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I'm not very community-minded. You can probably trace this back to the time when young people were forming communes that involved shared kitchens and endless group meetings for decision-making. I opted out of the whole idea of community.
Imagine my surprise, then, at the new development in our neighbourhood. Every night at 7:30 we take part in the ruckus of pot-banging to celebrate and encourage those working on the front lines of this pandemic. That's the origin story, and I believe it. But our ruckus has taken on a life of its own. Like the carved figures on a Swiss barometer, at 7:30 our doors open and we all step outside to see our neighbours. Pots and pans, pot lids, wooden spoons, metal spoons—we bang with vigour, smiling at each other. Rightly or wrongly, DinoVino WineScribe and I amble up and down the street, always keeping our distance, of course. Most people (probably following a rule that we missed) remain standing on their porches or balconies.
The first week, I banged a large stainless steel mixing bowl with a wooden spoon, and the noise was satisfying. The spoon broke after three nights and I replaced it with a large metal spoon. Energized by the commonality—and by the opportunity to see and wave at so many people we know and love, we do a follow-the-leader up as far as the curve in the street, then march back to our beginning.
We look up at the 25-story condo behind our street to see and faintly hear people on their balconies banging pots. A quarter-turn away shows us the residents of the eight-story condo on their own balconies. We open our arms wide to greet them and to be sure they know that we see them.
One night, rather than a stainless steel mixing bowl I took out my large drum. When I use it in the house, it sounds like a soft, persistent heartbeat. But during the ruckus it speaks with its outside voice, pretending to be a big bass drum, and we have 76 trombones all over again. The boom-BOOM, boom-BOOM, grounds the lighter sounds of the pots and pans.
We hope this ruckus improves the morale of the front-line workers even though they can't hear us. But it has given me—and the whole street—a sense of community and shared love during these extraordinary times.
After five minutes, as if by an invisible signal, we all drift back into our houses, to our Scrabble games, our Netflix, our books. Another day is over. Months from now, when this coronavirus has receded, we will be able to meet, laugh, talk, hug, and contemplate the mystery of community.
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
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