Tag: childhood

Fursday Theme Music

Sunshine beamed in on gray rays at 6:45 Ashlandia morning time. As the hours scurry past, snow fields lose their battle against heat. Their edges draw in with softer roundness. Reinforcement flurries are flying in later today. Will it be enough? Will it arrive in time? It’s dire for the snow. Caught in the situation, icicles cling to gutters and drainpipes. Crystallized snow falls off branches and leaves with tinkling hisses.

It’s 31 F, on its way to 44 F, according to the weather mongers.

It’s Thursday, March 2, 2023, a hazy wintry shade. Spring has temporarily slid its intentions back into the Ashlandia shadows. But fresh stocks of doughnuts are in stores and bakeries. Sunset arrives in the evening, 6:03.

Les chats aren’t pleased with the weather situation, particularly Papi. His energy boils up. Sunshine reinvigorates him. Tthere he goes, dashing through the snow…well, not dashing, but employing small steps, bean-toeing on his tiny paws — such small murder mittens, he has — back to the house’s inside warmth for distraction. We have things to do, we explain to him, around petting and playing with him. More, he begs with sweet eyes and voice. What are we to do against such a power but obey?

I cleaned our carpetting the other day. As I drifted through that mechanical process, my freed mind contemplated me, my life, my writing. Cleaning house is always a meditative function for me. As thoughts joined and fragmented, I drifted through the usual shallows of who I am, where I’m at, and where I’m hiding. Out of this, The Neurons pulled a song up, dusted it off, and put into into the mental music stream where it still plays this morning. “Holly Holy” by Neil Diamond” when I was a young teenager. Looking it up, records show it was 1969. It wasn’t a popular song among my friends. Too slow and most said, “I don’t understand it.” Nor did I. It’s buildup hooked me, and I sat, listening to the words, trying to get them right, baffled by what I heard. But I heard and understood some of the first lines, “Where I am, what I am, what I believe in,” had me. This is an exploration and a declaration. I identified with it.

Coffee’s aromatic steam rises from my cup, enticing my lips. Stay pos, and own this Thursday like it’s a gift you didn’t expect. Here’s the tune. Cheers

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Tuesday’s Wandering Thought

They were reading anecdotes about children mentioning previous life experiences.

“Did you ever have something like that?” his wife asked.

He nodded. “When I was a child, less than five years old, I told people that I’d been in the civil war. I called myself a rebel, and always wanted CSA hats and flags and wore them, carrying a bugle, and was really proud of being born in Virginia because that’s where our capitol was. Adults were always correcting me about the capitol being Washington D.C. and not in Virginia, so it was confusing and frustrating for a while.”

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Monday’s Theme Music

I listened to Alexi’s report. My wife joined me. We were at the breakfast bar, where Alexa nests. “What she say?” my wife asked. I asked Alexa for the weather again.

She finished her report. My wife and I checked the windows. East, south, west. Alexa had said it was mostly sunny. “I don’t see any sunshine,” K said. So it wasn’t just me.

It’s Monday, Feb. 13, 2023. Not a speck of sun is visible past the battleship sky. 34 F out, we anticipate rain and clouds all day and a mid-40s high. Sunrise was at 7:11 this morning and sunset will come at 5:41 PM. Snow warnings are out for tomorrow.

Taxes were filed yesterday. Bedding washed. Smelling the fresh bedding as I climbed into bed summoned childhood experiences. Mom would tuck us in and say, “I washed your sheets today. Smell them. Don’t they smell fresh?” I would do as directed and smell the sheets, and agree, they smelled fresh, like sunshine and wind.

I watched Superbowl LVII, which makes me think, liver. That was Superbowl Liver. Just a weird brain tick. KC Chiefs won, and no serious injuries were reported, so far. K was pleased that KC won. She thinks Mahomes is a cutie pie. She didn’t watch because she didn’t want to jinx him.

From the Superbowl, via The Neurons, I have Huey Lewis and the News singing, “If This Is It” from 1984. The Chiefs lined up for a field goal to take the lead. Eleven seconds left. “This is it,” the announcer said on Fox. “Playing ‘If This Is It’ by Huey Lewis and the News’,” The Neurons said. And so it still plays in the morning mental music stream, and I pass it on to you. Not a bad theme song. It’s Monday – if this is it, fill in the blank.

Stay positive. Cats returned from their outdoor recon. They report that it’s cold and there’s no sunshine. “Tell that to Alexa,” I tell them. “She needs the input.” Reporting live from Ashlandia, here’s the music. Cheers

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Friday’s Wandering Thought

I called to make an appointment. Speaking with the agent, I heard her typing fast. Her keyboard’s clickety-clack sounded like a train going by, reminding me of all those moments of sitting in a car behind the red and white boom barrier, bells ringing, red lights flashing, waiting for a train to pass.

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Friday’s Theme Music

Time to start the day and get underway. We’re at the port of Friday, January 20, 2023. Next destination: Friday evening. We’ll get there after the sun sets on Ashlandia, 5:10 PM.

“Ashlandia, where time is never the same.”

Sunrise at 7:36 AM found Ashlandia frost bound beneath full blue skies. Snow and ice still cap higher mountains and ridges, a winter photo delight against that blue. 25 degrees F says the local weather station while prognosticators tell us that a 48 degree F high is expected. That’s a little cold for Ashlandia’s winters. We usually see the thermo squeaking down to 30 before braking to a full stop, but we’ll live. We’ll complain, but we’ll live. Well, some, such as me, complain, but others just march along with it. The shelters are open for whoever needs them, and hot meals are being provided gratis in several locations. Crews have remained busy removing fallen trees from the month’s earlier windstorms. A drive around yesterday showed all were gone. No houses or buildings experienced major damage, so we’re thankful for that.

My wife remains in bed, affected by her RA and Raynaud’s. One of her fingers looks ghastly, white and waxen. She says it’s painful and stiff but doesn’t complain. She was planning to make me a cherry pie yesterday but I nixed that. We just had sugar pie instead. She skipped her exercise class this morning, which is never a good omen.

Mom’s list of issues continuous a daunting trend of increasing. Little seems to improve for her and pain shadows every decision and conversation. She soldiers on, a tough old broad, as she likes to self-reference, but she seems so tired from the constant fight to live.

With all the dreams I had last night, The Neurons packed the morning mental music stream with songs on dreaming. I ignored them. We lost David Crosby this week, another talented musician who brightened my life. The Byrds were on The Ed Sullivan Show in 1965, which was my childhood, playing “Mr Tambourine Man”. I was nine then. Though a little too mellow for my budding rock and roll tendencies, I admired their style and harmony and their songs stayed comfortably lodged in my mind. Formation of CSN and then CSN&Y was a positive addition to the folk-rock scene, where their harmonies and smart lyrics adjusted my budding teenage attitudes.

Got my coffee. French roast, which is my usual. Unsweetened and untouched by milk or cream, it offers a sharply bitter living on my tastebuds, with a friendly chocolatey overlay.

Stay positive. Sail on to new horizons. Here’s the music, in living color. Cheers

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Monday’s Theme Music

The moon’s visit moved beyond normal to sublime. Sometimes a clear night hosts a moon that lights the night and finds something more primal and hopeful in the mind. Last night’s moon was one of these, romantic and inspirational, a moon with light that whispers, “the impossible is possible.” No wonder a moon like that is spoken of in sentences about magic, fairies, and spaceships.

It’s January 16, 2023. It’s Monday. It’s 30 degrees F and sunny. It’s calm. It’s a new week’s start. Happy New Week! Have you made any New Week resolutions? I have. Of course I have. I don’t do NY ones, but I do daily, weekly, and monthly resolutions. You only fail if you give up trying, am I right? Some people place the week’s start on Sunday. I consider Saturday and Sunday neutral ground. The week begins on Monday and ends on Friday.

The sun pressed its presence into our valley at 7:37 this morning, coming around like it’s nobody’s business. Daylight will light us up until about 5:05 this evening. Then the sun will set and bring on dusk, followed by night. The cold front will keep our high from getting much above 42 F. Some say that rain is due but the clouds for that job haven’t checked in. Snow is visible in far fields on high mountains, appearing like cake frosting on the ridges’ pines and firs. It’s a tranquil blue-sky sight.

News continues emerging about President Biden and the classified documents found at his home and office. This turn pisses me off more than Trump’s classified doc scandal. I thought Joe Biden was responsible and this oversight, this sloppiness, is infuriating. I was in the Air Force for twenty years. With high secret clearances and active in special access programs, dealing with classified material, including stuff that was Top Secret with special qualifiers, including nuclear war plans, launch codes, attack plans, and intelligence materials, I was frequently the Top-Secret Control Officer, the unit security manager, and also often the OPSEC/COMSEC and COMPUSEC manager. I took it seriously. My peers, commanders, and those we supervised all took it very damn seriously. I was appointed as an investigator several times when processes failed or people violated the governing regs and laws. Trump’s conniving to keep some classified documents ‘as his own’ insulted our efforts to keep the nation safe by properly protecting such material. Joe Biden’s sloppiness — or worse, as the investigations are only under way — undermines our systems as well. President Biden has at least acknowledged that what has happened is bad, unlike Trump, who dances and shouts, trying to deflect blame and responsibility, squeaking out ridiculous justifications for what he did.

Okay, off the soap box. Today’s music is “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood”. I went with the Animals version of 1964. Besides being the version seared into my memory by radio play repetition, I’ve always liked Eric Burdon. I also enjoyed the band’s keyboard use and the gritty blues sound they brought to their performances. The Neurons decided on this song and put it in the morning mental music stream after conversations with the cats. They were asking for something and I didn’t understand what it was. The felines’ insistence was the final driver for Les Neurons. Listening to them, Eric Burdon’s voice just rose from the depths of memory to sing, “Oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood.” And there we were.

Try to stay positive. I know it can be tough. I feel less than positive on many days. Right now, I’m positive that I would murder a cup of coffee so I’m heading to the kitchen for that black brew. I’m excited just thinking about it! Here’s the music. Hope your week takes you to new heights. Cheers

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Friday’s Theme Music

Salutations to Earth peeps. Friday is storming in across many parts of the States. Wind and snow are shutting down airports and highways even as people hunt for ways to reach home across the land. We, though have a temperate day working out. Temperature sits at 47 F now with mild rain pecking the land. Not much sunshine in evidence as clouds veil it but a high of 52 F is modeled as probable.

Today is December 23, 2022. Seven days until the year’s end. A new one will begin and as they say, the beat goes on. The sun’s visit began in the day’s early morning, 7:37, and will go for another seven hours and six minutes. Huzzah.

My feline boys are enjoying our weather shift. Both went out to stand sentry on the front porch. Papi also did a little patrolling. They’re happy floofs for the mo’.

My wife’s holiday treat preparation lies behind Los Neurons’ song selection. Something about the season brings her to use peppermint in some of her treats. Smelling that, Los Neurons said, “Remember this 1967 song?”

“Incense & Peppermints” by the Strawberry Alarm Clock commenced playing in the mental music stream last night and still rides the brain waves this morning. Do you know this song? “Who cares what games we choose? Little to win but nothing to lose.” Nothing to lose is often heard in ‘Merica. Back against the wall in your mind and pockets empty, despair dwelling in your spirit, why not go for broke? Nothin’ to lose.

Hope you stay positive and test negative and reach the new year, and the new year becomes a new start that ends up meaningful. Here’s the music. Now it’s me to get down with coffee time. Cheers

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Sunday’s Theme Music

Sunshine casts its web over the valley. Highlighted by a blue sky, shadow places are hard with white frost under the green pines and naked annuals.

It’s 21 F out but warming, which we’ll do until petering out at 42 F. The sun’s valley march commenced at 7:34 in the morning and though the march is ever going, our view of it will fade away beginning at 4:41, when curvature and action eliminates our view and negates the sun’s effects. Then we’ll endure the cold night and the whole cycle continues tomorrow.

This is Sunday, December 18, 2022. Time to do your next to last Sunday of the month cleaning, shopping, and celebrating. I don’t recognize the next to last Sunday, myself. Disguised as just another day, it slinks past my unwitting senses and drifts into the past.

We attended a Christmas concert yesterday. Friends play in the orchestra so we support them and buy a ticket and attend. It’s a fun time. They have only four concerts a year, not for the seasons, but for holidays of the seasons. Next will be the Spring Concert, though, just to toss a spanner into it.

As the oboe played its note and the others matched it to ensure they’re in tune, I sang the note in the audience, softly under my mask. My wife heard and leaned over with a chuckle. “Getting in tune?” she asked.

Well, of course. The Neurons immediately pulled up the Who rock classic, “Getting in Tune”, from 1971. But they surprised me by shifting to another Who song, “The Song Is Over” off the same album a little later, when we were waiting to see, is this a pause between movements or is the song over? Do we applaud now? Some audience sections had been fooled once. But it was over, so we clapped in appreciation, and The Neurons planted “The Song Is Over” into my mental music stream, where it remained this morning.

That’s impressive staying power because, other music. The Neurons were barraged with the usual Christmas popular favorites, like “Frosty the Snowman” and “Jingle Bells”, and a personal favorite, “March of the Toys”. I was introduced to MotT when I attended a concert as a young boy. Then I later saw Babes in Toyland, which left a staying mark. The Neurons shrugged it off, so here I sit with the Who. Love the opening piano in this song, though. Evocative to me. Then, of course, come the other familiar Who elements of bass, drums, and guitar notes dancing with the vocals.

Stay positive, test negative, and so on. Just got word via text that a third of my Pittsburgh nieces and nephews are sick with flu, along with a sister and her hubby. All adults were vaxxed. Word isn’t known on the children. I wish them all speedy recovers.

“On coffee, on bagel, on oatmeal, and dressing.” Sorry, The Neurons got a little silly there, substituting morning things for Santa’s reindeers as they’re called out by name in Clement’s classic. Here’s the music. Catch you later. Cheers

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Sunday’s Wandering Thought

He remembered when his family ordered things from a catalog when he was a boy. First, there was filling out the form of the item numbers, quantities, and prices. “Get my credit card from my purse,” Mom would order. The 800 number was called, the order placed.

Days of mystery would ensue. When would the order get here? Where is it now? Each day brought the three Ws: watching, waiting, wondering.

Slip forward a few decades. Companies began telling him exactly when his order would arrive. Shipping and tracking advances continued. Soon, he tracked his packages as they left faraway cities and countries and zigzagged a path to his home. He knew exactly when it would arrive. It was immensely satisfying.

Systems matured and processes evolved. Breakdowns from overloaded, overpromising systems became endured. Tracking information is still sent out, but he frequently finds himself as he was when he was a child, watching, waiting, wondering.

He feels like he’s gone full circle.

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A Winter Memory Prompted By Writing Prompt #210

The streetlights were on, unmoored, half-seen yellow orbs floating over either side of the street.

Snow smothered dusk’s dimming light. No one else was on the street. Dressed in blue jeans, a shirt, and tennis shoes – which had holes in the soles that he’d mended with pieces of cardboard – he ran, shivering and sniffling, up the street past the warm-looking suburban houses. Most seemed half-buried in snow. Windblown snow stuck to his clothing and hair and stressed his cheeks with icy daggers. Shoving his fingers deep into his tight jeans’ pockets, keeping at least those warm, he licked snot off his nose, lifted his shoulders, and ran, catching slides and racing on.

Exploding into home, he rushed to a heater duct and stood in front of it, dripping, drying, shivering, warming. enjoying the heat. Mom, orchestrating laundry not far away, turned and stared at him, her hands continuing their folding. “Where is your coat?” she asked. Then answered herself, “Don’t tell me you forgot it again.”

When he nodded, yes, her shoulders sagged and she snapped, “Oh my God.” A warm towel was pulled from the dryer, shook out, and handed to him. “Why in God’s name didn’t you go back for it?”

He shrugged. “I was hungry. I wanted to get home.”

She issued a familiar tongue click of disappointment. He felt too stupid to be her son.

He was probably right.

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