LANNY BALL, Literacy Specialist

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

My wife looked back at me from the passenger seat.  “We’ll meet you here in the parking lot,” she responded.

I pulled on the newly purchased orange and white rubber gloves and walked toward the door of the AAA office.  My driver’s license had expired and I needed to renew it.  This is silly to wear gloves, isn’t it? I wondered silently.  Then I remembered the news stories I had read earlier in the day.  About a spreading infectious virus.  No.  It wasn’t silly.

Pulling the glass door open, I entered the office and felt myself immediately greeted by an eerie quiet.  Don’t these places usually pipe in background music?  Perhaps not.  Inside, only three employees manned the entire large AAA office.  Several desks sat empty to my right as I entered the queue.  Only one other customer in front of me quietly conversed with the help desk clerk.

As I waited, I overheard a few conversations: “Yes, well I wanted to let you know that I am going to be out at least ten days,” one employee stated into a beige telephone.  “I care for elderly parents, and, well…I just can’t take any chances.”

Next to me to my right, another employee spoke into a different phone.  I could sense the irritation in her voice.  “I’ve been on hold for nearly three hours, and my clients need to cancel their trip.  They’re supposed to leave tomorrow.  Can someone please help me with this?”  I thought about the family whose trip would not happen.  How long it takes to plan a trip.  And I thought about the woman who cares for her elderly parents.  I thought about my young family, waiting for me in the car outside.

The world feels different right now.

Our nature walk had felt good.  Even a little exhilarating.  Now confined to mostly home quarters, we all agreed that spending time in nature seemed important.  Brilliant March sun had promised us all a golden spring experience today, but now the breeze clawed at our faces.  Time to turn back and head for home.  We were cold.

As we made our way back across the bridge and toward our house, we spotted the truck.  I watched as it slowed down and parked dead center on the opposite side of the bridge from where we walked.  On the side of the truck, a logo read, “Department of Energy & Environmental Protection.”

Suddenly, I heard my wife’s voice, “Oh girls!  We’re in for a treat!”  Curious little voices erupted into a cacophony of questions: “What? What’s happening? What are they doing?”  I even wondered to myself, “What is going on?”  With no traffic on the road, the five of us crossed to gain a better vantage point.  Two men emerged from the truck, both wearing hip waders.  The driver, donning a stocking cap with a brim and dark sunglasses, circled round the back of the truck and climbed up on the passenger side.  Glistening silver box-like chambers rested on the truck bed, fueling curiosity in my three daughters and me.  What kind of truck was this?  And what were we about to witness?

Pulling a large net from behind the truck’s cabin, the driver lifted a lid of one of the silver tanks.  He then inserted the net.  And then it happened.  Fish stocking!

On Sunday, the unthinkable happened.  I napped.  Collapsing onto the couch, I briefly attempted to remember the last time this happened.  I couldn’t remember.  No matter, I thought.

Then I wondered, “My god, what will the kids do?”  My wife had already dozed off.  I could hear her gentle breathing from the couch adjacent to the one I now occupied.  I listened.  In the dining room, three little voices.  Chattering about drawing, negotiating colored marker use, discussing next steps about . . . well, something.  The tone in their voices held contentment, engagement. They were cooperating.  Playing.  So, I guess I don’t need to worry?  Afternoon sun flooded the room, and my eyes felt heavy. So I closed them.

And then it happened.  I fell asleep.  Not sure how long I was out.  But when I awoke, I realized I’d taken a short break from worry.  From anxiety.  From decision-making. From housecleaning.  From dishes.  From laundry.  From home-school planning.  From my phone.  From my laptop.  From all of it.

Just for a little bit.

I closed the glass-paneled door gently behind me and started down toward the water.  A slight breeze reminded me that I might be underdressed.  “Yes,” it said, “it is a clear sunny day, but don’t forget. . . it is March.”  Oh well, this time outside would be short, I thought.  Just a short walk to the water, a short break from the kids.  I’ll be fine.

I held my phone close to my ear and slowly meandered toward the lazy river that runs behind my house.  On the other end of the line, I listened as one of my oldest and dearest friends recounted stories, catching me up on his life: As a principal, he will still go to work, even though his school is closed.  His daughter remains in Europe, and this worries him.  Stockpiling toilet paper is an issue. And other things. I caught him up a little on my life, too.

Standing on my dock now, I gazed out at the dark water slowly flowing by.  It reminded me of time.  Barely moving. Hard to discern the passage.  I thought about how long it had been since I had spoken with my friend.  Weeks?  Months?  How is that possible?  We live on opposite coasts, but still . . .

Turning my back on the water, I slowly made my way back toward the house.  It felt good to connect with an old friend.  Even if only for a short bit.  It felt good.

“Sounds great, guys, sounds great! Let’s just remember to keep our volume down, okay?” I looked up from behind the Roland electric piano where I sat.  Our musical director, a wonderful saxophonist named Doug, seemed pleased. He smiled jovially at all of us.  I glanced back at the drummer, then over to our bass player, and finally to the guitar player, who sat adjacent to me.  We had just finished playing Henry Mancini’s composition, “Mr. Lucky.”

The rich brown wood of the studio that surrounded us, once an old Dutch barn, felt comforting somehow.  Amidst a global pandemic, with schools closing, sports seasons canceled, public sites and destinations shuttered, grocery stores emptied, sitting behind a piano playing music delivered just a bit of normality back to life last night.  And for that, I felt so grateful. I guess you could say I felt like Mr. Lucky himself.