I have a friend and former editorial colleague who has tossed concern about the novel coronavirus aside like last season’s frayed fishing line. His attitude has ranged from dismissive to snarky.
It’s also dumb and dangerous. His self-righteous arrogance poses a risk to himself, those around him, and those he likely will never encounter.
“Are you at least staying at home when you can?” I asked with obvious annoyance. “And keeping your distance from people?”
His response was unsuitable for a family publication but ended with: “I keep my social distance by going fishing.”
On that, at least, we agreed. Getting outside—walking, hiking, camping, biking, fishing, canoeing, kayaking, star gazing, bird watching—is the best medicine. For many of us, these are solo pursuits and are the original social distancing.
The 6-foot minimum personal space rule still should be applied, whether you’re hiking a piece of the Daniel Boone National Forest’s 319-mile Sheltowee Trace Trail or strolling the 2-mile path that circles Hematite Lake within the 170,000-acre Land Between the Lakes National Recreation Area. And follow the hand-washing rule—both before and after your trek—regardless if that trek is via foot, pedal or paddle, electric or outboard motor power. Keep a bottle of hand sanitizer in your pocket, and use it often.
“Even if you don’t believe the coronavirus crisis is a real crisis,” I suggested to my friend, “wouldn’t it be better to err on the side of caution?”
He answered with a wave of disdain, then said, “I don’t know … maybe.”
I live in a college town, around which the community hums. But the city also has a character separate from the school. During spring break week, as the virus was creeping across Kentucky like cold fog, and students were being informed that the remainder of their semester’s studies would be done online, but before Gov. Andy Beshear directed that all nonessential retail businesses close their doors to in-house customers, I spent a morning running some needed errands.
My final stop was at a locally owned tire store. My wife’s Ford had a damaged front tire, and I stopped by to have it replaced. I had ordered the tire by phone, and the shop called to tell me it had come in and ask if I could come by that afternoon. I stopped right after lunch.
The bay door was open. The technician guided me onto the rack, pointing this way and that as the car moved an inch or two to the left then right. He finally held up his hands indicating I should stop, and I touched the brake, pushed the transmission into P, exited the car, and walked into the small customer waiting area.
The owner exited his office, acknowledged me with a nod, and disappeared into the service bay. He and the tech quickly finished their work and, a few minutes later, the owner walked back into the waiting area. I followed him into his office. The place doesn’t take cards, so I paid with a check. He handed me a receipt, and we crossed the waiting area to the door that led into the service bay. We were standing about 4 feet apart—not the minimum social distancing recommended by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, but close enough for two men with compromised hearing to understand each other.
“What do you think about all this?” he asked.
He didn’t mean the tire replacement. He was talking about the coronavirus outbreak that was rattling the world.
I answered as honestly as I knew how.
“I think it’s serious business, and it must be taken seriously,” I said. “I know people are hurting. I know businesses are hurting. But what is being done, is being done out of necessity. But no one really knows what’s going to happen.”
“Trump says he does,” he said, glancing down toward the cracked concrete floor. “But he don’t.”
I agreed but was unsure how to proceed when he continued.
“I can’t stay home,” he said. “I do this.” He pointed toward the service bay. “I got to get inside people’s cars.”
Like me, the guy was probably just inside the “at risk” 60-and-older age group. And, like me, he probably gives this little if any thought. He makes his living with his hands.
We stood in silence until just before it became uncomfortable.
“I think everyone just needs to be careful,” I said. “Be cautious. Wash your hands. Keep your distance. Get people in and out as fast as you can. Just be careful.”
He pointed out the door toward a small building across the street, an insurance agency.
“That guy keeps his door locked,” he said flatly. “Got a sign on the door and lets people in, then he wipes down the door handle and wipes it again when they leave.” I was unsure how to respond to this.
“I don’t know that that’s really necessary, but people need to do what they feel comfortable with,” I finally said. “Everyone just needs to be careful. But I think if someone came in here that you didn’t feel good about, it’d be OK to ask them to wait outside. Or to leave. It’s your shop.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
He pushed open the door. We walked into the service bay, and I opened the door to my car and climbed in.
“Be careful,” he said.
“I will. You, too.”