The Last One

May 7, 2022

My vision is fading, my back hurts, my gray hair falls in long strands over my shoulders. Time is running out, but I will not “go gentle into that good night.” (Dylan Thomas) Some part of my being, my spirit, commands me to fight to the bitter end.

Last summer the shelves overflowed with groceries. Most people snickered at rumors of shortages. No milk, bread, flour or vegetables? Imagine an overweight politician rocking on his heels, tugging on his suspenders while smugly shouting, “Not in this U-nited States of America. Never happen.” But something didn’t seem right. I sensed the distant rumbling of beating drums signaling an upcoming battle. I saw a woman’s manicured fingers pointing at another lady who put five cans of chicken in a grocery cart. “She’s one of those preppers. A hoarder!” she gasped.

And so … in early May 2021, my thoughts turned to survival. What if the next time I went into a store, the shelves were bare? What if my favorite salsa disappeared? And fresh bread from the bakery? Or potatoes for a casserole? The local Publix had almonds and walnuts on sale, a staple to supplement my morning oatmeal. I threw several bags into my cart. And pet food? I shuddered at the thought of no more kibble or salmon pate and threw several cans and bags into my cart, just in case.

And now, May 2022, there are rumors of the last egg, chicken, pig or cow. The list goes on and on. Is anyone else longing for the days when we “just” worried about not enough extra toilet paper?

This is real. This IS America and the only people who take preparing seriously are those of us who march to the beat of a different drummer. Have you noticed that? Or is it just me?

“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.” Henry David Thoreau’s 1854 Walden.

Someone posted a picture on social media of a Fluffernutter sandwich, and I’ve been drooling ever since. Time to order a container of Marshmallow Fluff from the Amazon River. I’ll eat the messy sandwich for the last time. I want to relive my childhood in Maine, opening my school lunch bag, the marshmallow making a sticky mess on the wax paper. I’d wolf down the sandwich and then lick my fingers. Oh yeah, I’ve got to do that one more time.