Unexpected space

The Strenuous Life

The swing set sounds the same. The sweet rhythm cadenced by creaks of metal chain straining against the crossbar, propelled by little legs reaching for the sky, then tucked underneath in a backwards pull. Swing sets make those sounds, those familiar groans that translate into playground joy, the rhythm entrancing.

This is not where I expected to be this afternoon. I’m usually in a meeting or tending to a student or communicating with parents and teachers at this time. Instead, I’m at a swing set, watching my child play, listening to the familiar sounds of youth.

The pandemic has erupted into a combination Rachel Carson/Stephen King tome. Just days before its impact reached Arkansas, I read articles about kids being overscheduled, about wounds to the climate caused by travel and overuse of resources.

It’s as if Carson, of Silent

Spring fame, echoed her warnings through the generations and suddenly everything stopped.

Then came King, who brings descriptive fear to every circumstance. Economic collapse. Illness. Death. And that nagging calamity, uncertainty.

Today brought the two authors together in one trance, one strange thought where suddenly the climate is not as impacted by human interaction and, at once, fear ripples across every demographic. The swing set’s rhythm never changed.

Here we are in this unexpected space, I thought, learning how to use the time we have on our hands, learning how to swallow the angst that awakens us in the middle of every night.

I’m thankful for my home and all in it, but its walls suddenly became smaller as kids moved back. The oldest showed up very early into the crisis and, seeing his five siblings splayed across the four corners of the house, decided to try his chances in Memphis, where he lives and works. Smart young man. We’re a lot.

The two college children returned home because their spring break plans altered. They stayed. Their university shut down and has yet to allow them to return to gather belongings from dorm rooms; my daughter’s graduation was postponed until fall. Neither is happy about online classes. Neither is happy sharing space with parents who enjoy their company far too much.

The high school son serviced his lawn mower and called on customers between online classes. His college brother helped when he could. The junior high daughter counted her steps on an exercise app and tried to exceed them every day. The youngest isn’t sure what’s going on. She still paints, colors, listens to mom’s lessons on spelling, counting, and snakes. She wonders where her friends are.

My wife and I painted my daughter’s room. Then, the kitchen. And the other daughter’s room. And a bathroom. We stained a porch swing and other furniture, and rearranged the house. My wife was furloughed. I work during the week but have no meetings at night or on weekends, an impossible thought for a school administrator. I ride my bike to campus since there’s no traffic.

The kids built a large garden, planting vegetables and perennials. The yard never looked so good. Cleaning the carport was cathartic and repairing the refrigerator invigorating, somehow.

We cook every night and eat on the sun-curtained porch a lot. Tacking a sheet to the house turns the backyard into a movie theater and we spread out in lawn chairs while the mobile metal fire pit glows. We hiked Petit Jean before the main trails closed. Now, we go on runs in the neighborhood and hike the Allsopp Park trails, making sure to lift a few rocks in the creeks, uncovering tadpoles and crawdads.

We’ve argued over little things. Drank more Jack Daniel’s than usual. Eaten healthier and more consciously. We watched the news too much at first and let confusion weave into our brains before releasing, forcing ourselves to dig common sense out of the little folds in our heads.

We dream vividly now. Weird dreams remembered even after the day takes shape and our interrupted mindfulness moves forward. It’s quiet at night. We read a lot.

This is not where I expected to be. The threat of illness and death reaching loved ones, friends, and even those I don’t know causes angst to mount. The death toll clicks away like numbers on a gas pump hell-bent on filling every bit of ground with victims’ graves. I worry about the economic impact of the disease and take steps to mitigate it for my family and others. At least, the best I can.

Carson’s Silent Spring?

King’s The Stand?

Slow us down, Lord, I used to say. But not like this. Please, not like this.

So here we live in this strange world, the pieces displaced but the swing set still creaking. We’ve taken our time. We’ve filled it with books and gardens, hikes and movies, arguments and “I’m glad I’m with you’s.”

We’re uncertain how much longer we’ll be doing this. But we know it’ll end soon and we’ll be ready for it, ready to explode into physical interaction and collaboration once more.

In the meantime, we’ll do what it takes to fill this unexpected space.

Steve Straessle is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org.