Tag: family

Sunda’s Theme Music

May 4, 2025, broke as a Sunda. Rain falling off in the night, blue sky and clouds mix it up in a friendly competition. Sunshine comes and goes with the clouds’ permission. The weather ‘they’ is hyping a high of 65 F, part of a warming trend for the week.

Dreams delivered today’s song. The dreams didn’t include the song. Disturbing as a loud animal roar in a coal-black night, the dreams had me scribbling details for well over an hour. Part of that was the phrase, “I’ve been thinking.” More usually followed. Now, though, The Neurons picked up the phrase, found where it belonged in a song, and rolled it for me. The result in the morning mental music stream was 1990’s song by Londonbeat, “I’ve Been Thinking About You”.

I’ve also been thinking about Mom. Her house is a mess without electricity. Day 5. She was convinced yesterday to go to my sister’s house and stay the night. Mom’s live-in boyfriend stayed at his daughter’s house. Taking care of her has been increasingly difficult for him. Her drugs and illnesses dull her mind and make her moody. She snaps at him. That’s worn thin. With her mobility lessening, he’s forced to carry her. She’s lost weight and doesn’t weigh more than a few birds these days. Still, weight is weight. Repetitive bending, lifting, and twisting is wearing out his 95-year-old body. Both have refused to leave her house and move into assisted living. But with her energy diminishing, his strength dropping, her senses dulling, and his eyesight and hearing worsening, will this be the straw that changes their mind?

We don’t know. More than anything, they’re independent and stubborn. I see so much of her in myself in these matters. Intellectually, I understand. Emotionally, it’s a far more complicated path.

My coffee is half gone. The cat has completed a few laps around the inside of the house. Now he’s gone to find sunshine. I want to do the same but I’ve planned a full agenda for myself. Who knows if I’ll stay with it.

I hope the best for you and your day, and us and our days. Deep breath; here we go. Cheers

2

Frida’s Theme Music

And then, it was over as fast as it started. We’ve been on vacation. Florence, on the Oregon coast. Sunshine baked us across blue skies and light winds. Baked is relative. Temps only crossed into the sixties once. But when you’re not expecting sunshine, a wealth of it can feel skin melting. In a good way.

This morning, Frida, May 2, 2025, was our final day. Gone was the blue sky. Withered sunshine made little effort to offset the cold air. A light drizzle was falling by 9:30 AM. It amused me; last time that we stayed on the coast, we had a similar experience. I joked at that time, the sky was crying because we were leaving.

We had an update on Papi. Joanne, our traditional flooftender had taken on duties. Much easier when it’s just one floof. We used to have five.

Papi has always been skittish and standoffish. Wary. So we wore concern on our thoughts for his welfare while we were away. Lovely to hear from Joanne before we left the coast this morning that Papi was an absolute sweetheart. Either there and waiting for her when she arrived each morning and night, or immediately turning up when she called him. The Orange Boi was very pleased to see us and looks good.

Terrible news came to me by way of my sister. You may have heard about the windstorms that cut through part of the U.S. a few days ago. Mom’s house in Penn Hills, a Pittsburgh, PA, suburb, took on some damages. 100 year old trees were uprooted or lost substantial branches. The side porch was torn away, along with the roof to the tool shed. Fallen trees and branches conspired to keep vehicles from traversing the road. She lost electricity. Their phones were almost dead with no way to recharge them. Food in the frig and freezer was lost. Super sister sent her awesome hubby to check on them and discovered their state. Super hubby is a plumber and has friends and relatives in associated professionals. He soon had people over there clearing trees and writing estimates, others bringing by power banks to recharge their phones, electricians to assess the problems. While many things were addressed, Mom still lacks electrical power. Fortune did keep them safe and uninjured but it must have been a few traumatic days for this elderly couple, 89 and 95 years old.

Into the morning men..tal music stream today came Stevie Ray Vaughan & Double Trouble performing “Crossfire”. It’s one of SRV’s later efforts. A solid rocker, less bluesy than most of SRV & DT, I enjoy it. My wife is more of a purist and dislikes the song.

Politics had a part slotting it into my MMMS. The Neurons thought after reading about the quid pro quo nature of the Trusk Regime that “Crossfire” was ideal theme music for this second day of May. The song rhetorically inquires, “Whatever happened to the golden rule?” I believe that PINO Trusk has monetized it, along with every other thing in the U.S. He wasn’t alone in his efforts. Too many of us were far to willing to go along.

Back home now, we picked up some dinner and ate it. Unpacked all luggage. Washed the vacation clothes. Folded them and put them back into drawers and closets. Now we’re just resting and recovering from being away from home.

Hope your day has been spirited with happiness or at least some modicum of joy. If not, tomorrow is another chance. Cheers

7

Sunda’s Theme Music

Chilly. Rainy. Foggy. Those were yesterday’s descriptors. It didn’t get to anywhere near the theoretical high of 51 F around my zone of life.

Today is sunny. Windy. Warmer. 52 F. Clouds and blue sky mingle like it’s a company holiday party. The high will be 62 F.

Today is Sunda, April 27, 2025.

My wife and I are setting up for a trip to the coast. Our usual house sitter is available. Reservations have been made. We have worries. This will be Papi’s first time being alone. He knows the house sitter. Doesn’t run from her. Let’s her pet him. But with spring pointing toward summer, the wildlife has grown busier. Raccoons come by. Coyotes, bears, cougars are out there, along with opossums and skunks. Rats and mice. We’ll set things up as best as we can and cross our fingers.

Today’s music is “Bloody Well Right”. 1974 song. Supertramp. I was singing it to myself after different topics traversed the sticky gray zone this morning that I call thinking. Not much of it was of import. Just the usual forays into novel writing, fiction I’m reading, cat, family and personal matters, health, politics, news, government, dreams, and memories. I’ve been experiencing a wealth of dreams, for instance. What does it all mean? And I’ve set up a dental appointment for some overdue work. Then there’s house repairs. Call to Dad. Text to Mom. Mother’s Day card and gift. Flowers, candy, food, or…what? It’s all underlined by what is perceived as a time of drastic change in the country.

Coffee is singing its songs to my cells. Sunshine is shining. Plans are underfoot. So is the cat. Hope you have an awesomely solid day, devoid of crises and problems, and maybe with some good food. Here we go.

Cheers

4

Munda’s Theme Music

My body and mind were unanimous. More sleep was wanted. Yesterday was busy with an Easter Brunch. We’d been preparing all week. 10:15, we set off to go help with setup. By 11:30, all were there. A smorgasbord awaited. Mexican quiche, salmon with asparagus, salmon and cream cheese rolls. Dutch babies and lemon cake for dessert. Salads. Juices and libation to make it chippier. Easter egg hunt and korn hole. A half dozen present shared their latest stories about demonstrating against Trump in Ashland and Medford. 2 PM, it was all over.

Over to a friend’s house for his 93rd birthday. Just family and my wife and I. He has health issues and didn’t want a gathering. After singing the birthday song, witnessing the candle blowout, and visiting for two hours, we headed home to unpack and wash everything.

Blue skies were the day’s order. Light wind kept it from becoming too warm. 69 F was the tops. Today seems like it looked over yesterday’s shoulder and copied the weather.

I reminded my body and mind that sleeping in wasn’t an option. Today is Food & Friends deliveries. Crank up the car, pick up the food, and roll through the streets on route 3 to knock on doors and ring bells and drop off a small meal in southeastern Ashlandia. I’m the driver; my wife makes the deliveries.

Then, finally, it’ll be back to writing at the coffee shop for a few hours, and then home to wash clothes and attend yard work. The grass and weeds are gladded by the sunshine. It’s all shooting up fast.

Papi is beside himself with happiness by the time the air warms. It’s rolled up to 49 F now. He heads outside and sniffs out the sunshine. Then wind sniffs him out and he’s back in. It’s a never-ending game of ‘In & Out’!

The mountain air loads the night with temperatures that dribble down into the mid thirties. That temp feels colder. But we’re on the regular Ashlandia spring track. Only troubling thing is we’re not seeing any bees. They’re normally all over the place with their buzzing presence. Their absence disturbs.

Yesterday’s Easter Trump dump again illuminated his pathetic ways. That vitriol and lie-filled text mess is a sign of an insecure, demented, ignorant person. Trump’s dark forces again rose to show what a sinister and ugly place the United States is becoming under his hand as two young and wholly innocent German tourists were detained and deported, all for the crime of not having accommodations already reserved. Such fools are now in charge. Then there’s Trump’s undocumented bullshit broadside against Abrego Garcia. WTF, United States. Is this truly your vision?

With those thoughts spinning through my groovy organic thought machine, The Neurons spun up Aerosmith in the morning mental music stream: “Same Old Song and Dance”. Last time I used this ditty was in 2019. Trump occupied the White House then. I wrote back on that day,

Reading the news yesterday and today, I was shaking my head, partially laughing while crying. You know, it was the same old story.

That led to me streaming Aerosmith.

It’s the same old story
Same old song and dance, my friend
It’s the same old story
Same old story
Same old song and dance

It was an easy song to identify with when I was a teenager and the song was released. When you asked questions, you often heard, “That’s just how it is. That’s how it goes.” It was always the same old song and dance, no matter what you were asked.

So here we go. Trump is attacking and bullying whatever he can — law, courts, common sense, history, morality, it’s all open to a Trump attack. He’s like a puppy gnawing on clothes, shoes, and furniture. Nothing is safe from his brainless chewing. A puppy does far less damage, though. A puppy will grow out of it. Trump, with his deteriorating and aging mental capacity, will get worse.

Same ol’ story, same ol’ song and dance.

Have the best day you can, my friend. Fueled with coffee, I’ll rock on for another day, it seems. Cheers

2

Frida’s Theme Music

The morning was spent texting with Mom. She prefers texting these days over phone calls. She had a day of doctor appointments yesterday and provided summaries. They’re going to work on her balance with physical therapy. That’s good news to me.

Her fiance’s son and my sister both approached Mom and her fiance about moving into assisted living. They did these separately. I don’t know if they coordinated their attempt.

It would be less dangerous to poke a hornet’s nest with a stick a few times. Mom and her beau are adamant against moving to a home of any kind other than the one where they live. He’s 95 and has difficulties seeing and hearing. She’s 89 and has mobility, heart, and balance issues. She copes with those problems via a massive regimen of medications, vitamins, minerals, lotions, and equipment. The house was built during WW II and has steep, narrow steps. But Mom loves her house, and her companion is happy living there.

Observing the health issues and the home debate always prompts conversations with my wife. “What will we do?” she asks. “I don’t know,” I say. I’m not looking forward to dealing with it.

It’s Frida, April 18, 2025. Good Friday, I suppose. 63 F, sunny but windy. A high of 74 F is in the works. I don’t think we’ll see that. 68 F was projected yesterday but the thermometer quit advancing at 64 F.

The cat has expressed his irritation with the wind. He applied to my wife and I to change it. My wife patiently explains, “I’m sorry, we can’t do that. Here, have a treat instead.”

He was spoiled via several treats. Then he came to me for his standard four-course breakfast. Two of the courses are treats that hide his meds in them. The thorough feeding does take his mind off the wind. The next time I see him, he’s going through his post-eating pre-napping grooming on the bed.

I have read several news articles. Some dealing with politics and rulings against Trump please me. On the whole, though, it’s another heavy serving of disappointing developments. After hearing my GRRRRRRRRR rising in my throat, I order myself to go do other things.

Today’s theme music is a beer group relic. I met with my beer group last Wednesday. The friends beside me began a conversation about popular music and what they listened to when they were young. One commented that some lines were going through his head, but he couldn’t recall the rest. I recalled the rest for him. The song is “I Think We’re Alone Now” by Tommy James and the Shondells. Conversation then swirled in other hits by the group, such as “Crystal Blue Persuasion”. Now The Neurons have those two tunes sharing the morning mental music stream. Thus, I’m forced to share them to break the pattern and release them from my stream.

That latter song is a woke DEI offering about peace and good, brotherhood, love, etc. Sure the Trumpites dislike it, or say that they like it and are all for love, peace, and brotherhood, but only for select people.

Coffee is working its positive way through me. Hope you have a positive day and a solid weekend. Cheers

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The House Dream

I dreamed my wife and I were setting up a business. But we needed a place for that. Someone overheard us and said that they have such a place available: their house.

So, we, with the couple who owned their house and several of their friends, went to the people’s house. My wife and I walked around it. Beautiful place. Several levels. Large, off-white, a modern design, resembling something Frank Lloyd Wright may have designed in the way it used light, space, and materials, it was well-appointed with expensive furniture, appliances, and paintings.

My wife and I were impressed. The owners showed us a central rectangular room where they’d set up a small factory. My wife and I agreed, “This would be perfect for us.” Yes, others agreed. The way they said it cause some suspicions. Realizing that, the others tried reassuring me. My suspicions remained but I inquired about buying the house. It was agreed that we could buy it right then and move in.

The original owners had another house on their property. We were now neighbors. People had to go through our property on foot to reach the other house. My wife and I invited friends over for a small gathering. Our cat was with us, exploring the new home and giving its approval. We sat with our friends in the living room, talking, having drinks.

A man burst in through a door. Large, middle-aged, he was armed with several knives. He was also drunk. I grabbed his wrists and pinned them to his side. Then I wrangled him onto a sofa and shouted to my wife to grab the knives while I held him. She came over but did nothing. I repeated what I’d told her but she barely responded. Finally, exasperation seizing me, I held the man’s wrists and pried the knives way.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked my wife. “Why didn’t you do anything?”

She moved away and sat. It seemed like she was in shock.

I held onto the man’s shoulders and told him, “Don’t even think about running away.” Drunkenly grinning, he agreed. I told others to call the police.

The man looked familiar. A friend said, “Don’t you recognize him?”

I asked the man, “What’s your name?”

He said it, and my friend said, “He was an NFL quarterback.” I asked for confirmation. Beaming, the drunk guy replied, “That’s me.” Then he jumped up and ran out of the house. I started giving chase but stopped, thinking, WTF?

A large number of people were outside, moving like ants toward the other house. They were expensively dressed. I asked one, “What’s going on?” She explained that they were all invited to a party.

They were a quiet crowd. I guess several hundred were there. I organized them into a line along the path, although I don’t know why I did that. The bottleneck was the front door of the other house.

Dream end.

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Saturda’s Wandering Thoughts

“Easter is a week away,” my wife said. “You need to get a haircut.”

I just got one last month. Her observation annoys me. I spent twenty years in the military. Keeping your hair cut and neat was, like, an actual regulation. After being freed from military constraints, I’m not interested in being so neat and tidy when it comes to hair. I will lose this discussion, though, and cave. Being neat is extremely high on my wife’s list. She is also adept at being severe and disapproving.

“Want to hear my sister’s text?” I ask.

“Go ahead.”

I read my sister’s updates from Pittsburgh. She’s buying her daughter a new phone. Several features on her present phone are failing. Replace it before Trump’s tariffs add hundreds, she reckons. She used the same logic to replace her eight-year-old ride. She also cashed in her small 401K and put it into certificates in December because she believed Trump was going to trash the economy. She tells me about my other sister’s financial worries.

Four sisters share Mom. Two of them are extremely responsible. The other two are not exactly flighty but they seem to have many crises and make choices that cause more problems. I probably would make more choices that aren’t wise ones, but I’m married to a diligent person.

My sister also comments about how expensive everything is, and how hard it is for young people like her twenty-something daughter these days.

My conversation with my wife swirls into a new zone. “Mom should be using red-light therapy to help with her healing, injuries, and inflammation.” My wife and I both champion red-light therapy. It has helped us in numerous ways. Besides that, NASA, soccer leagues, and the NFL are all red-light therapy true believers.

My wife tells me that Jan approached her for help with another person. The other person suffers Renaud’s disease in her feet. She’s been warned that she might lose her feet if she doesn’t get treatment. The woman doesn’t like going to the doctor. Almost has a pathological fear about it.

Renaud’s has plagued my wife for years. She once showed me her finger. White as a candle, bent and misshaped, horrifying to look at. She aggressively applied red-light therapy and resolved the problem.

“I told Jan to tell her friend about red-light therapy,” my wife says. “She can at least buy a belt and try it.” Pros and cons are discussed for a few more minutes. My wife complains about friends who were told about it but haven’t tried it. She doesn’t understand their reluctance.

I text my sister to ask her if Mom has tried red-light therapy. Then I get online to make a haircut appointment.

There are some things which must be accepted and done.

0

The Studebaker Dream

Dream fade in. I’m a young adult. I’m with a real-life friend who passed away a few years ago. He’s charging me to take care of his care for him. “Drive it over to the condo and put it in the parking garage,” he tells me.

The car is a silver 1956 Studebaker Golden Hawk in pristine condition. I agree to do as he asks. He and I are on vacation together, along with our extended families. I drive the Studebaker over and park it in the garage. I can see it from the rented, shared condo. The condo is enormous. The living room/dining room/kitchen combo’s entire western side is open to the sun and surf. Yes, surf, because it’s located right above a long, flat beach. Wonderful sunshine and blue sky are visible outside.

The condo is busy with people coming and going, talking, making plans. All of the people are familiar t me. Many are real life friends and relatives.

I’m part of the conversations and activities about our plans. But I’m also distracted, concerned about the Studebaker. Word comes to me that it needs to be moved to let some big truck by. I don’t want to go over there to move it. But somehow I have a black, wireless remote control. Using it, I start the car, back it up, let the truck by, and then park the car again. I end up doing this same maneuver three more times. In parallel, I discover that the remote works on other cars as well. I keep moving cars for people using the remote.

Then we’re all dashing around, doing things, collecting groceries, making meals, eating. As that happens, I discover that all of the Studebaker’s windows are shattered. The car is also riddle with dents and scratches. Non-plussed, I wonder aloud, what the hell happened? I’m concerned about what my friend will say about his car’s condition.

While I’m still fretting, we all go outside to enjoy the sunny beach and ocean. It’s wonderful out there. Then, shallow, long waves enter. News reaches us that there’s a storm far offshore driving these waves. Sunshine glitters along the waves. We talk about what a powerful storm that must be.

I return to the condo for something. When I’m in there, I hear shouting from outside. Turning, I see a long, flat, white wave race up the beach. It’s not deep or thunderous but it was wholly unexpected by everyone. Watching, I see that no one is hurt. Fast moving, the water only reaches most people’s knees.

Although the condo is above the beach, the wave rushes into the condo. It carries me, upright, the condo’s length. I laugh, enjoying the experience. Looking across at the parking garage, I realize that it’s gone, along with all of the cars which were parked in it. I’m amazed but relieved; I can’t be blamed for my friend’s car damage now.

The water swirls around inside the condo. I wish for a towel. Then I realize, damn, I left it on the condo floor. It’s underwater now.

I think, I should have picked up a towel when I saw the wave coming.

Dream end.

A note: the man who passed away shared my first name, Michael. The car in the dream was made the year that I was born, 1956. Coincidence? Who knows?

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Thirstda’s Theme Music

Thirstda, April 3, 2025, is here. The day arrived in a morose mood, dangling thick gray cloud strands over the mountains, covering the sun’s influence, and acting like it planned to dump us in moisture. Then some mystical order was given. Cosmic stagehands raced out. Clouds were shoved to the scene’s edges. Blue sky lit up. Sunshine burns down with a new hope. It was 36 F. Now we’re touching 45 F. But, hey: it feels warmer.

I stepped into the bathroom. Doing bathroomy stuff, my foot landed on something hard and mildly sharp. This was an attachment to an electric razor. One I had to trim my beard and mustache. I always have a mustache. My first mustache was noticed on me when I was fourteen. Mom told me that my face was dirty and to go wash it. “There’s something above your lip.”

My older sister laughed. “That’s his mustache.”

The beard comes and goes. A goatee is almost permanent. I’ve had it since I left the military in 1995. But the electric razor that piece attached to has been gone for over a decade. Turning it over, I pushed to understand how it came to be on the bathroom floor today. Unable to come up with anything except The Borrowers and aliens, I tossed the piece into the trash. It’s another page in my Book of Life Mysteries. I think we all keep one of those record books, don’t we?

Three songs were competing in the morning mental music stream. I introduced the first one. This was “Valley Girl” by Frank and Moon Zappa. This song capture the California valley girl subculture, and their unique verbiage. ‘Valleyspeak’ swept the nation. Too many people walked around, smirking, telling me, “Gag me with a spoon.” Variations of that phrase quickly emerged.

I was singing my variant of the song to Papi. Papi is my housefloof, feline by looks and attitude. The boy loves treats such as Churri squeeze tube pastes. My wife rechristened it chumley. Chumley is how we refer to any of those treats.

Today I sang to Papi, “Chumley cat, he’s a chumley cat. Oh my my, fer sure fer sure, he’s a chumley cat and there is no cure.”

Second up was Elvis Presley with “Blue Suede Shoes.” Carl Perkins did it first, after writing in in 1955 and releasing it in 1956, the year of my birth. The Neurons delivered this one to the mental music stream. They didn’t explain why. I was in the bathroom doing bathroom stuff when it arrived. I used to perform this song for my family when I was four or five. Hip swiveling and singing the chorus. No, video and photographic evidence doesn’t exist. I remember doing it and Mom verified it.

Third up is “Don’t Bring Me Down” by the Animals. I’m feeling absurdly young kitten energetic and happy. I don’t know why. You’d think that with Trumpzilla burning down the world economy with his outlandish tariffs, I’d be more depressed. My stocks are down. 401 K and IRA worth down. Prices are up and will go higher. But here I am, happy as the mythical lark. Sensing that mood, The Neurons introduced the 1966 song into the morning mental music stream. This is today’s theme music.

Hope you’re experiencing some of what I’m getting and your day doesn’t bring you down. Do the best you can, right? Cheers

6

The Gun Dream

This dream played out in three parts last night. Wasn’t much of me in it; I played a frustrated bystander.

I was with one of my younger sisters. We were milling, killing time waiting for something to go on. Details about that aspect were spare.

In walks a young man. Swarthy, with a cushion of dark, curly hair and a skinny, ripped body. Wears a tight maroon shirt and black pants. I barely know him but take it he’s a young man interested in one of my other sisters. He’s not very talkative. Chatter is going on around us but I’m a magnet on him. Studying his moves. Because something is off. I’m keen to know what.

I notice that as he shifts, he has an automatic handgun. He’s trying to hide it. I think he’s going to do something stupid with that weapon. Then he goes off.

Awakened for a cat matter, I reflect on the dream. It’s not out of my usual book of dreams. I lack clues about what it means.

The dream’s second act starts with me and the guy and my sister. I think the guy’s name is Paul. I try to talk to him. He’s truculent. We’re taking refuge in a garage that’s been converted into a bedsit sort of situation. The small space’s walls are cinder blocks painted white. Flourescent tubes give us stark lighting.

My sister is resting. I’ve covered her with a blanket but I’m watching Paul. Food is available, along with an old microwave. I offer to prepare something for everyone, talking to them about what’s available and what they might want. Paul is pretty furtive. I notice he has a black ski mask. Slipping it on, he leaves.

Figuring that Paul is off to rob someone, I’m angry. I rush out to chase him down and tell him not to do it. The door opens to an alleyway lined with a fence and thick with junk, like barrels, broken wooden pallets, and cast-off tires. It’s raining. The late afternoon light is anemic. Unable to see Paul, I return inside and put something into the microwave.

Another cat break is endured. During that time, I see that Paul resembles my sister’s father. She’s my half-sister, I should clarify, with a different father. I wonder about that as I tuck back into bed and fall back into sleep’s grasp.

Segment three has Paul returning. It’s much darker in the garage, and I don’t see him well but come to see that he’s still wearing a black ski mask. “What did you do?” I ask him several times, to no responses.

Someone pounds on the door. Adjusting his balaclava, Paul goes to the door. Aiming the gun at head level, he jerks it open. I wonder, police? Some other criminals? I hear speaing but can’t understand it.

That is where the dream ends.

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