Originally published May 26, 2020
We are living at an intersection. In a downtown neighborhood, relatively historic, immaculately restored, too pricey, mixed use, and flanking a famous body of water, we sit in our goldfish bowl dining room and watch lives come and go across the intersection. In the past eight weeks, families, couples, and young people have been on the increase, as school cancellations and working-from-home orders are forcing everyone outside in old-fashioned units, trying to figure out a way to live in the in-between of the old normal and the new normal. We're getting to know them, on schedule, gliding past our house like clockwork. There have been so many passersby that I tell people who aren't lucky enough to live here that It's like the Macy's Thanksgiving parade out here!
The view of our intersection from our corner dining room. A cyclist passes through.
Every morning at 7:30 comes dad and his son, who's maybe 10 years old, running towards the water. Sometimes dad is pushing a double-stroller, and once Mom and middle sister ran alongside. They've appeared as school was cancelled and work began from home. Son keeps up with his dad, and even wears sleek sunglasses to shade the sunrise they run directly into. They don't talk; this is no relaxed run they're on. Dad has said, fine, you can come, but we're running my pace. The son keeps up, running strong. These moments will shape his life in all his days to come. Running with his dad will be one of his favorite memories of childhood. Then comes the young 20-something man with earbuds in, walking a surprisingly small dog, not a breed you'd expect a young man to be nourishing. He's not new on the scene, but has been a constant passerby since we began eating at our table. His head bobs above the bushes each morning, air buds sticking out of each ear, and a long leash that eventually ends at a chubby chihuahua wearing a reflective vest, that's how small the dog is. In between, the neighbor down the street, bald and tan, paces the block nervously, talking on the phone, maybe exercising, escaping children, or trying to hold a business together. He sprinted back to his house one morning, I thought to return to an emergency at home. Then he sprinted back to the intersection, still talking as he trained in intervals, serious multi-tasking. They're taking a concrete pool out of his backyard, a project he had maybe planned while he would be at work, so the rat-ta-tat-tat of the jackhammer or the dust of concrete wouldn't have bothered him as much. He touches his shiny head a lot, thinking, frustrated, wondering when this is all going to end, and what it will look like when it does. Two older women stroll by, toting small backpacks and wearing face masks. Old friends, maybe, worried enough about each other to wear masks while watching for cracks in the sidewalk, just glad to live in a place that's nice enough for an early morning walk before sequestering back inside, awaiting a Zoom call with their grandchildren. The regular dog-walker, with a well-fed blonde lab that closely resembles her owner, comes by several times a day. They walk slowly, both experienced in the world, she a government employee and the lab a retired service dog. They've both seen their fair share of life's foibles; she walks in her nightclothes, not yet ready to change for the day. The corona virus quarantine eventually bored her into cutting and coloring her own hair, even, leaving her unrecognizable to us for a course. The dog we remembered, though, and pieced the new look together. In the evening, an Asian matriarch pushes a stroller, while mom encourages her young son on his training-wheel bike. The tyke on the bike depends on his mom's steady hand, pushing him even on training wheels from behind; he's not yet ready to wander far from his mother's safety net. The grandmother pushes the stroller well ahead, knowing he must have something to shoot for. A mom and dad shepherd two young children on bicycles, the kids wearing unicorn and Godzilla helmets. All four are new to bicycles, having been too busy until now to ride them, especially together. It's like an old-fashioned summer, where imaginations are the playhouse of children. They ride over sidewalk-chalked messages of hope and love that make mom and dad sentimental for their own childhoods, and maybe even a little thankful that a pandemic has slowed down their hectic lives. Still, they'll be glad to return to the office, tired of living in childhood chaos and always answering the question Why? Two well-figured young men fly through the intersection regularly on bikes, showing off pecs and long legs, not afraid of short shorts. They are tan and a little sweaty, giggling as they yell back and forth at one another, directions, or some flirtation. They have worked hard to look this way. Maybe he's the one. Maybe this is just fun. They, too, are waiting for the gym to reopen, where they can return to the controls and comfort of an air-conditioned workout. An older man manages two Schnauzers as a brown dog trails behind, criss-crossing leashes, sniffing most blades of grass, slowing down their time outside. He doesn't mind their slow pace, and is patient as they choose where each will poop today. It's his time outside, too, where the dogs are too distracted to bark, and tired enough for a nap when they return home. He's in no hurry to heat up one more frozen dinner. Young friends walk together in the late afternoon, sharing the latest gossip and dreaming about when they will be able to live in a neighborhood like this. Not anytime soon, as their waitress jobs have been put on hold. They are thankful their parents are their backup plan. Still, they want to return to work. They are skinny, wearing Lulu lemon tights and jog bras that meet in the middle, au courant fashion among the young and fit. A fit middle-aged man runs by, brave enough to be shirtless, necessary in the Florida mid-afternoon heat. He can run now because there's no work at the office, and the gym is closed. He's hoping everything opens up again soon, that revenue perks back up, and that the dollars signs that keep him up at night will instead head for the bank, letting him sleep again. He's got to pay the million-dollar mortgage, the Land Rover, the Porsche, and tuition to two Ivy League schools that are currently on-line. Later, he'll miss this time and its fleeting simplicity. Everyday, though, we also see someone we don't recognize; a new couple walking toward the water, an unfamiliar dog tugging his owner along, a brave kid cycling through the stop sign without looking both ways. In our quarantine, where Michael talks with parishioners by phone and I see Isabel on Facetime, this parade of strangers have become our friends unbeknownst to them, and we revel in seeing them pass by our windows each day, commenting on the pace of the run, or the speed of the bicycle, or the type of dog breed.
The corner of Watrous and Oregon. Runners cross through.
In my expectancy of their arrival, I found myself offering prayers for them, as I know why they're passing our house each day, to escape measures we are taking to stay alive. I pray they remain healthy, and that those they know do, too; that the grandparents of the children with playful bike helmets will be able to see them this summer, or by Thanksgiving dinner. I pray that the trendy young girls return to employment, and are able to fulfill their dreams one day in a world where we don't have to mask ourselves in the grocery store. I pray that the young runner and his dad maintain a loving relationship and that the family remains intact, seeing him off to college on a track scholarship in 10 years, to a college where he lives in a dorm and he meets his family at the football game on parents' weekend. The gyms and the beaches have finally reopened, and the pitter-patter of quarantine escapees has slowed, and we find ourselves missing our passersby. A new normal is being established, or maybe just another in-between normal: restaurants are filling up again, spilling out into blocked-off streets to be safer; beaches are open, but monitored, which means families arrive early to stake out their six-foot slice of paradise; and those who were running by our house to replace the gym are able to return to air-conditioned exercise, just as the Florida heat and afternoon thunderstorms arrive in force. Part of me is sad to see this time expire. It takes 21 days to create a habit, right? I secretly hoped that our society would develop new habits in this time, that we would take a step back to a slower, more deliberate time of long summer nights catching fireflies and swinging in the front yard, and Saturday mornings luxuriating over pancakes instead of rushing off to soccer games or boy scout meetings or dance class or cheerleading competitions. While those things haven't yet returned, the slowing of our quarantine parade leads me to believe we'll resume them as soon as we can. It's an expensive time to live, and parents want the best for their kids and a grand life in retirement. I presume the hamster wheel will fire back up, and we'll start running again, slowly at first, and with a mask on, as we wait for science to catch up with us. I'll never forget this time, though, of a neighborhood parade that lasted for 8 weeks, cheering on and loving people passing the time by passing by us. I'll keep them, and our country, in our prayers as we continue to seek the new normal. I wonder what that intersection will look like.
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