Sitting on a Sunny Porch in Medford, Oregon, during the Pandemic

          Warm in the morning sun, I sway gently in the swing on the porch of my husband's house in Medford. Deep yellow Oregon grape blossoms throw waves of perfume through the soft morning air. Sunshine pours down like yesterday's rain. Birds gurgle in the redwood tree planted a century ago in front of the house A man with earbuds walks by, a kerchief tied over his mouth and nose. A neighbor laughs on the phone from her porch. The woman across the street is sitting on her porch, talking with a friend on the steps, six feet away. It is spring in southern Oregon, and, coronavirus notwithstanding, the mood is upbeat.

          A young man glides down the middle of the street on a skateboard. Seeing me on the porch, in my mask, he calls to me, "I forgot my mask and gloves. I'm trying to figure out if I have time to go back for them." I was glad he at least knew he should be wearing them.

Masked

          The occasional car passes, going where? Only essential businesses are supposed to be open, but it amazes (and irritates) me to see how many businesses think themselves essential. The hardware store? Jacksonville didn't even have a hardware store until a few weeks ago, and now the store considers itself essential? Stove store? Auto parts? Bi-mart is a pharmacy and sells groceries, so it is legitimately open, but I could shop there for flower starts and toys, too, if I wanted. The Subaru service center is open; does that mean I could buy a car? The laundromat is open, and the copy shop.

          It seems like just about any business can justify itself as essential.

      I get it. At this point I'm thinking haircutters and massage therapists should be considered essential businesses, too.

See what I mean about the haircut?

         I am in the habit, now, of wearing my mask even if Mike and I are just walking around his neighborhood (staying six feet apart). Doing so makes a statement, reminds people that even though the weather is serene, the virus is still rampant. People tell me they like our masks, which I made from some South African fabric, green with tiny zebras on it. I agree. They are cute.

          People are, in general, patient. They encourage each other with cheerful words and a sense of our commonality of purpose. The pandemic may not be coming to an end yet, but the end is in sight. You can feel it in the spring of your step, the blossoming trees, and the eternal hope of spring itself.