The strangest thing how quickly it can all change.
I know this neighborhood of Shannondale, situated on the cusp of Jefferson County, already the easternmost in West Virginia, a once-mountain-cabin-weekend-getaway with a man-made lake turned bedroom-community for Washington, D.C., is an off the radar sort of place, a Hillbilly Villa, a rural pastimes island amid the farmland being cultivated into developments, as well as more than a bit late in the swirl of events and closures and shutdowns sweeping from one end of the globe to the next. But the world's finally arrived and this is the end of my family's first week in what is by all signals likely to become our new norm: staying at home.
In my introductory sentence, I mention how strange "it" can all change. By "it" I mean the world, life, day-to-day routines. Perhaps it's not all that strange—just watch any movie or read any story on the topic of end-times or armageddon or the collapse of society and you'll see that many storytellers predicted perfectly well the reactions of people; predicted the panic.
I have to admit I caught my own small dose of panic this week. It came as a result of two texts, received by my wife, Kelsey, where a friend in California mentioned that a local restaurant, since all gathering in restaurants is banned, was offering meat and veg combo dishes to-go. But when she tried to order, they were sold out. Also, my father-in-law mentioned he had been some three weeks without paper towels or fresh meat and seafood; the shelves at his local grocery remain empty.
That's what sparked a bit of the panic in me. I said something along the lines of: "They're weeks into this contagion business and things are still sold out?"
The panic-buying had only just begun here...
However, my panic was not for myself or my wife so much as it was for the baby, our eight-month old. He goes through formula so fast. And he's eating many more ounces than Kelsey can produce.
It did not help when every online retailer I went to listed this formula or those baby wipes or this size and number of diapers as "unavailable" or "out of stock". I could feel the eyes of other parents, worrying for their own babies, prowling over the same products pages...
Eventually, Kelsey and I found our own workarounds. We have a six-week supply coming in of Similac powder formula and a new subscription for diapers and wipes. We're already somewhat stocked-up more than normal as it is, since Kelsey had the foresight to buy extra water, etc. weeks ago—well before I, or anyone else in Jefferson County, it seems, contracted the hoarding bug.
Scarcity.
That is its own enemy; its own fear; its own devil whispering conspiracy theories in people's ears and turning sister against sister.
Perhaps consumerism itself, that offshoot of capitalism, has its own dog-eat-dog nature, or its relevant cousin of individuality, each in their own way hamper our potential trust in one another. We're so often all out for ourselves. My money, not yours. My baby's diapers, not yours. Winner-takes-all. My home. Stay away. No trespassing. My health. Someone who contracted the coronavirus called everyone whom they had been in contact over the last couple of weeks and reported afterwards that some of their "friends" had retorted with a nasty: "Did you do this to me?"
The hoarding bug, which I might rename the selfishness bug, may itself prove to be more contagious than the COVID-19 coronavirus, though I don't mean to belittle or dismiss the cancellations and closures and directives from one Governor's office after the next as overreaction. No, I am well aware of the lung-eating horror of this new contagion and I, too, can find that fear of infection within myself, like a soft black stone plopped into one of my arteries; think about it, consider seriously getting this disease for a moment, and your heart skips a beat.
Not only for yourself but for your loved ones.
These are the twin fears—one of real contagion, the other symptomatic of people's panic—twining through our lives right now.
But, here we are, inside our mountain cabin turned home, socially-distancing ourselves and isolating ourselves, and through it all I find I am grateful. I am grateful because, despite the news—which I've been going on a diet from—there is still a lot to celebrate and enjoy.
Though we are pushed indoors by decrees and directives and the general state of things, we are also pulled out of the door by the brightening sun and the warming air and the spring-time aromas drifting in our now opened windows. Like the dandelions, tulips or lilies thrusting up out of the ground, through the leaf litter, or the clematis winking its buds out of seemingly emaciated stems, or the crimson flush to the tops of the maples, the world is coming alive once more. There is more birdsong in the canopy than there's been in months. The pixies have done their work and woken the wildflowers from their hibernation. The cardinals' plumage is reddened and they are feisty and ready to mate.
We put our potted plants back out onto the porch.
I'm grateful to have plenty to do around the house. Whether tearing out the old garden or cleaning the chicken coop or rearranging our cluttered spare bedroom or planting the plants I've been waiting all winter to plant, there is a lot yet to be done. And truth be told I've already made it a habit not to think about the pandemic much. Truth be told, when I look up at the gray clouds and I look down at the rain-thickened moss, and I hear the crows arguing across the wayward tops of the Virginia pines, I remember that there is so much, much more happening and yet to happen.
And I am grateful.