J.V. Houlihan
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Just shy of a year ago we started hearing about the word coronavirus; however, it hadn’t yet entered the news cycle on a mind-numbing twenty-four and seven blast of baffling information. On 11 March, I had just returned from a trip to Martha’s Vineyard and I distinctly remembered going to George’s in Galilee, and sitting by the fire with my wife and having dinner no one wore masks. We live nearby in Galilee and like to sit near the fireplace, and we’d always seem to catch the place at the time when we could sit next to its warm glow on a freezing Galilee night. Sometimes, after we grubbed up, we’d sit in the rocking chairs like a couple of old coots just rocking aimlessly and looking at the fire. It was a veritable Norman Rockwell scene. Hey, this is how geezers rock and roll. Moreover, we love the vibe of this place where we’ve both have had history for decades. Then, as we all know, about 15 March, the world as we know it went way off kilter.