Chris Walter – Memphis Flyer

There is no doubt in my mind that children will have to deal with the long-term social effects of the COVID pandemic more than any other group. Just like there was an entire generation that was turned into hoarders because of the Great Depression, there are kids who are going to come out of this thing addicted to putting hand sanitizer on everything. They may even continue wearing masks past the point of needing them. After my grandmother died and we cleaned out her house, we found hundreds of Ziploc bags full of crumbs she saved from restaurants. She knew good and well she was never going to eat those crumbs, but she had been turned into a weirdo from her childhood of rationing. When it’s my son’s time to go, his grandchildren are going to find barrels of industrial cleaner and hydroxychloroquine in his cabinets.

We are only now starting to see the damage of what has happened to our children after being isolated for more than a year. There were a few times when my son got so frustrated at being distanced, that he and some other kids rebelled and ran through the neighborhood together just to feel what it was like to play. Other than that though, he has been kept away from most human contact aside from what you can get through a telephone. No carousel rides at the mall, no amusement parks, no movies, my 6-year-old son wasn’t even allowed to go to a playground … until now.

For the first time in more than a year, we took our son down to the local playground. There were maybe 20 or 30 kids there, all emerging like the cicadas, buzzing around one another and squealing. It was nice to hear the laughter of a group of children. I didn’t realize that I missed it. Then my son comes running up in tears. Here we go.

One parent sees the social effects of pandemic isolation. (Illustration: Chris Walter)

Apparently there was some kid running around who was in his kindergarten class in the “before times.” This kid, let’s say his name is Toby — it isn’t but for the purposes of this story it is. It’s a name like that for sure. I guess my son went to talk to this Toby, and of course this Toby didn’t remember him. They used to sit together every single day for eight hours, and the kid had no recollection of my son. Yes, this was a year or so ago, but my son was confused. Devastated. Crying his eyes out. He thought he had a true friend in this Toby.

Now I can confirm that Toby was in his class because I spent a good hunk of time volunteering down there. I am also not surprised in the least that this kid didn’t remember my son. I am kind of shocked that he remembered his own name. You know the type, Kool-Aid mustache, boogers hanging out of his nose. Pushy. I told my son to not worry about it and just play with some other kids. Then this kid starts picking on my son. Taunting him. All the kids are playing tag, and this Toby with his red mustache is hurling insults. That kind of stuff doesn’t fly with me, and I learned that intolerance must be on a genetic level.

I then watched as this 6-year-old of mine managed to herd all the other kids on the playground. One by one, he goes up to all 20 or 30 of them and somehow turns them all against this Toby. My son climbs to a lookout position high on top of the tallest slide and is commanding this group of children to run after and chase this kid. At first the mood was jovial, but eventually Toby became overwhelmed by the force and ran away bawling his eyes out, tears washing away his mustache, tripping over his flip-flops.

I am well aware that this was a teachable moment and I shouldn’t laugh. If I did, I made sure my son didn’t see me do it. When he finally climbed down from his command center, I asked him why he did what he did. Maybe he didn’t even know what he did? He’s 6. Well, he did. He knew. His answer was, “Toby told me he didn’t remember me, but next time, next time he will.”

What have I done?

Chris Walter is a Southern writer and artist. His recent book, Southern Glitter, and more can be found at his website kudzuandclay.com

My son started summer camp a few weeks ago. The camp is maybe six miles from our house, but in Atlanta traffic around 8 a.m., that is the equivalent of a 45-minute commute. I work from home and I have meetings in the morning, so that leaves my wife to take him to the camp. I say I have meetings in the mornings. I kind of do, but I doubt she’d see it that way. The meetings are with myself, a cup of coffee, and 45 minutes of silence. They are true bliss. Paradise, even. Then, without fail, when my blood pressure drops from high down to its resting place at medium-high, the phone rings.

On this particular morning the call was from my wife and son. They had passed what looked like a turtle about to cross a busy road a few miles from our house. For most people, this would be a tragic tale of what was about to become of said turtle. For me, it’s a little different. I have a sworn duty to stop my car, no matter the condition, if it means I can save the life of a turtle.

This solemn vow comes from an experience I had about five years ago. I lived much further out in the suburbs in a place that could almost be considered rural if the golf courses didn’t outnumber the trees. Back then I didn’t really care about a turtle’s well-being more than any other animal … and then I did.

For some reason, my wife and I were driving around in my father-in-law’s Prius. This was during an upcycle of anger toward manufacturing going overseas. The Prius had Michigan plates, so we already had two strikes against us in rural Georgia. This upcycle also coincided with another upcycle of anger about electric cars and how they were putting our domestic oil workers out of jobs. Strike three.

As we took a relaxing mid-June drive, I watched the scenery from the window. My wife was driving. I have never been granted the permission to drive my in-laws’ chariot and probably never will, given my habit of aloofness with directions. We were on a small paved road with barely any shoulder, and I noticed a blob edging toward the pavement. We passed and I saw that it was a box turtle.

Since the road was so narrow, I was sure that this turtle was going to get hit and I didn’t want to be responsible for that if I didn’t have to be. I asked my wife to turn around. She did and parked 50 feet or so away in someone’s driveway. I hopped out of the car and started walking toward the turtle.

A distance away I heard a loud grumble. I looked up and there was a large, black pickup truck barreling toward me. I saw the driver. He saw me. He saw the Prius. He saw the Michigan plates. He looked at me. I looked at him. I looked at the turtle. The turtle poked his head out and looked at me. The driver looked at the turtle. He looked at the Prius. I felt a sinking feeling in my gut. I ran toward the turtle as the truck came toward me.

The next thing I recall is wiping blood and specks of shell off of my shirt and standing in the middle of the road. There was a wet spot in one direction and a plume of “rolled coal” in the other. My wife stood with her mouth wide open. I was beside myself.

Was there anything that I could have done? Realistically, no. Either way, I made a promise to myself right then and there that I would never let that happen again. No matter the circumstances. If I have to park my car in the middle of the road and shield the critter from what I will assume was a truck worth more than my house, then so be it.

When I got the call the other morning during my “meeting,” I really did not want to get in my car and locate this turtle. I was scared of what I might find. I also forgot to put my pants on. Luckily, I got there right before the thing crossed over the white line into the danger zone of a four-lane highway. I stopped my car, put on my hazards, and picked the guy up and moved him to the other side. The turtle was saved and the commuters got a show. Would I be bothered if a hawk came right behind me and carried him off or if a raccoon jumped out and cracked him open? No. As long as it wasn’t a tire, I consider my promise fulfilled.

Chris Walter is a Southern writer and artist. His recent book, Southern Glitter, and more can be found at his website kudzuandclay.com