But one old farmer, though he always subscribed, never paid for his subscription. So the publisher drove out to his farm to see if he could shake something loose.

The old fellow was decades ahead of his time: practicing what in modern business parlance is called the paperless office. It’s what many of us, during the current disruption of the swift-moving virus, are perforce practicing, as well. The few lonely packages of paper towels that once shared with toilet tissue the now-bare shelves seem to be asking, “Will we do?” Well, not at the moment, I answer, but don’t go away.

Vermont, as far as I can tell from my limited point of view, has suffered in varying degrees. Hardest hit (besides those who died or had loved ones who died) have been those whose jobs have disappeared. Restaurant workers come immediately to mind. As I pass the shuttered Wayside every few days, I envision the faces of all the waitresses we’ve come to know so well. and wondering what and how they’re doing. I expect the tips will be a bit more generous once things open up, but that’s not much help now.

Then there are the businesses forced either to shut down or do curbside service. I like it that my favorite bookstore, for example, will take orders by phone or e-mail and bring the items outside at an appointed time or in answer to a cell phone call. Auto parts stores have stayed open (stand behind the tape lines on the floor), and the lumber yard (call and let us know what you’re after, and we’ll meet you in the lot). Many tradesmen – painters, carpenters, plumbers, even electricians – have largely ignored the Governor’s restrictions, and now again are working legally. My younger daughter, a real estate agent, was prohibited from practicing her profession for a while; but now ( protected by a designer mask, naturally), is back at it enthusiastically. I’ve had a few speaking jobs postponed, and now have only to live long enough to do them once it’s safe to congregate again. That’s a pinch, but hardly a pain.

The area that’s murkiest to me is the situation of us old folks: recipients of Social Security, Medicare, and whatever retirement plans we may have. For us, the disruptions in employment are but distant thunder. Our text is Psalm 91: Ten thousand may fall at thy right hand, but it shall not come nigh thee. And for quite a while, that was true of us. But things have begun to change, even for us.

We’ve all been saving big-time on gasoline. With nowhere to go, why go? Which is why the current gasoline prices are killing me: I don’t need gas. I feel like the elderly nabob in a leather armchair at his club, remarking, “The thing I dislike most about the sexual revolution is that I’m too old to take advantage of it.” We’re all a bit shaggy, too, waiting for the barber to open. I’ve seen the results online of a few stabs at self-improvement, and I’m not even tempted. Our 1970s shag cuts are matching the 1970s gas prices.

Where it’s becoming noticeable, even to those of us who haven’t been directly affected, is in the hint of either a lack of raw material somewhere back along the line, or a breakdown in delivery capacity. What’s going on at my favorite sausage-maker, for example? Even as I ask the question, thoughtlessly, I imagine the stress that must be causing the shortage. Why is there no canned spinach? Why no baked beans? Are people still stocking up and leaving little or nothing for others less aggressive?

You can see where this kind of thinking leads. First, the suspicion divides us, which is exactly where those who do not wish us well want us to be. Second, the querulousness it arouses helps us to forget the predicaments of others. At this point in our history, and during this year of critical decision, that’s not where we ought to be. There are great changes in the wind, and it’s going to take all our imagination to deal with them creatively. I’m trying, for example, to imagine where I might find a sack of corncobs.