If one thing stands out about the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, it’s the way it has put a dagger beneath the throat of everyone across the globe. The danger of the coronavirus can be seen in the daily news reports on the deaths suffered, the jobs lost, the facilities closed, and the mounting burden on those brave souls — doctors, nurses, pharmacists, grocers, sanitation workers — who provide essential services.  At the same time, I can see the pervasiveness of the disease, the insidious grip it has on daily life, by doing nothing more than taking a 20-minute walk to and from my neighborhood mailbox.

It’s a cool Friday afternoon when I leave my house on Maxton Place and walk to State Route 161.* I cast a glance at the sky. It’s mostly clear; just a few flat hazy clouds glide overhead. To the south, a small airplane drifts downward in preparation for a landing at The Ohio State Airport about four miles away. It occurs to me that small airplanes are the only kind that seem to be flying these days with the major airlines having cancelled most of their flights in response to the pandemic. I turn right off of 161 onto Pingree Street and stroll past the playground on the street’s east side. No children are anywhere in sight, which isn’t surprising since the playground is closed, a fact announced on a black-and-yellow sign that stands in front of the playground’s entrance. Several feet beyond the sign, police tape encircles swings, slides, and monkey bars, as if they were part of a crime scene.

I veer off Pingree and head west on Franklin. A good number of people are in their yards and garages. At one house, a man pushes a power saw over a board, sawdust piling up at his feet. Next door, a teenage girl punches a volleyball into the air toward two other girls, while across the street a boy with a lacrosse stick plays pitch-and-catch against the side of his garage. Under ordinary circumstances (and will anything ever be “ordinary” again?) the girls and the boy would be coming out of school about now, and the man might be at his office behind a computer. But the pandemic has caused our individual worlds to contract; leaving home carries risks it never did before and thus it is an option we don’t choose so often.

When I’m about halfway down Franklin, a man and woman come toward me with their dog on a leash. Neither they nor I are wearing a protective mask, so keeping a minimum of six feet between us is a wise precaution. The dog walkers make it easy by leading their pooch off the sidewalk and onto the street, which has nothing more than parked cars on it. I give them a nod of appreciation. At the end of Franklin, I turn right onto Morning Street, walk about 30 feet, and then pivot left onto Stafford. The mailbox is there at the corner of Hartford and Stafford. I drop my letters through the slot and then take a different route home. This route takes me by the Olde Worthington Library. I can faintly see bookshelves inside, but the building is otherwise dark and empty. A few more steps take me past Kilbourne Middle School. It’s as dark and quiet as the library. A sign near the school’s side entrance usually has an announcement about an upcoming dance or athletic event. Now, however, it carries this terse advice: “Keep healthy and wash your hands.”

My homeward path takes me east on 161. It’s usually got a heavy flow of traffic, but not today. At times, no car can be seen either coming or going. Out of sight, about a mile ahead of me, the Shell station on Sinclair Road is selling gas for $1.69, the lowest it’s been in some 20 years.  Before reaching Maxton Place, I encounter only one person — a man about my age who is wearing a protective mask.  This time, I make way for him by taking a few steps up someone’s driveway. He nods his appreciation, and I’m reminded that Worthington is much friendlier than most towns. Today was garbage pick-up day, and there are several empty trash containers and recycling bins near the curb. One has a message attached to it. “Thank you sanitation workers for your service,” it says. I hope they saw it.

Someday the corona virus pandemic will end; the dagger will be withdrawn from our collective throats. When that day comes, I hope people — including me — will be more grateful for things we have too often taken for granted in the past, whether that be playgrounds, libraries, schools, airliners in the sky, or the hard-working men who carry away our garbage.

*  The events described above actually occurred during at least three different walks to the mailbox, but all are true.