Art for Art’s Sake Press is based in scenic, downtown Olympia. We have majestic views of the Olympic Mountains from our harbor, and — when the cloud-cover cooperates — equally grand views of Mount Rainier. Overlooking downtown is our splendid Capitol building with it freshly scrubbed dome. At water’s edge, seals and seagulls exchange glances with sailors and paddleboarders. Downtown has a thriving bar and bookstore scene, and parks to stroll in the intermittently showery weather.
Our city shelters hundreds of the unsheltered (subject of Outsiders, a fascinating podcast compiled by KNKX and the Seattle Times). And it employs thousands of state workers, toiling away to support the state’s roads and teachers, legal and health care systems.
Right now, it’s all gone a bit sideways. Silent. More seagulls than state workers promenade around the Capitol grounds, where the Temple of Justice and the legislative halls are deserted. Talk of the coronavirus fills our airwaves. We who have electronically portable jobs have for the most part been sent home… Better to have to disinfect our private abodes than an entire office building if one of us falls ill. Those who work on the physical front lines — printers, packers or those who tend computers, for example — and are in “risky health,” find themselves assigned an office abandoned by someone more mobile.
I find myself among the mobile. Ish. I never knew how large my workplace footprint was until I tried to recreate it on a borrowed card-table at home. (Ask me in a week, or follow my Twitter notes @AuditorsEditor, if you want to know how it pans out.)
An ah-ha moment amidst the chaos
Three days into working from home, I just had to rejigger some shelves to store work documents. I wondered what to do with the paperbacks from my Mama’s library I cleared away to make space. As I pondered, sipping tea on the front porch, I noticed many more of my neighbors walking dogs or children up and down our road… Perhaps they were bored of #SocialDistancing already? Could I help?
I quickly popped a selection of Mom’s books into an old Amazon box (how poetic!). I printed up a few signs, and put the box at the foot of the driveway. Every dry day, for as long as this new, strange way of working lasts, I’ll add to the box. And I’ll hope that — even though not as fancy as a Little Free Library — my sharing book-box gives my neighbors something to read. And smile about.