Spring is coming. Sunny and bright. The promise of new beginnings and I scour the obituaries, not looking for people I know but for those I don’t. I’m transfixed by their stories and lose myself in the details, imagining myself walking in their shoes. Morbid? Not really. Voyeur is too harsh. I consider myself an observer of both the living and the dead.

When our older daughter, Hannah, recently broke up with her boyfriend of seven years, Mom and Dad were left confused and unsettled. We had invested our time and attention in this guy and when they parted, my wife and I felt adrift, abandoned, and betrayed.

Forty-five years ago, my best friend was a tall, gangly kid named Gary. Although we lived in opposite sides of town and went to different high schools, Gary and I were drawn together by a mutual interest in television, specifically how to make it and profit from it. Our burgeoning production company, consisting of the two of us, recorded high school football games, a prom and a graduation exercise.

As the high-speed train whizzed through the mountains enroute to the Norwegian city of Bergen, I reflected on my Viking past. A popular ancestry app said I was 14% Scandinavian, not much I admit, but who was I to question science? I was well-aware of Bergen’s illustrious past. I knew that King Olav Kyyre or Olaf the Quiet, founded the town in 1070 as a transit point for Viking raiders and their spoils. The Vikings were traders as well as explorers and I knew that trade with the rest of the world introduced Viking society to foreign manners ands culture.

Barely 21 and fresh out of art school with a degree in painting (the Rembrandt van Rijn kind not the Benjamin Moore kind) I faced the daunting prospect of finding employment in my mid-sized, midwest, hometown. There wasn’t much call for a fine artist at the time (and yes I should have thought about that four years earlier) so I opted for convention. I would get a job in an arts related field that at least paid me a living wage.

I like people. I really do. Preferably in small doses but summertime pushes the limit and stretches my patience. My summers start innocently enough. I love waking up to the sunshine streaming through the curtains in the early morning. What a great way to start the day, so life-affirming. I put on my happy face and swap my trousers for shorts and dart around the city half-naked like the rest of humanity.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my kids, two self-confident twenty-something women who recently left the nest to build meaningful lives for themselves. Naturally, as parents, we’re concerned about their welfare, moreso in these trying times. My wife and I are television writers. We still have jobs. TV and movie production has stalled but the show must go on and Mom and Dad are writing content for the day shooting resumes and we’re back to normal. Our older daughter is also working, self-isolating in her apartment.