What the Dickens Should We Do?

I could have used the first week of quarantine in these days of the coronavirus pandemic to finish writing several pieces I've wanted to write for weeks, months, years. I even have titles for some of them: "Mt. Baldy," "Pillow Talks," and "Fun Zone." But I didn't. Instead, I turned my entire daily routine topsy-turvy, taking long naps and then staying up to read in the wee small hours.

I could have read the books my book groups will tackle when our distancing precaution is over, Following Atticus and The Pioneers. But I didn't. Instead I sat entranced with Malcolm Gladwell's Talking to Strangers and the most current issues of The New Yorker.

I could have, would have, should have...but I've given up recriminations. Instead I'm reflecting on the things I did do in this new year, which somebody has mentioned seemed to have been scripted by Stephen King. 

I saw my physician in January for my annual checkup and an optometrist and ophthalmologist in February, got a laser treatment to clear the lens cap on my left eye and a new prescription for glasses. All before health care professionals weren't conscripted for attending to the urgently ill and vision centers weren't shuttered.

I shopped for essential toiletries before the mad toilet paper stampede made going to any open stores a bona fide health hazard.

I got to promote an anthology with one of my pieces, "An Arrested Development," at the fabled West Hollywood "Book Soup" which I'd always longed to explore.

I took in another stellar play, "Fun Home," at the Chance Theater with my son and daughter-in-law, followed by "Murder Runs in the Family" at my local Westminster Community Theater and a final performance of "The Great Gatsby" at the minuscule Maverick Theater, before entertainment venues were all closed.

I got to celebrate St. Patrick's Day, sipping excellent Bushmill's Irish whiskey safely alone with a close friend, when we made the wise decision to forego any crowds.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.  --Charles Dickens