I have to cancel our family's favorite holiday.
I hate to do this.
My far-flung children are in modes of young adulthood that crave social interaction. Three of them are unmarried twenty-somethings, which I think might be the demographic hardest hit by the restrictions to contain the epidemic.
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My kids have been on the safe end of the COVID-cautious continuum. They wear masks. They limit social interactions. They're not mingling in large groups or intentionally balking at mitigation recommendations.
But this morning Stuart in Montana called to say he'd be meeting up with two friends and his twin Harrison in South Dakota to hunt pheasant before coming home for Thanksgiving.
Harrison has been in Utah for a week of pre-season training for the ski-rescue (as of yet not canceled) season at Sundance. He'll be back in Iowa a short time before returning to Utah.
Their sister Palmer in Colorado doesn't want to miss out if her brothers will be home for Thanksgiving.
As I visualized my children traveling from state to state, then converging at my table, my gut clenched. Even with their best intentions, their movement is what the scientific community is warning against.
My daughter Eloise was in Spain when that country was brought to its knees with the agony of overrun hospitals and sobbing healthcare workers. She keeps reminding us that the virus is always three weeks ahead of us. We will not control it until we change behavior BEFORE we think we need to.
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Of course I wish I could welcome my children home for Thanksgiving. Our gathering would be well under Iowa governor Kim Reynold's magic number of 25 requiring masking.
But I also can't give my own family a pass while expecting others to sacrifice to bring this unrelenting virus under control.
So it goes.
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Allison
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| Soapy little man Wolf. |
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