Birthday Pandemic Reflections

Today is my birthday, April 10.  I am now 73 years old, but if I reverse these numbers, I am only 37.  Even if I could go back in time to that age, I am not certain I would want to.  What’s the point?  My second son was not yet born, I was living in New Orleans, still green as a liberal arts dean and I had not yet imagined the trajectory of my personal and professional life – divorce and remarriage, career shortcomings and grand successes. Through them all, I’ve emerged a stronger person, more deeply rooted in knowledge of self, content to be who I am, and more intimately connected to the world about me and to the hereafter that my faith affirms will be there when my earthly being ceases to be.  

Since today is also Good Friday, holding firm to that belief brings comfort, particularly as Covid-19 ravages communities across the globe.   Inner prayer and meditation on this the holiest of day in the Christian calendar keeps me in communion with the suffering and dying.   Like Camus’ plague in the novel of the same name, Covid-19 is indiscriminate, bringing its sting to the rich and poor.  Unfortunately, in the United States, because of systemic, underlying health issues—obesity, diabetes, hypertension– people of color are dying disproportionally. Seventy percent of those dying in southern Louisiana are black, an urgent call to action that healthcare for all is sorely needed in this country.  American deaths have already surpassed those in Italy.  And the numbers climb.  

Worldwide, the pandemic has altered the rhythms of daily living.  Melanie and I are in our fifth week of sheltering-in-place.  Our days were once full of civic and community engagement – board meetings, volunteering, church, politics, social gatherings and all the things needed to maintain a household.  All of that has come to a screeching halt.  Virtual realities now replace physical interactions.   Grocery shopping is done online.  Board meetings are held through Zoom.  Each Sunday, Melanie and I attend virtual church services—she, the First Unitarian Universalist and I, a Catholic Church wherever Mass is celebrated.  I’ve been to Mass in D.C. and in Houston.  I’ll tune in to Mass at the Vatican on Easter Sunday. 

Though we miss our normal daily routines, we welcome the slower pace of our lives and treasure the time that we have together.  We have more time for conversation.  We pass our days reading, playing cards, board games, exercising and just being.  Long neglected chores like clearing our closets and files are getting attention. I’ve had more time to dither in the gardens.  I’ve cleaned out the autumn leaves, weeded and expanded one of the beds.  Melanie has rediscovered sewing; she has made face masks for each of us and is finishing a pillow covering that she began twenty-five years ago.  Our appetite for reading has expanded voraciously.  She’s been reading mysteries for which she has an insatiable appetite; she’s even listening to one on Audible.  I’ve been reading, actually re-reading, Confederacy of Dunces, the last novel of four for the one-hour graduate class I’m teaching, “Literary New Orleans.”  I just finished reading Toni Morrison’s Paradise, a novel that I will need to re-read sometime in the future to better appreciate it.  Morrison is a beautiful writer but her novels, like Beloved, demand slow thoughtful reading.  The New York Review of Books keeps me entertained as well.   I’ll begin reading soon a young adult book, Where the Mountain Meets the Moon by Grace Lin, that Melanie has read.  It’ll be a conversation piece with the grandsons in Portland, Oregon whose dad has already read, and is re-reading, to them.  It’s a chapter book that both of the boys, aged 7 and 3, have enjoyed listening to.

During our daily walks there is a disquieting silence around us.  On some days, there is an eerie ghost-like feel to the streets, few people outdoors, even fewer cars.  A welcome respite from the usual cacophony of noise. Occasionally, kids on bicycles zoom by skirting the outer edges of the street, politely maintaining distance.  On sunny days, more neighbors are about, conversing across streets, from driveway to driveway.  Chalk art and messages adorn wide expanses of concrete — a wand from which floats dozens of bubbles, a colorful chalked message of thanks to all first responders and healthcare professionals.  On another driveway, a take on a springtime ditty reminds us, “April distance brings May existence.”  On a corner lawn, placards on upright poles entertain walkers daily with a new riddle like, “What does a cloud call his shorts?  Thunderwear,” or, “What did a hamburger name his daughter? Patty. “

Perhaps it is imagined or willed, but it seems that in our isolation, neighbors are more mindful of each other.  As the elderly couple in our cul-de-sac, neighbors ask if we need anything.  And we don’t.  We’re still able to fend for ourselves.  Yet, on Saturday morning, two large rolls of paper towels mysteriously appeared at our front door.  From whom? Is the pandemic making us all gentler, kinder, friendlier?  If so, it’s refreshing. But will it last beyond the pandemic’s end?   For certain, life will be different.  There will be new norms in social engagements, business practices, and educational delivery. Virtual reality has already changed our behaviors.

Over these last few weeks of isolation, Melanie and I have made more frequent phone calls to elderly friends across the country, shared virtual cocktails with others from Taos, New Mexico; Ashland, Oregon and here in South Bend.  We’ve done Zoom or FaceTime visits with children and grandchildren in D.C. and Portland, Oregon, and celebrated my birthday over a surf and turf dinner from LaSalle Grill with Mike Keen and Gabrielle Robinson, good South Bend friends, who also ordered dinner from the same restaurant. A delicious bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, a gift from them that they had also, made the meal even more special.   Over the weekend, a dear friend from southern France called, and this Easter afternoon we received a surprise visit via Skype from Melanie’s sister-in-law and sole surviving brother.

When this time of mandatory isolation is done, I’ll  welcome elatedly real time gatherings with friends and family, parading down grocery aisles aimlessly, walking  across the street to greet my neighbor, attending Sunday services in communion with others, traveling highway or aeronautical miles to hug loved ones, and ,simply being at my downtown “office” at Chicory Café, reading a book or greeting others. 

Along our walk, painted messages of hope.