This morning, someone delivered groceries to Miss Wanda’s house on her porch. It is the 43rd day of Miss Wanda’s quarantine, and she already has plenty of groceries. The bags arrived unexpectedly. There was a note attached: “To Wanda, with hugs and kisses.”

Wanda is 93 years old. She has no idea who left the groceries. Or why. But when it was done, Wanda says she and her nurse were looking around for hidden cameras.

“We thought it was some kinda joke,” Wanda said.

Her nurse wiped down every item—even the Raisinettes and the Milk Duds—with bleach and rubbing alcohol.

“I like Raisinettes,” said Wanda. “But they’re too hard to chew. Milk Duds are pretty good, though.”

Sometimes I wonder what gets into people. What makes them do nice things? I have met some pretty good eggs in my time. Good people who had nothing to gain from being nice and yet, somehow, they still were. Why? That’s what I’ve been asking myself all day since I heard about Wanda. Why?

Take me, for

instance. Occasionally I do major selfless acts. Like selflessly leaving the peanut butter and jelly jars on the counter with the lids off after I make a sandwich. Just in case someone wants to use them later. I even leave the knife in the jar.

Or, for example, when there is only one biscuit left at the supper table. I am moved with compassion to do the selfless thing. This is because of something my mother always said when I was a kid: “Do not ever take the last biscuit or I will stab you with salad tongs.”

So I never take the last biscuit. In fact, I wouldn’t dream of it. I simply take three quarters of the last biscuit.

I know you are probably thinking I am too self-sacrificing, but I do it for love.

Even so, I have known some gracious people who…

My earliest memory is of a record player. It sat in my mother’s bedroom. Sometimes, she would play records for me.

In one particular memory, she holds me in her arms and we dance to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. The tune is “Girl from Ipanema.”

Then, she turns off Herb. She puts on another record. It is a childhood favorite. The album is Walt Disney World’s Country Bear Jamboree. The sound of a fiddle fills the room.

Mother and I have a Disney-style hoedown.

I don’t know how I remember this, but I do. Just like I remember Mary Ann Andrews, who once kidnapped my Teddy bear. The bear she stole was the guitarist for the Country Bears Jamboree band, Big Al.

Mary Ann’s family moved to Texas, and she took Big Al with her. I was heartbroken.

My mother wrote Mary’s family a letter, threatening legal action if Big Al was not returned unharmed. In a few weeks, Big Al arrived in our mailbox and my mother agreed not to press charges.

I still

have that stuffed bear today. In fact, he sits above my desk because I was raised on golden-era Disney classics, and I would not want to live in a world without Big Al.

Anyway, my wife and I went to a concert a few months ago—seems like years ago now. It was supposed to be fun, but it left me feeling empty. A few guys onstage attempted to see how loud they could crank their amplifiers while having grand mal seizures.

We were with friends who were younger than us. I don’t know how many concerts you’ve seen lately, but young people don’t actually watch live bands anymore. They point cellphone cameras at the stage and look at their phones instead.

Halfway through the concert, I was ready to leave.

I’d rather suffer gout than listen to music that sounds like major road…

Day 30 of our quarantine. I am going for a walk to ease my cabin fever. I see a woman walking her dogs. Two schnauzers. She wears a white mask. She is talking, holding a smartphone, doing a video call.

When we pass each other, I step to the other side of the street. I don’t want to violate the eight-foot social-distancing rule, which clearly states: “Back the heck off, buddy, I have mace.”

Some kids who pass us on bicycles. They definitely aren’t following the eight-foot rule. They aren’t even following the eight-centimeter rule. They are traveling maybe 150 miles per hour.

They brush past us so closely that I can smell their little-boy stink. One kid almost knocks the woman over. She drops her phone and cusses.

I am tempted to raise my fists and shout, “You dang kids!” But I can’t. Because a long time ago, I took a solemn vow to never say this phrase against my own kind.

When I was a kid, old man Jensen used to have

a sign in his front yard that read: “KEEP OFF LAWN.” He didn’t want anyone touching his grass. He was very particular about his centipede grass, always out there primping it, fertilizing it, reading bedtime stories to it, burping it. To us kids, however, his lawn was perfect for bicycle croquet.

Old man Jensen would come barreling out of his door, trousers pulled up to his nipples, horn rimmed glasses, shaking his fists. “You dang kids!” he’d shout. And if he saw his shadow, it was six more weeks of winter.

The woman in the mask is really upset. She says me in a muffled voice, “Did you see those little [bad words]?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I can’t believe they’re acting so irresponsible.”

And this is what the lady shouts next—I am not making this up. “You dang kids!”

And just like that, old man Jensen…

I have here a letter from a young man who I will call David. David is feeling isolated due to the coronavirus quarantine. He writes:

“Hey Sean, I see all these people doing Zoom calls and Face-timing and stuff, and nobody wants to do a video chat with me or whatever. I’m realizing how truly alone I am.

“Since my school cancelled I have been social distancing and you know how everybody’s always saying it’s so hard and how they miss their friends and stuff? Well, I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me, it’s just hard because I don’t think anybody’s worried about me.”

David, you don’t have to tell me about having no friends. I understand this issue all too well. Probably everyone reading this understands you, too.

Personally, I’ve been through many different friend-phases of life. I’ve been through a phase where I had no pals. I’ve also been through phases when I had buddies crawling out of the cracks, always wanting to borrow 200 bucks.

Friends always want to borrow 200 bucks. I

know you think it’s glamorous to have lots of friends, but it’s actually pretty expensive, and non-tax-deductible. When you have tons of friends you are bound to have many who are flat broke.

FRIEND: I’m broke.

YOU: How broke?

FRIEND: For dinner my family goes to KFC to lick other people’s fingers. Can I have 200 bucks?

So we can see that having too many friends is not necessarily a blessing.

I am not making the following anecdote up when I tell you that I was once at a casino in Biloxi, Mississippi, celebrating a friend’s birthday when THIS SAME friend looked at me and said, “I can’t afford to pay my rent this month.”

This was said during the exact moment I was breaking the leg off an Alaskan snow crab that was the size of a Buick Roadmaster on…

Day 27 of our quarantine. We have not left the house in almost a month. Things are starting to get monotonous. Not in the way I thought they would.

But do you know what’s funny? My dogs are doing just fine. They aren’t even suffering. Life hasn’t changed much for them. They still chase cats. They still eat random piles of cat poop. They still take time out of their busy schedules to pee on important trees.

We have lots of local feral cats, and whenever my dogs see a cat, they bolt after it, howling, kicking up dirt clods behind their back feet. Even if you happen to be holding the leash.

My dogs never catch these cats, but they never give up either. And I admire this. Sometimes I wonder if dogs aren’t smarter than we are.

So it’s not that I have cabin fever—though I do—it’s more than that. It’s that I am going out of my freaking mind. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not Joe Extrovert, I am definitely the kind of guy

who could lock himself in a room and read books until his 80th birthday.

And I don’t mean good books, either. I’m talking about books that cost a buck from the drugstore clearance bin. Books like, “Cowboys and Vampires Break the Davinci Code While Losing 30 Pounds with Suzanne Somers!”

For 27 days, I’ve read enough cheap drugstore books to sink the U.S.S. Wisconsin. Also, I’ve been piddling a lot. Piddling is a lost art, but I’ve found that I’m pretty good at it.

I can putter around the house, doing ridiculous tasks with the same level of importance you’d use to perform neural surgery. I cleaned my workbench, for instance. I tested a few cordless drill batteries. I spent an hour separating bolts from screws, then tossed them all back together again. I took down the Christmas lights. I finally got around to…

I was going to write something else for Easter. I was going to tell you a few stories from around the U.S.

Like the church ladies who once hid 700 Easter eggs for a community church in Texas, and accidentally forgot to fill them with candy. If you can just imagine.

Then I was going to close by reminding everyone to fill their eggs with candy before they hide them.

But something happened to me. During my research for this column I fell into a wormhole. I came across more Easter stories than I could shake a bunny at. Which led to more stories. And more stories.

As of now, I have been reading for several hours and my eyes hurt.

Some of these stories were emails.

Like the email I got about a Connecticut woman who, for Good Friday, read an Easter story to her grandkids via video phone call. Quarantine style. The old woman did it cheerfully, even though she is in hospice care. Her hospice nurse held the phone.

I got

an email about a 25-year-old woman who got married last week. Her father did the wedding via the internet. The couple has no marriage certificate yet since they are quarantining. But the young woman said, “We don’t know what tomorrow will bring, we wanted to face this together.”

Or how about historic tales of Easter? Such as the Easter of 1918. Now there was a real doozy.

To start with, over in Europe, The War to End All Wars was raging. And the outbreak of the Spanish Flu was in full swing, worldwide.

I read handwritten letters from soldiers, writing to loved ones. I bawled like a baby.

Here’s one:

MARCH 31, 1918—“I miss you, oh dearest, this day feels empty without you beside me. I saw a train that was like an iron steed, I wish I could have been aboard and moving homeward...”

At…

A few years ago. A secluded country highway. Lots of farms, silos, and flat nothingness.

My wife was driving. We were on our way home. We’d been out of town for days. We’d stayed in cheap hotels, ate crummy food, we were wearing and re-wearing our clothes.

It was Easter Sunday morning. We were tired. We had almost forgotten it was a holiday because being on the road too long will do that to you.

That’s when we kept noticing all the country churches along the highway. At each one were swarms of automobiles in each parking lot. People in pastel colors.

My wife said, “Look at all the cars.”

And I felt very guilty. My wife and I were both raised under a strict religious regime. To forget Easter was like forgetting to buy your mother a greeting card for Billy Graham’s birthday.

So we pulled over at a church. The building sat next to a large soybean field. Church people were staring at our car.

“What’re we doing?” I aksed my wife.

“Well, we can’t skip Easter,” she

said.

“We look like two hobos,” I said. “I’m wearing a T-shirt, I probably smell bad.”

“We can’t skip Easter,” she pointed out again.

So we hiked up the steps into the little chapel. An elderly greeter adjusted his hearing aid and handed us a bulletin. He glanced at my wife’s ratty attire. T-shirt. Jeans. Flops.

By Southern Baptist Convention rules this was grounds for public execution. I’ve lost many good friends whose bodies were never found when they appeared in church without cufflinks.

We wandered toward a pew. We sat in the back. The lady next to me was elderly. She looked like every church woman you’ve ever known. Sky blue dress. White hair. I spoke to her to break the ice. She ignored me. I felt so ashamed.

Was it the way I smelled? Did I offend? I…

It is the twenty-third day of our quarantine and I thought I would go fishing. I am using an old Mepps spinner on a junky fishing rod.

So far, I haven’t caught anything but a sunburn and a 7UP bottle. About a hundred yards from me, I see an older man fishing alongside a little boy. I wave at them. They wave back.

And I am catapulted backward a hundred years.

I was a kid. I was sitting between my old man and my grandfather. There was a lake before us. Dark green water. Lots of frogs.

My grandfather was country people, just like everyone’s grandfather was. We held fishing rods. Mine was an el-cheapo from Kmart. My grandfather’s was bamboo, with Dacron fishing line.

Granddaddy sat on a rock, holding his rod. He was a stoic. War makes men that way. He was tying a spinner onto the end of his line. I remember this with startling clarity because his hands were so old. I marveled at how those fingers could be so

articulate.

Daddy whispered into my ear, “Guess he's done with worms, he means business, by dog, that’s a Mepps spinner.”

By dog. We really talked like that. We also said things like, “I’ll be dogged,” and the ever popular “Doggone it.” These were beautiful words. Like cuss words, only you could use them around company.

It’s funny what you remember. His fishing rod was made of reddish bamboo, his reel looked older than an Egyptian sarcophagus. There was no telling how old it was. It didn’t look like the crummy kid-rods all my friends all had.

My Pocket Fisherman rod, for instance, was basically a piece of refuse. If you caught anything over ten ounces the rod snapped in two, you fell in the water, got bit by a water moccasin, and you died right there.

He wore one of those hats that looked like it…

DEAR SEAN:

I am really afraid of this virus that I basically haven’t even slept at night for weeks. No matter how much I try to stop thinking about it, it’s all I think about, and I am always worried about stuff. My mother died last year, and I am living with my grandma.

Thanks,
TWELVE-IN-SARASOTA

DEAR AFRAID:

What I’m about to say is going to make no sense, so bear with me. If you can hang in there until the end of this column, you’ll win a free toaster oven.

Think about it like this:

Pretend that you have a rabid squirrel living inside your head. Got it? Good.

This squirrel is your brain. This is not an analogy. Modern science has actually proven that human nervous systems are all controlled by small crazed furry rodents who behave as though they are on their fifth cup of coffee.

Your personal squirrel is CRAZY! He’s always running in circles. He’s never at ease.

But hey, don’t get mad at the squirrel. You need him. This squirrel

(your brain) looks out for you. He’s making sure you eat, sleep, do your homework, wear clean underpants, etc. He just gets stuck on some issues.

Speaking of which. My mother was very hung up on the issue of clean underpants. It was as though she thought government employees were going to emerge from the shadows and perform randomized underwear checks. And if I was not wearing clean underpants I would be dragged outside and flogged with rubber hoses.

So before I go on, are you following me? I am saying:

1. Your brain is a squirrel.
2. My mother is obsessed with clean underpants.

This little squirrel will eat you alive. Not on purpose, he just gets so scared that he can’t help it. He probably sits around up there all day, slogging gallons of Mountain Dew so he can keep…

I am walking my dogs through a residential neighborhood. I pass a house with open windows and an open door. I hear an old piano playing. Music drifts from the windows, out to the street.

I stop walking to listen. The music reminds me of the feeling you get when you smell fresh bread.

There is something about the way freshly baked bread smells. It’s euphoric. Whenever I get homemade bread, I don’t eat it all at once. I keep it around so I can smell it. I usually do this before bed. That’s right, I sniff bread. They have support groups for this.

So that’s what this music is like. Bread. It’s a warm, soft sound.

What is this song? I know this tune. It takes me a few seconds.

“Up From the Grave He Arose” is the melody. The international Easter song of Baptists everywhere. This is the springtime anthem of my childhood.

See, every denomination has its own favorite Easter hymn. The Methodists love “Christ the Lord is Risen Today” because it

was written by John Wesley, who, in case you aren’t up on your history, was the founder of chicken broccoli casserole and Dixie-cup baptism.

The Pentecostals sing clapping songs. The Presbyterians don’t even clap at football games. And for Easter singing, the Church of Christ people march down the street to the Methodist church and set fire to the piano.

But we Baptists sing, “Up From the Grave He Arose.” And at least we did at my church. There are two sections to this song. The first section is done slow, like a funeral dirge:

“Looooowww in the Grave he lay,
“Jeeeeeeee-zussss my saay-vior…”

But when you get to the second section, you’re supposed to sing it “bright and lively.” Our piano player, Miss Betty, would bounce back and forth on her stool like she was playing ragtime piano on the Ed Sullivan Show.…