Dog days of summer, sink or swim: What in the heck are the rules?

By Mary Kay Roth

July’s golden dusk lit up the shores of Lake McConaughy one gorgeous summer evening, just a week ago, as two of my grandchildren and my own two kids paddled out into the waves and watched the western sky explode.  It was the close of a sun-kissed, three-day Nebraska vacation filled with camping on the beach, fireside meals, cool quiet and time to think.

As the dog days of summer have come upon us, my simple goals have evolved with increasing clarity: When the worst of this tragedy finally passes, I’d like to look back and be proud. I’d like to do the right thing, be impactful and survive intact. 

The road map to getting there is as elusive as holding a wave upon the Lake McConaughy sand.

The morning after our sunset swim we packed the car, four hours later I was home. And before I even did the laundry, I was back at my laptop, emailing the mayor to thank her for the new mask mandate – and pondering whether I could get a haircut or go to a protest rally.

It all seemed so much cleaner and easier in the “Before Time” (thanks to Mad Max for that phrase).  Today the earth seems to wobble in orbit and I’m adrift on the rulebook – with any possible chance of control or salvation hanging in the balance.   

These days I diligently wear a mask on my weekly adventures – grocery store, occasionally drugstore – while avoiding crowds, definitely no airplanes. Yet earlier this week I couldn’t stop myself from reading a New York Times story about which Caribbean islands will still take Americans.

Perhaps I need an RV. Or an IV. Meditation.  Or medication.

Dr. Fauci has tossed out the first pitch for Major League Baseball. The Lied Center’s new season just arrived in my mailbox. And, yes, Pinewood Bowl at Pioneers Park says the Beach Boys are still planning to perform here in early August.

One moment I’m thinking to myself, “Heck, let me just get it – and be over it.”  The next moment, after a few aches and a hint of a cough, I lie in my bed, wide awake in panic: “OMG, do I have it?”

On Friday my granddaughters and I giggled as we opened our umbrellas, ran through the sprinkler and pretended it was raining. Later that night I cried in the shower because Scout will soon return to school and I’ll likely need to again separate from my wee girls.  

At least I think I will. 

I envy folks who say they have complete certainty in their journey right now. For me every single decision feels like I’m sinking in quicksand, as this invisible enemy has taken more than 140,000 American lives, infected 16 million around the world, and set new records in Lincoln.

Of course, the yin and yang of “safe” choices has always been a bit out of whack for me.  I was raised by a mother who preached the gospel of balance and strict code of conduct – and a dad who snuck us cherry bombs on July Fourth and believed the sound of a tornado siren was an invitation to head outdoors.

Ice cream cone?  Massage? Tattoo?  Filling out that blank medical directive?

We forge on, finding our footing in Lysol and six-foot measurements – baking cookies for neighbors (is that safe) and searching for ancient comets (plenty of social distancing there).  My son is an educator and my daughter is a nurse. They need to do their jobs, and they need to stay safe.  I have no clue how they do both.

I remind myself, daily, that I am a person of privilege – yet I struggle with a short fuse, a touch of pandemic melancholy and a strange weariness. I bought a bumper sticker that proclaims: “Giant Meteor, 2020, just end it already”– and drove around for days without realizing I had plastered it onto the car window, backward.

I turn to sunrises and Willie Nelson. I talk to my dogs and my garden. I look for meaningful work, and vigilantly try to fight the good fight (though I’ve lost a few Facebook friends lately, debating the inanity of herd immunity).  I believe in our obligation to read responsible journalism and detest memes that suggest we would be better off without news media.  Good lord, our only hope is informed citizens who keep abreast of accurate health numbers and scientific protocol, monstrous federal military intervention, and everything we must know to vote. As the election looms –100 days from Sunday – we cannot afford to look away.   

And yet.  I took a three-day Nebraska retreat. And looked away.

My heart and head needed to see fireflies (not headlines) and listen to cicadas (not podcasts). I needed to skip stones by day and tell ghost stories by firelight.  My son Josh calls these peak moments, times that create precious memories we will never forget, milestones celebrating the simple bliss of being – no rules allowed.  

Perhaps my favorite vacation moment was the one blessed afternoon we left our cellphones behind and tubed along the sandstone bluffs of the Niobrara River. Splashing in the water and baking in the sun, laughing with some of the people I love most in the world, I spent five sacred hours, not thinking about the pandemic.

We only needed to remember: Float, paddle, float. 

Just keep swimming. 

Sometimes I think maybe that’s the only rule I need right now.