No, not the disease. I have been lucky there. But our esteemed Twin & Turbine contributor, Rich Pickett, did just that and has eloquently written about his scary ordeal (see this month’s Editor’s Briefing). Welcome back, Rich!
All I had to do is survive living cooped up at home for months. It was truly a struggle. A few observations along the way.
Evidently, we have something called a washer and dryer in a place called the utility room somewhere near the garage. I have attempted to stay away from that area for 48 years with great success. I wasn’t exactly sure how my clean clothes wound up in my dressing area, but I wasn’t going to ask any questions. Once our housekeeper abandoned ship, I was “introduced” to this area by Patty.
Terrible things happen in that room. It is steamy hot, noisy and the dog eats there. Mounds of dirty clothes pile up there and need to be sorted in some mysterious way. And heaven forbid if a black sock ends up in a load of white underwear.
I hate Covid-19.
We have one of those battery-powered vacuum cleaners with a canister you can see through. One day, I volunteered to run the contraption through the house where only the two of us live with our dog, Peaches. I found out that we are filthy people. That clear canister filled up with stuff I can’t even talk about.
I hate Covid-19.
With seemingly no previous experience, your wife can cut your hair. She will sit you outside in a lawn chair with extremely sharp scissors, and converse just like the expensive stylists do.
“Do you remember when you embarrassed me in front of your pilot friends,” she asked.
Snip. Snip.
“Honey, I was just kidding!” I yelled.
Snip. Snip. Snip. Ouch. I now have what I call a unique “custom haircut.”
I hate Covid-19.
My awesome grandkids were told by their parents not to touch me because I am part of the at-risk age group. After weeks of this nonsense, I figured out a workaround to the dilemma.
“Lie down on the grass and I will, too,” I told Hayden and Evelyn. “Put your feet together and my feet can touch the bottoms of your feet. If we keep our shoes on, the virus can’t get through.”
It worked.
Before the virus, my relatives would gather at our home for a weekly meal referred to by my sister Linda, as “forced family dinners.” Linda then decided that the group needed to do a weekly Zoom video meeting. So, every Friday night, we called into this chat room for a compulsory update on all the exciting things going on.
They hung up on me.
Fly safe.
