We walk the dogs across the meadow in the rain. We don’t talk much. We say the same things over and over, and yet somehow there’s comfort in the repetition. Yesterday someone wrote on the town listserv that certain dog owners had been spotted in the meadow less than 6 feet away from each other. Suddenly, everybody’s a cop, yardsticks in their minds.
People are scared, and with good reason. But distance — the idea of distance. Were we so close to begin with? How far will we be from each other after this is over? The dogs, off leash, circle back to us. I’ve got the sense they know what’s going on, if not the particulars. But something is most definitely up. For starters, how come we’re all home all the time?
Other rituals emerge, some old, some new. Sitting on the porch in Phoenix. Picking the citrus trees of once-anonymous neighbors in Los Angeles. The poles are built-in social distancing. No need for the measuring tape.
Below are 13 American scenes, snapshots of neighbors finding original ways to reconnect.
It’s good to walk in this rain. I’m not saying everything has become so precious these strange days. Only that you notice more, how the winter grass comes in so many shades of brown, the netless soccer goals upside down like lonely parallelograms (badly, I try and teach my kid math). And the way our talk goes nowhere but even empty words have a little more weight now, like the stones we throw when we pause at the brook.
— Peter Orner, from Norwich, Vermont
Michele Grey began noticing them in early April: citrus trees ripe for the picking but out of arm’s reach. They studded front lawns and backyards in the Silver Lake neighborhood of Los Angeles, where Grey, 53, has lived for 20 years, and which she, her husband, Joaquin, and son, Lucas, have been exploring on daily walks since stay-at-home orders closed many local parks and trails.
Surely, they thought, someone could benefit from this bounty of oranges and lemons, if the owners of the trees didn’t want them themselves. They bought two 12-foot fruit pickers — think back scratchers, but bigger — and Grey went on Nextdoor, an online community message board.
She wrote that her family “would be happy to pick your fruit,” at no cost, “supply you with some, donate to neighbors, and then provide some to nearby food banks.” “We would wear masks and gloves and keep strict social distancing,” she added.
Over the past month, the Greys have collected about 1,000 pounds of fruit, most of which they’ve donated to food banks. Their newfound hobby has had an unexpected byproduct — regular meetups with strangers turned friends, like the Nilsson family, who live near the Greys.
“They kept to themselves, and we never socialized much with them,” besides an occasional “hi,” Grey said. “We asked if we could pick their very full tree of tangerines, they said yes, and now we’re talking about seeing more of each other after this is all finished.”
Then there’s the young woman who lives up the hill from the Greys. She was walking down the street when Grey drove by, oranges practically falling off the back of her pickup truck. “I could tell that she was super-sad,” Grey said. She pulled over and found out the woman was fresh off a breakup.
“We started talking and now we’re taking oranges to her house,” Grey said. “We’ve become friends.”
Though the Greys initially used the internet to connect the citrus haves with the have-nots, they’re increasingly having more luck offline. “On our walks, I’m having massive interaction,” said Joaquin Grey, plucking mandarins off a 30-foot tree belonging to another new acquaintance, Naomi Wong, on a recent Saturday. Before, he said, “I never would’ve gone up to someone and asked if I can pick their tree.”
The chance meetings take many forms. While her husband and son tackled the mandarin tree, Grey sorted oranges into buckets and bags on the back of the truck, pausing anytime someone walked by. “Take as many as you want,” she said to a man in a white face mask (he took three).
“They’re a little sour, I’ve been told,” she said to a man with a purple bandanna around his mouth, “so maybe con tequila.” He left with a bag.
— Sheila Marikar
The Slow Cruise
On a cool Saturday evening during Easter weekend, car enthusiasts and other stir-crazy Kansans resurrected an old-fashioned drag route through the middle of town.
During the late 1800s, Douglas Avenue was the final dusty stretch of the Chisholm Trail, along which cowboys drove cattle from Texas to Kansas stockyards and railroad hubs. In the 1950s, teenagers drove Fords and Chevrolets back and forth over the same flat road through downtown and the historic Delano District, where outlaws and houses of ill repute once raised hell.
That custom fell out of fashion in the 1990s, but in recent years local breweries, boutiques, restaurants and commercial storefronts have reinvigorated the thoroughfare. Now they sit closed because of the coronavirus pandemic, casting quiet upon the economic lifeline that turned Wichita into a boomtown 150 years ago.
As the sun set on April 11, though, a procession of cars, trucks and motorcycles packed the old cruise route. Muscle-car engines revved, fire truck horns honked and small packs of bikers throttled their Harleys.
Hundreds of humble sedans, minivans and SUVs rolled along quietly with their windows down, drivers and passengers of all ages waving at one another and shouting “hi” from a safe distance. At least one pair of spectators emerged from their apartment on Douglas to set up lawn chairs on the sidewalk and drink Bud Light.
It all started with a public post to a Facebook group devoted to bringing back “dragging Douglas” — an isolated yet communal form of entertainment perfect for the times. “SOCIAL DISTANCING CAR CRUISE?” the post read. People in neighboring small towns had recently done just that, circling their own streets as if they were teenagers free after the last school bell.
A Facebook event, “Cruise Douglas — Quarantine Edition,” soon circulated, encouraging the community to “go old school.” Organizers emphasized public health: “Due to COVID-19 we need to maintain social distancing so everyone MUST stay in their cars.”
The event went smoothly in that regard, and Wichita police officers reportedly abstained from handing out tickets when a handful of riders aboard high-speed motorcycles illegally popped wheelies. Police ultimately blocked the street after a handful of bad actors street-raced and did burnouts.
“Everyone is scattered out now,” someone posted to social media as the crowd dispersed just before 8 p.m. “No well known new spot.”
— Sarah Smarsh
The Home Zoo
All too often, the condition known as “mom brain” gets a bad rap. Sure, it’s a survival technique that can cause sensory overload, a result of too much multitasking. But sometimes it comes in really handy, like when a parent is trying to work and raise a family during a pandemic.
Take as Exhibit A: Christina DeHaven, 40, who found herself trying to keep her video producing business afloat from home while also overseeing Jack, 9, and Annie, 7, while giving her husband, Matthew, who works in videoconference engineering, space and time to get his work done, too. (Anyone who asks why this was Christina’s task has been living in self-isolation long before the coronavirus struck.)
The idea that gave her family much-needed breathing room came from cardboard boxes — the ones her children often use for school projects. And from their multiple stuffed animals. And the fact that the family lives in Woodland Heights, a child-friendly and slightly eccentric Houston neighborhood where it was virtually impossible to stay inside when the sky was crystalline and the air was still cool and jasmine-scented.
What DeHaven came up with was: “Hey kids, why don’t you build a zoo for all our neighbors to visit?”
The result took about three days. Jack and Annie researched their animals and posted signs containing five facts next to every display box hanging from the fence in their front yard.
There are cardboard cages for furry, glassy-eyed foxes, cats, dogs (“Three dogs survived the Titanic sinking!”), horses, penguins, bunnies, bobcats, wolves, leopards, cows and kangaroos. (“Kangaroos are strict herbivores, however they release methane like most cattle.”)
There is also a live exhibit: tadpoles swimming in a plastic storage bin, gathered from puddles after one of Houston’s typical downpours. “People keep coming back to check on the tadpoles,” DeHaven said. “They want to know if they have legs yet.”
So far, the visitors have been enthused but also well-behaved, observing social distancing. An art board for drawing more animals has been added, with disinfected Sharpies provided. “We don’t leave things out because of germs,” Jack explained.
There was mild distress when one of the bunnies went missing. “Let’s make signs,” DeHaven told her children.
There was some discussion about the word “stolen” — Jack wanted to use it, but his mother thought that was a little harsh. “They settled on ‘Missing, Escaped or Poached,’” DeHaven said. The original bunny never turned up, but a neighbor brought a replacement.
“He and his girlfriend put it in the bunny habitat and didn’t even say anything,” DeHaven said.— Mimi Swartz
The Underground Barber
Behind a series of steel gates and doors sits a solitary barber’s chair. The wall is covered in Los Angeles Lakers memorabilia and U.S. Marines swag like a missile launcher and some medals from the War on Terror. There are mirrors and tool boxes that have been converted to hold hair clippers.
For Angel M. and his loyal customers, this tiny trap house barbershop deep in the heart of Southeast Los Angeles makes do. Since the pandemic hit, the income helps Angel, 34, pay his mortgage and the rent on his boarded-up neighborhood shop.
“I do a client every hour, and it takes about half an hour per haircut,” he said. “The hour gives me enough time to take my time with the haircut but also to clean and disinfect the whole area, my tools and everything that they touch.” He works in a mask and gloves, which might slow most people down but not a former Marine who served in Iraq and Afghanistan.
“As a Marine, you can always adapt to anything on any level,” he said. “You’re just used to that. So that’s the easy part.”
He said the hard part has been making the makeshift barbershop “welcoming and comfortable” for his clients.
Three days before the official orders came down, closing all nonessential businesses, he was already planning for the worst-case scenario. He started taking parts of his barbershop home.
“I had this man cave I liked to hang out in when I wanted to get away from the house,” said Angel, who lives with his wife and 9-year-old son. “So I just took out my couches and put in my barber chair. And then I put in two LED lights so I can get some good lighting in there. I got an air purifier to make sure there’s constant clean air.”
Though he began with select clients, Angel has expanded his list as the shutdown lingers. The more clients, the more income.
Most of them are his most loyal — what he calls “my weeklies.” And even though he trusts them with the secret location of his converted man cave, he makes sure to ask them if they’ve had any coronavirus symptoms. A few times he’s had people cancel because of a cough or fever.
“It’s no big deal,” he said. “In the military, 99% of the time you’re doing things without knowing what you’re really doing.”
— Erick Galindo
They emerge as the sun dips in the horizon, ushering in the cool air that tempers the spring heat in Phoenix; the first 100-degree day is only days ahead. At the foot of the hill, two sisters, ages 8 and 11, draw angels on the sidewalk outside their home. Next door, a real estate agent sips a beer from the stone bench around a fire pit that isn’t lit.
At the next house over, Kathi Marston, an educator, and her partner, Mike Neill, the chief financial officer at a credit union, celebrate their back-to-back birthdays. They just turned 51 and 54. A couple — he is Neill’s best friend — joined them on the front porch, on foldout chairs that Marston had carefully placed 8 feet apart. She left the measuring tape on the floor to prove it.
A neighbor up the hill rolled past the birthday party on her bike. “Happy birthday,” she said, a guest in an intimate party that the coronavirus pandemic has forced into full view.
Until routines and lives were upended, these were the people who smiled and waved from inside cars that disappeared behind automatic garage doors. Widespread shutdowns and social distancing have forced them out — on to front yards and sidewalks that double as canvas and playground for their children and themselves.
Neighbors get to meet neighbors they had seen before but with whom they’d exchanged few if any words. There is the couple with two daughters, known until recently by only the sparsest of details: They’d moved into the big house that replaced the old house that was razed after its original owner died.
The bike-riding neighbor pulled up outside the real estate agent’s home and walked to the spot where the sidewalk meets her yard. That line of demarcation, once comfortably breached by familiar faces, is now a line that everyone knows not to cross.
They make small talk; the drawing girls’ mother next door joins in from the other side of the knee-high wall that divides their properties. “Let me go grab a drink,” she said, returning shortly with a glass of white wine.
The neighbors sipped their drinks, talked and track the financial adviser who walked by holding his younger daughter’s hands. The bike-riding neighbor introduced everybody; they’d never seen one another until then. Nobody comes near. Nobody shakes hands. That’s OK.
A few houses over, the birthday party carried on. Neill’s best friend brought his own paper plates and cutlery in a picnic basket. Marston provided plastic cups. They raised their glasses in the air, far from one another, in a neighborhood that now feels closer than ever.
— Fernanda Santos
Carrboro, North Carolina
Downtown Carrboro is an especially strange place to be so quiet. Crowds of families, friends and co-workers aren’t gathering outside the food co-op or hanging out at the coffee shop to say hello, to catch up, to make plans.
The town may be a little sleepier than neighboring Chapel Hill, home to the usually bustling University of North Carolina, but Carrboro has noise in its bones. The venerable Cat’s Cradle, a regular tour stop for indie bands and bigger acts, is here. And Merge, the influential indie rock label founded by the Superchunk bandmates Mac McCaughan and Laura Ballance, once had its office in town, before relocating down the road to Durham.
If you drive away from downtown, toward Route 54, and turn off the main road down a busy side street, you’ll find a smaller road called Glosson Circle. It’s hidden away, lined with ranch houses shaded by just-bloomed trees. A street sign says it is a dead end.
The neighbors there are close, and many keep in touch on a group text named “Awesome Glosson.” When it turned out several on the street had upcoming birthdays, the neighborhood decided to find a way to celebrate.
Seemingly before anything had been fully decided, on a particularly beautiful afternoon, the Awesome Glosson Block Party began. “I’m not sure whose idea it was,” said John Harrison, a 47-year-old musician who lives on the street. “But like most things with us it just sort of happened.”
People dragged tables and chairs out to the edge of the street on both sides. In each yard, the seats spread out the way seating spreads out now: as near as can be while still safe. Grills were lit.
Music played from speakers, but then people couldn’t hear each other talking across the road, so they shut it off. People ate and drank and caught up. Neighbors filtered in and out. Dogs ran in front yards. Everyone stayed close to the road so that if others happened onto their block party, they could join in.
As night came on, people set up fire pits. The party continued. The road that connected these neighbors kept them safely apart. “There was talk of doing it again,” Harrison said. “We are all pretty close, but also not very organized or predictable, so who knows?”
— Matthew Fiander
Several weeks back, an argument broke out by the halibut at Dirk’s Fish, a Chicago seafood store.
Chris Bray, the manager, recalled that it began when a longtime customer openly flouted the protocols of social distancing. And he didn’t wear a mask.
An elderly woman, another longtime regular, let the man have it. “‘Listen, we’re trying to stay 6 feet apart!’” Bray remembered the woman saying, rather brusquely.
The man dismissed it: “‘We’re all going to get the virus anyway!’”
Said the woman: “‘Well, I don’t want to get it from you!’”
Bray rang out both customers as quickly as he could.
Luckily, that situation was an anomaly for the shop, which has operated in the Lincoln Park neighborhood since 2003. Back on March 21, the state of Illinois shut down all nonessential businesses. (Seafood shops were deemed essential.) In the nearly six weeks since, Dirk’s Fish has done more business than in any previous six-week period.
Dirk Fucik, the owner, is a gregarious presence who could pass for the Empire Carpet man. He said there have been two stages of customer behavior. During the early days of the pandemic, it was the Hoarding Phase, in which 20-pound orders of salmon weren’t uncommon.
Frozen tubs of lobster bisque and tuna chili were snatched up as if they were toilet paper. Customers would ask: “How long can I keep fish?” (Fresh salmon and halibut could stay in the fridge for up to four days; skate lasts 24 hours before it becomes ammoniated, Fucik said.)
Then the Hoarding Phase gave way to the Indulgence Stage. Customers who’d order the same fish each time branched out to more exotic species. “There aren’t any restaurants open, and customers must think, ‘Life’s too short, let’s eat well,’” Fucik, 63, said.
On a recent morning, a steady stream of customers in masks flowed through. No fisticuffs were witnessed.
Many regulars who frequented the shop said they now visited more regularly. All said supporting mom-and-pop businesses was a big reason, but there’s also the routine and prepandemic normalcy in coming here. Here was a place to see familiar faces, chitchat about the calamitous end-times and pick up cod fillets.
“People like to say, ‘Let’s travel to this exotic place, let’s try this new restaurant,’” said Michelle de Vlam, 60. “In the end, you want something familiar. Something that makes you feel safe and secure during this whole horribleness.”
Another customer, Kristyn Caliendo, 51, originally planned to have her grouper and Atlantic salmon delivered. At the last minute, she decided to take her 7-year-old, Jack, and their shepherd mix, Uma, to pick up their fish curbside.
“I’ve not been to a place of business since March 17,” Caliendo said. “I felt we needed to get out and see human faces.” — Kevin Pang
Charleston, West Virginia
The Community Organizers
“When we say we’re going to meet for a drop-off at a gas station, people just suddenly appear. It’s like a flash mob,” Joe Solomon said. “We haven’t seen these kind of numbers in a while.”
Solomon, 37, was talking about his work with Solutions Oriented Addiction Response (SOAR), which he described as a “ragtag community group” that uses harm reduction — primarily getting Narcan into the hands of those who need it — to combat the opioid epidemic in and around Charleston. (A native of Long Island, New York, Solomon went to West Virginia first to fight mountaintop removal and stayed to work with addicts.)
Stacy Kay, 49, a harm reduction specialist with the group, said that when she drives up to the drop-off with supplies — masks, hand sanitizer, generic Narcan, and occasionally food — people see her and they’re “ready for a hug.” “We can’t do that right now,” she said. “We’re doing a lot of waving. Joe has a piece of chalk. He makes clear what 6 feet is.”
In addition to their regular work, SOAR has been distributing masks donated by the West Virginia Mask Army, a group that sews masks primarily for health care workers. “We asked for masks to give to people living outside or hurting otherwise,” Solomon said. “We even found an herbalist to make hand sanitizer, crucial for those without running water.”
Many people who suffer from addiction experience homelessness. And those who are homeless, Solomon pointed out, may have underlying health conditions, like diabetes and heart disease, that make them particularly susceptible to COVID-19. Not to mention that the shelters, which can be packed, were not designed with social distancing in mind.
Kay said she and the other outreach workers are also providing information to a population who may be unaware of the latest public health directives. Weeks after the stay-at-home order was issued, she said, “I talked to people who didn’t know.”
Both she and Solomon noted how West Virginia is often called “resilient.” “And we’re called strong,” he said. “But those are just code words for ‘nobody has our back.’ So we have to have our own.”
— Michael Parker
Port Angeles, Washington
The Parking Lot
Most mornings, Carrie McCaleb, a kindergarten teacher in Port Angeles, still gets dressed for school, but her classroom, for now, is her home: a fifth-wheel trailer parked in one of the more beautiful parts of the country, just outside of Olympic National Park.
“It makes for an interesting workspace,” McCaleb said. Weather permitting, she sets up a table on a level patch of grass and spreads out her work materials. Using her phone as a hot spot, she may attend a staff video call on her laptop. Then she’ll log onto ClassDojo, an educational platform, to begin checking in with her students and their parents.
She attended Dry Creek, the elementary school where she works, and lives eight minutes away by car, on a horse farm owned by her mother, who is also a teacher.
Before the pandemic, she liked to be in her classroom by 6 a.m. to square away her teaching prep and lesson planning. After school, she might have gone to the gym for a long weightlifting session, or taken a hike; on weekends she’d explore more of the outdoors. On an average weekday, minus time sleeping, she guessed she spent an hour at home.
Now, McCaleb, 36, is lucky to spend an hour away from it. “It’s the weirdest draining workday,” she said. She’s been able to check in with all of her students, though many of them, like her, don’t have the sort of fast, unlimited internet access needed for videoconferencing.
Last week, she said, was the hardest, knowing that there were at least eight more like it ahead. “You’re trudging forward into darkness,” she said.
She occasionally gets glimpses of life before. Twice this week, she drove to Dry Creek to work from her car in the school parking lot. It’s the easiest place for her to upload the videos she records for her students: roll call, word lessons, book readings.
The local library offers free Wi-Fi, turning its parking lot into an ad hoc office during the day, but it’s not as speedy as the school’s. Sometimes she sees other colleagues working in their cars; depending on the time of day, families may be queuing up to pick up meals.
For a while now, teachers at the school have had the option, with the principal’s permission, and with careful distancing, to enter their classrooms alone. McCaleb has done so just twice: once to get school supplies ready for delivery to children at home and once to gather her own materials. “Being in a classroom without my kindergartners in there is overwhelming still,” she said. The times she re-entered, “it was pretty emotional,” she said, “realizing you’re not going to hear their laughter anymore.”
— John Herrman
The Dog Walkers
For the millions of Americans who own dogs, regular walks are one of the few parts of life untouched by the coronavirus. For Kara Welstead, who lives in a dog-filled condo building in downtown Atlanta, taking her 12-year-old Boston terrier and 5-year-old Chihuahua mix outside allows her to stay in touch with people she may not see otherwise.
“I walk them three times a day,” Welstead, 54, said. “I try not to get too close but having dogs kind of makes you interact with people.”
She’s been sheltering in place since mid-March but has still been able to see neighbors like Gretchen and Billy Watts when the two are walking their dogs, a 1-year-old Great Pyrenees and a 12-year-old Lab-shepherd mix.
“I think it’s nice when you have your dogs together and you can be socially connected and talk to someone and not feel awkward because you’re worried about the virus,” Gretchen Watts said.
Still, the current climate doesn’t come without its anxieties. An advisory issued last week by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recommends that people extend social distancing measures to their pets.
Welstead, an aesthetician, said it’s not uncommon for strangers to approach her wanting to pet her dogs. Early last month, she and Watts were walking their dogs to a nearby park when a man came running up.
“He was behind us and obviously wanted to talk about the dogs,” Welstead said. “I said ‘Look, buddy. I don’t know you, and I’m trying to social distance.’ I felt bad, but I was trying to be responsible.”
It turns out that she had reason to be cautious. The very next day she started feeling ill, with minor aches. Soon she was having trouble breathing. A visit to the doctor a few days later confirmed that she was fighting COVID-19.
The Wattses helped by taking her dogs for walks.
“Billy and Gretchen were so great,” she said. “They’d just come to the door and take the dogs out for me, then bring them back.”
Eventually, Welstead got so sick that she had to completely isolate herself and board her dogs. “It was so weird not having them here for 10 days,” she said.
She is on the mend now with only a cough and the occasional shortness of breath, and her dogs are back home.
Welstead is self-quarantining just to be safe; she wears a mask in public, and avoids her building’s elevator. “I don’t want to be too close to anyone just yet,” she said.
— Donovan X. Ramsey
Wise River, Montana
There is perhaps no outdoor pastime better suited to isolation than early-spring fly fishing on Montana’s thousands of miles of rivers and streams. The waters these days are often high and muddy, and it’s frequently too cold for fish to rise, but that hasn’t stopped people.
Old-timers will tell you the sport itself is built around solace and done best alone. The last thing you want when fly fishing is another person right next to you, trying to fish the same hole.
Keeping space is rarely an issue, said Craig Fellin, 73, who opened the Big Hole Lodge in Wise River in 1984. His preferred distance from others while fly fishing? Half a mile. He’s not kidding.
Of course there are moments where people meet, at boat ramps and passing as they float down the water, stopping to chat about the weather and the bug hatch. It’s not an anti-social sport, but it is far removed from the daily news churn, distant and focused on the task at hand.
Fellin prefers to wade in the water rather than fish from a boat, so he can take his time, read the fish and see what they may be feeding on.
“I like to feel the current against my legs, and I like to study the water and figure out where I think the fish are and try to match the hatch,” he said. “I like to get my insect net out and catch some of those little guys and try to imitate them.”
“When you catch one that way, it gives you a little more satisfaction of what you’re doing and makes the whole day.”
Fishing such a part of the culture in Montana, the state’s wildlife agency released social “fishtancing” guidelines early on in the crisis, measured in some of the most recognizable species.
Six feet in this state equals four trout, two shovelnose sturgeon, one paddlefish or a fishing rod.
The governor of Montana recently announced plans to lift stay-at-home orders and gradually reopen businesses, but there’s no date on when he may cancel a mandatory 14-day quarantine on out-of-state visitors, who make up a large part of Fellin’s business.
Still, Fellin described a perfect outing this week with his son and future daughter-in-law. Nobody caught a fish. — Kathleen McLaughlin
Dawn Brown hunched over her walkway and sketched the boundary lines with a piece of orange chalk.
Six feet apart, the lines complemented the cones lining the footpath. The multicolored markers led from the curb above East 57th Street in Savannah, to the BowTie Barbecue Co. food truck parked in her driveway.
Since March 23, Brown, a fourth-grade teacher, has hosted food trucks 13 times, she said a half-hour later, flipping through a calendar inside her home.
“Six different trucks now,” said Brown, 48. “I’m getting better at it every time I do it.” She’s learned to host a truck once every four days — to give neighbors time to use up their groceries and tire of cooking — and to allow a couple of weeks before inviting the same truck back, because people need variety.
Outside, Grayson Lowenthal, of BowTie, sat on a bar stool in the shade of the truck. Masked, he wielded an iPad, taking orders from customers, some holding plants.
Across the street, pots of elephant ears, crinum lilies and Lucifer’s Tongue lined the curb in front of Stephanie Hendrick’s home. A paper sign taped to the bed of a truck directed questions to her and Brown.
“We were brainstorming and we’re like, ‘What if we do a plant swap, and maybe that’ll bring more people here,’” Hendrick said. “And they’ll be like, ‘Well, I’m already here, I don’t want to cook tonight,’ because who isn’t sick of cooking?”
“Get a plant and a sandwich,” said Hendrick, 37, a restaurant manager. “And then you go home, and you’ve got a project for the next day.”
By 5:15 p.m., the shadow of the tall palm in Brown’s yard stretched farther to the east. The wind had picked up, occasionally scattering the cones near the food truck. In less than 24 hours, Georgia restaurants would be allowed to host eat-in customers, part of Gov. Brian Kemp’s push to reopen the state’s economy — a decision that worries local leaders like Van Johnson, the mayor of Savannah.
Lowenthal, 24, who grew up bottling barbecue sauce, said he’d done about $500 worth of sales. During the past month, he’d taken the food truck wherever he could, up the road to Pooler, out to Whitemarsh Island, over to Isle of Hope.
The truck, he said, is a “game changer”: promoting social distancing while helping keep the business afloat.
It was his third time in Brown’s driveway. “I love this spot,” he said.
— Wade Livingston
Millburn, New Jersey
The Porch Lights
On April 3 Millburn reported its first known coronavirus-related death, a person the township described as “a resident in their 80s.”
That day was also the start of an initiative to help move the town away from its lockdown gloom: “Light Up the Night.” In a letter to the community, Mayor Jackie Benjamin Lieberberg urged residents to turn on their front porch lights, shine a flashlight or illuminate whatever is at their disposal. “It will be an act of social solidarity,” she wrote.
Whether the solidarity she was encouraging caught fire was hard to determine on a recent Friday night. Many of the township’s majestic colonials and historic Tudors were lit, beaconlike, from top to bottom, but that may have been their everyday lighting. Other houses stood dark on streets hushed by quarantine. A pair of dog walkers hadn’t heard of the initiative, but said they liked the idea.
On winding Meadowbrook Road and several other streets in the township’s affluent Short Hills section, a few attempts to Light Up the Night seemed obvious. One stately home set a single lit candle in its picture window; at another, fairy lights twinkled through two front-yard trees.
Near Elmwood Place, a triple strand of white Christmas lights hung above a front door. Around the corner, one home shined an up light on an American flag, while another set a slender lit lamp in an upstairs window.
Downtown, along the once bustling and now desolate Millburn Avenue, restaurant and shop lights hinted at dinners and outfits to look forward to once the public health threat subsides and restrictions are eased.
Landscape lighting at nearby residences illuminated rainbow lawn signs thanking health care and other essential workers. A marquee outside Millburn High School that might normally display prom reminders at this time of year had been repurposed. “Keep calm, keep cool, keep collected,” it read.
— Tammy La Gorce