Memorial Day in the Year 2020
A few college kids gather at the frat house across the road to celebrate their graduation. They are wild. They bounce a basketball rhythmically against a wall, nonstop, for hours. Shrieks of laughter emanate from the windows. Doors slam. They play music I don’t understand at deafening volume. If they live long enough to experience hearing loss, they won’t remember that in their youth, they lived as if life were permanent. The party continues until 3:00 am.
On any other year, there would have been complaints from neighbors. But this Memorial Day weekend, 2020, is different. These kids have been models of restraint as the coronavirus shut down their university and prevented them from having the ceremonies that normally mark commencement. They’ve worn masks. Respectfully avoided proximity to anyone who seems old enough to be in a high-risk group. That means anyone over forty. When they approach people who seem as old as we do, they often wave and cross the street. I’d be thankful for their consideration and respect if it weren’t an indication of how aged they think we are. Not that we’re not aged, but I never expected to have it waved in my face that way. Just like the sweet grocery clerk weighing in at ninety pounds, who kindly asks me if I’d like help carrying two bags of groceries to my car. It wouldn’t do to flex my aged biceps at her, or challenge her to a bench press competition. “Just smile,” my wife whispers, “and accept her help.” It’ll make her feel good. “No,” I snarl. “It may make her feel good, but it’ll make me feel bad.” “Isn’t it time you let childish things go?” she asks with a smile. I grin at the clerk, thank her, and tell her my wife will carry the bags.
But that was before coronavirus. Now we go to senior hour at the market. The carts have been disinfected. The store offers us disposable gloves. We are allowed in without scrutiny even though we’re wearing masks. I wonder how can they tell so easily that we are of appropriate age, these kids who previously couldn’t tell whether someone was forty or ninety. Maybe the virus has made them more observant. When they ask if they can help with our groceries, I gracefully decline. Coronavirus has made me more patient. More gracious. More accepting. My wife wonders with me whether, if we outlast the pandemic, my good behavior will outlast it, too.
This Memorial Day weekend is different. Yes, we remember the fallen and thank them for their service. Not just those who fell in past wars, but those on the front lines in recent months who have been taken while caring for us in the current battle against an invisible opponent. And all those whose lives have been cut short, those who are the civilian casualties in this conflict. But we also remember a different time. When there was no senior hour at the supermarket. When we didn’t take our lives in our hands by walking down the street. When dinner with friends was not a forbidden pleasure.
Life has slowed down. This morning we took a leisurely walk to the Farmers’ Market. Before the coronavirus, the market was a crowded community event, with musicians and clowns and people eating at outside tables. Now, there are fewer people, all gloved and masked. No touching of the produce. The sellers behind counters in their stalls handle the food. We are thankful for the plum-sized cherries, the baby artichokes, the rich, red beets. We are able to buy grass-fed steaks from the farmers. Unblemished peaches and apples from local orchards, all without supermarket stickers on them.
We don’t know for how long life will remain in this changed form. For some, it will return to a semblance of normalcy. But for the elderly and those in high-risk groups, there’s not likely to be much change until a vaccine is readily available, and we feel less vulnerable. In the meantime, this is a good time to live in our gratitude. For family and friends, however distant. For a slower pace. For fresh and abundant food. For life. For what health we have. Every day is a gift.
Memorial Day 2020 is a time to remember that.