114. And the World Goes on....

Las Vegas, short on water, is imposing a ban on “useless grass.” Brown lawns and alternative plant-scaping are popular in rainy Portland. John Wesley Powell said—over 100 years ago—that most of the West was dry and unfit for agriculture. He thought that much of the West should be left to “barbarous” Indians, who could make their way in it. Powell, like many men of science in his day, was racist; he divided the world’s peoples into the savage, the barbarous, and the civilized. His views on land-use hold up better than his views on race and culture. 

Drought conditions continue to plague the West, CO2 levels in the atmosphere are rising, global temperatures making the same upward ride, and we are bracing for another big wildfire season. 

Meanwhile, economies are “opening,” the local restaurants are full, and the license plates on Main Street in Joseph say North Carolina, Alaska, and Texas as well as the familiar Idaho and Washington. 

House prices in our state and county continue to rise with the temperature. There are large new houses on the hill outside of Enterprise; it’s been platted for years, but the urban-suburban flight seems to have ignited development now. There is also a new housing development of over forty lots at the edge of Joseph. 

Covid-19 itself, morphing and mutating as it reaches the farthest corners of the globe, is still here. Like water flowing downhill, Covid follows paths towards human density and poverty There are talks and plans about getting vaccine to these global hot spots, but it’s a daunting task; there are so many of them in Central and South America, in India, Malaysia. Some of the smaller countries that had escaped the first waves with strict practices of distancing masking, and isolating have opened up to economics—and the Covid. 

In our own country the vaccine deniers and resisters are still with us. And although the numbers of infections and deaths continue a downward trend, the disease is still here, and still mutating. Are the continuing Covid deaths totally or largely among the unvaccinated? I’ve not seen any statistics on that. 

Unfortunately, even if statistics showed that the vaccinated are not getting sick and not dying, while much higher numbers of the unvaccinated are, it would probably move into more rancor. 

We remain stubbornly divided. 

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113. Spectator

Spectator

As this pandemic winds down in Oregon and the US, it occurs to me that I’ve been living in a fantasy land, a place removed from the major traumas of the disease and its oil-spill-like spread across the country. Sure, it came close when my grandson brought it back from Portland, but friends and the local medical community rallied around and we moved on.

And yes, a few people I know have died, but they were elderly, and specific circumstances in each case make them anomalies. Here in our high-mountain, low-population perch, we’ve largely gone about our business. The low population density, the fact that our agriculture is ranching and grain and not row-crop, and the fact that many of us live outdoors as much as we can regardless of Covid, have helped insulate us from the disease’s worst runs in neighboring places. I.e. We do not have farm-labor crews traveling in tight vans and living in cramped housing; we do not have french-fry or other ag-business industries. 

The community responded by supporting restaurants with take-out, and we bundled and ate outside when we could. Builders—outside workers—have kept busy remodeling second homes and building new ones for urban escapees, and we wait in line for plumbers and electricians.

It’s like the 1840s when the Oregon Trail marched by a mountain ridge to the west; the Wallowa Valley Nez Perce, the wålwa'ma band, were not pressed by settlers from the nearby Grande Ronde Valley until the 1870s, almost a full generation after the missionaries and first settlers had traipsed along the Trail. 

The Covid has not made a similar run at us, and we sit here, somewhat smug, in relative safety in a stormy world—just as our country comes now to a sense of normalcy and smugness about it as the big world outside rages with Covid, drought, fire, and other signs of the biblical apocalypse.

It’s happened before, and we’ve been dragged into the muddle in 1914, 1941, etc., in Europe and Korea and Vietnam, war intertwined with influenza, drugs, and PTSD. The all-volunteer military has un-democratized war, so that only a handful—a small percentage of us—has been impacted by Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, and “traumatic brain injury.” Like Afghan TBI, NFL TBI comes to us remotely. 

But there is a world out there, a world of wars, natural disasters, climate change and refugees—and Covid, still raging across South America, India, and now Malaysia. It’s sometimes hard to reconcile being a spectator in such a time and place. And I wonder whether it will creep back weeks or months from now—maybe with a returning Volunteer soldier. 

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112. A Potluck of Words

Indians are still teaching us

 

Last night—Saturday night—I joined a big crowd in a large and gorgeous old barn set with tables for a potluck. Potlucks have been part of the social currency here since I moved here 50 Junes ago. It’s only in this Covid year that they have not been part of the standard menu. 

 

But this was as new an event as it was old. We came together to celebrate a return of a score and more of Nez Perce, Umatilla, Warm Springs and Yakima root diggers, invited to Nature Conservancy and private lands to dig camas, biscuitroot, and other delicacies that their ancestors had lived on for millennia before the coming of the Europeans. 

 

The event was hosted by a man I’d first met as a high school student—I remember his parents well, and can see him now at the county fair in a 4-H jacket. His words were few but powerful last night. “We want to welcome you back” was the gist of it. I think I caught a tear in his eye, and saw him stand respectfully while a tribal elder rang a bell and sang a song of thanks.

 

A beautiful young woman came up to give me a hug—and had to remind me that she was the high school girl I’d watched on the basketball court, the granddaughter of some of my first and best friends in this place. With urgings from her uncles, she represented one of the families that is opening their land to tribal peoples. 

 

I did not know all of the Indians there, and some of the people from the Colville Reservation I’d hoped to see were still in the field, digging roots. That’s what organizers from the Wallowa Land Trust told me. Nature Conservancy, Land Trust—and people from the Walla Walla Land Trust came to celebrate with us, the Wallowa Nez Perce Homeland, a county commissioner, and friends, families and supporters of all of the above made up the “hosting” crowd, which had to be over 100. 

 

But Indian friends I know were there. I’d heard their songs and their talks in other places, but in no place and in no way did it match this time and place, because we were meeting on old Indian lands and Indians were thanking us for welcoming them home, and reminding us that the heart and friendship are the most important virtues, echoing the words of hin-mah-too-yah-lat-kekt, Young Chief Joseph:

 

“Whenever the white man treats the Indian as they treat each other, then we will have no more wars. We shall all be alike - brothers of one father and one mother, with one sky above us and one country around us… Then the Great Spirit Chief who rules above will smile upon this land, and send rain to wash out the bloody spots made by brothers' hands from the face of the earth. For this time the Indian race are waiting and praying. I hope that no more groans of wounded men and women will ever go to the ear of the Great Spirit Chief above, and that all people may be one people.”

 

  

111. Rats, Guns and History

I just finished reading Hans Zinsser’s 1935 classic, Rats, Lice and History. In it the Harvard biologist writes the “biography” of Typhus Fever, with side chapters on the Plague, Smallpox, Syphilis, sanitation, and the role of infectious diseases in the history of humankind. His reading of medical research and history is prodigious—an interesting side-note is that the medical profession has continually shared information across political and military lines through wars and revolutions. A continuing message is that the impacts of diseases—and the rats, lice, mosquitos, teste flies, and all that carry them—have been greater than those of the generals. 

 

Wars and revolutions have had symbiotic relationships with the major infectious diseases—crowded armies in cold, wet, hot, dry, dirty conditions have been good breeding grounds, and armies and individual warriors great transmitters of plague and typhus and influenza. (In our Civil War, two-thirds of the estimated 620,000 deaths were due to disease.) In other books I’ve followed the influenza of 1918 from a Kansas military base to the East Coast on a troop train, across the sea on a troop ship, into battle, across enemy lines and then across the world. It came back again with the troops to the US, where it killed more than the War—and as many or more than had died in the Civil War: over 600,000 Americans.

 

Zinsser talks about the endemic stages of major diseases—the lie low periods when there are enough rats, lice, and proximate humans to keep a disease alive on a shoestring, infecting just enough human carriers to keep it vital and ready for the next opportunity to explode into pandemic. 

 

Our Covid has ripe conditions in many places—hunger, famine, and filth are friends to infectious diseases, and the military upheavals in Yemen, Myanmar, and Israel are making conditions even more inviting to the germs and viruses of the day. Add in crowded conditions that exist in India and in major cities everywhere, and the drought that is forcing people in the Middle East, Africa, and Central America northward in swarms—and one can only speculate on when and where the next covid outbreak will be. 

 

Vaccinate, yes. But it’s a mobile world, and our safe nation cannot exist as an island; we’d best get going on vaccinating the rest of the world. It’s worked with Smallpox and Polio.

 

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110. The Curve

Dr. Wheelwright was the grand old man of the philosophy department at my college. We jockeyed to get into his limited seminars, even though we knew the grading was tough. Once, as we went over test results, a student asked how it was that he graded on a curve, but had given out no A’s. “I do grade on the curve,” said Dr. Wheelwright, “and it’s 30 years long. Some years there aren’t any A’s.”

 

In Rats, Lice, and History, author Hans Zinsser says the biologist’s task is to make the incremental discoveries that, over time, will lead to an understanding of diseases and their historical roles. He quotes another philosopher, Henry Bergson, that “a very small element of a curve is near being a straight line… [but] life is no more made up of physical-chemical elements than a curve is composed of straight lines.” 

 

The detail that Zinsser assembles in piecing together a “biography of Typhus Fever” and making the argument that infectious diseases have had greater impacts on history than have the movements of armies and the actions of generals—is prodigious. Tracing ancient texts from China to Egypt to Greece—many ancient plagues were thought to have originated in Ethiopia—and combing records for the appearances of lice and mosquitoes, and the “domestication” of rats, he concludes that infectious diseases are never static, and that the movement and mutations of these diseases to and from animal and insect populations will never end. The biologist—and the historian--work to grasp the inflections of the curves that have changed and might change the behavior of diseases, and the course of history.

 

The domestication of rats is due to affluence. I.e., with sufficient food supplies, rats do not need to travel as far for their own basic needs, and the diseases they carry are thus held to small human populations. And “were it not for the single and simple procedure of the Jennerian vaccination,” smallpox epidemics would be with us still, “attacking each new generation.”

 

It’s interesting to think now about where we are on the coronavirus curve. And to think about the impacts it has already had and will have on national and international politics. It succumbed to religious and political pressure in India, which resulted in super-spreading and a disease out of control. In Brazil, political divisions are deep with a president who scorned the disease. It had its role in our recent election, and President Biden has made overcoming it a keystone of his early presidency. 

 

Is it hidden in the violent outbreaks in Israel and Ethiopia? And has our Governor Brown made the right bets on closing and opening schools and the economy? Where are we on the curves?

 

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109. Rats, Lice, and History

"Swords and lances, arrows, machine guns…, have had far less power over the fates of nations than         the Typhus louse, the plague flea, and the yellow-fever mosquito. Civilizations have retreated from the plasmodium of malaria, and armies have crumbled under the onslaught of cholera spirilla... Huge areas have been devastated by the trypanosome that travels on the wings of the teste fly, and generations have been harassed by the syphilis of a courtier. War and conquest and that herd existence which is an accompaniment of what we call civilization have merely set the stage for these more powerful agents of human tragedy."

From the opening pages of Rats, Lice, and History, a chronicle of infectious diseases and their historical impacts, with special attention to the “Life History of Typhus Fever,” written by Harvard biologist Hans Zinsser, published in 1935. It’s a science book for the “lay reader.” Yes, the lay reader who can read German, French, and a little Greek—the quotes are not translated! Maybe, in 1935, the lay reader had a deeper background in the classics. 

The first outstanding bit of knowledge that I picked up from the book is that many thinkers—in ancient Egypt and Greece, Europe of the Middle Ages, to and through English and American physicians from 1200 to 1935—were meticulous in describing the diseases of their days. And that more modern—read 19th and early 20th century—scientific compilers found and grouped these ancient writings so that Zinsser could reiterate and regroup, and then make the argument that civilization carried with it the concentration of humans that in turn has given us epidemic infectious diseases. 

I’d long thought that history as I learned it and have been living it is made up of: the chronicles of kings and queens, emperors and dictators, generals with their armies, inventors with their inventions—of electrical transmission, cotton gins, and airplanes; but mostly of the growth of international trade and of nation-states, and the battles of political philosophy that have raged in my own lifetime among fascism, Marxism, Maoism, Nordic Socialism; the American New Deal, trickle-down economics and Reagan’s “government is the problem.”

But I’d been converted by Alfred Crosby and the idea that the “Columbian Exchange” of animals, plants, and diseases was a global pivot point as important as the actions of emperors and armies; I’d seen that history is made of people and their organizing principles, but also of volcanic eruptions, climate changes, and the marches of smallpox from old world to new, been converted to what I saw as a “new” environmental history. I see now that Jared Diamond and Alfred Crosby were preceded by a string of historians, from the ancient chronicler of the Peloponnesian Wars, Thucydides, to Zinsser in 1935, who have been forever telling us that the world we live in comes to us shaped by flies and rodents as much as it is by wars and politics.

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108. One minute--on the Pandemic

We’re tired. There are other things in the news: police killings, mass shootings, and gun legislation grab the headlines. President Biden’s big speech before a limited congressional audience made a big nod toward the successful vaccination surge and declining rates of infection the United States—and then moved on to education, jobs, infrastructure, and health and child care in general. Covid might have been the opener on his laundry list, but it was not the closer.

On the other hand, second page and sub-headline news says that infection rates remain high or are going up in Michigan and Oregon, and spiking up in India. And in the stories we read that the world—including the US—is trying to help in India with oxygen, ventilators, some vaccine and the wherewithal to produce more vaccine in country. Those second pages also tell us that Covid variants are proliferating where contagion is spreading—they get named after countries like Brazil. We also learn that we really don’t know yet about the effectiveness of existing vaccines against all variants, and, importantly, we do not know about a need for boosters this fall or next year.

Still—at the bottom of the New York Times opinion page this morning is an article by English historian David Motedel. He writes that “Opposition to vaccination is as old as vaccination itself. And despite consistent and often widespread hostility, vaccination campaigns have always, eventually, succeeded.”

Campaigns against polio vaccination, measles, mumps and rubella vaccinations, and smallpox vaccinations were all vigorous. MMR vaccine avoidance is credited with bringing measles back in many places, including Oregon. Polio vaccine has been blamed for causing sterility and being linked to AIDs, and polio, while gone almost world-wide, reared up recently in Pakistan. The smallpox vaccine has weathered it all, and at this point the disease is officially gone. 

Motedel’s words are comforting, although the struggles to get to a point where any infectious disease has trouble finding enough unvaccinated to move significantly have never been over in a day. The Covid story—and the journey—continues.

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