Nothing Is The Same

Summary

The author reflects on the changes in daily life and social interactions due to the COVID-19 pandemic while shopping for gardening supplies.

Abstract

The narrative begins with the author's altered routine at a local farm store, where they now wear a mask and leave their children in the car to minimize risk. This contrasts with pre-pandemic times when browsing the store with children was a cherished activity. The author notes the shift in societal norms, where leaving children in the car, once discouraged, is now commonplace. The absence of baby chicks in the store further symbolizes the change. The shopping experience is now marked by silence and social distancing, a stark departure from the previous years' friendly exchanges over shared interests in gardening. The author's attempt to connect with a store clerk over the strangeness of the new normal is met with a literal interpretation of the phrase "Nothing is the same," highlighting the disconnection and misunderstanding prevalent in these times.

Opinions

The author perceives the new shopping protocols as strange and indicative of a broader societal shift.
There is a sense of nostalgia for the pre-pandemic interactions and community feel that were once part of the shopping experience.
The author feels a sense of isolation and disconnection due to the silence and lack of interaction in the store, which is further emphasized by the misunderstanding with the store clerk.
The author seems to appreciate the small talk and community aspect of shopping, which has been lost during the pandemic.
There is an underlying sadness about the changes in daily life, as well as an acceptance of the necessity of these changes for health and safety.

Nothing Is The Same

I know, tell me about it…

When I stopped by our local farm store today, the first thing I did was pull my mask down over my mouth and nose. Then I cracked the windows and left my kids in the car, telling them I would hurry in and out of the store, just grabbing the gardening supplies and bird seed that I was looking for.

Normally, they’d come inside with me to admire the baby chicks, look at the kid sized garden tools and beg me to buy them miniature leather work gloves for work they would never do. We’d browse the aisles, enjoying the smell of timothy hay and sawdust and ogling the wide variety of mouse and rat traps.

But life is different now. It used to be frowned-upon to leave your kids in the car. Now it’s frowned upon to take kids into stores. Maybe it doesn’t matter so much, since they aren’t selling baby chicks this year anyway.

I hurried through the store, grabbing the things I needed plus a few extra flats of vegetable seedlings and a rawhide for my dog. I waited far away from the register in a line of socially distant people holding similar items that signify springtime when you live in the country.

In past years, if you were buying tomato seedlings and you were in line behind someone holding tomato seedlings, that was cause for a conversation. You might ask them how bad they got tomato hornworms last year or they might ask if you had been successful growing the heirloom purple cherokee tomatoes they held in their hand.

But now, with the masks, the physical space and the fear that Covid-19 is lurking between the horse supplies and the cat treats, we are all silent.

When it’s my turn, I step to the register and set my items on the counter. I slide my stack of seed packets under the plexiglass shield and when I do, the woman at the counter says to me, “Nothing is the same.”

“Yes,” I gush. I go on to tell her about how strange it is to leave my kids in the car and how odd it feels to not hear people chatting about gardening. Maybe it’s because I haven’t spoken to another adult in several days or that the silence in the store makes me uncomfortable, but once I started chatting, it was hard for me to stop.

I can’t see the woman’s full expression because of the cloudy plexiglass and her mask, but here eyes stare at me, unimpressed, until I finish.

“I meant the seeds,” she says. “None of them are the same. Each packet is a different type, so I needed to ring them up separately.”

Oh. Yes. I see.

I’m sure I blushed, but my mask protected me from anyone’s judgmental looks. They were probably too far away to hear our conversation anyway.

“Yes, all the seeds are different,” I say.

“And everything is different, too,” I think.