Yesterday, on my daily walk, I approached a neighbor mowing his lawn. We’re in Oakland, California, where the grass is already growing--don’t you hate it? His was just a tiny lawn, and in another minute he would have finished. But when he saw me, he shut off the mower and came over, staying six feet away, to talk.
So we paused for a “dooryard” visit, chatting briefly with our masks on. We talked about Covid 19, then moved on to the Patriots, whose jet recently returned from China with a million N95 face masks for Boston and New York hospitals. Then we asked about each other's family, their health, how everyone is coping.
It made me think about all the times I was mowing my yard or trimming the hedges, or editing an article, and glimpsed a neighbor, or a stranger, walking by--and kept on working. What has changed now?
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My wife’s from Maine, and I used to joke that when you called a wrong number in Maine, the person on the other end would stay on the line, happy to have someone to talk to.
Few of us are happy for long by ourselves. We’re learning this as we practice shelter in place. We shudder at the isolation of those infected in hospitals, the separation from loved ones. And, if you’re like me, you talk to strangers as well as friends, albeit across the spatial divide.
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The postal carrier in our neighborhood is a treasure. Before the virus came, she welcomed us with a cheerful greeting. When we returned the next year, she gave us a hug. Now, as she delivers wearing protective gear, we still exchange warm greetings, but from a distance.
Will our lives be the same after the pandemic? Will we remember what we have learned, the inestimable value of human life, the need to connect with others in meaningful ways, to look out for each other, to help bear the burdens of worry and grief?
Thinking about this, I remember a poem by Robert Frost, “A Time to Talk.” It was published a century ago in his collection, A Mountain Interval. It resonates with me today. Here it is.
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don’t stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven’t hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.
