Column: The joys of binge-watching . . . and binge-reading

The latest way to enjoy television is by binge-watching. You can do this by viewing a whole season of shows through Netflix. Or by borrowing DVDs through your local library. I suspect one reason it’s fun is that binge-watching is a form of instant gratification. Waiting a week for the next episode is so 20th century!

But if the program is well-made, with a strong plot and well-developed characters, binge-watching can be more deeply rewarding. Seeing the story unfold in one continuous line helps us connect more fully with underlying themes.

Of course, watching two seasons in a row is best of all, because who can remember what happened last year?

My husband, Paul, and I have binge-watched a number of shows. We have streamed “Longmire” on Netflix. Since we were late coming to this program, we did get to watch several seasons in a row, which was great fun. This mystery series, set in Wyoming, features county sheriff Walt Longmire, his daughter, his staff and his friend, Henry Standing Bear. There are tensions between Longmire and the local Cheyenne, both over legal jurisdiction and the construction of a casino. The characters are fascinating and the stories drag characters into both metaphorical and literal pits.

We binge-watched the first season of “Poldark” on DVD. We are never sufficiently awake to watch the Masterpiece series on Maine Public Television on Sunday nights at 9. We often stream the shows off the PBS web site at a more convenient hour for us. However, the episodes are only available for a specific period of time, so if you miss one, you’re out of luck.

This series is a remake of the original, which ran in the 1970s. Ross Poldark returns to Cornwall after serving with the Redcoats during the American Revolution. He finds his father dead and his former love, Elizabeth, engaged to his cousin. Oh, and Ross is now penniless as well.

The gorgeous southwest coast of England is a feast for the eyes. There’s an abundance of drama, with deaths, marriages, secret affairs and, overshadowing it all, Poldark’s attempts to turn his tin mine into a working asset. Paul enjoys historical dramas, but at one point he turned to me and said, “This is kind of a chick flick, isn’t it?”

Well, there is a lot of romance, and some might say Ross Poldark himself--played by Aidan Turner--is a feast for the eyes. All I will say is that at several points I was distraught over the turn of events, while at other times I found myself cheering. Aloud.

Season two just wrapped up on PBS. We couldn’t wait to binge, so we had to do it the new old-fashioned way--streaming it weekly through Apple TV.

Perhaps our most prolonged binge-watching experience has been Netflix’s “House of Cards.” Paul and I had watched the original British series and thoroughly enjoyed it. We enjoy political dramas (we were huge fans of “The West Wing”), and this program promised to be meaty.

Francis Underwood is a ruthless congressman from South Carolina. His wife, Claire, is a Lady Macbeth type who initially works with Frank to achieve his goals, but eventually desires power for herself.

Intrigue runs deep in this series, which sometimes goes over the top. There’s more than one murder and more than enough deceit.  But who cares? That just provides all the more reason to watch the next episode.

Season four is due next year. Yay!

Just recently, I realized that bingeing could be applied to one of my other favorite activities. No, not eating. I have many faults, but I can stop at one cookie and one scoop of ice cream. I am talking about reading.

Since my favorite genre is mystery, I follow quite a few series. This means I often get behind on my reading. For some reason, for example, I was never interested in Sue Grafton’s “Alphabet Mysteries,” featuring private eye Kinsey Millhone. Then, as part of a writing program, I read “F is for Fugitive.” I enjoyed it so much, I had to start at “A is for Alibi,” and continue down the alphabet. I am all caught up now, and eagerly await the next installment.

Last summer, I decided to catch up on the “No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency” series, written by Alexander McCall Smith. Precious Ramotswe opens an investigation service in Gaborone, the capital of Botswana, a country in southern Africa. She hires an awkward secretary, Grace Makutsi, and the two embark on a series of 17 adventures (and counting). The mysteries they solve are not the focus of the series; these gentle books are more about the complexities of life and human nature.

Having previously read several books in the series, I read three more over the summer before I had to return to my job as a school librarian. I’m still not up-to-date, but getting closer.

Meanwhile, I’ve decided I need a dedicated time to read. Books are important to me, and I just wasn’t devoting enough time to them. So, I’ve set aside the hour of 4 to 5 p.m. as my reading time. I can’t always meet my goal, but I do it more often than not. In the past nine months, I’ve read more books than ever.

Last month, I felt I wanted to catch up on Louise Penny’s series. She’s a Canadian author who writes about a village in the Eastern Townships of Québec, called Three Pines. Armand Gamache, her protagonist, is the head of the homicide division of the Sûreté du Québec, comparable to our State Police. The denizens of the village, and their way of life, are immensely attractive. Gamache is a complex and fascinating character.

I’m pleased to report that due to my designated reading time, I am nearing the most recent book in that series, which was published in August.

Wait. Why am I happy about that? Now I’m going to have to wait at least a year for the next one.

But at least I’ll be ready for it. And with binge-reading, as with binge-watching, that’s all that really matters.

Column: Fighting "Bob,"and the frightening foolishness of fake news

A few days before the election, The Boston Globe sent a reporter to West Virginia to interview Trump supporters, presumably because they couldn’t find enough diehards in the commonwealth.

The writer found fear and loathing for Hillary Clinton—some of it based on fake news.

One fellow, Dean Pack, told her that “the government has ordered 30,000 guillotines that Clinton, if elected, plans to use ‘to kill us — Christians and people who believe in the Second Amendment’.” The evidence? “All you got to do is pull it up on the Internet,” Pack said.

I was tempted, as I read this story, to think he was trying to pull one over on the Yankee journalist. But I knew he wasn’t.

As hard as it is for rational people to believe, Pack was serious.

Fake news is in the news right now. All of a sudden, sensible people are realizing that the Internet is rife with conspiracy-theory sites. I like a good conspiracy theory. Perhaps I am just suspicious by nature. I don’t feel we have been told the whole story about the events of Sept. 11, 2001, for example.

However, that’s as far as I go. I may sometimes wonder what officials hide from us. I most assuredly do not believe the massacre of young children and their teachers in Newtown, CT, four years ago was staged.

In fact, I feel insane just writing that sentence. But I’ve seen this horrible bit of fake news propagated. Using the research skills Pack applied to his favorite story, all you have to do is Google Sandy Hook to find this one. Hoaxers are decried, says a top story. That might make you wonder. Then scroll down to see “related searches.” There it is: conspiracy theories.

As a writer and a librarian, I am a fierce defender of the First Amendment. But I also am an ardent advocate of the truth. Americans need to be skeptical—we have been lied to by our leaders. The crazy right-wing “truthers” who believe far-out theories like this one should remember that a series of cataclysmic events in the Middle East and a decade of war (and counting) were set off by President George W. Bush’s assertion that Saddam Hussein possessed “weapons of mass destruction.”

That was a lie. So, yes, we need to question.

But who’s going to doubt what happened at Sandy Hook Elementary School? What would the motive be?

A Huffington Post article that deconstructed the conspiracy arguments stated: “Some go so far as to say the massacre was a joint government-media operation to shore up support for a federal assault weapons ban.”

The irony here is that the true believers can’t seem to accept that gun safety advocates don’t need to stage school shootings. The tragic fact is that they happen on their own.

As a school librarian, I have participated in many lockdown drills and even an “active shooter scenario” organized by the Augusta Police Department. I was so nervous during the latter I began laughing uncontrollably. In a real situation, that would not have served me well.

One day when I was at an elementary school, a lockdown was announced. A class of first grade students was in the library. We had to lead them into a classroom, as the library cannot be secured. I didn’t know if it was a drill; I assumed it was, but what if it wasn’t? Though I kept a calm demeanor for the children’s sake, I was shaking inside.

Needless to say, it was a practice. Then I was just resentful. We shouldn’t have to put six-year-olds through these things. But we do, because the danger is real.

A fake news believer, seriously delusional, fired into a Washington, D.C. pizzeria recently because he thought it was the center of a child sex-trafficking ring. And, yes, he was carrying an assault rifle.In order to make that statement, I consulted a New York Times article about the incident. I knew what had happened, but I had to make sure I had the details right. That’s how I was trained to be a journalist—always check your facts.

There’s a difference between a legitimate news organization and a guy named Bob who sits around in pajama pants in his basement making stuff up and posting it online. Somebody—an editor—is reading this column before it is published. So too that Times story on the pizzeria assault. No one is editing Bob.

Have legitimate journalists invented stories? It has happened. But they were fired and publicly shamed.

Can somebody, please, do that to Bob?

Column: Not a creature was stirring . . . well, maybe two or three

I woke up suddenly, and looked at the clock. It was 2:15 a.m. Sunday morning. Really? I was awake at 2:15 on a non-work day?

Often, I can get back to sleep quickly. But all I could do this time was toss and turn. I went downstairs and had a drink of water. Three of my cats gathered in the kitchen and demanded to be fed. I poured some kibble in their bowls and then looked around. Where was Annie, the fourth cat?

I saw a dark shape swoosh across the dining room, which adjoins the kitchen. And I thought I heard a growl.

Why would she be growling? Annie is a sweet cat, a gray ball of fur who gets along with everyone. As I went through to the living room, I thought about the other times I’ve heard cats growl. Sometimes they’ll do it if they have a toy and don’t want anyone else to get it. They don’t growl at birds they watch through the window; they kind of bark. And when a neighbor’s cat ventured onto our deck and came face to face with our Maine Coon on the other side of a glass door, Teddy let out an agonized shriek.

Even when Teddy play fights with fellow cat Leo, they are more likely to hiss at each other than growl.

I didn’t want to entertain the thought that Annie had gone bonkers and was running around the house in the dead of night growling at ghosts.

She was huddled next to the upholstered chair in the living room, where I usually sit. I picked Annie up and carried her into the kitchen. I saw she had something hanging out of her mouth. Grabbing a paper towel, I pulled on the object.

It was a tail. Attached to a mouse.

I gagged, then places the carcass in the trash.

Next, I did the only thing I could possibly think of doing.

I ran upstairs, threw open the door, and woke my husband. “Paul,” I said, “we have a problem.”

He went downstairs to handle it and I got back into bed.

I don’t usually run from scary situations. I never kill spiders, for example; I relocate them. But there is something about half-eaten mice that sickens me. Not that I’ve seen that many of them, it’s true. But aren’t three or four enough?

Our house is about 146 years old, so one might think we were ripe for a mouse problem. But we’ve lived here 28 years and we’ve never had mice. Last year, we did have a problem with gray squirrels, who might have been in the attic, or just between the outside trim and the wall behind it. Once, we found a dead bat on the kitchen floor. I’m sure it was dispatched by one of our feline friends.

I know mice are a common household pest, and appear in houses far younger, and without the loose clapboards and such that we have. I’ve always thought we lucked out because we’ve always had at least two cats. Now, not only do we have our four indoor felines, we have three regular visitors who hang out in our yard, drink from the birdbath and try to poach songbirds. You would think any self-respecting mouse would stay well away from our abode.

When Sunday morning dawned, Paul reported that all had been quiet since the incident. But a few hours later, Leo went into Paul’s study, which is a small room off the dining room. Paul followed him in, shooed him out and then saw a mouse skitter across the rug. He artfully scooped the rodent into a jar, and let him out in the backyard.

I went to watch the release. The little fellow was quivering with fright, but he managed to scamper off, hopefully to find refuge in the woodpile.

An hour or so later, Teddy went into the study. Yes, Paul had to evict one more mouse.

We’ve been unable to figure out how they got in, but they only need a tiny opening. The good news is that we haven’t seen any in several days. Hopefully, they have found another home.

At this time of year, I can’t help but think of Clement Moore’s famous poem. But in our case, there was a creature stirring--at least until Annie chomped it. How’s that for a holiday image? I know I’m going to have to focus on dreaming of sugar plums as we charge toward the 25th — because otherwise I won’t be able to get the picture of that tail out of my head. And that’s not in the Christmas spirit at all.

Column: We are losing the ability to talk to one another

Four years ago, I drove to Cony High School to go to my office on a weekend afternoon. I noticed there were many cars in the parking lots, but figured some sporting event was underway. I was wrong. It was the Republican caucus.

As I’m a liberal-minded person who usually votes for Democrats, this was a terrifying scenario. I steeled myself to walk through the food court to the library, telling myself that no one was paying attention to me. Alas, I was spotted by a friend and colleague, David, whose political leanings are usually the opposite of mine. He spotted me and called out, saying something to the effect of “you’ve decided to come over to the right side!”

So much for my cloak of invisibility.

Still, I had to laugh. He knew that was never going happen. But isn’t it comforting when you can joke around with someone you completely disagree with?

We are losing the ability to talk to one another, and it’s not just because we spend so much time staring at our phone screens. We think of each other as “red” or “blue,” black or white, elitist or working class. We’ve just gone through a divisive election, in which name-calling was rampant. Who can forget the references to “small hands,” and “crooked Hillary,” and the “basket of deplorable”?

We need to talk, but who dares to? I was at a community event recently, and most of the people at my table did not know each other very well, if at all. Even though we were discussing civic matters, no one brought up the election--at first. Then someone described how she had gone into “mourning” on Nov. 9. She stopped and said, “I hope I haven’t offended anyone.” We all shook our heads. There were no Trumpians in that group. But if there had been, would we have turned to fisticuffs? Or would we have been able to laugh it off?

One of the reasons Trump was able to win is that we’re only talking and listening to people who share our views. We filter the news to suit our perspectives. Too often, we aren’t interested in hearing the other side. What would happen if we did?

David and I sat down recently to discuss the election. We share a number of common attributes. We are both white educators who majored in political science as undergraduates. But though Trump was not David’s first choice for the Republican nomination, he has come around to accept him and expects he will be able to effectively lead our country.

Obviously, I am in a different place. I didn’t expect David to change my mind, and I certainly knew I wasn’t going to alter his views. But I did want to hear an intelligent, thoughtful person explain why I shouldn’t be running, screaming, to find shelter on Prince Edward’s Island.

David sees Trump as a businessman, one who is going to start from an extreme position during negotiations and move toward the middle. Hence all those calls to “build that wall” during the campaign, an idea which Trump has already backed away from. David likes the idea that Trump isn’t a politician. A businessman in the White House is a good thing.

I see this point. I understand when David says he was afraid after President Obama was elected, just like I am now. His fear was that we were going to slide into socialism, maybe even communism.

But there is huge gap between David’s idea of good government and mine. I admire the Scandinavian countries. Their systems aren’t perfect, but the Danes are the happiest people in the world, while we are possibly the angriest. I believe that government should take care of people. Business-oriented types don’t make people a priority. They care about money. Bottom lines. Efficiency.

David and I are coming from different places. We want different outcomes. There is no way to get around that fact, that I can see. Except, that is, to keep talking. To keep listening. We all need to do this, not to change each other’s minds, but to ensure that we move forward as a nation. Pitting ourselves against one another will achieve nothing. 

Progressives and liberals, I share your pain. But isn’t it up to us, the people who care about people, to set a tone of civility for the next four years? It’s an overused quote, but one of my favorites, usually attributed (perhaps mistakenly) to Mahatma Gandhi: “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” Stand strong and compassionate, and be the change we need.

Column: A welcome late-autumn visit to western Maine

Recently, I had occasion to drive out to western Maine on business. I hadn’t been out that way in awhile, and had never driven the full distance (about 70 miles) to my destination, the Sunday River ski resort. In the past, my husband, Paul, was at the wheel.

So, I felt a little trepidation as I set off. Even though I would be traveling two-lane roads most of the way, there were really only four routes involved. I wrote the numbers down on a slip, and decided to forgo GPS.

Then, 10 miles into my journey, I pulled into a parking lot and set it up anyway. Since I have been known to daydream, I could easily pass a small route sign at an intersection and go miles out of my way before I realized my mistake. But there was no way I could ignore the disembodied voice coming out of my iPhone ordering  me to “take the next left!” Plus, my Apple Watch — which is synced with the phone — would vibrate on my wrist at every instruction. Yes, this was the way to go.

Soon I was out in the countryside. I knew the first 30 miles or so well, so I was able to enjoy the scenery. But then I entered more unfamiliar territory, and the roads were getting narrower. I was alone sometimes for 10 minutes at a stretch, which was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it was a relief not to be dealing with trucks who were too big and fast for these rambling roads, as well as tailgaters. On the other, I worried that if I went off the road, no one would find me for hours.

That was a ridiculous thought. If I had been going up Route 201 to Quebec City, where the only sights for miles on end are solitary logging trucks, then I might have had something to fret about.

I noticed I was driving over rolling hills. It was not the most scenic time of the year to be driving in Maine. The foliage was gone and the snow had yet to arrive. Yet, I saw low mists lying over ponds, a lovely sight. Then I smelled something burning. I glanced in panic at my instrument panel, but no lights were flashing. Oh, of course. Someone was burning brush. I live in a big town, where you have to jump through hoops to get permission to get rid of your garden waste by conflagration. I know the odor of woodsmoke, but hadn’t smelled burning leaves and tree limbs in awhile.

The road curved sharply around a pond, a pond that was right there next to the road. I then drove through a farming area, and could smell manure. As I passed into Oxford County, I saw signs of rural poverty: rundown houses, yards full of junk, shuttered storefronts.

Soon I was headed toward the mountains. I had to admit they were beautiful. I’ve never been much of a forest, mountains and lakes lover. I’ll take the seashore over them any day. One of my earliest memories has me sitting at a little table in the middle of some woods, eating a jelly sandwich. My father was cutting down trees, and my mother had gone out to the work site to see him. She’d brought the child-size folding table and chair that was usually set up in front on the television so I could watch “Romper Room.” Since then, my relationship with forests has gone downhill. I don’t like mosquitoes. And as far as hills go, I’m not crazy about climbing them.

I guess my idea of a good time is sitting somewhere with a view of the ocean, with a book in hand. That is so much more pleasant.

My husband, Paul, though, loves mountains and woods. I would have to tell him once I returned home that maybe, just maybe, I was willing to give his favorite environs another chance.

As I approached Bethel, I thought I smelled balsam, and then there was a tang of, perhaps, paper mill wafting down from Rumford.

In a final fun moment courtesy of the GPS app, The Voice directed me to take a left and then announced I had arrived at my destination — the Sunday River Brew Pub. Really? I suppose when I set up my route the restaurant had shown up as a “suggestion” and I accidentally selected it. But I also knew that GPS can lead me astray. Recently, I set it to guide me to the Topsham Public Library. It led me toward Bath on Route 196, and when I realized I must have gone too far, I had to circle back through the traffic of downtown Brunswick.

I continued back toward Bath with extra vigilance, but could not, for the life of me, see the turn I needed — the road the library is on. I finally parked and called the library for directions, which sent me through a warren of side streets. Unbelievably, I only arrived a few minutes late for my meeting.

The GPS led me straight out of the library parking lot to Route 196 a few hours later, and I realized that The Voice had led me astray on one important point. The road the library is on does not directly connect to Route 196. I had needed to turn onto another road first.

Well, at least it didn’t dump me into the Androscoggin.

Meanwhile, back in Newry, The Voice was exhorting me to turn around and go back to the pub, completely ignoring the fact that it wasn’t even 9 a.m. yet. She apparently turned herself off, which was fine with me, as the road to the resort was clearly marked, and I couldn’t miss the peaks that rose around me.

Finally, I reached my true destination. I got out and smelled the fresh mountain air. Ah, yes, it was definitely worth the trip.

Column: Appreciating the blessing of good health . . . when it fails us

When I arrived at work at an elementary school library on Election Day, my watch rang.

I have an Apple Watch, and it is synced to my phone. So when the phone rings, so does the watch. I hadn’t even taken my phone out of my bag, so I looked at my watch and saw that the call was from a friend from Massachusetts. He and his wife had been visiting Maine for a few days. Why was he calling me at 7:20 on a Tuesday morning? It couldn’t be good.

It is possible to answer the phone on the watch and respond by tapping “Can’t talk right now,” or another response. I am also able to talk into the phone, which I thought was preferable in this situation. The technology is not perfect, however. Let’s face it, a watch is not a phone. Also, I feel like Dick Tracy when I use it as such, especially in public.

I was not alone in the library.

Anyway, I was able to communicate enough with my friend to establish that I would call him right back on my phone. Not surprisingly— for me— when I took it out of my bag the battery was down to a two percent charge. I had to plug in the phone before returning the call.

Finally, I was on the phone. My friend, Al, did have bad news. His wife had experienced chest pains in the night and had been rushed from Freeport, where they had been staying, to Maine Medical. She was undergoing tests, but the doctors thought she might have had a heart attack.

I stood stunned, then stammered out my concern. How quickly life changes — just in an instant.

My husband, Paul, has been friends with Al since they were high school classmates in the 1960s. Al and Judy were married right after college. I was a later addition to the group, when Paul and I met in the mid-1980s.

We saw our friends more often when Paul’s parents were alive, as Al and Judy live about an hour from Paul’s hometown. But we still manage to see them once or twice a year. In April, we celebrated our anniversary with a trip to the Berkshires, and they made the short trip to have dinner with us. They, in turn, planned a few days away in Freeport, and we went to meet them for dinner on Sunday, Nov. 6.

We had a great time, and everyone seemed fine. Judy has taken up horseback riding in her sixties, and she told us more about her horse. She and Al planned to spend part of the next day at Wolfe’s Neck Woods State Park. After dinner, we said our goodbyes, with everyone in good spirits.

After I got off the phone with Al on Nov. 8, I called Paul. Al had tried to reach him first, but Paul was en route to the dentist, and didn’t answer. It was not yet time for Paul’s appointment, so I figured he was sitting in the parking lot at the dentist’s office.

Not yet 8 a.m. Wow.

Paul was as shocked by the news as I was. Judy is fit and hasn’t eaten meat or poultry for years. But both of her parents had heart issues. Genetics plays a big role in our health.

My father died at age 50 of a heart attack. However, he was a heavy smoker. I had been convinced he would get lung cancer; I didn’t know how tobacco can also affect the heart. In the years that followed, I thought I was in no danger of inheriting a tendency toward heart disease, because I’ve never smoked. As I get older, I’ve started to wonder if that’s really true.

We worried about Judy all day on Nov. 8. It was a nerve-racking Election Day, to boot. On Wednesday, we suffered anew, as none of us had voted for Donald J. Trump. By then, doctors still weren’t sure what had happened to Judy. To make matters worse, her roommate’s friends and family had stayed in their hospital room until 11 p.m. on Nov. 8, watching the returns and cheering on Trump. The next day, they came back and turned on “Duck Dynasty.”

Not surprisingly, Judy wanted to go home by then. The medical staff advised her not to, but she was determined. Back home in western Massachusetts, the chest pains returned. She was treated at a Springfield hospital and had a stent put in. She’s feeling much better, and is home, but she has to rest and make the rounds of a variety of medical professionals.

I know I am going to be surprised and saddened when friends and relatives take ill more and more as the years go by. I turned 60 in June, and some of my friends are older than me.

Things are going to happen. 

As we left the house to go down to Freeport for dinner on Nov. 6, I took a miniature Hershey’s bar from the leftover Halloween stash. We had set the clocks back the night before, and I was starving. As I bit into the soft bar, I felt something hard and I panicked. Was it a nut? I’m allergic to nuts.

No, it was a piece of a tooth. A molar. Drat. I tried to avoid the visions of dental crowns that were now dancing in my head.

Luckily, the chipped tooth did not affect my enjoyment of our dinner. The dentist was able to see me the next day. And — hallelujah — he was able to fix the tooth right then and there. No crowns involved.

I lucked out. Our friend is recovering. Teeth are fragile. Life is fragile. I need to be grateful for every minute.

Column: Coping with the age of Trump in the land of Duck Dynasty

A friend of mine was visiting Maine last week when she experienced chest pains. She was rushed to Maine Medical on Election Day, and kept overnight. Her roommate had guests who stayed until 11 p.m. watching TV and—cheering on Donald J. Trump.

How was this liberal Democrat from Massachusetts supposed to heal in that environment?

Of course, that is the question haunting all of us who said “Never Trump.”

The situation we find ourselves in might be even more frustrating for those of us who supported Bernie Sanders. We kind of want to throw our hands up into the air and say, “We told you we needed big change!”

But no, we won’t do that because we are all in this together.

Two weeks ago I wrote that Nov. 9th looked like a black hole to me, because I couldn’t visualize what was going to happen after the election. And that’s what last Wednesday was like. Friends and colleagues who share my political leanings were numb and near tears. Our fears focus on the environment—both physical and social. President-Elect Trump is a climate change denier. And he made many hateful comments during his campaign.

I’m in the field of education, so I’m especially concerned about the effect Trump’s rhetoric has had on young people. In Michigan last week, a group of middle schoolers began chanting “build that wall” during lunch in the cafeteria. Needless to say, their Latino classmates were distraught.

Here in Augusta, we have a sizable population of Muslim students from Iraq and Afghanistan. They have been welcomed and have merged quietly and peacefully into our community. A recent graduate, born in Iraq, told me she loved her time at Cony. I am praying our other Muslim students will be able to say the same thing.

And, of course, looking for every opportunity to counteract the disastrous effect a Trump presidency could have on our country.

My first thought after the news sunk in, when I could think, that is, was that perhaps Trump will be impeached before he can do much harm. My reasoning was that many Republicans in Congress don’t like him. If they impeach him, they’ll still have a Republican president: Mike Pence.

Then my husband, Paul, pointed out an article in The Washington Post. Allan J. Lichtman, a professor at American University, has been successfully predicting presidential elections since 1984. He has a set of 13 true or false “keys,” or points. If at least six are false, the incumbent party will lose the election. For example, number 12 is: “The incumbent party candidate is charismatic or a national hero.” Hmm.

Anyway, I’d read of Lichtman’s prediction of a Trump victory before the election, which gave me an inkling of that possibility, which I quickly chose to tamp down so fiercely it was like I was using a firehose on a candle. Now, post-election, he is saying Trump could be impeached. He told the Post that Republicans in Congress would “love to have Pence — an absolutely down-the-line, conservative, controllable Republican. And I'm quite certain Trump will give someone grounds for impeachment, either by doing something that endangers national security or because it helps his pocketbook.”

Although Lichtman says this is just a hunch, I do like hearing my own thoughts expressed by an expert.

New York Times columnist David Brooks is also contemplating a Trump impeachment—or even resignation. “The future is closer than you think,” he wrote. I hadn’t envisioned that Trump might leave office on his own, but he does have a short attention span. Maybe, after winning his prize, he might find the job boring. Perhaps, after a few defeats of pet projects, he’ll simply pick up his toys and go back to Trump Tower.

I can only hope. My inner political scientist (my undergraduate major) tells me that we’ve had bad presidents before, and survived. Too bad it is also telling me that it took seven years and a war to recover from Herbert Hoover. On the bright side, I know there are reasonable Republicans in Congress who can temper Trump’s most irrational ideas. l think Senators Sanders and Elizabeth Warren will move the Democrats in a more progressive direction.

Meanwhile, my hospitalized friend decided she wanted to go home after her roommate’s peeps returned to Maine Med on Nov. 9 and settled in to watch “Duck Dynasty.” (I am not making this up.) She was treated at a hospital back in Springfield, Mass., and is feeling much better. Except about the obvious, of course.

Column: Trying to stay healthy in a germ factory

Recently, as part of my job as a school librarian, I participated in a lock-down drill with a class of fourth-graders. Such drills are, unfortunately, a fact of life for students. We turned off the lights, locked the door, and hid in the narrow space between two book cases.

Since I knew it was practice, I wasn’t nervous--about the danger of an active shooter. But I was concerned about hunkering down in close quarters with 10-year-olds during flu season. Imagine the germs!

No, I take that back. Don’t go there. I did visualize the bacteria and viruses swirling around me. It was not a pretty sight.

I hunkered down at the end of the line. If we were in a truly dangerous situation, I would get in closer. After all, catching a cold would be the least of my worries at that point.

Education is my second career. When I started working in a middle school library at age 34, I had no immunity to kid germs. I’d been a journalist since I graduated college. So, during Christmas vacation, I developed the worst case of the flu I’d ever had. (I have since experienced an even more severe bout, but I think I was weakened due to stress.) Luckily, my mother had come up from Massachusetts to visit that first time around; she ended up taking care of me. We had to set up a cot for me in the upstairs room we call the library, as Mom was in the guest room. All I could read were Agatha Christie novels--or should I say, reread.

I have made sure to get a flu shot every year since. But as we all know, it doesn’t always work. And even the precautions of vigilant handwashing and extra vitamin C don’t always ward off the common cold.

Especially since children will be children. Recently, a kindergartener at one of the school libraries I supervise sneezed violently. He did so appropriately--that is, into his sleeve.

Unfortunately, he was then not able to remove his sleeve from his nose. Or maybe I should say fortunately, because if he had, germs would have certainly landed--um, exploded-- on me. For some reason, there were no tissues available in the library, so I escorted him to the office, where he took care of business. And then, to my delight, he went into the nurse’s office and washed his hands without being told.

That adventure ended happily, but I can’t help but feel I’m surrounded by potential sickness. Although they are repeatedly told to sneeze and cough into their sleeves, not all children do. There was the first-grader who, during story time, repeatedly coughed into the air. And the third-grader who sneezed into her hand. It’s scary.

Students are directed to notice where the wall-mounted hand-sanitizer dispensers are located when they come to their school library for the first time each year. But usually they have to be told to use them, after a sneezing incident.

The school nurses put out the word when sickness is running through a building. I read these messages with trepidation, but I want to be informed. Usually it is flu, strep throat or hand-foot-and-mouth disease. They advise wiping down surfaces, but it’s impossible to disinfect the pages of a book. That is a horrible thought.

Each age level poses a different threat. High school students tend to keep their distance, except in the hallways, where they move in herds. It’s hard to avoid them, and if they are taller than you, they are breathing down on your head.

Middle school students like to lean over the circulation desk. “It’s not a cold, it’s just allergies,” they like to say.

Of course, the greatest menaces are the five to eight year olds. They sometimes want to hug you!

Adults are usually better at hygiene (they should be!) but there are always a few who insist on coming in even though they’re running a fever and are barely able to talk. Really, it’s better to stay home when you’re sick.

In addition to illness, children often carry lice, and, sometimes, bedbugs. The former is mostly an elementary problem, although issues in middle school are not unknown. One day I was out on an organized walk with a group of students. I was holding the hand of a kindergartener, and he was babbling away as children that age are prone to do. I was only half paying attention to him, as we were languishing behind the rest of the group and I didn’t know the route we were on. I was concerned about getting lost.

Then, I heard the word “bugs.” I looked down on his shorn head and realized he’d had a little problem. Gulp. I told myself that with his buzz cut, I’d be able to see any movement, and I didn’t.

I don’t think of myself as a germophobe, but perhaps I am. If so, I am only a seasonal germophobe. When I am running a summer library program, I don’t think of sickness. I’m fine the first few weeks of school. Once the coughs and sneezes and worse start up, however, I am a different person. I spend a lot of time with my friend, the sanitizer dispenser. Every library has one.

I do love the kids I work with. They are a delight. Working with students aged 4 to 18 is a dream job for me. But there’s no denying it, especially in November. They are efficient little germ factories. It’s a good thing I’ve finally developed some immunity. I hope.