Escaping isolation by land, sea and air
For those who still recall Part I, yes, I’ve finally thawed out from the loops of “Frozen II.”
We tried something different on Disney+ by checking out Tim Burton’s “Dumbo.” I start whining early when it falls back to a troubling Mouse House formula by killing off the mom in the circus family that headlines the 1919 plot.
“What contorted device is going to explain her death 100 years ago?” I vent.
Turns out she died of the 1918 flu pandemic. My wife now calls me “Dumbo.”
Sunday, March 19, 2020:
The Kid, 8, decides late in the day that he wants to blow up an inflatable kayak and head to the nearby lake.
“It’s too late, and it’s getting cold,” I reason.
He begs. He pleads. He even almost helps.
So I scrub down and inflate the kayak, seats, etc., and pack everything in the car. Just as we reach water’s edge, my words of an hour earlier finally float into his consciousness.
“It’s too late, and it’s getting cold,” he squawks.
After we paddle out, we achieve true social distancing. The two of us are alone on the vast waters but there’s a chill between us. Monday:
Undeterred by the kayaking fiasco, The Kid asks to start fishing season. Again, this request comes at day’s end (spoiler alert, I maintain my perfect fishing record: 0-for-life).
On the way back to the lake, he randomly utters five words.
“Tempus fugit means time flies.”
I ignore that this is the first time he has ever thrown Latin at me. “Why is time flying?” “Because I can see the sun.” “Why does that mean time is flying?”
“That’s what the Romans say,” he offers.
“You know any Romans?” I ask, suspicious that he may have taken an overnight voyage on the kayak to check on Pope Francis and his crew.
“Grandma Pig, from ‘Peppa Pig,’ ” he says, noting his fave English cartoon.
I crack wise about Italian sausage, but it goes over his head like Dumbo or flying pigs.
Tuesday:
The moment I’ve been dreading is here. My computer has surrendered, so I send out a beacon in hopes of finding someone from IT, wherever they may be.
Wherever turns out to be Jersey. At one point he pauses from saving me to accept an Amazon delivery.
“It’s 100 bucks worth of toilet paper,” he chortles. “I’m not a hoarder, but it was a great deal.”
I will now pause while you check TP prices on Amazon.
Wednesday:
I need to figure out how to distract The Kid for a couple hours while Mom has an evening conference call.
So I assign him a story. He tells me he’s going to be a “billionaire reporter covering car racing and driving a Lamborghini.” We’ll be having a discussion later about career expectations.
I tell him to track gas prices from our home in Newtown to Greenwich. A tipster complained that Greenwich prices are still over $3.
We start in Brookfield, where an Irving station has regular for $1.90 (yes, I’m rounding up the 10th of the penny). We then see BJ’s for $1.66 (I accurately predict this is the price to beat). Mobil is $1.90.
After spotting $2 gas in Danbury, he chooses to cruise Route 7, where the price spikes to $2.80 at a Redding Mobil and a nearby Shell. The fluctuating Shell prices along Route 7 are always perplexing. It is $2 in Wilton, $2.13 at one Norwalk station and $2.30 right across the road.
The Mobil on High Ridge Road in Stamford is $2.30. We stop for ice cream at Carvel (reality check, this was never about gas).
En route to Greenwich, we pass the evening Dairy Queen crowd. Due to social distancing, the queue looks like it’s spaced out to the border of Bedford.
Greenwich stations are in the $2.20-$2.45 range. But after checking in with my tipster, I find the Mobil on East Putnam matching Redding’s jarring $2.80, a full buck and 14 cents more than back at BJ’s. You’d save coin making the hour drive and back.
Thursday:
The Kid busts out a throwback Atari console emulating the video games of 40 years ago. While playing Space Invaders, I have the epiphany that this is the root of my carpal tunnel.
Friday:
Life is back to normal for some members of our household.
The Pup and two cats could care less about the pandemic, but the dog had to be rushed to the vet and was laying low (during which the cats took turns surfing the wheeled ottoman across the living room with abandon).
A $3.19 pull toy in the image of Kylo Ren from “Star Wars,” caused a $700 vet bill. The Pup tore Kylo into more pieces than Anakin Skywalker at the end of “Episode III: Revenge of the Sith,” and gobbled him like the Sarlacc lapping up Boba Fett in “Episode VI: Return of the Jedi.”
Let’s just say I didn’t care for this finale and don’t need a sequel. Saturday:
I paint the window frames in the home office from a worn, dimmed cherry to a bright white. It’s the best I can do to change the view through the looking glass, void of passing cars, of gathering neighbors, of the life we took for granted.