Written 5 August, 2020.
An Australian reporter Jonathan Swan, interviewed Trump. Trump said, as he has many times while the Pandemic rages, that the virus is under control in America.
“Under the circumstances, right now, I think it’s under control.”
Swan: “How? A thousand Americans are dying a day.”
Trump: “They are dying, that’s true. And it is what it is. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t doing everything we can. It’s under control as much as you can control it. This is a horrible plague that beset us.”
Swan: “You really think this is as much as we can control it? A thousand deaths a day?”
Trump: “I’d like to know if somebody – first of all, we have done a great job.”
Today in our little bay, big changes. The golden haired streaked with grey immune compromised builder comes with his blast of cheeriness to put up the tin sheds that my one-armed GG couldn’t do. After he’s gone, I store in them the tools strewn around my pergola, and I have my pergola back. it’s missing some of its roof and it’s on a dangerous slant, but GG built it for me when he had two arms, and it still seems beautiful.
Meanwhile, K needs to go to the doctor on Monday, so we must return to the city and brave the virus. Wear masks, wash hands, socially distance. Pray. Try to feel immortal. She spends an hour packing lightly, only eight or so bags. We don’t complain, feeling that we’ve got off lightly.
We’ll leave tomorrow. it’s going to rain for the next four days, so there’ll be no sunshine, no power. It’s such a long journey for her, we’ll stay in the city five days. That’ll kill five days of the long stretch when our new solar batteries get delivered. Some more days when Dy can progress the communal power station, begun a month ago with such excitement.
Then, just as we’re making plans, Chad the tree-lopper says he can come with his team of four tomorrow, to lop down a day’s worth of our neighbour’s trees, the trees that shadow our solar panels. Suddenly this quiet bay seems bustling.
We’ll come back to more sunshine, more power, and peace.
