Editor’s Note: It is one of those days today, Cinco de Mayo. All the memories of parties past. We have (perhaps) seen the crest of the plague activity. We are eager to be back in motion. This is Marlow’s take on the change.
-Vic

The increase in traffic, commerce, shopping and people on the streets from last Friday through this past Sunday here was jaw dropping.

W and I took our two cars out on Friday and Sunday to warm their oil and other fluids, lube their dried out joints, blow out their exhaust systems moisture and, yes, speed a bit along I16 and I95. The Hellcat saw practically no traffic on the 60 plus miles of 6-laned Georgia and 4-laned South Carolina interstate driving, which made sustained velocity record setting possible. Traffic on SC’s 6-laned US 278 eastbound to Hilton Head was nonexistent. Only a very few Palm State dine-in restaurants were open to residents with take-out and drive through lane options a bit more numerous.

Saturday was a harbinger of things to come. The Farmers Market at Forsyth Park, while massively socially distanced were the vendors’ booths and the hungry, buzzing 50% or so crowd wearing masks, displayed a business uptick to levels almost as brisk as they were during late February. Most were buying not just kicking the tires. Touchless purchase techniques were in evidence and clients were almost universally discouraged from touching the goods.

Savannah’s empty mid Sunday-morning streets during W’s 6-mile bike ride downtown were a total fake out. Few to no masks would be seen versus what we had observed during Saturday’s market stroll in the park.

W’s frog butt Porsche’s drive later that afternoon saw a lot of interstate traffic bordering on pre-plague congestion on I95.

Sunday, Sunday, the coast arose from its lonely mire
Once again folks were out in tidy attire
They’d read COVID opening news like an old TV guide
No longer had to dream of protein on a plate after a ride
No regret or dawdling, they hit the town not wanting to be late
All had smiles as masked waiters and waitresses brought them their plates

All five 200-block East Park Avenue couples of boomer geezers and two GenXers joined together to sing happy birthday at 5 PM sharp to the 13 year old girl across the street. Her grandma served the choir cupcakes with plastic rings in them as keepsakes.

It was the first time since early January we had all been together at one time. We did keep our spacing. Loosely. Before we parted company, snippets that amounted to a personal PDA (Plague Damage Assessment) were shared in soft voices with gasps of pain for the lost and thankful murmurs for those who survived:

two elderly clients of one neighbor who contracted the plague at a NYC art showing of their daughter’s work; they were Savannah’s first two recorded deaths
the sole, 30-something, NYC dwelling daughter who had some mild symptoms not severe enough to test, but on a hunch got an antibody test after two weeks of flu-like aches and pains including loss of taste; popping positive means she likely coming for a long visit with her folks
two family members with borderline hospitalization symptoms, but, due to national protocols that triage-sent almost all available test kits to big city hot spots up north, they were not tested but survived (can you start to feel their mental “Damn Yankees?” I did.)

Neighbors across the street then dined out maskless Sunday night at a famous seafood house on the town’s famed River Street. Good thing they had reservations since the place was packed by 6:15PM with a long but distanced line of diners waiting outside to get in.

Savannah’s Chart House

At 7 PM we hosted our neighbor, who had just lost his near-90 year old mother, out on our patio for fresh local Georgia strawberry daiquiris (sourced last spring from a local, out in the boondocks, you-pick’em farm), pizza and wings. His third cousin then serenaded at 8PM his large family of grieving relatives across multiple states on Facebook with a live music performance of old timey religious tunes on his console piano. We watched on our neighbor’s Apple tablet. There are no words . . .

As I type this on Tuesday morning, W is consulting with a recently transplanted 78 year old lady regrading her ongoing garden renovation. It’s the first time she’s been in our yard since December.

My head is still spinning at how fast this happened. It was a mad dash to re-open.

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