First, apologies for the previous post (#12 The Sky is Falling). I’m afraid it may have come off as a sort of bait and switch — promising “less gloom” and delivering, well, gloom. Not a lot of math or science though, so there’s that. But in the end we couldn’t avoid the numbers adding up to, um, gloom.

In this post two-year old Oscar forms his own impression of the situation. [We first met Oscar in Post #9: In the Whirlpool]. But first, the news:

Today the number of confirmed U.S. cases exceeds 142,000. Yesterday it was about 124,000. Trends continue on track to reach ~ 200,000 cases by the end of March, and ~ 650,000 by Easter. Today’s estimated fatality rate is about 1.76%, corresponding to over 11,000 deaths by Easter. Gloom, I know. Let’s see what Oscar makes of all this…

Oscar: A Day in the Time of the Plague
“Can we go to the park?”
“Have you seen the statistics?”
Oscar, two years old, looks around. “I don’t think so. What do they look like? Are they lost?”
Uh oh. “No honey. They’re numbers.”
Oscar studies his fingers, lips moving silently.
“Not like that Oscar. Special numbers — to help us understand what’s happening.”
Oscar squints. “You mean like Alexa?”
“Not exactly. She can sometimes help answer questions, but not about this.”
Oscar’s eyebrows lift a bit.
“These numbers help us know what to do so we don‘t get sick.”
Oscar considers this for a long moment.
“Can I go out and play?
“It’s raining.”
“Puddles!”

We spend an hour, maybe four, struggling into sweater, raincoat, boots. Finally! Ready!

Suddenly sunshine floods the kitchen.
Undaunted, Oscar runs out the door, splashing through puddles before I can reach for him. Then he’s on a quest, peering under the picnic table, into the bushes, furiously digging in his sandbox. 

I allow a smile. We’ve planned as best we can. Cheerios and hot dogs. Milk. Bread. Ginger snaps. The essentials.
Oscar rushes inside, dripping. “Potty!”
Off with the rain gear. Just in time. Then drying off.
“I didn’t find them.”
“Find what?”
“The numbers that make us sick.”

I touch his shoulder. He sees my expression, eyes slowly widening.
“No honey. The numbers don‘t make us sick. They tell us how long we have to stay inside.”
“Inside?” Oscar glances out the window, nibbling his lip.
“No, no, I don’t mean inside the house. We just can’t go to the supermarket or anywhere very far away.”
“Never?”
“No, no. It should all be okay pretty soon. Then we can go anywhere we want.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
Oscar studies my face, unconvinced.
“Okay.”
“Would you like some lunch?”
“Okay.” I head into the kitchen as he runs off shouting “Maybe they’re under the couch.”
Soon singing and thumping emanate from the living room.

What do I tell him? I don’t know when this will end. The best we can do is take it a day at a time. The news isn’t too promising right now. It still looks pretty dark. But they say it won’t be more than a month or so, at least in our area. The peak, they say, isn’t here yet. But another month? Geez. I’m managing to work from home assuming a nice long nap is in the offing — so we’re pretty good there — assuming no company cut backs. But who knows? Let’s see. What else? Fridge? Check. Pantry? Check. Water, power, furnace? Check. Health? Yes. Family? Everyone sounds okay. Skype. Email. Yeah.

The living room detonates with a yelp and the inevitable crash.
I rush toward the noise. “Oscar! Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. I’m okay.”
Oscar is standing solemnly over the shattered remains of great-grandma’s lamp.
“Oh, Oscar.”
He looks up, eyes watering. I pull him in with a warm hug.

“Don’t worry honey. It’s okay. It was old.”
“But it was special. Grandma’s lamp. From the olden days.”
“The depression.”
“Deep ression?”
I smile. “Olden days. Grandma didn’t have much in those days.”
We gaze at the yellowed shards.
“I’m sorry,” Oscar murmurs.
More hugging. “It’s okay, don’t worry. As long as you’re okay.”
Oscar stares off, thumb on his chin.
“Did she have toys?”
“Not too many.”
“YouTube?”
“No,” I smile, “not in those days.”
“Alexa?”
“No. But she had a teddy bear. She used to say she talked to him a lot in those days. He made her happy.”

“A teddy bear? And a mommy and daddy too?”
“Of course. And you know what? They were very happy even though it was sometimes a sad time. But they had each other just like us.”
Oscar lights up.
“I bet they were very nice. Her mommy and daddy.”
“They were, honey. They were.”
“Even in the deep ression.”
“Even in the deep ression.”
“Umm.” Oscar blinks, spins, and scoots toward his room. “I’ll be right back.”
A moment later he’s wandering down the hall, brow furrowed, whispering urgently to his teddy bear.
I disappear into the kitchen. Time for lunch. We’ll clean up the damage later.