Curious if there was a word referring to a span of five years, I encountered “quinquennium.” (Is there any other word that contains two q’s?) Such a strange word for a stranger time: March 2020. Life as we knew it mutated. Flipped. Stopped us in our tracks.

Earlier, there were reports of a worrisome new virus. But it seemed so far removed, confined to a smattering of cases overseas.

I’d made plans to attend my high school reunion in San Francisco mid-March. Our small but adventurous class fully embraced the idea of a destination reunion.

It seems laughable now, but I was gloved and mask-free at the airport. The jury was still out on how this mysterious virus spread, so just in case it was lurking on the seats or rails, I protected my hands. 

A couple classmates couldn’t attend at the last minute because their jobs involved working with seniors and they didn’t want to chance getting sick. For the rest of us, it seemed like a reasonably safe bet. 

Among the Bay Area’s typical experiences—strolling through Muir Woods and marveling at redwoods as tall as skyscrapers, wine tastings in the Napa Valley, browsing at Fisherman’s Wharf—we reminisced about old times, poring over yearbooks and scrapbooks. I was recognized as the classmate with the youngest child and was gifted a bottle of Aleve.

My mom called to report that the first case of COVID-19 had infiltrated Colorado Springs, which gave me pause. Still, the distractions of that hilly city kept me blissfully preoccupied.

Then my son, who was a senior in high school, called. School was dismissed early as a safety precaution against the threat of the virus. Hmmm. I imagined it would just be for a few days at most. But he gathered his things and hurriedly left, never to return. Ever. 

I flew home for $35 one way from San Fran to Denver—the cheapest ticket I’ve ever bought. All the festivities took their toll. I was California dreamin’ on the only flight I’ve ever slept straight through, takeoff to landing.

I came home to a disorienting world. 

Post-trip, I headed to the grocery store to stock up. I saw bare shelves. I couldn’t find any eggs. A fight broke out in the store’s parking lot. The experience felt very apocalyptic. 

When my son was born, I thought 2020 sounded like a classy graduation year—seeing your future with 20/20 vision and all that. In the months that followed, he enrolled in online learning, missed his prom and acquired his diploma at a socially distanced outdoor graduation with limited attendance—not the cool “2020” commencement I had anticipated. 

The job I held then depended on performance royalties. No audiences meant no funds and thus, no paycheck. I filed for unemployment. 

These consequences are small in the face of those who lost someone they loved before the vaccination was an option. That’s a wistful heartache that never leaves. 

But I recall my daughter stitching us masks before they were readily available, innovation amid isolation, how we all became increasingly comfortable with Zoom and FaceTime but mostly, a neighborly kindness that was more contagious than the virus.

We’ve got one resilient planet. 

LONG-HAUL HOSPITALITY 

In February’s issue, two Broadmoor Hotel employees were misidentified in our print edition’s photos: MarySue Wildman, a concierge of 25 years who handles guests’ dilemmas with aplomb, and Payroll Manager Janet Corns, one of two “Janets” who expertly keeps the books. The BEACON regrets this error.