March was like waiting for a birth. The quarantine was inevitable but the exact date remained a surprise. And who would it resemble?
When it arrived on March 13, claustrophobia bit us big-time. That first day we took off for the
back woods to trace a route through a maze of logging
roads where we didn’t see a single vehicle in hours. Packed a cooler with
crusty buns, cheese and salami, mustard and horseradish, a couple of beers and
a chocolate bar.
The next day we noticed the birds. With the absence of
trucks on the Interstate, whining pickups on the county road or chainsaws from our neighbors’ woods, the chirping of birds seemed exponentially
robust. Coyotes howled earlier in the evening, apparently
confused by the silence. Long walks with our Labs revealed only tree squirrels, strutting turkeys and early spring
wildflowers.
Day and night, every window had a TV screen reflecting
off the shades. Norah O’Donnell seemed moved to tears by what
she was reporting. Media playbooks rewritten, broadcasters' backdrops moved
from studio to kitchen to artfully arranged background walls. A feeling of
watching the world as a work-in-progress. Thanks to Youtube, I attended Mass in
cathedrals around the world.
As time went on we dined like the upstairs folks
on Downton Abbey, savoring each forkful without conversation. We
planned our meals with such enthusiasm. Two weeks in, I made my first
visit to the grocery when my milk and eggs ran out. We used up our flour on potato bread and homemade
pizza. Afterwards, Kate Hepburn’s flourless brownies, and peanut butter cookies that called for simply a cup of sugar, a cup of peanut butter and an egg. Our freezer held grass-fed
beef that my son had raised, the remains of two venison hunts, and a half-pig cut
into chops, sausage and bacon. Self-sufficiency turned us into 21st-Century cavemen, surviving on barbecue meat and wine.
My husband joined me for meaningful
conversations on the porch swing after we spent days setting fenceposts and stringing pigwire on the
west property line. We cut up downed trees and hauled firewood. Framed a woodshed. Later we finished a massive spring weed-eating and pruning project while a friend's cattle grazed out the
pastures.
So it’s mid June. We're out and about to some degree, but I already miss the silence. Closets are neat. Books revisited. The family saga that needed writing is finished, a bucket list project checked off. In June I planted a garden in raised beds we built together out of scrap redwood
boards, complete with a drip system. Cherries ripen on our two trees, enough
to give to elderly neighbors. Neighbor children build a tree house in the sturdy
pine that straddles our property line. Time passes in a sweet continuum of working together, sharing thoughts, phone calls and videos with children, self-reflection.
What I loved about the quarantine was shedding the layer of
stress I didn’t know I was carrying—gone the day the shutdown
was announced. I lost weight. Trimmed my mental load and my bucket list. Best, I met
my mortality. We became friends.
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