COVID finally comes knocking

For a number of months before my wife passed it was my responsibility to keep her from catching COVID. We got out every day, never avoiding the world, even if it was simply to drive around for a while. I felt bad putting a mask on her, because it meant not applying her lipstick, a skill at which I had become quite adept. She never got COVID. My job was complete.

It has now been more than three years since my wife died and guess what? COVID came knocking at my door. I have long assumed my copious consumption of good Scotch kept the damned thing at bay. Wrong. Well, you know how men are. Macho Scotch drinkers can overcome anything, just ask them. Cemeteries are filled with those guys. This macho guy spent a bit of glorious time in London just before Christmas and fell ill the day after returning. Must have been from someone on the plane. And I still don’t feel great.

To my surprise, the most difficult part is not the “staying away from people” part, as I rather enjoy that; it’s the idea that, even if I wanted to, I must avoid others. So here I am, a self-sentenced captive, taking frequent naps with my cats Pippa and Luna, talking to them about all manner of things; music, art, literature, sports, the weather, the day’s news, the deaths of those we knew, etc. I know, I know; with all that is going on in the world, my little illness is pretty insignificant.

An old man sits out in rural America with his COVID and his cats and it’s almost too much to bear. You don’t think you need others until you are cut off from them. Then strange thoughts occur, like, am I relevant? I give that one a big maybe because I am fully aware that not long after I pass I will be mostly forgotten. You know, ‘Whatever happened to that one guy?’

This past week something died in a field just up the road: I know this because a convocation of American bald eagles has been hanging about, feeding on whatever lies there. My guess is that it’s a dead deer, one that some guy dressed in bright orange mortally wounded, allowing it to get away, only for it to die in a snow-covered field near here. One day there were eight eagles, all lifting off the ground simultaneously as I passed. It was a magical thing to witness, and last night a family of coyotes moved past the house through the snow, yipping and keening. You don’t feel quite so alone when the wild things show up.

Let me tell you about an extraordinary, strange Christmas song with which you may not be familiar. It came out in 1988 and is called “Fairytale of New York.” Originally performed by an Irish group called The Pogues, the unrestrained song has been covered by many others since, including a live version by Jimmy Fallon and Saoirse Ronan. A couple of weeks ago I was headed down the steps of Westminster Underground station in London and an electric-guitar-playing busker was nailing the song and, as I was stepping from the platform into a crowded car, I heard three young women (early 20s) behind me, also getting into the car and, quite surprisingly, they’re singing the song, and I join in: “It was Christmas Eve, babe, in the drunk tank, An old man said to me, won’t see another one.” And it’s exactly those kinds of spontaneous if slightly goofy, melancholy moments that make venturing out into the world well worth the effort, but be careful out there.

Have a brilliant new year. I hope you all experience love.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book “The Iowa State Fair” is available from the University of Iowa Press