Saturday, May 30, 2020 at 8:03 AM
Long Shadows Abbey
Streator Illinois
Chicago remains shut down for quarantine, but Streator on the prairie one hundred miles southwest has opened for business. The counties around Streator had met the metrics to open, very few cases of Covid and plenty of beds open in intensive care. Men lined up on the sidewalk, wearing masks, for a chance to sit in a barber’s chair. The sign on the door had said, “Closed for Covid until May 30th” and the sign proved true.
I noticed the lights turned on at a salon, the open light sparkling, but no line of clientele outside. The salon must take appointments only. I passed by an interesting pub on a side street, but I didn’t see any customers day drinking under the patio umbrellas in the biergarten. All of the people who had gathered last night probably had stayed in bed, drinking coffee.
I passed a few outdoor parties last night on my way back from Sandy Ford Nature Area, the patio of the Eagles thronging with people, nobody wearing masks or standing at a social distance. People played horseshoes the way they have played horseshoes at the corner of Main and Bloomington since the club opened in 1902. The Dutko Brothers were setting up their drums and sound equipment, preparing to play when the sun went down.
I was fascinated yet bewildered because the town had shut down the day after my arrival, March 15th. On Saint Patrick’s Day, I even called Chalkey’s Tavern, knowing it would be closed. The answering machine message satisfied my wish to hear a few words of Irish hospitality on the day.
The night before the shutdown, I had walked by Angela’s Pub on the way home and said hello to two people smoking on the sidewalk. Maybe I should have wandered in to have my last beer at the rail for the next seventy days. Beyond that chat, I had talked only to the clerks at the post office and the staff at the Walgreens while visiting downtown. The postal service and the pharmacy were offering essential services, so they were open.
This morning, I ordered a large coffee and two hot apple pies for the hundredth time at McDonalds. I put on my mask and rolled down my window, anticipating an employee’s visit to my car in spot number three. I don’t feel bad about avoiding the drive through now. If I go through the drive through, I have to wait for the decaf coffee to be brewed and brought out to my waiting car.
A young man brought the order out to my car. He wore a mask. The mask on me honored the mask on him. I hadn’t seen him before today. Usually, a manager runs out the curbside orders. I’ve met all of the managers briefly after ordering the same order for the last two months.
“Hey, is your name really Will?”
“Correct. I am Will.”
“Cool, my name is Will as well.”
“Really, your name is Will. We’re like a little club. Thanks so much for bringing out my order. I appreciate it very much”.
He pressed his palms together, fingers pointing up.
“Oh hey, namaste to you too. The Will in me sees the Will in you.”
He laughed and he turned around and walked back to the store. I hadn’t visited the lobby since the evening before the shutdown. I missed sitting in a McDonald’s lobby, using free electricity and wifi and asking for free refills.
I drove across town to the Hopalong Cassidy Boat Launch, a grass covered floodplain now free of the ten feet of water that had inundated it for days. I parked among five cars, mostly trucks that could haul tons of hay or push a serious blade through a snowy parking lot. Two families had found places on the sandy strand along the Vermilion River. I watched all the anglers, hoping someone would finally catch a fish.
A mom watched as her daughters waded in calf deep water. She watched the two carefully, but their surgical masks rested on their chins. I thought about it. The wind was bringing fresh air from the meadow from across the swift river. What was to worry?
I sat on my bench, the one that I often found surrounded by floodwaters in April and early May. The rains had cleansed the wood of silt and mud. I lifted my mask to take a bit of my now cold hot apple pie. I let the mask drop over my mug as I chewed. I doubted that anyone fishing on the sandy shore had a case of the virus. The odds were strictly against it. I had just grown accustomed to the hot steamy breath on my face, a feeling of safety. I wondered how long I would persist in wearing a cloth surgical mask away from my house?
My pies finished, I walked back to my car. A man in a red tee said hello to me. We were standing ten feet apart when he asked me, “Did you come to fish?”
“Not today. I’m going to my office. I’ll have to come back with fishing equipment.”
“My buddy, he just caught two fish.”
“Sounds like it’s fish for dinner tonight.”
“Yeah, he’s going to catch a lot more. There’s tons of fish in the river.”
He wasn’t wearing a mask, but he kept his distance. I was wearing my mask, so I wasn’t worried. I felt a moment of shame because I had yet to talk fishing with anyone this season and I was estimating my risk of catching the virus from him. When will I be able to let it rest?
We talked longer than I had planned. I was grateful for a day with two conversations.
NOTE: The River Redhorse thrives in the Vermilion River, especially near the sandstone cliffs of Sandy Ford Nature Area. The Redhorse has no tolerance for polluted waters, so that's a good sign for the Vermilion. The Asian Carp also makes the Vermilion River its home.
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