You’re Damn Straight I’m Scared

By Michael Willard

I’ve pow-wowed with rebel guerrilla leaders in El Salvador, hung out in a Nicaraguan contra safe house in Honduras, and tramped for days alone in dark forests, not to mention witnessing up close and personal two revolutions.

But, I don’t have any desire to venture out these days to a suburban Wal-Mart or dine at a Florida restaurant. Call me a sniveling coward, and I will happily raise my hand.

This COVID-19 virus scares the hell out of me.

I also believe the Governor of Florida, a fellow named Ron DeSantis, has the cranium power of a lowly gnat. People not nearly as scaredy-cat as I will die because of him, and others like him.

Since when do we in America put the mighty dollar on the same par with human life, and I say this feeling compassion for those out of work, and the small business people who fear bankruptcy due to being shut down.

The answer of course is that many do put cash above life, including the person who quite often is called the leader of the free world, which are hollow words if ever spoken about the man who has led from the rear in this pandemic.

Donald Trump hasn’t managed to do anything right, and he is embarrassing my country. The height of his ignorance — as recognized by folks of all political stripes — was when he suggested a dose of internally taken bleach.

I’m in that category to which the medical people keep referring, firmly placed in the yellow leaf generation of Baby-Boomers with an underlying condition. Mine happens to be the common diabetes №2, though I keep it under control.

My regimen is exercise — walking three miles a day — and a diet controlled by Dr. Olga, who is not really a bona fide physician but who carries much more authority as wife than either the President, Dr. Fauci, or my primary care physcian.

Not once, I might add — even in a rare moment of temper at my many foibles and moods gyrations — has she suggested a Clorox ® cocktail, with a vodka chaser. Other than those maladies, I’m good to go, absent a few back pains and blood pressure that doesn’t know exactly where it wants to land each day.

Olga, a generation younger than I, is the designated person to go to the grocery store and pharmacy. She leaves armed with mask and gloves and wipes down every item before they find their way to kitchen shelves.

If I handle them on her returns before her cleaning, I am instructed not just to wash my hands but to toss the shirt that might possibly have the virus residue.

She’s my hero. I have few others. Well, maybe Dr. Fauci.

Fauci is my nomination for Time Magazine’s Person of the Year, along with maybe Bill and Melinda Gates (a second time). The scientists and the funders of science are the real heroes, not chirping politicians.

There is a saying that it’s impossible to be half pregnant. I assume medical evidence proves this. The same is true with any mass opening of stores, beaches, restaurants, tattoo parlors, etc. when pandemic numbers are still high.

Though the Florida governor has put restrictions on sizes of crowds, we’re merely talking a wink and a nod. It represents that Dutch kid with his finger in the dike.

I’m not a soothsayer, and as our President is known to have qualified, I’m no doctor. But logic tells me that opening up a state when it has not met the Administration’s own guidelines is red zone foolish.

The two great issues of the 21st Century thus far are not missiles from North Korea or immigration on our southern border, but the pandemic and climate uncertainty.

Trump fumbled the first and has denied the second.

Nah, my favorite watering hole for the time being will be my front porch. I’m a coward when it comes to this virus.

(Photo: Doc Olga Willard and the senior citizen pup imbibing a month or so pre-pandemic)

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