Livingincoronavirusworld 34: Yesterday I heard the Mr.Softee truck chimes

4/26

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Yesterday I heard the Mr. Softee truck chimes.

 Calling the  children out from their homes into the streets for an ice cream treat.  A sure sign of spring in the city.  Appearing phantom like from out of nowhere, disappearing just as fast. The website says that officially they’re in quarantine,…but…..

A cold and raw day.  There’s now a “keep this far apart” sign at the entrance to Central Park. I walk through the park along the Meer. In the raw damp cold there is an emptiness, far different from the warmth of human presence that filled the  park yesterday. This quiet, this emptiness, makes the enforced solitude, the strangeness of these days, all the more powerful.  I feel very much alone. 

I walk as far east as 5th Avenue and head north. At 111th, there’s a bar with open windows..street side counters…scattered patrons. Hey we’re open a woman in an apron says. It’s appealing. I consider an $11 drink and then decide to head home to  leftover chili and a cold beer.  I note the required mask posters on Lenox. 

Our family gathers on ZOOM. It’s good to see the grand children in Berlin. They’ll start back to pre-school on Monday....teachers are essential workers...At a year and a half, my granddaughter has learned to jump. Like her brother before her, she jumps into life with both feet, wanting it all. Believing she can do it all. Germany is slowly reopening its doors. As always, we talk about food We all talk about food, preparing it, eating it. One of those connections to normal. It takes time. It takes creativity. I wonder how long it will be until I can be with  them again. 

The turnout this week for the We Love Songwriters is smaller than usual. I won't speculate as to why,  just good to be here. CC Eve, in Montreal, tells us she celebrated  her birthday with takeout Quebecois food.  Some people look puzzled. I know what she means. We followed my oldest north and up the St. Lawrence for summer workshops. There are the smoked meats of Montreal. A Quebecois pastrami. And poutine.  Truck stop, road side stand food. French fries with gravy and cheese curd.  Food for cold winters, trappers and lumber jacks. 

We talk about food. We talk more than we sing. CC wants our help on a song she’s working on. “What do we miss?”  she says.  “A cold pint of Guiness with friends”says Pat. As for me, who basically lives alone, it’s human contact. Non-virtual, real human contact. I miss my boys in Brooklyn. Drinks with friends at the Gate. Pat and I are basically not drinking, although in this circle of singers, I have a Jameson’s. It’s not the alcohol we miss, its the people. I am so thankful  for my walking  partner and our walks.  And I miss harmony. CC remembers singing  in the choir. I remember what it’s like to have my band and 3 or 4 other singers and we stop the instruments and go  a cappella and all the voices meet and embrace each other while maintaining their own unique voice and I feel I’m in heaven. It’s my song but it’s so much better because they are singing it with me, adding voices, adding harmony…(like just the right spices when you are cooking. ) I miss harmony.  These Sunday night get togethers are islands in the stream. I wonder how long  will it be before CC can cross the border again.

Yesterday I heard the Mr. Softee truck chimes.