Items

• 2020-08-10

  Smelling the labor shortage

  Trash stinks. This fact is universally recognized, except, maybe, by raccoons and the like. Nobody likes to have trash around, let alone piled up and overflowing. And that's not something that most people have to really worry about. The – at least relative – cleanliness of the streets is taken for granted by the vast majority of people who are privileged enough to enjoy regular cleanup services. For most of my life, I placed my trash in a bag in a bin in my kitchen until it was full, or, if I made chicken for dinner, until I was done cooking. Then I took the bag out of the bin and out to the larger bin outside – out of sight, out of mind. When Sunday night rolled around, I emptied the kitchen bin one final time, took it out, and wheeled the larger bin to the sidewalk. It was empty when I woke up on Monday and thus began the cycle again. The city's sanitation workers faithfully took care of mine and everyone else's trash before the crack of dawn. But something changed one Monday morning in August 2020. I pulled in the driveway at 3:30pm after having just finished an exhausting shift at a coffee shop, where a third of my coworkers had called out sick over the course of that week. As I always do, I walked over to the bin, grabbed the handle, and started wheeling it back to its usual place by the back yard gate. It felt heavy. It wasn't full; I usually don't produce enough trash to fill it up every week. "Was today a holiday?", I thought to myself. No, it was just a regular Monday – as regular as any day could be post-March 2020. Maybe they were just behind schedule. I kept walking back to the back yard gate and. as usual, I spun the bin around intending to just walk away. Being clumsy, I managed to set it off its balance and knocked it over. Trash spilled onto the ground and one of the bags broke open. The smell of rotting eggshells, an old hunk of cheese I found while cleaning out my refrigerator three days prior, and the, er, soiled, cat litter wafted upwards creating a smoldering cocktail of aromas that left me coughing. I got gloves and a mask (something I never would have owned six months back) and cleaned it up – no big deal. Tuesday came and still there was no sign of the sanitation workers. Sunday arrived and again I wheeled the bin to the road; this time it was so full that the lid would not fully close. I assumed that last week's interruption of service was a one-off. As I got home from work Monday and saw the bin still full, I realized the degree to which I had been taking the trash service for granted. I wheeled it back to the gate, went inside, and opened up the news app on my computer. I stumbled across an article about the disproportionate affects of COVID-19 on essential workers. The lack of service was not a one-off, it was a problem. Recent photos of streets littered with trash and overflowing bins abounded when I did a Google search for them. I went outside to go for a walk. That smell – the cocktail of cheese, eggs, and cat litter – was now at my front door. Similar cocktails emanated from each house I walked past, each with their own garnish, so to speak. It was overpowering. It was the first time I had experienced the result of our modality of living in such a visceral, sensory way. But beyond my own discomfort and beyond the discomfort of my neighbors' similar experiences, that overpowering stench that saturated the air made me conscious of the people who clean it up for me every week. It made me conscious of the degree to which we as a society depend of them and people who perform other services we take for granted. It highlighted, in a very stark way, what our society prioritizes above the health of its people. The sanitation workers don't make very much money. They have to go to work, even if they are sick, because lack of guaranteed sick time even in the midst of a raging pandemic puts their lives at risk. Either way, their lives are at risk.
• 
  2020-06-25

  In-Processing Day for the Class of 2024 at the United States Air Force Academy

  Imagine yourself going into your senior year of college... but at a service academy while COVID-19 has sunken its teeth into every aspect of our lives. While most colleges and universities around the globe pushed back the start dates of their fall semesters in 2020 or moved entirely online, Service academies in the U.S. needed to meet congress' demand of supplying a steady stream of future commissioned lieutenants to the military. As a result, I found myself at 23 years old as a flight commander of 30 young, recent high school graduates who needed the same level of indoctrination I received into the Air Force four years prior. Rather than videos of years past with cadet cadre in the faces of soon-to-be freshmen screaming at the top of their lungs, this video provides the innocuous version of in-processing with unedited or dubbed audio. You might even see a few of my basics who didn't know what to expect of basic training during the pandemic. While the cadre in the film stand professionally and talk with a sense of authority towards the basics, I can tell you behind the scenes we were re-writing COVID-19 protocol and adjusting their syllabi as each day passed. Your authority as a military instructor weakens as its filtered through a wet, uncomfortable cloth mask (I strongly encourage you to look up "I-Day" videos of USAFA prior to the pandemic to compare). Can you imagine how much you have to yell through one of those masks to get 30 individuals to hear you over the other 39 flights sprinkled across the campus drill pads? My 6 weeks as a flight commander were filled with frustration, sympathy, reward, and most of all focus. First, focusing visually, I had to maintain social distancing anywhere from when basics were wrapped around the hallways to wait to shower all the way to when they practiced marching non-military standard "double-arm interval" for their basic training graduation day. Also, focusing through sound, I had to understand my basics through sweat or dirt covered masks as they recited knowledge, asked questions during academic blocks, or were struggling and needed follow-up mentoring. The measurable distance between trainers and trainees as well as the pauses of silence, normally filled with a constant cacophony of yelling, are what many graduates of my alma mater would call weak. Despite a lack of intensity, masks added a layer of confusion and frustration during a period that is already filled with fear, stress, and exhaustion for basics. For that reason, I want to ask those who weren't there to understand sensually why the class of 2024 still went through the same basic training experience as years past. Maybe a second listen to the audio can even reveal those same frustrations and fears from the basics reflected in the tone of their cadre.
• 2021-02-16

  A Journey for the Jab

  With the start of 2021, I was excited for the prospect of the vaccines that were starting to get rolled out. I knew at the beginning that I would be one of the firsts to get it because I was a teacher in Texas, where we had only had 3 weeks of online school, and the rest of the year had been in person. That high risk meant that by the end of January, the first week teachers were allowed to get the first shot, I signed up at the nearest hospital who had the Pfizer vaccine. The first one went without a hitch, with barely some soreness in my arm in the week following. It is the second shot that was a bit derailed. The week I was supposed to get my second shot, Texas was hit by one of the worst snow storms we have ever faced, and millions lost power. My apartment had rolling black outs the first day, and my apartment became colder and colder. My partner and I initially thought to stick it out, piling cover after cover of blankets and huddling close for warmth. Then, at 6PM that night, the power went out and never came back and we were driven into darkness and the cold seeped into our bones. We made the decision to suffer the cold, icy roads, and the long journey to my partner’s parents’ house, which had not lost power. We packed up the food in coolers, feeling for what may have spoiled during the blackouts, and feeling for what remained cold and frozen. We shoved as much as would fit and headed out. The drive is normally only 35 minutes, but with no snow tires and ice everywhere, we could not travel more than 30 miles an hour. As we reversed out of our spot, you could immediately feel the tires lose their traction and hear them spin loosely over the ice that had gathered under the truck. As we began our journey, the heater finally began blasting our faces with air that slowly began to warm up, and started the long process of thawing our frozen limbs. Two hours on this slow trek, constantly worried about sections of black ice, and losing control of tires, both ours and others, but we finally made it to their home. The first thing we noticed when we entered through their door was the strong smells of hot chocolate being prepared on the stove. The next day, when my appointment was set for the second dose of the vaccine, I called and asked if they were still giving the vaccine or if I should reschedule, and was told that I would lose my spot if I rescheduled because they only had so many doses at this time and did not want to have any go to waste. My partner’s parents decided to drive all of us to the hospital. Several times on this trip, we heard the squeal and slam of cars losing control of their cars and careening into one another. We all held our breaths at each close encounter, and did not realize until we reached the hospital how we had all clenched our bodies in tension. It was not until we pulled into the parking garage that I heard all of us let out a collective sigh of relief. I went in for my second shot as the family stayed on the first floor, waiting out of the cold but away from the mass of bodies huddling to be let into the hospital. Inside, I quickly walked down the hall, not wanting to make my partner and his family have to wait too long for me, and I was gently guided through the path by the volunteer staff. Because of the cold, I had worn three long sleeve layers, and found after much stretching that it was not possible for the nurse to get at my arm to receive the shot. Feeling the burn on my cheeks in embarrassment, as I had to publicly remove the top to layers, and pull my bottom shirt over my head. The cold of the room chilled my body, and I had to stop myself from shivering. With the second shot complete, and as I headed to the room to wait the required 20 minutes to make sure I did not have any immediate reaction to the shot, I was stopped dead in my tracks when I saw my partner and his family being ushered into the room. My partner was not yet eligible for the shot, and we both had had arguments with his parents about the shots, since they didn’t believe in needing them. I later found out that a nurse had been looking in the hospital lobby for anyone who hadn’t had their shots to come up because they had 5 extra shots that would be expiring if no one received them soon. Somehow, my partner in that split moment where they were being given this golden opportunity, shouted yes for all of them, and began shoving his parents down to the room before they could protest. Once we had all piled back into the truck after all four of us received our shots, we went home as quickly as we safely could. Though I had had no reaction to the first shot, this second dose threw me for a loop. That night, the chills began. Even as the house had its heat blasting on full, and I was sitting as close to the fireplace as I could safely sit, my teeth could be heard chattering across the living room. My head began pounding, and I fell into a deep sleep an hour later. Thankfully, the cold was gone from my body when I awoke the next morning, and two days later, the snow had melted enough, and our power was restored to return home. The pandemic has induced so much fear and anxiety in all of us over these last two years, have really made me so much more aware of those around me, but for me, when I think about the vaccines, and the reluctance of those who can receive them but don’t, I think about the treacherous journey I was forced to make to get mine. I think about the cold. I think about the squealing tires. I think about how terrible I felt after my second dose. And I also think about the relief at knowing that all of this awfulness led to my partner’s parents suddenly getting vaccinated. For that alone, I would experience the fear of the snowstorm once again.
• 2020

  Scents of Indoor-Focused Life

  When the pandemic began in earnest in March 2020, I was, like so many others, caught pretty unawares. I had heard in passing of the existence of the covid virus, but was pretty ignorant overall of the rapid spread and severity of it. I worked in a customer service job at the time, and as it happened, continued to do so through the rest of 2020, 2021, and now the beginning of 2022. While some businesses closed down in spring 2020, my workplace was considered to be essential, and so I continued to go to work everyday as if nothing had happened. Except it had, and would continue to do so, growing worse as time went on. I, always having been a bit of a homebody, immediately searched for ways to find regularity and comfort at home, where I spent all of my time that wasn't at work. I've always found the sense of smell to be very compelling, if only because so many memories can be associated with them. Getting that one whiff of a fried pastry in your own house, for example, might bring to mind that funnel cake you had at the amusement park as a kid. In spring 2020, I bought a selection of scented candles in a saga of online shopping, all of them based off some book or character from such. I've always taken comfort in my favorite books, movies, television shows, etc., and thought that extending that escapism in one more way might help me out as work became ever more stressful. I quickly discovered that this was very true, and started looking for and purchasing many more candles, a hobby that has continued to this day. I'm sure my bank account does not appreciate it, but my mental health does. I can still connect certain candle scents to days I felt particularly at peace at certain points throughout the last few years; a whiff of vanilla musk and rose wafting through the house, for example, reminds me of that day I had off in summer 2021 where I had new records to play, read a new book by my favorite author, and just enjoyed the day with my dog. It's hard for a lot of people, including myself, to find moments like that through the pandemic. My candles, and the ongoing memories and peace they bring to mind, have helped me find some semblance of happiness through the covid experience.
• 2020-09

  Feeling Exhausted from COVID

  When COVID-19 first came to America I was employed as an assistant manager at a warehouse in northeast Wisconsin. Generally speaking, the city I live in is somewhat conservative and reserved. On a day-to-day basis, it is typically tolerable (despite my liberal and progressive philosophies) and the people are, on average, kind and helpful. However, as COVID infections increased and much of the proposed solutions to help curtail the spread were politicized, it became increasingly exhausting to exist around others with less-than-helpful and uncooperative attitudes. This was mentally draining, to say the least. On top of that, I was starting to work more and more as members of the staff were on a quarantine carousel. In a short amount of time, I began to routinely work 16 hours (or more) a day. Not only was I spent on an emotional and mental level, the nature of the work I was expected to do was leaving me physically beaten. As hard as I tried not to be too upset with those that had to stay home, I couldn't help but feel anger at those that weren't taking the pandemic seriously. I felt I was doing double-duty: I was not only working in place of multiple employees but I was doing my part to help stop the spread of a virus that was causing serious harm. To top it all off, I was feeling guilty for having those feelings while still being employed, having a healthy family (and not suffering any losses), and being able to continue my way of life pretty much unaffected in a major way. This was certainly a time of mixed feelings and emotions. Although this may not be exactly what is meant by 'sensory history', it is hard to pick other sensations of a greater degree I had felt.
• 2020-05

  Silence in the Morning

  At the beginning of the pandemic, I was working at a hotel on a US Military base in Stuttgart Germany where I typically worked the overnight shift. As such, my commute home in the mornings was usually the noisiest part of my day. I would often pass by the local bakery on my way home, one of the busiest places in town in the morning. I would hear the sounds of the shuffling of feet of the people in line, the clink of coins on the counter, the crinkle of paper bags filled with the daily bread the Germans would buy or the pastries they would eat for lunch, and the whine of the coffee machine for their morning coffee. In the background was the constant droning of the morning rush hour traffic. After the lockdown, when the German government shut down businesses, I had to continue working as the military converted the hotel I worked at into a quarantine facility. I continued with my overnight shifts and my commute home in the mornings while everyone else stayed home. What struck me the most about my new commute home was the silence. The utter lack of noise was practically oppressive. I could close my eyes and the only difference with the dead of night was the warmth of the sun beating on my skin. What was once the noisiest part of my day was now the quietest.
• 2020-04

  How Stuffed Peppers Kept Me From Killing My Roommates

  In March of 2020, I had just turned 22. I was prepping to graduate from Loyola University Chicago and searching for a job in journalism — a notoriously tough field to start out in, pandemic or not. The virus started spreading, and the jobs started disappearing. Chicago, my once-vibrant home where people scattered like ants as the CTA trains screeched into the station, was deserted. It was eerie. The internet was swarming with newly viral recipes: banana bread, sourdough starters, homemade pizzas. I wasn't interested in those, they didn't strike my fancy. In a time of severe isolation for most, I was stuck with roommates. Don't get me wrong, we had our issues. The dishes were almost never done, and we disagreed on whose responsibility they were. But in my boredom, I took up cooking, and for once I didn't mind cooking for them as well. I was one of many COVID-induced chefs who began as amateurs and blossomed into connoisseurs that rivaled the best of takeout menus. The only problem was, I'm a vegetarian, and my roommates are born-and-bred Midwesterners, set in their ways of eating and enjoying meat at nearly every meal. But by April, I had sprung head-first into a phase of cooking stuffed peppers several times a week, and they had followed me down the rabbit hole. There were no disagreements about whether to put meat in the filling or not — we didn't need it, there was enough flavor and protein regardless. And the dishes were always done, somehow without a single argument or passive-aggressive slam of a door. The peppers were fun and colorful, Instagram-worthy in a time that lacked almost anything visually intriguing. They became a source of collaboration instead of the division that had seeped in through our 100-year-old Chicago apartment's walls, a result of being trapped with no one but each other for weeks on end. It's superstitious, maybe, but I think these peppers may have saved us from severing our relationship forever. We mended our fracturing friendships and became a family once again, eating dinner together and making sure the kitchen was clean.
• 2020-02-01

  Essential Business

  During my undergraduate studies at the University of Oregon, I lived in an apartment in Eugene, Oregon.  The apartment complex had a mixture of college students and non-college students, in other words, it was not specifically for college students as many in the area were.  Being that Eugene is a college town and the legalization of marijuana, the scent of marijuana was common. Walking my dog in the evenings without smelling or seeing people smoke would have been odd. The COVID-19 breakout and subsequent lockdown would alter my apartment complex's scent. As mentioned before, the smell of marijuana was extremely common. However, the intensity and frequency were increased. The scent of weed became almost as common as the smell of rain or grass in the morning. People began to smoke much earlier in the mornings, whereas before it was usually reserved for the afternoon or evening times. COVID-19 forced people to stay home, which altered their work and college schedules which resulted in more leisure time. Interestingly, or perhaps rather expected, the State of Oregon deemed marijuana dispensaries an "Essential Business".  The State would curtail one's ability to go to campus and the library, places of study, and personal development were shut down for health and safety purposes. But people were still allowed to go to a dispensary spend their money on a recreational drug. So I decided to go one, for investigational purposes of course, and after having a conversation with the local budtender, she informed me that people were being much higher qualities than before. She speculated it was either out of fear of the pandemic or the fear of the dispensaries being shut down in the near future. Thus it brought me to wonder, was marijuana deemed "Essential" for economic or psychological purposes?
• 2020-03

  When the Outdoors Became Quiet and the Indoors Became Loud

  My aural experience changed greatly when Nevada all but shut down for the COVID-19 pandemic, mid-March 2020. For me, the indoors then became louder, and the outdoors became much quieter. School was canceled for my four children, so naturally my home had far fewer quiet moments than it had prior—a challenge since my son and I were taking college courses. A Just Dance song called “Diggy,” instantly reminds me of the COVID shutdown whenever I hear it, because my kids frequently danced to it (amongst others) in the first few weeks. Because my husband’s hearing aids amplify indoor sounds to the point of discomfort at times, there were also a lot of spoken (and yes, even yelled) reminders in our home for the kids to bring down their voices—another auditory memory. The outdoors were a particularly quiet place at that time, which was unusual since Las Vegas is quite lovely in the Spring. Birds and silence and the occasional barking dog, replaced the sounds of planes and traffic that normally accompany nature’s noises in my area. On still days, I could hear the school-bells chime at one of the three nearby schools, reminding me of what we were collectively experiencing. Additionally, when my kids went to distance-education several months later (August 2020), versions of the refrain “Quiet! I’m un-muting!” were daily—often multiple times a day—auditory experiences in our home.
• 2020-04-15

  An Unacceptable Wall of Sound

  I live in Austin, Texas, in a neighborhood that is both in the approach flight pattern for Austin-Bergstrom International Airport and contains a hospital with a Level 1 Trauma Center and a helipad. During the first wave of the COVID-19 pandemic, the soundscape of neighborhood abruptly changed. The first thing I noticed, in the early days of a city-wide “stay-at-home” order was that I could hear more birds in the trees outside my second story apartment. It took a few days for me to realize that it was because the birdsong was not being drowned out by the sound of airplanes landing at the nearby runway. At the time I remember thinking that, perhaps, the sound of the birds was something I could look forward to every morning as I navigated suddenly having to find a new job due to the pandemic. Soon, the sound of landing airplanes was replaced with a sound that much harder to ignore. Ambulance sirens. It became noticeable after the first week, with ambulances arriving at the hospital several times an hour. By week three, it was a near constant drone broken up only by helicopters bringing even more critical patients into the city for care. By week eight, I stopped even noticing the sound of ambulances at all. The sound of the pandemic became so commonplace that my brain learned to filter out the wall of sirens as background noise. I often wonder how many ambulances carried patients who never left the hospital and how much suffering, fear, and sadness became “background noise” for us all. Given that we are entering into year three of the pandemic, and the United States has registered nearly one million COVID-19 deaths, it pains me to realize to know that number is far higher than any of us should have accepted.
• 
  2020-03-31

  Banana Bread Madness

  Like a lot of people when the pandemic hit, there was a great deal of uncertainty. I didn't know how to function really, not teaching school, so like a lot of people, while thinking about my kids shortened year, I turned to baking. I tried Banoffee Pie and that was a huge faliure, but then , I stumbled on this Banana Bread recipe. I made upwards of 25 loafs in the months that follow. Every time I taste that sweet banana goodness, I think of how much I both enjoyed having that time (I mean, daily naps, what is there not to love) and how much uncertainty there was.
• 
  2020-01-04

  A pot, some water, eucalyptus oil, and a towel....breathe

  My brother and I went to visit our parents in Florida for Christmas in 2019. We flew out of Clarksburg, WV on December 23rd and arrived in Florida a few hours later. Christmas in Florida with our parents was great, but eventually we learned it came at a cost. We returned to the Orlando airport to leave December 30th and our flight was delayed for three hours with no real explanation as to why. We roamed the Airport and kept ourselves occupied before we were finally able to board the plane. We landed safely back in WV a few hours later. However, a day or two after returning I started to feel sick which got progressively worse. I had trouble breathing and my body ached so much that I could barely sleep. I didn’t have the strength to really do anything, and I hardly ate because I couldn’t taste or smell. I called my mom at some point and told her how sick I was, and she told me that my brother was extremely sick too. She pleaded with me to go to the doctor, but I told her it was probably just the flu and I’d be ok. My mother knew I wasn’t going to go to the doctor any time soon, so she told me to use some Eucalyptus oil to help with my congestion and respiratory issues. I grabbed a large pot and boiled some water. After the water had boiled, I added drops of eucalyptus essential oil. With a towel over my head, I began to take in the vapors, and slowly I started to feel like I could breathe once again. This became my ritual for the next week or so. I was probably doing this 3-4 times a day when I had the strength to leave my bed. I believe I was sick for nearly two weeks. The day before I finally started to feel better, I almost went to the hospital because I legitimately thought I was dying. Anyways, after news of the pandemic started ramping up, I later found out that Florida had their first Covid-19 cases in December 2019. I’m guessing that airport delay ultimately sealed our fates and that’s where my brother and I ended up getting Covid (our parents didn’t get sick). For my post I’ve included an audio file recreating my Covid ritual of boiling water and breathing in eucalyptus vapors. You can hear the water boiling, the glass bottle of eucalyptus oil being opened and then placed on the counter. You can hear a slight rustling from the towel and me taking in the vapors.
• 
  2020-04-02

  Pensacola Beach Quarantined

  I live in Pensacola, about 10 mins from the beach. I have spent many a day at the beach with my family. The sounds and smells of the beach that are familiar to me are children playing, seagulls flying above, someone playing the radio, waves crashing, people talking and laughing, and the smell of nearby restaurants and suntan oil. It was the first week of April 2020, and I had terrible cabin fever from being quarantined, so I decided to take a drive up the coast. After about an hour of driving, I turned around to head home. That is when I really looked at the beach; I had never seen it so empty, void of all humans. I pulled over and got out, and the sounds were different. There were no laughing children, no songs on the radio, just the thunderous crashing of the waves. There was no suntan oil smell in the air, just the smell and taste of saltwater. It was surreal to experience the beach so barren but more serene than it had ever felt.
• 
  2020-04

  Sounds of a Spring Lockdown

  On March 25, 2020 Governor Polis ordered a state-wide stay at home order for Colorado. By this time, my family was already limiting our time outside the house to work or errands. My daughter, Kat, has severe asthma, so we knew we had to limit our exposure as much as possible. Previous midnight trips to the emergency room were full of her wheezing out tiny gulps of air, the beeps and blips of the machine keeping track of her heart rate, and the guttural growl of the blood pressure cuff as it tightened around her arm. These were the sounds I first heard when the stories of a new, novel virus came out, the sounds that stayed most in my mind the more I heard about rising cases. The first week in April the movie theater where Kat worked closed down. My son, Gabe, left his job a few days later. I cried that day, not from sadness but relief. And not a quick cry, but the loud sobs that make your shoulders shake. The next day was a major shift for us. Instead of leaving the house to work, they came to work for me instead. My cross stitch shop was already a full-time business. Now that many people were staying home, the US saw a return to basics (baking and crafting), and my shop exploded with more orders than I could fathom. There is something that satisfies most of us in having that tactile experience, whether it be the feel of flour (soft and powdery) as you knead your bread or the stabstab of your needle piercing your fabric. Though there was the stress of craft stores closing and supply chain delays, long work hours, and boxes of hoops stacked in the living room, there was mostly the sound of the Beatles and loads of laughter. Kat has a high-pitched giggle (she snorts when she really gets going), Gabe a deep laugh rich in tone. Someone came up with the adage that laughter is the best medicine. I couldn’t say who created the saying, but the sound of laughter in my house during the April 2020 lockdown in Colorado kept myself and my children in positive spirits. In fact, our lives have been forever changed by that April. They are back to their old jobs, but we still keep mostly at home and with each other. We have family game nights and cook together and keep the laughter going strong.
• 
  2022-02-02

  The Luxury of Eating at Restaurants

  My wife and I really like going out to eat at the local restaurants. Of course, when the pandemic first hit the Los Angeles area everything closed due to the stay at home order that was issued in Los Angeles county. Naturally we believed that this would just be a temporary situation and looked forward to the day that the order would be lifted, and we could go back to our regular way of life. I decided to use the time sequestered at home productively and to resume my education and I enrolled in Arizona State University to finish my degree while my wife was able to continue working remotely. Ten months later we were able to begin the long journey that was the return to “normal” as the stay at home order was lifted. Much to our surprise, many of the small restaurants that we like to frequent were now closed, out of business due to their loss of clientele and the fact that many were only staying open on a month to month basis when operating regularly. It is a sad thing that the collateral damage from this Covid virus impacted small businesses all over the world in a manner that would not allow them to continue to stay open. Even now, a year after the end of the stay at home order, mandates and medical rules are still limiting the amount of people that are able to enjoy eating good food at their local eateries and it is affecting those businesses that are struggling to continue to provide services. I recorded the interior of one of our favorite restaurants one morning as my wife and I went out to breakfast, but there were still plenty of empty tables.
• 2021-04-08

  Cocomelon or Blippi

  In the early stages of COVID, I was in Utah finishing up my Bachelor’s. Finally, after reuniting with my sister’s family in Washington, not only did I have a hard time adjusting to the noise, I had to deal with the 24/7 nonstop routine of my nieces and nephews watching either Cocomelon or Blippi. We can’t even have a movie night because the kids will end up crying to change the movie to Cocomelon or Blippi. Night and Day, my nieces and nephews would be singing to the nursery rhymes on Cocomelon or the opening song of Blippi. Although there were times when I would get annoyed or frustrated watching the same thing on the television, I am grateful for these moments. After spending many years on my own, I am thankful and blessed to be with my family during these times. In the end, it became a routine for me and my nieces and nephews to watch Cocomelon or Blippi in the evening. Not only do I get to see their sweet smiles, but I also get to hear their cute little chuckles and laughter while singing “The Wheels On The Bus” or spelling Blippi’s name. The noise that I once had a hard time adjusting to and the overbearing sound of the nursery rhymes from cocomelon or blippi's name did not matter as their sweet laughs and chuckles filled the house every evening making COVID quarantine bearable.
• 2022-02-03

  A Return to Noisy Normalcy

  Due to the rising number of Covid cases in Baltimore County Maryland, many schools had to teach students virtually for a two week period. Teachers, such as myself, gave lessons from the quiet abodes of our homes or empty classrooms. After two weeks of little sound besides the occasional 'ping' of a new email, we were allowed to return. The recording provided is the sound of hallway traffic and chatter from right outside my classroom. The peace and quite of virtual learning directly contrasts the sensory experience from stepping outside my classroom to greet students. As normal in-person teaching duties have returned, the sound of slamming lockers, excited chatter, frantic test talks, footsteps, and warm greetings have returned with it. While reopening schools brings with it new challenges and concerns, for now teachers and students alike can appreciate some noise and normalcy.
• 2020-03-15

  The Quiet of a Pandemic

  At the beginning of the COVID-19 quarantine, I was recently married (about two days) and had to immediately shift to online teaching. My school believed this was only going to last two weeks. We hadn't shifted to a live online class and were still teaching asynchronously with online meetings once a week for anyone who needed help. Since I taught U.S. History rarely did my students feel they needed help (even if they really did). My husband was still working, since his oil job was considered essential, so I found myself with hours of empty quiet time. Of course, I found myself originally spending hours watching tv and streaming countless tv shows. After a couple of days of this, I decided it was time to step outside. I'm from southern Louisiana so every good house has a porch you can sit on, and mine was perfect. My neighborhood was never incredibly loud, but I live only a few blocks from I-10 (the busiest interstate in the U.S.) and there were always traffic noises. For the first couple weeks or so of quarantine, you could hear a pin drop. It was an eerie quiet, and it took some getting used to; however, I would learn to love that quiet. I would spend my days on my porch (thanks to some unseasonably "cooler" days) reading, watching Netflix, and watching my neighborhood. Birds I had never seen or heard before were in my oak trees. I also learned that Robins are very territorial and would watch my cats like a hawk during nesting season. Blue Jays didn’t wait to see what my cats would do if they got too close to a nest the birds were swooping down on them. I learned that my oak trees have a fungus that grows on the branches and can help me learn about the health of my tree. People I had never seen before were walking with a quick hi as they walked by me. I had never heard my neighborhood so quiet before or since. While I dealt with anxiety that my husband would get sick at work, or I would somehow transmit the disease to someone who couldn't fight it I also learned to relax and enjoy the moment. I had very limited responsibilities, my students only had about 3-4 assignments a week and they were assigned on Sundays. I would certainly never wish to return to that time; I would however wish that everyone could learn to relax and enjoy the quiet even if it is from your front porch
• 2022-02-02

  Warmth

  As we spend more time at home we need to find happiness in the little things. One of those little things for me has been sunbathing with my dog. We hang out on the balcony or go on a picnic and just enjoy each other's company. We feel the sun warm us, we lay in the grass and enjoy a snack. This has been my stress relief during this hectic time.
• 
  2020-09-27

  My First Pie and Other Sensory Snapshots

  I gave birth to my first child two months into the COVID-19 pandemic, and so to me, memories of this time are centered around life as a new parent. Because we live in a different state than most of our family, and because we had a newborn (whose immune systems are not well-developed the first several weeks of life) in a global pandemic, we did not go anywhere. I had a few months off of work and school to care for my son, so my experience of COVID-19 to that point was time spent just with my son. As any parent knows, those first few weeks are an exhausting blur consisting of the never-ending cycle of feeding your baby, changing them, and helping them sleep. But the sensory memories from this time of my life that have stuck with me the most involve the feeling of holding my baby; feeling his head on my shoulder, hearing his tiny little breaths and occasional squeaky coos in my ear, noticing the sweet smell of his baby shampoo on his head, feeling him stretch and reposition from time to time. Though it seemed like the days when he would sleep independently would never come, little did I know how quickly they would, and how much I would miss these quiet moments. When he started getting the hang of napping, I suddenly had these open stretches of time in my day, which I was not used to. What to do to fill this time, especially in the midst of a pandemic and with a baby to boot? Like many people, I developed a baking hobby while my little one napped. Now I associated his nap time with the sticky feel of flour and butter on my hands as I kneaded dough for soda bread, the smell of buttery, sugary deliciousness coming from the oven as scones were baking. On my husband’s birthday, I produced my most time-consuming bake so far: a strawberry rhubarb pie. This one required some cooperation on the part of my little guy, whose giggles I heard as he batted at toys in his baby swing while I chopped and prepped the filling and made the pie crust. The finished product wasn’t necessarily perfect, but I was proud of it, and the memory of making it will always stick with me since it is a representative snapshot of that moment in time, a few months into a global pandemic with my young son.
• 
  2020-04-01

  Worst April Fool’s Day

  My employer ended every person's contract in a zoom call, somewhere around 100 of us. We were all students. The ending of our contracts meant we all lost our housing since we worked for a university (this was before I was attending ASU). We were given until Sunday to have all of our belongings moved out and our keys returned, or we could pay the multiple thousands of dollars that on-campus housing would cost. Hardly any of us could afford that, some of my friends suddenly had to grapple with the idea that they would be in debt, broke, or homeless in a matter of four days. I was one of the lucky ones as I had a place to go. 1 sleepless night. 4 days. 4 trips back and forth. 11 ½ hours driving in silence. $20 spent on one final dinner with my friends and coworkers. $25 spent on moving supplies. $52 spent on gas. 506 miles. 11 ½ hours driving in silence. I drove in silence, I couldn’t handle trying to listen to anything. I couldn’t allow myself to hear a sad song and get caught up in it, or worse hear something happy and get upset that I wasn’t feeling that way. The sound of my tires on the poorly maintained interstate for what felt like truly endless hours is something I will never forget and is something that will never leave me. Rattling over pot holes, turn signals, avoiding other drivers, sitting in traffic, the sound of my new tires being worn in very quickly. This story is not unique. Countless people lost their jobs, lost their homes, lost their livelihoods during the initial shutdown. I was simply one of so many, but I was privileged enough to have a place to land. The sound of driving, the action of having to move, and the feeling of sadness, frustration, or loss due to a sudden change in life is something that I think is relatable for a lot of people during the pandemic. Audio description: Recording of the sound of my car taking the last exit off the highway into my town
• 
  2020-07-09

  Back in combat boots

  I retired from the Army in September 2019 after serving for 26 years. My wife and I moved to South Texas to finally settle down, and in January of 2020 we bought our forever home out in the country near Lake Corpus Christi. Clearing the land and unpacking boxes that had been sealed for what seems like an eternity took about three months. Around late March/early April I started applying for jobs at colleges in the area, just as the pandemic was gaining national attention. As a result, no one was conducting interviews or hiring. I did not need to work, I just wanted something to keep me busy. Out of the blue, I was contacted by the U.S. Army Human Resources command to ask if I would volunteer to return to Active Duty for a year to help with the pandemic. After discussing it with my wife, I replied back that I would volunteer and provide whatever assistance I could. In June I received orders to report to Joint Base San Antonio-Fort Sam Houston in early July. The orders also stated that I was to report in my uniform. I had kept my old uniform from when I retired, but it took a bit of digging around to find everything. Putting my uniform and boots on after almost two years of retirement felt strange yet familiar. I had to get to used to the feeling of wearing combat boots again instead of regular shoes. For the next year I was assigned to U.S. Army North at Fort Sam Houston, where we coordinated Department of Defense civil support operations all over America. I also helped with the planning, organization, and execution for a large vaccination site on the installation. I was not the only veteran that returned to active duty. Like me, others volunteered to do what we could to help get through this pandemic. I enjoyed the time I spent back in the Army, and felt like I made a positive contribution to the country. The only thing that took time to get used to was the feeling of combat boots on my feet again.
• 
  2020-06

  Feeling the Burn

  Like many people at the start of the pandemic, I was not able to go to work everyday. At that point in time, I was working in a museum in Holland, Michigan, as their Interpretive Programs Coordinator, planning and running different programs to coincide with whatever exhibit was currently in the museum. My job quickly became obsolete as everywhere essentially shut down for quarantine. After a few weeks of “working from home”, we were eventually allowed to open the museum again, but with a plethora of new rules and protocols for both our staff and visitors. The biggest change was the alcohol. Not for drinking, although I’m sure that past time sky-rocketed during quarantine. I’m talking about hand-sanitizer or whatever alcohol based cleaner the museum could get their hands on in mass quantities during a time where sanitizer was a difficult commodity to come by. Even our local distilleries were producing hand sanitizer to assist with the shortage of this now imperative product. At the beginning of the pandemic, we did not know how the virus spread yet. There was a time where people were wiping off their groceries with disinfectant wipes or leaving their package deliveries on the porch for days to kill germs before bringing packages inside. Part of our new protocol at the museum was the constant use of hand sanitizer as well as having to wipe down every surface we touched with disinfectant wipes after touching it. You opened the door to your office- wipe it down and use hand sanitizer. Walked to the kitchen to use the microwave- wipe it down and use hand sanitizer. Typed your employee code in the key pad- wipe it down and use hand sanitizer. It was everywhere in the museum. Hand sanitizer has many sensory descriptors. I’ll always remember how slimy this brand was, and how it smelled like the chalky Flintstone vitamins I took as a child. But this practice of constant use of hand sanitizer and alcohol based wipes destroyed my hands. They became so dry and red. The alcohol eventually caused them to crack. The more I had to use the sanitizer and touch the disinfectant wipes, the worse my hands became. The alcohol on my open sores burned. For some in the pandemic, mask wearing was the bane of their existence, but I couldn’t stand the constant use of sanitizer. I was using vaseline every night to try to remedy the burning, but it couldn’t keep up with the use that was required to attempt to keep the rest of our staff and visitors safe. Unfortunately, the pandemic was lasting much longer than the world had anticipated and having no work to do due to the limited capacity in the museum was making me restless. I left that job in August of 2020 to work as a legal assistant in Muskegon, MI. Luckily, the further into the pandemic we got, the more we learned about the virus. As more research came out, scientists discovered that Covid-19 is an air-borne disease, and is more likely to pass through the air than by touching surfaces. Therefore, I didn’t have to use hand sanitizer as constantly as I did at the museum. Of course I’m still careful, and I still use hand sanitizer much more than I ever did pre-pandemic, but when a client walks in our office and uses the sanitizer on my desk, it’s like I can still feel that burn.
• 
  2022-02-01

  Bagged Snack

  This helps understand the history of the pandemic and the situation within elementary schools and that uneasy feeling is one that everyone throughout the school feels. As covid coutines to hit elementary schools hard. Teachers and staff are doing all they can to keep students safe as well as teach and help them learn. While at snacktime, we are reminded of our current times with our students pulling masks down just so that they could enjoy snacktime. We have to be aware that this pandemic is and will effect the younger generations in ways we can't understand right now.
• 
  2020-11-21

  Pandemics are the Pits: Olives and Fatherhood in Nov 2020

  This story describes the terrifying lengths a person will go to in order to address pandemic-caused boredom in their child.
• 
  2022-02-01

  Patio Sounds

  I never heard the sounds of my backyard and cared – now, it is my favorite sound, and my patio is my favorite place to work. I work in education, in March of 2020 our campus went virtual, and we began to work from home. My two kids, age 3 and 6 were home with me as well. Fast forward to today February 2022, our campus is still working virtually, however my kids now age 5 and 8 are away at school for 6 hours a day; this is the first time in my work history I have been able to work from home, and the first time I have been able to work kid free in two years. Prior to the pandemic, I was a busy person, work, school, kids, home, husband, dog – I did it all – what I didn’t do, was stop and listen to the peace I literally had in my backyard. Now, I sit on my patio from 9:00am to 3:00pm, rain or shine, and even though I am working, I listen and take it all in, I feel recharged to take on all my daily tasks. The calm and quiet time on the patio is much welcomed in the hustle and bustle life can become. Listening to the bird’s chirp, leaves rustle, dogs bark, sometimes the hum of a hummingbird, or the light drops of rain – it is therapeutic. The pandemic has been many things, but for me it has given me time to discover the peace the sounds around me can bring. This recording was taken on my patio, listening to the sound of my backyard as I wrote this description, appreciating the time I have.
• 
  2022-02-01

  The Toast of Covid

  The COVID-19 pandemic has been quite the sensory overload. Our sight, smell, and sense of sound were heightened as the world slowed down, paralyzed with fear. As I write this, I have just become one of the countless victims of COVID-19, revealed to me by a home test kit just this morning. My body is weak, I cough constantly, I get dizzy if I stand, and I find that my appetite has left me. When talking about the heightened senses of COVID, it would be easy to talk about the sounds of coughing, or the feel of masks pressed up against your face, but in this moment I find my most heightened sense is the smell of toast. Peculiar as it is, it seems to be the only thing I find remotely appetizing at the moment. My mother, who is a registered nurse on the front lines of the fight against COVID has loaded me down with a regimen of vitamins and assorted medicines. She is insistent that I keep something on my stomach to avoid getting more sick. But what to eat? Nothing looks, smells, or sounds satisfying except toast. The smell of heat and bread wafting from the toaster reminds me that it could be far worse. I could have lost my sense of smell completely, as so many have. It further gives me hope that I will move on from my sickness as society will move to manage COVID. What the smells of the pandemic can tell is, is that while it seems a collective struggle of society, it is an even greater individual struggle. How can we cope with sickness when our bodies are paralyzed with the inability to function as we once did? The smell of toast to me that provides hope, could be chicken noodle soup for another, or fresh air for another. These smells are enticing for a number of reasons to improve our health, whether that be toast to hold medicine down, or the smells of outside which bring about a healthy walk. In a world so panicked and overwhelmed, what I think will be ultimately remembered by the pandemic is the appreciation for simple sounds and smells, such as that of toast.
• 
  2020-08-02

  Sensory Overload in Brussels

  I was living in Germany when the COVID lockdown began in 2020. One of the big perks of living in Europe is the ease of travel and close proximity of many cultures to experience. Germany, and Europe as a whole, were strictly locked down from March to August 2020, they were not allowing border crossing and all tourist locations were shut down. In August of 2020, Europe opened back up for tourism. Three of my friends and I jumped in our car and drove six hours to Brussels, Belgium. Our goal for the trip was to do a city walking tour that included chocolate and beer tasting, the chocolate was in the early afternoon and the beer was in the evening. After being stuck in our homes in Germany for five months, experiencing the taste of fresh Belgian chocolate was almost a sensory overload. We walked up and down the main “candy shop” road, sampling every kind of chocolate and even world-famous macaroons. The smells of chocolate and bakeries almost punching our noses. Later in the evening we went to the Delirium Brewery and sampled seasonal beers that were only available on site. We all enjoyed the experience of fresh crisp taste of Belgian beer right from the keg that you cannot get from drinking out of a bottle or can. I never thought that the COVID lockdown would numb my taste and smell in a way that wasn't a symptom of the virus. Being stuck in one place eating and drinking the same things day in and day out really makes you long for something different. We were very lucky to be able to have the opportunity to venture out to such a historic and important city of Europe to experience fresh tastes and smells.
• 
  2022-01-31

  THE WISDOM OF TWO-YEAR-OLDS

  As I got out of my car last Sunday morning in pursuit of caffeine, I took one last deep breath of the freshly-brewed coffee emanating from my local barista's shop before pulling on my N-95 mask and entering the cafe. I live in California and masks are required in all shops in my part of the state. So snug was my mask’s fit, that the aroma instantly vanished. Masks and odor are tightly related, not in just snuffing out outside scents. For anyone who has ever pulled on a previously worn mask, you will have noticed an opportunity to smell used YOU, up close and nasally. Walking in to get my brew, I passed a family with two-year-old twins, bedecked in pink glittery princess gowns complete with wands, tiaras, and the newest in royal attire—tiny COVID masks. One skipped and the other twirled, both seemingly unbothered by their face coverings. And they are not alone. I am still stunned by the casual aplomb of the very young when it comes to mask-wearing. I first noticed this phenomenon several months ago at LAX. It was late in the evening—peak red-eye time. Preschoolers, some overtired and wired, others sleepily dozing in their parents’ arms, passed by. All wore COVID masks; Spiderman; Elmo; mini soccer balls, dinosaurs. None complained. Perhaps they welcomed the slight dulling of their sense of smell since young noses are far more sensitive to odors than mature ones. This makes me wonder why small children do not feel the need to evoke the Gestapo or Hermann Goebbels when it comes to a small piece of fabric that has saved millions of lives. Apart from a diminished sense of smell when wearing N-95s, will we miss mask-wearing when it is no longer a matter of life or death? I for one am not sure. I like the fact that there is no need to wear lipstick. I can skip makeup from the brow down and stop obsessing about new wrinkles. I welcome the feel of an extra layer of warmth on chilly mornings. But perhaps we should look to the two-year-olds who have accepted this bit of sartorial attire as a fun accessory—a tiara for your nasal passages.
• 2022-01-28

  Unpleasant Sounds

  Before the pandemic the sound of a harmless cough or sneeze did not bother me. After two years into the pandemic those same sounds make me cringe. For me, the sound of a stranger’s cough or sneeze triggers the feeling of disgust. I am repulsed and immediately want to leave the environment I am in. When at work and I hear a cough or sneeze I stop, and wonder is it the cold dry New Mexico air that caused it or is it the virus? I try not to get worked up about it and carry on. The pandemic has changed a lot of once “normal” things for me, and has made me hyper aware of things I might not have noticed before.
• 
  2021-10-18

  Don't Forget Your Mask!

  The mask has had a huge impact on our sense of touch and smell. For one, breathing with a mask on was an adjustment. Tuna sandwiches became something to avoid at all costs because of the smell you could be stuck with all day by wearing a mask. There is also something to say about the feeling of a mask around your ears and over your nose. The constant practice of grabbing a mask and putting it around one's ears has become a ritual of protection or habit as we are now bound to this object like that of a cell phone which is now always on our person. The sense of touch also adapted to various kinds of masks that were promoted and the variety of masks that would be marketed for commercial value. The mask, one of the few things that forces us to run back inside the house because we forgot it. The mask, a true measuring stick for how quick we can adapt and change society for better and for worse.
• 
  2020-03-19

  Pandemic Smells and Silence

  When the pandemic became widespread enough for schools to start shutting down, it seems that’s when life really changed. I remember - it was March 2020 - and my school district had just gone on spring break. It was still uncertain whether teachers and students would be returning to their classroom after break’s end. We were asked to come into our classrooms to gather any teaching supplies we might be able to use to teach virtually in the event that we would be told to remain at home. When I arrived at school, it was so quiet. There were a few cars parked in the parking lot, but no people to be seen. The usual student chatter, catching fragments of conversation as they walked by, the bustle of cars parking was gone. As I entered my building, a wave of chemically cleaned and sanitized air blasted my nostrils. The smells of bleach and whatever other industrial cleaners schools use wafted through the halls. They had recently been cleaned - I had never seen them so pristine. A few custodian cleaning carts were scattered nearby, but still no one to be seen. Every footfall seemed louder against the backdrop of silence. The deserted hallway and the chemical smell assaulting my olfactory system had turned my second home into something sterile and unwelcoming. Entering my classroom, I noticed it, too, had been sanitized with heavy chemicals and a jug of hand sanitizer had unceremoniously been plopped on my desk. I surveyed my classroom, nostrils burning from the bleach again, grabbed what I needed and went home. It would be the last time I would see my classroom for a long time. The memory of that shining, white hallway and the burning air of “purification” has stayed with me.
• 2020-04-01

  Pumpkin Spice Candles

  One thing that captures a sensory memory that relates to the COVID-19 pandemic for me is candles, specifically pumpkin spice candles. My wife and myself, like many other people, spent the majority of 2020 shut inside our home. Prior to this pandemic, we would often go out 3-4 nights a week. Nothing crazy, of course. Dinner, bowling, movie, etc. Typical married couple dates. However, once we were shut inside our house, we had to find other little things to occupy our time so we wouldn’t go stir crazy. My wife started buying a lot of scented candles from Amazon, and her favorite was pumpkin spice. I swear, my apartment smelled like pumpkin spice from about April of 2020 to January of 2021. The scent helped her relax, and it made me happy to know that she was finding ways to keep herself settled and centered. Now, whenever I’m out somewhere and catch a scent of pumpkin, I think of the two of us trapped in the apartment but working together to make the whole experience into a positive. I know that this is probably more of a sentimental story than what we were supposed to write, but this is what first came to my mind when I saw this assignment.
• 2021-10-17

  The Covid Disconnect

  The story and my experience are an example of the many ways in which the pandemic affected individuals in different ways. It goes without saying that each person was impacted in varied ways due to Covid-19, however, not all of them were either explicitly negative or an outcome that is easily defined as being either beneficial or harmful. During the height of the pandemic in the United States, I was employed as an Assistant Warehouse Manager in Green Bay, WI. My workload and responsibilities were already a little taxing, but once things got in full swing with Covid they became even more so. I went from working an average of 60 hours a week to over 75. This was mainly due to about a third (or more) of our employees being out of work due to quarantine-type measures or actual illness. This went on for months at the beginning. Many weeks out of that time period there were as few as about a dozen of us running three shifts in a warehouse that normally employed roughly 40 workers. Also at this time, my wife became unemployed because her place of employment shut down. Others around me were losing their jobs in droves and facing financial hardship. But due to my position and the nature of the job, I had never had more job security and we never faced any kind of financial difficulties. On the contrary, during the entire pandemic, my wife and I never went without or struggled. This gave me a surreal feeling and one that I almost felt guilty for living through. Aside from some minor changes in my daily life, I barely noticed any personal changes due to Covid. All in all, it was an extremely odd time to live through; the pandemic wasn't necessarily bad for my wife and me, but I know it was for countless others. And that made it all the more strange.
• 
  2021-10-17

  A taste of my motherland with a new twist - Rose Tteokbokki

  Amid the COVID-19 pandemic, my favorite pastime was watching various cooking and food story-time videos on YouTube. Yet, there was one video in particular that caught my full wide attention. I remember on May 6th, 2021, at around 10:45 pm PST, this video appeared on my YouTube recommendations. The video thumbnail showed one of my favorite Korean street foods, Tteokbokki (Korean spicy stir-fried rice cakes), but with a new twist! Growing up, I associated Tteokbokki with flavor notes such as the spiciness of the Gochujang and Gochugaru (Korean chili paste and chili powder), the sweetness of the Mulyeot (Korean corn syrup) in which also helps give the rice cakes its glossy shine, as well as using Sogogi dashida (Korean beef stock powder) to further enhance the umami tangy flavor. Of course, there are other variations of Tteokbokki such as Jjajang Tteokbokki (made with Black bean paste) and Gungjung Tteokbokki (made with both Soy sauce and beef) but the modern recipe with the Gochujang never failed to hit all my tastebuds. Well, that was until I discovered the video. The video used the modern Tteokbokki recipe, but also adding in a new twist with ingredients such as heavy cream and milk to give the Tteokbokki a pink color. Because the Tteokbokki resembled the pink colors of a Rose pasta sauce, it became “Rose Tteokbokki.” After watching the video and doing some research on Rose Tteokbokki (I ended up staying up till 3 am) I became convinced and made some for brunch. Making Rose Tteokbokki for brunch was the best decision I ever made because it still kept the delicious flavor notes of the modern recipe but with the extra creaminess and cheesiness thanks to the heavy cream and milk. Also, adding in meats such as sausages and bacon along with Korean wide glass noodles gave the Rose Tteokbokki a unique chewy texture combo. Once I finished up the Rose Tteokbokki, I posted a picture of the Rose Tteokbokki on my social media accounts, and one of my friends who live in Seoul replied with, “Jungeun! You’re also joining the Rose Tteokbokki bandwagon?! Everyone in Korea is rushing to make their own and/or ordering from the delivery apps because of Covid! Once Covid ends, come visit me and let’s eat Rose Tteokbokki together!” Reading my friend’s response left me with a big smile on my face, and it felt great to connect with the motherland even without physically being there through Rose Tteokbokki.
• 
  2021-09

  The comforting smell of cardamom and cinnamon on a Sunday morning

  One of the most defining characteristics of my quarantine has been learning how to bake. After a year and a half, I am finally comfortable kneading, proofing, and baking. I have learned the tell-tale signs of under-proofed and over-proofed bread by touch (slightly indent the bread with the end of your finger and how the dough springs-back will tell you all you need). I have learned to listen for the hollow sound of fully cooked bread. However, one of the greatest joys I have found with baking is filling the house with the smell of cinnamon, sugar, and cardamom on a Sunday morning with my slightly adjusted cinnamon roll recipe from our well-used Betty Crocker’s 1961 New Picture Cookbook (it was my mum’s before me). My family is Scandinavian, and the smell and taste of cardamom is ever-present in Scandinavian baking. Kanalsnegl, klejner, and fødselsdagboller are all delicious Danish and Norwegian cardamom classics. But Betty Crocker’s cinnamon rolls are also highly popular in my house. From this, a fusion roll was born. On Sunday mornings, the house is filled with cinnamon and cardamon of these classic buns. The Betty Crocker recipe calls for two teaspoons of cinnamon filling, but I sub one teaspoon with cardamom. I also add a pinch of cardamom to the butterscotch topping. In a time of stressful uncertainty, the smell of freshly baked rolls with cinnamon and cardamom is like wrapping up in a comfortable blanket. I have attached the recipe if you want to try this sensory smell experience, too.
• 2020-05-03

  Quiet Lockdown

  In the part of Maryland I live in, there is a lot of noise pollution caused by cars and planes. On one side there is a large international airport, a busy road on the other and a large highway on the third side. Almost every day, the sound of cars, planes and the occasional helicopter can be heard. However when the COVID19 pandemic began to pick up pace, lockdowns were set up in an attempt to slow its advance. While the affect of this was seen in large empty parking lots at the airport, it could also be heard. The roads were quiet, as less people went out to shop, see family or go out to eat. In addition with very few people traveling, the daily noise of airplanes declined significantly. Everything became far quieter and a reminder of the lockdown, a constant reminder that we were going through a major event in world history. However while the quiet brought about by the lockdowns was a reminder of the pandemic, the return of noise was just as much a reminder. When planes and particularly cars started to create more noise pollution, it showed that even with a global pandemic and lockdowns, it wasn't going to stop people from going out.
• 
  2020-08-15

  I Missed Normal Hand Sanitizer

  I am a high school teacher, so I used a lot of hand sanitizer long before COVID-19. One of the things that I will never forget from the pandemic was the smell of the hand sanitizer. There were shortages on all disinfectants for months, and the hand sanitizers I could find were brands I had never seen before. The worst part about this new hand sanitizers was the smell. They all had a sharp smell, much worse than the normal alcohol smell. Some smelled truly terrible, almost rotten. I put lemon essential oil in one to try to change the smell, but it made no difference. It just smelled like rotten citrus. When my school went back in person in the fall of 2020, the worst part was having to sanitize all the time with the stinky hand sanitizer. I gained a whole new appreciation for Germ-X. It was almost sad how happy I was when I found a bottle of Germ-X stashed in my cupboard (because teachers were hoarding cleaning supplies before it was cool). I put it on my teacher desk behind my computer and hoarded it from the kids!
• 
  2020-03-15

  Sounds of Silience

  My story is about the absence of sound during the pandemic.
• 2020-04-02

  The Silence of Nature

  I live in a rural area of southeastern Louisiana. When I first moved here the only thing that you could hear at night was the natural sounds that one would think of when being in the country, but as developments started to move into my area the air was polluted with the sound of cars on the distant interstate. The nights become a harmony of grasshoppers and traffic all mixed into a melody that formed a hybrid of urban and rural life. On the night of April 2nd, 2020 I was enjoying a night of looking at the stars through my telescope. It was a mainly clear night when I closed my eyes and began listening realized that I could no longer hear the cars on the interstate. Louisiana was in the mist of the a very high spike in COVID and lockdowns were in effect meaning there were fewer cars on the roads especially at night. I sat and listened for hours as I was able to hear all the sounds that were once masked by the intrusion of development on my rural area. From about April 2nd until early July this quite remanded at night. It was not until Louisiana started to open up more that the sound of the cars returned to my nighttime symphony. When I look back on the early days of the pandemic this is the memory that stands out and how it will be remembered by me. Though a harsh time in the world and for humanity, the sounds of technology and modernization were drowned out by nature for a time and it made the nights a little more peaceful and less stressful with all that was going on in the world.
• 2021-10-15

  The Love of Candles

  Before 2020, I hardly ever burned a candle. My parents had forbid it, convinced me or my siblings were going to forget about it and burn the house down. My dorm room had extremely strict (and understandable) rules about open flames and heat sources. It wasn’t until I had graduated college and moved back into and then out of my parents’ house that I was free of these regulations. Even then, though, it never occurred to me to buy candles. My favorite scents were often nature-based and could easily be experienced by visiting the ocean, or the forest, or the occasional bakery. It wasn’t until the pandemic, when I was living in Ohio without being comfortable traveling to the ocean, or to the forest, or in public at all, that I turned to candles. Soon one impulse purchase of a sea salt and balsam scented candle turned into a constant hunt for all of my favorite scents, to bring me to places I didn’t feel safe or responsible traveling to. My collection grew rapidly, and for the past year or so I’ve had a candle lit in my home almost every day. I never thought something a simple as a $7 candle I found at TJ Maxx or Bath & Body Works could bring me so much peace, calming my need to return to my favorite far-off places until it is once again safe to do so. Don’t get me wrong, candles still can’t compare to the real smells I adore, but even a weak imitation is better than a scent-less longing. Even though I’m currently residing in Ohio, I can use candles to feel connected to my home state of California, or my favorite places to visit, bringing comfort and familiarity in a time that is anything but comfort and familiar. My bank account may not be happy with me given this new habit, but it’s a price I am willing to pay.
• 
  2021-10-15

  A muffled voice

  My six-year-old son often forgets he’s wearing a mask. We’ll leave his school, the grocery store, anywhere really, and he’ll spend the entire car ride home with his mask still on. He’s even tried to eat with it on a few times! I can always hear when he’s forgotten to take it off because it muffles his voice. He talks constantly, I like to say that he actually voices his internal monologue, so I can tell exactly when he takes his mask off even if I can’t see him. When I hear that he’s still wearing his mask, I often think about the instability of being a child (and raising a child) during a global pandemic. His life and his routines have changed so frequently in the past year and a half, but he has been incredibly adaptive and understanding the entire time. Hearing his muffled little voice always makes me appreciate this awesome kid of mine while also making me really consider these chaotic times we’re living in.
• 2020-06-01

  Beautiful Silence in Paradise

  Hawaii is a very unique place in terms of its beauty and overall welcoming atmosphere. I grew up knowing how popular of a destination spot my state is and how in many ways we are extremely dependent on outside sources to fuel our small island economies and businesses. I had thought that aspects I had become used to seeing, such as the extremely busy downtown shopping and tourism part of Hilo, would never change. The many common things you'd have smelled seen and heard were the many cars out on the road, the overfilled wastebaskets by every park and beach, the tents of entire families at many of the beaches, and the constant rush of modern living in Hawaii. Then in March through April of 2020, the university in which I was attending at the time made the big decision to cancel in person meetings for the foreseeable future. The days of constant business and crowded areas in a matter of weeks ceased to be. In late April continuing until recently, the most common things you would see empty streets, closed signs, empty parking lots, and most importantly of all, you would actually get to smell the salt of the water from the ocean, the chirping of birds by the dozens in commercial areas, and even the return of sea turtles to what were known to be crowded beaches. It’s as if the lack of tourism and industry during Covid-19 gave us local residents a new perspective of our home. One where it felt like we could finally breathe and stretch out our legs for a bit while we dealt with the pandemic effects.
• 
  2020-11-26

  A New Sense of Taste

  The memory I related is about the difference in taste and smell before I had covid versus after. It is still altered in some ways and did not return as it was before. I still find it jarring eat something that I used to love only to find that it tastes different and I no longer like it.
• 2020-03-21

  Gardening During the Apocalypse

  I can't think of the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, the shut downs and lock-ins, the stay-at-home orders without thinking of my brief foray into gardening. My husband and I bought our house in northwest Baltimore in April 2019. Our little duplex sits near the end of an unbelievably picturesque street in a fairly affluent neighborhood known for its garden communities and HOA-hosted wine and cheese parties you have to pay to attend. The neighborhood is surrounded by much poorer neighborhoods and heavily-trafficked streets, the direct product of red-lining in Old Baltimore. While the Original Northwood neighborhood is much more diverse - demographically and economically - than it was when it was first established in the 1930s and 1940s, my husband and I, as some of the only residents under 40, still felt like we didn't necessarily fit in with our older, more well-to-do neighbors, despite absolutely adoring our little home, which had been lovingly renovated and reimagined by its previous tenants. Come March 2020, however, the noise from the crowded streets, the surrounding neighborhoods, and from our own neighborhood, died down substantially. Our streets and its surrounds have always been a great place to go for a walk, but now every day people were strolling by in ones and twos, sometimes in small family units. Everyone needed to get out of the houses they were now cooped up in, and I was no exception. Much to my mother's chagrin - and likely to my neighbors' embarrassment - I did not inherent my mother's green thumb. Because I am a millennial I found an app that identifies plants and set about rooting out weeds, pruning the flowers the previous tenants had not intended for me to neglect, picking up the endless stream of leaves from our several 100+ year old trees, digging up more weeds and debating with my husband about whether we should start an herb and vegetable garden or put in a patio in the little garden area that connects our front and back yards. I did not become proficient at gardening. I am much better than I was, however, at identifying the truly astonishing diversity of plants in my own garden and in my neighborhood by scent and even touch. I learned that the dried and withered allium stalks pull effortlessly out of the ground after they die, that African violets also give way to a gentle scooping from the earth, and that thistle, of course, will still try to prick you as it attempts to cling to the soil. I learned that those thin but tough shoots of elm and oak born from the seeds and acorns the squirrels missed not only grow rapidly, but are extraordinarily difficult to rip from the earth. And no matter how much seemingly-delicate clover one claws at, its roots will always remain beneath the surface, as virulent in a day or two as when one earlier tore at it in complete dismay of its sheer stubbornness. I did not become proficient at gardening. But I did relish the feeling of cool, damp earth underneath my hands, even in my fingernails, the crunch of dry leaves, the slick sliding of wet leaves, the red, angry weals left on my hands from those stubborn oaks. I felt accomplished as I pulled lovely, but ultimately threatening African violets and wild raspberry from underneath the spreading cover of the hostas, and as I pulled wild mint, lemon, and rosemary for tea and cooking. I told myself I'd use the ramps (a species of wild onion that smells and tastes sort of of like a combination between garlic and scallions) in a soup, as a college roommate of mine had done, but I forgot to harvest them in time. From what I recall, summertime is best, particularly late summertime. The other thing I remember about this time spent in my garden, hands in the dirt, sweat on my brow, bug bites inflaming every available inch of skin, is the new sense of connection I felt with my neighbors who stopped to wave hello, nod and smile at my gardening efforts. Neighbors who I hadn't gotten to know before the pandemic which now prevented us, due to fear of contamination from contact with other people, from truly getting to know each other still. But somehow, the simple act of being out in my garden, doing this simple, repetitive toil, made me feel like I was participating in a ritual, an activity that linked me to the less unsavory past of the community, and to neighbors who otherwise might have remained alien in a plague environment that seemed to bring a new apocalypse with every week.
• 2021-10-15

  Tense and Tempestuous Tones

  In the year 2020, I was a medical assistant working for a cancer surgery clinic. The pandemic posed huge challenges for people working in healthcare and created new staggering standards for cleanliness and infection control. With limited personal protective equipment and cleaning supplies, it made everyday clinic operations very challenging. With cancer patients, most of whom were undergoing treatments that lowered their immune system, and many of whom had just had surgery which can increase risk of infection, medical staff took COVID safety precautions very seriously. Dealing with people battling illness can be challenging under normal circumstances because they are often feeling emotional and scared, but during COVID, tensions were running even higher. I will never forget patients using condescending, edgy, and outright angry tones with me when I would call for a COVID symptom screening prior to their appointment, inform them that they had to wear a mask at all times while in the clinic, or that they were unable to bring a family member to the exam room during a follow-up appointment with a doctor. Over the phone and in person, many patients used tense and tempestuous tones to take out their anger over a situation none of us had any control over. Often, there were political connotations to any discussion of clinic COVID policy, which was unusual in a conversation about infection control. Many patients would protest getting their temperature taken or question the accuracy of their oximetry reading (a started part of vitals even before the pandemic). It was always a relief to have a patient who took a dignified breath and calmly understood that the rules were in place for everyone's safety and were an inconvenience to all involved. There were several days where I would go off to an empty exam room during my lunch break and cry. Tension during the first year of the COVID pandemic was audible.
• 2021-10-03

  The Scents of a Homecoming

  My maternal grandfather passed away late last year amidst a relatively heavy pandemic lockdown, and our family has since tried to fill in for him in caretaking for my grandmother. If he could have asked something of us, I know it would have only been to look after her. He was that kind of man. He didn’t need for anything for time with his family and friends, and his utmost concern was her welfare, even when she angered him. Recurring and cyclic apprehension and uncertainty over transmission rates, long-term vaccine efficacy and inoculated antibody generation have forestalled several attempted return trips to my hometown. Data-driven doubts have eroded my wife’s confidence that our collective vaccinations will protect her aging parents from life-altering illness and death have prevented her from traveling with me, even though she wont readily admit that outside our home. In addition to everything else the pandemic has altered or taken from us, it’s also complicated my family’s efforts to care for each other. My grandmother turned 86 recently, and her birthday was also their anniversary. They would have been married 63 years this month, and we wanted to make sure the day didn’t pass like any other lonely Tuesday since his death. My cousins and I put together a birthday dinner at the best restaurant in town, and I traveled back to New Mexico for a week to visit and help where I could. The trip turned out to inspire a self-reflection on the power of scent in my life, emotions, and memory. *** I drove straight to my grandmother’s home on Blodgett Street. I pushed the front door open, and an unpleasant stink hit my nostrils. Throughout my life, that home had particular smells that transitioned over time. Everyone in my family but the children smoked cigarettes while I was growing up, and it wasn’t unusual for a blue-gray haze to hang in my grandparents’ home during family holidays. It wasn’t uncommon for their 1000 sq. ft. home to sleep ten or fifteen people when we had something to celebrate or grieve. Ashtrays often overflowed if late night poker games grew too intense to step away from the dining table. I recall one Thanksgiving from my early childhood in which heavy cigarette smoke obscured my view of the backdoor while I stood near the front door. Even through those early years, I associated their home with the smell of sweets. Baked goods, chocolate cakes, snickerdoodles, and sugar cereals, although I’m now surprised any of us could smell anything. I never ate Fruity Pebbles anywhere but their house. Word reached my family in the mid 80s that hotboxing the house was bad for everyone’s health, and they began smoking outside. Grandad hated that; he’s the one who paid off the mortgage, so he oughta be able to smoke wherever he damned well pleased. Still, he took it outside for the grandkids. Since they stopped smoking in the house, and especially since they quit smoking fifteen years ago, I associated their home with a particular and pleasant fragrance. I never placed it, and I’ve never smelled it anywhere else. It wasn’t solely the scented wax my grandmother leaves on warming plates for too long, which are almost always homey food scents, like apple pie. The scent of their home welcomed me back to a place I am unconditionally loved, missed, and wanted. My jokes always hit, my cooking never failed, and everyone was always glad to see me. They were also glad to take my lunch money at the poker table, which I imagine might have contributed to my perpetual welcome. As of this trip, that unique aroma is gone, replaced by a light odor of stale animal waste. My grandmother took in a low functioning chihuahua about three years ago, and the dog is slowly and thoroughly ruining all the flooring surfaces in her home. It won’t housebreak, and it’s incapable of turning right. Seriously. The dog might be a reincarnated Nascar driver. It only turns left. When it’s excited, anxious, fearful, doesn’t matter. The only emotional arrow in its quiver is a left turn, and the only dichotomy is the circumference. The dog can run around the whole room or spin in place, but only and always left. Lefty shit on one of my most important and reassuring emotional stimulants. ** I also stayed with my parents, who live across town, and we share a love of food, especially comfort food best consumed with big spoons or served in casserole dishes. Because we’re New Mexicans, that means a heavy dose of Hatch green chili goes in everything produced in our kitchens. Throughout the week, my folks made all the staples for fall: red beef enchiladas, fire roasted salsa, smoked burgers, and green chili chicken stew. While I associated backed goods and sweets with my grandparents’ home, I’ve always associated the aroma of meals with my parents, and especially the foods that take a day or two to get just right in a crock or stockpot. Bubbling green chili anything reminds me of the best parts of my childhood, and I have no unfond memories or emotions associated with it. I never caught a beating over the dinner table, never fought over a kettle of green chili. Comfort foods have historically made all the hurt and misery of the outside world go away. That’s their magic, isn’t it? No matter what the day and the world brought to your doorstep, the right foods and aromas improved everything they touched. ** As such, the consistent and predictable wonderfulness of my parents’ home helped buttress my emotions and the loss of the Blodgett Street Scent. The disappearance of that emotional, olfactory experience altered my perception of the trip. I regarded its replacement as a bellwether of things to come, a foreshadowing of my grandmother’s seemingly imminent decline into managed in-home care. My concerns over what the light stink meant conspired with her increased hearing loss, the occasional repeated story, and the often-repeated questions to erode my confidence in her long-term stability. Although she’s now 86, she remains independent and self-sufficient. There’s nothing she can’t accomplish on her own with enough time and naps between exertion. I think I’ve taken that for granted, though, and I should begin managing my expectations. Thanks to a left-leaning chihuahua, I have to confront my grandmother’s increasing fragility and forthcoming dependence. I regret having never attempted to define its source ingredients, although I doubt I could recreate it at any other time or place. In the meantime, I need to get her out of the house long enough to have the flooring scrubbed and sanitized. If you’re in the market for a left-loving fecal factory, please inquire within.
• 2020-03-16

  From Unheard of to Unheard

  This excerpt outlines how the start of the pandemic affected the noise level of an undergraduate college campus.
• 2020-03-29

  Eau de Sanitizer: A Home Fragrance

  The early days of quarantine were quiet and calm, as the streets around my home in Southern California were filled with silence since there were fewer cars and people roaming outdoors. Sanitizer and rubbing alcohol were in high demand, and in heavy rotation in our home, as everything that came in was wiped, sprayed, and cleaned before being put away. I remember coming home from the store and wiping down every item with alcohol and sanitizer, and I remember wiping down every counter, surface, and phone. Afterwards, the house was filled with the sharp and dismal aroma of rubbing alcohol, as the fragrance mimicked a well-diffused scented candle. The distinctive scent wafted throughout the living room and lingered within the walls, the drapes, and the furniture. It became the scent of March 2020, and a home fragrance which lacked the expected or traditional calming or soothing properties of a candle or diffuser that is placed in a room. Every outing resulted in rubbing alcohol-infused surroundings, which served as a constant reminder of the changing climate. Eau de Sanitizer recalled the uneasiness, fear, and chaotic shops of the early pandemic, as it was a fragrant reminder of the unknown. The memory of that spring is tied to the scent of rubbing alcohol, and now every time I light a candle in my living room I am reminded of those early days.
• 2021-10-14

  When Silence took over Las Vegas

  I live in a city bursting with lights, music, wonder, excitement, tourists, and opportunity – Las Vegas, known throughout the world for its casinos and world-class entertainment. Two of its most popular attractions are the Las Vegas Strip and the Fremont Street Experience. The Las Vegas Strip, an almost 5-mile section of Las Vegas Boulevard, is filled with an array of sparkling and neon lights showcasing casinos, hotels with thousands of rooms, restaurants, and entertainment venues -- always bustling with people. My absolute favorite sight and sound along this part of the drive is the spectacular Bellagio Fountains. As you continue on a couple of miles past The Strat, you are introduced to the sights, sounds, and smells of the Fremont Street Experience in historic downtown Las Vegas. Whether I am driving by or enjoying a night out, I love to hear the sounds of the Fremont Street Experience, where crowds of locals and tourists enjoy music along with its famous unique experiences. The Slotzilla Zipline zips laughing and screaming people above the noisy crowds looking up to see them glide under the world's largest digital display while presenting light and sound shows. It is a carnival-like atmosphere within a 6-block street party. Free bands play simultaneously on several stages along the street, while people sing and dance in the streets and have a good time. All ages find it perfect for date nights, parties, or hanging out. Then along came the dark shadow of COVID, shutting down Las Vegas, and the music stopped. The Fremont Street Experience became quiet. It was no longer a place where you could hear different kinds of music coming from multiple areas. No bands were playing your favorite dance songs or rock and roll. Fremont just became a regular street with noiseless empty hotels and restaurants. The stages were silent and bare, and the crowds' shouting, laughter, and singing disappeared. Fremont was quiet for the first time in its history. The excitement and joy were gone. It was no longer a fun place to go, and the silence felt eerie and hauntingly incongruent. Fremont, like much of Las Vegas, felt, looked, and sounded like a ghost town. Now, as we open back up to the public and the crowds return, I once again hear the laughter, the bustle of people, and live music when I drive past or show up. Fremont is back, and now there is only a memory of when the sound of silence was all that filled the air.