The Immediate Future--Bleak, and Empty

I saw the immediate future, though in a place one might not have expected.

Sunday morning last, March 8: 8th Street, Geneva, Nebraska, the main drag. You'll have to look carefully to find it, though it's the seat of Fillmore County. I was there doing a little research, and responding to a kind of invitation to attend a pancake breakfast in nearby Grafton.

If you're new to this blog, the fact that it's Grafton already had my attention. I'm writing a book on all the Graftons I can find. I had already found this one, It was my second time through.

I didn't know there were any places to stay in Geneva, a bit southeast of Grafton, maybe 15 minutes away. But someone at Jill's Sweet Shop and Catering, located mid-block along the west side, told me about the Hotel Geneva, a little nook at the far end of the street. She even ginned up the proprietor to expect my phone call, which I happened to deliver after I finished my formal, library-based research just five minute before she was to leave.

The rooms were jammed with all the accoutrements you could ask for--frig, stove, easy chair, table, and TV (though mine had a sound that faded in and out, which I discovered far after anything could have been done about it)--and was plenty comfortable enough.

I stayed Friday and Saturday evenings, with no one around. The proprietor took off after checking me in and told me to call her if there was anything she could do for me. It didn't sound irresponsible; it was just the way things were done around there.

8th Street had a couple of banks, Jill's Catering, and a Mexican restaurant as part of the business end of the town, all along the west side of the street. The street itself was made of cobblestone, which made one go slower as you moved through it. The east side was dominated by the grounds of the county seat, though the VFW Post was a bit north of it.

But it was the lack of commerce that was a bit spooky. There was a grocery store at the far end of the west side of the street, but after 11 a.m. on Saturday, that and the VFW Post seemed to be all that were open--all that anyone had time for. They had prime rib at the VFW Saturday night, and I bought one: Not bad. But there weren't ten people in there.

Maybe some had gone drinking at the bar located to the south, across the street. Maybe some went to the Mexican place. But there weren't many out there.

Where were everyone? The coronavirus hadn't hit this part of Nebraska yet. The weather was nice, really nice: close to 70 degrees. But in this own of 2200 residents (as of 2010, granted, but the trends were downward countywide), people weren't out and about on a Saturday night.

So, too, it was even emptier Sunday morning. The wind blew hard. Dust came up and slammed against the empty storefronts. It was 9:30 a.m. Nobody around.

And I thought: Why would anybody want to live here, with nobody around and nothing to do?

I ran up against the immediate future. All streets will be like this, and soon. And anyone roaming 'just to have fun' will be a fool.

We're about two weeks out now. The numbers will begin to be noticeable. You'll have to do some real planning to limit your time outdoors, if in fact you want to minimize your exposure.

At least one member of my family thinks this is an overreaction. I think he's wrong. We have to take a hard look at each other now. The federal government wants people not to be critical. Too bad. The situation is critical. We are about to be subsumed by it.

And for Geneva, Nebraska? Well, there's a clinic nearby. They're lucky. At least 120 rural hospitals have been shut down in the last decade, said the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel back in January.

Be well. Be careful (and I really, really mean it this time). I'll see you down the road (hopefully, if I don't get sick).


Mister Mark