Spring in the time of COVID-19

After working for almost two months on the west coast we flew back to Vermont this past Sunday, the spread of COVID-19 rolling like a wave across the country below us—a wave far from cresting. Our plane was nearly empty; it felt as if bodies had simply evaporated. We were supposed to fly home on St. Paddy’s Day, but I moved our flight up two days. As Elton John says in one of his songs, “Better get back to the woods.”

In the past few weeks, daily life as we all knew it has been drastically altered. Much of the world is on government-mandated lock-down, or, like Eric and me, self-mandated. There’s a pervasive sense of shock and disbelief. But this is real. Here in Vermont, Governor Scott closed restaurants and bars a couple of days ago, when we were at only 18 cases statewide. Smart man. It’s the only way to slow the spread of this unpredictable virus. There have been four more cases since, so far. I know the number will grow—not everyone who could be carrying the virus knows it. But isolating is the best way to slow it down.

For us, being alone together at the Clearing for days at a time isn’t much different than life before coronavirus; I’m concentrating (as much as possible) on my MFA work, reading, annotating, working on my novel. Eric has tapped some maple trees up the driveway, and is collecting sap for our sugaring operation as I type. We forayed out into the world this week to stock up on food and staples to tide us over for awhile. Good thing I was already stocked up on toilet paper. The shelves on the paper goods aisles are stripped bare! I think people need to remember that even as we are told to isolate, we’re all in this together.

This afternoon we are getting take-out from one of our favorite local restaurants, Three Ponds, next to Joe’s Pond in West Danville. It’s owned by a sweet young couple—Anna runs the front of the house, Caleb is chef extraordinaire. They live in an upstairs apartment over the restaurant. The food is excellent. We usually go there once a week for dinner, sit at a corner spot at the little bar rather than at a table, so we can visit with Anna and the servers. It’s a small thing in the face of a pandemic, I know, but we’ll miss our weekly ritual. And, of course, we’re worried about how they will survive. I called Anna yesterday to let her know we’d be coming in today to buy a chicken pot pie (best we’ve ever had) and beet salad, to share at home for dinner tonight. We plan to get take out there at least once a week, and also at Positive Pie in Plainfield, another of our favorite restaurants. P.Pie was already struggling to survive before this crisis. We’re very afraid they won’t make it. Better to lose your livelihood than your life, but it’s overwhelmingly sad all the way around. All this loss.

Meanwhile, even as the trees still remain bare and the ground covered with melting snow, we feel the promise of spring on our cheeks like a soft feather. There’s birdsong. Days are getting longer. Trees, flowers, deer, bears, frogs and snappers are beginning to stir from their winter repose; they know nothing of desperation, depression, collapse; they only know awakening. The abundance that is spring. The pond is thawing. Sap is flowing. The lilacs will soon bloom and the trees burst forth in an array of vibrant green. Life. Even in the time COVID-19.