Flying across the desert from Texas to Tucson
But, we’re headed for the southern star
The Captain said it’s fine in Havana
And this dude behind me needs a cigar.
Shanghaied in Shanghai, by Nazareth.
Last week a co-worker brought in a box of Girl Scout cookies. Not just a box of cookies, it was a box with boxes of cookies. He won them in some sort of internet lottery and was nice enough to share the wealth. I took a box of Thin Mints and thanked him.
I realized that most of the little Girl Scout salespeople were forced into early retirement. No tables set up in front of the grocery store manned by a harried-looking parent and several delightful children basking in the afternoon sun peddling their cookies. There were no friends, family members or acquaintances calling or emailing to strong-arm people into a box of Do-si-dos, or Samoas. It never dawned on me how difficult it became to buy a box of Girl Scout cookies.
How many things have we lost, how many things have been pulled right out from underneath us? Our lives have been upended, one small act at a time.
I don’t stop and get a cup of coffee on my way to work anymore. I miss the smell of fresh pastries, hot brew and the indistinct, inconsistent shuffle of crowds. There was a brotherhood involved in standing in line, the camaraderie of the queue.
Sometimes it was with construction workers, serious, strong, no-nonsense, silent types, breakfast sandwiches and black coffee. Or it might be high school students and their exaggerated responses to everyday situations ordering Donut Holes and sweet, iced coffee, so rich and creamy it could be dessert. Sometimes I’d get lucky and follow a family with young children, their faces shiny and happy. They were getting a treat. You haven’t really lived until you see a three year getting a cardboard container of milk and a glazed donut.
There is an Embassy Suites in La Vista NE that had an amazing made-to-order breakfast. Had. Now it probably hands you a bag with some prepackaged refrigerated sandwich topped with a cheese-like substance. If you’re lucky it will come with a banana, or apple, and if you’re real lucky you’ll have a couple of packets of hot sauce from the Mexican food you bought the night before. You had to take it back to the motel and eat because either the dining room was closed or it just wasn’t worth the risk. If you aren’t lucky it will come with a small package of stale cookies and a few extra packets of salt.
That’s if you’re brave enough to travel. We would have to cross Iowa to get there, and that’s a roll of the dice all by itself. Iowa was always bright red when they used to show the map of places to avoid; red was a sure sign of a place to avoid. Even as the rest of the country was fighting toward the more pastel greens and blues, Iowa and its fierce Republican tendencies held onto the critical “more than 15 infections per 100,000 metric.” Nobody’s going to tell them how to live.
I miss long weekends at a state park cabin. Everybody who can’t fly anywhere or take an ocean cruise bought a kayak and started staying at these frugal, comfortable hideaways. It’s almost impossible to find one open. On our last trip, a couple of years ago, we stayed at a remarkable little park in the Appalachian foothills by the Ohio Kentucky border. The people in the cabin next to us were new to the experience.
They started their charcoal grill about the same time we did. And, then the rain came, a driving, relentless, soaking rain. My wife built a little tent out of aluminum foil and used it to cover our steaks. We sat on the covered porch with a glass of wine. When it was time to turn and season the steaks I would hold the umbrella and my wife would take care of the cooking. The father/husband/grill chef in the cabin next door stood in the rain and kept dousing the briquettes with lighter fluid to keep them burning, sending plumes of black smoke curling, drifting up into the pouring rain. It was like a scene from Apocalypse Now. The smell of burning mineral spirits was roiling over and soaking into the poor, wet hotdogs. Imagine the taste, I think they probably just ate the buns. I miss seeing people living their life in the crazed demand of the moment.
I miss being able to go to the store and just wander around. I miss the gym and the barbershop and life with people. I know this is small, whiny and self-absorbed. I know a lot of people have lost jobs, and too many families have lost loved ones, and my heart breaks for them.
More than anything I want it to be over for everybody. In two weeks I will get my second shot and two weeks after that I will be vaccinated. I can’t understand why anybody would decline, it’s an act of solidarity, an act of family and love.
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This post is republished on Medium.
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