This spring is more like those of the last century, at least in terms of the environment. The lilacs in my yard slowly opened and are now finally in full, lusciously purple bloom in this, the third week of May. Until about 2007, lilacs bloomed at this longitude during the third week on May. Global warming forced an earlier blooming schedule.
I am aware of this because I have been working in the garden for the past month, digging up the roots of what my son calls Appalachian Blackberries and what I call brambles. He thought we could let them grow and make pies from their fruit. I shook my head but not hard enough. Berry bushes took over the yard. Last year, they were hacked to the ground and now I am digging up their branching roots, which form a tartan plaid about an inch below the surface.
At the same time, this spring is not like any other in my lifetime. It does not hold hope. I will not visit the Mark Twain and Harriet Beecher Stowe houses in Hartford. I will not consider finally taking a trip to Vermont. I doubt if I will see the ocean. Worse, there will be no theatre, no picnics on the lawn at Tanglewood. If this virus follows the track of the 1918 pandemic, it will not be over in August. It may slow but it will come back.
The berries form nodes at places where the roots stop traveling to sprout. New roots emanate from the nodes, while the older, foundational roots thicken. I learned, by experience, that using the spading fork to lift the nodes means the roots will begin to dry out. The next day, they will be easier to pull. I measure my progress by filling a trash bag with roots. Some can be pulled, creating trenches which break up the clay. Others snap when tugged or must be cut.
As I work, Richard Thompson songs play in my mind. “The Dimming of the Day.” “The Ghost of You Walks.” “Ghosts in the Wind.” It is difficult to think of happy music when death seems to surround our species. This is the point at which this spring stops reminding me of the springs of the 1950s and 1960s. The weather, here in the Valley, is as cool as those Mays were, but the political situation, the lack of common sense, is like something from a dystopian novel.
But, not quite. In my favorite dystopian novels — Philip Roth’s “The Plot Against America” and Margaret Atwood’s “The Handmaid’s Tale” — the United States succumbs to authoritarianism. What Roth and Atwood could see, we now experience. But, not quite. Only the most observant among us, like Rachel Carson, could see the warming of the planet. Who saw the coming of this pandemic, this population density disease? Who saw the bumbling, ball-dropping, nightmarish response of the U.S. to it?
My first thought had been what if Monty Python rewrote “The Plot Against America?” But the Pythons skewered human foibles. Our current problem is more threatening than quirky personalities. My friends know it. They post questions like I wonder if I will ever see my grandchildren again or they quote Country Joe McDonald’s best known lyric, “Ain’t no time to sit and cry. Whoo-whoo, we’re all goin-a die!”
The 1918 pandemic lasted nearly two years. I have heard estimates that this one will last up to four because of the length of time it will take to develop, then manufacture, an effective vaccine. Because of an interest in science, I have read articles and watched documentaries on vaccines. The flu shot available annually is built upon a history of vaccine development and carefully observed viral trends around the world. That knowledge makes me agree that the pandemic is likely to last up to four years.
But history tells us something else. It seems that the same disease that inspired Boccaccio’s “Decameron” also closed the theatres during Shakespeare’s time, a span of two centuries. Historian and author John M. Barry stated that COVID-19 will continue to be with us. He reminds us that the only disease science has conquered is small pox. We have not conquered polio and even the Black Death is still with us.
During Shakespeare’s time, local governments tracked the plague and warned people to remain at home. During the Spanish flu, people wore masks.
We must do the same. We can also read aloud to those quarantined with us. Keep a diary. Take advantage of the internet. Cry when you need to, it will ease the tension. Plant a garden, it will focus you on the future.
Susan Wozniak writes a monthly column. She can be reached at columnists@gazettenet.com.