Impromptus today begins with masks — the wearing of them — and ends on a musical note. Along the way, you have politics, foreign affairs, and other pressing subjects. Now let’s have some mail.

In an Impromptus last week, I wrote that “I walked into a store and spotted toilet paper. My eyes widened like an East German’s — or like a Muscovite’s at GUM.”

Timothy Saunders of Half Moon Bay, Calif. — a beautiful place-name, isn’t it? — writes,

Your comment . . . resonated in this household. My East German wife has told me on several occasions what enduring a complete lack of toilet paper in the former socialist workers’ paradise was like. Even when it was available, East German toilet paper wasn’t all that great, my wife having compared it unfavorably with sandpaper. . . .
Hoarding is second nature to her, just as much today as it was when we married in 1991 and she came to live with me in California. Of course one item that we always have a very large quantity of is toilet paper. I think we currently have enough to last at least a year.
In the past I’ve repeatedly criticized her for hoarding and buying excessive quantities. She always responded that I’ve never lived with chronic shortages and that it could occur here someday. I did acknowledge recently that we were fortunate that she was a hoarder and that she had been right. She gave me a look of smug triumph, which I found rather pleasant.
To make sure that the masses would at least willingly take possession of the Communist Party rag, Neues Deutschland, the overlords made sure that Neues Deutschland was printed on paper that was better suited as substitute toilet paper than any other East German newspaper. My wife has informed me that an orderly East German household always had several issues of Neues Deutschland on hand. As we’ve learned, toilet-paper shortages can arise with little warning.

In a Corner post on Wednesday, I spoke of race, the U.S. Census, and Ward Connerly. To the end of the post, I appended this:

I once heard Ward tell a story about his granddaughter, who, when little, was confused about her identity. “What am I?” she asked her grandfather. “Honey,” he answered, “you are first and foremost an individual. Yourself.”

Geraldine Hawkins writes,

In 2014 I was a seasonal ranger for the National Park Service at the African Burial Ground National Monument in New York City. Often I was called upon to address school groups of children or teenagers, mostly black. I would tell them that slavery has been around as long as there have been people, and the only reason it hasn’t existed at all times and in all places is that a handful of people believed that man is made in the image of God. I told them, “If anyone ever tries to push you around, you tell them, ‘I am a child of God, an American citizen, and a human being.’”
I got away with it, because most black people are not allergic to the word “God.”

As our national “lockdown” began, a mother asked me to do a little music program for her kids. She is homeschooling them “for the duration,” as we have learned to say. A great many other parents are in the same boat. I responded with an episode of my Music for a While.

A reader writes,

God bless my son’s first-grade teachers — they’ve gone above and beyond in delivering a vibrant curriculum for my son through his iPad and through other means. Your music podcast has been a timely addition to his distanced learning.
In addition, I have a small observation about what this time has meant for my family. After our children go to school, we almost never have the opportunity again, for the rest of their lives, to watch them learn. It’s been quite wonderful watching my son’s cognitive process and being engaged in his learning. A small benison, but, nevertheless, it has been one.

Finally, in my Wednesday Impromptus, I had a little tribute to Al Kaline, the great Detroit Tiger who passed away on Monday. He meant a lot to us Michiganders.

A reader writes,

. . . He was a childhood idol (along with Gordie [Howe, of the Detroit Red Wings], of course) for me growing up in Grosse Pointe. The idolatry continued into adulthood, abetted by the fact that the gracious Mr. K. never conducted himself in a way to fall from grace. My dear wife indulged me years ago by allowing me to name our cat “Kaline” (the Fabulous Feline). “Kaline” was one of the first words daughter #2 learned.