Corona Diaries: Normal

Fresh bread, still warm from the oven, freshly fried chicken and perhaps a cooled peach cobbler went into the picnic basket, gently and carefully covered with a red and white checkered cloth. Kids were packed up and toted down to the battlefield for the day's festivities.

After all, it wasn't a Civil War back in the early days, it was just a skirmish that'd be over in a few months.

The "skirmish" would end up ricocheting States' Rights from one century into the next. Its fruit would blossom into today's racial disparities ranging from prison populations, to history curricula, to economic and housing disparities and...

...health disparities. (see Covid-19)  

Zoom Meetings weren't a thing back then, so....

I'm a history buff, and in my early fangirling days of Civil War history and all things Lincoln, I remember thinking about families packing up picnic baskets to watch skirmishes as if they were tennis matches and marveling how obtuse they must've been.

In hindsight, history is pretty clear: this wasn't a skirmish, this wasn't an outing, and it wasn't a spectator sport. It was a full-fledged war. Within ourselves.

But war became their normal. Maybe it sneaked up on them. One day, two days, perhaps a month of fried chicken baskets. Two months, eight months, a year, then scraping together bandages to tend to the wounded. Then two years and knowing when errands could be run to avoid shelling altogether.

Normal.

Today, I knew I'd have to run to the store. I scribbled my list and shoved it in my sweatpants pocket along with alcohol spray, mask and gloves and my driver's license and debit card. No need for real pants -- like the ones with zippers or buttons. No need for my purse anymore.

For a split second, I griped about running to the gas station before setting out for grocery shopping and then remembered the tank was still half-full because I hadn't gone anywhere further than three miles from my house in a month.

In less then five minutes, I parked in the store's lot. I grabbed my mask and put it on, taking care to avoid touching my face in the process. Then I grabbed my fresh pair of gloves and set out for the entrance. A masked employee greeted me and asked if I wanted her to spray down my cart. I accepted the offer.

Normal.

Maybe our Civil War forebears weren't obtuse. Each generation has its picnic baskets, just packed with different items while hoping a skirmish doesn't slide into a war.