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Good day, everyone. In this third day of the Plague Year missive series we wait in front of our keyboard with bated breath. Today, you see, is the day that everyone expects Governor Brown to bring the hammer down; in about an hour from the time I type these words, an Oregonized version of the so-called "Shelter In Place" is to be announced for the entire 90,000 + square miles that comprise the State of Oregon. The interdiction along the west coast of the United States of America will be complete.
From today, if you don't work in a job considered essential, your business will be expected to close, I understand; if you work in an office, your employer will be expected to enable you to telecommute if at all possible. Saving this, you're going to be out of work for the duration of the order. Criminal penalties will pertain; Class C misdemeanor at the very least.
Today, the drive home was down 122nd Avenue, my own street. I don't know what I should expect to expect; the melodramatic in me keeps being surprised I'm not driving down wide open, roaringly quiescent streets out of a cross between Twin Peaks and The Omega Man. But this was NE 122nd Avenue at Stark, facing south, at about 7:20 AM, today:
Yesterday, I posted a picture of NE 82nd Avenue devoid of all but the most minimal traffice, but being it was Sunday morning it was a hard thing to argue that it was especial. This, however? This is about 7:30 on a Monday morning, and I can tell you from deep experience that this is, while not a desert, markedly, remarkably quiet. The landmark Tonkin sign holding court with very few in attendance.
Nearer my house, on SE 117th and Market, there is the Gethsemane Lutheran Church, which is a modern design structure that looks for all the world like a pyramid from the corner. I've written of it before. Today on the sign, which has supported a number of messages over the years, this:
This is the sort of message that, a year after the apocalypse, stands in disarray as I drive past in Olivia, using judiciously what gas I can find, and a stray air current I caused makes the N in UNTIL, up to that point ajar, finally give way and fall to the plinth below, shattering with a gentle, brittle tinkling of whatever material it's made of.
And so it goes.
From today, if you don't work in a job considered essential, your business will be expected to close, I understand; if you work in an office, your employer will be expected to enable you to telecommute if at all possible. Saving this, you're going to be out of work for the duration of the order. Criminal penalties will pertain; Class C misdemeanor at the very least.
Today, the drive home was down 122nd Avenue, my own street. I don't know what I should expect to expect; the melodramatic in me keeps being surprised I'm not driving down wide open, roaringly quiescent streets out of a cross between Twin Peaks and The Omega Man. But this was NE 122nd Avenue at Stark, facing south, at about 7:20 AM, today:
Yesterday, I posted a picture of NE 82nd Avenue devoid of all but the most minimal traffice, but being it was Sunday morning it was a hard thing to argue that it was especial. This, however? This is about 7:30 on a Monday morning, and I can tell you from deep experience that this is, while not a desert, markedly, remarkably quiet. The landmark Tonkin sign holding court with very few in attendance.
Nearer my house, on SE 117th and Market, there is the Gethsemane Lutheran Church, which is a modern design structure that looks for all the world like a pyramid from the corner. I've written of it before. Today on the sign, which has supported a number of messages over the years, this:
This is the sort of message that, a year after the apocalypse, stands in disarray as I drive past in Olivia, using judiciously what gas I can find, and a stray air current I caused makes the N in UNTIL, up to that point ajar, finally give way and fall to the plinth below, shattering with a gentle, brittle tinkling of whatever material it's made of.
And so it goes.
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