In 1961, Murray Dominic and my father-in-law were test driving a Chevy Corvair Lakewood Wagon. By test driving, I mean Pop Carter and Murray took the wagon up the mountain from Old Fort, towards Burnsville, to break in the engine and see what the eighty horsepower would do in the wind, on the flip flop, soaring down the back hills towards McDowell county.

The Corvair flew fast and smooth, until the brakes blazed, fatigued. When Pop tried to slow at a curve, his foot went to the floorboard and they accelerated into the black night. In a moment of what I figure was both resolution and fear, Murray tossed up his hands in surrender, shouting, “We thue.” 

That’s not a typo. In a pinch, southerners don’t have time for extra letters. We hustle to the point.

There’s a happy ending. The brakes cooled and caught, and they made it through the test drive and back down to Old Fort. They weren’t thue afterall. The wagon went on to serve the Carter family. Pop and Murray Dominic went on to other shenanigans. 

Thue is how I’d been feeling lately about Covid 19. Call it the Coronavirus, the ‘Vid, the Rona, the Ron-ner, the Virus, the epic ruiner of 2020, incinerator of all things good and fun, ultimate postponer and rescheduler, disrupter of business and school, robber of health and life.

It’s difficult to establish foothold on something invisible while it’s ground-breaking. The virus, tilling up the soil around us as we stand by, frustrated, masked, frightened, and doubtful in a pile of dirt clods. I’ve been vigilant about washing hands and wearing a mask in public. Most of my friends affectionately call my Smokin’ Hot Love Biscuit, Safety Patrol, so rest assured that we are Clorox wiped and sanitized at regular intervals.

There’s information contradiction and overall distrust in what I read and hear. In one taxi ride on the google machine I am told to get the vaccine as soon as possible AND to absolutely under no circumstance accept a shot from wicked pharma who are trying to implant chips into my soul while Bill Gates tracks me from his sky box on Mars. Okay, I’m embellishing. Bill’s on Saturn.

This virus exhaustion became evident one Saturday while running and having coffee with friends. We started discussing books and a title called The Tattooist of Auschwitz entered the conversation. My friends were both reading the book and reported that although sad, it was a beautiful love story. And wouldn’t I rather read a book about the concentration camps than listen to current news about U.S. politics and the stupid Coronavirus? Yes, The Tattooist clearly wins with those choices.

Me and ‘Rona, we were thue. So very thue.

Then ‘Rona up and got personal, infiltrating my house and family. The tracing narrative reads relatively linear. There was a funeral and a house visit afterwards. There were a couple of hugs. There was a Thanksgiving of three. There were leftovers shared with another couple. There were no symptoms. There were symptoms that mimicked the common cold. There was no fever. There was a low-grade fever. There was an ornament exchange, exercise group, and a Taco Tuesday. There was an outside oyster roast and helping some friends move. Among it all, riding shotgun down the mountain was Covid-19. By the time we hit the brakes, we went straight to the floorboard, positive and spreading.

SHLB and I are okay. Quarantine has ended and our symptoms have been mild. It was worse than a cold but not as bad as some flus. The unknown of it has been scary at times, especially with the chest and breathing part. I still haven’t recovered my sense of smell. We are retired. We enjoy each other’s company. We are survivors of other health difficulties, so we know how to give and receive care. Jobs aren’t pressuring us to stay home or come back to work. Our kids live other places and can stay fluid in their lives. We have good health insurance and groceries are delivered to our porch with the strike of a computer key. Friends have checked in on us and brought us snacks. This is a great case scenario. It’s not a shared reality.

I wish I could say that we didn’t give it to others. To date, we think we are directly linked to sharing the Covid love with three people. Many quarantined and got tested. They missed work and had to notify others of their potential exposure, the ripple impact. We are beside ourselves sorry. But here is the kicker, we care, but the virus doesn’t. We may be “thue” with ‘Rona, but she ain’t done with us. She’s a mean, straight blade totin’ hussy. She’s going to hitch a ride sling-shotting from person to person until there’s a way to stop her. 

I heard that there are people who have the virus and are trying to keep it quiet as though they are afraid of the stigma or word getting out. This is a mistake. ‘Rona is going to use secrecy and vanity to hurt people. They may even be people you love. Again, no skin off the butt of the virus; it’s how she gets around.

As a child I was perplexed by a Sesame Street song. The lyrics went, “No left turn. No right turn. What do you do?” Well, what do you do? Sometimes forward motion straight through is the only option. I can’t go under it or above it or around it. I have been guilty at dissecting and evaluating who is right and wrong and what to do or not do and I became distracted about where to place my energy and emotion. If I am going to get mad and fight someone or something, it’s going to be ‘Rona. 

No left turn. No right turn. The only way out is through. Through vigilance, through distancing, through good sense, through empathy, through generosity, through testing, through quarantining, through good self-care, through honesty, through accountability, through responsibility, through open agenda, through silver lining hunting, through hydration, and through living life respectfully and carefully along the way, I can make it to the other side, sho ‘nuff thue for good with ‘Rona and on to better shenanigans, Chevy Corvair Lakewood Wagon style.