I went to Costco yesterday to stock up on coffee, ramen noodles and such other necessities I thought I might need to get me through the (?) weeks of I was planning spend in relative-isolation--which is kind of oxymoronic since I've been self-isolating in rural Montana for the last 40 years or so--and it's true: they were out of toilet paper. Everyone I interacted with (from 6 feet or more away of course!) was pretty jolly about the whole thing, swapping jokes about the nutritional value of toilet paper, what kinds of food you should stock up on to avoid using so much of it, etc., and what else can you do? Life goes on and laughing's better than worrying, although after reflecting on it I had to admit that ramen noodles and coffee would probably be on the same food chart as toilet paper, nutritionally-speaking.
But ultimately I have to check in on the seriousness of the thing. Here's a bug that doesn't respond to government-by-tweet sweeping the world and, as humans have that wonderful proclivity to do, we move like lemmings to the most precarious edges of reality, hoping for the best, or the worst, depending on your religion. Panic, denial, conspiracy theories. They're all of a piece, and, notwithstanding the fact that we're not actually living in a war zone with bombs dropping out of the sky, you have to take the results of such baseline human behavior as the existential threats that they are, and I didn't want Costco running out of my favorite bargain French Roast before I got my share. That's the "panic" component. The "conspiracy-theory" part hit home with me this morning when I was texting with an old Navy buddy who was pretty sure the coronavirus came from a Wuhan weapons lab with an Israeli secret-service connection. Now that, I thought, was the kind of default human thinking that should make me panic, but I know him as a good guy and I merely said, "Nah, it's from eating snakes," and I'll leave it to the reader to decide which would make the better punchline when things calm down.
Then, still sitting in my self-isolating writing-chair next to my cozy wood stove, I received an email from the Tulare (California) Historical Museum informing me that they had to postpone a "Literary Landmark" event in honor of my cousin, Wilma E. McDaniel, who passed away in 2007 after almost 90 years of living, most of that as a California Okie who ended up being one of the most significant California poets of the 20th Century. I was planning to attend, figured it'd be cancelled, and was sad. But what struck me most about all of this particular moment of muddled clarity was a short piece Wilma wrote before she died that the organizer of the event, Karen Neurohr, posted along with the cancellation notice. I don't know exactly when Wilma wrote her piece "Viral Bug", but I'm pretty sure it was during the final years of her life when she was living in a senior apartment complex in Tulare that provided her and her brother, Roy, who was pushing 100, with independent-living duplex apartments--and an emergency cord in the bathroom in case someone in the office needed to call an ambulance.
Please read her little piece below, along with one of the many thousands of poems (just a guess but I'll bet it's no exaggeration) that endeared her to her audience, her People, and think, please, instead of merely reacting as we so often do when changes come at us from out of somewhere other than where we're used to looking. This virus really isn't a joke. Even if you're healthy, you have our incredibly-valuable, vulnerable citizens to think of, those who are living just like Wilma describes below, and many far-worse-off than that. This isn't a "hoax" to get trump (for chrissakes). This isn't a Chinese plot to destabilize the western economy (for chrissakes). This is a dry run on how compassionate a People we really are. Please take good care, not just for your own sake but for those whom you will never know.
Viral Bug
Wilma McDaniel
VIRUS.
Please note that I have spelled the above word with capital letters. That seems only proper in light of my recent experience. A virus is not just a trendy word, a virus can wipe out anyone, even an Okie poet who has no computer. I can’t even blame what happened on weather.
Certainly the month of May was cooler and wetter than usual. Forget that my Father ever raised cotton and was sometimes rained out, too late to plant. I really enjoyed the cool weather. Sometimes May can be scorching in the Valley. Instead of feeling better though, my eyes and nose ran constantly and my throat became as red as first class beef and too sore to barely swallow.
I don’t like sitting in the doctor’s office with dozens of patients even sicker than I. I resorted to warm saltwater gargles, tea and juice. All the home remedies that have brought me to the brink of old age. I felt feverish the last few days and discovered my ancient thermometer had blanked out completely. I really didn’t know what my temperature was.
On May 15th, I staggered out to the kitchen fully dressed and made coffee. I left it on the sink and started to the bathroom. I saw myriad lights before my face and fell unconscious in the hall. I think it was 7am. I don’t know how long I lay there, perhaps ten minutes. Anyway, I gradually came out of a fog and wondered if I had experienced a stroke. I carefully tried my right hand, it moved; then the left, which also worked. My legs moved. The worst handicap was, I couldn’t lift my head. I tried to raise it but it fell back on the tile floor like a pumpkin.
I made a second attempt, but thought my pumpkin might split open. I lay there in the narrow hall calling on God, calling for my neighbor who never heard me. At last God heard me. I took about twenty minutes to scoot to my bathroom, still on my back. I managed to raise my head with one hand long enough to grab the emergency cord, then fell back on the floor. In four or five minutes, I heard the ambulance siren so I knew help was coming to transport me to the hospital.
I do hate to bore any readers of this column, but I need to say that I came near to being the late poet. Without any doubt in my mind, angels helped me fall neatly in that narrow hall without fracturing my skull or refracturing my neck and lumbar section.
It is precious to still live, priceless beyond words. I invested in a later model thermometer and check my temp almost everyday. I scan papers for virus reports and even wonder which one laid me low with a 104° fever. No wonder I keeled over. Happier days to come, though this isn’t bad.”―by Wilma Elizabeth McDaniel as published in Walking on an Old Road: A Collection of Writing and Poetry. © 2007 Stone Woman Press, Tulare, California. Edited by J.R.R. Chlebda, first edition paperback printing. Back40 Publishing, Sebastopol, California.
Picking Grapes 1937
Magic seventeen
And new in California
Working in bursting
Sweet vineyards
Hot sand on soul
One strap held by a safetypin
A girl could be whatever
She desired
The first breath of
Eve in Paradise
The last gasp of Jean Harlow
In Hollywood
Wilma E. McDaniel
