Saturday, March 21, 2020, First Day of Spring
Today is the first day of spring. Even in semi-tropical Houston, leaves are popping out on dead-looking crepe myrtle branches. Azalea and Indian Hawthorne blooms promise seeds for babies soon to appear. Nature is going along doing what it does, oblivious to us humans, while its microscopic viruses run amuck. For all humans’ attempts to gain control, we are being put in our place. Which is to say within, not above.
After one week of staying at home to “flatten the curve” of virus transmission, Thorpe and I drive out to the country. Wildflowers in country fields are putting on their annual gaudy show. But this year the fields are not packed with people snapping pictures of their children sitting among the blooms. We had the fields all to ourselves, as not many dared venture out into the contaminated world of Covid-19. We were neither courageous nor foolhardy, however, because we took a picnic lunch to be eaten in the car if necessary and knew we did not need to stop for gas. Like others, most of the time, we stay at home not knowing what the next day will bring. A week ago everything looked different. We know now that every day things will look different.
Friday, March 13, The Week Before
The house, in Waco, my sister and I inherited from my father was up for sale for a couple of months, and now has sold. My sister and I, with our spouses, traveled to Waco for the closing on March 13 and thought nothing of it. We stayed in a hotel, albeit taking sanitizing spray and cleaning surfaces and the TV remote. We celebrated the sale by taking our two Waco cousins and their partners to dinner that evening and thought only a little of possible danger. The restaurant was packed with people eating and drinking, talking and laughing. Social distancing had not yet hit Waco, as there were no cases in the county, and the talk among our cousins focused mostly on ridiculous people stocking up on toilet paper. The cousins and my brother-in-law seemed not quite sure it was not all a liberal plot against their President.
March 17
Houston shuts down, along with much of the country. Karen flew in from Mexico last Sunday, March 15, to sign and notarize papers for a bridge loan from their San Francisco credit union to pay for their new house in Merida. This signing could not be done in Mexico. She wore a mask on the airplane and in the airport, because her work in pandemic prediction and prevention for the last ten years makes her fully aware of the danger. The visit was joyous nonetheless. Sunday night we ate at our favorite Thai restaurant—outside, as the only customers, and Monday night as one of two tables at our favorite Mexican restaurant. That will be our last restaurant meal, except for take-out for who knows how long. Today, Tuesday, all restaurants are shut.
Thursday, March 19
Yesterday the gyms and city pools closed. For my mental, as well as physical, health I began searching for a private pool. I have found one behind a scuba shop where one can buy a membership. No one else was in the pool today. I saw only two people in the shop and at a distance of several feet. What a luxury it is to be able to move in the water The water feels safe and enclosing, away from the outside world. How long this shop will be allowed to stay open is anyone’s guess.
Friday, March 20
I drove home from the pool behind the scuba shop a more indirect way than usual, prolonging the outing. On Bissonnet St. I spotted a sign in front of Picnic Deli that take-out was open. I hit the brake and swung into the parking lot. After only a few days of social distancing, I jumped at the chance for food different from what was at home. A family of bicyclists was huddled in one corner of the parking lot, and I found myself making a wide arc around them. A man was standing a number of feet outside the door, so I inquired about the food-ordering system as I approached, a good distance from him. Inside, all the tables and chairs had been removed. People were spaced around the room waiting for their orders. I hesitantly walked up to the counter and placed my order, reminding myself to clean my credit card after I paid. When my order was ready, the gloved clerk handed it to me from behind the counter, but I was careful to hold the bag in a different place. Perhaps none of this fastidiousness mattered, but I knew I had to do everything possible not only to reduce the chances of getting sick and spreading the virus but of feeling crushingly guilty if I do.
With forbidden fruit in hand, I went home. Like Eve, I shared it with my man. After washing my hands, I unwrapped the food, discarded box and paper, and washed my hands again. Then I called him in, hoping I had protected him enough from danger.
The chicken salad sandwich that I didn’t make was a guilty pleasure nonetheless, a taste, a throw-back to the old life before virus. Friends my age would call me foolish.
As I write this, soulful music is playing on the TV, where Thorpe is watching. I feel grief for the old life. The new one is only beginning.
Tuesday, March 24
The scuba pool closes.
March 31
Walking in Hermann Park toward the Japanese Garden, I go through my daily (sometimes hourly) gratitude litany and think, “The universe must be bored with all this gratitude.” Then I correct myself, “No, the universe is not bored. Maybe I am just bored.” Then the universe answers with a wind that blows the leaves on the path in a dance more intricate and beautiful than any ballet. Boredom becomes presumptuous—as in, how dare you?
Each day in the Japanese Garden, I look for a family of ducks my friend Barbara spotted a couple of weeks ago and showed me when we took our last walk together, before she decided to get out of her apartment as little as possible. So I text her the latest news. She had initially spotted six, we saw five, then today there were three. One of the gardeners says there are hawks that patrol at night. We humans hunker down against the virus, a part of it all.
Sunday, April 5
Neighbors gather ouside at 6 p.m. every Sunday for social-distancing happy hour. I see more of some of them than I have in the last year. I call vulnerable people, some I don’t know well who are part of a list provided by our assistant minister, and find they appreciate the calls. Maybe they will become new friends. Slowing down feels good; for the moment life inside our bubble feels safe. Outside, for millions, it is not.
The challenge is to find work that contributes to those outside the bubble. So I shop for groceries for the Emergency Aid Coalition, find myself giving more money than usual to a homeless person, hope soon to drive for Meals on Wheels. Small things. Necessary things, for me as well.
Houston Writers' Group 