The organized chaos of commercial air travel reminded him of several things. Number one, always read the fine print. When he bought his ticket, he also bought a seat for a few extra dollars, reasoning, he’d never seen anyone standing up for an entire flight. What he didn’t see anywhere in the seat description was that the seat he selected didn’t recline. He found that out the day before, when he reviewed his flight details.
Naturally, he entertained getting a seat for the five plus hour flight. Several were available for an extra $130. Being one that often spites himself to prove a point, he refused to buy one.
He was sure, though, someday the airlines would figure out a way to start charging for air.
Sunshine skirts the trees and licks the sky into fresh blue shades. Familiars remind me that I’m home. People say, oh, you made it, as though the standing in lines and sitting in seats that frame commercial air travel in this era was a slog. The slog is behind the scenes, where they’re building and maintaining the machines and coordinating the actions. I’m just a passenger on that plane, just as I’m a passenger on starship Earth.
Sunrise in Ashland today came over us at 7:20 AM. Cool mountain air, measured at 54 F, put a shiver in my body. Gonna be 88 F, the weather wizards say. Smoky haze covered the valley from the Cedar Creek fire further west in the state. Not heavy smoke but enough for you to see it’s there, a reminder of the fire’s existence. Sunset, they tell me, will be 6:34 PM.
Being home is a comfort. Having my wife chatting about all she’s done and is doing and is to do brought me into the groove. Tucker and Papi did their feline duties, purring welcomes, permitting me to show my affections through liberal scratches of their ears, heads, and backs.
Traveling was the mix of fun, weariness, anticipation, and frustration that I’ve come to expect. Being in flight, taking off before sunrise and then having the sun chase us down over the Rocky Mountains delivered plenty of thought fodder. As you know, many sings exist about traveling, aircraft, flight, and sunrise. Plenty for The Neurons to say, oh, there’s a theme song and stick it in my mental music stream. But I found myself watching people, splitting time between clothes, shoes, body language, and faces. Out of watching faces, The Neurons pulled up “Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town” by Pearl Jam. A song released six million years ago or more, it tells of a woman struggling to remember another’s name, wishing to say hello, and failing. The Neurons were right to pick it up off of the organic reflections generated from my visit home, to places that were and now aren’t, and faces filling with aging’s shifts.
So here we are. Cats are fed, breakfast is eaten, coffee was brewed, its scent inhaled, its pleasant bitterness introduced to my tongue as another fresh experience. Stay pos and test neg, and do the vaccines needed to overcome and move on. I’m with you there.
Here’s the tune. Hope you can enjoy your Wednesday and build on it. Cheers
Early dark thirty. Far before the sun’s scheduled arrival after seven. I’m waiting for my sister to pick me up and convey me to the airport. I’m always depending on my family and their kindness. She is one of the best.
It’s Tuesday, October, 11, 2022, exactly, without planning, one month since my arrival in Pittsburgh. Mom was in the hospital when I arrived, fighting COVID as it attacked her heart, lungs, and everything else it could lash out at. Nurses told my sisters it was very possible that Mom may not survive. It was one of the worst COVID cases they’d seen since the pandemic’s start for that hospital staff. Besides COVID and fluid in her heart and lungs, her appendix had a perforation and was pouring poisonous material into her body. Her pacemaker was only functioning at 20%. Things looked ugly.
She fought back and came out of it. Now she’s home, recovering, rehabbing, and I’m going home. She is struggling with bouncing blood pressure with a diastolic dropping below 100 too often. She’s on meds to promote good blood flow, keep her blood pressure at a healthy level by lowering it because of what she endured in the hospital, when it was skyrocketing. Now they’re backing those meds off, readjusting them, but her blood pressure is erratic. That’s a concern.
Other than that, she’s recovering her strength and balance, eating well, and so on.
My work here isn’t done but life dictates other needs, so, here I go, back across the country, back home.
It’s a travel day, in the car for thirty minutes, airport for two hours, aircraft for five plus, another hour in another airport, another two hours in a second aircraft, then in a car to reach home, an eleven-hour trip. That’s much better than the pioneers, and not as hazardous.
I feel like a little bit of a basketcase dealing with Mom as I hear her tell me one thing and bend her words so it doesn’t seem as bad when she’s dealing with her medicos and my sisters. Irritating as hell to be honest; makes me feel like an unreliable witness. But alas, these things are not within my control, so I let them go like the air from my lungs.
However, The Neurons jumped all over those feelings, dumping “Basketcase” by Green Day into the morning mental music stream (trademark pending – not really, but it feels like it should be added). So here we go.
My ride is here. Stay pos and test neg. I’ll try to do the same. Here we go. I’ll have coffee at the airport, thanks. Cheers
Monday has landed. You need to be careful when Monday lands that it doesn’t do serious damage to you. Some people really enjoy Mondays landing. They’re depressingly cheerful, shouting things like, “Woo hoo, it’s Monday,” causing the rest of us to raise our eyebrows so high that they get lost in our hair.
It’s August 27, 2022, which, for some, is the deadline. It’s also birthdays and anniversaries, so salutations to you if it is. Hope it’s memorable and the start of a long line of fantastic years.
I’m in Eugene, Oregon, now, a stop off on our way home. It’s 61 F here, 16 C on the coast, and 64 F in Ashland. Respective highs are 85, 68, and 88 F. Sunrise for this local was a classic, with sunshine piercing the eastern sky with a sharp golden lance at 6:323 this morning. Sunset will be at 8:07. I plan to be home then, where the sunset will be 8:01.
I have a 1957 song by Buddy Holley and the Crickets stuck in the morning mental music stream. My fault, totally my fault. After we checked into the room and settled for the evening, we cruised TV offerings where we found BBC America showing Stand By Me. The 1986 movie is about boys in a 1959 small town, their conflicts with themselves and others, and the quest to find a dead body. It features a terrific cast and music of the era. Well, The Neurons heard, ” Everyday, it’s a-gettin’ closer, goin’ faster than a roller coaster,” and they latched onto that like a cat taking over a chair.
Stay pos, test, neg, and so on. Yes, I’ve had coffee and breakfast. Coffee was very good. The breakfast went down well, breaking back tears of joy from being out in the field and enjoying some fine reconstituted eggs. Here’s the music. Cheers
We returned from vacation last week, which was a road trip lasting about a week on the Oregon coast and up in northwest Oregon. The best parts, of course, were being away, being with friends and family, and then, yes, coming home. Coming home and finding the floofs in good shape and the house standing and damage free is satisfying.
Past those obvious points, I had specifics that I enjoyed. This is not the definitive order or rankings. They’re just the matters I most enjoyed.
Being in the Cape Perpetua area. We’re guilty of multiple visits to this area since moving to Oregon fifteen years ago. This time, we treated friends to our favorite spots. Rich with volcanic leftovers and WPA efforts, exploring it is fun and educational. Specific favorites include Thor’s Well the Spouting Horn. Hearing – and feeling – the waves thundering in and firing spray several stories into the air is mesmerizing, almost therapeutic. Also of interest is the old rock hut. My wife often misremembers and informs people that it was built by Boy Scouts. She doesn’t believe me when I say, no, it was a WPA project. But, yes, it was. She was embarrassed when the guide at the information center corrected her. Its location high above the coast provide amazing views.
Powell’s Books. We checked out the Powell’s Books, whatever its official name is, in Beaverton. It’s clean, large, well-organized, and it’s full of books! Books, new and old. Non-fiction and novels, coloring books and chapter books, and things related to books, writing, and reading. I walked around reading covers and blurbs, and employee recommendations. My wife summed it up as a tonic that inspires more reading. It also inspires more writing for me.
Green Salmon Coffee Shop. Again, not certain if it’s the right name, but if you find the Green Salmon place in Yachats, you’re probably there. The coffee was good but not brilliant. Their vegan, gluten-free blueberry lemon scone was a huge piece of tastebud pleasuring OMG experience. So perfect in so many elements. Take it from this scone fan, it’s one to try.
Oswego Grill. Back in Beaverton for my wife’s birthday, we went to the Oswego Grill in Beaverton where excellent lunches capped off with a sensation dessert was enjoyed. Lowly doughnut holes were the foundation. Baked on site after ordered, the holes are rolled in cinnamon and sugar. Five of them are brought hot and fresh on a plate, along with a bowl of warm caramel sauce. Chomp. Chomp, chomp.
The Pacific Ocean. Like the night sky, the ocean always demands questions about existence and our niche rises when I contemplate it. Looking out to a far horizon invites a symphony of reflections about what’s beyond that earth curve and the people there, along with humanity’s history of exploration, and then, just the awesome presence that the ocean brings.
Not a fancy list, but if you get to these places – Cape Perpetua, Powell’s, Green Salmon, the Pacific – please check them out. Tell them Michael sent you. They’ll probably reply, “WTF are you talking about?”
Yes, it is a late theme music post. See, it’s Saturday, July 16, which means it’s her b-day. The year is 2022, for the record. We spent the day feting her in the Beaverton area. Then the vacation was wrapped up by the drive south to our home valley, just five hours and 286 miles.
We awoke in Beaverton to find it had rained overnight and was still doing a little spittin’ and droolin’. Coming at 5:49 AM, sunrise was withdrawn and distant. Temp settled on 19 C for a while under a blanket of mildly threatening clouds. They faded and the temperature climbed, striking 91 F as we forged south. Sunset at home was 8:45 PM.
Our jog down I5 ended the six-day journey away from home. Nine hundred miles were added to the odometer’s tot. As much as I enjoyed seeing our friends, exploring the Oregon coast, dining out, and venturing into bookstores and coffee shops, I’m happy to be home with my floofdies. They insisted on deep obeisance and lotsa kisses and belly rubs to prove that we were who we claimed to be. They were all, “Who are you?” at first. “Are thouest the oneths who betrayest usth? The humanth who loveth usth wouldst never deign to sneak away and leave us to dependeth upon another for food.” But they came around.
Music? Why, “Birthday”, aka the birthday song by the Fab Four, the lads from Liverpool, the Beatles, according to The Neurons. Can I argue with them? Of course not.
Well, the day is done. Coffee has been consumed. So was a lovely long lunch at Oswego Grill where our dessert were donut holes baked at the restaurant, rolled in cinnamon, and served with fresh caramel. Tasty. Probably fattening. We didn’t ask.
Stay positive and so on. Here’s the tune. Please, sing along. Cheers
The sun was shifting into position in the eastern sky. Gray sky emerged from the darkness as the stars shied away. We jumped into the car and headed north and then east. Our coast time was over. Shame, too. Thursday had been warm. Calm winds heralded dawn at 5:45 AM. This morning’s thermometer proclaimed 58 C was we left the hotel. They forecast 68 F as Yachat’s high. But come 9 AM, we were at PDX, dropping off friends and then heading west for our next destination.
Today is Friday, 7/15/22. Happy birthday, little sister. She’s two years younger than me, mother of two adult men, grandmother to two sweet and lovely girls.
We’re in Beaverton, outside of Portland. It’s 74 F now and will reach 83 F.
“She’s the One” by Bruce Springsteen, 1975, was found in my morning mental music stream. The Neurons put it there after someone made an innocent comment about another person being ‘the one’. Yeah. Okay, at least I get the connection, unlike some of the opaque selections they issue me. Hope you like it.
Well, stay positive, test negative, and so on. I’ve already had my coffee. Might do with another one in a little while, as that drive disrupted my normal daily flow. We’ll see.
He read the news article about a man stealing from people during an overnight flight. One woman had 10,000 USD and 13,000 Argentinian pesos stolen from her. He and his wife were shocked that she’d be carrying that much currency and that someone was able to steal it from her. As his wife said, “If I had that much on me on an aircraft, I wouldn’t be sleeping, and I’d probably be sitting on my purse.”
I was in a room decorated with furniture and hangings in which purples and reds dominated. I don’t recall seeing windows but the small room with dark wooden walls was cluttered, with a low ceiling. As the dream progressed, it seemed more like a loft.
I was working on some sort of rectangular woven hanging which was shades of purple, attempting to straighten it and neatly fold it over a wooden rod, when I heard people below. As I leaned over the heavy wooden railing, I saw people coming up the narrow wooden steps. They were shouting but it was a language which I didn’t understand. Still, I shouted back at them, “No, you can’t come up here, it’s time to go.” I then met them on the steps, waving my arms and repeating what I’d said before.
I went down and outside onto a crowded and busy plaza awash in sunshine. My wife was with me. A young man in a white shirt provided me tickets for our flights. We hadn’t paid for the flights. I saw his shirt cuff as he handed us the tickets. “Playboy Style” and “Cotton” was embroidered in white thread on his white shirt’s cuffs. I thought, these tickets are going to be expensive. I then asked, but he didn’t answer. As he went away, I opened the little sheaf of papers he’d provided and saw the ticket prices. They amounted to $4,000. I said, “No, these tickets are too much.” My wife replied, “We can afford it,” to which I answered, “We can afford it, but do we want to pay that?”
I experienced three distinct airport dreams last night. Two were of the, ‘hey, I’m traveling in an airport’ style, once with my wife, and once without her. They were essentially just in the airport, milling around, waiting for my flights, without any events happening. The third was weird.
My wife and I were in our thirties and looked just as we would in photographs of that time. We were outside on asphalt, between low building with white siding. The buildings reminded me of military buildings erected in the late 1950s/early 1960s. Cyclone fencing encircled the site. Beyond were tall pines and firs in a sandy but flat land sketchy with broken asphalt and foundations where other buildings had been torn down.
We talked as we waited. I asked, “I wonder how much of this land and these buildings are going with us?” Because it was my understanding that they would fly us out by lifting the land we were on. I was struggling to visualize that process.
As time passed, we drifted into another area. Tall, fat, white, cylindrical pillars held ceiling up hundreds of feet above our heads. The paved area was open on all sides. People in knots, clumps, groups, were waiting all around although the center was clear. I walked around a while, looking, wondering when we were leaving, then found that I’d lost track of my wife. As I looked for her, I heard an announcement that our flight was ready and that we need to return to our places.
A stocky pale man with short hair, a red baseball cap, and a goatee asked, “Are you looking for your wife?” As I nodded and replied, “Yes,” he said, “She went to the Starbucks,” and pointed. I turned and saw my wife up on a platform, waving at me. Thanking the man, I walked toward her and waved her toward me, telling her, “Come on. It’s time.”
Michael Seidel, writer 