Once upon a time, early in the 21st century, there was a pandemic, and it arrived with a vengeance. The people wailed and rent their garments in fear for themselves and their loved ones. Soon thereafter, however, some industrious entrepreneurs took those torn garments and turned them into face masks.
And the people rejoiced.
Well, a lot of people rejoiced. Not everybody was a mask proponent. But that’s neither here, nor there.
The year passed with promises of vaccines (promise delivered) and, because of the vaccines, promises of a return to free society (promise…sort of delivered, depending in which part of the country you live.)
During that first summer, the “case load” went down, and the people rejoiced again. Then a cruel winter, and the “case load” went up. Now on an emotional roller coaster, the people started to run out of garments they were willing to rip to shreds.
But the New Year came with hope renewed.
You see, the industrious restaurant owners of Cincinnati discovered their patrons were willing to sit in a tent and eat, or really sit just about anywhere and eat, as long as it wasn’t in their own dining rooms, where they had been trapped for months and months. All the better if the tent were heated.
And the diners rejoiced.
Even more better than semi-heated dining tents was the fact that the Toilet Paper Crisis of 2020 was long gone by 2021. Most of us figured out we just didn’t need, or have room for, 200 rolls of double-size Charmin, no matter what sanitary apocalypse may befall. Indeed, the past year has seen our grocery shelves return to abundance, unless one is on the hunt for Scrubbing Bubbles.
(Honestly, no idea what happened there, unless SC Johnson made the poor management decision to import all their bubbles from North Korea. Or Myanmar.)
This happened around the time when everyone learned about “supply chain issues.” For my household, “supply chain issues” forced us to switch to the Lysol version of Scrubbing Bubbles, as there was, literally, nothing else to effectively remove the soap scum from the glass shower doors. Lysol, I believe, gets all its bubbles from Canada.
Thank goodness.
But seasons change, at least they do if you live north of the Mason Dixon Line, and when spring came this year, our tortured country was again visited by a spike in the “case load.” But this time it didn’t hurt as much because we were, at least in Cincinnati, part of a grand plan to save our restaurants. Almost overnight, there appeared on the streetscape myriad wooden platforms, surrounded by heavy planters with thick wire strung between them.
We had entered the “Streetery” phase of this year’s pandemic journey. The Streeteries popped up wherever food service existed, gobbling up curb-side parking for the higher purpose of not forcing us back into our kitchen. Plus, the Streeteries made downtown look like city in Europe.
And the diners rejoiced again.
Not only had humanity conquered the pressing dining situation, but normal, everyday activities began to be normal again.
Take baseball. Early on, when there was still hope the Cincinnati Reds might make it to the playoffs, one could attend a game in person, albeit with some social distance between you and the other fans. Still, it felt good.
Same for soccer. Those first few home games in the new stadium had people squinting to see the other fans, but at least FC Cincinnati didn’t do us like the Reds. FC never got our hopes up about a winning season. Heck, FC barely got our hopes up about winning at all.
God bless the satisfaction of low expectations.
And speaking of low expectations, I think we can agree we were all, at least, a little surprised when our wise governor actually did what he said he was going to do, and removed all statewide pandemic restrictions at the beginning of the summer. What a glorious June 2nd it was, more glorious than any June 2nd I’ve experienced to date. I strode in and out of buildings mask-less, the master of my domain. Others were doing the same, and they appeared as happy as me.
And the people rejoiced.
Oh, what a summer. The Reds were leading their division (for a while,) some people were emerging from their home offices to return to work, and families were gathering together indoors and out, just like normal people. Our kids even went back to school, in the actual school buildings. Suddenly, it was as if we’d all been transported to Sweden from Australia. Life was good, in spite of FC Cincinnati.
And now it’s almost over, this Pandemic – Year Two.
Thanksgiving, Christmas and then the New Year again. What happens next year is anybody’s guess, but I think we’ve probably wrung as much culinary innovation as possible out of this particular pandemic. I say we start treating it like its just another type of flu.
Who’s with me?
Looking back, I’m not sure if I’ve learned any lasting lessons this past year. I am undoubtedly a poor vessel for poetic recollection. But two things occurred to me the other day, the first being that my entire family have come through this thing with flying colors. Others were not so lucky.
The second thing, almost entirely unrelated to the first, was that Prohibition was brought into being about 102 years ago, but that, fortunately, the Spanish Flu pandemic was just about over by the prohibition got going. One may fairly ask why this is important in any way.
Can you imagine going through a pandemic without alcohol?