From Our Picture Windows

Prologue

The 20s were inarguably strange, uncertain times. How we survived that era is a miracle. First, it was that nasty scourge of a virus that took out nearly half of the world’s population. Coronavirus – Novel Coronavirus, and finally COVID-19 is what the so called “experts” at the time were naming it only because it first started in China just before the turn of the decade, December. Shortages on everyday household items as the hoarding began, everyone in a panic like the world was about to end. Toilet paper, paper towels, disinfectant wipes, anything and everything that had the names Clorox or Lysol on it, even Scrubbing Bubbles, all were scarce to find without paying a price. Even certain food items were in short supply and high demand. First it was a run on chicken, then beef – mostly hamburger – then pork. And it varied from week to week, a battle between what was being purchased and what was available. Canned goods flying of the shelves, leaving them in empty disarray as if a tornado had just busted through. And signs on those certain items in big bold lettering, demanding: ONLY 2 ITEMS PER CUSTOMER. Did that stopped folks from hoarding? All I know is Billy Currington hit the button when he sang, “. . . God is great, beer is good and people are crazy.” People are definitely crazy, especially during a pandemic.

Things only got worse as we awaited a vaccine to save us all. Protesting and rioting. Defunding of police departments in communities where law enforcement is needed most. Seattle became the first Autonomous Zone, soon to change its name to CHAZ. Capital Hill Autonomous Zone. Other metropolitan cites slowly followed suit and the only real law existed in small, rural, highly Republican towns like ours, out here in the sticks of Deere Mountain. Soon vandalism and eventual destruction of national monuments across the country became the “new thing” to do as an assortment of ethnic groups decided to jump on the racial injustice band wagon.

If that wasn’t enough, Summer of ‘20 was more than literally a blaze as fires consumed our state, bringing new meaning to “Colorful Colorado” as sunsets turned from soft hues of pink to bright orange balls of light screaming through smoke-filled skies. Our little sanctuary wasn’t alone. Weeks of hot and dry conditions across the country caused several states to soon fall under some form of drought warning, and wildfires popping up throughout the countryside. Dry lighting storms setting off wildfires in California, Nevada, Arizona, Wyoming, eventually spreading across the great planes.

Again, I say how we survived all this, is a miracle. More specifically, those of us immune. A unique handful of the population who seemed to escape the virus, or contracted it, survived and never caught it again. Generation U is what we were being called. The Unkowns. The most feared and claimed to be dangerous, especially the “asymptomatic,” those who showed no signs of the virus, but possible carriers. Dangerous because we were the “unknown factor,” according to the experts. Ah, but we were much more than that, we were.

We were at the mercy of everyone else who wanted to know why. “Unknown” or “U” became more than a scientific term to mark us. It was a way of life as we fought our own battle every day to save ourselves. We went into hiding, gathered in our small communal villages and avoided general public contact, and most of all, refused to be tagged at all cost. We were the strong and resilient, the fighters, the rebels and outliers. We were the Unknowns, but we survived.

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Chapter One

The first year was the worst. It seemed so surreal, like a bad dream . . . a very bad dream. And how it all started . . . it was so sudden and how quickly it took its toll on humankind was baffling. The world would soon take on a “new normal” completely different from life prior to this.

It was the end of an era . . . the beginning of a new decade. Times were good. The economy was recovering from the Recession of the early 2000s; real estate and new construction were on the rise again, people were traveling and spending money. I was 17 then, two months short of graduating from high school and three months away from my 18th birthday. For me, life’s adventures were just beginning. So much I wanted to do, so much of the world I wanted to see before going out into this thing called the real world. I had saved up two summers worth of cash from Riely’s to travel overseas back to our roots country of Ireland. Something my parents opposed of until after college. Well, I suppose they got their wish. So many plans canceled. We all thought 2020 was going to be a better year. No one would have ever imaged that such a horrible scourge (as our President of the time called it) would seize our country and the world.

I recall first hearing about this horrible, highly contagious virus on the news hitting China’s population in December. Early symptoms were being compared to the common flu, but more of a respiratory infection. And only three simple symptoms to watch for, according to doctors anyway: fever, shortness of breath, and a cough; those would soon extend to a much longer list of symptoms from nausea and vomiting to diarrhea to loss of smell to a strange phenomena, especially in young children, of toes turning purple – COVID toes I think they called it. This virus soon began to spread quickly across China and was labeled an “epidemic.” Then, it spread like wildfire across the globe with Italy taking the hardest hit. More and more countries across Europe and Asia, and finally our good ol’ US of A. That’s when world leaders deemed this new strain of the common flu a “pandemic.” And that was within a matter of two months. Shelter In Place and Stay At Home Orders were being implemented everywhere.

During this time, I decided to start writing in my journal again. After all, there was nothing else to do. Couldn’t go out and hang with my friends. Couldn’t go to work because most businesses closed down including Riley’s. Only those businesses considered “essential” were allowed to remain open. I remembered always complaining about not having enough time to devote to my writing – a passion I have had my entire childhood. Since the third grade, whenever asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer was always: “a famous writer.” My wild imagination, creativity, and writing ability at that age awed both my parents and teachers. With so much to do and the life that being a teen brings between school, work, and social life, my passion kept getting pushed off by the wayside . . . until now . . . Well, another blessing in disguise, I suppose.

So began my journaling journey with my first entry on 13 March, when early news of COVID-19 started circulating around Deere Mountain. Somewhere along this journey I lost track of my journaling and the journal itself. It wasn’t until recently, thirty-something years later that I happened upon my journal. I was sorting through some things in our old shed, trying to clean up and rebuild. I remember my father and I had packed several evac tubs with essentials in case we had to be displaced. Eventually, we did. One of the Rubbermade tubs, purple, (of course, that has always been my favorite color) was labeled, “Emma.” I carefully opened the lid as the plastic was starting to crack from age and wear. Buried beneath my high school yearbooks, some old favorite stuffed bears, and glass photo frames wrapped in blankets, there was my journal. It was a gift my parents gave me before all this started so that I could record the memories of my senior year.

Something else too. Draped within the yellowed pages was a thin gold chain bearing at the end of it a heart-shaped locket, also silhouetted in gold, but with a solid ruby heart embedded within the locket itself. I pinched the locket open with my thumbnail, revealing two small engravings, one on each side of the locket. On the left, in small lower-case script, the letters wfk; in larger all caps on the right side, the letters OAB. I looked down at the page the locket had been bookmarking and read these simple words written by a scattered cursive hand: “In good time. Love, Will.”

Never did I fathom I would be writing about the days ahead. Nor had I considered what that ruby heart locket would bring and what those words meant.