Irish Eyes

Cadence and I have begun walking together. We decide to park downtown at the green to take advantage of roads with sidewalks. We embark without a plan, choosing streets that we have seen often from the car window, but seldom from a sidewalk view. We admire plants and trees and houses; so many historic landmarks.  Our final leg of the walk brings us to the place that is my favorite reason for living in this town. Our town green covers nearly 8 acres, laced with sidewalks, historic monuments and stately trees. On any given day, the green displays a cross section of Guilford residents: elderly walkers and dog walkers; tricycling toddlers and adolescent skateboarders; solitary lunch eaters and ogling first lovers. This place holds memories of Christmas tree lightings and stage performances; of picnics and leaf collecting; of craft shows and Little Folks fairs. Good energy pulses through the soil here for me.

“We are so lucky to live here,” Cadence tells me.

“Blessed.” I answer. Our town is rural and agricultural; nautical and artistic; high tech and historical. We are close to metropolitan areas and have a small train station that can propel us there quickly, and we have waterfront that allows us to sail  away from it all. We have an amazing school system and an equally supportive community.

We are blessed.

Unmasked, we crisscross this sacred space in the direction of our car at the far end passing today’s collection of green-goers.  I see a grandfather on a bench beside his grandchild who is resting from his bike ride; Grandpa’s red mask covers his face. I see two moms pushing strollers, floral and striped masks covering their faces. A solitary, unmasked dog walker approaches us from the opposite direction and diverts into the grass adjacent to the sidewalk, giving wide berth for social distancing. Nearing our car, we pass an older couple and I smile at them. They look back at me, but I see gray hair and white fabric, eyes just peeking out in-between. I don’t know if they are smiling back. I don’t know if they are looking at me with scorn as we are unmasked. I don’t know if I know them.

Cadence and I return to our car and set out to run necessary errands. As we approach the UPS store for a package return, she pulls on her latex gloves and straps on a black cloth mask, telling me that even though it’s weird, she thinks the black mask is kind of cute. I think about the advertisements that I have seen for masks as accessories: matching ones for the whole family; masks that feature hobbies or that send messages; even Facebook memes with trikinis, which are bikinis with matching masks. Something uncomfortable stirs inside me.

A man departs the UPS store while I am waiting for Cadence and his eyes meet mine before he enters his car. With his face covered, he appears as a robot or a cartoon character until he closes his car door, sanitizes his hands and removes his blue mask. He looks over again and smiles. His face is warm. I smile back and realize that my reaction to him as a masked man was void of expression, even though my face was bare. I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t see his essence.

Next I pull my car into Foodworks, which is normally a congested parking array, but only two other cars occupy the spaces and are spaced well apart. Cadence calls the store to say she has arrived to pick up her order.  I look to my left to see an older woman in a gray mask and black latex gloves opening her trunk and then returning to her seat in the car. To my right sits a woman in a white SUV with a colorful, pull-up face shield over her eyes and nose. She appears to be my age, but I don’t know. I really can’t tell and again, I do not know if I know this woman.

 

A young man with a flop of curly blond hair emerges from the store, blue mask and clear latex gloves. He rolls the cart out to the sidewalk, points to our car and gives the thumbs up gesture. Cadence waves and then he retreats into the store. She hops out of the car to retrieve the bag, placing it on the floor in the back seat.

“This is so messed up!” I wail. “This whole thing! We don’t share words. We don’t share smiles. This cannot be our world. I cannot continue like this.”

“I know,” Cadence responds, “but it is. And we have to.”

I truly feel like I am trapped inside of a dream and no one can hear me. I feel like I will hyperventilate. I want to get out of my car and run into the store screaming, “Show me your faces!”

Our drive home is quiet. I think about the ways, large and little, that life has changed for us. What have we become? What about people who are deaf? How do they read lips with no lips to read? I think about how we keep ourselves apart, not knowing who might be “the one” that will carry the virus to our hands or breathe it into our breath. We avoid contact with our neighbors, with our friends, and even with our own family. I need my family.

Family for me growing up was essential. I was part of a big, Irish,  extended family in which my mother was the youngest of ten siblings. Like her own mother, she was sustained by the presence of family. Every Sunday we gathered. When I was very small, it was often at my Mema’s house; a second floor flat in New Haven. I can still see the furniture; dining room table that fed many and the bedroom where I dusted and polished the wood because I wanted to help. In the kitchen, Ernie, my step-grandad placed newspapers around to catch the splatter as he cooked southern fried chicken from his Virginia heritage. I can still see the gate of the fence in the back yard that we climbed on in order to reach the hole in a tree to place peanuts that Mema gave us to  feed her squirrel named Chirpy.  In later years, we would gather at our house or my aunt’s house or my uncle’s; in small groups or in very large ones. The large gatherings were my favorite. I have over 30 first cousins and these gatherings were big and noisy and there would always be music. It never took long for a few uncles and my Aunt Edna to assemble into a Barbershop Quartet and fill the air with Irish songs. My uncle Larry had a beautiful tenner voice and my uncle Bob was the baritone. My mom gave a soprano flair and the music touched my soul.

Uncle Larry used to sing to me; a Frank Sinatra song called ‘Nancy With the Laughing Face.’ I loved how special this made me feel and wondered if my face really laughed. My favorite song, however, was the one sung at most gatherings and at every wedding:  ‘When Irish Eyes are Smiling.’  This spoke to my heart about my family. We shared this trait of smiling Irish eyes, even amidst the difficult moments. I miss those gatherings. I miss the closeness, the laughter, the silliness and the smiles.

I miss my own family gatherings so much now. The songs are not Irish or Frank Sinatra and the family is not all blood related, but the music is always there. The guitars come out and the singing begins, punctuated by rap and elevated into absurdity from the opera added by my Italian Greyhounds. It is loud and it is wonderful. I miss all of it.

It makes no sense that we stopped speaking to people and that we cross the street to avoid contact.

It makes no sense that we move like zombies, expressionless using hand gestures for words.

It makes no sense that we shun our families instead of gathering them to share our food and our love and our stories and our music.

I decide to break the rules.

I breach our commitment to extreme social distancing and invite my son and his girlfriend to dinner. They come wearing masks and I request that they shed them. We do not touch or hug and we sit far apart.  We do our best to assume our normal behavior and inevitably the guitar comes out and the music begins. My heart swells with a feeling that words cannot describe and I feel at home. If this leads to my demise, it will be worth it. I wear my laughing face, lines and all, and it fits.

The next day Cadence and I walk again. We are free to show our faces out in the open, gathered only as two who live together. We pass the walkers and bikers and curbside shoppers, most masked, some not wherever appropriate. I see the masks, but I refuse to be blinded by them.

It is required. But I will keep my Irish eyes smiling over the top and I will imagine smiles behind every mask that I encounter.

I will imagine a warm essence behind every blank cloth-covered face and search their eyes for brightness. I will stop looking at the fabric on the outside and look through their eyes for the fabric on the inside and one day, we will remove our coverings again. The lines around my eyes may be deeper after a time of using them to communicate, but that is OK.

When Irish eyes are smiling, for ‘tis like a morn in spring,

In the lilt of Irish laughter, you can hear the angels sing.

When Irish hearts are happy, all the world seems bright and gay,

And when Irish eyes are smiling, sure they’ll steal your heart away.