To say it’s been a strange year is possibly the world’s biggest understatement.
At the beginning of last March, we were headed into a regular Midwestern spring, with teachers gearing up for the last few weeks of school, homeowners eyeing the grass seed and kids oiling up their baseball gloves and tuning up their bikes.
Then everything went sideways.
At first it was just confusing – virus? Epidemic? Whaaaa….?
Then headlines around the world began to fill with stories of widespread illness, and we first heard the word “pandemic.”
Things started to get real in Jefferson County when the first positive case turned up here and Gov. Mike Parson declared a statewide state of emergency.
We first heard about masks and this new concept called “social distancing,” and suddenly there was no hand sanitizer or spray disinfectant to be had.
Schools and churches closed, businesses were ordered to close or drastically limit the number of people inside and the April elections were postponed.
Almost overnight, the calendar page in our paper went from bulging to barren.
Libraries were closed, so there was no story hour or book clubs. Support groups couldn’t meet; dance studios canceled recitals and sports teams suspended entire seasons.
No farmers markets. No craft fairs. No school plays. No community festivals; no chicken-and-dumpling dinners or fish fries at churches; no yoga at the Y.
The Olympic (and Paralympic) Games, were postponed, for Pete’s sake.
Babies were welcomed, but without an in-person baby shower. And, once the child arrived, the proud parents couldn’t throw a big christening party.
Birthday parties, retirement parties and class reunions went by the wayside. Forget about a big, fancy wedding followed by a raucous reception. Funerals were postponed or modified. Holiday celebrations were limited to family groups of 10, wearing masks.
All the everyday milestones that help anchor us in time, help mark the progress of our year – those things weren’t there, so we were constantly confused about where we were.
I joked that my July birthday fell on the 153rd day of March.
There were some innovative attempts at normalcy – Zoom meetings, elbow bumps, drive-by birthdays, football-stadium graduation ceremonies, carefully orchestrated outdoor alternative gatherings – but, for the most part, this was the year that just … wasn’t.
It’s as if we hit the pause button on our lives, and we’re only now getting a tentative tap to get things going again.
Things already are looking better. The county has stepped down from the orange level to the less-critical yellow level on the Health Department’s COVID-19 warning system. Vaccines are being administered to more and more residents. Diligent sanitary practices, mask-wearing and prudent social distancing are still encouraged but there’s definitely light at the end of the pandemic tunnel.
How will history view this Incredible Disappearing Year?
Will there be asterisks next to everything, like the one that has dogged the memory of Roger Maris breaking Babe Ruth’s home run record in 1961?
I am often tasked with writing “wrap” stories about community events, such as the annual (oops – not anymore!) Leader Holiday Dinner. I typically include a sentence about the history of the event, like “Since its inception in 2013, this event has raised more than $1,000 each year to fund scholarships.”
OK, so should I insert “Uh, well, except for 2020, of course,” every time from now on?
The De Soto Home Show, slated for April 10, will be one of the first in-person community events to return after skipping 2020. Since there were 22 consecutive shows before the pandemic – and the 23rd was scheduled and ready to go when the pandemic hit – should we ignore last year and call this the 23rd annual? Or acknowledge the missing year and call this the 24th?
I get so confused.
There are athletes and musicians and student government participants in schools all over who will graduate having played their sport or been in the band or led the Student Council every year they could but who can’t list “four-year member” on their college applications. Should we pass out more asterisks?
Longevity is a point of pride for many local businesses. But can a business continue to say, “Operating continuously for 80 years in Jefferson County” if it was forced to shut down for six months?
Remember those signs that used to hang in factories, saying, “___ Days Since A Lost Time Injury?” Once the streak ended, you had to start over at zero.
Maybe that’s how we ought to treat the whole thing. Maybe we should simply zero out 2020; declare this officially the Invisible Year and just pretend it never happened.
It’s certainly tempting.
But the thing is, it did happen. I don’t know about everyone else, but the past year has been a revelation to me about many things. I’ve learned a lot about myself, and I’ve had a chance to re-examine my priorities and choose what things truly matter in my life.
I am scheduled to get my second vaccine dose in a couple of weeks, and I am looking forward to gradually beginning to do more of what I have missed – dining out, going to community events, seeing complete faces. And I can’t wait to go back, even on a limited basis, to touching people. It feels wrong to me to offer congratulations or condolences and not be able to offer human touch as well.
So maybe the Year of the ’Rona, like other invisible things, should just be acknowledged as such and accepted. Just like love or hope, we can’t see it, but we sure know it’s there.
