On October 13 of 1918, Hermann Dossenbach, Conductor of the Rochester Orchestra, was still counting on his October 21st concert,
But on that same day — October 13th — on the same page as Hermann’s concert ads and write-ups, the D&C also published this headline:
Still, Hermann remained hopeful because the article suggested that perhaps the concert venues will reopen in a week. Think of all the planning that had gone into this performance, the rehearsals in which 50 - 60 musicians had to be brought together — and paid(!) — let alone the sheer good fortune of getting Mme Matzenauer to stop over in Rochester! The show must — it must go on!
Hermann felt determined, and so his eyes glazed over the final ominous tone to that 1918 D&C article about the hope of reopening in a week: “This is not at all certain, however, and will depend on the factors in the epidemic situation as they appear during the next few days.”
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Sounds familiar, from the vantage point of the Spring of 2020 — right? — as we watch our COVID-19 pandemic numbers rise and then begin to fall.
I remember being astounded back in early March when, one by one, venues and places of businesses shut down — the colleges closing for the semester and sending students home, the concerts cancelling, the movie theaters abruptly stopping their schedules, doctors appointments and minor surgeries at hospitals postponed, public schools closed; eventually everything stopped except what was deemed to be essential.
I remember a feeling of impending panic that week, in the days before the New York State Shutdown was scheduled to take effect on March 22. I shopped at Wegman’s, two days in a row, getting there at 7:00am to avoid the crowds, only to find a packed grocery store. It was disorienting, seeing whole rows of empty shelves where the toilet paper and paper towels should be, where the chicken and beef should be, where the bread should be. Actually, because the bread wasn’t there, I couldn’t recall where it was supposed to be, and wandered and wandered looking for it.
The general talk amongst friends in the area was that maybe we’d be staying home for a couple of weeks, but who knows, nobody knew what was going on or what was going to happen. I worried that we’d be stuck inside for quite a while, that prices would skyrocket, that more items would become unavailable.
On the Friday and Saturday mornings before the Sunday shutdown, I filled my cart at Wegman’s. How strange, walking up and down the aisles, trying to stay focused, looking at each and every thing — will we possibly need this? that? Meanwhile, the line of people ready to cash out extended from the checkout counters, snaking around the side of the store and the empty shelves of the toilet paper section, continuing around the back of the empty meat section, and kept growing, growing. First I, and then, one by one, other shoppers incredulously asked those waiting in line: “Is this the line for checkout?” By Day Two of shopping, I was wiser, and when I heard the question being asked, assured the shopper, “Don’t worry, the line goes fast.”
On the first day though, when I saw that long line, my panic rose, and I skipped the last few aisles and joined the line. Hearing an older lady behind me say that she forgot to get her bread, I turned to her, saw the same look of disorientation and panic in her eyes, didn’t want to say that there was no bread. Instead, I told her that I’ll watch her cart if she wanted to dash around and grab some items. She replied that she’ll do the same for me. We made eye contact, and I said to her, “yes, let’s help each other.”
And that’s what we did. Taking turns, we watched each other’s carts, pulled them along to stay in the line (not easy, pulling two carts). She found bread (where was it? I thought) and bleach and pasta and vegetables, and I got coffee and storage ziplocs and looked for the $2.99 Wegman’s frozen pizzas — no luck on those though. When we reached the checkout counters, and the employee who was monitoring the situation told me to proceed and pay, I turned to her once again, and we thanked each other, and wished each other a good day, and it happened so quickly because everyone was trying to move so quickly to get out of there, and afterwards I wished that we had exchanged telephone numbers so we could check in on each other.
That was March 20th and 21st. Today is May 14th. We are still staying at home. I have stocked up on groceries once since then, with everyone at the store wearing masks, everyone staying 6 feet apart, employees monitoring how many people go into the store and sometimes wiping down the carts before handing them to customers.
Other than that grocery shopping day, I’ve only been out into the world twice, to buy movie popcorn from the downtown Little Theatre. It’s strange how those little pleasures bring comfort.
You order online, pay via Paypal, drive up to the theater, call a telephone number and give your name and order number, pop your trunk, and then the masked and gloved employee brings out the covered popcorns and puts them in the trunk. He is a young man, he looks sweet and friendly, we smile and wave and wish each other a good day. We enjoy this little bit of contact.
We don’t know how long we’ll be staying at home. I don’t mind it, I have so many projects, I have Bob to spend the time with, I have the dogs to take outside for walks. I worry about others though, those whose home life isn’t happy, those whose situation is precarious, those who are ill or who have family members who are ill.
It’s a strange, strange world we live in, that’s for sure.
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And Hermann, and everyone else, must also have found it so, in October and November of 1918. The War in Europe was still raging, albeit nearing the end, at least everyone hoped so. And then to deal with an influenza epidemic that was taking their loved ones!
On October 7, Rochester’s own First Sergeant Frank F King died at Camp Dix, of pneumonia, a victim of the
influenza epidemic. His body was brought back to Rochester, his funeral held from his home at 381 Birr Street. He had been a member of the Rochester Park Band, an organist for the Monroe Avenue Methodist Church, a pianist for the Piccadilly Theatre. It is likely that the members of the Park Band played at his funeral, as this was something they did these days. Death was everywhere.
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| Frank F King (photo courtesy Rochester Historical Society) |
Hermann’s big concert of October 21 was, indeed, cancelled; however, Mme Matzenauer sang for soldiers at Camp Custer in Michigan, lifting their spirits, giving them the oomph to go on. During that week, and continuing into November, Rochester completely shut down. By November 14, the newspapers reported that the flu epidemic was lifting. This was good because a week earlier on November 7, Rochesterians had gathered in the streets to celebrate what they thought was the armistice, but it was false on this day, and they all had to go home and wait some more.
But not for long — on November 11, the end of the Great European War was announced, and throngs of people amassed in downtown Rochester, feeling the joy, being close to each other, strangers hugging strangers.
Experts still debate about the effect of that event on the waning influenza epidemic.
But who can ultimately stop happiness and joy and the need for human connection?
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| November 11, 1918 -- Rochester's Four Corners |
(NOTE: I'm having trouble with comments in this blog. I can't figure it out -- why comments and replies don't always appear. If anyone has any suggestions, I'd love to hear it. And in the meantime, if you have a comment, feel free to email me -- lisamkleman@gmail.com -- and I'll gladly reply.)
