Just In Case

Photography leads to the first post-Covid road trip

Apr 19, 2021

A knot twisted in my gut. One strand anxiety, the other excitement, stitching together my resolve to leave the homestead for Eugene, Oregon, three hours north of my little valley. It's been well over a year since taking a pandemic risk outside of going to one grocery store twice a month and seeing my core family and two friends. Having a rough bout of Covid will do that to you - turns you into a hermit.

My friends in Eugene are a month away from having their first baby. When she called to ask if I would shoot maternity photos for them, I said, "Hell Yes!" They are both vaccinated, and I'm a week past my second Pfizer shot. It was enough insurance to pry me from the comfort zone.

The morning after arriving, we were sitting around their kitchen table.

I still felt the need to wear a mask - just in case. When fresh eggs from the backyard hens and the french press coffee were ready, I un-masked and ate my first meal with friends outside of my pod. I tried to ignore the nervous thoughts pinging around in my head: What if the shot doesn't work? What if a virus variant is lurking under the table? Or worse, what if I bring something contagious to this little family expecting a newborn soon?

Mom-to-be got dressed up and put on a soft shade of pink lipstick. Dad-to-be changed his shirt, pulled on his good boots, and prepared the car for us. It felt strange to slide onto the seat, shut the back passenger door, and sit in such a small enclosure with people I haven't seen in over a year. We were all masked - just in case.

Dad-to-be drove us downtown and pointed at the new, redbrick, six-story, very expensive hotel and courtyard shopping center, built since I last visited. Then he steered us around the corner revealing a scene from my old life. Several blocks were closed off. White and red pop-up tents lined both sides of the street, with a steady river of people pouring between them. It was an outdoor Artisan-Farmer's Market, and I almost cried when I laid my eyes upon that near-normal, previously-taken-for-granted, every-summer-weekend event.

They wanted candid photos of them just doing life with The Bump.

I hung the Nikon around my neck and walked with them onto the busy street. My anxiety evaporated when I noticed that every single person everywhere had a mask on. Every. Single. Person. I felt liberated. There were maybe a hundred of us outside, and no one had to worry about breathing anyone else's aerosol. No one looked angry or angsty about it. In fact, the energy was light and happy - almost like a normal summer pre-pandemic Saturday. People standing in line at booths, or passing each other down the street, tried to give space where they could - just in case.

The Parents-to-be were delightful to work with. They wore masks in some of the shots. When they wanted a photo without a mask, they made sure we were far enough away from anyone else to keep from causing discomfort - others don't know if we're vaccinated or not. We stopped at an open-air bakery after the market; Mom-to-be wanted a croissant. I was giddy. A bakery! Oh my god, the smell of fresh coffee and pastries, the bustle of people talking and ordering - all masked - was intoxicating.

We ended the day-trip at the Rhododendron Garden in Hendrick's Park.

Blossoms of Rhodies, wildflowers, and Tulip Trees, exploded everywhere in pink, white, and salmon-colored hues against a perfect blue sky. Flowery perfume hung heavy in the still, warm air. We strolled down a path through a massive Doug Fir grove, lined with bushes and branches laden with blossoms and buzzing bees. There was a strong temptation to peel the mask off and inhale the sweet oxygen. But I kept it on - just in case.

The afternoon found us back at their quaint little straw-bale house, shooting fun - and funny - photos on the front porch. It was all Mom-to-be had to give. She needed to rest. The little tiny being in her belly was kicking and throwing a fit. I guess it was past its nap time.

Shadows stretched long as I loaded up and headed south. I so badly wanted to hug my friends, give them a gratitude squeeze for getting me out of the house and behind the camera. I chose not to hug them - just in case. Instead, I said out loud with arms outstretched in an air-hug, "I love you guys," and tried not to cry.

I used to be a road dog.

I used to hop in the truck and take trips all the time. The three-hour return drive felt like a deep drink of water for my parched traveling soul. Tears kept trying to break free all the way home. Some were happy tears - hearing the wheels on the road again, seeing dear friends I haven't seen in a while, and feeling that sense of freedom only rolling down the blacktop can give.

But some tears were sad. I am not the same. America is not the same. The world is different now. That understanding sat down on my bones - a knowing that there is no going back. Life will never be exactly the way it was before 2020. I have some grieving to do around that. But I was also born inherently optimistic, and under the sadness, a quieter voice whispered, "Everything changes. And it might just change for the better. Keep your mind open."

Keep your mind open - just in case. ☆