Crudbucket Charcuterie

Or, if You Have Something to Share, Please Don't

Tonight, I am trapped in a familiar dream. It involves me, in a frantic state, desperately trying to breathe while ransacking my home and dumping my purse, searching for my inhaler. It ends with me, bolting upright out of bed in a panic, with the next moments spent desperately trying to catch my breath between hits of my inhaler. The dream is actually my body’s warning of an impending mid-sleep asthma attack. This event is more frustrating than usual, as it is the first night I have slept in bed with Dan and the pups in a solid week. I tried.

I am not the soapbox kind of girl but maybe once or twice a year. My social media soapbox entries are so rare that I have saved every single one, to remind me of how vehemently I raged about deeply felt injustices, generally someone else’s and not often my own. While quite the self-reflective person, I am not one to publicly whine about much that happens in my life. I know that whatever it is, it is happening FOR me, and not against me, even if it is a hard lesson for my soul’s growth. My quest is to always unearth MY part in creating my current angst or misery. One cannot change what has happened nor anyone else’s words or actions, but only OUR reaction to what has happened. I will, however, in my robe and with slippered feet leap right up on the ol’ Ivory soap crate. If you happen to have a lingering sniffle, feel something “coming on”, or are a flat-out mucus-factory, stay your &*% at home. That’s coming from the immuno-compromised, like me, and the elderly, who make up the vast majority of the population here in Quartzsite, no matter what time of the year it might happen to be.

The Big Tent is open and the current population of our little town of Quartzsite, Arizona, has exploded, as it does every year. Quartzsite is the Rock Capitol of the United States, and it’s all about the gem and mineral and every other kind of show, the vendors hawking wares from every corner of the globe, and the nomadic or semi-nomadic throngs of warm bodies who inhabit this minute slice of real estate by the hundreds of thousands most years.

The differences between living here all year and living here in the touristy months are numerous, as stated in a few of my previous posts. In any case, many who find their way to this desert mecca are either on vacation or permanent vacation, as in retired. They wanna do what they came here to do while they are here, no matter what. The lines are long, the traffic is atrocious, and the tempers are short as people bump up against what actually is instead of what they were expecting, given all of the YouTube hype and first-hand accounts from previous visitors. Every space in our park is full this year and even the locals are up for an adventure, now that their sunburns and heat rashes have subsided. No one wants to miss out on all of the fun. I get it, having both experienced Quartzsite as a nomadic citizen and as a resident. I am not here to point at any variety of “bird”, except those who can’t stay in whatever nest they reside in when they are not feeling well.

Was it the fifth person in line at the craft store who licked her fingers as she peeled off a fiver to hand me to pay for a pack of sewing needles? Had there not been five in front and as many behind her, I would have had something sharp and not so friendly to say about that. Boob, sock, and licky-licky money not accepted here. Resident. Was it the perfectly coifed lady sitting a few feet away from me at a large round table with the flushed, rosy cheeks who admitted more than halfway through a jewelry making class that she had just arrived the day before, but had spent last night in the ER being checked for a “virus” that hadn’t resolved itself in weeks? She had been given an antibiotic for a secondary infection but didn’t “believe” in antibiotics so wasn’t planning on taking it. It was, however, important for her to learn this particular craft, so she was selfishly out and about anyway, all other humans bedamned. I packed up my half-finished project and bolted. Kindergarten manners, basic hygiene, consideration for your fellow human be-ing, all missing. I can’t say that age or life experiences bring wisdom or even common sense to everyone.

Was it the fact that Dan and I have popped out of retirement briefly, both working real jobs to stack up cash to replace our beloved chariot which has amassed 294,000 miles, thus exposing ourselves to the germs of the hordes of whomevers? I am not pointing fingers at any group or individual for coming down with the non-Covid “insert your city’s name here” creeping crud. I fully take responsibility for my (or our) part in it. We Cordrays gotta do what we Cordrays gotta do, because earning the money and doing what it takes to get out on the road is something we have already done, both on our own and collectively when we joined forces. Freedom is not always free, but ain’t nobody crying over here about that. We are grownups. I am the variety of grown-up who has missed a week’s worth of work at the craft store and the chance to teach my art class last Friday because I wouldn’t wish this hacking, sneezing, snot-filled, stuffed up not-even-Nyquil-will-help kind of experience on anyone. Therefore, I wouldn’t put myself in the position to serve it up to the next unwilling victim.

This barrel of fun has forced me to sit upright on the couch or on a chair in the backyard to be able to breathe well enough to catch a single wink, no matter what time of day. I gaze longingly at my handsome husband, wishing for a date night or even a little peck on the cheek but I must avoid him BECAUSE of the plague. Early on, not able to take it any longer, he planted a big smackeroo right on my surprised lips. I am still worried about that move, his heart-felt flurry of passion, might cost him. I long for my comfy bed full of snuggly roommates. It’s lonely out here on the couch night after night after night.

Flash forward a few miserable, endless days and I am tentatively on the mend, more than 13 rotten days after the first sniffle. I no longer sound like Donald Duck (often), and although not quite springy, I am much improved. I have not returned to work, so two weeks of pay lost, and two art classes canceled.

The wall of dust that rises as vehicles and feet traverse the desert floor is inevitable as the high season continues. It’s part and parcel of the “truth” of what’s out here and what it’s like to survive and thrive in the desert, which would just as well spit you out and blow your remains down the nearest mountain than allow you to exist here comfortably year-round. It’s winter here like it’s winter there, that’s a fact. Our “snow” is dust, with much of it consisting of powdered cryptobiotic soil crust, a crusty black dirt “topping”, a living soil comprised of cyanobacteria, a form of blue-green algae, plus lichen, moss, fungi, and other bacteria. This crucial desert crust helps stabilize soil to prevent erosion, holds moisture, and manages nutrient cycles. Every hiking boot, tennis shoe, and side-by-side wheel destroys it and sends it flying through the air. Will our lungs and sinuses adjust? Every year, we get the chance to find out. Add a few hundred thousand people and see what happens.

The wind howls and the temps dip below freezing and barely above in the darkest hours on many nights. Local vandwellers post pics of a thick layer of ice on windshields and goods left outdoors. I thank my lucky stars to be here at the non-rolling desert version of Camp Cordray while I recover. I look forward to the day when I can say I am well enough to resume activities. Alas, today will not be that day.

Great Spirit, grant me good health, patience, a cast-iron immune system, and plenty of Kleenex-free days ahead. I am almost there. For the rest of you, consider your fellow human and keep your cooties to yourselves.

Sincerely,

Brenda Cordray

“The Desert Rose”