Social distancing? I was made for this
I am safely tucked away in my home, doing my part to beat the big, bad Coronavirus Pandemic. (It interrupts our lives in so many ways that it deserves capital letters.) My Deb and I know the value of social distancing because we're in both high-risk groups, being older than 60 and possessing health conditions. Not to sound melodramatic, but the entrance of coronavirus into our home has the potential to be a death sentence.
I thus think and act differently. We often have groceries brought to our home, although I do go out to shop in rare instances. I made that most dreaded trip of all just yesterday, venturing into a Walmart. (Oh my!) I never shake hands anymore. The only person I hug is Deb. We don't get to see our grandchildren up close and personal even though we live about a 10-minute drive away. We see them via FaceTime.
I was ready for this because of years of practice. In a way, I was made for this.
One foundational plank in my makeup is that I can adapt to damned near anything. I learned from an early age that all the planning in the world is good up until the moment I face something unexpected. That worked well in my career choice of journalism. Whether I was writing a game story or editing copy on deadline, the unexpected happens all the time.
A slot person (the one who runs the copy desk during a work shift) might've made a neat work flow chart that identifies the expected time a story is due and assigns it to an individual copy editor. Boy, that flow chart looks so nice right up until the time a reporter files late and a deputy editor takes too long doing a first edit. The story hits the computer queue where editors snag that assigned story for final editing and headline writing, but the assigned editor already has two earlier stories on his or her screen. A third story is the equivalent of an embolism in a major artery. If the assigned editor is lucky, another copy editor with time to help out speaks up: "Hey, Metteer, I'll grab your CU sidebar." OK, I'll think to myself, one less thing to worry about.
That sort of responsibility sharing happens all the time on a college football Saturday night or a Denver Broncos Sunday. The glut of stories being filed on or near deadline can be overwhelming.
OK, when did my great training for moments such as this occur? From as early in my life as I can remember. We weren't a rich family. We often worked paycheck to paycheck. There was more than once that my little piggy bank (a pink, lantern-shaped gift from a savings and loan in The Dalles, Oregon) was tapped for a couple of quarters and a few dimes to get milk, bread, and other essentials because that was the best revenue source in the house. We learned to adapt to the times.
There is one story that illustrates this training period best. I was on the basketball team at St. Mary's Academy, and it was either sixth or seventh grade. I had a pair of white Keds low-top basketball shoes. They weren't the favored Chuck Taylor All-Stars model, but the Keds did the job that was necessary, which was to keep hard-gripping rubber between the soles of my feet and the wooden court.
We were preparing to play a game in our home gym, and I noticed a quarter-inch tear on the inside of my right shoe. No big deal. Play on! That small tear became a bigger gap during the game when I needed to stop quickly and pivot in another direction. The small tear was now about a one-inch gap. Another sudden stop and the tear got larger. Another quick move resulted in another ripping sound, and the gap now went from the side of my big toe to the start of my heel. Any other quick stop or change in direction resulted in my foot coming out of the shoe, and I had to reach down and place the foot back into the remnant of my shoe.
Did I stop the game? No way! Did I toss the shoe away and say that I couldn't play anymore? I would sooner have tacks driven under my fingernails than give up! I did what I'd been trained to do. I adapted. If my foot came out of the shoe, I simply went to one knee, put the foot back into the shoe, and started sprinting to get back into action. I kept running. I kept playing defense. I kept shooting. (Anyone who ever played basketball with or against me knew there was never a shot I wasn't prepared to take.)
My dad was at that game, which happened only occasionally because he was a railroad brakeman and was on a road trip during many of my athletic events. I knew he had to feel a little embarrassed when Uncle Ernie Fagan was seated next to him and said loudly enough to be heard by all, "Eldon, I think you're taking your boy to get a new pair of shoes tomorrow." Know what? I was prepared to keep wearing those torn-apart shoes for another few days if money was scarce in our house. I was lucky. I had a new pair of Keds (not Chuck Taylors) later that night.
We weren't destitute. We were just a middle-class family in the mid-1960s just trying to get by. My mom started working outside the home when I was in second grade. She did that so her kids could all go to college if they so desired. She adapted, and so did my dad.
Deb and I stay inside all day almost every day during the pandemic. We give up face-to-face visits, although our son Mike comes over occasionally and we keep the recommended six feet apart and never exchange hugs or even fist bumps. I venture out to pay bills or drop off important mail at the post office, and make that occasional visit to a grocery store. Deb gets out to attend doctor's visits.
We have an easy designation for what we're doing.
We're simply adapting. It's part of the unsaid Metteer family motto: Hey, we got this!
I thus think and act differently. We often have groceries brought to our home, although I do go out to shop in rare instances. I made that most dreaded trip of all just yesterday, venturing into a Walmart. (Oh my!) I never shake hands anymore. The only person I hug is Deb. We don't get to see our grandchildren up close and personal even though we live about a 10-minute drive away. We see them via FaceTime.
I was ready for this because of years of practice. In a way, I was made for this.
One foundational plank in my makeup is that I can adapt to damned near anything. I learned from an early age that all the planning in the world is good up until the moment I face something unexpected. That worked well in my career choice of journalism. Whether I was writing a game story or editing copy on deadline, the unexpected happens all the time.
A slot person (the one who runs the copy desk during a work shift) might've made a neat work flow chart that identifies the expected time a story is due and assigns it to an individual copy editor. Boy, that flow chart looks so nice right up until the time a reporter files late and a deputy editor takes too long doing a first edit. The story hits the computer queue where editors snag that assigned story for final editing and headline writing, but the assigned editor already has two earlier stories on his or her screen. A third story is the equivalent of an embolism in a major artery. If the assigned editor is lucky, another copy editor with time to help out speaks up: "Hey, Metteer, I'll grab your CU sidebar." OK, I'll think to myself, one less thing to worry about.
That sort of responsibility sharing happens all the time on a college football Saturday night or a Denver Broncos Sunday. The glut of stories being filed on or near deadline can be overwhelming.
OK, when did my great training for moments such as this occur? From as early in my life as I can remember. We weren't a rich family. We often worked paycheck to paycheck. There was more than once that my little piggy bank (a pink, lantern-shaped gift from a savings and loan in The Dalles, Oregon) was tapped for a couple of quarters and a few dimes to get milk, bread, and other essentials because that was the best revenue source in the house. We learned to adapt to the times.
There is one story that illustrates this training period best. I was on the basketball team at St. Mary's Academy, and it was either sixth or seventh grade. I had a pair of white Keds low-top basketball shoes. They weren't the favored Chuck Taylor All-Stars model, but the Keds did the job that was necessary, which was to keep hard-gripping rubber between the soles of my feet and the wooden court.
We were preparing to play a game in our home gym, and I noticed a quarter-inch tear on the inside of my right shoe. No big deal. Play on! That small tear became a bigger gap during the game when I needed to stop quickly and pivot in another direction. The small tear was now about a one-inch gap. Another sudden stop and the tear got larger. Another quick move resulted in another ripping sound, and the gap now went from the side of my big toe to the start of my heel. Any other quick stop or change in direction resulted in my foot coming out of the shoe, and I had to reach down and place the foot back into the remnant of my shoe.
Did I stop the game? No way! Did I toss the shoe away and say that I couldn't play anymore? I would sooner have tacks driven under my fingernails than give up! I did what I'd been trained to do. I adapted. If my foot came out of the shoe, I simply went to one knee, put the foot back into the shoe, and started sprinting to get back into action. I kept running. I kept playing defense. I kept shooting. (Anyone who ever played basketball with or against me knew there was never a shot I wasn't prepared to take.)
My dad was at that game, which happened only occasionally because he was a railroad brakeman and was on a road trip during many of my athletic events. I knew he had to feel a little embarrassed when Uncle Ernie Fagan was seated next to him and said loudly enough to be heard by all, "Eldon, I think you're taking your boy to get a new pair of shoes tomorrow." Know what? I was prepared to keep wearing those torn-apart shoes for another few days if money was scarce in our house. I was lucky. I had a new pair of Keds (not Chuck Taylors) later that night.
We weren't destitute. We were just a middle-class family in the mid-1960s just trying to get by. My mom started working outside the home when I was in second grade. She did that so her kids could all go to college if they so desired. She adapted, and so did my dad.
Deb and I stay inside all day almost every day during the pandemic. We give up face-to-face visits, although our son Mike comes over occasionally and we keep the recommended six feet apart and never exchange hugs or even fist bumps. I venture out to pay bills or drop off important mail at the post office, and make that occasional visit to a grocery store. Deb gets out to attend doctor's visits.
We have an easy designation for what we're doing.
We're simply adapting. It's part of the unsaid Metteer family motto: Hey, we got this!
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