And just like that, it seemed to be over, like someone flipped a switch.
I sneaked out Friday afternoon for a stroll through an art fair that started that day in downtown Homewood, a favorite event in the before times that, like most everything else, had been canceled last year.
The night before, I’d been to the grocery store, wearing my mask even though I’m fully vaccinated against COVID-19 and may even have lingering antibodies after being infected with the virus over a year ago. Nearly everyone else was wearing a mask, so I did too. Unless there’s a good reason to do it, making passersby uncomfortable gives me more discomfort than does wearing a mask.
About 14 months before that, the grocery store was where I realized things were about to get really weird. People were calm, but the bare shelves were disconcerting at best. I think I still have some canned foods I picked up that night, stuff I’d never normally buy but picked up as substitutes for items on my grocery list that had disappeared before I could get there. Even the canola oil was gone, and the safflower oil I bought instead remains in my garage for use these days seasoning my grill grate.
I considered writing last April about the one-year anniversary of being hospitalized in a COVID-19 ward during the early days of the pandemic. A year, nearly to the day, after standing alone in a short line waiting to be admitted to University of Chicago Medical Center, I was standing in line again, this time at a nearby pharmacy awaiting my first vaccine shot.
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It was serendipitous, but I chose not to write about it because I didn’t want to revisit those unpleasant, fearful times in early April, 2020. I recovered from the virus and the subsequent summer wasn’t unpleasant as much as it was just different.
Though there were no events, it wasn’t necessarily uneventful. Notably, the societal slowdown of summer 2020 may have provided the space for an active focus on social justice and equalizing opportunity for everyone.
I was lucky, able to shelter in place while being employed and living in relative health and comfort. I reconnected with old friends, having drinks together almost weekly via video chats, and had a chance to dig a small fish pond in my backyard that’s become a nice, shady place to read on breezy weekend afternoons. Last year’s vegetable gardens were the best I’ve ever grown. I remained connected to society through my work and those online hangouts with friends.
Still, the global stink of pandemic seemed to pervade everything. Many others, friends and strangers alike, weren’t as lucky as me. I worried about the social development of my teenage son, a high school junior when classes were first canceled last year.
I’d recently started playing tuba in a couple of bands and though I still practiced, playing alone is a poor substitute for performing with fellow musicians, something you can’t really do over video chat.
I’d planned to go see concerts by Steely Dan and Steve Winwood, as well as Goat Rodeo featuring Yo-Yo Ma and Chris Thile, but live music was another casualty.
And my White Sox, and also the Cubs, were doing pretty well, but nobody could go see them play.
And the dark, socially distant winter followed.
The prospects for 2021 still seemed dim when I got my shots in April. But things were slowly getting better. My son got to go back to school in person a few times a week, wrapping up his senior year with the ability to interact with his friends and peers.
COVID-19 counts on the news were being pushed back to the tail end of the broadcast with virus stats trending in a good direction. I optimistically purchased a ticket to see an August performance by Wilco — the last band I’d seen live before the pandemic. And a couple of weeks ago some of the friends who I’d been meeting for online drinks got together for backyard reminiscing face-to-face. It was really nice.
But last week is when that proverbial switch got flipped for real, it seemed. It started over Memorial Day weekend as my son got to wrap up his high school days with a prom-style dance organized by a group of parents, followed by an in-person commencement the next day at Homewood-Flossmoor High School’s football stadium.
Later in the week, I got word that I’d be able to play tuba this summer in the South Holland Municipal Band with rehearsals starting July 1, and the Third City Brass Band was gearing up for performances this summer as well.
As my wife and I walked maskless on a hot and sunny Friday afternoon through the art fair in Homewood, seeing the bottom halves of faces for the first time in seeming eons, it was like awakening from a slow-moving dream.
As I write this on Friday, we’re planning on having some family and friends over Saturday to celebrate our son’s graduation, but it could turn into a celebration of the return of life itself.
I’m not certain the pandemic is truly over, though I certainly hope it is. There are some elements of sheltering in place I’ll miss, especially as time tends to coat interesting times in rosier hues as they become more distant.
June is always a great month around here, with a couple of birthdays and other celebrations. As I turn 50 in a couple of weeks, I’ll be celebrating in the outfield at a White Sox day game, and maybe even dine out at a restaurant afterward.
It’s nice to be back.
Landmarks is a weekly column by Paul Eisenberg exploring the people, places and things that have left an indelible mark on the Southland. He can be reached at [email protected].