(Ivan Karamazov to his brother Alyosha in The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Doestoevsky)
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| Devil's Backbone Park, Washington County, MD |
Spring came early this year, before the coronavirus hit the U.S. in full force. Temperatures were mild all winter and the mid-Atlantic didn't get more than a dusting or two of snow. And then at the end of February, the daffodils that we wouldn't normally see until close to the middle of March began budding, and the spring peepers began peeping in the creek across the street. It was wonderful, those two harbingers got me just as excited as usual. But there was an undercurrent to it, a feeling that it wasn't right. They were too early, which, combined with the mild winter, seemed to signify all too obviously that Greta Thunberg ain't kiddin' around, folks, and we need to begin listening to the scientists and our governments need to start getting regulatory. And yet, instead we have Icky Trump rolling back every regulation he can to reverse the small amount of environmental good that's been done over the last half-century.
But now it's April and there are still daffodils in bloom, and tulips and redbud trees are beginning to burst forth, and sticky little leaves are opening up on the trees. And the coronavirus is ramping up its death toll and has forced business closures that are crippling the U.S. economy. And while some folks are holed up at home in self-quarantine, others are getting out to take what socially-distant pleasure they can from the early-arriving, long-lasting spring. I'm of the latter group (don't yell at me). Aside from work during the week and brunch and movies on the weekends, my life has been one of social distance on a regular basis for many years. But now I'm furloughed from work and waiting to find out when unemployment payments will kick in and, while I can't do brunch or movies, I can still get out and drive. It's either that or stay home binge-watching Father Brown and obsessing over where the hell to buy some toilet paper.
A Facebook conversation this morning had me missing my favorite Waffle House, the one off of I-70 near Hagerstown, MD, where a couple of the ladies on the staff have memorized my usual order of steak and eggs, sunny-side up, hashbrowns smothered, diced, and capped, and sweet tea. Waffle House, for those paying attention, has become a barometer for the severity of the coronavirus pandemic, according to the "Waffle House Index" that FEMA uses to gauge disaster severity. The company has become a model of not only 24/7/365 service, but emergency response. Between getting their restaurants up and running on generator power after hurricanes and tornadoes, and rolling out their Waffle House food trucks to provide food for affected communities, they've fed a lot of hungry people who might not have had much in the way of options after a disaster. But the coronavirus pandemic is one disaster even Waffle House wasn't prepared for. They've closed over 400 of their 2,000-something locations, which puts that FEMA index in the red.
Usually the Hagerstown location is bustling when I walk in. I'm usually able to snag a single empty seat at the high bar, while larger groups of people have to wait for a table. Watching the staff behind the counter is like watching a raucous ballet, as the servers and expediters dance behind the cooks at the grill and waffle presses, pushing trays of dishes through the washer behind the high bar, slinging plates of hashbrowns to the tables with graceful efficiency while calling out hellos to every person who walks in the door. Today the place was empty with a capital EMP-TY. I called in my order from the parking lot and sat waiting until Miss Linda came out to give me my packed and bagged waffle and hashbrowns and take my credit card. She invited me to come inside to sign the receipt, and it was a sad, lonely sight-- Plastic covering over all the high bar stools, and only Miss Linda taking orders and one cook dishing them up. I asked her to tell all the other staff I would normally see there that I said "Hi" and she said she would, and that I'd see them all again soon, because this wasn't going to last forever and "We'll be back, better than ever!"
Her optimism reminded me of an interview with musician William Tyler that I'd read this morning in which he was asked if he had any words of hope to share during these troubled times. He did, in the form of a quote from former POW, Admiral James Stockdale-- “Never lose faith in the end of the story.’”
I agree with him that that's a powerful mantra to hold onto. If only I didn't drive past so many Trump signs on the lawns of folks out in the more rural areas of Maryland...
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