Cup of COFFEE

Was I Thoreau walking around the pond? Far from it, but there were glimmers of spirituality and solace. I swear there were glimmers.

Dealing With a New Normal

By Sean Clancy

Now is the winter of our discontent.

Shakespeare’s line. Steinbeck’s book. Our reality. We’re in for a long, dire winter as the pandemic numbers rise, windows close, vaccines test and a country tries to heal itself from a viral and political divide. I’m not here to talk politics. We’ve done that enough already. It seems all conversations wind up mired in politics, one got so heated I stomped home from the neighbors’ house, so great was the divide.

What a year. What a bust.

In March when the pandemic hit, it was an interesting development, felt more like a disruption than a disaster. A change of pace, the sabbatical you always wanted.

We read a few extra books, picking ones randomly off the shelf for fun. My son Miles and I played a full season of backyard baseball, all-time best teams matching up, Mickey Mantle against Mike Trout, Sandy Koufax versus Randy Johnson, The Babe squaring off with Yaz.

We moved a pile of planks and beams that needed to be moved for a decade, filled the woodshed, cleaned the attic, donated clothes and toys to our local hospice. We weeded the garden, transplanted volunteer saplings, planted seeds to yield the earliest radishes and arugula in our 10 years here.

I joined a Zoom call with a friend in New York and another in Turkey. I wrote, almost creatively, nearly for fun. We walked around the block as a family, not often, but more often than ever before. We turned dinners into destinations.

Was I Thoreau walking around the pond? Far from it, but there were glimmers of spirituality and solace. I swear there were glimmers.

Car rides have become glimmers. Just the 12-minute journey from home to Hill School has turned from a requirement to a respite. Wednesday, I arrive early but not as early as most, sliding into 33rd in the pickup line. There was a time when it would grate on me, now, I turn the key and roll down the windows.

The American flag waves, whips northwest. The sun has sunk below the trees to my left, still shining across the grass field where we’ve seen kids race in circles over the years. It’s empty today. A woman walks a dog, a tan-colored mutt, joyous in the exercise. The spigot is on, but no water runs, a lone orange ornament on the sea of green.

Most kids are at home, sequestered, navigating online school, the dearth of interaction, the death of the snow day. As Hill closed in the spring, we asked Miles what he missed, he said, “Just anybody under the age of 50.” Fortunately, we were back to school in September. It was like the first day of summer – for all of us.

Cars begin to move, a white SUV replaces a black SUV, I turn the key and start the car, begin to creep, flipping the visor with our name tag. Parents and children pass us heading home as we wind our way to the front of the line. Teachers yell out names, like bingo numbers. Students banter and bounce in the art room, the doors wide open. Kids look for recognizable cars, some linger, loiter, others flit and flee, winter coats are dragged like streamers off the back bumper.

For a moment, it’s a regular school day on a regular day. NPR announces New York is implementing new school closures because of the rising numbers. I take a deep breath…Ski Friday, the Talent Show, will we go back after Thanksgiving?

Miles leaps into the back seat, throws his backpack on the floor and rips off his mask. I ask him about his day. Ran the mile in 8:05. Top four. Finished Walk Two Moons in English class. Top 20. For a moment, the winter of our discontent seems far, far away.