It’s been a year, and the end is in sight
“If you die over there, I’ll n ever forgive you.”
Exactly a year ago, those were the first words in the first chapter of what over time became known as the Geezer’s Diary, the Corona Diary or some combination of the two.
Back on March 10, 2020, my daughter Hallie was concerned that I’d blow off the nascent pandemic, follow through on a long-planned trip to Greece, and croak in the process.
It took her a day or two to talk me out of the journey. Logic, a cascade of early March developments and, eventually, stark terror helped convince me.
So, retreating to my Yankee Hill home, I began to write.
I viewed this diary as a coping mechanism, a way to survive a quarantine that I then speculated “could last weeks or even months.”
But a year? If someone had told me I would be holed up
for more than 365 days, I would have dismissed it as lunatic ravings.
And — had I been assured this was in fact true, and that I would not be paroled from the hill — I would have wallowed in self pity. What could have been the best year of my remaining life (after all, I'd never be younger) would instead be spent in exile.
But here I am, an actual year and more than 100 Geezer Diary entries later, somehow getting by. At long last, the end is actually in sight.
So how did I do it? How did we all do it?
One day at a time. Yes, there's something to be said for long-term planning. But when it comes to surviving a deadly pandemic that has an appetite for us oldsters, it's best not to look much further than tonight's dinner (make mine Zelda's Pizza, please).
So that's how I've written this diary:
“What is on my agenda today, and how am I going to deal with it?” I'd ask myself. “Would it be even remotely interesting to readers going through the same thing? And is there any humor in it?”
Because once you run out of stuff that makes you laugh, the end may truly be near.
Still, finding humor has been tough as the pandemic has chewed through the months. First the virus claimed contemporaries, then people I had heard of, and finally, Tuolumne County folks that I actually knew. Mercifully, at least for me, it stopped short of killing close friends or family.
There are no laughs in sickness and death, but there are some in our communal struggle to survive. I even found it in my own kids' belief that their dad, age 74, was by far the most likely in our family to fall to the reaper.
My trips to grocery stores and pizza parlors inspired generational anxiety. My decision to take a weeklong train trip in June spurred questions about Dad's sanity. And their outrage over a photo of me with an arm draped around a pizza delivery woman in Montana stopped just short of forced incarceration.
But I have somehow survived: With my second COVID shot just days away and my 75th birthday around the corner, I can finally exhale. And, as much as I love Yankee Hill, I can't wait to escape.
Shortly after I began my isolation and writing this Corona Diary, the ever-perceptive Hallie pointed out an irony: “It's the exact opposite of those stories you wrote on your round-the-world trip back in the `80s,” she pointed out. “You're going nowhere.”
“Our man in Egypt,” “Our man in Kenya,” “Our man in Burma,” or “Our man in New Zealand,” my publisher, Harvey Mcgee, would headline those 1981-82 pieces.
My Geezer Diary entries could be “Our man in the kitchen,” “Our man in the laundry room,” “Our man buys masks,” or “Our man searches for a shot.”
So what have you morerecent Diary readers missed?
Over the months I've discoursed on thermometers, masks, grooming (or lack of same), diet, news (and the wisdom of not reading too much of it), roadside junk, squatters (“Let `em stay,” I opined), dogs (many entries), cats (one), roadside dumping, the absence of sports and the return of sports.
I've written about hiking (“I never hear COVID'S footsteps behind me on the trail”), extrovert vs. introvert (I am both), racism (“No vaccine can eradicate it”) and trying and failing to buy a mattress from an outfit that has a “sustainable evolution team” and a bevy of “brand-experience advocates.”
In July, I listed possible future evidence that the pandemic is over: “Hugs are no longer seen as lifethreatening assaults,” “We only wear masks on Halloween or during bank robberies,” and “Lack of legroom replaces fear of death as the chief complaint among airline passengers.”
At the suggestion of a longtime friend, I also resurrected occasional stories from my 14-month 1980s trip.
“A lot of new Democrat readers have never seen them,” she pointed out. “And those of us who have are probably so old that it will be like reading them the first time.”
As, in fact, it was for me. When I received six weeks of radiation treatments in San Rafael early last fall, I wrote about that: `The hoped-for end result is that the cancer in my prostate will be wiped out and I can start worrying about something else knocking me off.”
Then, ironically, I reported on seeing a fellow Extended Stay America tenant in his 70s die in the motel's lobby — after the desk clerk and then a team of paramedics had done their best to save him.
“Such is the fragility, the transience of human life,” I reflected. “The takeaway: See your wives, kids, brothers and sisters as often and as soon as the pandemic allows. Celebrate holidays and partake in feasts. Tell stories and listen to them, write friends, swap jokes and enjoy ballgames. Take trips and enjoy those longplanned reunions as soon as you can.
“Because you never know when you might die in a motel lobby.”
Which brings us back to right now: Yesterday I got my first hug in more than a year (from daughter Hallie). I will get my second COVID shot at Sonora's CVS Friday. And two weeks later, on March 26, I will have acquired full vaccine immunity.
Two days later, I will depart on a road trip to see my brother and his girlfriend at their beautiful new house in Tucson.
Then I'll travel to my childhood home of Chicago. Next maybe to New York to see older son Ben and his fiancé, Rosy. Canada's on my list, to see cousins. I'll also drive down to LA to see Hallie and her husband, Jack. And up to Chico see younger son Nick and his girlfriend, Adia.
I want to ride more trains, see more national parks and put a lot more miles on my Mustang, preferably with the top down. I'm ready for freedom, travel and making up for lost time.
So, a few readers may be asking, “What will become of your diary?”
Although the coronavirus is receding, I still am still a card-carrying geezer (inspection of my vaccine certificate is welcome). And I am still a writer, and one who proved in the early 1980s that he can travel and scribble at the same time.
So a far-flung, geographically varied diary will likely continue. But, knowing that I'm out enjoying my newfound freedom, be prepared to put up with the occasional hiatus.
Finally, if the accursed virus somehow rears its ugly spiked head again, I'm not giving it ink.