Of the many challenges for America’s rural communities, near the top of the list is access to health care. Rural clinics and hospitals are closing across the nation. When they close, it’s hard for younger families, and older residents, to stay in town—and harder to attract new businesses, or attract replacements for the doctors, nurses, and other health-care workers who may be retiring from their practices or just leaving town.
Previously we’ve reported on the realities of smaller-town and rural health care in Brownsville, Texas, and Ajo, Arizona. This is a report from the smallest city we have visited in our travels, in spectacularly beautiful though remote far Down East Maine.
Today’s health care in Eastport, Maine, traces its roots back to Lyndon Johnson’s War on Poverty and the establishment of the Office of Economic Opportunity (OEO). In this, it is like a large number of other small communities across the country. Just as today’s libraries bear the century-old imprint of Andrew Carnegie, and many of today’s post offices and other public buildings are legacies of construction and mural-painting efforts launched during the Great Depression by Franklin D. Roosevelt, today’s remaining rural clinics are, in many cases, the effects of an initiative launched 50 years ago. Along with other OEO initiatives, such as Job Corps, VISTA, and Head Start, that remain to this day, this rural-health initiative has shaped the primary health care in poor or underserved areas long since it was started.
Back in the 1960s, enter a young medical doctor and civil-rights activist with a vision. This was H. Jack Geiger, who had spent time in South Africa during medical school and had seen the positive impact that the community health-care model had in the very poor area of Pholela. Later, back in the United States, he spent time in the Mississippi Delta for the Freedom Summer project of 1964 as field coordinator for the Medical Committee for Human Rights.
When he returned to Boston, Geiger connected his observations in South Africa and the Mississippi Delta. Along with a colleague, Count Gibson, Geiger proposed to the OEO to try out what he had learned by starting two experimental, community-based health-care programs, one in Boston’s Columbia Point housing project and the other in the Mississippi Delta. Eventually, these became models for the roughly 1,400 Federally Qualified Health Centers (FQHC) that serve more than 28 million people around the U.S. today.
Their FQHC designation is a godsend for rural health-care centers. It ensures that the centers will receive, among other things, enhanced reimbursements for patients covered by Medicaid and Medicare, and will offer a sliding scale for those without any coverage. It promises federal malpractice-insurance coverage for providers, extra partnerships for the centers, and more specialist care. Each center is unique in its profile, depending on the community’s needs. For example, the Rowland B. French Medical Center has providers for behavioral health counseling, podiatry, radiology, nephrology, and social support. Desert Senita has a regularly visiting cardiologist and ophthalmologist, a certified Spanish translator, and a special phone line with third-party translators for multiple languages.
During my visit last month to the Eastport center, I noticed a language, spirit, and way of operating that reminded me, surprisingly, of what I had heard so frequently in public libraries around the country. As for libraries, when Andrew Carnegie donated funds to help build nearly 1,700 public libraries, he required that the towns he supported demonstrate a need for a library; that the towns invest some of their own funds in the present or future operations of the library; and that the library serve all the people. Today’s public libraries, Carnegie-built or not, reflect the mission of serving the public in this democratic way.
The community health centers, like Eastport’s, strike similar chords: The centers are built in underserved communities; they require majority local representation in their governing and decisions; and they are committed to serving everyone, regardless of ability to pay. Not precisely the same as Carnegie’s libraries, but eerily similar in terms of being locally driven and serving the needs of all residents in a democratic way. As Holly Gartmayer-DeYoung, the CEO of Eastport Health Care Inc., which includes the Rowland B. French Medical Center, put it to me, we are here to “understand and heartfully serve the community.”
Eastport Health Care (EHC) serves Washington County, Maine, in its three center locations in Eastport and the neighboring towns of Machias and Calais. What does the health profile of the region look like, and how does EHC answer to the region’s needs?
By most statistical measures, it looks bad. The health profile of Washington County, which includes Eastport, Machias, and Calais, is low even by Maine’s standards. Washington County ranks 15th of 16 counties in Maine in a composite measure of “Health Factors,” which is made up of health-related behaviors (such as tobacco, alcohol, and physical activity), access to care, socioeconomic factors (some 20 percent of Washington County residents live in poverty), and the physical environment (a subcategory in which beautiful, quiet, remote Washington County ranks No. 2).
Washington County ranks 16th of 16 in Maine for “Health Outcomes,” which includes measures of length of life and quality of life. (I would point out that quality-of-life measures don’t include personal safety: On our first night in Eastport, Jim and I locked ourselves out of our apartment. We hung out with the neighbors next door until someone could be found to hunt for a key. We learned our lesson: Never lock your door.)
With such a profile, where is EHC and its citizen board to start? Perhaps with the bad news. Here is a list in descending order that EHC decided were its major health needs to tackle: the opioid epidemic, diabetes, hypertension, obesity, food or heat insecurity (it’s cold in Maine), and mental health.
Now on to the good news. Here are some of EHC’s creative ideas for plans and solutions to their most pressing problems:
What can we do to mitigate travel issues?
Washington County, with a population just shy of 32,000 residents, is twice the size of Rhode Island in square miles. That can translate into an hour’s drive to a clinic, or two or three hours to visit a specialist or for routine care for kids’ health, such as eye exams, glasses, the dentist, and orthodontia. Women in Eastport drive about 44 miles to Machias for prenatal services. For situations that require frequent, regular access to ongoing treatments, such as chemotherapy, the distances to travel can become simply untenable. When I expressed my chagrin at the idea of such distances, Gartmayer-DeYoung said with a this-is-Maine tone, “People get used to the drive.”
Without a miracle cure of close proximity to all care, one way the EHC eases the complex logistics of health care is with a “patient-navigator,” someone to manage the pieces: finding specialist help, arranging appointments, organizing transportation, managing overnight stays and last-mile transit, tracking and coordinating multiple issues, and helping identify and coordinate access to food, housing, utilities, etc. EHC has a full-time patient-navigator and has trained all staff to either help directly or be aware of all their patients’ needs.
How can we help an aging population?
Eastport’s population has declined from 5,000 in its early-20th-century sardine-canning heyday to 1,331 in 2010, to 1,259 in 2018. There are a lot of retirees, and they are not necessarily wealthy. The median resident age is 54, compared with 45 in Maine overall (chronically among the oldest in the United States). At Shead High School in Eastport, the total student population when I visited in 2013 was 110; this year it is 94.
Some solutions are simple and inexpensive, and carry a punch. Focused on safety, Eastport has begun programs to install grab bars and smoke detectors in homes with elderly residents. It also brings caregivers into the equation with an ID bracelet to register them with police and EMS as go-to contacts to facilitate quick, effective, connected responses for the vulnerable individuals they serve.
In a double win to help the elderly get around and improve their overall well-being, Eastport has created plans to improve sidewalks, install street lighting and crosswalks, put safety rails along steep inclines, and place benches for people to stop and rest.
How do we attract staff to the rural health centers?
Retention at Eastport Health Care is not a big issue. Of the currently fully staffed 52 employees at EHC, some 58 percent have been there for at least five years, 25 percent for 10 years.
But there are gaps. One of the two dentists moved west. The center would like a specialist in diabetes. Gartmayer-DeYoung worries about how to replace primary-care providers when they retire. Furthermore, she is concerned about finding her own replacement when she will soon retire for health reasons.
In remote areas, and with harsh climates, attracting new staff to replace or add to the roster can be challenging. Gartmayer-DeYoung believes that a successful solution must start with awareness of the strong local culture. Mainers are, well, famously Mainers. Straightforward, proud of their heritage, understated, no-nonsense, leaning on one another. Gartmayer-DeYoung says it would help to embed that cultural knowledge into the medical training for all those who are part of the region’s health ecology: students, doctors, pharmacists, dentists, et al.
EHC has placed a cultural-immersion component into local training programs, and two professionals have chosen to settle in Washington County so far because of it. A dozen more of the 50 participating graduate students stay connected with Eastport as they continue their training. The outlook for maintaining the culture of the clinic as well is long-term: “We have built a lot of trust. We see it as a stewardship,” says Gartmayer-DeYoung.
How can we keep the young people around and offer them hope for careers?
Many people in Eastport and other towns around the country are worried about this issue. In a long-term bet, the EHC board has initiated scholarship programs. “This translates into hope,” says Gartmayer-DeYoung. Along with initiatives for boosting training in health-related fields, this could lead to strong future staffing in the health center, related fields, and a broader base for regional employment in general. Since 2008, EHC has supported 58 high-school students with more than $100,000 in scholarships and supported community-college students on health-care professional tracks, as well as staff seeking to advance their skill sets.
We have visited Eastport several times over the past six years. As part of our habit to try to keep fit while traveling, I have gone in search of exercise options in Eastport each time. Success has been elusive: The closest swimming (my go-to exercise at YMCAs and public pools) is at least 30 minutes away in Calais. Water, water everywhere, but the water was 58 degrees in the Bay of Fundy this August. No gym. No track. No rental bikes to be found. This was a short-term challenge for me, but a long-term challenge for the residents of Eastport.
As for solutions, EHC has knocked on the door of the school to access its gym for walking, and hopes this option could become a catalyst for the community. Besides extending sidewalks for all walkers, EHC hopes to extend the trails from the old railroad lines for more ambitious walkers and bikers.
It has developed collaborations—for example, with the Cancer Support Center of Maine.
It has created Community Circles, groups to build citizens’-support networks, tackling topics such as hospice care, senior needs, integrated behavior health, LGBTQ needs, recovery support for addiction, teens helping teens, understanding Alzheimer’s disease, health and wellness, food insecurity, strategic planning, governance and leadership training, and more.
Summing up the state of play in Eastport’s health-care world today, Holly Gartmayer-DeYoung says, “We are hardy people. But sometimes overwhelmed.”
This is another road report on the state of local journalism, which is more and more important, and more and more imperiled.
It is important because so much of the future of American economic, cultural, and civic life is now being devised and determined at the local or state level. Educational innovation, promotion of new industries and creation of fairer opportunities, absorption of new arrivals (in growing communities) and retaining existing talent (in shrinking ones), reform of policing and prison practices, equitable housing and transportation policies, offsets to addiction and homelessness and other widespread problems, environmental sustainability—these and just about every other issue you can think of are the subjects of countless simultaneous experiments going on across the country. Voters, residents, and taxpayers need to know what is happening (or not), and what is working (or not), in their school systems, and their city councils, and their state capitals.
It is imperiled for obvious reasons. What has happened to media revenues in general has happened worst, fastest, and hardest to local publications, newspapers most of all.
No one of these models or examples will necessarily apply in other places or circumstances. But any illustration of success is worth noticing, for tips.
This brings us to The Quoddy Tides, the twice-monthly, family-owned and -run newspaper that has a print circulation several times larger than the population of the city where it is based.
The home city is Eastport, Maine, whose library Deb wrote about recently, and which we described in our book, Our Towns. In its heyday as a sardine-canning capital, Eastport had a population of more than 5,000. Now the canneries are gone, and the year-round population is about 1,300, and nearly everyone in town holds a combination of jobs—lobster fishing, seasonal tourist businesses, work at the commercial port or in forestry, small crafts or art studios—to make ends meet. But in this setting, The Quoddy Tides has a paid print circulation of just less than 5,000, and now has more than 50 years of continuous operation. Its editorial and business office is in a white clapboard structure that at various times was a fishing-company office and then a Christian Science church, along the bay front in Eastport’s small but architecturally distinguished downtown. It is run on a shoestring, but it has some 20 contributors and correspondents in the region, and it is full of both articles and ads, and it matters in its community.
Part of The QT’s circulation secret is similar to that of Seven Days, in Vermont: It is aimed at an audience, and market, beyond its immediate hometown base. In addition to news of Eastport, The QT covers that of other down-east Maine towns such as Lubec, Machias, and Calais (pronounced like callous), and adjoining maritime islands and towns in the Canadian province of New Brunswick. It also has a substantial mail circulation, reaching subscribers in 49 states who are originally from the area, or have visited, or feel some interest or connection to it. (South Dakota is the outlier. People of Sioux Falls and Rapid City, c’mon!)
Also, like The Commercial Dispatch in Mississippi, the paper’s family ownership means that it can spend its modest resources as it chooses. It is not under external-ownership pressure to meet regular profitability targets, which has sent so many small papers into cycles of cutback and decline.
But when I spoke with the husband-and-wife couple who run the paper, Edward French and Lora Whelan, they emphasized that it was the kind of journalism they provide that has allowed them to survive.
The Quoddy Tides—named for the Passamaquoddy Bay on which Eastport sits, which feeds into the Bay of Fundy—was founded by Edward’s mother, Winifred, in 1968. She and her husband, Rowland, a doctor, had moved to Eastport from Arizona in the early 1950s, and stayed there to raise their family. (“My mother was looking for someplace not quite as hot,” Edward told me in The QT’s office earlier this month. “Coastal Maine qualified.”) Rowland became a leading local doctor, with a clinic now named in his honor. One of Edward’s brothers, Hugh, also lives now in Eastport, where with his wife, Kristin McKinlay, he runs a museum and arts organization called the Tides Institute.
In the late 1960s, as the family’s children were growing, Winifred decided that the community needed a newspaper. A previous one, from the town’s sardine-canning days, had gone out of business in the 1950s. “She had no newspaper experience,” Lora said of her mother-in-law. “But she thought these communities really needed a voice. So she talked to other small newspapers and had correspondence with people all around the country about how she should set this up.” After a year of research, she launched the paper in 1968.
Edward, then elementary-school age, grew up helping address papers for mail subscribers, and with the page layout. In those days, a fishing boat took article text across the water to a layout shop in Deer Island, Canada, and then another boat would carry the pasted-up pages back to the U.S. for printing.
Then and now, the striking characteristic of the paper is its density of local news. The most recent issue, when we visited, was 40 pages long, with many dozens of purely local, information-packed news stories.
For instance, the front page (at right) had five local stories: about the Passamaquoddy Tribal Council’s effort to defend water rights; about limits on sea-urchin fishing (a quickly growing market, mainly for export to Asia); about the impact of new tax preferences, for land conservation, on local tax revenues; a crime story; and one about an academic-freedom dispute at the local Maritime College of Forest Technology. Plus, a picture of a kayaker viewing a Minke whale—of which we saw large numbers in the bay.
In the rest of the paper you have: high-school sports. Commercial shipping schedules and tide tables. Gardening and cooking tips. Religious news. Birth and death notices. Puzzles. Local city-council roundups. A long editorial and letters-to-editors section. Everything.
“I think it’s important for newspapers not to keep cutting,” Edward told me at The QT’s office. “If you keep cutting, there’s less and less reason for people to buy the paper. If you want to keep a healthy circulation, you have to make the investment in reporters and providing the news that people can’t find anywhere else.” If there is a “secret” of the paper’s success, he said, it is “that you’re providing information that people can’t find any other place.”
Both Lora and Edward emphasized that the paper’s twice-a-month publishing schedule—the second and fourth Friday of each month, with a built-in cushion for them in the months that have five Fridays—gives them an advantage, in forcing them away from the daily or breaking-news stories that their readers would already have learned about elsewhere.
“I believe that daily newspapers struggle because they’re so often repeating what’s already been presented, either in social media or on the television news,” Edward said. “But when you have a local newspaper that is presenting news people aren’t going to find anywhere else, I think there will always be a need for that. I think that will allow local newspapers to survive very well.”
Unlike her husband, Lora is not originally from Eastport. She grew up in New York; some of her relatives ran a small newspaper in Santa Barbara, California; and she originally came to Maine, before she met Edward, to work on an economic-development project. They met, and married, and she became involved with the newspaper. Now she is the assistant editor and publisher, and does much of the local-news coverage.
“I don’t know what journalism schools are doing these days, but I really wish they would focus more on local news,” she told me. “It can be boring, I mean really boring, to go to city-council meetings every month, and county-commissioner meetings every month. But at the same time, it’s incredibly important. And at least once a year, something will come out that’s incredibly important, and that you would not know if you hadn’t been there.”
“Those are the kinds of stories that local people need to know, and want to know, and that are getting lost with some of the papers that don’t have the resources, or don’t understand how important it is to cover those boring meetings month after month.”
“It’s not exciting most of the time,” she said—and Deb and I knew what she was talking about, since we’d been to an Eastport City Council meeting that she was covering. “But it’s critical. It’s like how most of us live our lives. Not terribly exciting most of the time—but, you know, we have these moments!”
Edward had an aw-shucks, self-deprecating manner when talking about his newspaper’s influence and record. Maybe this is The Maine Way; maybe it’s just him. But he wasn’t afraid to seem earnest when talking about why he believed that local journalism mattered.
“I think we provide quite a bit of investigative reporting, and try to get into the meat of what’s happening so that people can make informed decisions. We really try to provide a voice for people in our communities that might otherwise not have a voice, so that people in power have to address their concerns and be held accountable.”
“I think that’s really the basis for a healthy democracy,” he said. “I think without community newspapers, democracy will really suffer.” It’s worth noting at this point that we’ve been following the Eastport and Quoddy Tides saga for more than six years now, and what Edward and Lora said about their paper matches what other people in the community have told us as well. It’s not unusual to overhear people saying, “Well, I saw in the Tides …”
Lora said that in a town as small as Eastport, she and her husband and their contributors knew that every day they would encounter people they were writing about, and people who read their paper. “It’s a delicate balance in a community this small,” she said. “We’d walk into the IGA”—the local grocery store—“and people would come up to us waving a story we’d written.” For a long time, she said, she and Edward didn’t have a phone-answering machine, because they didn’t want to deal with some messages.
But overall, she said, “actually it’s a blessing to feel that trust that people have in you. They come up to you and say, ‘This is what I’m worried about. Is there any way you can look into it?’ Sometimes we can. Sometimes we cannot. But it is a beautiful feeling to have someone trust you like that.”
The Quoddy Tides model may not work in other communities, and it may not work forever even in this one. But for now it’s a useful illustration of the way journalism, community, public discourse, and civic engagement can interact in a positive cycle, rather than in the destructive ways we’re all so familiar with.
Andrew Carnegie was the force of Gilded Age philanthropy behind the building of public libraries. Along with other recognizable names who made their fortune in the late 1800s and early 1900s—Rockefeller, Ford, Mellon, Morgan, Stanford, Harriman, Heinz—Carnegie’s influence endures today largely because of the way he gave away the vast fortune he amassed.
For about 35 years beginning in 1883, Carnegie donated money from his steelmaking empire (which became U.S. Steel) to build nearly 1,700 libraries around the country and another 800 around other parts of the world. He was careful about his “formula” for agreeing to construct the commanding, elegant buildings, a formula whose elements remain fundamental in the basic operations and democratic spirit of public libraries today. The libraries were required, among other things, to support staff and maintenance, to gather at least some of their funding from public sources, and to be open and free to the public to use.
It has been stunning to see the physical and spiritual legacy of Carnegie libraries—large and small—as we have visited more than 50 towns around the country for our Our Towns reporting project. It has been inspiring to bear witness to how libraries have evolved from the simple idea of serving the wants and needs of the public to becoming crucial, essential public institutions of communities in this modern era.
Around the turn of the 20th century in Columbus, Ohio, an audacious city librarian named John Pugh hopped the train for New York to knock on Carnegie’s door, and—appealing to their shared Celtic background— charmed Carnegie into donating $200,000 for the construction of the imposing granite and marble main library in downtown Columbus. Today the building has been newly renovated and expanded, retaining its original main building and entry, where the words OPEN TO ALL are carved in granite over the door. From the library’s main reading room, you can look out the two-story glass windows onto the seven acres of topiary park with more than 200 different types of trees.
In Dodge City, Kansas, a small but distinguished group of residents, inspired by the town’s women’s club, appealed to Carnegie in 1905 for support to build their public library, as he had previously done for five other towns in Kansas. He gave them $7,500, and they agreed to ante 10 percent of that sum annually to maintain it. The town’s population grew and eventually outgrew the small library. Today it is home to the Carnegie Center for the Arts.
Carnegie wasn’t the only one with visions for public libraries. I visited at least two libraries in other towns with lesser-known patrons from the same era who built libraries in the same spirit.
In Redlands, California, Albert and Alfred Smiley, twin transplants from back East like many other early Redlanders, helped develop this paradise of an orange-growing town. So strongly did Albert believe in the institution of the public library that he personally borrowed money to build the town’s public library. He then enticed his good friend Andrew Carnegie to travel to Redlands to see the library himself. During his visit in 1910, Carnegie offered these touching remarks about Smiley and the library:
Before giving libraries, I waited until I had this useless dross that men call money, because it is useless until it is put to some good use, and he could not wait. His love for the cause impelled him to give, and he actually borrowed money—borrowed the money, I say, to build this magnificent structure.
The Peavey Memorial Library in Eastport, Maine, has a story, too: not a Carnegie story, but one that is romantic and similar in its origin. In the late 1800s, Frank Peavey, a native Eastporter, built a library in honor of his father, Albert Peavey, who was born in Eastport and died there at just 35 years old, when Frank was only 9. Frank moved from Maine to the Midwest as a very young man, where he built a fortune in the grain industry. He invested in railroads and lake steamers, and also invented the first circular concrete grain elevator in the U.S. Peavey followed a kind of Carnegie model, with a twist. He built the library in Eastport on the condition that the residents of the town would stock it with 5,000 of their own books.
The library is a deep-red brick one-story building, designed in the Romanesque Revival style. Its main reading room, with a rounded bay on one end, looked to me like its best season would be winter, when people could sit, warm and cozy, reading newspapers or books. There is a collection of dictionaries along one wall of the room, including the massive 1,200-page Passamaquoddy-Maliseet-English Dictionary. It was published in 2008 and still stood proudly on a pedestal the first time I visited, in 2013. Today it remains on display in the reading room, looking a little more thumbed through.
Apart from the original entry and small room of the stacks of books, and an adjacent room with archives of Maine and maritime memorabilia, there is an addition for the children’s room, which doubles as the activities and programs room for the library.
When we visited Eastport this summer, I went to a program featuring one of the Tides Institute’s artists in residence, Ada Cruz, demonstrating gyotaku printmaking. Gyotaku? Imagine the equivalent of brass-rubbing of a fish. The room strained to hold the crowd, full of people eager to try a hand. Some of the overflow like me spilled outdoors to the book sale, where books were stacked in watertight rubber bins on tables in the backyard.
As for the rest of the programming, Dana Chevalier, the library’s director, says that it’s important for it to organize activities to get a lot of bang for its buck. It tries to be democratic (as libraries are!), integrating programs for young and old alike. The summer list of activities was chockablock and creative. In the high season of summer, when Eastport serves many tourists and summer residents as well as the year-round population, it had organized programs of paper cutting, gardening for health, rock painting, jewelry making, author talks, poetry, tote-bag stenciling, seaweed printmaking, chess, marbleized painting, paper beads, talk about vaping, astronomy, faux stained-glass windows, and home coffee roasting, to name a few.
Eastport is not a wealthy town. And it is small, only about 1,300 year-round residents. That makes for challenges for the library, which operates on a lean budget. Chevalier is the only full-time employee. There is another part-time employee and a corps of loyal volunteers.
As in most public libraries, the computers and internet are crucial to this community. Many people in Eastport can’t afford computers and can’t afford high-speed internet connection. The Pew Research Center reports that for residents of rural areas (like Eastport), access to home broadband is much lower than for non-rural Americans. Some 58 percent of rural Americans subscribe to home broadband, compared with about 70 percent of urban and suburban residents. This is not just a data point for Eastport, explains Chevalier. “It is a reality for them.”
The most serious problem for the library now is its infrastructure: a damaged roof, some crumbling bricks, and problems around the main front entry.
The library is responding on many fronts to raise the money for the fixes. On the weekend we were there, a free music festival in the library’s backyard attracted lots of residents and tourists, who donated their dollars, which will be matched equally by a generous donor. The plywood thermometer sign in front of the library was at $10,000 when we arrived, and at $20,000 a week later. That was still a long way to go to the fundraising goal, which currently stands at about $640,000. The library also recently hired a grant writer from Bangor to see what it might win from outside the town.
I frequently stumble upon a surprise or two at the libraries I visit. In Eastport, the surprise was a young man named Andrew Wach, who was at the front desk on one of the days I stopped in. Andrew, who grew up in Miami, is stationed in this way-down-east town on a four-year tour of duty with the Coast Guard. He told me that he and the others are encouraged to participate in the town, so they sometimes come over to help move heavy things around in the library. Andrew, a boatswain’s mate, is taking this several steps further. He’s thinking of going to library school when he finishes with the Coast Guard, he said, and he is volunteering at the library regularly now as a way to see and test out the realities of library work for himself.
My husband, Jim, keeps writing that the United States is in the middle of a second Gilded Age, parallel to the half century that followed the American Civil War. Now, as then, technology is creating huge new fortunes, while disrupting or destroying long-established businesses. Now, as then, migration within the country and around the world is rapidly changing communities. Now, as then, national-level politics is struggling (and usually failing) to keep up with events.
One of the outcomes of that era, he also keeps pointing out, is that it eventually triggered many broad waves of reform—in women’s suffrage, through the labor movement, in good-government efforts, in the struggle for civil rights for African Americans and other minorities. And even before that, it spawned the generation of philanthropists, led by Andrew Carnegie, who resolved to use some of their wealth to address the most acute problems of that age.
I wish the Eastport library, Andrew Wach, and the librarians of the future well. And I hope they and their counterparts around the country attract the attention of this era’s potential Carnegies.
We were flying away from Washington D.C. again, leaving the Sturm und Drang of our hometown in early August for a point nearly as far east on the U.S. map as one can get. It is “Down East,” in the vernacular of Maine, and the town of Eastport, where residents say the sun first rises over the United States, as does the moon, which gets far too little attention.
In Eastport, it is difficult to rise before the fishermen do; they are often out by dawn, returning with a catch before most of us see the sun, and then they head to the local Waco Diner, which is ready for them with bacon and coffee.
Close in to shore this morning, seagulls cry back and forth to each other. Winches lower lobster traps onto boats for setting in the bay. A few townspeople arrive at the new town pier in pickups stocked with their fishing gear. They cast their lines some six feet down from the pier to the water at high tide, and as much as 25 at low tide. The tidal difference is greatest when the moon is full, as it is now. I watched the fishermen catching mackerel, smelt, and herring for their dinner tables.
The port’s pilot boat glides silently offshore; I know a big ship is scheduled to arrive at the port this week, maybe like the Industrial Ruby, which came and went last week, loaded up with wood pulp for China. It’s a Dutch-built and -owned ship, registered in Liberia, with Russian and Ukrainian officers and a Filipino crew.
Many elements in Eastport help you touch the whole world, in a hugely romantic way rather than the fearing and dark way in which many elements in our hometown touch the world. Ships heading for China; evening flights departing the east coast for early arrivals in London or maybe Paris, their lights flickering and their huge jet engines barely whispering in our ears.
Canada is right across the water; from Eastport, you see the island of Campobello, where Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt spent summers with their family. Within a few days in August of 1921, FDR contracted a sudden series of symptoms that were finally diagnosed as polio. Eventually, he was ferried across the water to Eastport, and taken by train to New York. His dark-red house with the dark-green roof, surprisingly comfortably rambling, still stands at the top of lawns that slope down to the water. His small sailboat sits dry on the lawn. The trains have long since gone away.
On land, workers are hammering at Eastport’s 1887 Masonic Block, owned by the Tides Institute, replacing the crumbling wood beams with monstrous steel ones to keep the building standing for two centuries more, at least. It’s worth the trouble to be sure that the west side of Water Street remains solid with its row of red brick buildings.
Just uphill is the Peavey Memorial Library, which desperately needs some attention like the Masonic Block is getting so that more of Peavey’s bricks don’t crumble. Like many other public libraries, they are looking every which way to find the funds for this. There was a music festival behind the library all weekend, free but for library donations. There’s a thermometer drawn on a poster out front marking donations rising like degrees, and according to the Quoddy Tides, Eastport’s biweekly paper, a grant writer from Bangor, Maine, has been hired to seek money from outside Eastport.
Getting to Eastport from just about anywhere requires some planning and purpose. For us, it was easier than for most others. In a Cirrus, it takes about three and a half hours from D.C., which seems miraculous compared with some 14 hours of driving. We are immensely grateful for this plane.
It was a very warm and beautiful Friday afternoon to fly. From a view of 2,500 feet above the ground, everyone along the East Coast seemed to be out enjoying life in America. Through Maryland and Pennsylvania, swimming pools were swarming with clusters of tiny dots of swimmers. On inland lakes, small boats buzzed about. The mighty Susquehanna and Hudson were fairly quiet; maybe weekend boaters were not yet on the water. Beaches along the Maine coast, where the water is very, very cold, were bright with colorful umbrellas.
The skies were busy; some fliers enjoying the day like we were, and others trying to get somewhere for the weekend as fast as possible. For four hours along the mid-Atlantic, the air traffic controllers (ATC), my heroes of the skies, warned pilots half a dozen times of parachuters out for adventure. “Let me know when you have jumpers away,” the ATC would request the pilot of the adventure trip, and then pass along the crucial information to us. The ATC would occasionally speak to us: “Vector 20 degrees to the right to avoid jumpers.” I find it a little unnerving when jumpers are in the air near us. We always scour the skies, but never once have seen jumpers.
Even Air Force One was on the move that day. There was a Temporary Flight Restriction (TFR) in place that afternoon around both Bedminster, New Jersey (for golf), and Long Island (for a private fundraiser). We skirted a bit to the west to avoid the TFR, grateful that we hadn’t been caught on the ground for the long delay, which has happened to us a few times before.
I was surprised by the affluence of the American look. Not only the recreational part of it, but also the infrastructure. We spotted so many schools; sprawling complexes with new buildings in star-shaped designs, with baseball diamonds, football and soccer fields, even some outdoor swimming pools, and spacious parking lots suggesting many kids drove their own cars rather than riding in school buses. There were many rather mysterious industrial buildings, revealing few clues of what actually went on inside. Big buildings, oddly shaped; few cars; probably public buildings of some sort, but never rusty and colorless like those we grew accustomed to seeing when we lived in China. These were often freshly painted, in shades of gentle blues and greens. Happy-looking, if impersonal, buildings were surrounded by mowed and tended lawns.
Not all was affluent, and not all was lovely. Herringbone patterns of mobile homes looked fragile and makeshift. Prisons were plentiful. And in Portland, Maine, where we stopped to refuel, we knew many frustrated passengers sat inside the commercial planes on the taxiways, in line for take-off right behind us. We listened to the ATC talk with the pilot of one flight, saying something like: “Wow, you’re still here? I thought you’d be gone by the time I got back from lunch.” Then followed by, “Don’t shoot the messenger, but La Guardia just put on another hold. They say they’ll have an update in about an hour.” Even though we were only looking at the plane, I could almost hear the collective groan from the cabin full of passengers as they would receive this news from the captain.
Most cases are not life-threatening, which is also what makes the virus a historic challenge to contain.
Updated at 7:43 p.m. on Feb. 25, 2020.
In May 1997, a 3-year-old boy developed what at first seemed like the common cold. When his symptoms—sore throat, fever, and cough—persisted for six days, he was taken to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Hong Kong. There his cough worsened, and he began gasping for air. Despite intensive care, the boy died.
Puzzled by his rapid deterioration, doctors sent a sample of the boy’s sputum to China’s Department of Health. But the standard testing protocol couldn’t fully identify the virus that had caused the disease. The chief virologist decided to ship some of the sample to colleagues in other countries.
At the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, the boy’s sputum sat for a month, waiting for its turn in a slow process of antibody-matching analysis. The results eventually confirmed that this was a variant of influenza, the virus that has killed more people than any in history. But this type had never before been seen in humans. It was H5N1, or “avian flu,” discovered two decades prior, but known only to infect birds.
India’s ruling party will allow nothing to stand in the way of its Hindu-nationalist agenda.
The violence unleashed against Muslims in Delhi by armed Hindu mobs during President Donald Trump’s visit to India is a portent and a lesson. As Trump sat down to dine with India’s prime minister, Narendra Modi, on Tuesday, Hindus in the same city were beating and shooting Muslims, and Muslims were fighting back, trying to defend their homes and businesses from looters and arsonists. More than 40 people were killed—including an 85-year-old woman too frail to flee her burning home—and more than 200 people, mostly Muslims, were injured.
The Delhi police, who report directly to Home Minister Amit Shah, either stood idly by or escorted the mobs. Videos of police breaking CCTV cameras and taunting prone and bleeding Muslim men while filming them with their smartphones circulated on social media. The violence echoed that of 2002, when Modi was chief minister of Gujarat and authorities there did nothing to stem carnage that killed some 1,000 people, the majority of them Muslims. It also brought back memories of the revenge killings of at least 3,000 Sikhs in Delhi after the assassination of former Prime Minister Indira Gandhi by two of her Sikh bodyguards in 1984.
The family structure we’ve held up as the cultural ideal for the past half century has been a catastrophe for many. It’s time to figure out better ways to live together.
The scene is one many of us have somewhere in our family history: Dozens of people celebrating Thanksgiving or some other holiday around a makeshift stretch of family tables—siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, great-aunts. The grandparents are telling the old family stories for the 37th time. “It was the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen in your life,” says one, remembering his first day in America. “There were lights everywhere … It was a celebration of light! I thought they were for me.”
The oldsters start squabbling about whose memory is better. “It was cold that day,” one says about some faraway memory. “What are you talking about? It was May, late May,” says another. The young children sit wide-eyed, absorbing family lore and trying to piece together the plotline of the generations.
Even with the coronavirus spreading, lax labor laws and little sick leave mean that many people can’t afford to skip work.
As the coronavirus that has sickened tens of thousands in China spreads worldwide, it now seems like a virtual inevitability that millions of Americans are going to be infected with the flu-like illness known as COVID-19. Public-health officials in the United States have started preparing for what the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention is calling a “significant disruption” to daily life. Because more than 80 percent of cases are mild and many will show no symptoms at all, limiting the disease’s spread rests on the basics of prevention: Wash your hands well and frequently, cover your mouth when you cough, and stay home if you feel ill. But that last thing might prove to be among the biggest Achilles’ heels in efforts to stymie the spread of COVID-19. The culture of the American workplace puts everyone’s health at unnecessary risk.
The old but newly popular notion that one’s love life can be analyzed like an economy is flawed—and it’s ruining romance.
Ever since her last relationship ended this past August, Liz has been consciously trying not to treat dating as a “numbers game.” By the 30-year-old Alaskan’s own admission, however, it hasn’t been going great.
Liz has been going on Tinder dates frequently, sometimes multiple times a week—one of her New Year’s resolutions was to go on every date she was invited on. But Liz, who asked to be identified only by her first name in order to avoid harassment, can’t escape a feeling of impersonal, businesslike detachment from the whole pursuit.
“It’s like, ‘If this doesn’t go well, there are 20 other guys who look like you in my inbox.’ And I’m sure they feel the same way—that there are 20 other girls who are willing to hang out, or whatever,” she said. “People are seen as commodities, as opposed to individuals.”
No one knows exactly how much damage the coronavirus will do to the global economy, but investors have to guess.
Over the past week, stock markets around the world plunged as distressing news about the spread of the novel coronavirus continued to accumulate. In the United States, the three major stock indexes—the Dow Jones Industrial Average, the Nasdaq Composite, and the S&P 500—fell more than 10 percent below their recent peaks, a sharp decline that qualifies in Wall Street terminology as a market “correction.” One investor quoted in The Wall Street Journal called it a “bloodbath.”
The global stock market is, theoretically, the distillation of how investors think everything that happens in the world will play out in the economy. Right now, judging by these drops, investors are much less optimistic than they were a week ago. But what they’re predicting is not only how bad the outbreak could be in terms of workers staying home sick, drops in consumer spending, or supply-chain disruptions; it’s also how bad people think it could be. Those might turn out to be two very different things.
When parents portray success as a linear progression of SAT scores, acceptance to selective colleges, and high-powered internships, they set kids up for disappointment.
A 10-year-old boy sits quietly on the sofa in my office, his legs not quite touching the floor. I ask whether he’s ever thought about what he’d like to do when he grows up. With no hesitation, he perks up and exclaims, “I want to run a start-up.” He doesn’t even know what a start-up is, but he does know, in exacting detail, the trajectory he will need to take to become wildly successful in running one. Not yet finished with middle school, he has charted the next 15 years of his life: He plans on applying to the most competitive high school in town, hoping that this will increase his odds of going to Stanford. He knows he will have to serve time as an intern, preferably at Google. He is intent on being a “winner.”
Last year, I published a thriller set on a cruise. A few weeks ago, I found myself quarantined on the Diamond Princess.
Some bad outcomes, you half expect: This time the mammogram will detect an abnormality; this time the cop will notice you were 10 miles over the speed limit; this time the IRS is serious about a total audit. But you don’t expect that your luxury cruise from Japan will harbor a killer virus, resulting in your being returned to the U.S. in a cargo plane that lands at a remote Air Force base where you are ordered into federal quarantine for a minimum of two weeks, leaving you without rights, without agency, and on the wrong side of a heavily guarded fence.
At least, I didn’t expect any of this, even though I wrote a thriller set on a cruise ship—or perhaps in part because I wrote a thriller set on a cruise ship, and figured my imagination was more fevered than reality. I had imagined a murder mystery with medical clues, but I had not imagined this. I had prepared for everything, but I had not prepared for this.
The president’s team seems to see the senator from Vermont’s candidacy as a no-lose proposition.
Not so long ago, Donald Trump seemed obsessed with just one of the Democrats vying to replace him: Joe Biden. Over the past year, as the former vice president became the front-runner, Trump’s campaign spent about $270,000 on Facebook ads targeting Biden—more than it spent against other top candidates. Then Biden began to collapse and Bernie Sanders started to rise. Trump’s social-media ads demonizing “Sleepy Joe” tailed off. Yet thus far, there’s been no appreciable pickup in anti-Sanders ads. It’s as if Trumpworld might want to go easy on Sanders.
It does. Team Trump views Sanders as the weakest candidate left on the Democratic side, and isn’t eager to do anything to impede his rise, several of the president’s past and present political advisers told me. They seem to see Sanders as a no-lose proposition: The president wins whether the senator from Vermont captures the nomination or not.
How new technologies and techniques pioneered by dictators will shape the 2020 election
Updated at 2:30 p.m. ET on February 10, 2020.
One day last fall, I sat down to create a new Facebook account. I picked a forgettable name, snapped a profile pic with my face obscured, and clicked “Like” on the official pages of Donald Trump and his reelection campaign. Facebook’s algorithm prodded me to follow Ann Coulter, Fox Business, and a variety of fan pages with names like “In Trump We Trust.” I complied. I also gave my cellphone number to the Trump campaign, and joined a handful of private Facebook groups for MAGA diehards, one of which required an application that seemed designed to screen out interlopers.
The president’s reelection campaign was then in the midst of a multimillion-dollar ad blitz aimed at shaping Americans’ understanding of the recently launched impeachment proceedings. Thousands of micro-targeted ads had flooded the internet, portraying Trump as a heroic reformer cracking down on foreign corruption while Democrats plotted a coup. That this narrative bore little resemblance to reality seemed only to accelerate its spread. Right-wing websites amplified every claim. Pro-Trump forums teemed with conspiracy theories. An alternate information ecosystem was taking shape around the biggest news story in the country, and I wanted to see it from the inside.