Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Up and out early, I caught the sun’s first flush spreading over the snowy mountains on the valley’s other side as the sky gained blues and lost its darkness. Every night has its dawn, went through my head, which brought on Bret Michaels of Poison singing, “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” (1988). It’s a mellow song for a metal band, but a nice sound for contemplating winter, 2020.
Stay positive. Test negative. Wear a mask.
Today’s theme song choice was released in 1970, and is influenced by Mom. I’m thinking of her this week due to holidays and snow. She lives in Pittsburgh, PA, and they had a snowstorm. She told me via FB messenger that they had seven inches on the ground yesterday.
She was a big band and swing fan, but listened to a spectrum of music, with torch songs being her favorite, I think. As pop music expanded and changed, she became more particular about what she listened to as I did the same. She wasn’t a fan of the British invasion or rock. As far as 1970 pop went, she liked Glen Campbell and Neil Diamond.
Today’s song is a Neil Diamond one. Mom loved “Cracklin’ Rosie” and would sing it whenever it came on the car radio. I used to ask her what a ‘Cracklin’ Rosie’ was but she said she didn’t know. When I learned it was wine, I passed that on. Didn’t matter; she still enjoyed the song, although the words now made more sense.
Anyway, that’s today’s theme music. Remember, stay positive, test negative, and wear a mask. Cheers.
I woke up thinking about Mom and being snowed in. I’d already sent her a quick, kidding message about having enough food on hand. It’s an ongoing joke that Mom always has a great deal of food on hand — especially desserts and treats. Besides, my three sisters and four adult grandchildren live in the area. They’re always checking in on her to ensure she has food. Mom’s boyfriend lives with her. His family also checks in on them. Food won’t be an issue.
Mom enjoys telling stories, and being snowed in reminded me of one. A retired nurse, she was a recurring baby-sitter for my grandniece, Amy. Once, when Amy was six (she’s graduating from college next year), Mom was driving her through a slippery Pittsburgh snowstorm on one of the back roads around Penn Hills and Monroeville. As the car began spinning and swerving, Amy shouted, “Grandma, don’t kill us!”
The car ended up off road, but a young man witnessed it and got her out in short order. However, the sentence, “Grandma, don’t kill us!” is enshrined in family lore.
Mom was born and raised in a little town called Turin, Iowa. Dad was in the military, stationed not far away when they met. When he went overseas on assignment, Mom took the children and moved in with her in-laws in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Whenever she talks about those times, it’s with delighted and happy wistfulness. Dad and Mom divorced but Mom says she never fell out of love with his family. It must be true; after we’d moved around the country while Dad was in the military, she returned to Pittsburgh and grew her roots over sixty years ago.
I’ve asked her, “Why Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania?” Now, her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren are all there, and so she’ll remain. But back then, why?
…she loves the people of Pittsburgh, its hills, bridges, and history, the change of seasons, and summer thunderstorms. More than anything, she loves it when it snows there. When big snowstorms strike, she turns on the heat, opens the curtains and watches the snow.
Back when I was a child in her household, I’d charge outside to play in the snow. Hours later, I’d return. Everything would be stripped off in the basement to be hung up to dry or tossed in the dryer. Hot soup with cheese sandwiches or hot chocolate with marshmallows would inevitably follow, depending on the hour.
I’m thinking of this today because she sent me a video via FB. It’s Frank Sinatra singing, “Let It Snow”. I laughed immediately; I’d seen the weather forecast for Pittsburgh and saw the forecasts for snow, and thought, that’ll make Mom happy.
She always claims we have a psychic connection. Here’s the video. I know all the words. Mom played it back when I was growing up in Pittsburgh whenever the snow began to fall. Listening to it and thinking of her, I just need to smile.
I’d read a weather advisory last night about stagnant air. Got up this morning and looked; yep, there it was.
Which led to Slade’s 1984 song, “Run Runaway”, to crash my stream.
Hold on!
I like black and white
(Dreaming of black and white)
You like black and white
Run run away
See chameleon
(Lying there in the sun)
All things to everyone
Run run away
h/t to Genius.com
World seems almost black and white out there with this dense fog smothering it all. No chameleons lying in the sun, because there’s no sunshine. Just the bleah.
So, this rocking, simplistic song with this driving beat seems a fine song for a COVID-19 Friday. Run runaway.
The despised wind is here,
ruffling my ginger fur,
and cutting through my sunshine.
Teasing all my senses,
shaking all the fences,
and causing a great disruption.
It makes me quiver,
it makes me quake,
with the noises it does make.
Oh, the despised wind is here,
so I’m heading there,
into the house where it’s not.
Ever been out, doin’ your thang, mindin’ your own bizness, when suddenly, ‘lo, an urgent need strikes? Maybe it’s urgent hunger; you’re suddenly famished. Or thirst. You need coffee — stat. Or maybe it’s the worst one, you feel the need to pee…urgently.
Such happened to me yesterday afternoon. Halftime had started for the rain. I thought I’d get some outside walking in. I’d headed up into the hills around and behind my house. One mile became two, two became three.
I was monitoring where I was and deliberately plotting my routes. I knew I was about a mile from home. Dusk was slithering in. I’d descended down to Siskiyou Boulevard. Four-forty-five, cars passing had their headlights on. I was torn between putting on more distance when the need to pee struck urgently.
Naturally, as I pondered my sit. and debated options, a song provided distraction. In this case, it was “Urgent” (1981) by Foreigner.
“Urgent! Urgent! Urgent! Emergency.” I think that’s how the lyrics go.
Enjoy your day. Wear a mask, please, and social distance. I know it’s been a while, and you’re getting weary, but the payoff by staying strong is that it’s better for us as a civilization.
Cheers
The weather had pivoted. Clear skies scooted out of the way for rain clouds. Gone was the warm sun; a cooler, replacement sun arrived with November’s start. I don’t know who ordered it, but it was here and in place. (I actually thought it defective; it wasn’t very bright or warm.)
“I’m going to make a soup every Sunday,” my wife declared. “It’ll be Souper Sunday.”
She had me on her souper train. She makes excellent soups. First up was the roasted veggie offering. It’s one of my favorites. That doesn’t actually mean much; they’re all my favorites. Next up was another fave, the smoky chickpea offering.
For last weekend, she announced she’d be making her delicious black bean veggie chili. Then she called an audible on Saturday and made her spinach-mushroom-tortellini soup and served it up with a multi-grain ciabatta bread.
Sunday came and another audible: she was making her tortilla soup. Well…okay. It is one of my favorites. She’s a vegetarian, one of the differences between us. I’d grilled some chicken earlier in the week. Some was leftover. She divided the soup (giving me a much larger portion) and put the leftover chicken in for me. That was our Sunday dinner.
Guess what I had yesterday for lunch? And today? And I have enough left for lunch tomorrow, as well.
She hasn’t mentioned what soup she’ll make next. I’m hoping she’ll do either the black bean veggie chili or her other tortellini soup, or her broccoli cheddar. All I know is that’ll be a souper Sunday.
And probably a souper Monday, too.
It’s raining this weekend. I like a nice, solid rain, which is what we’ve received. Brew some coffee and chill with relaxing rain sounds. I shouldn’t be surprised that a song about rain entered the mental stream yesterday. That it was Bob Dylan and “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35″ surprised me.
I was finishing up shaving and such when I thought out of nowhere, what’s Bob Dylan’s real name? I came up with Zimmerman but took a few more seconds to remember Robert. And then the song began.
I used this song as theme music back in October, 2017. Its mocking, rambunctious nature always entertains me. The song came out in 1966. I was ten, so the song passed under my radar. But when I became aware of it a few years later, I thought, yeah, this is about getting high. After doing a paper for a pop culture class years later, I appreciated the play on words, how people are throwing stones at others for imagined slights.
Pretty appropriate for these years, in which stones are slung for every damn thing, right? Have a good one. Wear your mask. Enjoy life.
As a writer, I’m forced to work from home during the pandemic. It’s not my preferred place. For some reason, the rambunctious noisiness of coffee shops draw out my muse. I think it’s because I’m there for the purpose of writing.
Unlike home. At home, it’s me, my wife, the cats, the phone, and the world outside my house. As with any job, distractions arise at home that interrupt the work flow. For instance, this morning forced me to address a major distraction: what is that stuff between and around the keys on my keyboard, and how do I get rid of it?
I don’t know why. Maybe I’m embarrassed by the key jam (you know, like toe jam?). I don’t know why; nobody sees my laptop and its key jam (key crust?), so why should I be concerned?
But logic doesn’t always drive my thinking. Neither does emotion nor physical input. There seems to be other realms forcing behavior.
I’ve had this HP Envy for six years. I’ve noticed the key crust before. I’ve tried cleaning it off before. Today, as I finished a second page, sipped coffee and addressed what happens next, I stared down at the crust. Resolution filled me: the crust must be removed.
First, though, the HP Envy name amuses me. Nobody has ever expressed envy at my laptop. The name seems like wishful marketing.
I’ve attacked the crust before. Compressed air has been used on previous machines. (My god, I’ve been using and cleaning computer keyboards since 1981, part of me thinks with a little horror.) I also have a little whisk tool. I’ve used these on the Envy, but the crust is impervious. I next employed toothpicks, q-tips, and various other slender pieces of things. None worked.
But now…ho, ho. I purchased an eyeglass repair kit this week. It has a thousand screws. The screws were what I wanted. I already have two sets of eyeglass screwdrivers. Between my wife and I, we have five pairs of glasses that we use that have suffered detached lenses or stems. In each case, a screw had popped out. As the glasses were otherwise fine, we certainly weren’t going to dispose of them. No we needed to repair them.
We’ve both been wearing prescription glasses since our early teens, dutifully going to doctors, get new prescriptions, and then buying new glasses as regularly as full moons. (At least, it seems like that.) We have a basket full of glasses. We often give old prescription glasses to charity so others can use them, but we have sentimental favorites that we can’t abide to surrender. Naturally, these are the afflicted glasses.
Although I’ve had the tiny screwdrivers for two or three lifetimes, they’ve never been at hand when I stared down at the key crust. Since I’d repaired a pair of glasses last night, the screwdriver set was right there beside me.
And the crust was right before me, almost…mocking me.
This had to end.
Selecting the smallest screwdriver, I carefully worked it around and under the keys, appalled and fascinated by the stuff I was recovering. This, I figured, was an amalgam of cat fur, human hair, and dandruff from us both, along with what the hell else, you know?
I had to employ an exact, tender angle. Each key was individually addressed. Rushing was out of the question. After a relatively short time (yeah, I have no idea how long), the key crust was gone, and the keyboard presentable once again. It really looks so much better.
Then, because I’d been at it so long, my coffee was cold, and but a swallow remained, so fresh coffee was required. Also, since I’d been sitting an hour, some quick exercise. Also, since it was lunchtime and breakfast had been four hours ago, lunch. Also, since my wife made some energy balls yesterday, a couple of them wouldn’t be remiss. Also, I hadn’t checked Facebook or emails (there could be something important there, right?). Also, it looks miserable outside (whose truck is on the street? Why are they parked across from my house?), so what’s the temperature? It rained all night – how much rain did we get? (Less than an inch.) How many more days will it rain? Oh, there’s a winter advisory out for snow over four thousand feet. That’ll end tomorry. Well, we’re not going anywhere, anyway – COVID-10, you know.
Finally, though, it was all addressed and out of the way. Now I’ve got fresh coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Now where the hell was I?
Michael Seidel, writer 