D-Day + 24: When Coronavirus Hits Home

John Prine is gone.

My brother Dave put it most aptly.  “We shed some tears last night when we learned John Prine had passed away.  Coronavirus was somewhat abstract until someone we cherish so died.”

Ed and I have talked about this many times in the last several weeks:  the inevitability of having someone we know and care about – family member, friend, colleague, neighbor – get the virus.  And, the harsher reality, having someone whom we know and love die from the virus.

As it is, we know several people who may have had, or may currently have, the virus in a mild form.  My friend Molly came home to Colorado from a work conference in Nashville at the end of February, and had many of the symptoms;  her physician – on a phone call – advised that it sounded like she had the virus, but since she was coping okay, she didn’t get tested.  A birding friend of mine in the Springs thinks she has it.  A running friend in KC is pretty sure she has had it.  Our mailperson thinks she had it back in January.  Ed just told me he learned this morning that his business partner’s brother and kid both had it.

Hell, I got seriously sick at the tail end of our New Zealand vacation in late December:  it started with a horrible cough and was unlike any cold I’ve ever had.  Could it have been present in Kiwi-land even before people really knew about it anywhere outside of China?

In all these cases, the people have recovered.  Or are recovering.  No hospitalizations.  No difficulty breathing requiring oxygen.  No ventilators.

No deaths.

But the specter is there, and it feels that much closer today.  I can’t help hearing Jackson Browne singing, from “For a Dancer”,

I don't know what happens when people die
Can't seem to grasp it as hard as I try
It's like a song I can hear playing right in my ear
But I can't sing
I can't help listening
I can't help feeling stupid standing 'round
Crying as they ease you down

It’s times like these that I envy the deeply religious among us who have a certainty about what happens when people die.  I love the idea of a heaven where we’re all reunited with our loved ones;  I just don’t really believe in it.  But I would like to.  And maybe, as so many people seem to do, as I get older, I’ll embrace that thought more.  After all, Pascal’s Wager says that rational people should live as though God exists and seek to believe in God.  If God doesn’t exist, there’s really no loss, and perhaps a reward of living a better life.  If God does exist, there are infinite gains.  Including, maybe, a heaven where we’ll find all our old friends and family and, presumably, our musical idols.

Several months ago, an article made its way around the internet about the coming death of a host of rock legends.  The article starts out with this dire prediction:  Just about every rock legend you can think of is going to die within the next decade or so.  The article acknowledges the icons we’ve lost already, a too-long list that includes John Lennon and Elvis Presley and Janis Joplin.  Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, George Harrison, Ray Charles, Michael Jackson.  Glenn Frey. Prince.  And more, and more, and more.

Then the article goes on to say, “Those losses have been painful.  But it’s nothing compared with the tidal wave of obituaries to come….All of which means there’s going to be a lot of mourning going on”, and ends with a list of rockers who are currently in their 70s.  Bob Dylan.  Paul McCartney.  Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel.  Carole King.  Mick Jagger and Keith Richards.  And on and on and on.

The article doesn’t mention John Prine specifically, maybe because he was one of those guys who flew under the radar.  But it doesn't mean he will be mourned any less. The New York Times refers to his music as country-folk; maybe that’s why a list of more traditional rockers missed him.  I mostly knew of John Prine through his songs that were covered by other artists, most prominently “Angel from Montgomery”.  While I didn’t much know of him as a performer, I still have a piano book of his music from the very early 1970s; the picture on the cover is of a very young man.

But then Dave told me, once, ten or more years ago, that I needed to see him in concert.  Dave said, “trust me.  He’s a great storyteller and performer.”  The next time that John Prine came through Colorado, he played Red Rocks.  My concert-going buddy, Denise, and I snapped up tickets as soon as they went on sale and got most excellent seats.  The man who played that night had gray hair and a very gravelly voice.  We were blown away by the music.  And the stories.  The laughs. And the tears.  We were impressed by the hard-core fans who sang every word to every song that he sang.  We didn’t know them all – not even close – but left the concert with a long list of songs to download from iTunes.

This morning, Dave texted, “We will miss his music and homespun style.  Listen to Lake Marie and remember him.”  Lake Marie just happened to be the song I most loved from his live performance.  It’s playing in my head, all day long, with a picture of him in that magical place.

Lake Marie

Standing by peaceful waters
Peaceful waters
Standing by peaceful waters
Peaceful waters
Aah baby, we gotta go now