Keely Lewis
BY KEELY LEWIS

Some carnivals have a ride called the Gravitron that spins its riders against a padded wall with great centrifugal force until suddenly the floor falls away. That’s how some of this past year has felt, like the things we could absolutely depend on have suddenly dropped from beneath us, leaving us hanging. So many things we took for granted turned out to be things we couldn’t.

Recently, the U.S. marked the anniversary of the first death from COVID-19, at least the first one we knew about. As 600 of us gathered for a major fundraiser that very night, we greeted each other with handshakes and hugs and no fear.

Two weeks later, all of that would change dramatically. With little warning, normal vanished. And here we are, one year later, with more than 540,000 in the U.S. dead.

A few weeks ago, when the few things we could still take for granted — light, heat, running water, gasoline, staple groceries — vanished too, I realized it’s the uncertainty that wears us down, the not knowing when the floor will drop out or if everything will turn out okay in the end.

Back in March of last year, when schools didn’t reopen after spring break, some people were wondering if we really needed to wear a mask to go out, if a cough or sore throat was a sign of something more serious, if maybe another store would have hand sanitizer and toilet paper.

What if someone sick recently touched this? Should we be tested, and if the results would take a week to get back, what good would it do? Was it even safe to be around family members?

By May, some businesses reopened, leading to new concerns: Did limited capacities at restaurants make it safe enough to eat there? Would local restaurants even make it? What about the movie theaters? We worried that students learning from home were being short-changed, that we shouldn’t even leave our houses if we could avoid it, that essential workers were risking their lives to allow us to live ours. We had to resist the urge to stockpile anything previously in short supply to stop the vicious cycle.

When Hurricane Hanna hit the Rio Grande Valley in late August, we were reminded that power and cell service and passable roads had been a luxury as well. Suddenly, COVID restrictions seemed like the least of our worries. The contents of refrigerators went bad while we were busy figuring out how to stay cool and what our next meal would be or if our cars could make it through the roadway rivers. For weeks after, trucks along Monte Cristo emptied tanks of water siphoned off from flooded Valley roads.

Going into the fall, binge-watching shows still offered a necessary distraction. Maybe if we worried about the royal family’s problems, we could forget about our own. Grocery deliveries became lifelines to those who could afford it, and most of us personally knew someone or someone’s relative who had died. We didn’t even talk about what a return to normal would look like anymore.

Winter brought the promise of vaccines, complete with a new round of questions and worries, of who and how and where and when. Getting a coveted wristband was like winning the lottery as local officials tried to navigate the fastest way to get two shots to everyone willing to get them. Double masks became the new fashion, even as N95s remained elusive.

Then Valentine’s Day came, and with it another historic experience none of us expected. The winter storm that blew into Texas that night brought a new round of learning to do without.

First, the lights blinked off, then the inevitable cold crept into unheated homes until for some, just staying home became untenable. Water pipes burst, lines for gasoline circled the block around the few stations that had any, grocery shelves were emptied. Some people desperate to keep warm died in the attempt. Millions were left for days without power or safe drinking water.

The world watched in disbelief. How could the state with the greatest energy production in the nation, the one that stubbornly subsisted on its very own grid, have been so ill-prepared? And how many times can we as a society be blindsided by events that didn’t have to be this bad?

Back at the carnival, after a few minutes on the Gravitron, the floor returns, allowing its dizzy riders to regain their bearings and safely exit the ride. The power is back on, for now, and vaccinations are increasing in availability and scope for those who know when and where. Texas businesses now have the option to reopen 100%, and public mask wearing is back to being an individual consideration of others.

In Texas, a year after our wild ride began, some are still waiting for that floor.


A retired journalism teacher, Keely Lewis is president of Palm Valley Animal Society and a member of The Monitor’s Board of Contributors.