BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN—A COVID CHRONICLE

 It had been, literally, years since I’d traveled. Last time I was in the States was November of 2018. In 2019, my wife’s older sister was mortally ill, and Virginia was traveling a lot back and forth the thousand-plus miles from our home in Patagonia to Buenos Aires, so I decided to postpone my annual visit to my homeland until early 2020.

I finally made reservations for March 25^th, 2020. Had my tickets, hotel reservations, rental car reservation, the whole works. Got my pre-trip haircut on March 10. Little did I know it would be the last one with my barber of twenty years, who would die a month or so later of COVID. The pandemic wasn’t yet a thing then. Or rather, it was. We just didn’t know it. It was like, ho-hum, another “Asian flu” epidemic.

But the same day I got that haircut, I also went to my cardiologist and family doctor for a routine checkup. I told him I was glad I’d gotten in to see him before I left.

“Left? You going someplace.”

“Yes, my belated annual trip to the States.”

“You’re going now?”

“Yes, in two weeks.”

“Do you have to?”

“Uh, well, no, I don’t have to. But I want to. I didn’t make it back last year because of my wife’s sister’s illness, and in case you hadn’t noticed, Doc, I’m not getting any younger, and neither are my family and friends back home.”

“I understand,” he said, shrugging slightly and looking worried.

“What is it?”

“Well, this whole COVID thing.”

“Is it that serious.”

“Yes, it is. Especially since you have high blood pressure, arrhythmia and you suffered a life-threatening lung injury…when was it? A year ago?”

“Year and a half.”

“Still…”

“So what you’re saying is, I shouldn’t go.”

“Well, no, if you have to go, go. But I can’t say I recommend it.”

“Well, I don’t have to. And if you really think it’s that serious, I’ll postpone it."

"It'd be a good idea. If there were a vaccine, it'd be different, but there isn’t one yet. And the government here is going to impose a quarantine, so if you go, when you come back you’ll have to be in quarantine for a couple of weeks.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

So I postponed. I figured in six months or so everything would be back to normal, and I could reactivate my reservations. Fat chance. Over the next two years I watched in horror as a million of my fellow Americans died in one of the most advanced countries on earth, where, incredibly, the ultra-advanced medical system was overwhelmed—and while tens of thousands died in my adopted country. In the pre-vaccine days of the pandemic, I lost several friends and acquaintances to the ravages of the plague.

My wife and I isolated. In Patagonia, especially where and how we live, it's easy to isolate. It’s also easy to become alienated and out of touch, to slip into an almost anti-social, hermit-like existence. And that’s what we did. Out of an abundance of caution, my wife wasn’t even letting me go to the grocery store with her, since she was concerned about my pre-existing conditions like the lung injury, high blood pressure and drug-controlled arrhythmia.

I became a creature of the forest. Getting out into nature, into the mountain woodlands. But as far from people as I could keep. Social media kept me from getting any squirrelier that I became from being my own best (and worst) company. But still, I could feel something akin to agoraphobia setting in. Just that it wasn’t limited to my house, but to the house and the seventy acres of forest surrounding it, where I was unlikely to meet up with any other human being.

We got the vaccines. A mixed bag if there ever was one—Russia’s Sputnik the first time, America’s Moderna the second and England’s AstraZeneca the third time.

Still, it didn’t feel safe out. I wore a mask everywhere, and “everywhere” was the gas station, the bank, doctors and dentist, the essentials. I was supposed to have eye surgery for a failing retina. That had to be postponed too and my left eye drew dangerously close to blindness waiting.

But then one day, it was as if a long night was ending, and I could begin to see the dawning of life sort of as I recalled it. Not carefree like before, admittedly, but no longer scared to death that I’d catch the plague and die gasping for breath like a hooked fish on a dock. I saw my doctor to adjust the dosage of my blood pressure medicine. I told him we were getting so tired of the pandemic, especially of its stealing life, or rather, living, from us at this time in our lives when we shouldn’t have a care in the world and should be living the freest ever.

He said, “But you’ve had your vaccines and you’re boosted, right?”

“Yes, but…”

“What is it you want to do?”

“Get my eye surgery so I can see again…”

“You can do that. You can do it tomorrow, if you want.”

“Really?”

“Really. You’re chances of getting seriously ill even if you do get breakthrough COVID, which you very likely won’t, are practically nil.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Great news, but I have to travel to General Roca for the surgery. That’s two hundred fifty miles on a bus.”

“You’ll be fine. Just wear your mask.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“So when do you think I’ll be able to travel back to the States.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Suddenly, it was as if a heavy weight had been lifted off of me. As if the darkness had lifted and the sun was shining. It was suddenly a beautiful day. I was free again. It was a more dangerous world than I’d known pre-pandemic, but it was doable. You just had to arm yourself with mask and hand-sanitizer, and social distancing, but hey, it was no longer the life of a mushroom, of fungus sitting alone in the dark, waiting for manure to be spread on it. It was no longer a life restricted to an island of COVID isolation.

Cleveland skyline

I got my eye surgery and, while recovering, made my travel reservations. And here I am, in Greater Cleveland. This is my Stateside residence, Rocky River, a Cleveland suburb. And in the decade and a half that I've been living here whenever I’m back, Cleveland has become my home city. I recognize the skyline and imagine the places I’ve known, the bars and restaurants, the museums and bookstores, the coffee place around the corner where I have breakfast and write for a while each day. Ever since my parents and brother died and my hometown became more memory than tangible home, Cleveland has become the closest thing to home that I have here now. My Stateside address, my sister’s place, the hometown of my two nephews, the city I identify with whenever I’m “back home”.

I’ve celebrated in a variety of Cleveland’s excellent micro-breweries with family and friends since I got here at the end of last month. I also celebrated by getting a good haircut from Jason at Irish barber Sean Gormley’s place in Rocky River. Sean also owns the pub on the corner of Center Ridge and Wooster, next door to the barbershop. Not surprisingly, it’s called Gormley’s Irish Pub and there’s a Guinness sign in the window.

This week, it’s on to my home town of Wapakoneta, two and a half hours or so southwest of here. I’ve accidentally rented a hot car—it was a promotion for cars rented for more than a week. It’s a black, metal-fleck, fully-loaded Toyota Corolla. It’s a far cry from the ’95 Toyota four-by-four truck that I drive at home and is a barrel of fun to drive, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss my truck. I’d love for my truck to know these streets.

I’m getting a warm welcome. I’ve written a couple of books about my town—The Rock Garden and Other Stories, and Visions of What Used to Be. I’ve been invited to give a series of talks and to sign books starting on Thursday. I’ll be doing a few of them jointly with my friend and fellow writer Jim Bowsher, about whom I wrote The Rock Garden. Jim is, without a doubt, a Wapakoneta icon, so this is a very big deal.

It’s odd for me to feel like a big deal. Unlike Jim, who has made an art of public speaking and oral storytelling, I’m one of those nerdy research-writers who has spent most of a half-century writing career in the shadows. Oh, there have been moments when, because of my positions as a newspaper and magazine editor, or because of a particular story I’ve written, I’ve had my quarter of an hour on radio or TV. But not often enough for anyone to put my by-line with a face. In fact, I’ve spent the last fifteen years or so as a ghostwriter, a career in which, as the name suggests, the writer disappears from view—nearly ceases to exist. (I’ve actually had people say “I thought you were dead” when I’ve shown up somewhere after having left the newspaper and magazine trade more than twenty years ago).

Indeed, once a job is done, ghostwriting is the kind of work where the client almost wishes you really would cease to exist. In this trade, you research and write like a spy, behind the scenes, out of sight, nameless, and “the author” will very likely disavow any knowledge of your existence if you should accidentally come to light.

So, it feels odd to be the center of attention. Good, it feels though, if a little scary. Best of all is how I feel about finally bringing out two books under my own name and both about one of my very favorite topics—growing up in the fifties and sixties in smalltown, Midwestern America, as only an expat can remember it.

I’m really grateful to the people who are making this a special homecoming for me—my friend and local agent Mary Jo Knoch, the Auglaize County Public Library, the folks at Casa Chic, State & Local, Image Masters, the Riverside Art Center, local newspaper publisher Deb Zwez, Rachel Barber at the Auglaize County Historical Society, and my friend and colleague Jim Bowsher. I’m hoping to return their kindness and confidence in me by providing participants in this week and next week’s events with something at least thought-provoking for them to take away with them.

Looking forward to seeing old friends and new. Thanks!