I’m sitting at my computer, planning to write what I’ve been doing during our enforced social distancing in this coronavirus pandemic. My window faces the Edgartown-West Tisbury Road, and at this moment, a tom turkey is displaying his handsome tail feathers in the middle of the normally busy road, while two females scurry across, not the least bit impressed.

The tom just gave up and got out of the way of the VTA bus.

The Cleaveland House, where I live in West Tisbury, is my ancestral home. It was built around 1750 when there was no electricity, running water or bathroom. Four fireplaces, a well and an outhouse. It was that way until the 1950s when my father decided it was time to modernize.

So it’s not difficult for me to revert to my Depression-era childhood. Our family, like most, had little money. My father’s salary stopped during the two summer months so we lived off the land with his garden and whatever the sea yielded.

Our parents turned hardships into adventures, like the Swiss Family Robinsons. In winter, we bought soup greens, vegetables not good enough for sale. My mother made delicious soup from 10-cents-worth of wilted greens, free marrow bone and barley, simmered half a day, lasting half a week.

I have a garden now, a quarter the size of my father’s. I’ve planted peas, lettuce and kale. Indoors, I’ve started tomatoes, squash and eggplant.

Throughout the years, my freezer has accumulated a vast storage of things that seemed promising at the time, but until now didn’t seem appetizing when I could purchase stuff at Cronig’s. My attitude has changed. Now, interesting recipes and even full meals are emerging from the freezer, with the added benefit that I am at last cleaning it out.

About a third of my income was from my B&B, closed for the duration. Another third was from my writing, but bookstores are closed. The remaining third is from Social Security, which I hope will not be affected.

Lynn, my tenant, shops for groceries and collects my mail. I’m considered “vulnerable” (I’ll be 89 on my next birthday), so I have not set foot off the property since March 12.

I cherish this time. It’s time I can luxuriate in, to write, to garden, enfolded by spirits of my ancestors, knowing their lives were far more difficult than mine.

Cynthia Riggs lives in West Tisbury