March 1, 2023. Congratulations. You did it! You made it to the next month. That’s how we’ll get ahead, one step, one day, one month, one year at a time. It’s the long game. As Bob sang, “Turn the page.”
Today is Wednesday. Temperature has climbed to 32 degrees F, on its way to 42 F. Snow still covers everything except the streets. Sunrise at 6:46 delivered a mega-watt shine off all that snow. My eyes were bypassing my brain to tell my hands, put on those sunglasses. Sunset will close the daylight on this winter Ashlandia day at 6:01 PM.
Yesterday AM was spent reading and writing as the snow fell. When will it stop, we wondered, and asked Alexa. She informed us it was cloudy. Snow will start at 1 PM. What? “Alexa, what are the chances of snow in Ashlandia?”
“There is a fifty-four percent chance it will snow in Ashlandia.”
We laughed at the silly tech. Checking online, they said the snow will stop in sixty-one minutes.
It didn’t. It stopped about 85 minutes later.
Roads were plowed and cindered. All was melting. We’d been planning to clean the carpeting on that day. My wife suggested that we hold off because, snow. But seeing conditions, I decided to press on. I picked up the machine and did the deed. It looks great. Now the machine must be returned.
Today’s music was suggested by The Neurons. Someone mentioned a hot toddy would be nice in an online post. The Neurons immediately sang, “Hot toddy, check it and see. I want a toddy inside of me.” All this was to the Foreigner song, “Hot Blooded” from 1978. Wasn’t long before the proper lyrics were ringing in the morning mental music stream.
Stay pos. Hope your Wednesday and your March take you higher. (That triggered Sly and the Family Stone with, “I Want to Take You Higher”.) I need coffee. See you later.
Papi, the famous ginger cat, galloped in to great applause and cheers. The door was shut and locked behind him.
Locals crowded around the dashing feline. “What’s the word, Papi? What’s it like out there?”
The heroic floof’s amber eyes flashed. His tail slashed the air. “Snow. Everywhere. Up to my belly. And still, it snows. Quick, I need food. Hurry, damn it.”
It’s been about sixteen hours straight of snow falling. Am I sure that it didn’t stop in the night? No. But it was falling whenever I looked. This is the small, dry powdery stuff. Little relative moisture in it. And it’s piling up. Eight inches in some places around my Ashlandia patch. No wind, so there’s no drifts.
It’s Tuesday, February 28, 2022. Sunrise’s ticket was punched at 6:48 AM. Sunset: (trumpet flourish) 6 PM.
The sky is white, as is the ground, and white stuff religiously falls. It’s like the white album. 30 degrees F out there, so not too cold. Today’s high will be 35. Tonight’s line will be 29. It’s a narrow operating margin. Feels like a good day to stay home. Drink coffee, read, write. Got books, will sit. And we have heat, power, all those things, and food. We’re in good shape compared to quake and tornado victims, and homeless folks. The city and churches have opened shelters and established places for people to go. Breakfast and dinner is served.
The Neurons are showing an impish side, playing Billy Idol’s “White Wedding” (1982). “It’s a nice day, for a, white wedding,” Idol sneers. “It’s a nice day to start again.”
Okay.
Stay pos. Hope you’re doing well wherever you be on this day, and that good things happen for you, to you, etc. Coffee is served. Here is Billy. Cheers
Sunrise’s 0650 arrival showed us, flurries. They’re on the smallish side but they’re earnest. With the thermometer flailing at 33 degrees F, the flurries pile up. But it all melts when they take a pause. Most be demoralizing to work so hard, dropping millions of flakes and yet see no appreciable accumulation.
It’s Monday. Feb. 27, 2023, the NTL day of February, in case you’ve not been told that February has twenty-eight days this year. Children are walking, school buses are running, parents are dropping off students and zipping off for errands, work, exercise classes. My wife went off to the last.
Sunset is due at 5:58 PM. The weather whizzes tell us 40 F is Ashlandia’s high temperature expectation.
The cats are amfloofvalent about the snow. Tucker looks out without comment. Papi demands freedom. Released to the back yard, he zips around through the flurries to the front porch and demands permission to come back in. He knows Oregon weather at this time of year, so he expects it to change, but it’s not happening as fast as he’d like. I suggest he sit down, maybe have a cup of coffee and observe the weather through the window. He replies, “Meeep.” It’s his trademark sound. That was his name. He’s sometimes referenced as the floof formerly known as Meep.
Meep and Tucker did eat in the same room this morning. That’s a remarkable achievement. Maybe flooftente is thawing. They’ve only lived together for six years. It takes time.
Tucker is doing better with his hind section but still can’t jump. Appetite is much improved, though. We took a risk last week. Bought a twenty-five pound bag of kibble from Costco. Tucker is very discriminating about what he’ll eat, like a child eyeing whatever is offered. Papi is more liberal with what he puts in his mouth. He’s like, “Food! Yes!” Chomp chomp. Neither of them like anything with sweet potato in it. The purchased food is chicken and rice.
Well, Tucker leaped into the new food with gusto. Emptied his kibble bowl and then pulled over the bag to paw out more. See? Improved appetite.
In dispiriting news from around the U.S., Republicans keep pushing to pull books from schools and libraries. Fear, you know. What will their blessed offspring learn? God, what will they see? Might see nekkid people. May even discover that everyone poops. In the name of the holy bible, we can’t have that. They much prefer blinders on their little ones.
They’re playing, “Let’s pretend.” Let’s pretend that people don’t identify differently from the genders we think they are. There are only two, you know. That’s what Jesus said, and the disciples agreed with them to a man. Let’s pretend that slavery was a good thing and that racism doesn’t exist. Thus it is that books may not reference sex, racism, slavery, and other things that make certain people ill. See, it’s only certain people pushing these agendas, a terrified vocal minority.
Okay, end snark.
Was pleased with the SAG results last night, as far as Everything Everywhere All at Once winning four honors. I enjoyed the movie and thought it deserving. Didn’t see many of the other movies, so I don’t know if my opinion is relevant.
BTW, just finished a novel, Legends and Lattes by Travis Baltree. Cited as high fantasy, and featuring a Orc swordswoman as the protagonist, it’s almost like a cozy, but it’s an entertaining and clever send-up of coffee houses as well. My wife found it and passed it on to me after she enjoyed it. I recommend it if you’re looking for a light read.
After a raucous dream night, I have “Bang!” playing on the morning mental music stream loud system. AJR released it a few years ago. It’s an interesting ditty, not about Jack and Diane, but about adulting, being responsible, like moving to your own place, filing taxes, and trying to remember a password.
Stay pos. The oaties have been eaten — they were of a sweet variety today, with brown sugar and blackberries. I have coffee at hand. Sips have been consumed. I am a go. Here’s the music. Pretend you know this song.
Heavy snow fell this morning for thirty minutes. Thick mythological flakes twirled and spun, building to a fast two inches. But the temperature was 36 and the sun cracked the clouds, and lo’, it melted in minutes. Now it’s wintingery again, dashing dark clouds, determined sunshine, uncertain winds chasing leaves.
It’s Feb 26, 2023, a Sunday. Sun’s warm light surmounted the southeasterly elevations at 6:51 this morning. We’ll stay in its presence until 5:57 PM.
Winter warnings are issued. The weather nerds say snow and rain every other day this week. Highs in the 40s to 50s during the day but pushing the mercury down in the mid-twenties at night. Last night’s low was 28 F. It’s now 42, which is our high.
Interesting news from sis-in-law. One, QVC is talking about a deal with her for her product, the CranioCradle. Two, she was in a car accident and now has a bad hip and can’t walk. They’re telling her she’ll probably need surgery. Her insurance company is taking care of everything, and she has Medicare to cover other costs. Still, it’s a pain.
We were out shopping in the changing conditions. — had to – Book Club in March, you know, K is hosting, you know — apparently the President and significant royalty from around the world is showing up, to judge from the planning and preparation — and I somehow between the axis of K’s zealous planning and the changing wintingery situation ended up with The Neurons plugging “Shelter from the Storm”. Guy named Bob Dylan sung it originally. Came out on one of his albums in the 1970s.
Stay pos. The shopping expedition flushed my energy away. It’s a lot of tedious standing around for me. It was just raining, then sleet, then snow. Now it’s sunny. The wind has gone on up the road. Monday is coming.
Saturday in Ashlandia. February 25, 2023. Plenty of sunshine heading our way. People walk dogs by the house. A few tightly encased joggers take the hill. A robin patrols the backyard. Scrub jaws hop the front lawn. Cats lap up sunshine in living room pools.
It’s 37 F now, up from sunrise’s 29 F. The sun’s entrance was 6:53 AM. Exit from Ashlandia is expected at 5:52 this evening, after we’ve gone into the fifties. About 97 percent of our local snow is melted. Icy pockets remain in hollows, dips, and shadowy places where the sun don’t shine.
The Neurons are playing “Bitter Sweet Symphony” by the Verve in the morning mental music stream. My wife and I heard it in the car while running errands yesterday. The song came out in 1997, after I’d been retired from the military for over a year, after I’d bought a new car, and was basically living a new life. The song was right for the time, which found my circumstances improving. When we listened yesterday, K asked about part of the song. “It songs like he’s singing ‘moan’ to me.” No, it’s mold, as in this is how I’m molded.
Papi wants out to scout the terrain and inspect his environment. Stay pos. I’m off for coffee and breakfast. I’m thinking about making savory oatmeal. Here’s the Verve. Cheers
Sketchy snow paints Ashlandia. Less than an inch in most places. A fine job has been done on the streets, walks, and drives. They are all white perfection, a canvas for car and animal prints.
Enough snow effect has settled that ambient noise is muffled. Footsteps, rolling tires, motor sounds, barks, snap out, intruders on the silence.
Winting in Ashlandia. Familar as summer wine.
Today is Thursday, 022323, the only time it’ll be 022323 for another hundred years. 27 F, a few wavering steps up from the overnight’s 23 F, ten steps away from the suspected high 37 F. The sun’s appearance was at 6:56 AM. Its light dazzles off the whites. Weather gnomes inform us the sun will shine on Ashlandia for forever or until 1753, whichever comes first.
The Neurons have slotted “Hanginaround” by The Counting Crows outof 1999 into the magic morning mental music stream. Came to me as I was in the coffee shop, editing, slashing, and pillaging a manuscript. Pausing to consider other regulars and their energies, I thought, man, this group hangs around here a lot, thirteen strangers united by a place. The Neurons fired the song up in memory within seconds and here we are the next morning.
Ah, it’s 32F now. Almost 10 AM. Sun has melted off the hard surfaces, but man is that reflected light bright from the rest. Stay pos. Pursue your Thursday activities and dreams. A cuppa coffee and I’ll learn to run. Here is the music.
A small patch of blue sky threatens the fifty shades of gray above Ashlandia. Today is Wednesday, Feb 22, 2023. As Bill Withers sang, “Ain’t no sunshine.” There is daylight, coming to us since 6:57 this morning, illuminating the snow frozen across the ground. @ 33 F, the streets and walks are clear. The weather monitors note it feels like 33 F now, but we’ll punch 36 as a high before celestial mechanisms take our sunshine away at 5:52 PM.
For anyone tracking the stats at home, we’re into our final week of Feb, 2023. It’s the first final week of the second month of the year.
It’s warm in the house, thanks to all the connections which evolved through the centuries regarding gas and electricity, heat, walls, foundations, and roofs. Had the fireplace up last night. Thinking about fire prompted The Neurons to slot “Good Times Roll” by Jimmie Allen and Nelly from 2020 into the morning mental music stream. There’s a chorus line from the song about the good fire rolling. The song is an interesting sound, bit of country, bit of rock, a sound like something out of four decades past.
Stay pos. Make your midweek work for you. Give me so joe and I’ll get right on it. Here’s the music for your listening pleasure. Cheers
7 AM. I open the blinds because I know sunrise was at 6:59.
No sun. Droves of fat flakes lash the window and veil the world. It’s 37 degrees F so it’s not sticking.
I meander through the house TCB. An hour later, I’m at the kitchen window. 37 F. Sunny as Florida.
Florida comes to mind because my wife spoke with her sister yesterday. Sis lives in Florida. She was in her pool. 80 F.
Back in Ashlandia, ten minutes later, it’s dark and gloomy. Low clouds hide the mountains.
It’s 37 F.
This is Tuesday, February 21, 2023. Winting rules Ashlandia. Weather sages tell us the high will be 42 degrees F later today, then we’ll drop into the twenties for the night. Snow is expected to fall after sunset at 5:51 PM.
10 AM. It’s a broken blue and white sky. No sunshine.
Papi, the ginger marvel, has been galloping around the house, wailing to be let outside, beating on windows to come back in. He is not a fan of winting weather.
I have “Jumper” (1997), Third Eye Blind, looping through the morning mental music stream. The cause mystifies me. The Neurons must have something in mind but they’re not telling me. Behind the song was a story of a high school committing suicide after being bullied about their sexual identity. The song was played for Republicans in 2015 at the convention to protest the GOP’s anti-LGBT positions.
Stay pos. Enjoy the weather as best as you can. It’s almost sunny here now. No, wait, clouds have skated in. It’s snowing. No, it stopped. Look, it’s sunny.
Woo hoo. It’s Monday, February 20, 2023, and we did it. Sunrise is at 7 AM in Ashlandia today. A surfeit of daylight and sun greeting me upon admitting Papi back into his house after his 6:37 excursion.
It’s Presidents’ Day in America. Time to sell some cars, furniture, and appliances at significant savings! Doesn’t change the weather. Winting stands strong, 29 degrees F at dawn, 38 F now, 62 F later. Dusk will resume around sunset, 1750. Winter warnings are out. Apparently, winter is coming back for another engagement.
“Faint” by Linkin Park (2003) plays in the morning mental music stream. There are lines in the song about not being ignored and don’t turn your back on me. I was trying to ignore Papi’s request to exit again (he’d come in fifteen minutes before, and the sun wasn’t yet up). I told him, too, “We’ve had this conversation. You need to stop going in and out. I need sleep, please.” His response was a yowl, which my FVD Mark IV said meant, “I will not be ignored.” Ah, said The Neurons, “here’s ‘Faint’ by Linkin Park.”
Here’s the music for you so you can see how music sounded twenty years ago. Stay pos and take over your Monday like a floof boss. I need coffee. Already ate waffles for breakfast. Maybe I’ll have a brownie with my coffee. For energy.
We clang into Sunday and draw up with a hiss of brakes. Slow down, you move too fast. It’s Sunday, February 19, 2023.
Many people accelerate activities on Sunday. This is the one day they’re free of other commitments like work and school. They rush around, getting things done, because this is Sunday, and this is the only day they have to get things done. They’re Sunday dynamos. My wife is sometimes like that.
37 F now, the weather cats tell me it’ll be 52 F for the day’s high. Winting still holds in Ashlandia. Sunshine that was turned on about 7:02 this morning illuminates a marbled blue and white bowl overhead. Sun time ends at 5:48 this evening.
Papi is at the office door, giving me the look. He’s talking to me now and again, small, high barks. Yes, he is a cat, but he likes to bark. Maybe he thinks I understand barking better than meowing. He’s wrong. I interpret his sounds by using my FVD – Floof Voice Decoder – Mark IV. The FVD tells me that Papi is either asking to go back outside, wants to play and be petted, or is telling me that people are breaking into the house. I pet him and let him out. I go out with him onto the back patio and enjoy winting, lapping lap up sunshine and cold, fresh air like it’s beer and nuts. Sunshine kisses buds on tree branches. Robins, scrub jays, and others are busy with food gathering and arguing. Papi goes on alert for whatever he can stalk.
Heads up, there’s winter storm advisory for Ashlandia for tomorrow.
Lot of personal stuff going on in my head. Nothing critical, just annoyances. The Neurons end up feeding “Waiting for the World to Change” by John Mayer, 2006. A little too mellow for my buds, it’s a good enough, and sums up my reaction to my frustration in the greater sense, I’m waiting for changes over which I have little control or input. That’s life, it seems.
Stay pos, and enjoy Sunday for what it is to you – a day of rest, worship, errands, or chilling. Some will be working. I’ll do my usual, head to the coffee shop and write, then back to the house for chores. Here’s the music. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 