Like most of our friends where we live, Paterfamilias and I are sheltering alone in our apartment. Our grown children live in cities far from us. Unlike our friends with children living nearby, we do not get picture window visits--blown kisses from our children or grandchildren standing in our backyards or on sidewalks below our windows. Groceries with love notes in it are not dropped at our door. We are strictly in communicado via FaceTime, which does the job--except for the hugs.
Unlike some people we have not been whisked away by our grown children to shelter with them in their remote second homes. Calvin Trillin has. I have been alerted to his adventure by my very own grown child, who has no second home to offer but who sent the link. Trillan's New Yorker piece is comic relief for those of us who need it.
Here's a taste of what's to come.
Don’t get me wrong—I appreciate my daughter, Hilda, arranging to have me snatched from the dangerously crowded city and harboring me at her house in a semirural part of the state. I appreciate the efforts of my son-in-law, Desmond, who drove the getaway car, and of my teen-age grandsons, Jason and Justin, whom I now refer to as my tech-support team. So you must be wondering why I intend to give the establishment run by Hilda and her family only three stars on TripAdvisor.