Outside it looks as if everyone is riding the range. Bandanas make pedestrians all look like bank robbers or kids playing Western movies. But they are necessary now that we've moved into our third week of quarantine.
The gym is closed so we've taken to long walks trying to get in those thousands of steps. It's easy to cross the street now. Anywhere. People approach on the sidewalk and come within 100 feet or so before the little game of "chicken" takes place and somebody either crosses the street or goes wide.
Rarely do I see more than a pair of people moving about together. Nobody sits at the outside tables of restaurants or bars because they've all been removed. In my neighborhood, like many I suspect, businesses are taking this time to remodel, re-do the floors. The new businesses that we were waiting for are all on hold.
This year my tax man would meet no client in person. After a phone call, we remembered to take our own pens and then wait in front of the door at the office. Through a slop, the forms were marked for signing. We did it all without touching anything but our pens. Our own pens.
I haven't touched my harmonicas in a month. I sanitized them with a peroxide bath and put them to bed for a while.
The walks we take are longer. They reveal some amusingly desperate street art. The Brewery near me is still open and people ease their cars up to get their beer and pub food and then go home.
Most establishments have signs posted about their commitment to social distancing and what the new rules for them doing business are or are not. We have come to believe that we are now living in a dystopic novel. A simple trip to the grocery store will cement that notion. Shopping carts are sanitized after each use. Spots are painted orange on the floor to tell customers where to stand and await their turn at the check stand. Paper products are rare. Anyone over 65 is admitted between 8 and 9 am. It's laughable when the soundtrack of shopping music hardly reflects the tastes of the post 65 set. The usual Wednesday 10% discount is offered every day now. There are no more samples of cheese, berries, or crackers.
The other day I walked by a car with a sign posted on the back window. A few minutes late I walked back to snap a picture of someone's message. It occurred to me that there are many ways to interpret those three words. A sign of the times.
The gym is closed so we've taken to long walks trying to get in those thousands of steps. It's easy to cross the street now. Anywhere. People approach on the sidewalk and come within 100 feet or so before the little game of "chicken" takes place and somebody either crosses the street or goes wide.
Rarely do I see more than a pair of people moving about together. Nobody sits at the outside tables of restaurants or bars because they've all been removed. In my neighborhood, like many I suspect, businesses are taking this time to remodel, re-do the floors. The new businesses that we were waiting for are all on hold.
This year my tax man would meet no client in person. After a phone call, we remembered to take our own pens and then wait in front of the door at the office. Through a slop, the forms were marked for signing. We did it all without touching anything but our pens. Our own pens.
I haven't touched my harmonicas in a month. I sanitized them with a peroxide bath and put them to bed for a while.
The walks we take are longer. They reveal some amusingly desperate street art. The Brewery near me is still open and people ease their cars up to get their beer and pub food and then go home.
Most establishments have signs posted about their commitment to social distancing and what the new rules for them doing business are or are not. We have come to believe that we are now living in a dystopic novel. A simple trip to the grocery store will cement that notion. Shopping carts are sanitized after each use. Spots are painted orange on the floor to tell customers where to stand and await their turn at the check stand. Paper products are rare. Anyone over 65 is admitted between 8 and 9 am. It's laughable when the soundtrack of shopping music hardly reflects the tastes of the post 65 set. The usual Wednesday 10% discount is offered every day now. There are no more samples of cheese, berries, or crackers.
The other day I walked by a car with a sign posted on the back window. A few minutes late I walked back to snap a picture of someone's message. It occurred to me that there are many ways to interpret those three words. A sign of the times.
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