Late Friday afternoon, I turned into The Avenue East Cobb and couldn’t believe my eyes.
A practically empty parking lot, save for a handful of cars.
And two pedestrians taking advantage of the surroundings to enjoy a late afternoon walk on a glorious spring day.
On a typical day, the place would be packed, and the roads leading to it would be groaning with vehicles at one of East Cobb’s busiest bottlenecks.
Instead, like many busy places in the community, The Avenue East Cobb felt like Sunday morning, before church traffic and those seeking a late breakfast or brunch started hitting the roads.
Just a few stores remained open at that retail center, and it wasn’t alone in looking abandoned.
My drive through East Cobb on Friday felt the same way: From the Lower Roswell-Johnson Ferry interchange, and along Sewell Mill Road, Roswell Road, Robinson Road.
Bereft of cars, and lined by more individual human beings walking than I can ever recall seeing.
One of them was a young father, pushing his twin infants in a double-stroller along Johnson Ferry Road near Mt. Zion United Methodist Church.
Many others were making their way up and down the rolling hills of Shadowlawn Drive.
Those who were getting out for something other than exercise were having to take the precautionary measures that have become iconic for our new extraordinary time.
A dozen or so shoppers were lined up outside Trader Joe’s, standing six feet apart, waiting for their cue to move ahead by an employee who was sternly enforcing foot traffic at the door.
The supply of Two Buck Chuck I had in mind for the weekend will have to wait, I thought as I drove by.
I am not comfortable with this. Nor with the sight of masks, which are becoming more commonplace as the days go by.
Or the eerie, dystopian phrases that are now part of our everyday language. To hear, or write, “social distancing” gives me the chills.
Human beings were not designed to do the things we are now having to undertake to combat a deadly virus that has taken the world by storm, and claimed many thousands of lives.
Sometimes I think I’m in a state of denial, although for the past month I’ve written about little but COVID-19 and our community’s response to it.
For weeks now, the days have bled into the nights. At times I forget what day of the week it is. With a few moments to spare, I’ve broken down to consider the monstrous losses that have piled up thus far, and that are sure to continue.
The number of people getting sick and dying.
The businesses closing and workers losing their jobs.
The school kids having their academic work cut short and high school graduations nixed.
The civic and social groups that can only meet virtually.
What all of this is going to do to us in the long run.
It is a scourge seemingly without end.
But nothing hit me like driving Friday to the entrance at East Cobb Park, locked up with barriers and yellow tape.
The parks were closed along with everything else, and have been for a few weeks.
I was stunned, and sat there for a few minutes. Total silence, and stillness, at one of the hubs of our community, on a day in which there would have been a bevy of activity.
I consider myself blessed, however. There is a walking trail near where I live, and I’m an old pro at working remotely. Getting community updates to you in the way I’d like hasn’t been hampered by technology as much as a matter of time.
There’s a staggering amount of news to provide when the basics of daily life have been so disrupted.
I miss getting out and covering stories in public, and connecting with citizens in person.
I miss the human connections that make doing community news so rewarding and valuable. While it’s true that we have tremendous ways to connect—e-mail, social media, text messages and video streaming—nothing truly replaces the real thing.
We’re doing the best we can with what we have. I’m buoyed by the spirit of cooperation from many in East Cobb to observe public health guidelines, and to help those in need and on the frontlines of battling the virus.
I admire the resilience of small business owners who are fighting to survive, and parents and teachers providing educational instruction in a very different classroom environment.
Most of all, I miss the tactile greetings of Sunday mornings. Not long ago, an older woman at the church I’ve been attending gave me a lovely scarf as a friendly gesture. I’m not a member, but have been worshipping there regularly.
I sit near her and some other elderly parishioners, and I wonder about them constantly now. Will we ever be able to say the peace together anytime soon?
It’s been wonderful to say hello and follow the liturgy on Facebook Live for these last few weeks.
But more than anything, I just want to hug someone the way we used to do, before our world was turned completely upside down a month ago.
I want to sit in a restaurant and dine in. I want to take a nap under the trees at East Cobb Park. I want to shop without seeing lines of demarcation taped to the floor, spots not to cross.
I have faith those things will happen, but we’re in for a very long haul for the time being. The statewide shelter-in-place will continue at least through the end of April, and it will be months before any sliver of normalcy will return to our lives.
On this Easter and Passover weekend, I wish all of you a peaceful and restive interlude, and pray we’ll find the strength and courage to navigate this anxiety and uncertainty.
Thanks for your readership, stay safe and be in touch.
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