After Everything Got Weird

I don’t know exactly when it happened, but somewhere along the way, people got harder to reach.

I’m in my early forties now, born and raised around Bryan, Ohio, which is a strange age and a strange thing to say. You’re old enough to remember when people actually stopped by each other’s houses, but young enough that you’re still expected to know what every app, message, post, and notification means.

I remember when visiting somebody did not feel like an event.

If their truck was in the driveway and the garage door was open, you pulled in. Somebody would be working on a mower, grilling supper, cleaning out a truck bed, or sitting in a lawn chair after work, and the visit just happened.

Now it feels like everyone waits for an invitation.

The funny thing is, we all still say the same things.

“We need to get together sometime.”

“Don’t be a stranger.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

And most of us mean it when we say it. That’s the sad part. We mean it, then we get busy, tired, distracted, or too used to being alone, and nothing happens.

COVID had something to do with it, I’m sure. For a while, even being close to people felt complicated. Churches got quiet. School events changed. Restaurants and small businesses had to figure out how to survive. Families argued. Friends drifted. Some people got careful, some got angry, and some just disappeared into their own houses for a while.

But I don’t think COVID created all of it.

I think it showed us something that was already happening.

We were already getting lonelier. We were already scrolling instead of visiting. We were already watching each other’s lives online instead of being part of them.

Around Bryan, you can still see signs of the old way if you’re paying attention. A hand raised from a passing truck. Somebody holding the door at the gas station. People standing around downtown during Jubilee, talking like they only meant to stay five minutes. A familiar face at the Williams County Fairgrounds that somehow knows three generations of your family. A neighbor pushing snow farther than his own driveway because he already had the blade down anyway.

That part is still here.

It’s just quieter than it used to be.

A couple weeks ago, I ran into an old friend at the store. We hadn’t talked much in a year, maybe longer. No falling out. No reason. Just life doing what life does.

We stood there between the bread aisle and the endcap with all the sale chips, having one of those conversations where both people are trying to act casual while realizing too much time has passed.

He asked how I’d been.

I said, “Busy.”

He said, “Same here.”

And for a second, that was almost the whole conversation.

Then I don’t know what got into me, but I told the truth.

I said, “Honestly, I think I’ve been more tired than busy.”

He looked at me for a second and laughed, but not because it was funny.

“Yeah,” he said. “That sounds about right.”

So we stood there a little longer. Talked about work. Talked about how expensive everything has gotten. Talked about people we hadn’t seen in a while. Talked about how fast kids grow up and how slow some weeks can feel.

Before we left, he said he’d been meaning to get his fishing poles out again, maybe head down 15 toward Oxbow Lake one morning. Like everything else, he kept putting it off.

I told him I’d go.

I don’t even know if we’ll catch much. That’s not really the point anymore.

The point is standing somewhere quiet with somebody you used to know well, remembering that you still can. The point is a thermos of coffee, a couple folding chairs, and a morning where nobody has to perform being fine.

That’s what I miss.

Not big events. Not perfect plans. Not pretending everybody has it all together.

I miss the small stuff. Standing in a driveway after dark. Leaning on a truck bed and talking about nothing. Hearing somebody laugh in person instead of seeing “LOL” on a screen. Knowing who needs checked on. Being known well enough that somebody can tell when your “I’m fine” is not the whole truth.

I think a lot of us are waiting for life to go back to normal, but maybe normal is something we have to rebuild on purpose.

Maybe it starts with answering the message. Making the call. Inviting somebody over even if the house is not spotless. Sitting around a fire on a regular Friday night. Walking around the square when something’s going on downtown. Going to the fair. Asking the second question when somebody says they’re doing okay.

Maybe it starts by admitting that being connected online has not made us feel as connected as we hoped it would.

I still believe small towns know how to take care of people. I’ve seen it too many times not to believe it.

But I also think we have to choose it again.

Not just when something bad happens. Not just when there’s a fundraiser, funeral, storm, or emergency.

On ordinary days too.

Because after everything got weird, I think a lot of us are still waiting for somebody to make life feel real again.

Maybe that somebody can be us.