When I was a child, I asked Mom, “Why are some streets named streets, and some are boulevards, avenues, drives, and roads. What’s the difference?” Mom replied with some vexation, “I don’t know.” Wasn’t my first disappointment with the realization that Mom didn’t know everything.
Needless to say, I was pretty excited when I heard Steven Wright ask, “Why do we drive on parkways and park on driveways?”
Yes! Finally, someone is going to explain. He didn’t answer it, though. Bummer.
I’m always hungry to learn something new. I’m fortunate that my wife has a like spirit, athough hers vectors toward learning about women’s rights, social justice, and sex and dating trends. So she keeps me covered in that area. We share responsibility and coverage on politics, literature, and pop culture. I’m on my own regarding STEM and history.
Over the years, I’ve gleaned insights into streets and all the variations. An e-letter I received, Word Smarts, shed more light on the differences between Interstate, freeway, expressway, parkway, highway, turnpike, and frontage road. It’s a start. Meanwhile, here’s some classic deadpan Wright one-liners.
Football and parades are on television. Dawn cracked open a blue sky this morning. Sunshine spilled out across 28 degrees F. It’s 43 and feels like 53, with a high of 48 projected. It gets windy, driving Papi to floofishly beat on the front door window for immediate entrance. His tail highpoints in salute as I let him in. Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah) gives the ginger blade an askance look of pity as Papi passes him.
Thanksgiving memories erupt. Going to my paternal grandparents on cold and gray Pittsburgh days. Greeting cousins, aunts, and uncles seen only four times a year. Sitting at one of several children tables. Warm house, laughter, cigarette smoke, beer, and whiskey sodas. The children are herded into the cellar to contain noise. The problem: there’s nothing to do in that cellar except mill around. One by one, we quietly sneak back upstairs.
Mom and Dad separate and divorce. Mom remarries and becomes host and cook, but man, she can cook. Thanksgiving meals are always delicious feasts around traditional offerings. We play card games after the meal and gorge on leftovers for days.
Basic training saw me in San Antonio. Luckily, I had Uncle Paul and his family there to host me for Thanksgiving. Danny White led the Dallas Cowboys to victory. Later, I’m stationed in the San Antonio area. Uncle Paul’s family still lives there and my wife and I visit them for Thanksgiving.
A Thanksgiving follows in the Philippines, where my crew invites me into their house for an American-Filipino Thanksgiving. We play a new electronic game called Pong on television.
Our tour in Okinawa is broken into two phases: pre- and post-base housing. In the pre-phase, food prep is shared between several houses. We barely fit into one of the small apartments to eat. Once we’re in base housing, we’re in a large, comfortable space where my wife plays cook and hostess in Germany. As we return to America, Thanksgiving gets more complicated. We’re alone sometimes, or I’m on shift working. Later as I become more senior in rank, we become host for young co-workers and friends. We do the same after being assigned to California.
Out of the military and tired of hosting, we go out for dinner on Thanksgiving for a year or two in Sunnyvale, Mountain View, and Palo Alto, California. My wife has become a vegetarian. An awful attempt with tofurkey is made. Stuffed acorn squash. We end up buying turkey breasts and having much smaller meals. Thanksgiving transitions to Friendsgiving. Friends host others like us and we collect at their homes. The meals feel like the ones I enjoyed as a child. I’ve gone full circle.
I’m going with “Alice’s Restaurant” by Arlo Guthrie for today’s theme music. It’s a staple of my existence, and The Neurons are okay with it. Alice Brock, the Alice in the song, passed away earlier this month. RIP. It plays in the background of my morning mental music stream (Trademark roasted) as I go about preparing to go to Friendsgiving at our friends’ farm. We prepared our food contributions yesterday. Corn souffle, prepared with my wife carefully watching me, is my contribution.
Coffee and I continue renewing our daily relationship. The house weather system says its 50 F out. Plentiful sunshine baths the street. Hope you have a memorable Thanksgiving if you’re participating, and a great day no matter where you are.
We climbed into a Wednesday November 27, 2024. Day before Thanksgiving in the United States. I know a large of people who will be muttering, I don’t have anything to be thankful about.
It’s foggy and cold, 30 F, in Ashlandia, white with frost and ice, but it will get warmer, with the temperature rising to about 48 F. Blue sky can be spied through the thinning fog. I enjoyed cold, foggy days as a child. Encountering days like this in Penn Hills, PA, I’d step outside and let that cold whip my face. I found it exhilerating. And the fog made the world narrow, small, mysterious. It was also usually quieter. People didn’t go out into it. I soon knew my friends wouldn’t go out into it. Some just didn’t want to, complaining that it was cold and foggy. Others said their mom wouldn’t let them. I’d tramp on my own, verifying that the world still was beyond the fog’s envelope, feeling like an explorer. Being careful about your steps were important. Yards dropped off into steep hills and cement culverts lay in wait. I’d sometimes get lost in that fog, and when it burned off, I’d find myself surprised at where I was. I always thought it was fun. Guess that’s why I was considered a little strange, LOL.
The Texas committee that examines all pregnancy-related deaths in the state will not review cases from 2022 and 2023, the first two years after Texas’s near-total abortion ban took effect, leaving any potential deaths related to abortion bans during those years uninvestigated by the 23 doctors, medical professionals and other specialists who make up the group.
Texas, led by Republicans, doesn’t want to know why women are dying in pregnancy-related deaths. I think they know they will find that their draconian fucking laws are killing women. Then they would need to spin that in a way that makes sense, and they know they can’t. Worse, it would provide facts about how poorly the GOP goes about ‘protecting women’. I’m sure if you read this, you recall that Trump declared as a candidate that he would protect women if elected POTUS. Now firm evidence is emerging that the climate, culture, and policies that he promoted is doing just the fucking opposite. Rather than trying to address the evidence, Republicans are doing what they do best: ignoring facts and creating a fake reality by pretending that all is well. “We just won’t investigate those deaths,” they nod and tell each other. “Then they’ll go away.” Dipshits.
Looking out at the fog this morning, The Neurons kept trying to recall a song about fog and confusion. For a while, “Ball of Confusion (That’s What the World Is Today)” by the Temptations in the morning mental music stream (Trademark hazy). Then, Foghat crowded in, because it has fog in its name. But I wanted to remember that song. Not much of it would come back. I was finally forced to turn to the Internet to restore the details. With about four minutes of searching, the Meat Puppets and their song, “Confusion Fog”, was finally restored to my operating system. A co-worker at PAS in Palo Alto, California, where I worked in the mid to late 1990s, turned me on to them. It’s a unique sound the Meat Puppets provide, more like country from the early 1970s than punk to me, but I like the vocals.
Coffee and I have reached detente. The fog has burned away. Sunshine and blue sky rule the day. Hope you find a better way, to make this one to remember. With fondness, here’s the music. Cheers
Friday morning, November 22, 2024, and my first thought comes: it’s quiet.
Different around 11:30 last night. Sounded like B-52 formations taking off on full throttle out of Guam over our house as relentless wind bore down on us. Rain shattered the night with a Buddy Rich drum solo for a while afterward. Flash memories of being with Dad when tornadoes were roaring around us came up. Then came recall of being in typhoons with my wife in Japan.
Morning recon showed only the water barrell out of place. Glances up and down the street were given; trees and utility poles are intact and upright. Telephone and utility lines looped as expected. Cars remain parked, and roofs still grace houses. Looks like disaster was dodged. I hope other places are faring well but suspect tales of power outages, injuries, and death will come. Typically do when a bomb cyclone drops.
With the storm came warm temps. 49 F now, gray clouds and blue sky approach and retreat. Sunshine gives an uneven performance. We expect a 52 F high today.
This weather experience cajoled The Neurons into thinking of weather songs. “Oh, stormy, bring back the sunny days.” And, “It’s flooding down in Texas. All of the telephone lines are down.” And, “Here I am. Rock me like a hurricane.” Or, “Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind.”
The Neurons eschew all that. The Pixies instead enter the morning mental music stream (Trademark buffeted) with “Stormy Weather”.
Having decided that my foot and ankle swelling was due in major part to my edema issues, I went on a green smoothie fast yesterday. Sodium intolerance and veinous insufficiency seem to be the bad actors behind my edema so I wanted to knock the sodium down a bit. I’m also wearing open-toe compression socks on both legs. Overall, the one-day treatment seems helpful. I was swollen by the day’s end but it didn’t seem like it was as bad as previous days. Slept with my legs up. The swelling dissipated, as it always does. It’s fluid moving from one place to another for me. Back on my normal diet today, although I’ll eat less and minimize my sodium intake. Sodium is everywhere, though, and difficult to escape.
As far as the actual surgery location and affected tendons, they seem to be doing well. Tenderness and sensitivity around the suture site is reduced. I hope to put a shoe on within a few more days.
Hope all of you out there are doing well. Coffee is being swallowed, working its magic through my cells. Here is the music. Cheers
November 20, 2024, finds us on a Wednesday. Gray and white clouds plaster the sky. 38 F and rainy out there. High will be four degrees north.
Winds are smacking the trees around. Tall conifers take the worse, swinging back from each punch, drunkenly rebounding. Began yesterday afternoon. By dusk, the wind was crooning around windows and corners. Then came sounds of winds running like tractor-trailers down the Interstate.
8:10 PM, blink, out went the power. People reported a bang. Others saw a large blue flash. Investigating crews found a surrendering tree had taken on a major power line.
My wife and I were in the snug when it happened. We turned off our computers. I moved through the familiar dark house, phone in hand in case I needed a light, to get a flashlight in a cubby by the foyer. Armed with it, I fired up the gas fireplace. We dug out candles and lit them, and several more flashlights, then checked messages and learned the tale of the outage via emergency texts.
Unknowing of how long the outage would be, my wife bathed by candlelit. The bath water was saved in case it got worse and flushing water was needed. Then she dragged out the Trivial Pursuit cards. We spent thirty minutes answering those, then we each armed ourselves with a flashlight and read. Fortunately, the gas fireplace kept us relatively comfy at 68 F.
Texts sent at 8:55 PM informed us the power would be back up within two hours. 10:35 PM, and the house beeped, chirped, and lit up as the power was restored. We learned we were the fortunate; a small section didn’t get their electricity back until this morning. Hope they all endured the night well.
Papi the ginger blade did not like this storm. Comfort couldn’t find him with all the noise. He finally decided outside, in his patio condo, was his safe space, staying there until just after midnight. About that time, the wind reset to a calmer level but rain poured out of the darkness. Papi came in to escape the wet, staying until sixish. Duty as patrol floof called then. Tail up, he bravely marched out.
Locally, I don’t spy damage on my street. Snow resides on pines and firs on the upper ranges. News reports are in that they’d closed the pass for snow on I5 from our southern exit to the California border.
Without revealing their reasoning, The Neurons invested the morning mental music stream (Trademark damp) with “Folsom Prison Blues”. Johnny Cash wrote the song, then recorded and released it n 1955. That was a year before my birth. It’s literally — and I ain’t talkin’ hyperbole here — been around my entire life. And I heard it. Mom had JC albums, so it was on there. Television liked Cash, and he showed up singing the tune on the small screen. Featured in movies, the rockabilly tune was heard on AM radio in cars and houses.
The Neurons may have pulled this up in response to a dream. I had a caper dream. Working with two other guys, we were stealing something but we’d been forced into it. They were setting me up, I found, so worked to subvert their plans. At the end, after all successfully passed and I was leaving, I found that one of the others knew of my plans and used them to save himself, in effect aiding me as he did. Fun dream.
Alright, let’s muster some positive energy. Coffee is in mug, ready to wash down my negativity. Here we go. Cheers
Chilly. Cold. Bleak as the moors below shifting dark clouds and undependable sunshine. Real stay in and have some hot food weather, if you can.
It’s 41 F and won’t get much warmer. The damp hand delivers a new chilly flavor. Fall — autumn, if you prefer — has a two-handed hold on Ashlandia.
Pause. Let me tell you. I was most disturbed to see Trump carried my county by seven points. Like, WTF, over? Distrust of my fellow local citizens is hepped up. I don’t know what you people are thinking goes through my mind as I consider strangers and workers. You might be one of those leaning to an authoritarian state. How can I ever trust you again?
While we were talking about the 2024 election results and its impact on American values, mores, and norms, my wife brought up some history. She reminded me of the fifties and sixties in the U.S., and how many women were self-medicating to cope. Would that be repeated in this new MAGA era?
Part of that conversation impelled me into territory about how it was so widespread, it was recognized as part of popular culture in books, movies, and songs. “The Graduate.” “Mother’s Little Helper.” “Valley of the Dolls.” “Rabbit, Run.”
It’s the latter that flashes through the morning mental music stream (Trademark endangered). The Neurons have always liked the Rolling Stones’ song about pills being abused.
Here we go, another day. One step after another. Regrouping. Moving on, pressing on.
Yes, I have had coffee today. The first in over two weeks. Good to have my old friend back in my system.
Rain hammered the rooftop. The furnace blower sang along. Slowly we crept toward the dawn of a new Thursday. This one is blessed as 11/14/2024. Or 14/11/2024. You get it.
When the lights came up and the blinds followed, our lovely tree lit the back yard, a red and gold exclamation point on a gloomy fall day. Weather hipsters, aka weathings (weather beings, if you need it spelled out) said, this is the day, take it or leave it. 42 F now, and that’s it. Rain is the main course, with a small plat of sunlight later.
We bundled into my wife’s car as the digits clicked toward nine thirty. Had to be there by 10:05 for the 10:20 event. Traffic was light and the rain little slowed us. We were there early. There, our destination, was my post op meeting with my care team ’bout my ankle.
By 11, it was all done. Bloody bandages were cut away, stitches removed, foot and ankle examined, and all deemed good enough to be done with the boot and crutches. Work it out on my own going forward. Elevate if there’s swelling and ice. Otherwise see you in four more weeks. And the boot, the cumbersome black and blue wet suit for my foot and ankle with its velcro tentacles, was no longer needed. I could sit upright if I wantd. The things we take for granted.
Walking was weird. The foot was a little misshapen by the bandages but that worked itself out after an hour. The toes are like they belonged on the tin man and cry for a lube job. That’ll work out, too. But the legs weren’t ready to accept a normal gait. I mildly tilted to the right and still cautiously favored that foot. Bending my knees as I took steps was a mindful process.
Next up: driving.
I’m looking for a place to buy in the northeastern United States and visit Zillow for possibilites. We’re tired of living so far away from our families that we need to travel by car and plane for a day, giving to the weather and technology gods so they’ll favor our journey. Doesn’t seem like it used to be so bad…
Anyway, I checked out a house and realized that it was a street I once live upon. That sent me down memory paths via Google streetview. Naturally, I recalled friends from the time and neighborhood. One of them was Richard. Seeing his tiny house on the screen and his face in my mind rekindled memories about one Sunday morning spent in Richard’s presence. All he wanted to do was sing “Yellow Submarine” by the Beatles. Wasn’t high or anything; just how he was. I offer it now as today’s theme music.
Be strong and hold fast. Haven’t had coffee in two weeks. Didn’t want to partake of my dark friend’s energy while I was laid up. That’ll change tomorrow.
October’s penultimate day has arrived. Wednesday, October 30, 2024. Less than a week until the election.
It’s a pretty autumn sunrise, a potpourri offering of soft, long clouds decked in faded blues shading into gray, and puffier masses of white with a brooding gray venture. Blue sky is dabbled in with random ideas. Sunrise flecks through in the east, delivering sunshine, lining some urban pieces of buildings, trees, lines, and poles with decorative golden outlines. They come and go in blinks as clouds restlessly shuffle.
My systems declare that it’s 37 F outside the windows. The high will be 51 F. Maybe 52. Maybe 50.
Papi the ginger blade has gone in and out, his testament to the fact that it’s pleasant but cold. Rain…might be coming but buckets won’t be used for the delivery. Scattered and light, I think it’ll be more like we’re being sprayed with cheap water pistols. The kind we used to buy at GC Murphys. They looked like Lugers. Came in red, yellow, green, and blue. I never saw a purple one.
Happy birthday, Dad! Called him Monday and gave him birthday wishes. Thinking of him with fondness today.
My ankle surgery is scheduled today. I feel good. Slept well. A med team rep called yesterday to update schedules and arrangements. I was informed I could have coffee and water until 8:15 AM. So this morning, I rose, made coffee, and chugged that puppy down. Also drank about sixteen ounces of water. I’m happily wired and hydrated. Getting hungry, though. My stomach is used to being served early. Now it’s raising a grumpy head to mutter about being in need of a little something something. Hush, I tell it. Not today.
I start thinking of Wednesday songs.
“Wednesday I’m in Love”
“Wednesday Afternoon”
“I Don’t Like Wednesdays”
“Wednesday Nights (Alright for Fighting)”
“Wednesday Morning Coming Down”
“Pleasant Valley Wednesday”
Yes, none of those are Wednesday songs. They’re for Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, Mondays.
Only one Wednesday-themed tune eventually drifts out of memory and breaks through the waves of thinking. Called “Wednesday,” more time is needed to summon bits out of other regions of memory. A melody begins, an instrument is weakly heard, pieces of lyrics pop up. More comes together with a little straining. Suddenly there comes a solid female voice. Identification takes a few more minutes.
Oh. Tori Amos. “Wednesday”. Can’t recall what year. More time passes. I drift into thinking about other matters as the cats ask for treats and my wife and I chat. Then The Neurons begin playing more of the reflective Wednesday ditty in the morning mental music stream (Trademark Wednesday). I finally search online to hunt down the full tune. This vexes Der Neurons. “No, no, give us more time,” they shout. “We’ll get it, we’ll get it.”
I spurn their protests. Sure, they’ll get, but it’ll arrive about two AM. I want it now. Those words briefly trigger Queen singing, “I want it all, and I want it now.”
Stay positive, be fresh, remain calm, and carry on. Coffee has carried me to my happy place. Here’s the music. Remember, vote blue. Have a good Wednesday.
It’s a sky clash out there. Heavy clouds are taking on the western mountains. Sunshine is bullying the east. It’s a mixed scene of rain and wet fuzz, bright light and cold hopes. Temperatures are revolving around the mid forties, but ‘lo, they’ll heave up to the low fifties later today.
This, friends, is Ashlandia on Tuesday, October 29, 2024.
Happy birthday, Mom!
I’ll call her later to chat. I called Dad for his b-day, which is tomorrow. I told him that I can only endure chatting with one of you a day. He laughed and understood. It was part humor and truth. Humuth.
And then I turn around and see that Teri Garr died. Just 79, she was an actor I enjoyed since I was a young high schooler. (Just for the record, I don’t divide the world in actors and actresses. They’re all actors to me.) I really enjoyed Teri Garr in several roles but Full Moon in Blue Water was a personal favorite.
“I Wanna Be Adored” by The Stone Roses is today’s music. Don’t know why The Neurons have it in the morning mental music stream (Trademark shaky). Song was released in 1989. The lyrics are not much. The song starts with a quiet build. First times hearing it, my reaction was, what happened to the music? But then it unfolds into something else. Always manifests dreamy nuances, like the lyrics are far-away thoughts trying to find focus.
Be strong, stay positive, and vote blue. Coffee and I have again achieved a mutual support agreement. Here’s the music. Cheers
Dad’s 92nd birthday is Wednesday. Mom’s birthday is tomorrow. I’ll be calling her tomorrow, so I called Dad today, as I’ll be pretty busy Wed. with planned surgery.
Dad and I had one of the best chats I recall having with him. We chatted about aging, financing, and Mom. Very satisfying.
Dad has always been a level guy, staying mellow, keeping things in the moment. He’s never gotten too worked up over any of life’s tumbles and twists. And he’s been through his share.
He’s in okay health. Had some stents put into his coronary arteries some years ago. Suffers some COPD. Went through some edema issues twice. Now he’s on a low sodium diet. A cane is employed to walk around. He sometimes needs a walker.
But we laughed a lot about these things which happen to us as we get older.
Michael Seidel, writer 