Readers’ stories: Part 6

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 14/05/2020 (2115 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

Jess Capri

I work in a grocery store. I can be doing any of these jobs on a given day: front-end supervisor, customer service, cash office, cashier, price-checker, self-scanner employee. Fifteen years ago, I battled a severe case of generalized anxiety disorder after having lived with social anxiety disorder for most of my life. I had no idea how March 12 and the next few weeks would allow the many monsters I’d defeated in the past to sprout new heads.

March 11: Something is up with toilet paper. I’d heard rumours of toilet paper selling out in the U.S., and in Calgary. Our aisle was almost bare around 9 p.m. I had about eight rolls at home. Do I grab another? This is ridiculous. Five customers and I had a stare-down in the toilet paper aisle. None of us knew what to do. We looked sheepishly at each other in a circle. Finally, I grabbed a 12-pack of quadruple rolls. My favourite.

March 12: Our store had never seen anything like it. My managers were stunned and we didn’t have the bodies to provide service. “Ask for overtime,” I said. It was granted in minutes. We never allow overtime. My supervisor worked 12 hours. I worked nine. Later, I would see our gross sales had tripled that day.

March 13: The government had asked people to social-distance, yet here I was, stuck on Checkout 3 with a horde of close-knit, heavily breathing humans, their carts overflowing with jarred tomato sauces, dried pasta and frozen peas. I counted 37 tins of tuna in one cart. This was weeks before the plexiglass barrier installation, days before our store had caution tape roping off lanes to enforce customer distancing. I felt a churning in my stomach, heart palpitations, the fluttering ghost from my past. The hand sanitizer was drying my hands up, burning with each application. The bus I rode to and from work was no different. Packed like sardines. I was battling allergies that gave me a post-nasal drip cough. The angry stares were relentless. I can’t stay home. You don’t know how much you need me.

March 14: I woke up at 4 a.m. with a nosebleed. At work by 6:30 a.m. In the cash office, I was able to glimpse the sales we had been doing during the week: $600,000, $650,000. No one had ever seen numbers like this. Our busiest day of the year is normally the day before Good Friday where we do about $375,000 in sales. We usually pull in $1 million a week in gross sales. Hiding in the cash office was such a relief. Look busy. Shuffle papers. Count money. I never quite realized how dirty my hands were. What did I touch after counting money? The keyboard, the mouse. The cash office safe. The doorknob. My phone. My locker. The zipper on my hoodie. Everything I touch is contaminated. Time to keep track of what I touch. I attempted my first grocery shop after work. Half of the store was gone. What alternate dimension am I lost in?

March 15: A day off. I did four loads of laundry. I had started coming in to work in my civilian clothes as I had run out of work clothes. I was expecting to relax, when my boyfriend said we were having company. I was not comfortable with company — didn’t they ask us not to gather? My boyfriend went quiet and I could tell he thought I was overreacting.

March 16: We have gloves at work! I heard our hours were being reduced to help combat colleague fatigue, as well as compensate for us losing a lot of colleagues due to compromised immune systems. I feel that. Hard. People are thanking us for being at work. OK, but can you step back a few feet? No? OK.

March 17: Fifteen cases of COVID-19. I don’t feel safe at work, people still unpack their groceries, talk too closely and put their bags right beside me when they have six feet of conveyor belt to use. You keep saying “thank you for working” but I don’t think it means what you think it means. I posted a story on social media about how everyone can actually help. Stay home. Stay six feet away. Stop boredom-shopping. (Our store) is not the hot new date-night spot.

Christopher Lepa

On March 19, I made up my mind: I needed to drive out east to pick up my 19-year old son from Niagara College and bring him home. In-class learning had been suspended earlier in the week and he was now holed up in his dorm room, adapting to virtual learning in a fluid pandemic situation.

Since the spring term was also now in doubt, driving out seemed to be the most logical thing to do to bring him and all his belongings home. I packed up our Honda Civic with my winter camping gear, 20 litres of water, a two-burner stove, and lots of simple foods and beverages. The plan was to isolate along the way and sleep outside under the stars, stopping only for pay-at-the-pump gas, and hopefully some strategically placed washroom breaks at primitive biffies in closed campgrounds.

One would think there would be no problem finding an isolated place to sleep, but the terrain of the Canadian Shield does not lend itself to simply pulling off the Trans-Canada Highway and setting up shop. Sure, I had a few places in mind, but trudging any distance through knee-deep snow with my essential gear was not too enticing. I managed to find a nice spot the first night, but the next two were spent sleeping inside the car due to foul weather.

I arrived in Niagara-on-the-Lake on Thursday afternoon and after celebrating our reunion and spending the night, we jammed everything into the car the next morning and began the long journey home. I tried to remember the potential camping spots I passed on my way to Niagara, but to the best of my recollection there weren’t many places to stay west of Sudbury, which is where we expected to be after our first day of driving. I thought getting off the Trans-Canada Highway might lead to a more scenic option, so we decided to head north towards Mississagi Provincial Park, past Elliot Lake. After driving for about an hour the road narrowed and we were in the middle of nowhere, but it became apparent that the snow was just too deep, so we turned around. As we passed back by Elliot Lake we contemplated camping in a parking lot, but that just seemed like it would draw attention so we pushed on to find something better, which turned out to be the Depot Lake Rest Area a few kilometres south of town. Johann was concerned, as it clearly stated no overnight camping was allowed, but there was not much daylight left and desperate times called for desperate measures.

After assuring him everything would be fine, we broke out a couple of beverages to settle into our home for the evening and determine where we were going to sleep. There were a couple of flat areas close to the car, but then I noticed a nice spot about 50 metres away, adjacent to the lake under a nice big white pine. Not only was there a picnic table for us to relax on and cook dinner, it was also nicely hidden behind a large snow wall that paralleled the parking area from winter snow clearing. I explained it would give us a moment to collect our thoughts if the authorities were to pull in during the evening.

This was to be Johann’s first time sleeping outdoors in sub-zero temperatures and I was determined to make sure it was a good one. Happy with our choice, we peacefully drifted off to sleep around 10 p.m. A couple of hours had passed when I suddenly awoke to a loud bark. I immediately lifted the camo tarp, which we were wrapped in to trap our body heat, and instinctively reached for my bear spray. After realizing I left it in the car, I rolled over on my stomach, as I now heard voices and music, with headlights illuminating the tree line along the lake. It appeared that some locals had decided to pull over for a nightcap. “Johann,” I whispered, but he was sound asleep. That was until the volume of the music was suddenly cranked to a head-banging level. He popped his head up out of the sleeping bag. “What’s going on?” he said with some obvious fear in his voice. “A couple of guys having a beer, they’ll leave soon,” I replied. The next words out his mouth were, “Dad, there is a dog coming!” “What kind, where?” I asked, but before he could answer, an old black lab was right in front of us. “Good boy,” I said, reaching out my hand and hoping for the best.

To my relief it started licking my face instead of biting or barking. “Go away,” I whispered, and, after sniffing around a little, off it went. “There you are,” I heard someone say. Suddenly, a Mason jar glass hit the snow 10 metres away from us. “What are we going to do?” Johann asked. “Nothing,“ I said, but I started to worry about the car and our contents. What would I do if I heard a window smash? My mind was conjuring up all sorts of scenarios and the adrenalin was flowing! “Dad, the dog is coming again,” said Johann. It was amazing, but the dog never gave us away. It was like being in a scene in a post-apocalyptic movie, where our lives were on the line and our silence depended on it, but in reality we probably could have announced ourselves and joined them for a social-distancing beer. After all, they were playing some good metal and punk rock, but it appeared the party was over. One of the individuals walked over to dispose of his beer bottle in the metal garbage receptacle, which was 25 metres from where we were lying. “Oh, there’s a garbage can over there? I was just pitching them over the snowbank,” his buddy drunkenly exclaimed. “I know,” he said, and with that they were gone.

It took awhile for the adrenalin to wear off, but before long we were sleeping again, this time with bear spray and a hatchet at my side. We talked about the incident numerous times the next day, knowing we had just shared an experience we would never forget. The rest of the trip went smoothly, but the lasting lesson from my seven days driving on the road was that, even if you try, it is difficult to truly isolate yourself even if you want to.

Deva Nirosha De Silva

I felt as if the whole neighbourhood belonged to me. I was recently in my garden from 3 p.m. until after 8 p.m. It was only my second day outdoors after returning home from our travels in March.

I have taken this “self-quarantining” thing to a whole new level as I am basically a hermit in seclusion now. I had only stepped out of my house twice to admire my spring bulbs during the whole month of April. It felt like a treat to step into my vigorously sprouting garden one beautiful afternoon. It was an ideal day for gardening with the perfect blend of sun, wind and Benji (my cat) to keep me company while I laboured at my flower beds with a permanent grin plastered on my face.

There weren’t many neighbours to be seen outdoors, except for Sarah and her older son cycling, passing by our house, smiling and waving at me on each round. The occasional dog owner led their spirited pet along the road, and parents let youngsters blow off steam from being cooped up indoors for too long. Each one of them stuck to their own parameters; even the kids and the dogs.

It felt weird not to have my neighbours stop by to chat or ponder the “huge job” I’ve undertaken, as most of them usually do, whenever I’m spring-cleaning, knee-deep in dead leaves, laid as an extra protective layer during the winter months. In the past, coming out of hibernation in spring, many neighbours lingered happily to chat about each other’s gardens at length.

With the COVID-19 threat and social-distancing mandate looming large in our minds, we did not know how to respond to each other yet. Brief nods, hesitant waves, and shifty eyes that measured physical distance were all we could manage.

Mostly, the streets were quiet and empty, but then some people crossed over to the other side of the road when they saw me in the garden. I felt relieved and instead of feeling “snubbed” or “hurt,” I told myself “be nice!” whenever someone walked closer in proximity than I felt comfortable with, given the highly contagious nature of the coronavirus.

If I’m brutally honest, I must say I kind of liked it — having to keep a physical distance from people, finding myself becoming more of an introvert as I grow older. Gone are the best-friend-to-everyone, limelight-seeking, party-animal days — now I enjoy my solitude and the peace of being left alone among my trees.

Another day, I heard a mother putting her foot down, announcing to her daughter that she was grounded while cycling behind her, trying to keep up with the flying young girl. She seemed stressed — her face pinched and voice high-pitched — and extremely displeased at her youngster for some reason. “You broke the rules!” she exclaimed. “No more cycling!” she elaborated. “Get inside now!” she ordered.

I wondered at the nature of the rules laid before the kids when cycling in the neighbourhood these days, and felt thankful both my sons are young adults now. I am free from parenting young children, guarding their well-being, and guiding them through a pandemic that could possibly take their lives.

I saw a young blond woman walking a big white dog — the dog leading the owner, who’s being dragged by the leash while her body resisted, straining backwards — while offering an account of her friend’s pregnancy to the man she walked with. She dramatized, explaining how shocked she was to learn her girlfriend was pregnant in a voice so loud that echoed through the empty streets. She said, “I asked her, ‘what happened?’ and she said ‘Italy happened!’” Then, in the same breath, she elaborated on the now very obvious fact to all three of us (and everyone else within earshot, lounging in their homes or yards) that her girlfriend got pregnant in Italy. All I could think was “Interesting!”

Another day recently, I was as joyful as they came, prancing around in my garden gear. I wore my magenta-pink, wide-brimmed hat with a big bow and an embroidered rose shielding me from the sun. My eyes hid behind red-heart-framed Kate Spade sunglasses I treasure-hunted for a few dollars from Winners. I wore a pair of old blue denims, Ryan’s hand-me-down red sweater, and Kyle’s hand-me-down black boots to keep me warm.

Then I cut the grass, fertilized the lawn, raked and mulched tons of dead leaves and fed it back to the flowerbeds. For a half a day, I worked non-stop without even taking a water break. I collected last season’s leaves with gentle rake-strokes, being careful not to bruise or mutilate the young leaf buds sprouting in the flowerbeds. There were hyacinths, tulips, daffodils and alliums already producing their baby blooms, hidden among cramped-up beds laden with dead leaves.

During the hibernating months, this same blanket of leaves protected spring bulbs from rodents and extreme weather conditions. As oak and maple leaves take years to compost and produce rich nutrients in the soil, I give them a helping hand in the composting process by shredding them and speeding up nature’s course. I pile the dead leaves on our cement walkway and run the lawnmower over, shredding them to dust before spreading them back in the soil. As I did it this time, I was covered in leaf-dust from head to toe. Yet, it was a very satisfying experience to see mounds of mulch that I produced at the end of this strenuous ordeal.

Seeing me spreading the soon-to-be rich compost with the wind’s help, dressed in soiled clothes and covered in leaf-soot, a woman jogger in luminous green athletic gear turned right around and fled fast, as if she had no business invading my crazy world. My fleece hoodie looked like it was made out of brown-oak-leaf-debris. I had a mental picture of myself, climbing into one of the flowerbeds and laying there, and no one being wiser to where I was. I’d be just another pile of mulch in the ground. A big pile, I must say!

Next, I tended to my lawn after gazing at its sheer velvety thickness from the window for weeks. My heart was brimming with pride as I compared and contrasted mine with those of the neighbours’ dead lawns, my eyes spanning the neighbourhood as far as they could while tending to my ego. I noticed my grass never grew old this winter. When the snow melted, it resurfaced as green as ever!

Recently, I admired and encouraged over 1,000 bulbs I planted last fall. I examined their growth, marching up and down rows of flowerbeds from the front to the back of my little piece of heaven. I bent, twisted, stretched, lifted, chopped, and carried for hours at end.

I knew my whole body would be reduced to a ball of pain the next day but if I could drag myself outdoors, I intended to plant my vegetable seeds and apply the first fertilizing for this flowering season.

Then I saw my friend, Ann Marie, jumping up and down in her driveway about six houses down the street, trying to get my attention. Although we call or email almost daily, we haven’t seen each other in two months since the day she dropped us at the airport in February. We screeched and giggled, swinging our arms held high, making gigantic half-circles in the air, waving and blowing kisses at each other for minutes until we got tired of it.

I miss her and I miss our daily 10-kilometre, two-hour power walks around the neighbourhood. I miss her grapefruit martinis and our karaoke nights in her garage. I miss our laughs. I miss being us. It was so good to see her, even though our human-interaction only lasted for a few minutes, and far away from one another.

Today, my first spring flower bloomed! It’s a purple-petalled crocus with a yellow belly. Some years ago, I planted 20 of the bulbs I’d rescued from a clearance sale; lifeless, shrivelled and hard, and only this singular bulb survived, flowering year after year.

I love its purple and yellow beauty — so delicate, yet so brave — sprouting fearlessly in a bed swamped with invading ivy and dead oak leaves. If my purple crocus could survive its “near death,” followed by long, cold months of Canadian winter and still keep blooming sturdier and brighter every spring, so would humanity fight off the latest pandemic.

Eckhart Tolle, a spiritual guru I often turn to for wisdom, once said flowers are the enlightenment of plants. Today, when I looked at my lone crocus bloom, I knew its truth. This too shall pass, and we will emerge better, stronger and more unified as a species. Today was a good day!

Ellen Karr

I have discovered an additional use for my COVID-19 face mask!

My husband and I have walked three miles on our own street every morning since our local mall closed. One Saturday morning, while on our well-trod familiar route, I tripped and fell flat on my face on the sidewalk. My mouth took the entire brunt of the fall, smashing my two front teeth and damaging my mouth.

As I lay there crying and attempting to staunch the blood with my husband’s clean white handkerchief, a lovely young woman came out of her house in her dressing gown to see if she could help. She and her husband brought out two plastic bags filled with ice, a wad of tissues and a wet wipe. They were angels of mercy!

I managed to walk home supported by my husband and was able to see my dentist for emergency care an hour later. Another angel of mercy! I now wear my mask when I leave the house to protect my face while it heals and to hide my scary damaged teeth pending further treatment.

This will happen when my dentist has the required PPE to allow her to use her dental equipment, hopefully this week. This incident has shown me how kind and supportive my community really is!