Dear UD,
The world is closed.
Shut down. And all I want to do is talk to Mom about it. Talk to you.
Mom would scoff at the
way everyone is panicking and at the mass hysteria of hording toilet paper for Coronavirus,
a respiratory illness. Like others, she would decry the world-wide pandemic,
saying, “It’s just a flu” and thinking that the world has gone mad. That, plus
she would preach that it’s proof that Jesus is returning soon. Whether I agreed
with her or not, I would give anything to hear her voice and her laugh right
now, to be able to talk to my mom about this global epidemic, to share news articles
and concerns, and at the end of the call, have her say, “Everything’s going to
be okay. Love you, honey.” How I miss my
mom and conversations with her. All day, every day. I miss her.
And you, Uncle David, you
would sigh and point out connections between this scare and ones from the past.
You’d retell the story about when you were kids and had to hide under your
desks after the Second Red Scare to prepare for a possible nuclear attack
during the Atomic Age. We’d have a discussion that touched on history,
literature, theater, psychology, and current events. Whether we agreed or not,
I would give anything to hear your voice and your laugh, to debate this important
topic with you, and at the end of the call, have you say, “Everything’s going
to be okay. Love you, Rach.” How I miss you and our conversations. All day,
every day. I miss you.
No matter what side of
the debate one is on (people are freaking out for no reason versus the pandemic
is real and serious), the images seen around the world are surreal. From
Chinese in full hazmat gear to empty Italian streets to local stores with empty
shelves…the images are eerie and disturbing. I’ve been listening to information
from primary sources from the beginning (Uncle Bob sharing stories of Tim and
his family quarantined in China as well as the Italian student I’m hosting
providing news from her family in Italy). So I started stocking up before
everyone went crazy. Uncle David, you would stock up, just in case (and Uncle
Bob even stocked up after telling me all about the timeline of the Spanish Flu),
but Mom, she wouldn’t need to prepare, living on a farm with well water,
freezers always stocked with fresh farm meat, chickens roosting in the chicken
house providing eggs, a pantry full of canned goods from last year’s garden,
and the spring asparagus that just came up. Knowing that always made me feel
safe. The family farm was my backup plan, and now, like you and Mom, my backup
plan is gone.
I am adrift on a sea of
uncertainty, feeling unmoored, isolated, and alone.
My school has moved
online for the rest of the semester, which means working from home. The U. S.
hasn’t quarantined the whole country like China, Italy, and now France and
Spain have. Perhaps it won’t happen here, but there are rumors that it might.
Either way, we’ve been cautioned to practice social distancing as much as
possible.
I’ve prepared for
hurricanes here in Florida, but that usually only means a few days or a week at
home. The last time I remember even just two weeks stuck at home was when I was
living in the upstairs rooms in Mom’s house on the family farm in 2015 right after
Dad died and right before we lost you. That winter there was an ice storm and then a snowstorm that
kept us mostly indoors for two weeks, but it was okay because even with forced
“social distancing,” we had plenty of family members to hang out with. We
played Bridge, Spades, and Scrabble, watched movies like Cool Hand Luke,
The Blues Brothers, and Moonstruck, ate huge homemade meals
together, watched the Blue Jays, Cardinals, and chickadees at the birdfeeder,
and hiked outside down the road and along the rivers to see the glorious
ice-covered woods and structures. And the younger generation also went
ice-skating on the frozen pond and sledding. I even remember Sonny and Ben
attaching a gate to the
big red truck to take the kids sledding. Yes, we still
got a bit stir-crazy, and there were fights and annoying moments; however, we
were in it together, got through it together, and survived together. And now I
have those memories that I cherish.
But staying home now,
here in Florida, for weeks or months with only a few rooms and only one other
person to share it with feels very different. I keep thinking of Anne Frank and
her family. They were in hiding for years. How did they do it? How could they
stand it? I know they didn’t have a choice, but it is still unimaginable.
It’s not that I haven’t
gone without before. Mom and Dad scraped by, and sometimes we ate whatever Dad
could hunt. Mom birthed ten babies and only ever used cloth diapers. I grew up
sharing one bathroom with ten other people and grew up rarely eating out. But
I’ve gotten used to my comforts, including being able to go out and about
whenever I want and going to the store and buying what I need and want. But,
now the stores are out of some necessities.
And now, no one wants
to talk anymore. They don’t want deep conversations, or phone calls. Just text
me, they say. Just message me. Send a video, a photo, an emoji. But no phone
calls, that human connection when not in the same physical space, that voice of
a loved one, the sharing of words, ideas, questions to one other person who is
really listening, who cares, who is taking time to share space together.
I’ve
had a rough week, and not just because this one week held a time change where
we lost an hour, a full wolf moon, a Friday the thirteenth, and a national
emergency, but also because of communication struggles with loved ones. One
morning, I ended up in the bathroom at work, sobbing
before my classes started. Sobbing because I desire that human connection of
really talking to others, really sharing everything with them (both positive
and negative), and because I wish so much that I could talk to you and Mom
about it all. Sobbing because I want to be seen and accepted for all of who I
am. That day, I wiped away my tears, freshened up my makeup, and then went to
teach stories like Kurt Vonnegut’s “Harrison Bergeron,” and Ray Bradbury’s “The
Pedestrian.” Stories that have predicted so many things in our current society,
stories that are coming truer every day. Is the Coronavirus the ultimate pandemic
or is it the polarizing discord on social media or even the loss of human
connection as we give more and more of our lives over to media and machines?
Plus, it’s March, which
means spring and your birthday. I remember six years ago when we were all gathered
together at your place to celebrate your birthday with you. The night before,
we stayed up with Sonny, Mom, and Uncle Bob, playing bridge until midnight to
ring in your birthday. Just before midnight, you jumped the bid to three
no-trump and made it! And when the clock struck midnight, we sang Happy
Birthday to you before heading to bed. The next morning, you made customized
omelets for everyone even though you were the birthday boy, and we spent the
day together playing games, talking, laughing, eating delicious food that you
prepared, and sharing your birthday cake. Obi, Harley, and Lucky galloped in
the backyard while you walked us around your property to witness the signs of
spring: crocuses and daffodils, asparagus shoots, buds on the trees, martins
and swallows around the birdfeeder, a lone red-headed woodpecker continuously
striking a tall evergreen, and the filled rain gauge from recent spring showers.
You and Mom both loved spring, and I love spring, though now it is bittersweet.
I, too, still search for signs of spring, but there’s an ache knowing that
we’ll never witness it together again.
Happy 66
th
birthday, Uncle David. I am blessed to have had you in my life, and I will pass
along the many treasures and lessons from you. And those from Mom. You would
both tell me to remember that God is with me through even this. While that
offers comfort, I still wish…
I wish we could rewind
to back when you and Mom were still with us. I wish you had both had more time
on this earth. I wish we were together again, celebrating your birthday or
riding out the pandemic or even just talking on the phone.
Love, Rach
