Plague

PLAGUE
April 11, 2020

Strange times trying to comprehend that next week I could be dead. Of course, that’s always the case, but this feels so much more immediate. Definitive. This virus has its path, and I can only hope we’re out of its way. I’m feeling healthy, a little achy, but healthy. However, if the damn thing is biding its time in my system, the following sequence is operative: Diagnosis. Recuperation. Relapse. Death. I present. We call the ambulance. That’s the last time Jamie sees me alive.

For me, isolation is not the problem. It’s a writer’s MO. I’ve had many fine years of external stimulation, Do I need more? Well, sure, I could awaysl use a little more, but, really, I’m good. We’re fortunate to live in our remote mountain valley, but we’re certainly not cavalier about this thing. It’s in the air and might well connect with a flight pattern that brings it here. Currently, our largely rural county has a total of 43 confirmed cases. Not too many, but with a good, strong wind, hey, it could be here by morning. So, right now the news tells me that all the ventilators in New York state will soon be utilized. No more. Too bad.

How old are you? Uh, huh. You’re gonna die.

That’s not comforting, so, what this tells me is that I’d best get busy. Is an assessment in order? One week left, hmm...How do I want to spend it? How do you assess a lifetime in a week? What changes would I make? How many changes can you pull off in seven days, anyway? And, besides, they wouldn’t be so different from those I’ve been trying to install since way back, since all the way back.Tell the truth, other than intermittent bouts of grumpiness, life is good. The people I love love me back. My weight is where I want it. White hair, but lots of it. My own teeth. I’ll just go on doing what I was gonna do, anyway: spend the first part of my day making stuff up, then go outside, hopefully, with a grandson traipsing along.

However, deep in the pit of my stomach, I am uneasy, the way animals are said to feel prior to an earthquake. I’m not sure what’s afoot, but my radar tells me tumult. Trust in what? Believe what? Truth destroyed in a matter of months. Fine people on both sides? Sheee-It! My world will change with everyone else’s. It already has. I’m sorry to report I don’t see a whole lot of plus. My grandchildren may see it differently, but they will never know the world I did, cannot ever know that world. My world had hope in it. I don’t know that theirs will. But, my world: the time is coming when I may not know it anymore. What then?

Way before it became a national monument with its rules and regulations, I once roamed around the Superstition Wilderness in Arizona with an elderly prospector who spent his entire life hunting the Lost Dutchman, a legendary gold mine. When I met him he was in his seventies and saw no need to stop. The Superstition Wilderness is a baffling desert of crags, canyons, sand, volcanic boulders, cacti, mesas, mountains, blistering sun, and nasty creatures. A limited palette: grays, browns, faded green, old bone. You go in there, it’ll either sting ya, stick ya, or bite ya. Challenging. Beautiful in its own austere way. He’d take a pack horse with him and stay out as long as supplies allowed. One trip he asked would I like to come along? Said he had a good horse with my name on it. I’m supposed to say no to something like that?

Prospecting’s hard work. You’re pushing a lot of rock around under a tough sun. My friend was convinced that every shovelful meant he’s one shovel closer to paydirt. One night. Tired as hell. Fire down to embers.The stars seemed far away.

“You ever get lost”, I asked.

“Not lately.”

“I don’t mean lately.”

“In the beginning.”

“What happened?”

“I’m still here.”

“Yeah, but how come?”

“Thinkin’ too much. I was young. I might have been in love. Lost track. I didn’t know where in hell I was. Cold fear took root. Let that feeling’ get the better of you, you’re inviting yourself to your own funeral. I sat right down and stared at the ground a long time, a very long time. Stared at it ‘til there wasn’t no time. Then I looked up, stood up, closed my eyes. When I opened them again the rocks looked different, but I knew them, anyway, and the way was clear. I knew what to do. There was a kinda calm to it. I miss it, that calm. Here’s what you gotta know: just because you lose the trail don’t mean it’s the end of the trail. Smoke that one, son. It’s a talent. He didn’t actually say, “Smoke that one, son”, but he did say everything else.

What happens this week if the virus continues to pass us by? Who’s to know unless it doesn’t? No matter. My week this week will be the same as last and next. Make stuff up. Go outside.

As the immortal Casey Stengel once said, “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.”



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