“You can’t go back home again.” Thomas Wolfe’s posthumous 1940 novel pretty much summed it up. Memories versus reality rarely if ever live up to your anticipation. And reality is hardly ever as satisfying as those cherished memories. Our lives move along at a pretty good clip, but every now and then we stop to ponder where we’ve been, take out those nuggets to mull over, savor and enjoy all over again. Sometimes in our dreams.
The current unprecedented government ordered social distancing, shutdown and lock up has given quite a few of us plenty of time to wax nostalgic. The entire world has hit the pause button. A sign that it might also be a good idea to rewind and play back what led us to where we are now.
The past year has been a jumble for me. Between work, planning on retirement, chasing down VA benefits for my mother, resettling her in the South and settling her business up North have all added up to too many tasks to remember. Within that blur sits her former home, the house that refuses to be sold. Back on the market for what, the fourth time? Now with a new and improved heating system and repaired water pump.
We’re also back in the process of trying to sell my last toe hold on the Adirondacks, a final acre of the old homestead that I impulsively bought well over a decade ago. I had dreamed of building a post and beam cabin with that million dollar view of Lake Champlain someday. But that day has never showed itself.
Seems that good old Uncle John and Aunt Ruth had a downstate drinking buddy that they sold an acre of prime property to for a single dollar. He never built the house that they must have discussed over way too much Genesee beer. The property went to his estate at his passing. The for sale sign rubbed me the wrong way so I bought the land back. For a considerable amount more than the original sale price. Not exactly a wise investment, but it felt good at the time.
Now all that has come to an abrupt halt. The feeling good part as well as everything else. The virus has put the country in an uneven panic. Conflicting information reigns supreme: what’s open, what’s not, what’s safe, what’s right and what’s wrong. Calvin ball rules, poor governmental leadership at the highest levels, panic-induced shortages (toilet paper, paper towels. Really?) “Don’t wear a mask.” Save them for the first responders. “Wear a mask.” But not a medical grade one. “Be sure to get out and exercise.” Public paths and parks closed. “Practice social distancing.” Georgia beaches and the Atlanta belt-line, an urban linear park, are open.
The world has gotten smaller. Way smaller. Prison cell small for some. My mother Rosemary has been isolated in her room at her assisted living facility over 3 weeks now. (Okay, a nice prison cell, like the one where Bernie Madoff and Michael Cohen live.) They closed the communal dining room, stopped all activities and are bringing meals to the residents. She has a cellphone, but her hearing has made our calls “what?” sessions. Frustrating for both her and me. Unfortunately her ENT cleaning was scheduled the day her facility shut down to outside visitors. They told me if I took her out, she couldn’t come back. We are now waiting to reschedule, but it looks like that’s at least another month away. Likely longer.
On the bright side our last face to face with mom included my late brother’s oldest son, Edward and two great grandchildren, Ryder and Ahna. Two of Ed’s sister Patty’s children. We all went out to lunch together to mom’s favorite Chick-fil-a, which she calls Chicken Filet, no matter how many times you correct her.
I’ve written her letters and dropped off care packages with “underwear” and Word Search puzzle books. She’s likely due for a chocolate resupply. But she may have to tough it out without. My wife refuses to let me go to the grocery store, or worst yet Dollar Tree where I buy Mom’s Word Search books, face mask or not. Kim sits at her computer these days to do our grocery shopping. And then complains about (a) the length of time before the delivery actually happens and (b) the quality of the produce our “personal shopper” selects for us. And you have to be precise when ordering groceries online. Those who are putting themselves at risk to keep us fed are a literal lot. Yesterday a friend ordered 8 bananas. She got 8 bunches. I can only imagine what that shopper was thinking. “These folks must either have chimpanzees or a serious potassium deficiency.”
Book lovers and readers have stumbled into an unexpected boon. Time is indeed on our well-washed hands. The Adirondacks has long inspired artistic and literary types. The raw beauty, as well as raw climate, has drawn in some of the most talented and controversial, typically with out-of-popular-alignment political beliefs and sympathies. Rockwell Kent, Georgia O’Keeffe, Marsden Hartley, Winslow Homer, W.B. Evans, Russell Banks, Sloan Wilson, Burton Bernstein, Harold Weston, and others. Surprisingly even Ian Fleming set his “The Spy Who Loved Me” in the Adirondack Park.
I’ve been using my pandemic time out to catch up on many of the books that feature the people, artists and authors mesmerized by these mountains. These books, like my last acre of Adirondack property, were snapped up impulsively over my lifetime. I’d always hoped that someday I’d have the time to actually read them. So far they’ve proven to be a far better investment than the property, and without the annual school and property taxes.
Galen Edward Bigelow 