The story goes that a surveyor knocked on a farmhouse straddling the border of Montana and the province of Saskatchewan. When a man opened the door he was told his plot of ground was reinspected and that he actually lived in the United States.

“Thank goodness,” was the reply. “I couldn’t stand another Canadian winter.”

Some 11 days from now we will shovel the dreadful residue of the year 2020 and discard it into the wastebasket of history. Since this is our final meeting before the new year begins, if nothing else, let us agree 2020 unleashed on us all a blizzard of fear and alarm. So let us now plan for the end of face masks and elbow bumps in optimistic hope that accompanies each new year.

In 2020, people fell victim to both COVID-19 and to the greatest social disease of all — paranoia. We will end December in a wash of both hope and disbelief, of new voices, new plans and old dreams restored as we struggle with schemes such as “herd immunity theories” and unproven conspiracies.

This year seemed frozen in time. It was an era lived in the fog of pandemic. Although the promises of a new year abound, much was photoshopped out of our lives in 2020. We lost family and friends, we lost jobs and some lost hope. Farewells were missing for those we lost. Numerous doors are now forever locked and familiar places and faces that once were part of our daily lives are gone.

Yet we realize this day we are close to reaching the other side of the border. Lifesaving vaccines are now floating though the country’s veins. What we may also needed is a vaccine of hope.

We have written these words each year at this time, but it bears repeating now more than ever. We live in difficult times and every so often we need to recall and understand the words of a poem by Eugene Pickett, the former president of the Unitarian Church of America.

Pickett’s eight optimistic verses always seem appropriate at the dawn of each year. He begins with homage to the universe and moves from there to a celebration of our world, our lives and our beliefs, concluding with a plea that we live “not by our fears but our hopes, not by our words, but our deeds.”

The year 2021 might be a good time to start.

Some three weeks ago we received the dreadful news that our youngest grandson, Ben Whitcomb, 20, was involved in a motorcycle crash in Colorado. We still do not know how it took place, but we read the mind-numbing words “life threatening” connected to the event.

We also know from reports that when the accident occurred his helmet came off as he flew some 35 feet before landing in tall grass; a touchdown that probably saved his life. The injuries were severe. We heard phrases such as “brain bleed,” “complete sedation” and “rehab for a year.” We were 1,000 miles from the scene, could not help and were immediately engulfed by prospects for a fearful outcome.

Ben’s mother (our daughter Deborah) set up a fund on Facebook to cover some immediate expenses, and we survived by reading her accounts. They came almost daily. Ben is sedated. Ben can squeeze is his mother’s hand. Ben can give a thumbs-up. Ben has his eyes open but not quite focused. Ben, who hates needles, shied away from one.

“Ben is making progress” came to us last Sunday morning. He is out of intensive care and gets a small dose of physical therapy. There is no price we can pay for such news.

We are no different from any other family that goes through such an event. We surround ourselves with friends and when they ask, “how is Ben?” We can now say Ben is making progress and thank them for their good wishes. It is enough. There will be time later for other words.

Best wishes for a sunny, bright 2021. We all deserve something better on the warm side of life’s border.

Jerry Shnay is a freelance columnist for the Daily Southtown.

jerryshnay@gmail.com