Most of my writing is done from this same spot.
We have a library/study on the second floor of our home. There’s a window along the west wall where I’ve set my writing desk. It looks over our front yard and out onto the houses and lawns of our neighbors’ homes across the street and beyond.
It’s pleasant to work here.
When I’m trying to puzzle out a transition or how to structure a sentence, I’ll often just gaze out the window. Generally, there is something to divert me.
Small groups of neighbors walking dogs together, chatting steadily as they do.
The kids next door riding their bicycles or scooters down the street.
The couple across the street with exceptional gardening and handyman skills puttering around their yard and doing one improvement after another on their property.
One memorable afternoon, when I had a long magazine piece to polish, I broke up the work by watching my then-young son and some friends play a ragged but spirited game of football on our front lawn. Hearing their yells and watching them scramble across the grass helped keep me tethered to the desk.
Watching all this everyday activity, mundane as it is, can be soothing.
It reminds me about what I love about my neighborhood. It’s the kind of place where people know each other. Where we keep an eye out for each other. Where we stop to pass the time of day when we’re out strolling.
As I write this, though, all I see are the grass, the sky and a few trees beginning to bloom.
No neighbors walking dogs.
No children riding bikes or scooters.
No one doing fix-up work across the street.
No boisterous young boys tossing the pigskin back and forth on my front lawn.
Everyone is inside, sheltered from the virus, the outside world … and each other.
When we venture out — to check the mail, to let the dog do some business — we do it alone. If we see someone else, we don’t stop to catch up. We nod and wave, and maybe give a small shrug of both regret and acceptance.
Welcome to what “neighborhood” means in the time of coronavirus.
My family is doing the same.
My wife and I are working from home. My daughter has been sent home from college. My son’s high school closed days ago. We do our best to keep up with work and the outside world from inside our walls.
We miss our neighbors and that close, in-person contact with the people who surround us. Most of the gossip in this neighborhood is mild.
Not long ago, a couple of the big topics were a fox that was roaming the neighborhood and a hawk that periodically would swoop down from the sky. Both have left squirrel and rodent carcasses scattered along streets, lawns and gardens. We trade stories of fox and hawk sightings, so we can be sure to protect small pets.
Not earthshaking stuff, to be sure, but it offers a reminder that we all have a shared stake in what goes on around us.
I miss those quick confabs at the mailbox or when I’m out walking the dog.
The harsh but essential truth about the coronavirus is that we do have to keep our distance these dangerous days. If we don’t, we not only risk the lives of those about whom we care, but also folks we don’t even know. By staying inside, my neighbors are honoring their obligation to be good neighbors.
I both respect and appreciate that.
But I hope, when this crisis passes, that I never again will take for granted the view from my study window and life’s small but invaluable pleasures.
People walking dogs.
Children riding bikes and scooters together.
Neighbors working on their lawns and homes.
Pickup games on the front lawn.
Life in America as it once was.
And, God willing, soon will be again.
John Krull is director of Franklin College’s Pulliam School of Journalism and publisher of TheStatehouseFile.com, a news website powered by Franklin College journalism students. Send comments to [email protected].
