A YEAR AND A MONTH

 A year ago, we were all novices in COVID PURGATORY. We traded stories about toilet paper shortages and sources for face masks. Many of us learned to use GrubHub, BluBox and  Insta-food delivery services. People with no jobs and cars became “shoppers,” filling up carts of food and delivering to our front steps and porches. We sanitized boxes, bottles and cans before bringing contaminants into our kitchens.  

Along with information, we e-mailed or texted cartoons and videos to our patch of technology friends. Funny, or inspiring — blogs, podcasts and newsletters took on more weight. At the root of all this tech blitz was the message: "I care about you and your state of mind. Have you fallen into the hole of depression? Loneliness? While I can't be with you physically, I'm still thinking about you.” 

A woman I barely knew telephoned me every month or so to “check in.” I was startled at first but I added her to my e-mail blast list. A longtime friend suffered a serious non-Covid illness and was hospitalized for six weeks. Visitors were not allowed at hospitals. I passed along reports to my e-mail list and the list recipients sent back concern and prayers for Laurie, her family and to me, her friend. 

Sincere intention: my household needed information beyond that available from the 6 o’clock news, New York Times, and CDC. Along with vital facts, we needed in-my-kitchen-real-person assurance that we were not alone in the craziness. Or paranoid about the present risks!  We shared what we had with our network. Now we realize how elastic that network became. We are testaments to community building in its purist form.

Building community is what we all crave. It's one of the most compelling reasons for church-going, and social club memberships. It pushes some of us back to our hometowns — those towns or neighborhoods we remember, if we are among the lucky ones, as places of safety. It’s Cheers, the bar where everybody knows your name. 

Now, after one year and one month of Life with Covid, I feel another shift happening. Vaccinations are thankfully widely available. The immediate scare has passed. After a year of abstinence, I can hug my grandchildren — all young adults and fully inoculated. There’s no need to track down sources of paper products or Purill. Like Snow White, hostesses are waking and going to — and giving — small dinner parties again.

The stress of those first weeks of The Troubles (March, 2020) was immense! And I don’t want to get too sappy about “unlocking the love under wartime.” But there was something that happened this year— a physical and emotional vibration, a quivering of those invisible threads that marry us to our universe and to each other. 

The echos are getting fainter — as they must.  But I think I’ll phone my friend. I haven’t heard from her in a couple of months. 

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My 18 year old grandson, Parker, graduates from high school this year and has been recruited to play ice hockey for the Vermont Lumberjacks. He’ll move to Burlington, Vt. in September. He’s thrilled. Is this a good thing?  Why is my stomach in a twist?

PARKER MITCHELL

MY LIFE WITH AMAZON

MY MYSTERY GIFT

 The Amazon truck stopped at our house yesterday. The delivery person didn’t ring the doorbell. He put the box on the bench beside the door, took its picture and drove away. About thirty seconds later, I had an email from Amazon with a message that my delivery was complete. The email included a photograph of the package at my very own doorstep with the message “how was your service?” Thumbs up or thumbs down?

How many responses to this sequence are there? I clicked “thumbs up” naturally. 

Amazon trucks zip in and around our house every week and stop at least once that often at our door. The delivery person never rings the door bell. He never offers my dog a cookie. The regular postman does. I don’t know what the Amazon truck driver looks like. The postman’s name is John. I leave a little something in the mailbox for John at Christmastime. I don’t give the Amazon person anything.

Even before the year of Covid isolation, we were relying on Amazon for easy purchases and quick delivery. I like book stores — but Amazon books are discounted always. Even better, I can opt for used issues — my favorite! I love used books with underlines, highlighted passages and notes in the margins made by previous owners. All that makes me feel like a part of an invisible community of readers — a virtual bookclub. I add my own highlights and notes before passing the books on. I’ve decided to add my name to those books too — discretely on a back blank page. Maybe it’ll initiate a true bookish conversation. 

But the Amazon thing has gotten out of hand. Now when we can’t find something at the grocery store, we “Amazon it.” Instead of one or two packs of dry onion soup mix, I have two dozen. (There is no “use by” date for dry onion soup mix. Somebody is putting these packets into a shipping box. I’m paying shipping fees so I may as well make the order worthwhile. How often do I use dry onion soup mix you ask? Maybe twice a year.)

Obviously, there are some flaws in all this plan. Storage for one. And carried to extremes — as though ordering a dozen dry flavor packs isn’t extreme? —I’m contributing to the demise of my local economy. 

So my next step: I fill a box for the Penfield Food Pantry. Numbers of families in need of food have doubled this year. More children are going hungry. These people are in crisis. I pack cans of tuna, boxes of dry pasta, unopened rolls of toilet paper…and a half dozen packs of dry onion soup mix.

About yesterday’s delivery: a book “THE MADMAN’S LIBRARY: The Strangest Books, Manuscripts and Other Literary Curiosities From History.”  It has beautiful illustrations. It looks interesting. But I didn’t order it. Nothing inside the box or on the label indicates who sent it. 

Did  you? I’d like to thank you. If I can ever catch the Amazon delivery man, I’ll ask him how to track down this mystery gift.