COVID: The View From the Porch
Like most of you, my life caved in on itself a year ago.
After 11 years in the classroom, I taught my last in-person class at the University of Idaho on March 11, 2020, and then retired at the end of May. A life that had been lived externally for the most part, was instantly made internal.
The COVID quarantine meant no travel, no outings, no dinner out, no overnight company or even dinner guests. The world was reduced to our small home on the South Hill and to our wonderful front porch.
There are no comparable porches on our block. It is big enough for two comfortable chairs and a rocker, two tables and, during growing season, a multitude of flowers and hanging baskets. Strings of hanging lights provide a warm and welcoming glow in the evening.
For much of 2020 and well into 2021, that porch has been my window on the world.
From that vantage it was easy to see how the pandemic evolved, at least in our neighborhood.
There was almost no activity on the block in that first spring. There are a dozen kids in the neighborhood, but they were mostly indoors in those first weeks. An occasional jogger would pass and even an occasional dog walker. But those who did pass by my porch were masked and the small, serendipitous gatherings of neighbors – chats, and “hiyas” — simply did not happen.
The neighborhood was tomb-quiet, and so I could sit on the porch and watch, smoking a cigar twice a week (my wife-imposed limit), occasionally sipping a nice single malt.
For the year that began a year ago March, I watched the world pass.
March 18, 2020: The view from the porch on this garbage day. A few neighbors walking their kids, but masked and socially distanced. No conversation to speak of. Everyone lost in their own thoughts, maybe more than a little scared.
March 26, 2020: Mom died today. It was chilly and windy outside, but I needed some time on the porch to process. She lived in southern Oregon, so I was not able to be with her, not able to say goodbye. She was 92 but had been lively before failing in a matter of days while rehabbing from a fall. Was it COVID? Likely but we will never know. But any doubts we had about he seriousness of the pandemic died with my mother.
April 12, 2020: My wife, Carla, is working from home and had a busy day. So, I was left alone to take in a nice spring day on the porch. The neighborhood is a ghostly quiet, so for company I bring out my giant duck mascot, naked because his Oregon t-shirt was in the laundry. But if a duck is naked on the porch and no one passes by to see, can he really be embarrassed?
May 5, 2020: Carla does not like my cigar smoking. We compromise and I am allowed two cigars a week, but only on the porch during warm weather. Today she tells me it is not wise to be smoking cigars during a respiratory pandemic. I see her point, customizing a mask so that I can indulge while fully protected from the virus. Carla is not amused though the picture goes viral on social media.
July 17, 2020: The various COVID controversies come to our neighborhood today when 50 or so anti-mask protesters rally outside the home of our neighbor, Bob Lutz, the county health officer responsible for local COVID response rules. I sit on the porch with Carla and a close friend, the three of us wearing highly visible masks. We fly our rainbow flag and put front and center a lawn sign promoting various progressive causes. The deliberate provocation works, maybe too well. One protester attempts to approach us to explain why masks are a tool of Satan. I shoo her away. Mask or no mask, I am not interested in her crazy.
July 30, 2020: Our progressive lawn sign is stolen in the night. Sitting on my porch, I feel vulnerable, violated. Was antagonizing the crazies a mistake? Nope. I will just get more signs.
Aug. 12, 2020: My new sign is in place this morning, closer to the porch, meaning a thief would have to be extra bold.
Oct. 9, 2020: Human traffic in the neighborhood is still light. Sometimes, sitting on my porch, I feel as if I am in one of those Twilight Zone episodes where everyone is gone and I am the last person left. Then today, a flock of wild turkeys passes by. I want to shout “hi neighbors,” but they are moving too fast for conversation. We don’t have much in common in any event.
Oct. 19, 2020: Today will be my last porch cigar of the season. The weather is changing, and I will spend less time on the porch in the next few months. The view from our living room window is good, not much different from the porch view, but it is amazing how the glass panes represent both a physical and visual barrier. Life is going to be immeasurably more quiet, even lonely with porch time limited.
Dec. 6, 2020: Carla put the finishing touches on the porch Christmas decorations today. I added my leg lamp, a bright if somewhat whimsical light in a season of darkness.
Jan. 1, 2021: My beloved Oregon Ducks are playing in the Fiesta Bowl today. It is not sufficient to simply fly my Duck flag. This morning, I blew up a giant inflatable duck, a Christmas gift from Carla, so big he takes up half my porch. Then I deflate him after my Ducks are thoroughly deflated by Iowa State. Carla is afraid the neighborhood will disown us after seeing the giant Duck. Not to worry. I have not seen a neighbor for days.
Jan. 13, 2021: A incredibly destructive windstorm moved through the area last night. This morning, sitting on my porch, I watched as neighborhood volunteers worked quickly to remove a fallen tree from our street. A block away, emergency crews were responding to the death of a woman whose car had been struck by a falling tree. My porch has been a window on the pandemic-reduced world. But this sudden burst of destruction is more immediately frightening, unsettling. And 2021 was supposed to be better.
Jan. 20, 2021: Yes, it is cold outside. Windstorm damage has been cleared. This is inauguration day. And even though I worried Trump would somehow steal the presidency, the reality is that Joe Biden will be sworn in and Trump is out. So, I light up a celebratory cigar saved for the occasion. But just a few puffs into what is one of the finest smokes I have ever purchased, I am forced to retreat inside. But that cigar was especially tasty today.
March 10, 2021: Almost a year to the day since things shutdown. The neighborhood is still quiet though kid traffic is picking up as some neighborhood youngsters return to school. The little girl next door, 6 years old and well advanced for her years, yells hello from the sidewalk. But her cheer does not raise my spirits. Murphy, the neighbor dog we had been dog-sitting for five years, died today. Murphy would spend hours on the porch with me, both of us watching the passing parade. He never barked, never jumped at passersby. And he did not complain about my smoking. I will miss him. The porch will never feel quite the same.
April 29, 2021: No, the pandemic is not over. But most of our neighbors are vaccinated now. As the weather warms, people are out and about. This afternoon, for the first time in more than a year, neighbors gathered outside in small groups, chatting, catching up. Our next-door neighbor and her boyfriend came by for a drink and we sat on the porch visiting for more than an hour. It is clear that neighbors are still being cautious. There was considerable social distancing up and down the block and mask wearing, even among the vaccinated. But it all seems so nearly normal. I am reminded of how much I have missed human interaction.
May 2, 2021: So close to normal. The neighbor girl is bicycling up and down the street shouting out invitations to her lemonade stand. The ice cream truck passes by. Neighbors across the street are loading their SUV with golf gear. As we head into the warm season, Carla has already started her plants. Her hanging baskets will be particularly lovely this year. From the porch, I watch as the neighborhood seems to come back to life.
The last year has been hard on all of us. There have been times when battling depression seemed to be a losing fight. I feel better today.
My view from the porch now, for the first time in a year, is optimistic.
[…] regular readers know all about my porch, a special place where I can watch the world roll by while reading The New York Times or sipping coffee or smoking a […]