Anno Domini MMXXI

Atlanta, GA

January 1, 2021

Hard times create strong men. Strong men create good times. Good times create weak men. And weak men create hard times.

– G. Michael Hopf

Last night, like a dirty diaper from an outstretched arm, we disposed of 2020. Unfortunately, the odor will be with us a while. 

It is early on this first morning of 2021. A steady rain falls as we await a new dawn. But before we unceremoniously dump the last twelve months into the withered arms of an unmarked grave, we offer a eulogy…typed only with our middle finger…over the rotting corpse of a rancid year.

The stench hangs heavy over the barren cemetery, filled with dim moonlight, a deep chill, and a sparse crowd. Only the undertaker stands at our side, ready to spread disinfectant, shovel dirt, fill the pit, and get the hell out of here.

The sole sound is that of a whistling wind thru dying trees, their empty limbs tapping like bony fingers on the cracked stone of abandoned tombs.

Last January, we welcomed a new year, and a new decade. We did so with trepidation and hope, while wishing their immediate antecedents a hearty good riddance. 

We owe those earlier ages a sincere apology.

Recent years resemble modern presidencies. Each one makes us nostalgic for its predecessor. Last year almost makes us yearn for the Johnson Administration.

Almost.

We waded thru 2020 like a man wallowing in a cesspool. When in the middle of it, you lose perspective, and see little else. The first orders of business are to stay above the sewage, and to get out. Now, at long last, we’ve done so. But still upon us is a sheen of slime that will not soon come off.

As we burst thru the gates of Janus, we long to look only one direction. Like Lot leaving Sodom, we are loathe to look back. But like his wife, we can’t resist doing so…to ponder a year in which locust storms, murder hornets, global wildfires, a presidential impeachment, and the targeted assassination of an Iranian general will be mere footnotes to a more prominent theme.

GK Chesterton often reflected on the “modern and morbid habit of sacrificing the normal to the abnormal”. The attack on normalcy has certainly accelerated in recent decades, and particularly during the last one. Most of us hardly know what “normal” is anymore, which is largely the point of the assault.

But last year, our cultural assailants abandoned their siege tactics, and aggressively stormed the citadel. Like Imperial troops into Renaissance Rome, they must’ve marveled how easily the walls came down. The first bricks fell in March, and tumbled to ruin over subsequent months.

Around the world, governors, prime ministers, presidents, mayors, and media usurped authority and pressed their luck to frighten the populace, keep them in their homes, board their businesses, shut their schools, and close their churches. They were aided and abetted by the cult of the “expert”, who has been aptly described as someone with deep knowledge of what he is being paid to say.

Remarkably, despite so blatant a power grab…and such a clear recipe for destruction…almost no one batted an eye. So our ruling elite kept poking their fingers in them. Rights receded, customs crumbled, riots raged, and monuments came down, On our shores was a wave of iconoclasm recalling the French Revolution or Protestant Reformation. 

Yet elected officials and appointed functionaries continued to push the envelope, and tighten the screws. They rolled a procession of hand grenades into their economies, as if hellbent on blowing society to smithereens.

It was as if the formerly civilized West couldn’t resist laying banana peels in its own path, throwing pies in its own face, and playing Russian Roulette with a bullet in every chamber…just to be sure. It’s been so incessant and egregious that you’d think leaders were taunting their citizens, and daring them to revolt.

Remarkably, they haven’t. Yet. 

But the psychic impact of this experiment has been immense, and its scars run deep. Since the last servings of black-eyed peas and Auld Lang Syne, we’ve become afraid of each other, scared of surfaces, and terrified of the very air we breathe. 

It’s easy, as Chesterton said, to be blind to a thing…as long as it’s big enough. On the first day of spring, few could’ve foreseen the world they’d inhabit on the last day of autumn. Or, for that matter, on the last day of March!

The subtle ploy of referring to healthy people as “asymptomatic”, and assuring us they spread disease as if they were ill, produced a destructive and indelible psychological shift. Normal, healthy people now reflexively cast suspicious glances at each other, afraid even to shake hands or exchange hugs.

To ostensibly lighten anxiety and ease angst, cherished beliefs, ingrained customs, and pleasant pastimes were abruptly abandoned…like family heirlooms on the Oregon Trail. The social fabric was sundered. We can only hope the seam hasn’t been lost. 

Traditional activities, innocent diversions, and commercial engagements were prohibited or shunned, like a first wife at a second wedding. Sporting events, concerts, cruises, conferences, Communions, flights, funerals, restaurants, bars, playgrounds, parks, and even family gatherings were canceled or closed. If they resumed or re-opened, the places were usually so restricted, regimented, and regulated that the resulting dystopia often served more to amplify than alleviate the loss.

Much of the human interaction that we once took for granted was eradicated, or relegated to antiseptic “virtual” gatherings. For large portions of the population, the lack of personal engagement has been unrelentingly depressing, economically devastating, and spiritually crippling.

Even infants aren’t immune. Excepting their immediate family, many have gone their entire lives without seeing another human face. They are being deprived the essential ability to interpret non-verbal communication from facial expressions and social cues. 

Some babies have never seen a stranger smile. The indistinguishable masked visages by which infants are surrounded may as well be extras in an episode of the Twilight Zone. What are the developmental implications of this? Do they matter? How often is the question even raised? At some point, we’ll probably get an answer whether we ask for it or not.

But regardless what it is, those babies won’t get a “do-over”. Neither will relatives who missed the opportunity to see or hold them during their earliest months. Nor will teenagers have another chance at this age to experience high school, to enjoy college, take a girl to a movie, or join friends at a concert. 

Grandparents would expect to have fewer remaining years as it is. Starting last March, one of those years…with its attendant hugs, reunions, recreations, and vacations…was essentially taken from them, whether they liked it or not. 

How many life-affirming experiences were lost because politicians and “experts” arbitrarily decided for us that they should be taken away? We don’t know. But those forgone moments will never be back. Different ones maybe. Similar ones perhaps. But not those. And not in 2020. 

We have only one life, comprising a limited number of years. When they’re gone, they don’t return. We cannot allow the most recent one to have died in vain. It must ever remind us that no coterie of politicians in suits or bureaucrats in lab coats should ever again be allowed to proscribe our lives.

It is tempting to say that in 2020 it was always winter, but never Christmas. But that’s not quite true. For one thing, we did have Christmas. And, for the first time in several years, we shared it with my parents, and my brother’s family, at their home in Tampa.

And it wasn’t always winter. We had a summer, and spent some of it, for one last time, beside Lake Michigan. And we had a Fall, when our younger son started his second year of high school, and our elder one finished his first year of college. Despite the unique limitations and frustrations of the past ten months, life moved haltingly along.

Regrettably, in a few cases, it didn’t. We lost beloved family and friends this year, including my wife’s father. No matter how bad this year was, those to come will be emptier by their absence.

Even amidst the gloom, there was some gleam. We are employed, and work with wonderful people. Our health is good, our home is secure, and in 2020 I enjoyed far more time there than I had the previous eight years.

I saw more of my sons, and spent many days with my wife that I would not otherwise have had. Joining her for walks in the park, wine on our deck, and movies on the couch are memories I hope to recall and recreate with greater frequency in the coming years.

Last night, we welcomed the year pleasantly and modestly, which seemed appropriate. David was at a friend’s house. Alexander had a friend to ours. Rita and I watched a movie, poured champagne, and…at the appointee hour…shared a kiss. There was no place I’d rather have been.

Last year, it seemed each week, and every day, offered a wealth of things to complain about. And I often did. But we were also flush with blessings, of which I tended to say little, and write less.

Perhaps it was simply that a preponderance of material on the negative side of the ledger made it impossible to balance the account. Maybe. But are there other reasons I sometimes succumb to this natural tendency to emphasize the cloud at the expense of the lining?

I like to think they are the same as those of the late Dr. Kurt Richebächer. He explained his own inclination to focus his writing disproportionately on the tribulations, deficiencies, and idiocy by which we seem perpetually surrounded. 

“What good”, he asked, “would it do for me to write about all the things that are going right with the world? We should simply enjoy those things.”

This year, that’s exactly what we plan to do.

JD