It’s been a year—a full year since the Coronavirus burst on the scene and took the entire world to its knees. According to the New York Times there have been 117 million cases reported and 2.59 million deaths. That’s equivalent to the entire population of Los Angeles or Chicago.
In the U.S. alone, 29 million cases have been reported and we’ve seen 524 thousand deaths. You can take Tucson, Atlanta, or New Orleans off the map.
As for Mississippi, there have been nearly 300 thousand cases recorded with about 7000 deaths. Goodbye Amory, Kosciusko, or Pontotoc.
In Lafayette County alone we’ve had over 5700 cases that we know of. At this writing, 114 people have died. That’s an entire neighborhood. It’s all the members of a little country church. It’s three, four, five tents of Grovers. Gone. Permanently. Forever. Great grandparents, grandparents, moms and dads, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, husbands and wives, sons and daughters, friends and acquaintances—never to be seen again. Expired, departed, never to be seen again.
Then there are those of us left behind. The grieving. The heartbroken. The empty. Some of us with jobs. Some of us unemployed and living on the edge. Closing-the-family-business people. I-can’t-buy-my-meds people. It’s-not-my-day-to-eat people. Living-in-a-tent people. Sleeping-under-a-bridge people. Surviving-in-a-car people. Giving-up-on-life people.
I watched a segment of CBS’s 60 Minutes Sunday night (March 7). I was struck by the words of a young girl who, along with her family, had been living in an old van. Regarding the task of finding places to shelter she said, “I’m small. I’ll fit anywhere.”
Then there are those of us who can still sit on The Balcony and imbibe, communicate, and pontificate (that’s usually my job!). I say that not to cast guilt on we fortunate ones, for we have not gotten a pass on loss either. Some of the Balcoñeros have had Covid-19. Some have lost a loved one or a friend. Some have worked on the front lines, risking their own health and causing their family to fear the possibilities. And we’ve sorely missed other friends who have foregone socializing as a means of protection for themselves and their families. But all-in-all we are—dare I say it—blessed. Unbelievably, unexplainably, and incredibly blessed.
I was more than disappointed, but not surprised, when Tate Reeves lifted the mask mandate. I was mystified and saddened when, after championing the importance of wearing masks early on, our local officials capitulated and did away with the mandate in here Oxford. Still, many businesses are requiring masks (Yay!) and quite a few folks continue to wear them in public (thank you!).
Last Saturday (March 6) the Square was heavily populated. People were shoulder-to-shoulder and precious few had on masks. Of course we’re tired of wearing masks, but does it take us losing someone close to us to do what the experts tell us is our first line of defense and one of the easiest and best things we can do to help stop the spread of the coronavirus? Evidently. (I can’t believe I’m still writing about this!)
I think we all hope and pray that as more and more people get the Covid vaccination there will be less and less of a need for masks. That is what appears to be happening. But, friends and neighbors, we ain’t there yet! There is still the potential for another surge in cases.
We all rejoiced when 2020 came to an end. In that rejoicing many folks gave up their vigilance in protecting themselves and others from Covid-19. The I-ain’t-wearing-a-mask-and-you-can’t-make-me-cause-this-is-America-and-I’m-still-free and the I-ain’t-gonna-get-it crowds grew as “rugged individualism” (read: selfishness and ignorance) took precedence over the do-what’s-best-for-all-concerned concept.
I’m not sure how to end this column. Maybe a quote will do.
How about this one from the late great Yogi Berra, baseball Hall of Fame catcher and manager for the New York Yankees: “It ain’t over till it’s over.”
…and that’s the view from The Balcony.
