As a kid, my mom taught me how to season food.

Standing in the kitchen, I watched and I learned.

My mother added salts or herbs or spices to the red meat, to the yellow poultry or to the white fish:

a sprinkle of salt;

a dash of paprika;

or a pinch of pepper.

As I nibbled on raw ground beef, I’d ask, “Mom, how do you know how much seasoning to shake on to the food?

“Well, I as a young girl, I learned how to cook by watching your grandma.”

“Mom, you were a good student. You know just the right amount of seasoning to enhance the flavor without over doing it.”

Mom smiled.

As an adult, I learned that nature seasons people just like Mom seasoned the flounder.

Nature or nature’s agents season our bodies with viral droplets:

a splattering of cough;

a spray of sneeze;

or a touch of doorknob.

As an adult, I learned that during the Revolutionary War, when the colonists talked about “seasoning,” they meant how their bodies had hardened to infectious diseases.

Diseases like malaria, yellow fever, dengue fever or smallpox.

Diseases that ravaged the 13 colonies as well as the rest of the world.

Colonists that were infected (most of them) and survived (not that many of them) were “seasoned.”

Today as our army of health-care providers have commenced fighting the second wave of infection in the coronavirus wars.

Combatants and noncombatants try to dodge the seasoned musket balls aimed at our lungs.

Fighting a pandemic in which the enemy uses biological warfare to kill—mainly the old—and weaken the rest of our herd.

But the elderly are unfit to be on the front lines.

With their lack of antibodies and weakened bodies, they cannot survive in the trenches until an immunization armistice.

They remain isolated in their dwellings, silently seeking solace through prayer.

In devout petitions to the Almighty they pray:

“Please inoculate us from helplessness, innocence, naiveté and stupidity so we do not make the mistakes of the past.

On our knees, we chant, ‘We are here for you. We show our gratitude to you for the blessings you granted our flock.

Thanks for the bestowing us with strength, intelligence and love.

Today we ask for your forgiveness for our past transgressions.

For today we are in need and only ask one small favor.

Please during this pandemic protect our elderly and our weak who are most-at-risk.

Praise be thy name.

Amen.”

But the elderly know that prayers are not always speedily granted.

And they know that with time 70% of the population will get infected.

And they know that with a 70% infectious rate herd immunity kicks in.

But time has never been an ally of the elderly.

And the elderly hate and fear being compared to a group of animals.

A comparison that rings a bell.

Something to do with sheep.

Something to do with sheep being led to the slaughter.

And the elderly fear being slaughtered by a few droplets of seasoning.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee with the  passion of a poet when I tell you, “We’re not going to fly to see the grandchildren until we’re both vaccinated.”

I love thee with the brain of a scientist when I buy you multiple N-95 masks even though others wear simple red bandanas.

I love thee with the heart of a mother, when I say, “Honey, don’t forget to wear your mask in public even if other go maskless.”

I love thee with the ears of a pulmonologist as I listen to your coughs or sneezes and then ask, “How are you feeling?”

I love thee from the heart of our bed as I listen to your snores and breathe a sigh of relief as your healthy lungs play music to my ears.

I love thee enough to always carry a small bottle of hand sanitizer as we venture into the wilderness.

I love thee enough to command, “Buddy that’s close enough!” if someone breaches your six foot circumference.

As a 10-year old, I studied waves as if my life depended on it.

I knew little about life’s ups and downs.

I knew even less about life’s highs and lows.

But I knew life and waves were dangerous.

So for hours I rode on, over and under Miami Beach’s crashing waves.

Thrilled to be fighting mother nature.

Fearing child-eating sharks.

Fighting undertows sucking me down to the ocean’s floor.

Fearing  my lungs being filled with sea water.

Fighting to be socially distant from the Portuguese man-of-war.

Fearing these clear blue-bubbled monsters with their long trailing stinging tentacles.

Remembering their venomous stings causing red welts on my butt which hardened, swelled and burned.

As a 10-year old, I possessed a raft and a passion for risk taking.

A raft I bought for a dollar at the sundries store on the west side of Collins.

A raft I filled with all of my breath until I felt the bottom of my lungs.

A raft I laid on while grasping the ribboned edges as waves pounded my body.

Waves that created eye-burning salty mists.

Waves that caused me to swallow mouthfuls of the sea.

Waves that pulled and pushed me so violently I feared being swept into the Atlantic.

But with my limited strength, I managed to keep the raft within one hundred feet of  the shore.

Watching each approaching wave to determined how to catch its white crest while scanning the beach for my safe harbor—the Colonial Inn Motel.

As a 13-year old, I collected railroad spikes.

Hiking on the abandoned tracks of the B&O Railroad, I found spikes laying next to the rails.

Rusted iron spikes— partially covered in gravel— rested next to the dilapidated tracks.

I picked up these railroad souvenirs, sanded them, painted them and  made them into paper weights.

The spikes landed on the same desk where I studied linear and bar graphs and pie charts.

Learning about trends, patterns and relationships.

Learning about how to make predictions and control risks.

Today, I hold my cold golden spike as I watch CNN and see:

Waves cresting to new heights.

Daily spikes of death;

Weekly spikes in hospitalizations;

And monthly spikes in diagnosed cases.

Spikes pointing toward a new wave.

And again I feared being swept away.

But at this ripe old age, I realized that, “Life consists of a series of spikes and waves:

Waves of love;

Oceans of passion;

And seas of sorrow.

And that I hold the power to control the length and girth of my spikes and waves.

This much I know is true.