The winds brought in some news. A friend, Carol, was to meet another for lunch and whatever. Carol, known by habit and character to be punctual, didn’t show. The jilted date went to Carol’s house to learn why. The front door was unlocked, the television was on, and there was Carol, dressed and seated in front of the telly, all ready to go, already gone.
She was always fun at the annual Oscars Party, held at Judy’s house each year. The pandemic put a stop to that nonsense. Carol was also known as an enthusiastic reader and one ready for a small glass of white, and a refill. She was tidy and neat, never a hair out of place, always in stylish shoes, fast with a quip, ready to talk politics and the latest on the war, economy, or technology. She is, of course, irreplaceable, as they all are. News of her passing is going through the community like a high-speed boat.
All agree, we’ll certainly miss Carol. At least, the consensus says, she went out the best way, dressed and ready to go, with little apparent bother, and no long good-byes. She never was one for long good-byes.
He has the bug. It overtook him without warning and is as insistent and annoying as a mosquito visiting his ear canal. Acknowledging what must be done, he goes into his closet and begins pulling out clothes and trying them on. Yes, they’re his clothes, and not his wife’s – not that there’s anything wrong with that. Just a point of order.
First to be tried on is the flight suit that he last wore over thirty years ago. Does not fit, he finds. Hell, it can’t ever be tugged over his shoulders without his spouse’s help. It’s surprising how much it’s shrunk since he last put it on. He keeps his Air Force service dress uniform out of nostalgia, even though it also shrank.
Business suits are next. He formerly wore a lot of them during his time in marketing but hasn’t put one on for almost twenty years. They have also shrunk. He makes a mental note to google why some closets make clothes shrink. Maybe it’s the way he’s storing them or something. Jeans, pants, and shirts are pulled out, tested, and put into neat piles. In an hour, he’s collected three towers of clothes which have shrunk. He’ll donate them to charities.
The shrinking worries him, though. Maybe he should move his other clothes somewhere else before they shrink.
We’re under a blue egg sky this morning. A half-moon that seems almost translucent studies us from a perch above the western horizon’s trees. It is Saturday. Looks like we made it.
October 15, 2022, the Gregorian calendar system employed in most of the world declares. I appreciate the decisions made way back in the 1500s and further back, in the third and fourth centuries about how calendars work. Saves me the headache of doing it myself. I’d need a Youtube video for that. The current calendar is built on the back of other calendars, like the Julian. We owe some of our current calendar use to Pope Gregory XIII. I learned these things back in junior high but that’s all I can share without a dose of coffee. The Neurons have ordered a work stoppage until said coffee arrives.
I can still type, though, and note that it’s Saturday, either the end of the week or next to last day of the week, depending on whether you think the week starts on Sunday or Monday. I lean toward Sunday as the week’s beginning, making Saturday the end of my week, but I recall a family argument about when the week begins. Boy, was that a crazy morning.
It’s 61 F right now. Weather analysts tell us that 32 C is possible by late afternoon. No doubt it has a chance. The sun is strong, clouds have slipped away for a long weekend (probably at Cumulopalooza 22), and windshifts are moving the Cedar Creek fire’s particles away from our faces. Located in a steep, rugged area, the fire jumped containment five days ago and is forty percent contained as of today.
Sunset will come at 6:23 PM while the heavenly mechanics brought the sun back into our valley at 7:23 this morning.
The Neurons have seeded the morning mental music stream with “19th Nervous Breakdown”. Doya know the song? Released between fifty and sixty years ago, it was a hit single for this Brit band called The Rolling Stones. This tune was selected, The Neurons inform me, because I went outside, and then told myself to stop and look around. I was enjoying the morning air, breathing deep, letting the sun bathe my face with warm light, and planning my yardwork. The Neurons, of course, carried it off in on a whole other track. But now it’s here, and I must abide by The Neurons.
Coffee is also here, a welcome jumpstart to my taste buds and energy. Stay posimatic and be a negabot. Also take care of yourself. You’re worth it, to steal a commercial line about hair products, don’t you think?
Michael Seidel, writer 