Forgot to mention last week that a large white rabbit was seen in the South End on Easter Sunday, handing out candy to innocent householders.

The South End Tomato Lady is the prime suspect in this interesting case.

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Sorry to read Joel Fishman’s obituary the other day. I did not know him personally, but I do remember he played Santa Claus at least once during the Christmas dinner which Adas Yoshuron Synagogue puts on each year at St. Bildad’s-By-The Sea.

The weekly community lunch continues to be provided Saturdays and Sundays at the church, despite current circumstances.

Naturally, arrangements have been switched from a lunch served in the parish hall to a lunch prepared in the kitchen and served to individuals from the back door. According to reports from the Grand High Nabob of Lunches, Ron Staschak, the parish continues to serve about as many guests as we did in Ordinary Time.

I haven’t heard any direct reports of the weekday lunches that St. Bernard’s Catholic Church serves. They used to serve more guests each weekday than St. Bildad’s.

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The Town of Thomaston has posted a truly terrifying notice on its municipal website, to the effect that their select board meeting will be held on Zoom until further notice.

That’s going to be one heck of a long meeting. They used to hold them far less frequently, and the prospect of a meeting going on “until further notice” seems a bit hard to take.

But I suppose people need something to do with their time, even Thomaston select board members.

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You know times are not normal when your great day out is a ride that ends up at a supermarket in distant Damariscotta to buy Shredded Wheat, because the Rockland Hannaford can’t seem to keep any on the shelf when I need it.

Last Saturday, my beloved and I conspired to get out and have a kind of picnic, which was something we enjoyed in the old days. I brought sandwiches from Subway up in the Lime City, she made a Thermos of coffee, and we drove down to the Olson House in Cushing to lunch in the car.

It’s good to look at a landscape you are not used to. It refreshes the eyes and, possibly, the soul. It was low tide, I think, and being on the other side of Pleasant Point provided a view we were not familiar with across the water.

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Speaking of Thomaston, I heard about an incident in the home of two former residents of the town who have since removed to Southern Parts, and have their son and daughter at home all day due to the near abandonment of public education.

The kids were horsing around in the kitchen while Dad struggled to complete some important task online, and I guess the horseplay got a little out of hand. Possibly a glass was broken.

Dad yelled in a mixture of anxiety, righteous indignation and possibly horror: “You know, if anyone gets cut we don’t get to go to the hospital. I’ll be stitching you up myself!”

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If you want some honest amusement in these times, especially if you have begun manufacturing anti-plague face masks at home, I highly recommend a YouTube video called “DIY Face Mask Tutorial with Kay.”

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Next week I hope to have an update from that town in the Lower Midwest that has volunteered for Lord Prez Trumpleton’s back-to-work experiment. Early reports are somewhat discouraging. The Air Force has barely been able to keep up with the citizens’ demand for deliveries of toilet paper.

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The closure-by-order of Rockland Public Library caused some modest distress to those of us who depended on it for a fresh supply of reading material every week or two.

In my case, I am now thrown back upon the resources of my own personal library, with the various books being tied in alphabetical order to knotted ropes and hung from small trapdoors cut in the roof of the concrete towers at the foot of Mechanic Street, where I am forced to live. When I want a book I open the trap and pull up the rope.

Last week I hauled up an old favorite from the Fiction trapdoor, Ernest Hemingway’s second novel from 1926, “The Sun Also Rises."

Like many young people in my day, I went through my Hemingway phase. Much of it I now find awkward to read as it is so stilted in its use of language. But I always held this novel in some affection.

Well, not any more.

This time around I found it to be a tiresome story of some incredibly self-centered and even vastly immature British and American persons who take a trip from Paris to watch the annual bull-fights during the fiesta in Pamplona, Spain.

I used to think of the characters as quite sophisticated, and would read each line for clues about how I could be sophisticated too. I suppose a large number of undergraduates did the same some thing, back in the day.

This time around my basic reaction was to think that, if only they had jobs and some honest to God responsibilities, their personal lives would not have been so messed up.

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In a way, the Hemingway novel simply emphasizes the necessity of people having work to do, and an honest involvement in reality. It must hard for so many people right now, not having work.

I am fortunate enough that my job is considered essential. I have spent every working day for a full month, now, on the phones helping people file for unemployment. There have been some difficult moments, you can count on that, but they are the kind of difficulties that come from hearing fellow human beings under stress.

My own daily difficulties in doing this job amount to little or nothing when compared to the struggles of many customers I talk to.

Most people have managed a kind of stoic response to the delays caused by the sheer mass of claims being made in the unemployment system. But I have listened to many tears and some threats, too. You can’t blame them.

David Grima is a former editor with Courier Publications. He can be reached at