The sun finally came out even if the air still has that touch of winter in it.  Maybe it’s a reaction to the constant barrage of Covid 19 news, but I spent the last few days pressure washing every concrete and brick surface around my house.  I started with my little, ten-year-old washer until it became unavoidably obvious that the “pressure” part of its name no longer applied.  I held the nozzle half an inch from a patch of moss, and I could hear the moss singing like it was in the shower.  Such a display of impertinence.  An hour later after a brief foray on the Internet and a quick trip to Home Depot, I obliterated that saucy little patch of moss and most of the grout between the bricks with my new, supersized pressure washer, 2300 PSI, baby.  A man, a power tool, a sunny day.  My concrete surfaces have no viruses.

Giving in to the panic, briefly, I stocked up on extra food, at least the stuff that was still on the shelves.  No chicken.  Seriously, no chicken, not in two different stores.  I am standing there staring at the empty case thinking, will I be doing this in a month grabbing any damn cut of meat still on the shelf, even the one slightly past its due date?  Ham hocks anyone?  It gave me a real, deeply felt moment of what it must have been like for my parents in the Great Depression and leading into the shortages caused by WWII.  Throughout my childhood, my mother, age 89, delightfully and gratefully ate a poached egg every single morning for breakfast, something she could not get as a child.  

Life has changed, but that is not to say it has become unbearable or even terribly difficult.  In fact, Melissa spends the day at home teaching her classes online.  Right now, I am sitting with the sun on my back not ten feet from her half listening to her students discuss whatever novel they have been reading.  Yesterday, Melissa dressed up for an online class.  “What, I need to be on,” she said in response to my raised eyebrows.  Understand, I was wearing REI moss-spattered rain pants and a sweatshirt way beyond the “give-away” stage.  I had a date with some doomed moss.  I walked outside in my rain garb, protective goggles perched on my nose looking like some crazed owl.  I am king of my damn castle, buddy.

Not everything is one hundred percent.  We are anxious to get Meg home from Chile.  My heart goes out to the other parents whose kids were in Europe.  As things go, she should be better off than most of the stranded kids across the globe.  Some of her friends have flights that connect through Brazil.  Border crossings are not great right now.  Meg has a long flight, but at least it has two hops inside Chile before the long trek to L.A.  She’s moved through the disappointment into her Wonder Woman resilience.  She told me on Facetime yesterday in that not so subtle, but devilishly playful way that if I felt like making a pie, now would be a good time.  Maybe life really is a more dynamic version of a slot machine.  Every so often, a child happens to hit with the perfect combination of genes.  Of course, I would say the same thing about all my kids.  Maybe the better way to put this is that every so often a child, unfortunately, hits with the worse possible combination of genes, and then becomes president, or the CEO of American Airlines, who, to protect profits, has cancelled 70% of his airlines flights despite the thousands of people, mostly college kids, trying to get home.  

On Friday I watched the PBS News Hour, the last real news show on T.V.  David Brooks, appearing as he always does on Friday with Mark Shields, was asked for his take on the Covid 19 virus.  Brooks, a republican, called Trump a sociopath who cares more about “the numbers” than human lives.  Sadly, he is right.  Consider for a moment that Trump’s inability (or refusal) to effectively test for the virus nearly two months since the first case appeared will undoubtedly result in otherwise avoidable deaths.  If I let that fact sink in too deeply, I can’t deal with my rage.  Mark Shields reminded David that Americans found the courage and wisdom to pull together to get through the shortages and fears surrounding WWII as well as the polio outbreak.  For years those two thoughtful, respected journalists have civilly discussed about every divisive issue in politics.  I find hope in the strength of their relationship. 

The ski season has come to an abrupt close like most everything else.  Josh, like a pig in slop, wallowed in the slopes last weekend for the final hurrah.  I understand people in New York are still in a state of stunned disbelief that bars are closing, and this during the week of St. Patrick’s Day.  I don’t mean to make light of these changes.  It is disconcerting to say the least.  Yet, I wonder if this isn’t exactly the kind of two by four upside our heads we needed to stop already with the obsessive, incessant fearmongering and hate speech.  Maybe, cloistered as we will be, we will find a breakthrough, a moment of stillness, an awakening to the present.  Maybe we will stop thinking and feel how real and good it is to be alive, to be with family (even virtually), to remember what it is like to let go of the seething mass of ultimately inconsequential “urgent” tasks that have become a perversion of life.  Maybe we will feel the deep, rich, inexpressible joy of remembering that we love and are loved.  As we hunker down in our moss-free homes, let that thought fill us.  I do not understand why suffering exists, but I take comfort in knowing that in the worse suffering there is always a glimmer of joy, a redemption that confounds any attempt at rational thought, or any thought.  It simply is. This too shall pass, but I sincerely hope I don’t lose the lesson in it.

And now, there is the sidewalk that requires my attention.