Originally published May 27, 2020
Eleven weeks ago today Michael and I watched the Dallas Mavericks play the Denver Nuggets, the game during which the NBA announcers discovered that Utah Jazz player Rudy Gobert had tested positive for the Corona Virus. Mavericks owner Mark Cuban paced the floor, looking at his phone, consulting with officials and other guys in ties. Broadcasters forgot about the game, prattling on nervously about the revelation and its implications for a sport in which teams criss-cross the country to play one another in a 60-minute game of throwing a ball between 10 people who are sweating, breathing, bumping, touching, falling and jumping on a 4,700-square-foot parquet floor while 16,000 people yell, cheer, spill beer and high-five one another in an enclosed arena; in other words, panic was beginning as they realized they were broadcasting from the petri dish of a unknown and possibly deadly virus. There was talk of stopping play mid-game, erring on the side of caution and distraction, or leaning on the professionalism of the players to finish the game no matter what, damn the consequences. In the end, the Mavericks and the Nuggets finished the game, 113-97, but two other games scheduled for that night were cancelled.
The world officially came to a halt.
I don't know if I'll remember that moment like I remember coming home from elementary school and watching the news of Ronald Regan's attempted assassination, or sitting in 11th-grade Geometry class as we watched the space shuttle Challenger lift off then explode, or when my meeting with hospital administrator Phil Feisal was interrupted by his secretary as she wheeled a TV into his office just in time to see the second plane hit the second World Trade Center.
But it might come close.
These are the moments in the collective human experience where my chest collapses, my breath shortens, and I look to the ground to make sure it's still there, my mind busy, or at a standstill, I can't discern which, trying to understand what is happening on a national or like now, global level. When I feel the weight of the country, or the planet, of the implications - which we still don't even yet comprehend months later - of what happened and what will happen tomorrow, or in three months, or a year. Media reporters and political operatives began speculating immediately and hysterically, which isn't helpful. I get it, though. I remember hearing the adrenaline in the basketball broadcasters voices as they heard the news they were immediately reporting to us, without even processing it themselves, or through a sieve of experts to put some perspective on it. That's a downfall of today's immediate, 24-hour news cycle, is that there's no time to consult, digest and interpret. Report it NOW! Before the other guys!! Get more people watching our news station, which is one of dozens!!
As a kid I remember watching Walter Cronkite, with his thick, black rimmed glasses, full cheeks, gray receding hair, and, most important, calm, reassuring voice without even a hint of bias. The only time he showed emotion for the news was when President Kennedy was assassinated and, in announcing his death a short 38 minutes after he died in that iconic moment when he took a breath, gently cleared his throat and blinked a tear away, looking down at his papers - which was long before I was born, by the way, but it is somehow installed in my memory as well. I do remember that each night after the news, no matter what the news, he left Americans with his only opinion on the day's events, which was "And that's the way it is."
As our modern world slowed down that Wednesday, March 11, 2020, my mom was visiting and Isabel was soon on the way for collegiate spring break. I don't remember what I thought, but I remember feeling that this was a sentinel moment, one of those moments in life, as above, that marks a turning point in our society, our culture, our world. The axe really fell when Disney World closed, the day before the four of us were scheduled to visit Galaxy's Edge, Disney's newest attraction based on Star Wars. Word soon followed that the elderly were vulnerable, and we discussed with mom the risks of her getting on a plane, crammed into a small, enclosed space with recycled air, elbow to elbow with who knows who else, for even the short 90 minute hop home. Of Norwegian origin, she was certain of her health, announcing she would indeed fly home, because she had golf games to play, floors to mop and windows to clean. Isabel arrived in the midst of the discussion, her future uncertain too, as university administrators were watching other schools and weighing options for returning to school after the break. Stay-at-home orders had not been issued, church met one final time, and Isabel returned to the Mountain a week later on an empty plane, the effects of the pandemic broadening.
Left, at the very end of ordinary, taken March 15.
Then we came to full stop: beaches, gyms, restaurants, retail stores, movie theaters, arenas, anything where at first, 250 people, which dropped to 100, which dropped to 10 people, could gather together, were closed. The only thing left open was the grocery store, which for some reason we can now laugh about, caused a run on toilet paper, dried beans, flour, rice and meat. I'd really like to know what families were cooking at home. Restaurants pivoted to take out as quickly as they could to preserve jobs and utilize food resources. Amazon employees tried to stay healthy and meet the increased demands of online orders. And every priest and preacher in the nation suddenly became a televangelist, which I can only imagine makes Jim Bakker shake his head in dismay.
As I counted the weeks of this new (temporary) normal I was surprised that we have already reached 11. Grant it, we don't have children to homeschool, and Michael has continued to go to work everyday, being one of two people in the church office. (He was disappointed, though, to celebrate his first Easter to a camera on Facebook Live, rather than to a church full of smartly dressed Episcopalians.) He has shifted to Zoom (now a new American descriptor) Bible studies, staff meetings and even last rites for the dying. I sat quietly at home and conquered three Bronte novels in preparation for a graduate degree I'll be starting this summer, online, of course. Regular FaceTime calls with Isabel have kept me abreast of her studies and adulting, which she's doing very well. And the closure of our just-joined gym put us out on the street, walking (what felt like) hundreds of miles on South Tampa sidewalks, so many that as soon as the shoe store gently reopened we charged in and got new sneakers.
Our quarantine was broken last week when we were called back to South Carolina to make some legal determinations for Michael's dad, who at 84 is suffering increasingly disconcerting effects of dementia and Alzheimer's. It was a trip that couldn't be avoided, and was done with best precaution but also great relief for a break in my daily cycle of eat, read, walk, repeat.
We have been relieved and thankful that all of our family has remained free of the virus, though my brother felt its affects when he was furloughed a few weeks ago, and Jacob's restaurant job was long ago paused. And even though mom had just spent a week with us at the beginning of the pandemic, it felt like ages since I'd seen her.
This pandemic has stretched and distorted time.
Once we returned home, to South Carolina, time returned to normal though, as we returned to family visits that usually occur when we head home. My brother and his family came to mom's for a traditional meal of more than enough food around the dining room table that my parents bought when I was little; the Queen Anne oval looks no worse for wear despite its 45+ years of meals we've shared around it. My 16-year-old nieces have found their niche in the family culinary legacy: Madeline always prepares her favorite appetizer, guacamole, adding new ingredients each time we try it, and Charlotte has really taken to cooking as a student at the high school career center, where she spent her first year learning knife skills (which Grandma and her dad long ago taught her), and self-taught dessert skills which she now showcases at family dinners. It was an ordinary family dinner.
Right, Charlotte's strawberry shortcake. It was as yummy as it looks.
We also went to Michael's brother Sterling's house for dinner, another grand spread made by the shared labor of his three girls, Suzanne, Vivian and Clara, who lived with us for a year in the aftermath of their mother's sudden death, when they were 7, 9 and 11-ish. Eight years ago, they bickered, fought, scratched and constantly sought attention and diplomacy from their dad, who didn't always have the energy to negotiate truces; common in any family, their sibling angst was exacerbated as they searched for their new normal back then. In this visit, as all of us are in search of a new normal, their life together was cohesive and calm, the girls grown up (though sisters will always be sisters), chatting about teenage life, a first year of college cut short, boyfriends, hair trends, hopes for summer jobs and potential careers. We laughed at YouTube videos that gave insight to where their interests and influences lay, marveling at a world Michael and I seldom have insight into. It felt like an ordinary visit.
Left: Vivian, Clara, Suzanne
I also got to spend time with my best friend of 30 years, a friend since elementary school who became my college roommate and indispensable advisor thereafter. Laura's new hobby is rock hounding, or, as I like to call it, digging for rocks. This is a thing. You go to a big hole in the ground in rural South Carolina that someone has inaccurately called a "diamond mine" and you dig through red southern dirt for crystals and gems. They're not the kind you get at a jewelry store, but they hold value for some people. Lair (her high school nickname, and what close friends call her) and I talk regularly, so there's no need to catch up on life events when we're together, even in the midst of a pandemic. We did discuss the disappointment of our college-age children and their angst about the fall, but we also talked about politics (unrelated to COVID-19 policies), socioeconomic disparities, and what it is we are all looking for in this big rock pile of life. I found a couple of good rocks with some crystal formations on them, which I let her take home. Just ordinary stuff.
Right: Me and Lair and a pile of red dirt.
We got to see how my brother is spending his furlough days at The Bridge, an outreach mission of his church. Located in a defunct church within a neighborhood lacking significant resources, The Bridge provides after-school care for neighborhood kids, a small thrift shop and a bicycle ministry that refurbishes bikes for a low-cost transportation alternative. A cycling enthusiast at heart and mechanical engineer by trade have led Karl to this confluence of events that provides him great joy (I'm going to guess at that because my brother's strong Norwegian genealogy precludes outrageous expression of any spectrum of emotion) and which, he can in this pandemic time, devote several hours to each day. Renee and the kids have spent significant time at this mission as well, and led us through with great pride in what they and their church are accomplishing. At their home, we surfed YouTube videos again (the new way to watch TV) and munched on take-out pizza, as if it were an ordinary moment in time.
Left: Karl has repaired an astounding number of bikes.
Michael even got all three of his kids together at the same time, a feat enabled by the pandemic that has stolen jobs and in-person school. To get three young adults together is often problematic, if even just over the lunch hour. But Michael was glad to get to eat pizza, discuss psychological tenants with Olivia, who is working on her MSW, and girlfriends, work and workouts with the boys, Jacob and David. Everyday ordinary stuff.
Restaurants and beaches and gyms have begun to open, but not as they were before. We cannot walk to the pizza place, the burger joint or the sushi bar as we ordinarily would; we have to call ahead to ensure a table, plan to eat outside in a makeshift dining room situated on hot parking lot pavement, or, better yet, get it to go, which some restaurants are still struggling with. We cannot head for the beach after sleeping late; ensuring everyone remains six feet apart brings families early, resulting in law enforcement closing some parking areas by 10 a.m. to prevent too many on the beach. Reservations at the gym are required as well, so exercise is planned 48 hours in advance, when registration opens for each day's classes.
Life is carefully scripted now, our movements are even choreographed, like stage directions, if you've ever been in theater: the arrows on the floor at the grocery store tell us where to go to prevent us from grazing another person, a tactic many of us are not yet used to, and to get to the locker room at the gym I have to walk around and outside the building, to ensure everyone is walking the same direction. We are advised to plan our moves in concert with a million, or two or three or six million, or however many live in your city, and to remember to wear a mask, wash our hands and monitor our temperature, and to not hug, kiss, shake hands or in any way touch or get near another person. Those are definitely extraordinary conditions under which to live daily life.
While our visit home was punctuated by serious matters regarding the health and well-being of Michael's dad, the time we got to spend with family was incredibly ordinary during this extraordinary time in our nation and our world. It was comforting to return to what felt like a regular family visit without scripting, scheduling and hysterical reporting.
As a kid I would rather have died that thought I would live an ordinary, comfortable life. Perhaps that's what this time is meant to show us, that being comfortable and ordinary isn't all that bad.
In the cycle of the church year we are about to enter Pentecost, commonly known as Ordinary Time. This is the bulk of the church year, when the vestments are green, and it's not Lent (the 49 days before Easter), Easter (a 50-day season, for those of you who thought it was one day) or Advent (the four weeks before Christmas). During Pentecost the church continues its systematic reading and studying of the Bible; as a kid, it meant ordinary church every Sunday.
I find that somewhat comforting, to know that in God's time, we are entering ordinary time. Perhaps that portends well for our time too.
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