I was lying on my couch in the early morning, like I do, reading the news and posts from farmers and doing my thing, when I got to wondering, "What day is it?" I went through some possibilities, feeling pretty comfortable that it didn't really matter since most days are the same. We work, we have too many Zoom meetings, there is a nightly Happy Hour on the Greenway, we have dinner, we don't go anywhere, we stay up too late. Then we get up and do it all again. But I persisted in trying to remember the name of the day.
Wednesday! What -- WEDNESDAY?!? Really? Shouldn't I be somewhere?
It was 7:45. In 15 minutes I was supposed to be at the stand with the rest of the picking for Crossroads Market completed. Well, to be precise, I was supposed to be at the stand 15 minutes ago so I could finish getting the load ready for an 8:00 departure.
I levitated off the couch, got myself into my work gear (mask, knife and clippers in holster, real clothes) and hustled outside.
From the time I was in high school, I have assembled what I need the night before for a hasty departure in the morning, just in case. That routine has saved me many times. Back then I had to walk/run all the way to the end of the Moutoux driveway to catch the school bus at 6:15. It was important to have my clothes and books already poised in case I had to skip the rest of the routine and just bolt out the door. There was no back-up plan for getting a ride to school.
One of the huge unexpected benefits of living in this neighborhood, right between the two farm properties, is that I can be at work -- on a golf cart -- in three minutes. So I zoomed out through Maymont, past all the megamansions (and my old bus stop), careened down the path to Parents, opened the deer fence and went in to pick my last - minute crates of greens.
In my tiny world, this lack of rhythmic structure is just a mild disorder. But for so many others, these past ten weeks or so have uprooted everything. We all wonder what normal will be, eventually. How will theater work? Will there be theater? Will restaurants be able to make enough money to stay in business? What will public transportation look like? Will we go back to traffic jams every day? What about these kids? We aren't just missing a beat here, the entire orchestra has left the stage.
Of course, in our self-absorbed way, those of us who don't have young children can't even imagine in our wildest nightmares what these ten weeks have been like. I guess the families who were homeschooling before might be less disrupted, but still there are no dance classes or zoos or band rehearsals. Parents everywhere are exhausted. It seems like the easiest age to manage at this point might be a newborn. Talk about topsy turvy.
So I know that my occasional lapses of memory are really a non-issue, compared to the wider world that is really traumatized. I count my blessings while grinding my teeth at the political news. The fields are filled with healthy plants and we are shifting into a higher gear around here. My selfish self misses the joys that come with having a season subscription to Arena Stage, an unlimited pass to the swimming pool, a regular appointment at the acupuncturist, a library card, a Common House and common meals with my neighbors, and so many restaurants that are within 20 minutes of home. Those are the elements that add texture and light to a fundamentally satisfying life.
In the meantime, this is my last Wednesday until Thanksgiving that is not all about the CSA. There will be no forgetting what day it is, for the next 25 weeks. Game on.
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