Married while they were young, divorced while I was young, Mom seemed to give Dad a bum rap, something I didn’t appreciate until I was older and knew Mom and Dad better as adults.
Dad married three times. He sired seven children, two girls and five sons. Only two of his sons lived to adulthood.
One son tragically died in a car accident when he was just five years old. Dad was at his saddest and most silent then, and I was beside him at his son’s funeral.
I only lived with Dad twice: when I was very young until I was about five years old, and then again between the ages of fifteen and eighteen. I’d run away from home. Dad, in the Air Force and just returned to the U.S. from assignment in Germany, gave me a place to live. I was at his wedding with his second wife.
I’ve seen and visited him sporadically throughout the years. We talked on the phone more during the last few years, something that he actively pursued, trying to mend and improve our relationship.
Dad at 92, August of 2025.
Dad taught me to pee behind a bush. We lived in Arlington, Virginia in a rented house on a cul-de-sac at the top of a hill. Dad was in the Air Force; Mom was a telephone operator. Mom was working, and Dad, with the children, was locked out of the house. I announced that I needed to pee. Dad led me behind some bushes by the side of the house and told me to go. I was horrified but did it with his encouragement.
Mom came home just after I finished my business. I rushed out to her to inform her of my milestone. She was shocked and angry. Dad just laughed and laughed. He would’ve been in his mid-twenties.
I also give Dad credit for teaching me how to wrestle, how to catch and throw a ball, and how to ride a bike. He gave me his baseball gloves and bats when he came home on a visit and realized that I didn’t have either.
He also gave me his love of automobiles and encouraged me to think about problems and find my own solutions. Looking back, he was surprisingly patient and positive.
I don’t remember any Thanksgivings with Dad. We did share a few Christmases, and some July 4th celebrations. Most of those, though, were with Mom. He did take me on a fishing trip and gave me my first and only fishing rods.
Like many of us, Dad was a balance, a study in life, striving and trying, learning, and sometimes failing. But he always got back up and went on. I haven’t seen him much since he turned 85 seven years ago. I’ll miss him.
I’ve read a number of recent pieces about the economy. They focus mostly on the confusion now seen in the U.S. economy. Why tariffs didn’t increase prices as much as expected. Why customers are so negative about the economy when the numbers aren’t bad. Why consumer spending remains up while consumer confidence is down.
Trump’s antics play much into their impressions. He’s broken trade agreements. Then, by leveling tariffs on everything in the name of national security, he’s shifted expectations. Prices are expected to increase due to tariffs. So are shortages due to tariffs and trade wars. These factors advance negative perceptions of what’s to come. Paul Krugman refers to this as vibecessions. These are vibes that a recession is coming, that the economy is not really doing well.
Well, for one, there’s been some surprise in the tariffs. The effective rate has turned out to be much lower than the declared rates. Part of this is because most economists expect Trump’s tariffs to be declared illegal and withdrawn. They suspect companies are eating much of the tariff costs for the short term so they won’t lose customers. This makes sense, if they expect the tariffs to be short-lived. It also makes sense if you compare the cost of finding and luring new customers to your business compared to the cost of keeping them. Getting new customers is much harder and more expensive. Loyalty, once broached, is very expensive. Then, when the tariffs are withdrawn, companies can, as necessary raise prices under other pretenses.
As for employment and unemployment, economists suggest this is because of uncertainty with the economy. Part of this is due not just to reporting confusion (more on that below), but because of the economic activity being generated by cryptocurrencies and AI developments. Both are areas where vast investments are being made. Both are relatively new. Their actual impact on the economy is uncertain.
This is especially true with AI. Artificial Intelligence. It’s here, but meaningful impact from using artificial intelligence in business to increase productivity and profits is slow to emerge. Meanwhile, huge centers are being built to support AI. These are expensive centers. Their need for electricity will drive up energy costs if they’re not countered by the construction of new energy sources. The Trump Regime’s deliberate decisions to cut funds to build solar and wind farms to generate more electricity puts the nation way behind planning and building new power sources.
Additionally, with so many huge AI centers being built, there will be some which don’t successfully compete and then fail. Think back if you can to when personal computers came onto the scene. So many businesses sprang up to build computers to fill this new need. Likewise, look at the airline industry when commercial airline travel was growing, and how many airlines sprang up and then either got bought up or shut down and faded away. Same with automobile manufacturing. Video renting. Streaming services. Malls. Craft beers and micro breweries. Each advance is littered with the remains of failures.
Plus, there is some fallout that’s going to grow because of provisions in the Big Beautiful Bill. What it will do to healthcare costs aren’t clear. Premiums for many seem to be climbing. How this load on their spending patterns hasn’t been clearly demonstrated. Likewise, cuts to SNAP, school systems, college enrollment, are still to be expected. As Federal funds don’t make it to the state level, state funding doesn’t reach local levels, affecting the economy at multiple levels. Then, too, there is the declining tourism, especially from foreign locations. It’s affecting state economies who depend on tourism, but how deeply will they be affected is the looming question.
Additionally, I think many consumers might be like my wife and me. In my house, we made many purchases with the expectations that the economic crap is going to encounter the economic fan, so buy now, while prices aren’t too bad, while the stuff is available, while we can. Basically, it’s spend more now because we can’t buy later. We deliberately stockpiled things we regularly use, like coffee and canned and processed foods from other countries. We do replenish as we can now, using the same rational.
Beyond those things, we know that Trump is a liar. We’ve also noticed that those surrogates in Trump’s Regime who speak out in public are liars. Not just liars but do everything possible to prop Trump and all things Trump up and light it up in the best possible light. As Trump via DOGE slashed through the government, he broke many things. Among them is the reporting mechanism for several economic indicators. He flat removed people who gave truthful numbers, such as the BLS. That burned him, so he burned them. That’s just the things that came out in public. What’s going on behind in the dark can only be guessed out.
That leaves us confused. Can we trust Trump and the numbers his administration releases? Fuck no. Only fools and sycophants believe those numbers. With that uncertainty, businesses struggle to make any long-term plans, because reality might catch up any day now.
Trump thinks he can keep up his numbers game and lies. We know that’s not true; we see prices rising, causing the affordability issues we’re now facing.
We also have Trump’s personal history. That history shows that Trump’s lies are always exposed. He lied about his accomplishments, his wealth, his businesses, and his prospects. Each time, those were exposed. He was taken to court. Convicted. Filed for bankruptcies to escape his mistakes. Cheated on taxes. Stole money from charities he or his family set up. Used word games and sleight of hand and secrecy to build himself up. But it all catches up to him. Right now, we’re waiting to see what the Epstein files show who he and what he’s done. Trump has been fighting like hell to keep that from happening.
So that’s the thing, for me. Beyond the numbers, there is a simple truth: Trump is a failure who lives behind a curtain of deception. But that curtain keeps getting torn open. When it does this time, it’s going to be a freaking mess.
Ferrari red, it’s a wide, low vehicle. My wife is my passenger. We’re backing out of a garage. The passenger mirror hits the garage door frame. My wife gasps. I grimace. We finish leaving the garage and see that there is a Ferrari Testarossa mirror-shaped scallop removed from the garage door’s frame. I get out and check the mirror while my wife grumbles. The mirror is there but is upside down. A twist and I fix it, good as new. Nothing wrong with it, which amuses me; the mirror is stronger than the materials bracing the garage door. How funny is that?
We drive for a while at a fast but sedate pace. Then…in a jumbled shift, I’ve driven the Ferrari onto some kind of large transport. It’s like a train without a track, with a living room, kitchen, etc., and the mad chaos of eighteen people, including children. Many of the others there are known to me as actors and musicians, Oscar winners and Hall of Fame rockers. I’m amazed to be with them but also think, “About time.” A young blond Helen Hunt is present, herding three children running around. She’s managing but tells her children with a wicked smile and a gleam at me, “Hang on, children, Mommy has to drive this as fast as she can. It’s going to be hairy. Do you want Mommy to drive fast?”
“Yes,” the children all agree in repeated shouts while I’m agape, accepting, this is what I signed up for but I didn’t know what I was signing up for.
“Okay,” Helen Hunt says, “here we go.” She has a wooden stirring spoon her hand and is standing in the center of a room, children around her, toys strewn across the carpeted room. “Zoom,” she shouts, and thrusts her wooden spoon up.
The vehicle rockets forward. She waves her spoon and it rocks left, right, left. The children are laughing. I’m paralyzed in amazement. But we’re moving.
A conference among others is called and I attend. “Where are we going?” David Niven asks. “We’ll know when we’ll get there,” replies Bruce Willis, and a third who I couldn’t name tags on, “But we have to move fast.”
I offer to drive my Ferrari. It’s faster than this vehicle, so I can pull it along and we’ll get there faster. This is given serious conversation. I’m eager to do this but all decide, hold off for a while, let’s see what progress we make.
I go into another room and sit in a chair. A noise warns me, something is going out. “That’ll bring the ants out,” I think, looking down at the floor. Sure enough, as expected, a phalanx of black and red ants rush across the tiled floor. They’re going to be a bother if they go in the direction they’ve begun so I use a foot to divert their path. More obediently than cats, they turn in the new direction, and some wave thanks to me, because they understand why I diverted them.
David Niven finds me. “There you are. Come on, into the Ferrari. We need more speed. See what you can do.”
In a dream shift, I’m in the Ferrari but I’m alone. Others are hooking up the vessel and then shout, “Go.” The Ferrari is now black, I notice, and wonder when the color changed. Yet, I know it’s my Ferrari. I smashed the gas pedal and take the car up through revs, up through gears, snaking the car around traffic along an undulating and busy Interstate. Looking back, I confirm the vehicle is still being towed. I’m impressed that there’s no wind and little impression of speed. I feel in command, in control. This is a breeze, I think, speeding toward some brightly lit collection of skyscrapers looming larger on the horizon.
I have been reminded of how privileged I am. How easily I succumb to convenience.
I’m back in my regular drive. Mazda CX-5. Nothing fancy, we’ve had it for ten years. It’s packed 64,000 miles around its waist. The thing about this, though, are the automatic creature comfort features. And the key.
When we were visiting family in the Pittsburgh, PA, region, we trundled around in an older Toyota RAV4. Fine car but nothing special. But it lacked things like a key FOB that let me unlock doors just by pressing a button as I walked up to the car. The FOB permits me to start the Mazda without taking the key out of my pocket.
Man, did I miss that. I ended up putting the RAV4 keys in and out, out and in of pockets multiple times across the day. Oh, the horrors, right? But see, this is a matter of connections. With the FOB, I stick it in my left pants pocket and leave it there. With this RAV4 key, I was constantly putting it into a pocket or setting it down somewhere and then asking myself, where is that fucking key?
Wife and I approach car. It’s cold. About 40 F. Gray, with a light drizzle falling.
ME: “Wait.”
“What?”
“I can’t find the key.”
Wife stands, stares, waiting, not tapping her foot but looking like she’s on the verge.
Pockets are patted and felt, squeezed, then reached into it. “Here it is.”
My wife’s restrained look called me IDIOT so loudly, it hurt my brain.
One time I got out of the car to put gas into it. When I returned, it’s like, OMG, where is that damn key? Pat pockets again and again, dive into them…”Oh, here it is.” Damn it.
It was one of those big, long keys on a clunky handle. The key itself could be swung close to make it ‘more compact’. That was good because otherwise that thing gets caught on clothing. You press a button to flick it out, like a switchblade knife. This all required additional thinking about what I was doing, soaking up Neurons’ limited attention.
Me: “Where’s the key?”
Neurons: “We don’t know.”
Me, looking around and feeling pockets. “No one knows?”
Neurons: “We weren’t pay attention.”
Me: “Here it is.”
The button is clicked. The long key extends. I unlock the door. Put the key back into pocket. Get into car. Go to start it by putting my foot on the brake and pressing a button. The button is missing.
Neurons: “Dude, what are you doing?”
Me: “Trying to start the car.”
“You need the key. You must put it in the ignition and turn it.”
“Oh, yeah. Where’s the key?”
Neurons: “We don’t know.”
Thank tech that I’m back home where I just stick the FOB into my pocket and forget it.
Breaking away from writing, I step out for a walk. The sun has warmed us to a comfortable level. I stride along, nodding and saying hello to others encountered.
A shineless brown hot rod comes along. Roadster. Something out of the forties. Driven by a man who looks like he also originated in the forties, and a woman who might be a little younger, maybe even his daughter, as a passenger, bundled up in heavy clothes.
Putting along at 20 MPH, he guides the car to the side and waves a following vehicle past. Silver SUV, its twenty something driver gooses it faster. An electric vehicle, it glides by with a rising brash hum.
The scene on a small-town street seems so perfectly emblematic of change. Trees and their colors tell of the season changing around us, and there goes an old internal combustion car of a kind rarely seen, passed by an electric car, of the kind now commonly encountered.
This was a variation of a dream which I’ve had several times. It’s been several years, as best as I can recall. Basics include a water related disaster while I’m in a huge building. The building’s purpose is never fully clear, but it reminds me of modern office buildings.
Toward the dream’s end, I look out a window. The building is on a shoreline but raised above the beach. From my vantage, I can look down and across. I see deep blue water lapping at the upper level of rocky breakers. It’s clear that water broke over those breakers but has receded some. “Oh my god,” I said, “I didn’t realize the water got that high.”
The person I’m speaking with agrees, and tells me it was much higher. The building had been evacuated. Almost everyone was gone. I decide the time is right for me to get out. But I know where my car was parked. I know that area was flooded.
Then I think, wait, I had another car parked on another level. Do I have the key? Yes, I do. Good. Just need to reach it.
I go to use some stairs to go down. They’ve been severely damaged. Pipes and wires are exposed, blocking part of the way, and some of the wall has been knocked over. I attempt to go down one side but the way is blocked. Seeing another way, I precariously cross from one side to the other as others watch and anxiously call, “Careful.” But I make it without issue.
Going down, which in real life seems wrong but made perfect sense in dreamland, I reach my old car. It gets muddled here; the old car is sometimes an old green Mercury Comet sedan I drove as a teenager but it’s a silver Nissan 200 I once owned at other times. While I’m confused while remembering it, it seemed straightforward in my dream.
I start toward the car when three women interrupt me. All are dressed in the Air Force ‘office’ uniform that we used to wear, a light blue shirt with insignia, ribbons and awards, and name plate, along with black shoes and dark blue pants. Their uniforms are immaculate. One is a stranger, one is my sister, and the third is an actress. But they’re just friendly strangers in the dream. The one who is my sister says, “Can you answer a question for us? We’re trying to figure out if running the radio slows down a Formula 1 car.”
The actress says, “I think it would slow down a NASCAR racer but they’re still pretty fast. They can go three hundred miles an hour.”
Several responses bounce around my head. Like, Formula 1 cars don’t have radios in the way she’s talking about, which becomes clear as she explains that she thinks drivers probably enjoy listening to music. I tell them that race cars don’t have radios that play music and that it would slow them down anyway. They thank me and start talking to one another. I go on.
As I approach the car, two cats appear. They are Jade and Roary, two cats who once lived with us but at different times. They’re well, healthy, with their tails up. Neither make a noise but are waiting for me to get into the car. I open the door. They stand aside as I get in and start it without problem. Looking across the parking lot, I see another car I used to own, a blue Mazda RX-7, and think, wait until I tell my wife about that. Then I tell the cats, “Come on, get in.” They hop into the car, and I put it into gear. Dream end.
Not my RX-7 but one just like it, one of three I owned at different times.
Thinking about it, though, I was dismayed. I thought several negative aspects were being presented to me. But a voice in my head said, “Let’s talk about this dream.” Summarizing, the voice tells me, you have at least two more lives left, represented in the two cats. Also, you’re not as close to death as you sometimes think. Your old car represents you. Your car was unexpectedly remembered, found, and then started without problem. You’re being helped by female energy from three different but related sources. The water was high but it’s receding, and things will get better.
It’s not an accident that my house keys are always in my right-hand pocket. As part of the setting, we have two cars and one house. My wife and I don’t put our house keys and car keys on one ring. She’s apparently just emulating me. I asked her why she does it, and she told me, “You don’t put them together.”
I don’t put them together because I didn’t like keys bouncing around in the car, making noise as we drove. Attribute that to my misophonia. Certain sounds jar and irritate me. I reacted by segregating the house and car keys to reduce my sound-related irritation. Now it’s my practice to always put the house keys in my right-side pocket. Never in the coat either, but in the pants or shorts I’m wearing. I do not buy pants or shorts without pockets. Not having those pockets is just unacceptable.
Now, the house keys are in the right-side because I’m right-handed. My spouse has a habit of locking the door between the house and garage. She often does it absentmindedly. But after parking and going to enter the house, often with my hands full, it’s easier to free my right hand and pull those keys from my right-side pocket. I don’t need to wonder where they are or shift anything because I know.
See? Everything is connected. Bet you’ll sleep better knowing all that, right?
My wife and I climbed into the car. I started the engine. After over revving it, I began driving in reverse. My wife asked, “Why are we in reverse?”
“Everyone says that you get better mileage in reverse.” I swung the transmission into drive. “Now I think I’ll go this way.” I turned on the windshield wipers.
My wife peered into the sunlit blue sky. “Why are the windshield wipers on?”
“We need gas,” I declared. “We don’t have enough money for a full tank.”
“I’m starving,” my wife replied. “I thought we were going out for dinner. Where can we get something to eat?”
“We don’t have money for food. Just hold on.” I pulled into a miniature golf course. “I think I’ll play a game.”
My wife objected, “I didn’t think we have the money.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get more money.”
I went in and paid for the game. Before teeing off, I went back to the car. Jumping in, we drove off.
My wife looked around in puzzlement. “Where are we going?”
“Straight ahead.”
“This is the opposite direction of where we were going.”
“Don’t worry, I’m taking a short cut.”
“What happened to your miniature golf game?”
“I played it. Set a new record. I was stripes.”
“But you weren’t gone five minutes.”
“I know. It was the fastest golf game ever. I scored more points than anyone in the game’s history.” I steered the car into the path of oncoming traffic. “They were amazed. Said they’d never seen anyone play like that. They’re giving me a special golfing medal.”
A truck almost hit us. My wife screamed. “Get on the right side of the road. What is wrong with you?”
“Don’t worry,” I replied, “they’ll get out of our way.”
The car’s engine coughed and sputtered.
“What’s wrong with the car?” my wife asked.
“I think it’s the wind,” I answered, throwing open the door.
My wife gasped. “What are you doing? The car’s still moving. You’re going to get yourself killed.” Leaning across, she grabbed the wheel and began steering.
After turning on the radio, I leaped out of the car and rolled across a lane. A car screeched to a halt, almost hitting me. Leaving their car and coming toward me, the driver said, “Oh my God, I almost hit you. What’s going on? Are you alright?”
Beaming, I took off my shirt. “Aren’t I ripped?” I nodded toward my car as my wife managed to steer and stop it. “It’s my wife. She made me do it. She’s crazy. Doesn’t know a thing about flying. She shouldn’t be allowed near a boat.”
Stepping in front of a car, I waved my arms. “Help, help. Call the police. This guy’s trying to kill me.”
I was traveling on a large boat. It almost seemed like an enormous barge. Rusted and worn with use, it was safe but old, tired, and without comfort. It was also packed with fellow travelers. Most were women. I knew some, and my wife was among them.
The barge sailed on a rippling brown river so wide that the banks couldn’t be seen. We’d been traveling for days and getting close to the end. While many rode along as gossiping, resting passengers, I had a role of keeping things as organized as possible. This had me racing around. I was often on metal walks above the rest, and would look down and see what was going on as I rushed from task to task.
At one point, I was forced to go down among them. I’d stripped off clothing because I was hot. Wearing only my boxer shorts, I couldn’t find my clothes.
I didn’t care. It was important that I go down and do what was needed. My arrival in my underwear drew attention and comments. I shrugged them off. I overhead my wife undertaking explanations about ‘who I was’, but that didn’t matter to me.
Abruptly, we arrived and disembarked in a chaotic surge. I found myself driving a powerful white sedan filled with people. Racing away from the docks on surface streets, I saw a speed limit sign, 80 MPH. Stepping on the accelerator, I merged with traffic onto a huge white cement Interstate. We were going down a short hill through a curve. Ahead was an enormous hill and multiple exits listed. I called out to my wife, who was in the back seat, for instructions about where to go, demanding, “Which exit do I need to take?”
She replied, “I don’t know, I haven’t been paying attention.”
That infuriated me. I wanted to verbally berate her but then thought, why wasn’t I paying attention?
A hotter day is on hand for Ashlandia today but it’s not insurmountable. Thirstda, August 7, 2025, came in at 62 F and will climb the thermometer until the upper 80s are engaged. Skywise, it’s mostly blue with some curious cumulo type clouds peeking in to see what’s up.
Mom’s addition to her Penn Hills home in Pennsylvania is progressing fast. This will be her new bedroom. Located right off the short hall between the main floor bathroom and the kitchen, with easy access to the living room, this will ease matters for her. My brother-in-law, who specializes in plumbing but has been in construction all of his adult life, is doing the work and managing the site. Ever-reliable sis is managing the project. Completion by August’s finish is feasible. The latest hang up is about the ramp. ADA guidelines end up dictacting a 24 foot long ramp. That’s another five grand, and Mom’s BF, Frank, is against it.
Dad’s in the hospital again. Same matters as before. Feels like he’s doing a slow drain circle. I’ve been through this with other people, in and out of the hospital with declining health and worsening prognosis until it’s finally decided to move them to hospice. Don’t mean to sound blase about it but this is modern U.S. life, it feels like. I imagine that my end will be something similar.
Meanwhile, I’m mourning the passing of a cousin’s husband. I never met him. Haven’t seen her, the cousin, in over forty years. But I know her and love her as family, and always enjoyed her company. And that’s the way that works now, for me. Others might shrug and say, well, I don’t really know her any more and I’ve never seen her, but that’s just not my take.
Over in MAGALand, it’s Trump tariffs, cancelation of renewable energy projects, etc. As Krugman put it when addressing the last jobs report, the hard data will catch up with the soft data. The soft data amounts to anecdotes about rising prices, people being laid off, shortages, etc. A few months later, and the hard data comes, showing the tangible impact of all those decisions, such as tariffs. The same thing will happen with the cancellation of renewable energy projects. First it will show up as lost jobs. Then it will come in revealed as rising energy prices and rolling brownouts or blackouts because demand outpaces supply. But this is the GOP way in the 2020s, to blindly shortchange everything and anything. They ‘don’t believe’ in the climate change evidence, and they think wind and solar energy is inefficient, expensive, and ‘dangerous’. Trump, of course, has all manner of deranged ideas about wind energy causing cancer. But he’s their leader so they eagerly rush down his loony path.
That brings me to today’s music. Thinking about economic developments, trade wars, declining tourism, and the attack on the education system joined a nexus of thinking about my health, Mom’s health, Dad’s health and their declines. Out of that morass, The Neurons cleverly called up The Fixx with their 1983 song, “One Thing Leads to Another”. That’s the way of living, isn’t it? One thing happening eventually leads to another. On the scientific side of things, I used to enjoy a show hosted by James Burke called Connections. Burke was always tracing discoveries and inventions and how they impacted other discoveries and inventions in unanticipated ways. It was a delightful way to experience learning about history and science, and often, economics and religion.
Dropped my car off for routine maintenance this morning. I left it on a Christian radio station for the mechanics. The driver taking me back home is named Mika. From the Bible.
Coffee has plowed into me again. Here we go on another day. May peace and grace find and hold you. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 