At church last week, before all the rash of calling off and postponing, we were instructed to drink from the chalice rather than dip the wafer into the wine because the drinking method would be less germy. The reasoning eludes me. This week church has been cancelled. Upon hearing this, my first thought is that Episcopalians must be wimpier than Methodists. But then our old church, St. Luke’s Methodist in Houston, posted on Facebook that they were cancelling services, too. Common sense versus faith, a complex doctrinal tangle.
“Cancelling everything is silly,” I say to David. “Shouldn’t we simply go about our regular lives and take the chance?”
“The fear is that if everybody gets it at once it’ll overload the system. So it’s best to slow the spread.”
He’s been following the news about the virus closer than I have been. All I know is that I was going to give a talk to a writers’ group on Wednesday and now that’s not going to happen. At least Mahjong still stands. Tile love wins out over disease fear. Several of David’s activities have been cancelled. Saddest of all is that he’s been the driving force in developing the new community garden, and now there will be no open house, no grand opening. And he does like celebrations. He’s not an attention-seeking guy, but it would have been nice for him to have received recognition for all his work. Now, nothing.
“Let’s drive into Austin, do the lake walk, and go to brunch,” is his suggestion for our now-empty Sunday morning.
So that’s what we do. The weather is dreary and drippy and there are few cars on Seventy-one. If you don’t live in this area you have no idea what all the fuss is about this time of year. Since the last time we drove in this direction, the Indian paintbrush and bluebonnets have popped up and bloomed, splashing the verges with periwinkle and coral. It’s beautiful. As to the traffic, even in Austin the highways are wide open.
Every year or so we do this outing—the walk, the brunch at True Food. The path is usually solidly populated by bikers weaving through and runners bouncing by. Today I’d estimate that there’s a tenth of the usual number.
“I guess everybody’s hunkering down at home,” I say.
“How do you spell hunker?” David wants to know. I spell it for him.
“There probably aren’t five people in Austin who have the virus,” I say, “and those five people are staying away from the population. Yet folks aren’t leaving their houses because some geriatrics died in Seattle and there are cases in New York.”
“Look at how fast that runner’s going. I miss running.” Aches and injuries put a stop to his running about ten years ago.
True Food is usually packed on Sunday mornings. A reservation is necessary. But today there are few diners. David orders hot apple cider and banana pancakes. I order a bloody Mary and smashed avocado toast, which is composed of a piece of toast topped with gouda, guacamole, and two runny eggs. Uncharacteristically, I take a picture. It’s yummy; but I scrape the overabundance of thyme to the side. I respect thyme as an herb, not as a complete salad. No amount of dressing makes it palatable.
A pair of grandparents enter and approach a table occupied by their daughter and granddaughters. The grandmother shares an awkward elbow bump with her granddaughters. The grandfather bumps fists with his daughter. Oh for goodness sake! Now families aren’t even hugging.
Two men enter and pause, looking for the couple they’re here to meet. They spy their friends and go to join them. The two newcomers self-consciously perform a knuckle tap with the seated man. But then they lean in and give the woman hugs and cheek kisses. This difference in how the men greet one another and how they greet the woman is so bizarre that it’ll keep popping into my mind for the next week. Surely it indicates something—but what?
Later, as we’re driving home, we discuss the morning, which was pleasant, but also disturbing. I don’t appreciate this latest PC mandate. There’s speculation that as our planet warms hazardous microbes will be unearthed. It’s vital that we’re prepared. But fist bumping and social distancing aren’t realistic solutions; however, due to this first push, I fear that these ineffectual measures will become the norm, and that people who don’t fall in line will be judged. I foresee a whole divisive debate between shakers and non-shakers, huggers and elbow bumpers.
“What if someone went ahead with their scheduled large-group activity?” I ask David. “Does that mean they hate America?”
David sighs. I can be annoying.
Artistic work on a column of a bridge crossing Lake Austin.
This was once a vacant weedy field. David oversaw all this work and now he’s been told not to recruit people to help in the garden.
As promised—my meal.
I look pretty good considering that I’ve been humidity hiking.
Enjoying his morning off from ushering.
