GROOVIN' ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON

In history there are events that change the sequence of time, the birth of Jesus Christ the most obvious example. But in communities, nations and the world there are occurrences that will serve as a reference point in the lives of individuals.

There is the before and after of the earthquake. There is the before and after of the flood.  And there is the before and after of the war. As we know from personal deaths in our own families, existence subsequently changes forever.

For me there will be the Coronavirus before and after. As a baby boomer, I escaped Vietnam because the country sent white trash, ghetto blacks and barrio Mexicans to do the fighting while we middle-class white boys partied through college. If I had had the combat experience, I'm sure my perspective would be different, but I didn't. With the exception of a few passings, my life has been free of trauma. I don't take this fortunate fate lightly. I knocked on my head regularly.

Coronavirus, however, has permanently altered my outlook. As I ease toward my 70th year since options are limited as we eclipse 90,000 deaths today, I know that I will not resume the same activities in which I engaged prior to the outbreak. The biggest change affects my social interactions: I will not be eating and drinking as publicly as I once did.

As I see my time a-comin', maybe it's the growing paranoia I feel in general. Nobody in Brownsville knew or appreciated Matamoros as much as I did, but the violence has brought those celebratory days to an end. I'll cross the bridge and walk 50 meters to Garcia's for Viagra and Xanax, but I don't wander any farther south. Black clouds send me scurrying in the opposite direction. I did spend two months in D.F. 18 months ago, but I was residing in an affluent colonia and I never sensed any danger although I wasn't drunk stumbling through the streets late at night.

Unlike the black cloud I sense across the border, the invisible COVID-19 cloud hangs over me on this side of the river. In the warm greetings that characterize the Brownsville populace, there are no more "besos" for the gals or "abrazos" for the guys. I have no desire to touch anyone. Coronavirus' contagiousness and lethalness have alerted me to the dangers of flu and pneumonia that are as easily transmitted through shaking hands or touching door knobs. When you're healthy, you take this state for granted as if it were going to last forever, but Dr. Polyphemous Pangloss puts it best, "Life is a whisper."

If the remainder of my life is going to be little more than sweet nothings whispered into my ear, I'm content. As the blues song goes, "I've had my fun." Besides, I am not bored staying at home. I have a 15-year-old son whom I must guide through three years of high school. I have Claudia and innumerable shows and movies accessible through the television. I only watch foreign flicks as I try to improve my Spanish and defend myself in Portuguese and French. I have spent more than five decades endeavoring to master Spanish and years studying Portuguese and French. I haven't scratched Italian off the bucket list and I would like to delve into Latin since it's the mother of my Romantic family.

I have not lost contact with humanity. Overseeing The McHale Report necessitates I remain in contact with my network of politicians, local leaders and concerned citizens as well as my editorial staff. There is no dearth of communication. I have never been much of a phone person, but the pandemic has turned my cell into one of my best friends.

Aside from the journalistic pursuits, there is my literary career, highlighted by the completion of The Master which should appear on Amazon soon. I am also composing my longest work--The Coronavirus Chronicles. And there is the endless reading. Presently, I'm in the middle of Isabel Allende's La Casa de los Espíritus.

I haven't abandoned by pursuit of becoming young and handsome either, so I hit the weights regularly while remaining religiously dedicated to my Yankee Yoga--push-ups, sit-ups and stretches. I'm disciplined in that I have never quit writing and exercising because I have been doing them all my life. If I go a few days without doing either, I lose respect for myself both mentally and physically.

While I have battled bad habits, which are a result of abusing the good times because going for the gusto is addicting, I have been blessed with enough good habits that I still have game as I commence my eighth decade. Ow! Eighth decade! Forget the argument about life after death. Would somebody please explain the phenomenon of time to me. For those who are afraid of death, you should page through your photo albums. Those babies you brought into the world are gone forever. They are tombstones in our memory. With the end of each day, we endure a little death, so when the second Big Bang hits--the first Big Bang was life--we should be prepared to go quietly into the good night.

For all of those who can't contain themselves when I walk through a door, I'm not becoming a hermit. There will be sightings. It could be downtown on the patio at Dodici Pizza & Wine or quaffing a cold one at The Library or The Palm Lounge or it could be at Toscafino or at La Pampa on the northside or it might be at the traditional wateringholes like The Vermillion or Cobbleheads or it could be at any number of other gathering spots like Gio's or Campero's or Mi Pueblito or Kumori or even Mota's in the Southmost to taquear. I would be remiss if I didn't say you might encounter me at The Toddle Inn or Ricardo's that have few peers at eight in the morning.

And if you want to play your surest hand and win the jackpot, you can bet the house that your best odds at catching a glance of me well-protected behind my mask--which I may wear for the rest of my life--will be at HEB Plus. When I think of a perfect place with everything in order, I imagine the well-ordered aisles at HEB. When a nuclear holocaust has destroyed civilization and the few survivors are recalling a happier time, the HEB Plus will be that vision of a lost earthly paradise.

But there will be no more crowds for me. The only challenge will be Sams Stadium this season when my son begins his varsity season (hopefully) as a sophomore wide-receiver (hopefully) with Veterans-Memorial. I have resolved that dilemma. I'm going to sit on the visitors' side where there are significantly lesser fans at the top of the stands in the vicinity of the 30-yard line. I am calculating that area should be sparsely populated.

But there will be no more professional or college games at major stadiums or arenas. There will be no more concerts or festivals. There will be no more packed bars or clubs. As I finish my third year of retirement, I had withdrawn in general. I still desire to play the guitar and sing my compositions before small audiences, but I can entertain myself in the privacy of my office or backyard. I am not a person who needs people as the song goes. My children keep me sufficiently preoccupied, a warm body at night and an occasional bottle of wine and a joint with a longtime friend and I'm amused as I slowly fade into anonymity and eternity.