Coronavirus winter – hope hurts…

Spring starts two weeks today, so we’re entering the final stages of this coronavirus winter. And it’s just over a year ago, on February 28th 2020, that the first restrictions here in Switzerland took hold – carnival balls and processions were cancelled, along with all other mass events.

Ah well, we thought. Next year. Ha. We haven’t had a mass event since, and when they’ll start again is anyone’s guess.

Next weekend  is Son 1’s birthday. Last year the birthday celebration plans were downsized to lunch à trois on a restaurant terrace on a pretty chilly day.

Ah well, we thought. Next year. Ha. This year’s restrictions are even tougher (and quite right too).

Some things we know we’ll laugh about, later. Next year? Hm… If anyone had told me last March that I’d choose to keep my face mask on for the 25-minute walk home from Coop, because at minus 12°C with a stiff north wind adding to the chill factor, wearing my mask was a whole lot more comfortable than taking it off, well, I might not have believed them. And if they’d told me I’d be halfway home from Aldi on a perfectly nice spring day before realising I hadn’t taken my mask off, I definitely wouldn’t have believed them. And if you started to make a list of all the things we haven’t done for over a year now – but that’s a seriously bad idea.

And yet there’s hope – the vaccines, the game-changers, the things that have turned this marathon into a waiting game. But that can be hard to deal with too, because hope hurts. Dark thoughts circle at 3am. What if it goes wrong? What if the vaccine stops working? What if a new variant starts everything up again and the prospect of normal life is snatched away? Good sense returns at 7am and we know there’d be a way out of all those scenarios, but still…

The waiting game continues, and it’s my grandmother who helps me most these days. She’s long gone now, but she lived through WWI and the Spanish Flu pandemic as well as WWII, and I don’t remember her ever moaning about any of them. They all became memories afterwards while she concentrated on living her life.

And that’s what we have to do, too. Let’s restart the roaring twenties – next year?

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8 Responses to Coronavirus winter – hope hurts…

  1. Great picture of your grandmother, Linda! I don’t even have to go back that far. My mother, born 1903, gone now too, lived through all that as well. She was sick with the Spanish flu and put in isolation when she was 14 years old. She survived and lived to the ripe old age of 102! Yes, let’s bring on the roaring twenties. Btw, an excellent and interesting view of the roaring twenties you get in the movie, Midnight in Paris, by Woody Allen. Stay safe!

    Liked by 1 person

    • lindahuber says:

      Thanks, Christa – so interesting to hear about your mother. I wish now I’d asked my granny more about those times. I’d forgotten about Midnight in Paris – could be worth another watch. xx


  2. A great post, Linda. I can’t wait for the roaring twenties and I for one am going to make the most of it after a dreadful year. Bring it on! 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    • lindahuber says:

      Oh, I know. It’s going to be so good to be able to do normal things again, like have lunch in a cafe with friends. We’re really going to appreciate the little things now. Take care! x


  3. TanGental says:

    Quite. Here’s to some completely gratuitous and life affirming roaring…

    Liked by 1 person

  4. lizannelloyd says:

    You reflect how so many of us feel at present, Linda. Sadly my grandmother’s sister died of Spanish flu after her 4 soldier brothers returned home from the First World War, but the family kept the memory of Mary with vivid stories about her young life.

    Liked by 1 person

    • lindahuber says:

      How sad for them – life was tough back then. My grandmother lived through it, then her first baby was born in 1926 with spina bifida, which was pretty much a death sentence in those days. We’re so lucky now. I’ll think about your great-aunt and my grandma today, and little David.

      Liked by 1 person

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