We ate a good beef stir-fry Sunday evening, and I took Trey in for curbside testing Monday morning; he tested positive. We scrambled, got better masks, sanitized, talked about dividing bathrooms and spaces in the house. The medical people said I should wait before testing—either on symptoms or in 4 or 5 days, when the nasty virus has had time to work.
I mentioned the day’s events in an unrelated phone call to friend Rick yesterday--Monday. An hour later he called back to say that he and others had decided that the house was too small for the three of us, and as I am the 78 year-old, I needed to get the hell out. He had already made arrangements with another friend for a summer rental house at Wallowa Lake.
It’s quiet here—no dogs barking or cars screeching, as they do even in the small town of Joseph. Quiet snow fell this morning on trees already heavy with it. I checked with the boys by phone. They’re fine, although Trey says he doesn’t have much energy. I wonder if he unconsciously knew he had it all along, and his gut had told him to come home. Trey changes the subject, tells me that I don’t have any excuses—I have to write my book.
I’ll try. Meanwhile, I read the papers and find a new explosion of positives out of the White House. My hunch, that the Trump campaign had raced against Covid with personal appearances in the last days before the election, betting that any outbreaks would not happen until after November 3, becomes conviction.
The cavalier attitude towards Covid-19 pisses me off. Wear your masks; keep your distance; limit your travel. And don’t bet against the virus.
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