Pandemic makes April cruel again

This post was published in the Wilson Times May 8, 2020.

Fourteen years ago, I wrote a column for The Wilson Daily Times titled “Don’t Call April Cruel.” I chided T.S. Eliot for calling April “The Cruelest Month” in his most famous poem, “The Waste Land.”

A few days before the column was published on April 8, 2006, my wife and I had sat on the deck in the back of our house and took in the beauty of spring in eastern North Carolina. Dogwoods, forsythia, azaleas and daffodils were all blooming within our sight lines. Looking at the freshly mowed green grass accented with budding flowers, I wondered how Eliot could call a month so lovely “cruel.”

Eliot accused April of “breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.” Bright flowers never last. They wilt and die. All beauty is ephemeral, here today, gone tomorrow. But I just couldn’t agree with Eliot that April is cruel.

Now, 14 Aprils and at least one April tornado later, I’m beginning to see the cruelty of April in a way that the poet never did. April of 2020 has been cruel in hundreds of thousands of ways. A pandemic, sparked by an odd virus has killed about a quarter million people worldwide. North Carolina, still sparkling with April blooms, has recorded more than 400 deaths from the disease.

As of earlier this week, 69,000 Americans have died from the Corona Virus. That is more than all of the Americans killed in the Vietnam War. COVID-19 deaths are especially cruel; family members cannot visit a loved one on his/her deathbed. Traditional funerals are forbidden because they attract more than 10 people, creating a crowd that can spread the virus.

“Normal” life has come to a close. Efforts to contain the rapidly spreading virus have escalated from “social distancing” and frequent hand washing to closed schools, mandatory closing of restaurants, bars and other “non-essential” businesses. People you know are wearing facemasks to prevent spreading the invisible virus. Millions are out of work because their businesses closed or laid them off. Thirty million Americans have filed for unemployment benefits.

This April has brought out the best and the worst in us. Millions of healthcare workers are risking their own lives to treat and comfort sick patients. People are looking out for their neighbors. Families, unable to visit loved ones’ homes, are adopting video technology to create “virtual visits” with parents, children, grandchildren and others.

And the worst: Our divided politics have been ripped further asunder. Family celebrations (weddings, funerals, birthdays and anniversaries) have had to be canceled or postponed. Business owners eager to reopen their shops have chosen profits over their neighbors’ and employees’ right to live. Some “liberate” protesters carried assault weapons into the Michigan State Capitol, apparently to intimidate the state workers and elected officials there. Loud insults and implied threats have added to the cruelty of this pandemic

Perhaps cruelest of all is this: We don’t know this virus’ life cycle. Can it be stopped by the measures already undertaken? Will a relaxing of these measures invite a second wave of COVID-19 later this year? Will the insidious virus become a seasonal threat, leaving us to fight the virus month after month, year after year? Will our lives, our schedules, our workplaces, our businesses, our nonprofits, our churches, our schools, our arts and culture change drastically and permanently because of a virus that is only visible through electron microscopes?

Instead of worrying about the cruelty of April, we could have 12 cruel months every year.

Life in the Time of Corona Virus, 4.11.20

This post was published in the Wilson Times April 21, 2020

I wore a mask over my nose and mouth this morning, the same mask I wore to the grocery store earlier in the week to protect me from the Corona virus. Today the mask protects my sinuses from the pollen. I was outside to shovel five big piles of raked and swept pollen into a compost bin, to be buried in the landfill.

String-like tassels from three big oaks and comma-shaped pods from a half-dozen pines blanket the lawn and asphalt driveway.

The trees’ reproductive dust fell like snowflakes, soft and weightless. The wind picked up, and it was snowing pollen horizontally, coating cars, streets and outdoor furniture. The trees’ determination to survive coats my sinuses and my skin.

It took some time to get accustomed to the mask over my face, but medical professionals recommended them for everyone, so I complied in the hope that I might not be infected or might avoid infecting others. Wearing the mask for more than a few minutes tugs at my ears and requires me to remove the mask to wipe my nose, which drains each pollen season.

My wife made my mask from scraps of cloth left from all the years she sewed clothes for our children and gifts for others. She put the mask together quickly from instructions in a newspaper. The rumble of her sewing machine resonated through the house for the first time in months as she worked. Newspapers, which provided the concept and the pattern, and home sewing machines are both becoming rare. What will we do at the next pandemic?

For four weeks, the grocery store has had no facial tissues or toilet paper. Hoarding and panic buying are to blame, we’re told, but that doesn’t fill the paper products shelf. I recall during my newspaper days someone telling me that newsprint was just one step above toilet paper. Maybe we’ll be forced to upgrade to newsprint. Until the papers we subscribe to quit print publication altogether, I guess we’ll have a sufficient supply of a necessary product, despite hoarders.

We order takeout from our favorite local restaurants in the hope that they will survive the stay-at-home orders that have emptied their dining rooms.

We have developed the habit of avoiding close encounters with other people so the virus won’t spread. We are staying home for the same reason. We don’t want to be responsible for illness or death of others.

We have canceled two trips we had planned for this year. This was to be the year we would really take advantage of our free time as retirees. We would travel to places we’d never seen. We’d cross an ocean for the first time. But an invisible disrupter forced a revision in our plans. Our planned trips amount to nothing compared to the potential hazards if we are not vigilant in avoiding other people and washing our hands repeatedly.

I like being home, a comfortable, quiet and familiar space. Rules of fashion don’t apply here. I can wear the same jeans all week, and no one notices. But personal hygiene rules our lives. I have washed my hands so many times my skin is dry and flaking. Kitchen counters are cleaner than ever.

But the virus can strike anyone, and it’s especially dangerous for older people (like us). A cousin’s friend far away wrote a gut-wrenching account of watching her husband die from COVID-19. Because of the virus, she was not allowed into his hospital room to say goodbye, to hold his hand, to give him a last kiss, to share tearful farewells.

The thought of dying alone in some hospital isolation ward without any family members in the room, then forgoing any funeral or memorial that might attract more than 10 people provides the motivation for me to observe social distancing, wash my hands frequently, stay home, and wear a face mask when I leave the house.

A pandemic has the power to change society, culture and civilization. Already, pundits are predicting changes in retail, governance, travel, Internet use, shopping, civic clubs, religious observances, funerals, sports event, family reunions and so on.

While everyday life continues, the virus lurks unseen, waiting for an opening and shading our every thought. Songwriter John Prine died from COVID-19 last week, leaving these timely words from my favorite of his songs, “Hello in There”: “But old people just grow lonesome, waiting for someone to say, ‘Hello in there.’”