By John M. Clark
I occasionally find myself talking to my mother. Nothing unusual there, except she died almost 25 years ago. But my occasional, one-way “conversations” can be comforting at times. I imagine telling her about all the changes we’ve seen in the world over the past quarter-century. I explain about using our computers to order groceries. I describe gigantic TVs that you hang on the wall and cars that drive themselves. And I save the best for last – that her favorite (and only) grandson is about to become a father.
For the past few weeks, I’ve wondered how I would explain to her what we’re all experiencing right now – sheltering in our homes, hoping to avoid a deadly and highly contagious virus. The fact that when we do venture out for a short trip to the grocery or pharmacy or to pick up a carryout meal, we wear masks and avoid close contact with others … that we tune in those big-screen TVs every day to find out how many more have died. And then I smile when I think about telling her that the hair salons are all closed. She would not be happy about that, at all. But as someone who lived through World War II, she would certainly understand the psychological toll this invisible enemy is extracting, if not the pandemic, itself.
Of course, I would reassure her that my wife and I are doing well, given the circumstances. We’re the lucky ones who still have jobs, who don’t have to worry so much about keeping a roof over our heads or food on the table. Most of all, I would want her to know about a neighborhood that wraps its arms around its own. She never got to see German Village. Jan and I hadn’t been living here long when I got the call from Kentucky that she had suffered a massive heart attack. Of course, I’ve had many years since then to describe to her what a wonderful place this is – for the architecture and the history, of course, but mostly for the sense of community here.
I would tell her about the cocktail “parties” we still have in parking lots and on sidewalks, all the while standing safe distances from each other. I would explain how a “virtual” art show works. She would hear how the coffee shops and restaurants and wine stores have re-invented themselves to serve us and our commitment to support them in a time when millions of others are losing their jobs. And she would be touched to hear how we’re all coming together to make sure our older neighbors have everything they need to make a very bad situation just a little better.
And then, after this very long, very detailed, one-way conversation, I imagine my mother telling me, “Johnny, I can’t think of a better place for you to be right now.”
I occasionally find myself talking to my mother. Nothing unusual there, except she died almost 25 years ago. But my occasional, one-way “conversations” can be comforting at times. I imagine telling her about all the changes we’ve seen in the world over the past quarter-century. I explain about using our computers to order groceries. I describe gigantic TVs that you hang on the wall and cars that drive themselves. And I save the best for last – that her favorite (and only) grandson is about to become a father.
For the past few weeks, I’ve wondered how I would explain to her what we’re all experiencing right now – sheltering in our homes, hoping to avoid a deadly and highly contagious virus. The fact that when we do venture out for a short trip to the grocery or pharmacy or to pick up a carryout meal, we wear masks and avoid close contact with others … that we tune in those big-screen TVs every day to find out how many more have died. And then I smile when I think about telling her that the hair salons are all closed. She would not be happy about that, at all. But as someone who lived through World War II, she would certainly understand the psychological toll this invisible enemy is extracting, if not the pandemic, itself.
Of course, I would reassure her that my wife and I are doing well, given the circumstances. We’re the lucky ones who still have jobs, who don’t have to worry so much about keeping a roof over our heads or food on the table. Most of all, I would want her to know about a neighborhood that wraps its arms around its own. She never got to see German Village. Jan and I hadn’t been living here long when I got the call from Kentucky that she had suffered a massive heart attack. Of course, I’ve had many years since then to describe to her what a wonderful place this is – for the architecture and the history, of course, but mostly for the sense of community here.
I would tell her about the cocktail “parties” we still have in parking lots and on sidewalks, all the while standing safe distances from each other. I would explain how a “virtual” art show works. She would hear how the coffee shops and restaurants and wine stores have re-invented themselves to serve us and our commitment to support them in a time when millions of others are losing their jobs. And she would be touched to hear how we’re all coming together to make sure our older neighbors have everything they need to make a very bad situation just a little better.
And then, after this very long, very detailed, one-way conversation, I imagine my mother telling me, “Johnny, I can’t think of a better place for you to be right now.”
