Maybe the subliminal messages of online ads finally achieved their cumulative effect because I'm thinking about the word "census." Although not necessarily the 2020 effort (which apparently started in Alaska). 

I consider a census in the broadest definition – a survey and enumeration of some group. My thoughts often lead to species and attempts to understand the biodiversity contained in small boxes. But the door to that mental hallway is almost always secondary to another instinct.

Fire.

Fire creates roadblocks in historical research because officials in DC stored the 1890 federal census records "on closely placed pine shelves in an unlocked file room in the basement of the Commerce Building." Guess what happened?

The 1890 census – so reduced that it now fits on a few rolls of microfilm – asked for the first time some questions that illuminated a changing country. Home ownership. Civil War veteran status. For new immigrants, the number of years lived in the U.S.

Reuben James, inventor of the machine pictured above, farmed in Indiana and later owned a textile mill. We know this and more because of census documents, where you can also find some great handwriting inspiration.

Returning to the more expansive view of the word, I'm sure the pandemic has influenced this month's theme too. Like many, I can count projects delayed or defeated by the crisis. I can also note the number deaths and tally blessings, beginning with my own health.

Most frequently, however, I mark loops walked around my block. Those daily pauses allow for a "measurable tremble of...association / With all those who have been counting."
 

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