2020 may seem like what the numbers in the year imply — a double zero year. But my life in 2020 was filled not only with drama but also a lot of comedy.

I am an old woman. So old that for most of my life I’d never heard the term gluten-free. Still, I experienced a lot of firsts in my life from March 2020 to March 2021. That’s when Covid took hold of the world, including my little part of it: Katy, a suburb of Houston, Texas, USA.

There were a lot of firsts for all of us.

For me: First

•     year on Medicare

•     time living in a 55+ active seniors’ community

•     surgery other than my c-section in 1981 to bring my son into the world

•     pandemic that personally affected my life

These funny and maddening experiences I never expected to find on my 2020 and 2021 bingo card are detailed in the following pages.

STILL BLAMING IT ON EVE— NOT THE SNAKE

It’s adult coloring time in the craft-room of the active 55-+ community I moved into at the start of 2020. 

The armless wooden chair squeaks as I drag it back from the small table to sit with two ladies, who are coloring. Glancing at the thin, gold-tone, magnetic pin on the plaid shirt, I read: Mildred. Then I look at the similar nametag on an unbuttoned denim work shirt over a print blouse: Rita Ann. Everyone at the apartments gets one of these with their names on it to make it easier to socialize with our neighbors.

I tilt my head to Mildred, offering a slow smile. Then swing my neck toward

I tried forever to get this coloring group together, but today is the first time anyone besides me showed up. Dominos, especially Chicken Foot, is much more popular with the women here.

Meeting Mildred’s arctic-blue gaze, which I covet, I notice her St. Nick rose-red plump cheeks. Her rosacea is worse than mine.

“Well, we had tickets to the rodeo today.” As she speaks, Mildred rapidly moves her hand that’s clutching a blue coloring pencil. “And we were going together until the mayor ruined it.”

 “Yeah, I just saw on Twitter, he stopped the rodeo today. Strange that it was still going on when South by Southwest was cancelled in Austin a week ago.” I don’t say so, but I disagree with them. I think the mayor should have canceled the Houston rodeo a few days ago. I open my Celtic-knot coloring book and, using a yellow pencil, fill in the intricate spaces.

“He could’ve given us some warning, more than just a couple of hours before we were going to drive over there.” Curly-haired, from a perm for sure, five-foot Rita Ann flashes a scowl, diminishing the sweet grandma stereotype she could easily pull off. 

“Same day the singer we want to see is performing.” Mildred bears down hard on an orange pointed pencil as she colors the petals of a big flower.

Rita Ann hunches over the page she’s working on. “So, we decided to come here. There was nothing else to do.”

“If I want to go to the rodeo, I should be able to.” Mildred fists her hand around the orange pencil. “Mayor Turner has no right to tell me different.”

“Too bad the rodeo was canceled the day y’all had tickets.” Thinking that striking up a conversation about something other than coronavirus and the mayor is a good idea, I ask, “Seen any good movies lately?”

Both women say, “No.”

I draw a green pencil out of the open box. “I just rented Bomb Shell.”

They both look at me with blank expressions.

“You know, about the female anchors at Fox News who filed sexual harassment against their creepy male bosses.”

“Women like that sleep with men to get a job,” Mildred said.

“That’s right.” Rita Ann coiled a tight bronze dyed curl around her finger. 

“They had jobs. Incredible jobs most people would die for.” Coloring usually relaxes my neck, but this conversation is making it stiffer. “Studied and worked their way up to prime-time anchor stars at Fox. Their careers were set.”

Both lean back and shake their heads at me.

Rita Ann opens her mouth into a squarish shape. “Women like that go to business meetings in hotels. And afterwards join the boss…a man…in their room…for a drink. What do they think’s going to happen?”

“You can’t blame the man for that.” Mildred smirks.

“I can’t believe this. No woman should be raped for having a drink. That’s crazy.”

Rita Ann drops her green pencil onto her open coloring book. “I’ve got to get back to my apartment. I have stuff to do.” She stands and walks out.

I lean toward Mildred. “I didn’t mean to run her off. But even if a woman flirts with her boss, that doesn’t give him the right to abuse her in any way.”

“Well, I hope I didn’t run her off.” Mildred laughs. “Because I told her I want to go to that rodeo and try to get in. I should be able to use the ticket I paid for, no matter what anyone says.”

Rather than disagreeing out loud, I close the Celtic-knot coloring book, grab it, and stand. “I’ve had enough adult coloring for today. I’ll see you later.” I walk back to my apartment and the peace of my own company, to color silently.

Today, March 11, 2020, Houston Mayor Sylvester Turner is notified that a man, who tested presumptive positive for Covid-19, attended the Rodeo BBQ cook-off on February 28. The mayor then cancels the 2020 Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo and closes the grounds at 4 PM. As of March 11, 2020, fourteen cases of coronavirus have been reported in the greater Houston area. Also, on this day, 245 new cases are reported in the US.

THE PERILS OF POTLUCKS

I’m picking up my mail by the front office. Bertie, twin sister to a standard mop, tall and thin, with a head of messy white hair, walks up to me.

“We didn’t see you at happy hour. I hope everything’s all right?” Viking tall, compared to my five-foot three-inches and with a gleam of superiority in her eye as well as a smirk on her face, she looks down on me in more ways than one.

Bertie means the weekly Friday potluck, named "Happy Hour" by the apartment management.

A do-gooder in her own mind, Bertie thinks ‘Thou shalt gossip’ is one of the ten commandments. Additionally, to her, prayer is gossiping with God. She bypasses all precautions we’re asked to follow during the pandemic. Bertie told God to not give her the virus. That takes care of that.

Only people who aren’t as in with God as Bertie can catch coronavirus. She glances sideways at the property manager as if awaiting a juicy morsel of gossip about me.

I should be flattered. My life doesn’t contain juicy morsels, but my neighbors apparently think it does. I must have done something right, or in the viewpoint of my fellow residents, something wrong, since moving in three months ago.

“I decided not to participate in any of the potlucks, Happy Hours, Sunday Dinners, or any others until the epidemic’s over. It’s a personal decision. I’m not trying to influence anyone else. But people here ignore the tongs to pick up finger foods from platters with their hands—never washing them first or using hand sanitizer. They also all sit together—less than an inch apart. So, I’m just not comfortable at this time.”

I don’t add that Bertie’s followers, who are pretty much everyone who attends the happy hours, insist the entire global pandemic is a political lie to gain advantage during an American election year, as well as something that will blow over in a week. In other words, I feel safer around strangers than these neighbors.

“Oh, I know what you mean. My family wants me to stay with them,” Bertie replies.

I say nothing but think, Really? Maybe you should do that. Clutching my mail in one hand, my cane in the other, I flash a toothy grin as fake as hers, then escape to my apartment, safe from Covid and gossip.

Today, March 13, 2020, in the Houston area, four more people tested presumed positive for coronavirus. And, Governor Abbott declares Covid-19, a statewide public health disaster as it rapidly spreads through the state.

THE TALK AROUND THE ROCKING CHAIRS

On the clubhouse porch, a row of cerulean-blue rocking chairs face a long, cool, turquoise pool. I’m rocking and reading Katherine Ann Porter’s Pale Horse Pale Rider. Her fictionalized account of a single woman’s life in 1918 Texas—romance, friendship, journalism, and barely surviving the flu epidemic. 

Three of Bertie’s friends walk up, each easing into a rocking chair near me. I nod at Mildred, Rita Ann, and Wendy of Queen City. The name was created to distinguish her from the other four Wendys at the complex. She’s from Buffalo, New York. That’s what Bertie told me once, and the gossip-mop would know.

Rita Ann picks at her poodle curls. “I’m so tired of this Covid-19 nonsense.”

 I hold the book to my chest and rock faster. “My biggest fear is the elevator. A doctor who traced cases in China says the virus can hang in the air of a closed space for two hours.”

Wendy turns her acorn face toward me —squat and squarish, topped with short, frizzy, nut-brown hair, and shouts, “That’s not true.”

I ignore her. She and Bertie always shout when they talk.

“I don’t understand how you catch it. How it spreads.” Mildred scratches her blotchy cheek with her ruby fingernails.

Rita Ann leans toward her, with the expression of a teacher imparting supreme wisdom. “If someone, who has it, sneezes on you or on a book you pick up, then you can catch it.”

Really? That’s the story they’re spreading? I keep quiet, but wonder, Why won’t they acknowledge people are passing the virus before any symptoms show—long before they start sneezing? I suddenly have an urge to wash my hands. 

Since the invading forces aren’t going to leave, I push up from my rocker, and with book and cane in hand, retreat to the haven of my apartment.

Today, March 14, 2020, 153,864 people around the world have caught Covid-19 and 5,800 have died. Locally, the Houston Health Department confirms the city's fifth case of coronavirus. Due to supply shortages, Governor Abbot waves Texas trucking regulations so stores can restock. Three different Houston area school districts, which have closed, offer take-home meals for hungry students. Houston Astro Alex Bregman donates 1,000 quarantine food kits to Houston’s Food Bank. 

CORONAVIRUS NEVER HAD A GEOGRAPHY LESSON

Passing by the dining area, I inhale the smokey aroma of fresh brewed java. The chatter of all the residents enjoying 10 AM coffee club fills my ears. I notice Bertie, Wendy, Rita Ann, Mildred, and Linda, seated together. Other people are gathered at the tables around them.

Linda sets her coffee mug down with a clink. “Those deaths in China and Europe can’t happen here.” She pats her blonde dyed hair—backcombed and glued with hairspray into a bouffant. 

Bertie lets loose a cackling laugh. “Yep, this is America.”

Mildred bobs her gray head in agreement, then flashes a smile at me. “Good morning, Corny.”

“Morning.” I step over to them. “I couldn’t help but overhear. You do know Covid-19 is a disease? It doesn’t know geography—can’t tell the US from Italy.”

Four of them stare me down.

However, Bertie rolls her head and releases a hardy chuckle. “Oh, Cornelia.”

Now she can say my name.

Bertie doesn’t believe me because she doesn’t trust the truth. Her skill at spreading false tales is why she’s the community’s gossip queen.

“We have a better infrastructure,” Wendy shouts.

I start laughing. I can’t help it. “Didn’t you hear the morning news? Norway is asking all Norwegian students attending college here to come home. Since the US has no infrastructure, the students won’t be safe here during the pandemic.”

They don’t have to say it. I know, no coffee for me. I turn and make a quick getaway back to my apartment.

Today, March 15, 2020, the Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Norway’s renowned University of Science and Technology urges, due to the pandemic, Norwegian students studying abroad in certain countries (the US is singled out) to return for their safety. On that same date there were 702 cases of Coronavirus in the US and eight deaths.