 Lisa Frank. Slap bracelets. Fuzzy velvet posters that you colored in yourself. Sky Dancers that were recalled due to a plethora of injuries. That Polly Pocket you desperately wanted that you were either lucky enough to get or forced to watch others enjoy without you. That Samantha Parkington doll you could’ve had eventually, if by the time you had finally managed to save up for it, she hadn’t been discontinued. What do these images all convey? The nineties.
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 As a transplant to the Lancaster County area here in Pennsylvania - or rather, PA - I’ve picked up on a few tips and tricks over the last couple of years to avoid being seen as a tourist when looking to blend in with the locals.  A bridge in Venice, Italy. Captured Aug. 2015. The Louvre is closed. Broadway is dark. Harvard shut its doors for the first time since its opening in 1636. The NBA season is over. NCAA isn’t playing March Madness. Canadians can’t go to hockey games. Paddy’s celebrations are cancelled everywhere (or postponed, in Peoria, Il.) The governors of Illinois and Ohio today ordered the temporary closing of all restaurants. Countries have shut their borders. Africa has turned the tables and forbidden European visitors. Certain states are in lock-down mode. Italians are in the strictest movement since World War II, when they were bombed under a Fascist regime. Residents of China have been filmed walking the streets in hazmat suits and heavy masks. News alerts bombard our mobile devices on the hour. Every single organization you’ve ever permitted your email address is now sending you their response to the world pandemic. It sounds, simultaneously, like a futuristic sci-fi novel and a history lesson. It’s stepping into Doctor Who’s “Turn Left” or General Hospital’s 2012 water crisis. It’s the setting of George Orwell’s 1984. Yet, it’s real. It’s happening. As of three hours ago, 80,000 citizens of China are dead from the Coronavirus. It’s everywhere – can’t even pop onto imgur without seeing a Corona-related meme. It’s keeping huggers away. It’s what the introverted have prepared for all along. You may be sick of it by now. But it’s important to not turn a blind eye.  Lancaster's Gallery Row hosted its annual Coffee Crawl on Feb. 8. It's an aroma that effectively stops passerby on the sidewalk. The fragrance wafting in from downtown Lancaster’s Gallery Row is unmistakable – hot, fresh, brewed coffee, permeating the air as it passes from hand to hand in the Liz Hess Gallery. Standing behind a table near the door is Leon Miller, owner and founder of Lonely Monk Coffee, dishing out free coffee brewed in his own home to warm the fingers of those who braved winter temperatures to attend the fifth annual Coffee Crawl Feb. 8 from 10 am to 3 pm.  If free coffee lured attendees in, the art hooked them. Log 1: Plane Delays Airports and flight plans laugh.
They laugh in thunderstorms, in blizzards, in fires, in tsunamis, in any natural disaster. They chortle at airplane malfunctions. They guffaw during workers' strikes. They especially seem to get a proper belly laugh when it comes to me.  ”Is she becoming Amish?”
I cannot count how many times people have uttered the word Amish since I announced my move to Lancaster back in September. These conversations normally forewarned that I was headed for “Amish country.” My grandmother, however, directly inquired of my dad whether her oldest granddaughter was in fact, turning Amish.  This time four years ago, I was all too familiar with waking up at unreasonable hours.
My usual shift began between 7:15 and 7:30am, with the route for Coronado starting at 6:18. My alarm was always set for 5, though weeks of being physically drained had taken its toll and I now woke up at 4am after falling asleep around 7 or 8pm. For the first part of last year, I’d often be awake at 6 to catch the bus to catch the train to make my shift at 8:30am. There was one day where I worked a 13.5 hour shift, standing. Still, none of my shifts ever started before 7am - until yesterday, when I worked the earliest and longest shift of my life. (Thankfully, I sat for this one.) "To tell you the truth, more things of importance happened to me in Marceline than have happened since, or are likely to in the future." - Walt Disney  In 1905, a small town in Missouri welcomed a man who would one day influence generations of children.
Marceline, Mo., the childhood home of the man who envisioned Mickey Mouse, welcomes visitors from all over the world, including Japan and China. |
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