We’re in the middle of the week — Wednesday — and on August’s 7th day in 2024.
Ashlandia’s air is clear this morning — praise be! That makes the cats happy. They were already pleased to sign the flooftition endorsing Gov. Walz to be Vice President of the United States, and are purring over the idea of a Kamala Harris administration.
Yesterday, we saw the temperatures go from 93 F in the late afternoon to 58 this morning. We’re in the mid sixties now under spot free blue skies, and we’ll be churning up to 97 F.
I’m still on the freedom theme. The Neurons have popped Richie Havens playing “Freedom” at Woodstock in 1969 into the morning mental music stream (Trademark still free). I heard this when I was thirteen and the intensity made me pause and listen more closely. And afterward, there’s a release, just a *whew* and a half minute of thoughtful silence about what was heard. The song still strikes me that way today.
I’d like to let freedom roll over us like a good long blast of fresh cold mountain air.
Stay positive and be strong. Lean forward and Vote Blue in 2024. Coffee has been brewed up. Here’s the video. Cheers
My wife related that she and her coffee group were talking about their required high school reading.
There’s a background to this. They go to StoneRidge Coffee in downtown Ashand after exercising at the Y three mornings a week. Their favorite barista, Shawn (sp?), had been on a big reading kick, reading many novels that we consider classics, like Catch 22 and Catcher in the Rye. Today he announced that he won’t be working there any longer because he’ll be teaching high school in Grants Pass. My wife’s group wondered if that’s why he’d been on a reading tear.
They couldn’t remember what they’d read in high school, though. They did recall that they had to read The Pearl by Steinbeck and several of Shakespeare’s plays. The only one they remembered reading was Romeo & Juliet.
After being told this, I recalled reading MacBeth and Hamlet. I also recalled reading The Red Badge of Courage,Beowulf, Call of the Wild, excerpts out of Dante’s Infernal (as we knew it in school) and The Red Pony. I mentioned that what I most remembered reading, though, were short stories. I vividly remember reading A Jury of Her Peers, The Girls at the A&P, The Visitor, Greenleaf, and The Lottery. They each made quite an impression on me. Besides that, there was some Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allan Poe, and then poems by Frost and Whitman, and essays out of Walden: Life in the Woods.
It’s all a bit sketch, though. Because I enjoyed reading fiction on my own and read Catch 22 and Catcher in the Rye.Papillion was big as a novel then — this was before the movie — as was the Lord of the Rings trilogy and The Hobbit, and Stranger in a Strange Land. Besides that stuff, I was reading a lot of science fiction and fantasy, along with spy thrillers (think Fleming and Le Carre). Then there was Jaws by Peter Benchley, and other popular fiction like that, such as Fear of Flying, Portnoy’s Complaint,In Cold Blood, The Onion Field, To Kill A Mockingbird, The Bell Jar, The Drifters, Centennial, The Thorn Birds, Hotel, Airport, The World According to Garp, Cancer Ward, and Herzog.
I was also involved with the Junior Great Books program for several years, and was required to read their books, stories, and essays, muddying up memory a little more. Further complicating it are courses in French, Russian, Jewish, and American literature in college.
All those books and titles start running together after a while, you know? At least for me. I admire those who can keep it all straight.
The cats and I agree, it’s a strong sun today, biting my skin with its heat, blinding my eyes (yes, what else would it be blinding — my ears?) with its light. Not supposed to be hot today, just 87 F, and it’s just 67 F now. This is Monday, Jun 24, 2024.
The cats are pratically living in the backyard, slumbering beneath bushes or stretched out, floof-napping in green patches of lawn. They come in to visit me, get fed, and use the litter box, and then dash back out. Reminds me of being a young child in the summers, doing the same with Mom. Except I didn’t use a litter box. Not in those days.
I jest, of course! Spoke with Dad yesterday. He’s down. They — the omniscient they here is the medical staff — are pushing for the dialysis port, and he doesn’t want to go through with that. He seems fazed by the surgery and claims he doesn’t want to be a burden on people, as others would need to drive him to his appointments several times a week. I’m sure he will go through with the procedure but he needs to work himself up to it. I called him this morning to chat with him but reached his voice mail. I need to call Mom to catch her up on that news. Never did call her yesterday.
Terrible flooding in the midwest. Iowa was severely hit. Evacuations were ordered and bridges collapsed. I remember flying over the plains states decades ago. The floating and the heat dome are connected events. Hope the climate doesn’t get any worse or the nation and its citizens might start getting worried. Yeah, that’s snark, baby.
My spouse picked up a nice Charles Wysocki jigsaw puzzle at Ashlandia’s library of things yesterday. I thought we should have some on hand for more Internet outages. We began the puzzle last night, even though the net didn’t go out. Lovely little beach scene featuring an old house where a high school kite flying club meets. Kites lean against an old fence in the sand and a heart shaped balloon, tethered to the gate, floats above the scene, red against a cloudy blue and white backdrop. A few sailboats skim choppy waters in the background. I can almost smell that ocean.
Other than these matters and the standard form of our days of eating, cleaning, writing, reading, it’s quiet. I accept quiet. Still recuperating with my ankle issue.
Today’s music comes by way of Willy Nelson. I was reading about his show cancellations and the article reminded me of a gay cowboy song Willy sings. The Neurons immediately began a little rendition of the song, “Cowboys Are Frequently Fond of Each Other”, in the morning mental music stream (Trademark grazing). Although Willy’s version came out back when Brokeback Mountain was gaining Oscar attention, I picked up a later version done by Willy and Orville Peck. Hope you enjoy it.
Stay positive, be strong, lean forward, and Vote Blue in 2024. Also brace yourself for a busy news week. With more SCOTUS news forthcoming, the end of June sending up a cloud of dust as it sprints at us, and the debates and the weather, I’m sure there will be a lot to talk about, read about, and GRRRRR about.
I saw a segment on television about the Arlington National Cemetery and Memorial Day activies. Following a whim, I looked up my little brother’s marker and location. Four years younger than me, he lived for just over a few weeks. I remember the night Mom received the notification that he’d passed. Washing the dishes at the time, she stood there at the sink, a dish cloth in her hand, and cried and sobbed as I watched, asking her, “What’s wrong?”
It’s 65 F. That’s the low for Penn Hills in the Churchill Valley today. The house’s east side is being sunblasted. Clouds? Yes, some particles are stringing together thin white cloud structures. The thermometer is supposed to stop up by 90 F today. It’s Tuesday, May 21, 2024.
Mom’s energy was strong yesterday, a change from the usual. See, there was a birthday celebration on Sunday. Mom was there for about five hours. Normally, such outings deplete her energy stores, so the day after leaves her listless.
But not yesterday. She was spirited and energetic, good to witness. Did her exercises and was quite engaged. Holding my breath on today, but I hope we’re seeing a new trend’s beginning.
I was thinking about my brother-in-law. Married to my oldest younger sisters, he and I have known one another for fifty years, since we were seventeen. Long time to know another who isn’t related or married to you. Sad for me, he swung toward the right wing over thirty years ago and is now a full-blown MAGAr. That limits our conversation and introduces some awkwardness. We’ve tried talking around it, but he often introduces racist or sexist comments, and has that MAGA habit of ignoring one set of facts while adhering to another. Yet, I’m looking forward to being a guest at his house his weekend for a Memorial Day cook-out.
My family is big into gathering for holidays and eating food. Memorial Day cookouts are the standard, even though the starting lineup has changed, and new players have been added through marriages, divorces, deaths, and births.
The Neurons have introduced “Tin Man” to the morning mental music stream (Trademark well-done). I don’t know why. The 1974 song by America has no discernible links to my dreams IMO. Nor are there conversation or activity links. For that matter, the mellow, comfortable song has silly lyrics. Lots of hooks and easy to sing with, but little deep to it.
That’s okay. Maybe The Neurons are ordering me to chill.
BTW, today is birthday boy’s actual birthday. So happy sixteenth, Michael. May your days be as complete and fulfilling as you dream them.
Back at home with individuals not driven to write, the conversations awaken my muses. They gather to watch people, and think about their lives and times. A common concept about pain, end of life, children dealing with Mom and each other, begins evolving.
Aspects emerge. Donuts being thrown against the side of the house one frozen December Sunday. Children running away and returning. Marriages and divorces. Many marriages and divorces. Enduring secrets. Diseases that strike and tear our family apart and bring us back together.
The first stories I remember hearing about Mom was when she was fourteen. She lived in Turin, Iowa. Small town. V-E and V-J were just a few years before. The children habitually walked the streets over to watch television through a window. The window belonged to the hardware store, which was also a cafe. It had the town’s only TV, as television was then so new. The hardware store/cafe also had the town’s only phone. If a call came in for a resident, the owner’s son ran to fetch them.
Then there is Mom’s tale about the Sunday chicken. Her mother was leaving and warned Mom and her older brother, “Don’t you get this house dirty while I’m gone.” They heard the iron in their mother’s voice and the threat it carried.
But they were siblings and started teasing each other. It escalated until Mom grabbed the roasted chicken and threw it at her brother. He ducked. The chicken slammed into the wall. They watched it slide down, fixing the wall with a greasy trail. Looking at one another, they knew Mom was going to beat them.
Yes, there’s stuff to be told, as there is in many families.
I’m ensconced in Penn Hills, PA, an eastern suburb of Pittsburgh, visiting family. A light rain is scenting the 64 F air with petrichor. Temp should peak at 67 F.
Weirdly, the weather seems ‘right’ to me. I emerged from my cocoon in this area and first spread my wings. Lived with Mom and grandparents when I was a child not going to school, moved away in conjunction with Dad’s military service, then returned here. Attended school in several small burghs for second grade through my high school sophomore year. Since Mom and a buncha extended family live here, I’ve been returning again and again on my own cycadean rhythm.
Tragically, Mom only serves decaf. She and her man only drink decaf. So, they make a big pot of coffee. Once it’s done brewing, they draw from it for days and doctor it with cream and nuke it in the microwave. Gag gag gag.
So I slipped away for coffee and writing, heading for a Starbucks. That works for Mother and I and the general household, since Mom and her BF sleep in late these days. She said she doesn’t emerge from her nocturnal seclusion until almost noon. Then her BF, already dressed, ensures she’s set up for the afternoon, and goes out on his errands. His first stop is the gym, where this former boxer, now in his early nineties, works out.
The Starbucks was chosen because it’s where my niece and her boyfriend work. Both are college grads with bachelor’s degrees. Her’s is in business administration. She speaks several languages and plays the violin and is still attending college, going into software and database administration.
So guess who served me? Yes, she looked up with widening eyes when I said, “Morning, Amy.” I hope to have more of a visit with her than that, of course.
Amy and I have a running joke from when she was a child. There’s a movie called The Mothman Prophecies which came out in 2002. It’s about a bridge collapse in Weirton, WV, and a mothman warning it was gonna happy. A brother-in-law (not Amy’s father) saw the movie while traveling in West Virginia. It freaked him out because after watching the movie, his hotel room phone began ringing, just like in the movie. He and I and Amy talked about it in subsequent years. I began calling her Mothgirl. She dubbed me Mothman.
Today’s music arrives via a conversation about me living on the west coast. Everyone hearing hat immediately asks, “California?” No, I’m from the Pacific Northwest, Oregon, to add more precision, Ashlandia, to get granular. But the California suggestions kicked The Neurons into filling the morning mental music stream (Trademark with “Californication”. The Red Hot Chili Peppers released the song in 1999. I immediately took to it. It’s a drool commentary about how Hollywood sells California as the place to be. Several little plays on pop culture are woven into the song.
On to the day. Stay strong, be positive, and Vote Blue in 2024. Here’s the music video. Cheers from Pennsylvania.
The weather has pressed pause on the rain. Shards of broken sunshine are coming through but as soon as they broach the dark clouds’ defenses, a new mass of clouds rush in to patch it up.
A refrigerating breeze circles the streets with a load of petrichor. Like a madeleine for Prost, the petrichor delivers stacks of memories. I flash to being a boy in Wilkinsburg and Penn Hills, PA, a young airman in Korea and Germany, a tourist walking outside a tavern on a darkening day to visit with Dad in West Virginia.
The copter continues the watershed cleanup. I can watch him manuever through the kitchen window. Sounds give clues of his comings and goings. Right now, he’s resting in the air above the peak of a conifered-blessed mountain.
Looks like a good flying day out there on Tuesday, April 23, 2024. Sunshine gleams off windows and cars. Full-fledged green leaves on trees dapple lawns and houses with shadows. A few clusters of cloud islands hold steady on the western horizon.
It’s 17C outside, about 62 F. We’re heading for a 76 degrees F high. Rain has a chance but it’s less than 40% chance. Usually at those odds, we don’t see it.
Mom is supposed to be heading home today. She should actually be there, per the schedule, as she told me she was being released noon Eastern. Which was almost an hour ago. I find that most hospitals are optimistic about when things will happen. Like the military and DMV, there’s a lot of waiting at a hospital. I’m living on a hope that she’ll go home today and be relatively healthy and happy for a while and put some of these health scares to rest.
With that thinking, I tripped down the trail of what it used to be like back home, when I still held the flowers of youth in my appearance. The Neurons responded by conjuring a jazzy Stevie Wonder song that speaks to that essence, “I Wish”. The 1977 song is echoing through my morning mental music stream (Trademark drifting). I found an online offering of him doing the song live in 1982. Sweet. I hope you enjoy it.
Here we go. Stay positive and be strong. Vote Blue in 2024, and let’s see if we can stem the retreat of rights and sanity. Coffee is brewed and ready to be introduced to my body.
Mood: Sunflective (it’s sunny, and I’m reflecting on life, the universe, and everything)
It’s Marijuana Day, don’t you know. That is 4/20. Add a 2024 and make it a Saturday, and you have the full day/date situation.
420 is a reference to the time to meet and light up a doobie. That time originated with a group of U.S. high school students meeting up at 4:20 PM to search for a marijuana field. I originally heard it was police radio code for marijuana.
Another warmish spring day has touched down in Ashlandia, where the coffee is fresh and above average. It’s 70 F right now. Despite clouds breaking in over the horizons, today’s high has a few more degrees to go. You know the floofs are in full agreement with tasting some warm sunshine, don’t you.
Today’s music is about Dickey Betts. Lead guitarist (a job shared for a period with Duane Allman) and vocalist with the Allman Brothers Band, he passed this week, 80 years old. Man, when ABB came out with “At the Fillmore East” in 1971, I bought that thing and added it fast to the rotation. I’ve had a version of that double album from vinyl to digital ever since. Still play it once in a while when a nostlaxing mood strikes. Nostlaxing would be nostalgic and relaxing. You get it, don’t you?
Once while listening to “Whipping Post”, my wife, who’d come to embrace electrified blues, entered the room and asked, “Who is that playing guitar?”
“That’s Dickey Betts and Duane Allman,” I answered.
She listened a bit more. “Wow, they’re good.”
Yes, they were good.
But the song hooked in the morning mental music stream (Trademark sliding) is a better-known Allman Brothers tune. This is “Ramblin’ Man”, naturally. This live version from 1972 has Dickey on vocals and lead guitar. He wrote the song, as well. Dickey Betts, 1943 – 2024.
Be strong and lean forward. Vote Blue in 2024. Fresh coffee is flowing. Mine is black and sugar-free. Best way to imbibe it. Here’s the video. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 