Good night, and good luck
goodbye to a terrible year . . .
in which good things still happened.
In 1940, Edward R. Murrow closed his CBS radio news broadcast with the words “Good night, and good luck.” Reporting from London during the Blitz, the saying that expressed the optimism and courage of the British people became his signature sign-off. Eighty years later, this message still resonates.
2020 was a terrible year, in which good things still happened.
Every December, I I feel a need to revisit the previous months. As I don’t keep a journal, I scroll through photos on my iPhone. As Apple helpfully organizes them by year, month, and day, I can see my curated memories at a glance. Looking back through 2020, I try to pinpoint the date on which life slipped the bounds of normalcy. Among a jumble of images, I find it.
March 7. My husband and I had dinner at a restaurant near the Guthrie Theatre, in Minneapolis. In the women’s room, I saw the first sign of Covid fear. The first literal sign, issued by the Minnesota Department of Health, it listed the steps involved in properly washing one’s hands. Water, soap, twenty seconds. Sing “Happy Birthday” twice. Use a paper towel to touch the faucet and doorknob. As I returned to the table, a vague unease took hold. It was as if a presence had, uninvited, joined us at the table.
Before“Twelfth Night” began, and during intermission, I caught spooky “live mode” images of people descending the steps overlooking the waterfront, chatting and drinking in the theatre’s lobby and bars, passing through corridors, reflected in windows. How ghostly these people seem. How spectral. I am reminded of Ezra Pound's In a Station of the Metro: “The apparition of these faces in the crowd:/ Petals on a wet, black bough.”
“Twelfth Night” was the final production of an interrupted season. Two weeks later, the Guthrie refunded our tickets to “The Bacchae.” The pandemic had arrived.
March 31. Pictures of the street from an upstairs window. Neighbors stood six feet apart on the asphalt, holding drinks. It wasn’t the first of our Wednesday-afternoon social hours. Two weeks before, we’d started checking in, calling from sidewalk to porch. Are you okay? Do you need anything? Groceries, toilet paper, hand sanitizer?
April. May. Dozens of pictures of early growth, flowers emerging, budding, blooming in my yard. Scilla. Crocuses. Bleeding hearts. The star magnolia, more magnificent each spring. But what I remember most vividly is ten-month-old Ruby, handing me a leaf. She’d crawled from the wet grass of her yard into mine. “She wants to be friends,” her dad said. How long had it been since I’d held a child? I pulled a mask over my face and resisted the profound urge to scoop her into my arms. I accepted the leaf.
May 31. Three days after Memorial Day, the city reeling after the murder of George Floyd. In a gesture that seemed both rational and symbolic, I dug up the fragrant, poisonous lilies of the valley that edged every walkway and small grouping of plants in my yard. The delicate white bells are my favorite flower. They were Christian Dior’s as well: he sewed them into the hems of couture gowns and wore one in his buttonhole each day. But the association of the cognate words, racism and roots, obsessed me. I spaded the plants into a wheelbarrow and dumped them behind the garage. Most will come back in the spring. Lilies of the valley are indestructible.
June 13. Some restrictions eased. My son married the girl he’d known since high school. In a gazebo on the grounds of a bed-and-breakfast, the couple said their vows. Bright, breezy, roses in bloom: in Duluth, this weather's a gift. They’d had the good sense to schedule their “planned elopement” a year in advance. Officiant, cake, romantic carriage house, immediate family only. (Don’t ask me to explain. Look up “elopement packages” on the Web. You’re welcome). I think of what we missed: non-refundable down payments, already-printed invitations, too-snug bridal gowns. And of what we shared instead: an intimate ceremony unburdened of all that. Which was exactly what they wanted.
June 16. A block party, celebrating Juneteenth. A local scholar of Black history spoke of the St. Paul neighborhood in which he grew up. Rondo, a thriving Black community, was bulldozed in the 1960s to make room for a freeway. A white neighborhood, ours, was left standing. “I grew up not too far from this corner. Cousins all over the place. Then came I-94.” He paused. “Let’s make some music.” Kids ran to the African drums and calabashes set up on the sidewalk. We removed our masks only to eat individually-packaged snacks and candy.
July 16. Wedding anniversary. How different dining has become. Patio only, hand sanitizer everywhere. Menu on QR codes. Ordering and paying by phone. Touch-free everything.
October 17. Coffee on the front lawn of a generous neighbor. It has become a Saturday-morning ritual. Little Ruby is walking now. Playing in the leaves. She is beautiful and bright in her hot-pink coat.
November 15. My husband, having made the bittersweet decision to retire from the University of Minnesota Libraries, gives me a list of the power tools he wants for Christmas. After forty-five years, he will finally be able to spend more time creating sawdust, noise, and perfect dovetail joints. We plan Thanksgiving. Make dinner, pack it in paper sacks, hand it off to our children from the front porch.
December 17. Lights, tree, and ornaments up. How to do Christmas? We dither, decide to unwrap presents in three pod groupings. Drinks, separate platters of cheeses and charcuterie. Send dinner, packed in paper sacks, home with each couple.
December 31. I will put 2020 to bed and say good night. And wish us all good luck.
