It was Day 7 of complete social isolation. The only person I’d made eye contact with in 72 hours, not including a Zoom happy hour, was my husband. I was furloughed at work, and my eyes were blurring over after reading a dozen COVID-19 news stories. Browsing Buy Nothing, a hyperlocal gifting group, I saw a post from a woman who was offering lemons from her tree.
The amble down to her small ranch house wasn’t so different from many other walks I’d taken to the houses of Buy Nothing members. In the past, I’d hiked a mile up the hill to a glorious Altadena ranch where a windy day had downed bushels of unripe avocados from a man’s trees. Another time, I’d strolled just a couple blocks to a rambling Craftsman home where a teacher offered me as many yellow grapefruit from her 80-year-old tree as I could cart away. But this time, there was no one strolling the tree-lined streets of Pasadena with me.
There was no face-to-face contact with my fruit giver as there was in the past with fellow Buy Nothing members I’d befriended. I picked up the paper grocery bag full of lemons and carried them home to make olive oil citrus cake. Later that day, I strolled back to leave a fresh, hot loaf of the cake on her porch for her and hopped on Facebook to let her know she should come out and get it while it was hot.
This is the spirit of the Buy Nothing movement, a gifting network with locations in most cities that has become a source of comfort, but also a supply chain for necessary goods during the age of coronavirus. That very connectivity that has made the deadly coronavirus spread so easily among us is also our strength, and Buy Nothing has found a way to prevent member infection by encouraging porch drop-offs and virtual support among its members.
Buy Nothing echoes Golden Rule values—there are no strings attached to any of the gifts. You don’t have to give a single gift to receive gifts, and those gifts are wide-ranging: a bucket of fruit, a bouncy-house loan, cleaning a disabled neighbor’s kitchen.
On April 14, The Buy Nothing, Get Everything Plan: Discover the Joy of Spending Less, Sharing More and Living Generously, a book by Buy Nothing cofounders Liesl Clark and Rebecca Rockefeller, will hit stores—well, online stores, since no one will be out at bookstores. A primer on how to enact the Buy Nothing lifestyle, the book couldn’t be better timed for neighbors stranded at home, laid off due to the economic downturn, or personally affected by the spread of COVID-19.
Tracy Bashungwa, moderator of a Buy Nothing group in Olympia, Washington, was one of many who thought about suspending her local group to prevent any donated items from potentially spreading COVID-19, but didn’t want to risk disconnecting members, especially when mental community health was at risk. “If you are struggling, asking for someone to private message you will be allowable. We are here for you,” she wrote. Bashungwa asked that members donating any essentials, like food, water, and cleaning supplies, be careful that the items are clean, and that recipients clean and disinfect the items and their hands. As a result, regular porch drop-offs of kids’ sporting equipment and games, kitchen appliances, and clothes are still happening, bringing a small source of joy to households.
Since the pandemic hit hard in the U.S., members in Buy Nothing groups across the country have begun pooling their resources to make masks for local hospitals and other Buy Nothing members, including those whose autoimmune systems are compromised or who care for elderly family members. The Mesa, Arizona, Buy Nothing group has been extremely active in the past few weeks since schools were closed, posting almost 400 comments sharing school updates, community resources, and info on finding essentials. In Hayfork, California, the Buy Nothing group has been picking up groceries and medication for elderly residents in their neighborhood.
In Philadelphia, the Buy Nothing group rallied to the aid of students sent home at the last minute by donating boxes to them, according to member Kate Goldston.
In a time when many of us are being laid off or furloughed, or paying exorbitantly for grocery price gouging or restaurant delivery, we can’t afford to shop for material goods. “I liken it all to the Great Depression,” Maricopa, Arizona, member Kellie Marie Hines Goodrum said. “When things were off shelves, the community came together. Someone needed bread in our group, so we found someone with flour and another person with yeast.”
I don’t feel lacking, because I know my neighbors would FaceTime me, find the right-sized diapers for my baby, or create a meal train for me if I became ill. I don’t feel so alone in fighting the invisible germs I can’t see, even though I can’t be with my neighbors in person (at least, closer than six feet) right now. For now, we’ll chat over our fences or from our stoops, or via a bag of lemons or a loaf of olive oil bread.