SIP-ping thoughts from the rural bubble…
1) Not much has changed up here on BBTrail under the County Health Officer's orders in their new or old iterations. Nick and I (mask-less) go in and out as we please. We may or may not meet (“encounter” in weighty officialese) neighbors or the occasional stranger. It's not uncommon to go a day or two without seeing another human being…just as in the pre- COVIDean.
2) When we do encounter someone, we transact sociability at distances of about 40” inches or more…just as in the pre- COVIDean.—40” is about right for rolled-down-window chat between driver and pedestrian with dog. Rural people find that distance comfortable for ordinary pleasantry and shared neighborhood concerns— ”Broke in! and she was there?” “Yes. And he was armed.” “And she?…”
“… was hiding upstairs, with her phone.”
“Our shelter from the stormy blast …”
“…then he started upstairs…” “!! ???? !!!”
“She called out, ‘I just called the police. They're on the way'…” “…and he?…”
“Ran back to his car. Drove too fast and rolled it in the loose gravel. They caught him…That woman has balls!”—
3) When both parties are on foot, I estimate that—again, by ordinary—we maintain 4' distancing, which is simply rural behavior, nor pre- nor midst- COVIDean. The dogs require it.— Lizette's dog is calm, humanely leashed to a reflective harness, though we locals rarely walk by dark up here. Lizette's daughter's dog, similarly restrained, is barking and lunging at Nick, unleashed, quiet, alert, tail up and wagging, open to canine rapprochement. .
“Nice to see you, neighbors! Swell morning!”
“Yes, it is…Rouser, stop that! Be nice.”
I lean into daughter's 4' comfort zone while leashing Nick.
“Sorry! We've met at least once, at one of your mother's exquisite parties, but I'm an old guy, really weak on names… ?”
“Belinda. Nice to meet you. Again.”
We do not shake hands. That's a difference between then and now, bravely ignored by our wartime prexy.
Mother Lizette says, “We noticed some unusual scat near the garden the other morning. I think we have a cougar.—So I carry this when I walk now . . .”
She has a cross between a bayonet and a Bowie knife (“long enough to be a sword, strong enough to be a hatchet, wide enough to be a griddle”) on her hip—discreetly.
I finish up our chat with my story of the only mountain lion I've seen up here, and his contemptuous, over the shoulder & give-a- damn look of tolerating of my presence in his domain, on which I pay the taxes. He flickswept his tail, taking dominion everywhere, and lounged on up Cemetery Hill.
4) “Hey, Bro, I want a Happy Birthday from you!” “Happy Birthday, man!” “Made 71. There were times back then when I didn't think I'd make it!”
Vince and I are pals. There's a somewhat zany veneer to our serious roadway chat. “I'm catchin' up to you,” he says.
“Yeah, maybe, but you're way ahead of me on defensible space work. I put in an hour chasing my Husky and this creep named Plantar Fasciitis says ‘ That's enough, Jack.'”
“Speaking of creeps, you know the guy’s trying to fire Fauci? Fauci’s the only one I listen to. Though I check out Fox News, to hear the other side.—BBC’s good. Every night…some Leader we got!”
I’m looking at Vince’s Vietnam Vet baseball cap. He was there, for real. A medic. I’m a Civilian. “You’ve got standing, man…“
“Thank you…”
“On the cutting edge, so to speak, of knowing what it means to need a real leader.”
“I pray for the kids in service today—boys and girls—with him in charge.”
—Even up here on peaceful BBTrail, It’s in the air, always, pre- CO
VIDean, midst- COVIDean. Vince & I break County Code and awkwardly, lightly touch each other’s forearms.
“How can anyone vote for him?”
“Money,” we agree. “Closet Republicans think he’ll let them keep more of it…”
“…and sideways their fear of minorities and women by voting for Trump.”
…minorities and women are a pretty large part of the electorate.— Vote OUT! at the first chance you get.