Musings on the CoronaVirus

My stomping ground, sans people.

We winter in San Diego. Nothing against the grandkids, but everything against snow, cloud cover, and biting cold. This year we got chased home before Easter by something we couldn't even see. A little bugger. For a couple days, I wondered if we did the right thing. Our San Diego condo is walking distance to everything. If fuel became a problem, we could still live there forever.

Now, I'm glad we're ensconced in Omaha, Nebraska. During the Cold War, the Air Force put the Strategic Air Command in Omaha because it was smack-dab in the middle of the country, which made it harder to hit with a big ol' honkin' ICBM. Evidently, that pesky little virus has trouble hitting it as well. At any rate, we have the bug, but not nearly as severely as the rest of the country.

In the meantime, California has gone coconuts. The whole state is in lock down. You can't walk with anyone who doesn't reside in the same house. You can't walk on the beach. You can't walk on the strand. You can't go in the ocean. You can't surf. (By the way, the best surfing is getting a wave to yourself. So, social distancing helps make a great day in the water.) The police can even ask you why you're walking on the sidewalk.  I wish people well and hope this isolation protects the health of Californians.

As for Nebraska, we're under similar guidelines but, for the most part, enforcement is on the honor system and disciplined by peer group pressure. I'm not sure it's any different, but it feels less onerous. I hope it continues along this line, but that will depend on the behavior of people. So far, so good.

As for myself, I haven't left the house and yard for a few weeks. Okay, a few walks around the neighborhood. But that's it. Honest. My daughter keeps calling to see if I'm bored yet. I keep reminding her that I'm a writer. I just sit down at a keyboard and transport myself to another place and time. Without friends, relatives, or the ocean interfering, I'm getting more done than usual.

I am getting nostalgic, however. I pine for the days when I could run out of the house on a whim, hug my grandkids, and have dirty hands.

Ah, for the good ol' days.

By the way, if you're bored, try one of these. They'll take you to another place and time. Unfortunately, when you set them aside, they'll drop you right back in the same world.

Honest stories filled with dishonest characters.

Time is stealing my future

I was reading BuzzFeed’s  “10 Lovable Things About Brick-And-Mortar Bookstores,” when I saw a photo that tugged my memory back to my days in Boston.  Boston is a great town. I lived there for a couple of years and commuted there for a decade more. Boston is brimming over with history. For instance, you can find buildings scattered all over that are more than two hundred years old. This was an eye-opener for a native of Southern California where everything over forty years old was torn down —buildings, people, traditions, and anything else with poor survival instincts.

Boston also has a fascinating collection of new and used bookstores. They seem to be everywhere. The store in this picture from the BuzzFeed article was my favorite.  Situated across from the Commons, it was not the best used bookstore in Boston, but it was the most fun. I spent untold hours combing through the stacks. It had everything, but you had to find it yourself, making this outdoor book market a treasure hunt. After you found and bought a pearl, you could examine it over coffee at the Dunkin' Donuts a couple doors down. Fond memories.

Then a realization hit me. It has been six years since I’ve visited Boston. Where has all the time gone? Damn it. Time is the culprit. There’s a lot more behind me than ahead.

I once told my grandson that I was a time traveler. Needless to say, he didn't believe me. Then I told him I had traveled from March 4th, 1945 directly to this point in time. He looked perplexed for a moment, and then said, "I get it," and walked away. Darn, what's it take to impress a seven year old?

Now I'm retired, so if I don’t count writing as work, which I don't, my time is my own. That thought made me feel better. My time is my own. I no longer rent my time to someone else who can demand that I do things I may or may not like. Much of my life may be behind me, but I can craft whatever's left to do whatever I want. That is pretty damn good. Maybe getting older is not as much of a bummer as I thought.

I think I’ll sign off now and enjoy the day with people I love.