365 DAYS LATER

One year ago, on March 11, we drove from the east coast across Alligator Alley to visit dear friends Carol and Ken whose winter home in Naples overlooks the Gulf. We hugged and laughed as “old” college friends do. Someone mentioned “this pandemic thing” but the conversation quickly moved on to more important topics, like grandkids and golf.

Over the next 48 hours, however, this “pandemic thing” came into focus. Their daughter telephoned and said her kids were being sent home from college because of “the virus.” We learned that golf was suspended after one round in the Players Championship in Ponte Vedra. The 6 PM News revealed that the stock market was plummeting, Broadway theater lights were going dark, even Disney amusement parks were closing their gates.

On Friday morning, March 13, as we zipped back across the state, we realized we had to go home to Maine. ASAP. “But I’m not getting on a plane,” Mr. Wonderful stated. So we cancelled our JetBlue flight, scheduled for April 3, and packed our rental car to drive north.

Daughter Lisa, who lives in Florida, provisioned us with gallons of Purell and Lysol, umpteen rolls of toilet paper, N95 masks and plastic gloves, plus lots of advice that, truthfully, we found hard to believe or even accept. How had things gotten so dire so quickly? But Lisa proved correct in preparing us for what was ahead.

We left Palm City at daybreak on Sunday morning, our trunk filled with golf clubs and suitcases. A thermos cooler holding hard boiled eggs, cheese and crackers, a bag of Twizzlers, plus oranges and apples sat on the back seat, our nourishment of choice to avoid restaurants. (There were several vodka and gin nips too.)

Traffic was minimal as we passed the “Welcome to Georgia” sign. We drove the maximum speed on I-95, but were constantly passed by Mercedes and Lexuses bearing Canadian license plates. They REALLY wanted to get home.

That night we slept in a Hampton Inn somewhere in North Carolina. Feeling a little foolish, I wore a mask and plastic gloves as I signed the register. The desk clerk assured me “the room was just sanitized, you will be safe.” I don’t think I slept a wink. 

The next morning we drove to a nearby McDonalds, hoping to order coffee and Egg McMuffins at the outside window. It was closed, as were every fast food restaurant nearby.

Driving through northern Virginia into the Washington, D.C. area, the few cars we saw were more pedal-to-the-metal Canadians. When we approached New York metro late in the day, where traffic is normally bumper-to-bumper, we spotted only five other cars on the New Jersey Turnpike. It was past 7 PM when we pulled into my sister’s driveway an hour north of New York City.

Robin and Shirley greeted us holding a can of Lysol which they immediately sprayed all over our suitcases. They asked us to wash our hands and then go to the guest room to change out of our clothes. That night we sat by the fire, six feet apart.

The next afternoon, shortly after arriving back in the Wells woods, daughter Alex phoned and said, “We’re on our way to you with groceries.”  I couldn’t WAIT to hug her.  But that didn’t happen.  She and son Max stood on our front porch wearing masks, asking us, “Please don’t open the door and don’t come outside.” They dropped off 15 bags of groceries, then waved goodbye. 

And so the “new normal” began, 365 days ago this week.