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Gonna Be A Hard Time

Gonna Be A Hard Time

Last updated on: January 30, 2025 at 12:22 am by Mary Pezzulo

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Gonna Be A Hard Time 2025-01-30T00:22:30-04:00 Mary Pezzulo

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Melting snow on grass

image via Pixabay

I opened my door at the end of the world.

Everything is happening so fast. Every time we turn around, there’s something else to react to. My dear friend across the country keeps sending me messages about the immigration raids. The neighborhood is full of families who can’t find their fathers. They don’t care if you’re a criminal, and they don’t care if they’ve got the right person; they just seem to want to fill their trucks. Her own children are brown-skinned Mexican-Americans, natural born citizens, the children of a natural-born citizen mother, and she’s still terrified. People all around the country are terrified.

All I want to do is help them, but I can’t.

Outside, the wind blew warmer than it’s been in awhile. The forever snow was slick with liquid water, melting away in a late January thaw. Maybe we’ll have another layer of thick snow, and maybe we won’t.

One of the cats who’s adopted me was waiting at the door. He is the sociable one, a gray and white cat whom I’ve named Charlie. With that funny black spot under his nose, it was either name him after Charlie Chaplin, or after the more famous historic figure who sported a stubby mustache. I have been thinking about that man far too often of late, so the cat’s name is Charlie, to keep my mind off things. Charlie came up to the porch just after the new year and rubbed against my leg. I made the mistake of giving him a bit of leftover chicken. Now he comes daily at one in the afternoon, to see if I have any food.

I had. I have been picking up cans of salmon-in-gravy cat food at the dollar store instead of art supplies lately. I’ve been too anxious to do much art. I opened the can as Charlie jumped up on his hind legs with excitement, and then I left him to finish his lunch.

Jimmy is still borrowing Sacre Bleu to run errands every day. Lord knows when he’ll be able to replace the old Dodge. Yesterday he put in ten dollars of gas, changed the oil and put air in the tires while his boy petted Charlie and questioned me about when we’d plant potatoes together. Jimmy showed me the horrible tar-black oil he’d drained out of Sacre Bleu, oil that looked as if it hadn’t been changed in a year. I tried to think of potatoes and oil and good friends and not my worry, as I drove over the pockmarked streets of LaBelle.

I turned the corner past that house where they were putting in a new porch just a month ago. The workmen were Latino men, who spoke in rapid Spanish I couldn’t understand, and now they’re gone.

There are so many police cars lately.

Were the police in Steubenville always driving those dubiously marked cars? Not unmarked cars, but the cars where the word POLICE is dull gray against the black of the cruiser, instead of bright white against black.

Downtown, at the thrift shop, I dawdled. I didn’t want to be at home by the computer just then. I inspected every pot and pan in the kitchenware section, as if I were opening a restaurant.

All I want is for my friends to be safe.

All I want is for their lives to be normal.

If by any magic or miracle or self-sacrifice, I could make the people I love have normal lives, I would. If by lying down and dying I could give them the gift of normalcy, I’d do it at once. If through any suffering I could win for my friends the prize of a happy, complacent, ordinary life, I would agree to the bargain. But I can’t.

After the thrift shop, I went grocery shopping. Trying to cobble together a dinner for Adrienne and a can of food for that cat with the little bit in the checking account was another activity to take my mind off my worry. The meat is at home in the freezer. A dollar twenty-five for steak sauce, if I buy the off brand, and that’s a seasoning. Two dollars for a box of broth. Potatoes and onions are cheap if you buy one or two instead of a bag. There are already carrots at home in the fridge. That makes a stew.

I ran into the Lady of LaBelle, with two of her nieces, exclaiming over the high price of eggs. They don’t have their own car and were going to wait for the bus. I invited them to ride in Sacre Bleu with me. On the way out, we ran into a gentleman I used to see every day when I rode the bus. He flagged me down and asked for a ride as well, to pick up his medicine at his brother’s house which isn’t on the bus route. Next thing I knew we were all crammed into the Nissan.

Up and down the one-way streets of LaBelle we drove, exclaiming over the news. Did you hear about the shutdown? No, I hadn’t heard. Have you tried to get into the Medicaid portal? I hope I don’t get sick just now. Now would be a terrible time to get sick. Soon everyone will be sick. Were you able to use your food stamps and WIC? Do you think they’re going to cut everyone’s food stamps? We’ll be lucky to get food stamps. Those people who trade their food stamps for drugs are gonna be in trouble. Did you hear about the baby that had amphetamine in her system? I head her mom was trading her food stamps for drugs, and now she’ll never see that baby again. I hope we don’t go to war. It’s gonna be a hard time. All the prices are gonna go up. Did you see the price of eggs today? Seven dollars I just paid. We’ve all gotta help each other. It’s gonna be a hard time.

By the time I got everyone back to their respective houses, it was time to get Adrienne from school. Charlie the cat was waiting for us; he rubbed his head against my leg as I brought in the groceries.

I finally checked on my friend again when the stew was on the stove.

They are all right, for now.

Maybe they’ll even stay all right.

We’ve all gotta help each other.

It’s gonna be a hard time.

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