A deer came by this morning. I saw her strolling across the yard, nibbling at choice yard offerings. Then she settled down on a grassy patch by some bushes just off the front porch.
I wondered, is she the same one who came by three times last week to chill in the yard at night? We never exchanged names and the other one was in the dark, so I’m not sure.
Seeing her settled, I did my best to keep the noise level down as I closed windows and left the house to go write.
The world has dropped a Sunday bomb on Ashlandia, emphasis on sun. Little wind stir the heat. We’ll travel from our current relative pleasant found in 69 degrees to the upper eighties. Cooler than yesterday, not as hot as that endured by those under the skillet lid in the eastern U.S. Today is June 23, 2024. Next Sunday will be June’s final day. This means that almost half of 2024 has slipped by the surly calendar.
In bad news, a friend sent me stats on COVID-19, showing that it’s risin’ agin’. He saved me some time. I’d planned to look into it because eight friends reported they had it in June. Their experience was a few days with mild cold symptoms followed by two to three weeks of poor energy of any kind. One reported, she sit down with a book and go right to sleep.
I spent the morning texting with sisters. One is teaching her sixteen-year-old to drive as her newly adult high school grad takes on adulting as he preps for college this fall. She’s going down to Georgia to vacation with our oldest sister tomorrow. Meanwhile, texting me, the older sister tells me she’s had a couple strokes without elaborating on what kind. She’s always had back problems and now there’s stenosis and they want to fuse five of her vertebrae together. She’s also diabetic and has chronic kidney failure, a byproduct of her meds, she tells me.
Then there’s my middle younger sister. She and her family drove down to the Carolina coast yesterday. They’ve rented a beach house with a pool. They’re all hard workers and mo’ def’ deserve and need a vacay. Hope they’re able to relax and chill.
Meanwhile, my mind is floating around calling Dad to get an update on him and calling Mom to get an update on her and pass the update along about Dad. I’m not quite up to that yet. More coffee and some writing, first.
We had a net outage the other night. Actually, two nights in a row. This frequently happens when the heat jumps into the upper nineties. I mean degrees, not years, decade, or period.
With the net out, we read but then I surfed the television offerings. Since I cut the cable back in 2010, we survive on over-the-air digital broadcasts. We receive the big four networks, along with PBS, and the networks’ sub channels. Like NBC is channel 5.1, then there are three other networks broadcasting old shows or documentaries on channels 5.2, 5.3, and 5.4. X-Files,Two and a Half Men, Seinfeld, along with Green Acres and Hogan’s Heros, and several police/hospital/fire department-based dramas from past decades.
Watching Hogan’s Heros and its silliness, my wife and tried remembering what happened to Bob Crane. Was it suicide or murder? Bludgeoned to death, we rather later recalled, and then conneted it. (Yes, conneted is my word for ‘confirmed on the net’.)
My wife follows a tangent, recalling that Naomi Judd ended her own life. It’d shocked her and me; Naomi Judd, a lovely and talented person, seemed to have it all together, resulting in a life of artistic and commercial success. Naomi Judd, though, coped with many mental and physical health issues and decided, enough. Never know what’s happening in another’s skin and what’s passing through minds.
The final piece that evening was a sort of celebration of the Judds’ music, with my wife enthusing about their songs, like “Mama He’s Crazy” and “Girls Night Out”. But the one she particularly relished was “Turn It Loose” from 1988. She played it a few times once the net returned, heavily accenting her favorite lines by loudly singing along to them.
I love the slide of a steel guitar I love the moan of an old blues harp I love the shake of a tambourine I love the bass when it’s low and mean So put on your shoutin’ shoes And turn it loose
It may surprise you that The Neurons in my head then loaded it up and sprang it on me this morning in my morning mental music stream (Trademark loose) as I was wandering around the kitchen, just minding my own business. So that’s today’s theme music.
Stay positive, be strong, and make what you can of the day. Needn’t be perfect. Just tryin’ can help. I’ve downed some coffee — the last gulp was cold as stone. Time to go write and roll.
Today is Saturday, June 22, 2024. Summer had asserted itself with a firm hand. A solidly blue sky gazes down on Ashlandia and bright sunshine blisters our skin and browns the land. Currently 73 F, Ashlandia’s area will experience low to mid 90s for the highs today. The wind has shifted and the smoke has drifted out of our valley to go plague others in another valley, so it’s breathable outside. Take precautions against the heat and outside activities can be pursued. It supposed to get cooler for a few days, with temperatures dipping into the eighties.
It feels like it’s been a long week. Realizing it’s Saturday surprises me. The big Biden-Trump debate looms on the calendar. Personally, I have a physical this week. Slowing down, moderately overweight, I feel like I’m aging by the day — which, yeah, we all are — so I’m not looking forward to the physical.
Mom and I spoke yesterday. She related one of her favorite precautionary tales. Her mother had a thing about smells. She was living alone, in her nineties, as her children discussed putting her into a nursing home or assisted living facility. Those discussions had stalled.
Meanwhile, on a cold December Nebraska night, her mother put on a light jacket and took a banana peel out to put in the outside trash. She slipped and fell, staying on the ground for forty-five minutes before noticed and helped. That was the end of her living alone. She lived for several more years but wasn’t the same.
On her part, Mom’s big fall over a decade ago triggered her long health decline. For my part, when I was immobilized with an obstructed bladder a few years ago, I saw changes quickly emerge. I was suddenly stiffer and less fluid in my movement. My balance felt slightly off. My metabolic rate had changed as I aged, of course, but suddenly I put on weight. Much of my muscle seemed to slack off overnight. Then, boom, my skin all seemed to be sagging.
It’s likely that all those things were happening but I didn’t notice until my routines were changed. Seeing those changes made me more cognizant of my retreating hair line, and the color fleeing my hair and beard. I feel older, slower, and weary. Reading news of the world and its people, and political news, doesn’t seem to help at all. I turn to coffee for energy boosts but I know I shouldn’t be drinking it any longer. Like Grandma and her banana peel, I can’t stop myself.
I read Jill Dennison’s blog as frequently as I can. She and I seem like kindred political spirits, part of the same tribe as many of you who regularly visit my blog and comment. I read one of Jill’s posts and commented yesterday. In her comments back to me, she mentioned that she’s looking for a rainbow.
That was like a set up for The Neurons. As soon as that was read and digested, they began playing Chris Rea’s song, “Looking for A Rainbow” from 1989, in the morning mental music stream (Trademark smoldering). The song starts out slow as it carries forward the album’s theme, The Road to Hell, but becomes jauntier and of course features Rea’s slide guitar work.
Well we come down to the valley Yea we’re looking for the honey I see a rainbow I say that’s the land of milk and honey
Me and my cousin Me and my brother My little sister too Come looking for a rainbow Yea we’re looking for a rainbow
Well we come down to the valley Got our babies in our arms Yea we’re Maggie’s little children And we’re looking for Maggie’s farm
Me and my cousin Me and my brother My little sister too Come looking for a rainbow Yea we’re looking for a rainbow
Yeah, Jill, baby, I think many of us are looking for a rainbow and the land of milk and honey. Some seem to believe the only way there is by holding others back, beating them down, or banishing them. Yes, I’m looking at you, Republicans.
Stay positive – yes, it’s hard – be strong – yes, also hard – and lean forward and Vote Blue in 2024. Maybe we can create a place that attracts rainbows. Here’s the music. Cheers
In my final three years of my US Air Force career, I was involved in the Quality Air Force initiative of the 1990s. This dram seemed to pull out of that.
I wasn’t in uniform during the dream at all but quality management was constantly referenced. To begin, I was in a modern classroom with many others. We were there by invitation to participate in a quality management session.
I didn’t know the man in charge. Large-bodied, white, tall, and bald, with a small mustache, I did know his work and was eager and excited to be included in his project. His name was never given.
As we invitees sat and waited in the glass room, he walked around the room before calling out four names. I was on called. Pleased, I went up to him. He told me and the other three that we had ‘outstanding and extensive’ quality management experience and so he was presenting us with the opportunity to be his class assistant. Flattered and eager, I accepted, and he gave me a little booklet to use.
That’s all the dream was but short as it was, it felt strongly re-affirming.
A sense of community often ends at the parking lot. Signs warn who may share their parking lot. Even on weekends and holidays when businesses and institutions are closed, they warn, “Parking Reserved for Customers”, or the like, threatening scofflaws with towing and fines.
Otherwise, it’s thanks for visiting and enjoy your day.
Sprummer continues its Ashlandia rule, with signs of summer leaking in. Already 72 F and intensely sunny, clouds have shifted in, and our high will crest at 87 F. Meanwhile, cooler temps are petering in, according to forecasts, with highs dropping into the upper seventies.
I injured my right ankle again last night. Just stepped up onto the door’s threshold and that thing went snap crack and I was down and in pain. A night of RICE helped and I can hobble today but I need to follow up with ortho and pursue the answer to the question, what the heck?
The cats’ responses to my injury and condition was amusing and interesting. When I sang my song of pain and flopped down, Papi reacted, “Run away!” Tucker came over and rubbed his head against mine and purred.
Later, when my wife had set me up with my RICE package, Papi wanted out. Now, he normally pays little attention to my wife. This time, he came in, walked past me, and appealed to her to let him out.
Meanwhile, Tucker was yelling for food in the night’s depths. This was despite his bowl full of kibble. I shouted back that I was in pain and couldn’t help him so please have some empathy and shut the fuck up. Well, he was immediately quiet, and then came to me on the bed, settled himself against me and purred.
I owe Marjorie Taylor Greene for today’s music in the morning mental music stream (Trademark drifing). In an interview with convicted liar Paul Bannon (cough, cough) about Greene’s stand on defunding NATO, MTG accused Rachel Maddow of being the fringe. She of the wildfire-causing space lasers said, “It’s not fringe at all. It’s also not fringe because most Americans also agree that the United States should not be funding a war in Ukraine.”
“So when we’re going to talk about the question, we’re going to ask the question, who is fringe?” she added. “It’s actually Rachel Maddow is the fringe person in this story. It’s not me. It’s Rachel Maddow.”
Guess that makes me fringe, as I support NATO. See, I remember why NATO was created in WWII’s aftermath. And I support Ukraine in the face of Russia’s wars and attempts to forcibly rebuild the USSR.
Anyway, as I laughed at MTG, The Neurons pulled up Bob Dylan’s song, “It Ain’t Me Babe”. There are several versons but I went with Dylan’s original. I just like its simplicity.
Stay positive, remain strong, and Vote Blue in 2024. Here’s the music. See you on the other side of midnight. Cheers
The numbers are in for today, Sunday, June 9 2024. 55, 65, 83, our low, current, and expected high for Ashlandia, all in F. The numbers show that our sprummer run remains intact.
My cats are doing well. Still lovin’ sprummer. Tucker has been reborn. But that encourages him to think he’s a young ‘un. Now he wants to spend all his time outdoors. “No,” I tell him. “You’re an elderly housefloof. You’re better off indoors.”
“YOOOWWWLLLL!” he shouts back. “YOOOWWWLLLL. MeeeOWWWLLLL.” He’ll do this until my wife or I leap up and open the door, telling Tucker, “Fine, go get eaten by a cougar but don’t complain to us when it happens. We tried to tell you but you won’t listen.”
Tucker usuallly replies with a haughty, “Murpf.” Everyone owned by a cat knows what murpf means.
It’s National Donald Duck Day FYI. I’m not celebrating it, myself. I’m sure it’s a big deal to someone on this world.
No, I’m celebrating Space Appreciation Day. This is not the same as National Space Day, celebrated in May. Space Appreciation Day is not about the region beyond Earth’s atmosphere or all that ‘out there’ in the dark, starry night.
Space Appreciation Day is about private space. Leg room and elbow room during air travel or in movie theaters. Or room in bed to turn over without leaving the mattress. That’s what Space Appreciation Day, often shortened to SAD, is all about.
Take, for example, writing at the coffee shop. SAD comes into its own there. I don’t want to hear others’ phone calls. First, I’m usually only hearing one side of it, forcing me to provide the other end. Like:
“It’s scheduled for tomorrow afternoon,” I hear in the coffee shop. Which I fill in to mean, the contract killer is making the hit.
Nor do I want to be a close party to others’ sneezes. Likewise, I don’t want to share my sneezes with others because I see the accusing, wary looks they use afterward. (“What does THAT guy have? He looks like he migh be dying. Maybe I should leave or mask up.”) Ideally, I’ll have a radius of twelve feet between me and anyone else in the coffee shop. And that’s what I pray for when I dance and make sacrifices to the Gods of Space on SAD.
The Neurons wanted to play along but when I thought about space and the distance between me and other objects, they came back with the realm outside of planets’ atmospheres. So I ended up with Muse singing “Starlight” from 2006 in the morning mental music stream (Trademark out there).
Be strong and positive, and enjoy your SAD, however you decide to celebrate it. Vote Blue 2024. I’ve begun the coffee ingestion process, and we have lift off. Here’s the music. Cheers
“You make me feel so young,” I told the day. “You make me feel like summer has come.”
Yes, it’s sprummer in Ashlandia, where the crows’ conversations dominate the morning’s sounds. Today is Jun 6, 2024. School is out. Light clouds sketch patterns over the blue sky but mild haze mars our western view. Dust, pollen, fire somewhere? Don’t know yet.
Our temperature currently resides at 70 F. That’s a temporary stop, up sixteen from when the cats forced me out of bed. 88 F is our forecasted high.
In surprise news, Mom is receiving her hospital bed back in Penn Hills. Last that I knew, back on Monday, more paperwork of an unexplained nature was needed. Now, bang, the bed is being delivered today.
The news set up falling dominos of actions and reactions. Mom immediately called daughters to come over with their hubbies to dissemble and move the old bed. Sisters et al responded, “We can’t now. We’re at work, we’re at appointments, we have commitments,” which dismayed Mom. She needed and expected everyone to immediately come to her aid, and adulting prevented that from happening. Stress, irritation, frustration, anger, and resentment all gyrated upward. Mom felt abandoned, and her daughters felt unreasonably burdened. It’s worse because it’s all part of a recurring cycle of ‘come help me now’ and ‘I can’t, I’m busy’.
Viewed from a distance, out of that, The Neurons initiated “King of Pain” by The Police in my morning mental music stream (Trademark changing). The 1983 song elaborates on the many small, overlooked matters that causes an observer to feel pain for the others and their situation, feeling this in his soul. That pain translates to rain, and then they express hope that another would end the rain, which would end their pain. I’m certain that it’s this circle and unfulfilled hope which attracted Les Neurons to this song today.
Be strong, stay positive, and Vote Blue in 2024. Also, enjoy, however you can, and try to make something of it. Coffee is doing its thing; time to go do mine. Here’s the music. Cheers
Mood: Persistfee (a sense of persistence fueled by coffee)
It’s a day of indifferent clouds and sunshine, this Monday, June 3, 2024. Rain spits and dries. Temperatures fall and bounce. 76 F, thermometers declare, but a chiller feel hangs in the air. Today’s high temperature is at hand.
Spoke with Mom this morning. She related bureaucratic issues keeping her hospital bed from coming on. I depend on her for the info so I can only accept her explanation. According to the PCP’s nurse, aka John, everything has been forwarded to the company who will deliver the bed. But they claim something is missing and hold that the bed can’t be delivered until this unknown element is delivered. It all has Mom and I swearing and wondering.
She sounds good, spirited and energetic. She’s been cleaning, she said. So what will the hired help clean when she comes this Thursday? Mom declares, “I’m not going to pay her to come if there’s nothing here to clean.”
My sisters and I predicted this as a real possibility. Mom prides herself in a clean house. It’s a large part of her persona. Once the cleaner began coming, Mom rose up and began cleaning in anticipation of the cleaner’s arrival. She’d already said the cleaner wasn’t allowed to clean the kitchen because that’s Mom’s territory. Nor could the cleaner help with the laundry; Mom is very particular about how her clothes are washed and dried.
I think Mom is taking a narrow view of having a cleaner come in every week or two. Mom has rallied now but is that sustainable? When will she overdo her poor stenosis-plagued back and cause herself a new injection of pain and immobility? What if she falls – again – and hurts herself? Those are what-ifs, and pieces of logic. Mom’s issues with cleaning are emotional and psychological. Just one son’s opinion. I hope that these worries never see light.
Today’s song is “Green Tambourine” by The Lemon Pipers. The 1967 psychedelic pop hit is playing in my morning mental music stream (Trademark freeze-dried), and I don’t know why. Following the usual course, I interrogated The Neurons, but they closed ranks and shut down. Couldn’t even get a word out of them after plying them with coffee. Stupid little boogerheads.
Off to the coffee shop to let the muses play with words. Be strong, stay pos, and Vote Blue in 2024. Here’s the music. Cheers
Boys and girls in clean baseball uniforms come into the coffee shop and wait for drinks. Last names and numbers adorn the jerseys. The young players all wear their caps with its team insignia. Crocs, or Croc wannabes adorn their feet so they’re not wearing their cleats into the shop.
The parent situation varies. Sometimes a solitary adult accompanies the young athletes; less frequently, it’s a couple. I wonder about the family situation and whether about the significance of the adult situation.
None seem particularly happy. Phones are often studied, arms crossed, as they wait. But one father and the children talk, joke, and laugh.
All so different from my years of young ball playing. This is part of the new Americana, Starbucks, phones, and Crocs. I wonder how many times these scenes play out across the land on this Monday American holiday.
