Easter
The first indication life was changing was the airplanes. Or the lack of them. The 5:30 a.m. jet has been fairly consistent, but early evenings are now stark, without the line of planes emanating from the east. They would line up, like scenes from alien space movies, gliding a safe distance apart, heading toward O’Hare. Once in a while a seemingly stray airliner flies just to the south, but otherwise the sky is quiet until between 10:30 and midnight, when a late night flight to a near-empty terminal passes by.
Down below, we are fighting our impulses in order to glide our own safe distance from one another. For a while, I took a near-daily walk in a large circle around my city neighborhood, until it became clear we were heading toward a spike in virus cases. Generally, people avoided each other. But then came the couples, strolling confidently, sometimes hand holding, sometimes cuddling. Dog walkers are no better, though they have little choice; they have to dominate the sidewalk because the dog doesn’t know anything except what it wants to sniff or where it wants to poop. I gladly head toward the curb or out in the street.
The airplanes have been replaced, in regard to noise, by the ambulances. Being city dwellers, we are used to the traveling alarms, but now they seem more dramatic.
I am fortunate to live four floors above the microbe minefield, and our rooftop allows me to do my walking in laps around it, without having to wear a mask. In an hour I can get at least three miles in, those eight thousand steps the experts said were good enough to maintain longevity. If I were smaller, it would be more strides, less distance.
Maintaining longevity. Isn’t that the kicker? Having settled into a favorable pattern, I am very excited about the surprise loss of weight as my wife and I have settled into a near-routine, broken only by an occasional drive or walk to a restaurant for curbside pickup or a drive to the local grocery to pick up an always surprising order delivered to my car by a worker. The store, often strapped for workers and supplies, has to interpret our order list when what we want isn’t around. So, the Crisco my wife wants turned into butter-flavored Crisco sticks, not what she wants. This time they didn’t ask. And don’t ask for certain canned goods, like Great Northern Beans for Chrissake. The hoarding, another kind of social distancing, continues unabated after pleas from our leaders not to.
Meanwhile, the southwest side is attacked by two viruses, one the COVID-19, the other one something that has besieged the community for decades, the gun violence that also respects no one. A significant percentage of our black population is now endangered by both. Culture does have something to do with it; our mayor, a brave and stalwart black woman, has taken to driving around town, telling mostly younger people to stay home and stop gathering/partying. That was up north; south of there a young woman was gunned down a few days ago for talking to authorities. I don’t know who started the rumor that African-Americans were immune to the virus. In my lesser moments, I think that person should be shot.
Self-awareness is good, but this self-awareness is disconcerting. In these pre-Spring days, my wife and I experience nasal-related discomfort, and living with it this time created drama we don’t enjoy. All of a sudden I remember the moment I stepped into a near-empty favorite Mexican eatery, picking up an order of their awesome burritos. I was a fairly safe distance from the worker on the other side of the counter, who had me finger-write my signature on an iPad before handing me my packaged food. And then the report emerged about how those friggin microbes exist in aerosol, for Chrissake. Who was standing there before me, and how long ago was that?
Fourteen days later, with no warnings from the establishment, I feel a bit better, emotionally. Since then, only one indoor visit, to pick up my prescription a half block down the street. There, a see-through barrier separated me from the pharmacist. I zigzagged through the store on the way out, a patron of a cruel cornfield maze.
During that time, simple pleasures like reading weren’t as simple. Distractions abounded, even in the relative quiet. A new Facebook post, a new video or testimony from a virus survivor, a new set of figures created new distractions. One day I just decided I needed to revise a jazz column I had written, just to do something that felt like activity. Yesterday, for the first time, I made clear headway into an actual book.
So far, so good. Maybe.
Why all this angst? During the evolution of a new reality, I turned 70. I went from being in the early-careful populous to the NEXT STAGE. Now that occasional, uncomfortable top throat becomes an existential crisis. I change from non-alcohol after-brushing rinse to something antiseptic. It helps. My nose still runs after a certain walking distance and after eating anything with any kind of red sauce or spice in it. Oh, so strange to be joyful over a drippy nose!
We are truly fortunate. Retirement income helps. Our upstairs condo lets us reside a safe distance from the sidewalks. My wife and I are now married 48 years, and we still talk to each other, mostly unagitated. Mostly. Once in a while I laugh at something on TV, and then recoil, feeling guilty that I can while many others can’t.
Today, on Easter, after the Internet church video, I will drive to a favorite brunch spot, and a nice lady, herself African-American, will place containers of delicious, Southern-esque food onto the counter. We’ll tell each other to take care of ourselves. I will take it home, where we will divvy what we keep and what our two daughters and family members will eat after I deliver it to them. We will have Easter brunch together via Zoom or Messenger or Skype. Up north, our other two children will spend our monetary holiday gift on their own muted celebrations.
“He is risen.” Forgive me if that well-worn but still stimulating religious expression is also mine, for Chrissake, but now every.single.glorious.morning.
--Jeff Cebulski
Chicago
