It’s apocalyptic out there.

I made an abortive run to pick up supplies to sew protective masks yesterday. It was pretty much the first time I’d had the car out of the garage in a week. At first, I felt as though I was one of the few survivors of a nuclear holocaust. Empty streets and closed shops.

Then, as I tried to drive to the hospital distribution center to collect a mask-sewing kit, I came upon the most heart-warming traffic jam ever. For miles in every direction, cars were lined up. Kits to make over 10,000 masks were distributed as fast as drivers could pull up. That is life as I want to know it.

But everything is different. Great and small.

The big annual summer community event in Salem, The Art Fair, has been cancelled. Personally, I have been working in St. Paul’s booth there for many years.

My doctor’s staff called and said the doctor would be keeping my appointment this morning with a FaceTime call. Apparently, Medicare has set up brand new codes for funding these virtual appointments. Guess I’d better get the frog out of my throat.

Section B of my local paper has always been Sports. I checked the “On the Air” box every morning and passed on to Joannie the times and networks of games that I thought Mother would enjoy. She then posted a stickie with this information on Mother’s table. Now Section B is called Nation’s Health. And Joannie is barred from visiting the nursing home.

Here she is visiting Mother at the nursing home window. Can’t see or say much through a closed window and screen. Those two poles hold bird feeders and strings of twinkly lights.

This is not life as I want to know it.