
Notable Women of Hopkinton
Celebrating the 100th Anniversary of the Ratification of the 19th Amendment
In honor of the 100th anniversary of the ratification of the 19th Amendment granting women the right to vote, Hopkinton Historical Society is recognizing some of the women of Hopkinton whose accomplishments – both large and small – deserve to be highlighted. Their bravery, ingenuity, intelligence, and tenacity is inspiring and we are grateful for their contributions.
Delia Ardell (Jewell) Bohanan: Hopkinton’s “Can Do” Woman
Married teacher, female school board member, social justice promoter, and community organizer – these are all achievements of Hopkinton’s Delia Bohanan over 100 years ago when most people viewed a woman’s place to be “keeping house.”
Delia Jewell was born in Weare, New Hampshire on February 1, 1855. Her father was Otis F. Jewell, a farmer, and her mother was Mary Priscilla (Sargent) Jewell. Delia was the oldest of three girls (with sisters Lucy and Mary) and it appears from census information that her father would periodically take in a boy, probably to help with farm chores. Also living with them during Delia’s childhood were her paternal grandfather and her paternal Aunt Lucy who was described as idiotic, an archaic diagnostic term indicating profound mental disability.
At the age of 21, on May 2, 1876, Delia married John Wilber Bohanan, age 28 and a farmer, in Hopkinton. The 1880 census shows Delia and John living on a farm in Contoocook village with John’s parents, David and Belinda Bohanan, as neighbors on one side, and John’s older brother Samuel and wife Ellen on the other side. By this time, Delia and John had two of their nine children, Bernice who was born in March of 1877 and Elsie who was born in September of 1879. It is at this point in her life, if not earlier, that Delia began to express her can do attitude by becoming employed as teacher at the Sugar Hill School. She taught 14 students during summer term, 1881, and nine students during summer term, 1883. Between these two summers, she gave birth to her third child, son Lester, in February of 1882. This was a period in history when female teachers were usually single women, just out of high school themselves, encouraged if not forced to leave teaching upon marriage (and certainly upon motherhood). The town’s annual reports of this era included evaluations of every teacher in town; Delia’s evaluation in the 1882 report for the 1881 school year was as follows:
“Mrs. Bohanan is one of our very best teachers. Active and energetic, she has the faculty of interesting her scholars in their studies, and thus relieving the routine of the school-room of much of its dullness. The examination at the close of the term showed that the scholars had improved their time, and understood what they had been over. The classes in reading showed great improvement.”
Delia went on to have six more children: Etta in June, 1884; Edna in November, 1886; John Henry in October, 1889; Percy in September, 1892; Josephine in July, 1895; and Leland in September, 1900. Unfortunately, Delia’s husband succumbed to bronchitis on February 25, 1900 at the age of 52, never to know his son Leland. Then on March 11, 1902, Leland also passed away. The census of 1900 records Delia as a 45-year-old widow, head of household, home owner free of mortgage, with eight children at home, Bernice the only one to have left. Elsie was now a teacher and one boarder, Netty Taylor, was also a teacher. Lester, at age 18, was a farm laborer. The remaining children were in school except for young Josephine and Leland.
During the time that her children attended school, Delia became active in overseeing the quality of education provided in Hopkinton. This was a time of evaluating the effectiveness of one-room schools versus a more centralized education program since the town’s school population was declining and truancy, especially of boys, was high. There being no school superintendent, the three-member all male school board was all-powerful. As early as July, 1880, a Hopkinton Times editorial reported that “35 women signed a petition protesting [school] closures and expressing a desire to be allowed to take an active part in all educational processes.” The town report of 1884 indicates that Helen Bailey served that year on the school board. Not again until 1896 was this call answered; Delia sought and was elected to the Hopkinton school board, serving until 1907 with such well-known men as Charles C. Lord, Samuel Symonds, George A. Barnard, Henry Dustin, Leown H. Kelley, and Frank E. Dodge. She was the one consistent member during these 12 years. Some historians have reported that Delia was the town’s first school superintendent, and although she was undoubtedly instrumental in designating the need for a superintendent, the 1907 town report indicates that J. A. MacDougall was given that post. Yet Delia was the speaker for the first graduating class of Hopkinton High School, eloquently telling of the school’s controversial establishment as well as honoring the one graduate that year, 1904, Mildred Diman.
Delia was a religious person, and she appears to have been active in both the Methodist Church and in the First Congregational Church of Hopkinton where she taught adult Sunday School class. Putting belief into action, she and Leown Kelley co-founded the Merrimack County Missionary Society. Such societies were prevalent in the late 1800s with goals of spreading evangelism and promoting social justice, carrying out Jesus’ commandment to “love thy neighbor” and assisting recently freed blacks in the South. These Societies successfully raised money which was used, in part, to fund the establishment of a number of colleges for black students in the South.
As might be expected, Delia was a member of the committee directing the festivities in the 1915 celebration of the 150th anniversary of the town of Hopkinton. Also active in her local neighborhood, Delia was a charter member of the Emerson Hill Community Extension Group, serving as Vice Director at the first meeting on August 14, 1916. This club for local women was the first of those established through the Extension County Council of Merrimack County, which itself was created as a result of the Smith-Lever Act of 1914, a law that established a system of cooperative extension services connected to land-grant universities. Women would bring their handwork, have interesting programs often with speakers from the University on such topics as food preparation, and periodically offer community picnics, suppers, and other social events.
In her later years, Delia and her youngest daughter Josephine, as yet single, lived with her eldest daughter Bernice and husband James Rice; Bernice had become an invalid and benefitted from their assistance. Then in 1918, Delia’s daughter Etta and husband Edward Nelson became very ill with the pandemic (“Spanish”) influenza. Etta died; Eddie finally rallied. Eddie’s sister Ida and other nearby relatives offered help with raising Eddie’s two children, Margery and Stanley, only six and one year old respectively; it was Josephine and also Eddie’s sister Etta who prevailed, with oversight by Delia. A letter to Eddie from “Mother Bohanan” thanks him for Christmas gifts and says that she would be happy to wash the children’s clothes for him since he doesn’t have water, and mentions that “Stanley’s union suit was 95 cents instead of 49,” in expectation of full reimbursement. Some descendants (including Stanley’s daughter Vicki who fondly remembers her grandfather and aunts Jo and Etta) are of the opinion that Eddie’s child-rearing was entirely without shortcomings even if lacking some material conveniences.
Delia Bohanan passed away at the age of 69 on August 15, 1924 having suffered for one year with hepatic carcinoma (W. H. Tarbell, M.D.). She was buried in the New Hopkinton Cemetery on August 17, 1924 (Frank H. Reed, undertaker). Seventy-five years later, on October 31, 1999, Delia was the subject of an All Saints Day sermon at the First Congregational Church of Hopkinton, given by the minister Gail Whittemore. “So we have saints among us now. Saints are not perfect people. God alone is perfect. But in a saint, a bit of God’s perfection lives so that we can see it. Perhaps it is a certain sparkle, or serenity, or practical wisdom. Perhaps it is generosity, or a passion for justice, or love for the world God has made that translates into action that makes a difference…” Delia is also referenced by Rose Hanson in her book Our Town; in “A Hymn in Honor of our Ancestors” the line referring to Delia Bohanan (and Matthew Harvey) reads “Those who led the people by their counsels.” No further mention of Delia is made to explain this remark but it certainly reflects great respect. Yet, it was a more personal recollection that granddaughter Margery had of Delia who died when Margery was twelve years old. “The thing that impressed me the most was that you could always hear her whistling,” and there is the human side of the portrait of a saint.
References: In addition to Hopkinton town reports, documents from Ancestry.com, files at the Hopkinton Historical Society, and Rose Hanson’s history of Hopkinton, information was obtained from records collected by great-granddaughter Rita Gerrard and from memories/verifications of great-granddaughter Vicki Frye.
The image above is of Delia (Jewel) Bohanan, her husband John Bohanan, and their oldest daughter Bernice, who was born in March 1877.
Author Allita Paine is the past president of Hopkinton Historical Society and regular researcher, writer, and frequent contributor to the Society’s projects and exhibits.
Celebrating the 100th Anniversary of the Ratification of the 19th Amendment
In honor of the 100th anniversary of the ratification of the 19th Amendment granting women the right to vote, Hopkinton Historical Society is recognizing some of the women of Hopkinton whose accomplishments – both large and small – deserve to be highlighted. Their bravery, ingenuity, intelligence, and tenacity is inspiring and we are grateful for their contributions.
Delia Ardell (Jewell) Bohanan: Hopkinton’s “Can Do” Woman
Married teacher, female school board member, social justice promoter, and community organizer – these are all achievements of Hopkinton’s Delia Bohanan over 100 years ago when most people viewed a woman’s place to be “keeping house.”
Delia Jewell was born in Weare, New Hampshire on February 1, 1855. Her father was Otis F. Jewell, a farmer, and her mother was Mary Priscilla (Sargent) Jewell. Delia was the oldest of three girls (with sisters Lucy and Mary) and it appears from census information that her father would periodically take in a boy, probably to help with farm chores. Also living with them during Delia’s childhood were her paternal grandfather and her paternal Aunt Lucy who was described as idiotic, an archaic diagnostic term indicating profound mental disability.
At the age of 21, on May 2, 1876, Delia married John Wilber Bohanan, age 28 and a farmer, in Hopkinton. The 1880 census shows Delia and John living on a farm in Contoocook village with John’s parents, David and Belinda Bohanan, as neighbors on one side, and John’s older brother Samuel and wife Ellen on the other side. By this time, Delia and John had two of their nine children, Bernice who was born in March of 1877 and Elsie who was born in September of 1879. It is at this point in her life, if not earlier, that Delia began to express her can do attitude by becoming employed as teacher at the Sugar Hill School. She taught 14 students during summer term, 1881, and nine students during summer term, 1883. Between these two summers, she gave birth to her third child, son Lester, in February of 1882. This was a period in history when female teachers were usually single women, just out of high school themselves, encouraged if not forced to leave teaching upon marriage (and certainly upon motherhood). The town’s annual reports of this era included evaluations of every teacher in town; Delia’s evaluation in the 1882 report for the 1881 school year was as follows:
“Mrs. Bohanan is one of our very best teachers. Active and energetic, she has the faculty of interesting her scholars in their studies, and thus relieving the routine of the school-room of much of its dullness. The examination at the close of the term showed that the scholars had improved their time, and understood what they had been over. The classes in reading showed great improvement.”
Delia went on to have six more children: Etta in June, 1884; Edna in November, 1886; John Henry in October, 1889; Percy in September, 1892; Josephine in July, 1895; and Leland in September, 1900. Unfortunately, Delia’s husband succumbed to bronchitis on February 25, 1900 at the age of 52, never to know his son Leland. Then on March 11, 1902, Leland also passed away. The census of 1900 records Delia as a 45-year-old widow, head of household, home owner free of mortgage, with eight children at home, Bernice the only one to have left. Elsie was now a teacher and one boarder, Netty Taylor, was also a teacher. Lester, at age 18, was a farm laborer. The remaining children were in school except for young Josephine and Leland.
During the time that her children attended school, Delia became active in overseeing the quality of education provided in Hopkinton. This was a time of evaluating the effectiveness of one-room schools versus a more centralized education program since the town’s school population was declining and truancy, especially of boys, was high. There being no school superintendent, the three-member all male school board was all-powerful. As early as July, 1880, a Hopkinton Times editorial reported that “35 women signed a petition protesting [school] closures and expressing a desire to be allowed to take an active part in all educational processes.” The town report of 1884 indicates that Helen Bailey served that year on the school board. Not again until 1896 was this call answered; Delia sought and was elected to the Hopkinton school board, serving until 1907 with such well-known men as Charles C. Lord, Samuel Symonds, George A. Barnard, Henry Dustin, Leown H. Kelley, and Frank E. Dodge. She was the one consistent member during these 12 years. Some historians have reported that Delia was the town’s first school superintendent, and although she was undoubtedly instrumental in designating the need for a superintendent, the 1907 town report indicates that J. A. MacDougall was given that post. Yet Delia was the speaker for the first graduating class of Hopkinton High School, eloquently telling of the school’s controversial establishment as well as honoring the one graduate that year, 1904, Mildred Diman.
Delia was a religious person, and she appears to have been active in both the Methodist Church and in the First Congregational Church of Hopkinton where she taught adult Sunday School class. Putting belief into action, she and Leown Kelley co-founded the Merrimack County Missionary Society. Such societies were prevalent in the late 1800s with goals of spreading evangelism and promoting social justice, carrying out Jesus’ commandment to “love thy neighbor” and assisting recently freed blacks in the South. These Societies successfully raised money which was used, in part, to fund the establishment of a number of colleges for black students in the South.
As might be expected, Delia was a member of the committee directing the festivities in the 1915 celebration of the 150th anniversary of the town of Hopkinton. Also active in her local neighborhood, Delia was a charter member of the Emerson Hill Community Extension Group, serving as Vice Director at the first meeting on August 14, 1916. This club for local women was the first of those established through the Extension County Council of Merrimack County, which itself was created as a result of the Smith-Lever Act of 1914, a law that established a system of cooperative extension services connected to land-grant universities. Women would bring their handwork, have interesting programs often with speakers from the University on such topics as food preparation, and periodically offer community picnics, suppers, and other social events.
In her later years, Delia and her youngest daughter Josephine, as yet single, lived with her eldest daughter Bernice and husband James Rice; Bernice had become an invalid and benefitted from their assistance. Then in 1918, Delia’s daughter Etta and husband Edward Nelson became very ill with the pandemic (“Spanish”) influenza. Etta died; Eddie finally rallied. Eddie’s sister Ida and other nearby relatives offered help with raising Eddie’s two children, Margery and Stanley, only six and one year old respectively; it was Josephine and also Eddie’s sister Etta who prevailed, with oversight by Delia. A letter to Eddie from “Mother Bohanan” thanks him for Christmas gifts and says that she would be happy to wash the children’s clothes for him since he doesn’t have water, and mentions that “Stanley’s union suit was 95 cents instead of 49,” in expectation of full reimbursement. Some descendants (including Stanley’s daughter Vicki who fondly remembers her grandfather and aunts Jo and Etta) are of the opinion that Eddie’s child-rearing was entirely without shortcomings even if lacking some material conveniences.
Delia Bohanan passed away at the age of 69 on August 15, 1924 having suffered for one year with hepatic carcinoma (W. H. Tarbell, M.D.). She was buried in the New Hopkinton Cemetery on August 17, 1924 (Frank H. Reed, undertaker). Seventy-five years later, on October 31, 1999, Delia was the subject of an All Saints Day sermon at the First Congregational Church of Hopkinton, given by the minister Gail Whittemore. “So we have saints among us now. Saints are not perfect people. God alone is perfect. But in a saint, a bit of God’s perfection lives so that we can see it. Perhaps it is a certain sparkle, or serenity, or practical wisdom. Perhaps it is generosity, or a passion for justice, or love for the world God has made that translates into action that makes a difference…” Delia is also referenced by Rose Hanson in her book Our Town; in “A Hymn in Honor of our Ancestors” the line referring to Delia Bohanan (and Matthew Harvey) reads “Those who led the people by their counsels.” No further mention of Delia is made to explain this remark but it certainly reflects great respect. Yet, it was a more personal recollection that granddaughter Margery had of Delia who died when Margery was twelve years old. “The thing that impressed me the most was that you could always hear her whistling,” and there is the human side of the portrait of a saint.
References: In addition to Hopkinton town reports, documents from Ancestry.com, files at the Hopkinton Historical Society, and Rose Hanson’s history of Hopkinton, information was obtained from records collected by great-granddaughter Rita Gerrard and from memories/verifications of great-granddaughter Vicki Frye.
The image above is of Delia (Jewel) Bohanan, her husband John Bohanan, and their oldest daughter Bernice, who was born in March 1877.
Author Allita Paine is the past president of Hopkinton Historical Society and regular researcher, writer, and frequent contributor to the Society’s projects and exhibits.

Life During Covid-19
by Lissa Jones, 2020
I start my day watching 20 minutes of the news. Who knows what to believe any more, and how much slant there is when it is reported, but I do want to know if we're still supposed to be wearing masks or not, or if we're back to the fear of touching our groceries (and the mail and the bottoms of our shoes) or if we're supposed to be 6 feet apart or 10. Every time I hear, "as we learn more about this virus, we realize we should..." I get either more frightened or more relieved. And when I feel relief (that I don't have to wipe down my milk or take my shoes off or that I can go for a walk with a friend on a windy day), I feel worried that I'm feeling too relieved. Am I letting down my guard? Being irresponsible? Or am I letting fear run my life?
Too. Much. Input.
And then there's the guilt. Watching those poor patients on ventilators, I wonder why MY life circumstances are such that I can sit beside my pool, ride my horses, escape to the lake for a swim and a boat ride while others worry about their health and their finances. Who knew that living in rural New Hampshire was such a good choice? Who knew that all those years of criticism and mocking about my husband working for Comcast would stop when the internet was literally a digital lifeline to everything? Who knew that being unemployed meant less exposure to the virus and less time having to wear a mask?
I judge everyone who doesn't wear a mask in public. I judge the media for creating a frenzy. Or not. There is so much reason for doubt that even educated, caring people just don't know what to believe any more. I judge myself for giving up on trying to see the ultra-conservative point of view. I no longer follow anyone on Facebook who says that wearing a mask is taking away our freedom.
It is in my nature to be a volunteer, but my skills are not what are needed right now. I don't sew and I don't have a medical degree. The only thing I can do is be a good listener as friends, family and neighbors vent about how all this has affected them. And how we all feel similarly: uncertain, guilty, fearful, lucky, judgmental, imprisoned.
Sure, there are plenty of places that want donations. And my family is financially stable... for now. But just like the hoarding of toilet paper over the last few months: This pandemic could hit my family, too. I wouldn't even know where to give which would make an impact.
I have read a couple novels about the Holocaust. I visited Dachau last year. What the Jews endured was so much worse than this pandemic. So. Much. More. Indescribable atrocities that must've seemed interminable. I just short-circuit when I think about it. And here we are, a society that has the choice to stop this thing, simply by staying home, missing a graduation, a wedding, a game. Staying out of bars and gyms and restaurants. And wearing a mask. We must be patient, for sure, but there is almost definitely an end in sight within a year or two. The Jews had no idea what they were in for and for how long. They were not given a choice. We DO!
And yet... I get it. If you own a restaurant, or work at a big arena or airline or tattoo parlor, you need to make money. You could lose everything.
For me, I think it boils down to too much time to think. My kids (ages 22 and 24) are home until they can afford to move out. They both want to launch... soooooo badly! But meanwhile they feel stuck, stuck with US. And I feel THEIR anger and frustration and loneliness and boredom.
On days when I am busy, I feel everything less. I'm distracted by errands and chatting with friends. Walking for a few miles dissipates the pent-up negative energy. But there are many, many hours when I just stew and fret.
Finally, I worry about my own courage should this virus hit me or someone I love. I am positively phobic about breathing issues. I don't know how I'll be if a family member gets the terrible cough and can't catch their breath or has to go on a ventilator. It terrifies me, and yet as a mother I have to be strong and give my kids hope.
I check the banner running across the bottom of our local news every day. I check the numbers of cases in Hopkinton. And Henniker. And Warner. And Concord. Places where I go grocery shopping and get my hair cut and get my car fixed. Our numbers are low, probably because we're a pretty rural part of the world. There are plenty of people who refuse to wear a mask, but I just do my best to wear mine and wash my hands.
I haven't hugged my parents, who live down the road and have lived in Hopkinton for over 50 years. However, we see each other frequently because we've decided to be part of their "bubble". I know our choices influence them and vice versa, but this is hard on them and for either of us to be extreme in our perception of this virus or how we behave during it could hurt our relationship.
So, as we endure this pandemic, I've chosen a "low risk" lifestyle rather than "no risk". I will get my hair cut, I will go out to dinner (occasionally. And sitting outside), I will ride in a car with certain friends. I will allow my kids to see their friends, after promising me to be careful.
To me, this pandemic is mostly inconvenient and surreal. I'm not suffering. I live with people. I am outdoorsy, so I can exercise and entertain myself. We don't worry about money. I have faith in scientists, even if I have absolutely, positively no faith in politicians. Covid-19 is present, but not near me.
That said, I can't wait for it to be over so that "maskers" won't judge "non-maskers". So that we can travel to far-away places again. So my kids can move out safely. So I don't have to take out my hand-sanitizer when I feel like splurging on a coffee and a donut.
This, too, shall pass. Hopefully, sooner than later.
Pandemic Story:
Covid-19 was for Me the Best of Times and the Worst of Times
by Ruth Chevion, July 13, 2020
Image: "A Sign from Niaux Cave," painted by Ruth Chevion
I was deeply saddened that so many people got sick and died. I was horrified at the early anger against our local Chinese restaurant owners. I was pained that our country is so divided we could not unite against a common enemy, an epidemic. At first it seemed as though we would unite, but with poor leadership from the president, it broke down. I was horrified to learn that a majority of Americans live from hand to mouth, that they did not have $400 in the bank to tide them over, that they were going hungry. I was looking under the hood of a broken engine.
By contrast, for me as an individual at home, it was in many ways a good time. Everything slowed down. I felt like I was having the first rest of my life. For whole days I didn’t do anything. I realized I didn’t have to wear a bra all the time. And I didn’t have to keep the house as tidy because nobody dropped in. I loved the quiet and the singing of the happy birds in my yard. I had long walks. I did a lot of yard work that yielded an exceptional crop of flowers.
My only visitor was Alan Scribner, my long-time partner, and I didn’t visit anyone else’s house except his. Our relationship deepened as we looked more to each other for entertainment, and conversation, especially about Covid and what was going on. We went swimming almost every day. We watched movies.
I was 74 years old when Covid hit. While being old made me more susceptible to the disease, there were financial benefits to being old. Unlike the young people being sent home from low paying jobs, I am retired. I have savings, and I collect social security. I’m saying this to emphasize that something has to be done for our young people. The current situation is unacceptable. Even education doesn’t always help them as they graduate with debt, and meaningful jobs are hard to find. This came to light as never before during Covid.
Being old also brought generous friends to my aid. I did not go out at all in the beginning so getting food was a problem. I had beans in the pantry, but I craved fresh food. One dear friend shopped for me when she went to Market Basket, and another ordered stuff for me from a delivery service. My dear neighbor has chickens, and kept me supplied with fresh eggs. Then later, when I was less fearful, I availed myself of Market Basket’s elderly shopping hours from 6-7 in the morning. They did a great job of making it feel safe.
Before Covid, I had been running an art gallery in the Bates building in Contoocook. When it started I had a beautiful show with Jeff Schapira’s photography and Lisa Sheiman’s fiber sculpture. Covid put an end to that, and I was home for the duration.
At home, I cooked a lot. I’m not sure why I was cooking so much more than usual, but it turned out that the same was true for a lot of people. I cooked beans and lentils, and other stuff I could keep in the freezer in case this was a long haul. Also I needed to keep the shopping lists short. I started baking “Life Changing Crackers” for the friends who helped me, just to have a concrete way of expressing my gratitude.
I loved being frugal again. I realized I could use a lot less toilet paper and also paper towels. I used cloth napkins, and re-used coffee filters. I ate less. I cut my coffee in half. I was able to donate toilet paper for others. It made me see how much I was influenced by TV to buy and use more than I needed.
It was beautiful how many people reached out to me with calls and texts. And I did the same to others. People I had not had contact with in years called to find out if I was OK. There was a lot of warmth in the beginning of Covid, a lot of reconnecting and caring.
After the initial do-nothing stage, I started researching cave paintings of the Dordogne region of France, and doing paintings inspired by the masterpieces of the Lascaux and Niaux caves. Covid made me need to understand homo sapiens, my species. I felt the need to know what is basic to us, to roll back my mind set from advertising and modern amenities. Who are we? What matters? Where did we come from?
My biggest takeaway from this study is that everyone, every person living on the planet, is the same species. It made me think that the term race is overused. Black, white, red, yellow, pygmy, curly hair, straight hair, no hair, whatever, we all came out of Africa at the same time, about 40,000 years ago, migrated though the middle east, and conquered all the other human species we encountered. We are all the same. We are the only humans left. We are all one species.
Then, on top of Covid, I shared with my fellow Americans, the horror of watching George Floyd, a big tall black man, be shamelessly, purposely and coldly murdered before my very eyes on TV by a white male uniformed representative of the government who forced him to the ground and pressed a knee into his neck until he was dead. Horror is too weak of a word. I began to think and talk with other people about blackness in America, and what we can do about it. I was thinking at least some of it could be solved with a $15/hour minimum wage, as race crosses issues of class. Plus, I still feel strongly that America should pay reparations to people with slavery in their family history. It’s the right thing to do.
But of course later events, more killings shown on TV, proved to me that all black people live with some level of fear and injustice, that the murder of George Floyd was far from unique, and that the issues his murder brought to light cannot be solved with economics alone. Attitudes must change. The woman in Central Park who felt free to call the police because a black birdwatcher asked her to leash her dog was instructive to me.
Lately, in the quiet isolation time of Covid I think a lot about my mother who died two years ago. I am feeling grief in a way I had avoided earlier just by being out and about and busy. My mother being a news hound, we would have had great conversations about all of it. Plus, she would have been on my short list of people I wouldn’t wear a mask with. I have started cooking her recipes, especially as she was an expert on beans. It has gotten to the point that I want to write down her recipes. So that is what I’m doing now. I’m writing about how my mother cooked. Perfect for Covid time.
I would say we are in mid-covid at the time of this writing on July 13, 2020. How the rest will go will depend on many things. We’ll see.
Thanks to the Hopkinton Historical Society for asking what we are doing, and for collecting information about this strange moment in our history.
by Lissa Jones, 2020
I start my day watching 20 minutes of the news. Who knows what to believe any more, and how much slant there is when it is reported, but I do want to know if we're still supposed to be wearing masks or not, or if we're back to the fear of touching our groceries (and the mail and the bottoms of our shoes) or if we're supposed to be 6 feet apart or 10. Every time I hear, "as we learn more about this virus, we realize we should..." I get either more frightened or more relieved. And when I feel relief (that I don't have to wipe down my milk or take my shoes off or that I can go for a walk with a friend on a windy day), I feel worried that I'm feeling too relieved. Am I letting down my guard? Being irresponsible? Or am I letting fear run my life?
Too. Much. Input.
And then there's the guilt. Watching those poor patients on ventilators, I wonder why MY life circumstances are such that I can sit beside my pool, ride my horses, escape to the lake for a swim and a boat ride while others worry about their health and their finances. Who knew that living in rural New Hampshire was such a good choice? Who knew that all those years of criticism and mocking about my husband working for Comcast would stop when the internet was literally a digital lifeline to everything? Who knew that being unemployed meant less exposure to the virus and less time having to wear a mask?
I judge everyone who doesn't wear a mask in public. I judge the media for creating a frenzy. Or not. There is so much reason for doubt that even educated, caring people just don't know what to believe any more. I judge myself for giving up on trying to see the ultra-conservative point of view. I no longer follow anyone on Facebook who says that wearing a mask is taking away our freedom.
It is in my nature to be a volunteer, but my skills are not what are needed right now. I don't sew and I don't have a medical degree. The only thing I can do is be a good listener as friends, family and neighbors vent about how all this has affected them. And how we all feel similarly: uncertain, guilty, fearful, lucky, judgmental, imprisoned.
Sure, there are plenty of places that want donations. And my family is financially stable... for now. But just like the hoarding of toilet paper over the last few months: This pandemic could hit my family, too. I wouldn't even know where to give which would make an impact.
I have read a couple novels about the Holocaust. I visited Dachau last year. What the Jews endured was so much worse than this pandemic. So. Much. More. Indescribable atrocities that must've seemed interminable. I just short-circuit when I think about it. And here we are, a society that has the choice to stop this thing, simply by staying home, missing a graduation, a wedding, a game. Staying out of bars and gyms and restaurants. And wearing a mask. We must be patient, for sure, but there is almost definitely an end in sight within a year or two. The Jews had no idea what they were in for and for how long. They were not given a choice. We DO!
And yet... I get it. If you own a restaurant, or work at a big arena or airline or tattoo parlor, you need to make money. You could lose everything.
For me, I think it boils down to too much time to think. My kids (ages 22 and 24) are home until they can afford to move out. They both want to launch... soooooo badly! But meanwhile they feel stuck, stuck with US. And I feel THEIR anger and frustration and loneliness and boredom.
On days when I am busy, I feel everything less. I'm distracted by errands and chatting with friends. Walking for a few miles dissipates the pent-up negative energy. But there are many, many hours when I just stew and fret.
Finally, I worry about my own courage should this virus hit me or someone I love. I am positively phobic about breathing issues. I don't know how I'll be if a family member gets the terrible cough and can't catch their breath or has to go on a ventilator. It terrifies me, and yet as a mother I have to be strong and give my kids hope.
I check the banner running across the bottom of our local news every day. I check the numbers of cases in Hopkinton. And Henniker. And Warner. And Concord. Places where I go grocery shopping and get my hair cut and get my car fixed. Our numbers are low, probably because we're a pretty rural part of the world. There are plenty of people who refuse to wear a mask, but I just do my best to wear mine and wash my hands.
I haven't hugged my parents, who live down the road and have lived in Hopkinton for over 50 years. However, we see each other frequently because we've decided to be part of their "bubble". I know our choices influence them and vice versa, but this is hard on them and for either of us to be extreme in our perception of this virus or how we behave during it could hurt our relationship.
So, as we endure this pandemic, I've chosen a "low risk" lifestyle rather than "no risk". I will get my hair cut, I will go out to dinner (occasionally. And sitting outside), I will ride in a car with certain friends. I will allow my kids to see their friends, after promising me to be careful.
To me, this pandemic is mostly inconvenient and surreal. I'm not suffering. I live with people. I am outdoorsy, so I can exercise and entertain myself. We don't worry about money. I have faith in scientists, even if I have absolutely, positively no faith in politicians. Covid-19 is present, but not near me.
That said, I can't wait for it to be over so that "maskers" won't judge "non-maskers". So that we can travel to far-away places again. So my kids can move out safely. So I don't have to take out my hand-sanitizer when I feel like splurging on a coffee and a donut.
This, too, shall pass. Hopefully, sooner than later.
Pandemic Story:
Covid-19 was for Me the Best of Times and the Worst of Times
by Ruth Chevion, July 13, 2020
Image: "A Sign from Niaux Cave," painted by Ruth Chevion
I was deeply saddened that so many people got sick and died. I was horrified at the early anger against our local Chinese restaurant owners. I was pained that our country is so divided we could not unite against a common enemy, an epidemic. At first it seemed as though we would unite, but with poor leadership from the president, it broke down. I was horrified to learn that a majority of Americans live from hand to mouth, that they did not have $400 in the bank to tide them over, that they were going hungry. I was looking under the hood of a broken engine.
By contrast, for me as an individual at home, it was in many ways a good time. Everything slowed down. I felt like I was having the first rest of my life. For whole days I didn’t do anything. I realized I didn’t have to wear a bra all the time. And I didn’t have to keep the house as tidy because nobody dropped in. I loved the quiet and the singing of the happy birds in my yard. I had long walks. I did a lot of yard work that yielded an exceptional crop of flowers.
My only visitor was Alan Scribner, my long-time partner, and I didn’t visit anyone else’s house except his. Our relationship deepened as we looked more to each other for entertainment, and conversation, especially about Covid and what was going on. We went swimming almost every day. We watched movies.
I was 74 years old when Covid hit. While being old made me more susceptible to the disease, there were financial benefits to being old. Unlike the young people being sent home from low paying jobs, I am retired. I have savings, and I collect social security. I’m saying this to emphasize that something has to be done for our young people. The current situation is unacceptable. Even education doesn’t always help them as they graduate with debt, and meaningful jobs are hard to find. This came to light as never before during Covid.
Being old also brought generous friends to my aid. I did not go out at all in the beginning so getting food was a problem. I had beans in the pantry, but I craved fresh food. One dear friend shopped for me when she went to Market Basket, and another ordered stuff for me from a delivery service. My dear neighbor has chickens, and kept me supplied with fresh eggs. Then later, when I was less fearful, I availed myself of Market Basket’s elderly shopping hours from 6-7 in the morning. They did a great job of making it feel safe.
Before Covid, I had been running an art gallery in the Bates building in Contoocook. When it started I had a beautiful show with Jeff Schapira’s photography and Lisa Sheiman’s fiber sculpture. Covid put an end to that, and I was home for the duration.
At home, I cooked a lot. I’m not sure why I was cooking so much more than usual, but it turned out that the same was true for a lot of people. I cooked beans and lentils, and other stuff I could keep in the freezer in case this was a long haul. Also I needed to keep the shopping lists short. I started baking “Life Changing Crackers” for the friends who helped me, just to have a concrete way of expressing my gratitude.
I loved being frugal again. I realized I could use a lot less toilet paper and also paper towels. I used cloth napkins, and re-used coffee filters. I ate less. I cut my coffee in half. I was able to donate toilet paper for others. It made me see how much I was influenced by TV to buy and use more than I needed.
It was beautiful how many people reached out to me with calls and texts. And I did the same to others. People I had not had contact with in years called to find out if I was OK. There was a lot of warmth in the beginning of Covid, a lot of reconnecting and caring.
After the initial do-nothing stage, I started researching cave paintings of the Dordogne region of France, and doing paintings inspired by the masterpieces of the Lascaux and Niaux caves. Covid made me need to understand homo sapiens, my species. I felt the need to know what is basic to us, to roll back my mind set from advertising and modern amenities. Who are we? What matters? Where did we come from?
My biggest takeaway from this study is that everyone, every person living on the planet, is the same species. It made me think that the term race is overused. Black, white, red, yellow, pygmy, curly hair, straight hair, no hair, whatever, we all came out of Africa at the same time, about 40,000 years ago, migrated though the middle east, and conquered all the other human species we encountered. We are all the same. We are the only humans left. We are all one species.
Then, on top of Covid, I shared with my fellow Americans, the horror of watching George Floyd, a big tall black man, be shamelessly, purposely and coldly murdered before my very eyes on TV by a white male uniformed representative of the government who forced him to the ground and pressed a knee into his neck until he was dead. Horror is too weak of a word. I began to think and talk with other people about blackness in America, and what we can do about it. I was thinking at least some of it could be solved with a $15/hour minimum wage, as race crosses issues of class. Plus, I still feel strongly that America should pay reparations to people with slavery in their family history. It’s the right thing to do.
But of course later events, more killings shown on TV, proved to me that all black people live with some level of fear and injustice, that the murder of George Floyd was far from unique, and that the issues his murder brought to light cannot be solved with economics alone. Attitudes must change. The woman in Central Park who felt free to call the police because a black birdwatcher asked her to leash her dog was instructive to me.
Lately, in the quiet isolation time of Covid I think a lot about my mother who died two years ago. I am feeling grief in a way I had avoided earlier just by being out and about and busy. My mother being a news hound, we would have had great conversations about all of it. Plus, she would have been on my short list of people I wouldn’t wear a mask with. I have started cooking her recipes, especially as she was an expert on beans. It has gotten to the point that I want to write down her recipes. So that is what I’m doing now. I’m writing about how my mother cooked. Perfect for Covid time.
I would say we are in mid-covid at the time of this writing on July 13, 2020. How the rest will go will depend on many things. We’ll see.
Thanks to the Hopkinton Historical Society for asking what we are doing, and for collecting information about this strange moment in our history.