Rainy day outside
Twitching tail and watchful eyes
Looking for mischief
The Rain Today
Ashland’s rain today reminded me of the Philippines. I was stationed with the 3rd Tactical Fighter Wing, part of 13th Air Force and Pacific Air Forces, at Clark Air Base in the Philippines in the mid 1970s. It was my first overseas duty assignment. Being low in rank, it was a short tour – fifteen months – and my wife was not allowed to be there with me.
I had a lot of free time outside of my shifts. I used to run almost every day, then, in addition to my walking. I typically ran three to five miles a day. The weather never felt cold to me. Sometimes, the rain felt warm.
I was comparing my Philippines memory of rain to our Ashland rain today, trying to think of how I would describe this rain. This isn’t the monsoon sort of downpours that I knew in the Philippines, South Carolina, West Virginia, Okinawa, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Germany, or England. We rarely seem to receive that sort of rain here. Nor is it the milder, lighter rain, like a shower or light rain that I often experienced in Half Moon Bay. This is just…rain.
Our athletic attire is a lot better in 2019 than it was in 1976. Back then, all my athletic clothing was cotton. When I was running in the rain, it’d get sopping wet, heavy, and start sagging and falling off. My socks then were athletic top socks that came up to my knees. They would slide down to my ankles. I wore Adidas running shoes, and head and wrist sweat bands. The wrist bands would start sliding down over my hands, and the head band would drop over my eyes.
I’d bought the bands for playing racquetball, and they were most definitely required in a a racquetball court’s humid confines. They didn’t seem to have air-con nor fans back then.
I used to run the one and a half miles between my barracks and the gym, play racquetball, and not infrequently run home. I’ve always been optimistic, sometimes stupidly so. I once saw it starting to rain in the Philippines and took off running for the gym to play racquetball. I was soaked when I arrived. Water pooled around me. There was no way I would be playing racquetball in those clothes. I had no choice but to run back to the barracks, holding up my short blue Adidas shorts with one hand as I ran.
Ah, good times.
The Gold Dream
I was in a house that felt familiar, like something built in the seventies, two stories or more. The bottom story is a garage.
I’m a spectator off to one side, watching this dream. The dream begins with me standing in a room, looking at the clock, and saying, “It’s time to go.” I know that it’s very early, dark, and rainy. The others are up. They’re ready to go, waiting, like me, for the moment. We didn’t want to go too early, but it’s something that we all need to go and do.
Several of the others are my sisters. One is a brother-in-law. Others are not recognized as anyone from my life but I know that they’re more family. There are eight of us.
After I make my announcement, I go downstairs to the garage to wait. Down there, I see water pouring in from the garage’s ceiling. That’s not good, I know, wondering where it’s coming from. It’s an impressive amount. Although not consistent, it seems like the strength and volume available from a garden house.
I’m impatient to leave and call back upstairs to the others to come on. There said they were ready, so why is there now a delay? My brother-in-law comes down first. I point out the water and tell him that we’ll need to check that out later. He agrees, and we speculate about where it could be coming from.
The others come down. The garage door is opened. We go out into the rain. Crossing the dark street, we come to a field. The ground is sodden. I walk forward and find eight markers. They look like brass grave markers with raised letters. They have our names on them.
I find mine. Rain water is collecting on it. The others are talking about what they’re supposed to do. They don’t know.
I think I know what I’m supposed to do. I get down on my hands and knees in the soaked, muddy ground, and put my head on the marker. After I do that, I draw back to confirm that something is going on with the marker and see that a red dotted circle has formed on the marker. It spirals around and around and then goes green.
I tell the others that they need to lay down prone on the ground and put their foreheads on the markers. They don’t want to because of the rain, water, and mud. I tell them, “We can’t go until we’re all in position.” Reluctantly, they get down.
I watch each, confirming that their grave markers show the red dotted circles. I expect them to turn to green. My sister’s circle doesn’t turn. I tell her that she needs to put her head on her marker. She complains but does it. The light goes green. We disappear.
We end up at a complex series of highways, bridges, and tunnels. I’m in Pittsburgh, PA, but it doesn’t look like the Pittsburgh that I know, except we’re at the point, where the Ohio forms from the other two. We’re looking for a VA complex. Nobody knows where it’s at, so we walk around, trying to find it. It’s exasperating.
I talk to the others about the roads, bridges, and tunnels. Suddenly, I’m very knowledgeable. I tell the others about a similar place of roads, bridges, and tunnels, and how they found gold. Since it’s so similar, we can probably find gold here, too, I tell them. That gets them all excited. We begin walking around, looking for gold.
I break away from the group. Turning and looking out, I see a green vale. Gold nuggets dot its sides.
“There,” I say to the others. They come over. I point. “There it is.” I smile at them. “I found the gold.”
It’s A Good Day
to –
write a book
work in the yard
try something new
nap with a cat on your lap
walk and exercise
breathe in the air and enjoy the sunshine
read a book.
When it’s a good day, it feels like everything is possible, and it’s all enjoyable.
Saturday’s Theme Music
I was out walking. Spring and winter have been doing a back and forth. It looked like spring had seized momentum. Yellow daffs, Oregon grapes, clumps of orange, red, and yellow tulips, and blossoming trees gave our town colorful highlights that it usually lacks. Passing some houses that looked tired and neglected, I wondered about the people living behind the dirty windows and high weeds. Evidence of projects begun and never finished rests in piles of stones, dirt, and half-completed dirt. Some reason, then, I started streaming “Take Me Out”, Franz Ferdinand (2004).
Well, I knew it wasn’t some reason that I began streaming the song. It’s because these facades hid people who could be living the quietest and most desperate lives, dealing with pains, diseases, and medicines, aging and dying beyond the grasp of their dreams. I wondered about their quality of life. I wondered what they would say if they had the chance, and if any would ask, take me out of here.
Hence, take me out.
Thursday’s Theme Music
I greatly admire the late Prince (Rogers). Talented and creative, the world is better for his music.
I’d been reading about the 2019 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremonies. I didn’t watch anything but I recalled Prince’s performance one year. After watching the video of that again, I reminisced about his music. From that, this morning, I found myself streaming “Raspberry Beret” (1985). A song about teenage sex and a chance encounter that changed a boy, the imagery is evocative throughout the lyrics. It’s a story to music.
Its jaunty beat makes it an ideal walking song on a warming spring day.
Sunday’s Theme Music
I was streaming several songs this morning, including “Timothy Leary” by the Moody Blues, but looking out the window at the emerging spring day and the hopes for more pleasant weather, I selected another oldie for today’s theme.
Here’s Friends of Distinction with “Grazing In The Grass” (1969). As Harry Elston sings, “What a trip just watching as the world goes past.” Perfect for a mellow-ish Sunday.
Winter
I don’t know what’s going on with Winter. He’s just not the same. I worried for several weeks that he was sick or injured because I saw so little of him.
Then, suddenly, here he was again, acting sooo crazy, to employ a retro-phrase. He was randomly tossing snow around, piling it up on one mountain and ignoring the rest. Sometimes it snowed when the sun was out. He seemed to be mocking forecasts. If they called for heavy snow, he gave us light rain. When no snow was forecast, he dumped a bucket on us. Everyone was asking, “WTF, Winter? What’s wrong with you?”
I’m beginning to suspect that Winter’s been replaced, and that we’re seeing a new Winter impart. I wonder about who took the job. Since Winter has always been an old white man, have they decided to modernize and replace him with a woman? They could have also decided to stay with a male but surrendered to the youth movement, because, you know, demographics. Maybe they decided to break out complete and replace old man Winter with a young, black woman.
The other part of this speculation is whether one Winter is responsible for the entire world, or has Winter been reorganized, with a Winter assigned to countries or geographical areas.
I don’t know. It could be those things or something else that I haven’t thought of. All I know is that old man Winter doesn’t seem like the guy I used to know.
New Demands
Pent up by a winter storm, my cats conferred and emerged from their confab with new demands. Each demands that they get at least fifteen hours per day of personalized care and attention. Said personalized care and attention requires me to pet, scratch, caress, play, and feed each one (or allow them to sleep on my lap) for a total of at least fifteen hours per day. They’re calling this the fifteen-hour minimum initiative.
I pointed out to them that the day has only twenty-four hours, that I have other things to do, and there is no way that I can give each one fifteen hours of attention.
They reacted with sad head shakes. Boo, the spokes-cat, said, “Anything is possible, if you set your mind to it.”
They’re boycotting me until I come around, or feeding time, whichever comes first.
Two Out of Three
With snow falling and accumulating, my cats have adopted new rules for deciding whether to go outside.
- Does it look cold?
- Does it feel cold?
- Does it smell cold?
If two of these conditions are met, they don’t go out. Meatloaf was wrong: two out of three is bad.
Michael Seidel, writer 