Coronavirus in the Valley

An echo from 2020

I grew up in a desert. Only some of God’s creatures can survive there. Man is one of them.

My granddaddy’s people moved to the desert long ago when it was empty and still up for grabs. Lots of them died—Indians, starvation, cholera. The dead were buried in shallow graves, a lone branch or bit of volcanic rock to mark that they ever were. But the living still managed to make their desert blossom like the cactus rose. They ran off the Indians, built towns, schools, and churches, dug irrigation ditches, planted fruit trees, and had babies. All they wanted in the world was some land, a little freedom, and something to leave to posterity.

Today the desert is a much different place. There are all sorts of strange creatures the old-timers could have never imagined: snowbirds, tree-huggers, hippies, gays, preppers, separatists, and Indians (dot, not feather).

The snowbirds are by far the strangest. They descend on the Valley all at once in happy gaggles like they’re spending a weekend in Vegas. And when they settle in for the winter, you see them walking around the neighborhood in little groups, happy as clams in high tide. You see, they escaped. They escaped their Boomer jobs, Boomer neighborhoods, and Boomer families in Chicago. Most wouldn’t dream of spending Christmas with the kids. Pinochle at Sharon’s is a better time anyway.

When I got tired of working with my hands, I got a job doing deliveries for a local pharmacy. Most of my clients were blue-haired snowbirds in retirement communities and condos. And I’ll tell you, nothing makes you feel like a regular Pete Fonda like delivering tasty drugs to little old snowbirds. You’re a celebrity. All smiles and winks, and once in a while a pinch. I didn’t let it go to my head, but you almost start to feel like you’re doing something noble, charitable even.

The pharmacy started to grow as the gaggles of snowbirds increased. There’s nothing blue-haired Boomers like more than their favorite pills home-delivered. Pretty soon we started delivering the meds to all the local nursing homes. Lots and lots of pills. The big bucks.

Unlike the retirement communities, I didn’t care for the old folks’ homes. Few smiles, no winks, and not a single pinch. It smelled terrible, and the staff were ornery. There were no little old blue-haired ladies. Just lots and lots of white hairs and scabby bald heads.

A lot of those old folks had been snowbirds themselves. Flying in and flying out every year in their gaggles. But as the group slowly thinned out, the last few got so stiff they couldn’t travel. So they would wind up in an old folks’ home in the Valley, their closest relation in New York or Massachusetts or some such place. I hardly saw kids or grandkids visiting those grounded snowbirds, even on Christmas. The pharmacy would load me up with these little festive potpourri balls to pass around with the drugs. I was usually the only visitor these people got the whole year. One lady tried eating the potpourri ball. She wasn’t all there, but I still got a big kick outta that.

I moved out of the Valley a few years ago and got a real job. The pharmacist and I are still pretty good friends, so I head down to there every so often so he can fill my prescriptions. It’s a good opportunity to smoke and joke and do some catching up.

I broke the rules and visited him a few weeks ago. He’s been slammed on account of this virus. The snowbirds are huddled inside. No early morning walks, no smiles, no winks. He told me that going into the nursing homes is like walking into Hell. They’re packed in there like sardines as it is, and so the virus is just festering away and taking them out one by one. The staff are tapped out and the doctors practically live there now.

He said the virus got 13 of them in a little over a week. Just like that. Then he told me about one place that had so many dead people they just stacked them in a room like they were lincoln logs. All those dead snowbirds. The House finally won.

When the news broke about the stacked up snowbirds, some of the families got mad as hell and started calling the old folks’ home day and night. Then the local news caught wind of it, and now a bunch of CNAs and RNs are getting lit up for playing Jenga with grandma.

Don’t get me wrong, the whole thing’s sad as hell. When I heard, I couldn’t stop thinking about the lady who tried to eat the potpourri ball. I can’t really be too hard on the staff, though. Sure they were miserable to be around, but it’s a tough job. I mean, what do you expect a guy to do with 13 dead snowbirds? Hell, he’s only making $11 an hour anyway.

I started seeing this sorta thing on TV for weeks afterward:

“BREAKING NEWS: 72 DEATHS AT HOME FOR VETERANS”

“BREAKING NEWS: MINNESOTA NURSING HOME HIT WITH 47 DEATHS”

BREAKING NEWS: FLORIDA REPORTS 665 NURSING HOME DEATHS TOTAL”

And then there was the thing in New Jersey. Somebody tips off the police about a bunch of bodies stuffed in a morgue someplace. Been there for weeks. Police show up and the owner gets fined $200,000 by the city. The nursing home got in trouble too, but I’m not sure whether they were fined. Last I heard, out of 133 cases, 94 of them had died after a few weeks. The whole morgue thing made me think of all those stacked up snowbirds. Sad stuff.

I haven’t been to the Valley in a while, and I don’t intend to go anytime soon. Whenever I think about the old folks’ homes, I get feeling pretty blue. How many of those snowbirds thought they had won the lottery? Ditching the babies, congregations, nosy neighbors, and cold weather... Headed for the desert where they could go on their morning walks and wink at the delivery guy. A lifetime of work and chasing kids for a few winters in the Valley and pinochle at Sharon’s.

The kids probably thought they’d won the lottery when mom got dropped off at the nursing home.

It was nicer than the last one.

Her room has a window.

College kids visit and sing them songs.

The staff won’t dye her hair though. And they don’t always answer the phone. It just rings and rings. But what can you expect when you only pay someone $11 an hour to take care of 25 octogenarians—half of whom are so oblivious they’ll eat a potpourri ball?

These kids have troubles of their own—they have families to take care of. Baby’s got to go to daycare. That isn’t cheap. You have to pay a whole lot more to make sure baby gets taken care of. How many times do you hear about some poor baby getting squashed or beat to death at some rinky-dink daycare? $11 an hour just can’t buy a decent peace of mind. So you’re stuck in a smelly old folks’ home all day long, thinking of baby, ignoring the phone, wiping up who knows what… and the next thing you know, you’ve got a bunch of dead snowbirds stacked in a room… and not even a branch or bit of stone to mark that they ever were.