2021 Layne Family Christmas Letter

Alas, this may well be the last of the Layne Family X-Mas letters as we have proven to be the most profoundly dull and painfully uninteresting people left on the planet, so much so that a reality series based on our lives would rate below a documentary on the growth rate of lichens.

The year began inauspiciously with the cancellation of Christmas.  In a gesture of appreciation for her staff’s dedication to ensuring that meal deliveries would continue to financially disadvantaged seniors, Karen’s boss gave all the employees of the DuPage Senior Citizen’s Council a year-end bonus of COVID which Karen unwittingly brought home and shared with the girls.  Not native to this planet, Mark remained immune and spent the holidays nursing the clan back to health while jabbing pins into a voodoo doll resembling Karen’s boss.  Karen never returned to her job in protest over the loss of Christmas and to avoid the temptation to commit homicide.

Poor Amanda continues to suffer horribly owing to her outrageous good fortune. How she managed to cope with the tragedy of walking in her ISU graduation ceremony in April, finishing her degree in July – a full year ahead of schedule even after taking a semester off and with zero college debt – then landing her first full time job at the Barrington Hills CC a month later is certainly a testament to her resilience and fortitude.  Sadly, finding herself underutilized and ill-suited for catering to the needs of the idle rich, she quickly secured a new job in her preferred field of higher education which featured a significant salary increase, a much shorter commute, and two bonus weeks of paid time-off at the holidays.  Truly, the many hardships attendant with her free room and board, the injustice of having to share the television, tolerate the complementary maid service, and eat food she doesn’t particularly care for are more than any normal person of her age should have to endure. Nonetheless, Karen and Mark are confident she will one day heal from the scars of her tragic adversity, meet a kindhearted and patient psychiatrist, and live happily ever after.

Speaking of graduations, Ally received her marching papers from Nazareth Academy this spring (the true alma mater of Ally’s former lab partner and Michigan freshman QB JJ McCarthy).  Determined to leave the snow and cold behind in exchange for palm trees and warm tropical breezes, Ally committed to the University of Tampa on May first.  In August, we moved her into a single room in a beautiful new dorm at the University of Iowa where she is studying nursing with a minor in astronomy as she pursues her lifelong dream of being a member of the first medical team deployed to NASA’s proposed lunar habitat. With a lovely view of the river and equipped with a workout room and unlimited meal plan, it’s no wonder she spends most of her nights sleeping on the floor of her friends’ dorm subsisting on coffee and toast.  Karen and Mark keep telling themselves it’s only money. Earning top marks thus far, it seems the classwork suits her, although perhaps not as much as her newfound pastime – tailgating. 

Speaking of football, nephew Jayson became the third member of the extended Layne family to set foot upon the college gridiron, albeit the only one with legitimate talent or any hope of success.  Sadly, the Samford Bulldogs were without the services of their newest offensive lineman when he broke his foot during summer workouts and was forced to spend his freshman season walking the sidelines making fun of the cheerleaders. 

After weeks of arguments and whining about where to travel over summer, Karen made the executive decision to visit Niagara Falls with a stop at Cuyahoga Valley National Park and the Christmas Story House in Cleveland.  The falls were a sight to behold. Mark was disappointed he forgot his barrel, and Ally expressed concern the US might run out of water.  The group quickly discovered all the decent accommodations were on the Canadian side of the border which was closed to foreigners, a feat the US has failed to replicate along its nether region.  The journey nevertheless provided many fruitful experiences the girls will be able to point back to and complain about for many years to come.

Speaking of travel, in October, Amanda wrangled Karen – and at the last minute, Mark – into accompanying her on a pilgrimage to Salem, MA, where in a previous life she was both hanged and burned at the stake.  Mark spent the 2,000-mile trek crammed in the back seat of their tiny rental car buried under all of Amanda’s worldly possessions and snacks.  He did enjoy several opportunities to stretch his legs during brief stops at the historic site of the Woodstock music festival in Bethel, NY, a rock in Plymouth, and eventually Boston where he was left to wonder how the colonial patriots who rallied a young nation against unfair taxation would react to paying $15.00 for a turkey
sandwich.

Back working from home, Karen devotes most of her energies these days to caring for her special needs dog, Sparky.  Never has there been a canine more lacking in dignity and self-respect, nor since man’s domestication of animals has nature produced such a mentally deficient aberration of genetics so desperately needy and dependent on humans that he remains Velcroed to Karen’s chest and panics whenever she leaves the room.  Even Maggie looks with disdain and malice upon her profoundly odd, obsequious cousin who, when not encrusting his silky white fur in filth or barking nonstop at things he imagines lurking outside, between the walls, or in the fireplace, scans the skies for commercial aircraft which he chases across the yard in an apoplectic rage, angrily scuffing his feet, dropping turds along the way.

Mark continues to become more unsightly and malodorous with each passing year as he consumes copious amounts of preservative-laden foods in an effort to prolong his life while he waits patiently for Led Zeppelin to release their next album. 

Speaking of dogs, it has been said that it’s dog’s life.  As defined by Ambrose Bierce: Dog, n. A kind of additional or subsidiary Deity designed to catch the overflow and surplus of the world’s worship. These Divine beings in some of their smaller and silkier incarnations take, in the affection of women, the place to which there is no human male aspirant.  Amen to that.

Merry Christmas to All, and to All Good Grief,

Karen, Mark, Amanda, Ally, Maggie, and Turdisaurus Rex

Corona Comes Calling

About a year or so ago, I enlisted in the worldwide movement to avoid contracting and/or spreading the Corona Virus (affectionately known as COVID-19).  A big fan of medical thriller author, Robin Cook, I had read Outbreak, Pandemic, The Andromeda Strain, and others, so I knew to take this sh_t seriously. 

As a self-anointed lay expert in the spread of disease, I adhered to every known CDC guideline, going so far as to make up a few of my own.  I avoided crowded places.  I wore a mask everywhere I went, even while driving alone, outdoors, and to bed.  I washed my hands raw.  I only touched my face with the inside of my own shirt or my elbows.  I did my best to keep six feet from other humans, including my wife.  I put hand sanitizer in each of our cars, in every room of the house, and all my pockets. I stopped short of burning our clothing upon returning from the dangerous and dirty world.  This virus didn’t stand a chance against my assiduous protocols and stalwart defenses.

Then one day my wife got a text that her stubborn, thick-headed, 72-year-old-boss – director of a public aid organization that provides meals to senior citizens, no less – tested positive for COVID-19.  My wife wasn’t surprised as the woman had been walking around the office coughing all week, blaming it on allergies.  Three days before Christmas, half the office staff was experiencing symptoms, including my wife. 

My now contaminated spouse blatantly refused to participate in our household COVID disaster plan which required anyone who tested positive to move into the garage and conduct all their toilet activities outside.  One day while I was at work, my kids unlocked the door and let her in.  This was my worst personal nightmare. 

I’m no stranger to illness.  Born without the good sense to know when I’m pushing myself too hard, whenever illness visited, I always seemed to not only catch whatever was going around, but the worst possible strain of it.  Since contracting bronchial pneumonia in college, I’ve made it my mission to remain healthy and to protect myself from contagions.  I became an unqualified success in this undertaking; until I had kids.

My wife gave birth to our first child when I was pushing 40 and our second when I was 43, putting us at the older end of the parent-age spectrum and on the downslope of the immunity bell curve.  I quickly discovered that children were a breeding ground of the most virulent microorganisms to be found in the universe.  I remember like yesterday that one Thanksgiving I spent on the couch with a raging fever while the rest of the family enjoyed my favorite meal of the year.  Or that particular Christmas night in the ER with my flu-ridden 6-month-old watching while doctors tried to start an IV in her tiny arm because she stopped drinking.  Then there was the time I shared a popsicle with my other daughter, afterward discovering she was ripe with norovirus, subjecting me to five days of such violent nausea I prayed for death to take me. 

Is it any surprise why I went to war against microorganisms?  Over time, I developed the ability to “see” germs as they spread from person to surface to hands of the next person.  I fashioned a duct tape holster with a can Lysol on one hip, Clorox wipes on the other.  I spent the cold weather months disinfecting, cleaning, and monitoring the kids’ hygiene.  “Don’t touch your face,” was my battle cry.  “Wash your hands!”  “Don’t hover over each other when you’re not feeling well!”  “Cover your cough!”  “Sneeze into your elbow!”  “Stay away from sick people!”  “Don’t eat that!”  “Do eat this!”  “Quit breathing near your sister!”  I was an anti-germ Nazi.

In my defense, our extended family is quite small, so we never had a reliable support system in times of emergency.  When it came to needing help with the kids, the buck stopped with me and my wife.  And because we’re self-employed, when we don’t work, we don’t earn, nor do we have sick days or paid time off.  Our financial solvency has always fallen to me while my wife attended to the children, which is why every illness that entered our home sent a shockwave through our little world.  It was bad when the kids got sick because my wife typically caught it.  It was even worse when I got sick because I was the last line of defense when it came to keeping our tiny enterprise afloat. 

When COVID invaded our sanctum, I instinctively launched into crisis mode, handing out N95 masks, cans of Lysol, and tasers.  I visualized the hideous viral spores attaching themselves to the microwave, toilet seats, TV remotes, couch cushions, and dogs.  I was at my wits end.  Nobody in my family shared my sense of urgency.  My kids were so cavalier as to appear to be going out of their way to get infected.  What was wrong with them?

It then occurred that perhaps something was wrong with me.  Could it be I was suffering from PTSD over of all those traumatic experiences from when the kids were small?  My kids blame me for making them germophobes, causing them to believe illness is wrong and unnatural.  My oldest tells me she feels guilty for getting sick; that when she catches a cold, she feels like she did something wrong or in some way failed me.  Back in the day, my wife scolded me numerous times, telling me that my way of reacting to illness wasn’t normal.  Were they right all along? 

Nah.  This is a pandemic, remember?  Our very government has sanctioned – even encouraged – my behaviors as they relate to protecting myself, my family, and others from this dreaded illness.  It is my duty to God and country, is it not?  Then again, it seems the government is every bit as despicable, untrustworthy, and imbued with evil as COVID-19. 

The father doth protect too much, methinks.

Maybe I do need to reconsider my approach to getting sick?  I remain unwilling to underestimate the importance of good physical health and mental wellbeing, because if we don’t feel good, we are rarely of much benefit to each other or society as a whole.  But when illness does strike, perhaps it is time I learned to embrace it as something normal and natural and human, as opposed to something to be feared or battled or disinfected? 

Going forward, I will continue to be smart about disease, taking reasonable steps to keep myself and my family well.  But when illness does come knocking despite my bold efforts, I vow to let go, let God, and allow the healing to begin.  Although I will miss the smell of Lysol.