to fly to the glacier itself and stay long enough for scientists to drill deep into the ice and position their instruments.

According to O’Brien’s latest interview with crew members, the window of opportunity will close in another three or four days. Those of us following along are crossing fingers and sending up prayers to the weather gods. The expedition won’t be a failure if scientists are unable to leave instruments on the glacier — but that’s the holy grail and everyone’s hope.

Remembering lessons of the North Pole seven years ago, and watching these fascinating scenes at the other pole in real time reinforces the bottom line to this observer: climate change is here; it’s happening. The more we know, the better we understand.

Meanwhile the current administration pushes ahead with policies to boost fossil fuels, cut funding for clean energy and renewables, eliminate environmental protections . . . as if there were no tomorrow.

Which will some day be true.

America Collection/General interest
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My Mom, & Likely Yours, on Civility

by Fran Johns

Some lessons never die . . . and maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Here’s to a kinder, gentler New Year

Photo by A A on Unsplash

My mother, Helen Hardy Moreland (1897–1967, may she Rest In Peace) set great store in being Proper. One of my favorite memories is a mental image of her, in the blue hat with a small veil, one white glove on her left hand properly holding the other white glove while she shook hands with someone in a receiving line. Or performed some other gloveless task.

My mother was very much of the White Glove generation. One would not even THINK of appearing at a public event gloveless. What her daughters (I was the youngest of four) would know, though no one else did, was that no two of her white gloves ever matched. Most, well worn, had carefully-darned fingertips, some had frills or decorations — they just never matched. This was because she had neither time nor funds to have matching gloves, so she would just grab any two out of her glove drawer, pull one on and hold the other. 

I was reminded of this emphasis on propriety recently in a discussion of What Really Matters over a holiday dinner. It in turn reminded me of my mother and the Midnight Fire story.

Fresh out of college in the still-proper 1950s, I shared an apartment at 9 East Franklin Street in Richmond VA with my sister Mimi. An easy walk from WRNL Radio where she worked, and The Richmond Times-Dispatch where I had my first major newspaper job, it was also close to the Medical College of VA. Those blocks were full of press types and med students and a good time was frequently had by all.

One night, when Mimi forgot to turn off the sunlamp with which she’d been stylishly tanning her face, it shone unattended into the overstuffed chair until setting a fire that woke us at about midnight. I took off knocking at the doors of other units in the converted antebellum house while Mimi called the fire department. I may or may not have grabbed some slippers; Mimi was calmly taking the curlers out of her hair while she gave them our address.

For the next hour we gathered with friends and neighbors in the middle of downtown Franklin Street, watching the firefighters toss our scorched furniture off the balcony, sipping mugs of brandy-laced coffee thoughtfully passed around by a news photographer who lived across the street. It was, we would later agree, the social event of the season.

But it was also more than a little scary. If Mimi hadn’t sounded the alarm, sensing the smoke before it overcame us, the century-old house would quickly have gone up in flames, taking the inhabitants of six apartments with it. So it was in this spirit of high drama that we re-told the story to our mother the following day (one day before it appeared in the Times-Dispatch.) But oops, while describing the details of her daughters’ brush with death I happened to mention the kind stranger who produced an overcoat as I stood shivering in my nightshirt.

And that detail was the whole story for my mother.

“Oh, dahling,” she said, with genuine remorse. “Any lady would have taken time to get a bathrobe on before leaving the apartment.” 

I don’t miss white gloves, or tanning lamps, but occasionally while listening to the president of the United States (and others) I miss both the customs and the language of civility. A college student once said damn in the presence of my mother, causing him to fall all over himself apologizing for such an unforgiveable breach of etiquette. My mother laughed, assured him that she knew the word — she may have mentioned that Shakespeare used it — and she was not the least offended.

But the lesson was clear: respectfulness never hurts. Whatever Mrs. Trump taught her son when he went off to school, it did not include courtesy, respect or civility.

To be fair, and I do try to be fair most of the time, Donald Trump didn’t invent foul language. Nor are disrespect, incivility and four-letter words limited to any age, social demographic or political party these days. (As far as four-letter words go, they have totally eliminated the former delights of creative cursing, which used to be an entertaining skill for the cursed and the curser alike. That’s another loss.)

No one with a brain would wish for a return to white gloves and tanning lamps. But someone with a soul would know the personal damage caused by coarse, cruel words flung at other human beings. Add to that the societal damage of disrespectful words and uncivil behavior that has become as accepted in today’s public life as propriety was a few generations ago.

Going backwards seldom makes sense unless you’re about to step off a cliff. But we could, in fact, go forward in these troubled times. We could, with a little effort, swear less and tell the truth more. We could think first and swallow hate speech. Talk less and listen more. Bring back civility as a New Year’s gift to the universe.

Our mothers would be proud.

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