The Good LifeMay 2020
I’m not finding it to be too bad, except for my son’s having to cancel his visit and my husband’s driving me nuts by following me around with dire warnings and Clorox wipes if I so much as pick up junk mail out of our mailbox.
Rather, I think of being 10 years old living three miles outside of a small village (pop. 1,500 or fewer) on the Oregon coast and it’s 1957. It was a time of isolation, but I recall it as being idyllic.
School is out for the summer, so I won’t see my friends until September. There aren’t enough kids my age in our neighborhood to create any groups of 10 or more, so there’s no concern with “social distancing,” although certainly, infections go around. Our school has closed in the past for a day now and then for flu.
Gary from across the street has ringworm on his head, which has been shaved and he has to wear a cap made from a nylon stocking to hold pennies on his lesions, but nobody would touch an icky boy anyway, so he isn’t highly contagious.
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