The local paper published some of the memories of the 9/11 attacks this morning. One of them was mine. It will stay with me as long as I live, as it will for all who experienced that morning and the aftermath.

https://starexponent.com/news/star-exponent-readers-share-memories-of-9-11/article_ff7e59e7-fa05-5fee-8af2-0c96048de513.html#tracking-source=home-top-story-1

The knowledge and memory of it should be something we share on the 20th anniversary tomorrow. Instead, as is common this strange year, there is controversy. One of the issues is whether the President will read us something about it. Apparently, his remarks yesterday about the COVID response and new Federal mandates on vaccination will substitute for that topic, since the mess in the Afghanistan evacuation echoes so strongly the reason we were there to being with.

The pandemic has been an interesting emergency. We have opted to follow some of the CDC guidelines as common sense. Othere, like a couple of the ladies in aquatic therapy wear masks while immersed in the pool. Our own lockdown has been in effect for eighteen months now, and we have not had a lot of contact with folks off the property. That seemed a reasonable approach to the emergency, even if somewhat confining. Personally, decisions were exactly that. Personal.

I had been released from the hospital in January of 2020, before the carnival of response hit full measure or any of the three vaccines were widely available.

It was about personal choice then. While confined, the docs had wanted to intubate me to combat a lung infection. One of my stalwart sons found the medical power-of-attorney paperwork, including the one sheet with the big “DNR” on it. “Do not Resuscitate.” There was a reason for it. The memory of the effort expended to maintain life for one of the family had been extraordinary in expense and duration. Nothing was gained from it except the extension of the extraordinary effort to save her.

With the document specifying “DNR,” they allowed me to either recover without extraordinary means or just be let go. When I had a voice again, I was pleased, since intubation is risky all by itself and fatal for some. No tests for COVID were being done at the time, so I don’t know if I had that virus or something else.

Recovery was in the background of the cavalcade of pandemic response. In the initial campaign against the virus in our County, we got the Moderna version last March. It was not with the desire to be in the “vaccinated cadre,” but with the real possibility that vax passports might be necessary to travel. I have a commitment to travel next month, first in nearly two years. So, the goal was “compliance with future direction,” not the vaccination itself. After both doses, we were 50-50 on reactions. I had none, but some had some fairly major issues that lasted for weeks.

But, being vaccinated with the possibility that I had also had natural antibodies to the virus gave a certain comfort. There was a certain detachment from the apparent anxiety that has surrounded many people. There are also legitimate, albeit uncertain, concerns through the medical emergency. I mention that in the context of yesterday’s encounter with real society.

I drive a foreign car, not just because I like it, but because the German dealer was located about four blocks away from Big Pink, my cheerful Arlington residence since 9/11. Since relocating to The Farm, routine service is more of a challenge. A web search indicated an unknown dealer reportedly offered the usual services, but was located some 40-odd miles down the road in Charlottesville. Rather than deal with the unknown, I elected to drive the longer distance back to Arlington for all scheduled maintenance items. Once accomplished, the emissions results (pass/fail) went directly to the state. In previous cycles, the little license plate decals came in the mail like clockwork.

They didn’t this pandemic year. The State’s online services were overwhelmed and did not function. According to the website, my Panzer had a proper title number and VIN, but otherwise did not exist. In the pre-emergency world, that would require a sigh and allocation of the time to physically visit a DMV office for the always entertaining Little United Nations adventure.

You know the one- a crowd of disassociated people speaking different languages, closely packed in hard plastic seats in the waiting area until a number is called. I tried that at the local DMV office and was ushered quickly away by signs on the glass door. The Department had been overwhelmed by new requirements for distancing, plastic barriers, masking and vax cards. They now insisted on “appointments only” and our office had none available through at least January of 2022. The decals on the plates were now a year out of date, and I had no idea for requirements in dealing with law enforcement officers while stopped for infraction.

The effort to comply with regulation required research. We discovered another DMV office in a little town about twenty miles from The Farm had appointments available for 10 minutes in duration. I gathered a sheaf of paperwork, the vaccine card, found the keys and slid a mask into my pocket to embark on the journey. The office was in the Remington, VA, Town Hall, and five or six people waited there in proper social distance. When I was called, a nice lady behind a plastic shield acknowledged some problems with the system due to confusion but permitted me the purchase of new plates to adorn with the new month/year stick-on decals. She did not insist on a mask for either of us.

Driving home, I was buoyed with a sense of compliance, and also the kindness of strangers in official places. Going through the mound of papers, my service lady had asked if I was insured. I responded affirmatively, and hefting my thick binder of documentation, asked if she wished to see the proof.

She smiled and shook her head. “No, I trust you.”

It was an unusual response these days, and it made me feel a little better.

– Vic

Copyright 2021 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com