We made Christmas crock pot candy today. I’m employing the marital we. I put Christmas confection on them and found containers to house them until they’re bagged up. My wife did the actual work. She blames me in part for them. She said, “I have to make something to exchange with Lori. She’s going to make that biscotti that you like and bring it over. I need something to give to her.”
Yes, I have a bad habit of effusively thanking people for whatever baked goods they share with me. Folks take that to heart. Thereafter, I’m delivered biscotti, banana-nut bread, zuchinni loaves, peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, grape pie, fudge, and brownies. I know, it’s an American tragedy.
We’re also going to a Swedish smorgasboard, so something was needed as a hostess gift. My wife decided the Christmas crock pot candy would work because we gave them out before, and the husband and wife told my wife how much they liked it.
Football and parades are on television. Dawn cracked open a blue sky this morning. Sunshine spilled out across 28 degrees F. It’s 43 and feels like 53, with a high of 48 projected. It gets windy, driving Papi to floofishly beat on the front door window for immediate entrance. His tail highpoints in salute as I let him in. Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah) gives the ginger blade an askance look of pity as Papi passes him.
Thanksgiving memories erupt. Going to my paternal grandparents on cold and gray Pittsburgh days. Greeting cousins, aunts, and uncles seen only four times a year. Sitting at one of several children tables. Warm house, laughter, cigarette smoke, beer, and whiskey sodas. The children are herded into the cellar to contain noise. The problem: there’s nothing to do in that cellar except mill around. One by one, we quietly sneak back upstairs.
Mom and Dad separate and divorce. Mom remarries and becomes host and cook, but man, she can cook. Thanksgiving meals are always delicious feasts around traditional offerings. We play card games after the meal and gorge on leftovers for days.
Basic training saw me in San Antonio. Luckily, I had Uncle Paul and his family there to host me for Thanksgiving. Danny White led the Dallas Cowboys to victory. Later, I’m stationed in the San Antonio area. Uncle Paul’s family still lives there and my wife and I visit them for Thanksgiving.
A Thanksgiving follows in the Philippines, where my crew invites me into their house for an American-Filipino Thanksgiving. We play a new electronic game called Pong on television.
Our tour in Okinawa is broken into two phases: pre- and post-base housing. In the pre-phase, food prep is shared between several houses. We barely fit into one of the small apartments to eat. Once we’re in base housing, we’re in a large, comfortable space where my wife plays cook and hostess in Germany. As we return to America, Thanksgiving gets more complicated. We’re alone sometimes, or I’m on shift working. Later as I become more senior in rank, we become host for young co-workers and friends. We do the same after being assigned to California.
Out of the military and tired of hosting, we go out for dinner on Thanksgiving for a year or two in Sunnyvale, Mountain View, and Palo Alto, California. My wife has become a vegetarian. An awful attempt with tofurkey is made. Stuffed acorn squash. We end up buying turkey breasts and having much smaller meals. Thanksgiving transitions to Friendsgiving. Friends host others like us and we collect at their homes. The meals feel like the ones I enjoyed as a child. I’ve gone full circle.
I’m going with “Alice’s Restaurant” by Arlo Guthrie for today’s theme music. It’s a staple of my existence, and The Neurons are okay with it. Alice Brock, the Alice in the song, passed away earlier this month. RIP. It plays in the background of my morning mental music stream (Trademark roasted) as I go about preparing to go to Friendsgiving at our friends’ farm. We prepared our food contributions yesterday. Corn souffle, prepared with my wife carefully watching me, is my contribution.
Coffee and I continue renewing our daily relationship. The house weather system says its 50 F out. Plentiful sunshine baths the street. Hope you have a memorable Thanksgiving if you’re participating, and a great day no matter where you are.
I cleaned the kitty litter today. The excavated taters were shoveled into a paper bag. I then went through the house with the bag of kitty litter to dump it into the trash. As I went, I held the bag up and called out, “Ho ho ho, merry Thanksgiving.”
I thought it was good symblism for the holiday season upon us.
Tuesday, November 26, 2024. Few days until Thanksgiving in America, or as as my wife and I celebrate it, Friendsgiving. We head out to a friend’s farm house a few miles down the road and meet up with others. Everyone brings a dish or two. Good food, good drink, and good times are all enjoyed.
We’re chilling at 39 F under a tumultuous sky. The elements up there are in discord. Looks like it might rain, snow, or get blue sky and sunny on us. Gonna get up to a steamy hot 41 F.
Watched some national weather on TV this morning. I lived in Pennsylvania, Ohio, West Virginia, and South Carolina for a while at different times as an adult. My wife and I typically jumped in the car and drove ‘home’ to our parents’ places for the holidays, if I had the time off. We’re talking the 1970s through the late 1980s. Back then, it was basically pack the car up, tank up, and take off. Sometimes we’d hit blizzards, a few times we encountered torrential rains, and once in a while, we encountered construction. We always enjoyed the trips. In the early years, we had an AM car radio and that was it. Losing stations, we’d just turn it off and talk. We still do the same on our road trips through Oregon. Now, though, we’re rich with music and entertainment options. We still often talk. Old habits.
My wife baked brownies for our dessert last night. Filled the house with a wonderful chocolate smell. We both said several times, “The house smells so good.” LOL. Love the smell of baked goods. Bread, pies, cookies, pizzas…
The records show that we let Papi the ginger blade in and out nine times yesterday. That seems light. We suspect he overheard our plan and cut back on his requests to game the numbers. I’ve started calling him my little In ‘n Out burger.
Did something to my surgerically repaired hoof in my sleep. Awoke to the realization that I was loudly groaning. Foot hurt like hell. Could barely walk on it. No idea what took place but it may have been caused by a swimming dream. The sound I made deeply concerned Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah), my black and white big cat. (He’s not actually that large but looks big, a deception brought on by a big head, paws, and tail.) I found him intensely studying me with his ears back when I awoke. The pain has mostly abated. All part of the recovery process.
With thoughts about road trips and driving, it’s with little surprise that The Neurons brought travel music into the morning mental music stream (Trademark skipping). Red Hot Chili Peppers released Californication in 2000. The song, “Road Trippin'” was included. RHCP’s album on CD was part of my rotation during part of that period. We lived in California then and were exploring the state. It’s a big state, and we had many excellent road trips, visiting cities and landmarks, taking visitors around, etc.
Had a good bitter laugh over Trump’s tariff plans. China, Mexico, Canada. That’ll hit home construction, food prices (and restaurants!), automobile manufacturing, and computers, phones, and electronics. Talk about inflation. But Trump and his cronies and supporters believe that the other countries and the manufacturing/production sources will bear the burden. Trump et al say they’re doing this to stop drug trafficking. Yeah.
Here’s the music. Excuse me while I dash off for a brownie. A few remain. They pair well with coffee. And away we go.
We bounced into a misty Sunday. It’s 48 F, up from 38 F. Mist dominated the morning. Rain dropped for a while on this November day, then sunshine blasted through. Now it’s like mist from a walk-in freezer is rolling over us. This pattern cycles throughout the day.
It’s the 17th. We’re slinking toward December, the holidays, and the end of 2024.
The shifty weather has the cats floofboozled. Is it warm, is it dry, what’s going on? Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah) tested it once. Papi has campaignd for a revolving door. Now both are in, dry, warm, napping.
Foot and ankle recovery was set back. Some bleeding. Lot of swelling. Ice and Salan Pas applied, with lots of rest with an elevated foot. Feeling much better today, but I’ll continue a slow roll of recovery.
With mists swirling through my awareness, The Neurons cranked the mental music box handle. Up popped Led Zeppelin with “Misty Mountain Hop” into the morning mental music stream.
Be positive and hold fast. Coffee was skipped. Here’s the music. Cheers
The numbers are in for today, Sunday, June 9 2024. 55, 65, 83, our low, current, and expected high for Ashlandia, all in F. The numbers show that our sprummer run remains intact.
My cats are doing well. Still lovin’ sprummer. Tucker has been reborn. But that encourages him to think he’s a young ‘un. Now he wants to spend all his time outdoors. “No,” I tell him. “You’re an elderly housefloof. You’re better off indoors.”
“YOOOWWWLLLL!” he shouts back. “YOOOWWWLLLL. MeeeOWWWLLLL.” He’ll do this until my wife or I leap up and open the door, telling Tucker, “Fine, go get eaten by a cougar but don’t complain to us when it happens. We tried to tell you but you won’t listen.”
Tucker usuallly replies with a haughty, “Murpf.” Everyone owned by a cat knows what murpf means.
It’s National Donald Duck Day FYI. I’m not celebrating it, myself. I’m sure it’s a big deal to someone on this world.
No, I’m celebrating Space Appreciation Day. This is not the same as National Space Day, celebrated in May. Space Appreciation Day is not about the region beyond Earth’s atmosphere or all that ‘out there’ in the dark, starry night.
Space Appreciation Day is about private space. Leg room and elbow room during air travel or in movie theaters. Or room in bed to turn over without leaving the mattress. That’s what Space Appreciation Day, often shortened to SAD, is all about.
Take, for example, writing at the coffee shop. SAD comes into its own there. I don’t want to hear others’ phone calls. First, I’m usually only hearing one side of it, forcing me to provide the other end. Like:
“It’s scheduled for tomorrow afternoon,” I hear in the coffee shop. Which I fill in to mean, the contract killer is making the hit.
Nor do I want to be a close party to others’ sneezes. Likewise, I don’t want to share my sneezes with others because I see the accusing, wary looks they use afterward. (“What does THAT guy have? He looks like he migh be dying. Maybe I should leave or mask up.”) Ideally, I’ll have a radius of twelve feet between me and anyone else in the coffee shop. And that’s what I pray for when I dance and make sacrifices to the Gods of Space on SAD.
The Neurons wanted to play along but when I thought about space and the distance between me and other objects, they came back with the realm outside of planets’ atmospheres. So I ended up with Muse singing “Starlight” from 2006 in the morning mental music stream (Trademark out there).
Be strong and positive, and enjoy your SAD, however you decide to celebrate it. Vote Blue 2024. I’ve begun the coffee ingestion process, and we have lift off. Here’s the music. Cheers
Hello my fellow beings. Following the general trends of reality of which we are aware, we’ve shifted to the next elements in the sequence we’ve been following for centuries. If you’re using a solar calendar, of course. And Gregorian. If so, today is Tuesday, April 2, 2024.
Each morning when I rise, I put it out to the universe, can you slow down time for me? I’m not asking for much, just enough to finish some things on my lists while still being able to chill a little. Instead, I’m often looking at the time and wonder if someone’s pranking me by messing with the clocks and calendars. Maybe I’m being hypnotized for an hour and then awakened and forced to rush. I suspect the cats. They always appear to be sharing a secret that amuses them.
It’s warming up here today. Already at 60 F, we’re expecting the sun and air to take us to 78 F before the day is shuttered. Don’t get overly excited. As we’ve learned, it’s gonna change again. Tomorrow — Wednesday — is promising to be rainy, with a high of 55 F.
These sort of weather patterns always present me with a conundrum. The rain is good for us but I like the sunshine. I suppose, if I’m not going to be selfish, I should cheer the rain and accept it.
My floof boys are appreciating the sunshine, though. They’re airing their fur and soaking up rays, and looking sweet and charming, out there in the green grass and sun.
With Easter, I was thinking about family. Back when I was growing up (I’m now growing down, I think, becoming a little shorter each year), Mom made Easter a big deal. We dyed eggs. They were hidden. We hunted them. She presented us with elaborate baskets. Managing to prepare them in secret, they arrived on Easter morning like magic.
Those baskets were loaded. Sugar and chocolate dominated. She always ensured we each had a huge solid milk chocolate rabbit. We also had a large, lavishly decorated coconut eggs. Marshmallow rabbits and chicks, chocolates shaped like bunnies or eggs wrapped in colorful foil, and jellybeans and colorful marshmallow eggs set in plastic green grass lining the basket’s bottom finished the scene.
Then there were our clothes. My sisters bought new pastel dresses. I was presented with a new little three-piece suit and shoes, and taken for a haircut, so I was freshly groomed. I wore a crew cut then, held in place with Brylcreem. Didn’t need to shave in those days, so that saved time and effort. Dressed like that, we crowded into the packed local Protestant church to hear about Jesus and the Resurrection and sing hymns that I didn’t know.
Next, off to the Grands for a big family Easter dinner. Grandpa was in charge of making a huge Easter ham. That sucker tasted awesome.
Quite a turnout, it was. Dad wasn’t usually there. He and Mom were divorced and he was serving overseas in the military. But his family took Mom and her brood in. Beside us four and the two grandparents were four siblings and their significant others and children, anyway from twenty to twenty-five people.
Later that night, as children gradually retired on our overdoses of food, sugar, and socializing, the adults gathered to drink, smoke, and gamble with cards. Ah, Easter!
I don’t think it was the religion that made it such an awesome day. It was Mom and family, and the effort they put into it. Also, I was a child and had no responsibilities.
My sisters and Mom informed me of their Easter events via social media this year. It’s the new norm. It’s a smaller gathering. One little sister, Grandma Gina, hosted. Her daughters and her grandchildren and their spouses came over, along with another sister and her sons, and Mom and her beau. Not quite the extravaganza it used to be. I don’t think they even bought new clothes. They had plenty of food, though, especially desserts.
With these thoughts of family in my head, The Neurons delivered “Fly, Robin, Fly” into the morning mental music stream (Trademark imploding). Back when I was visiting for Easter one year, that song played on the car radio as I drove her somewhere in my Camaro. I was nineteen and in the military. She was nine, and so cute, with her straight bangs and shoulder-length shiny brown hair. As the song played, she turned to me and said, “This is my favorite song.”
Surprised me. The 1975 Silver Convention song was a disco classic, all about rhythm and dancing. Three words are repeated a few times during the song, and then there’s, “Up up to the sky.” I wasn’t into disco so much. But with my sister’s proclamation about the song, I heard it in a different way.
Stay positive and remain strong. Election day is growing closer. Lean forward and Vote Blue. I’m on my second cup of coffee now, so the day is going well for me. After writing, there’s shopping, and yardwork. Hope your day goes well. Here’s the music. It’s a fun video and will stir disco memories, if you were there. If you weren’t there, you can watch and learn.
Happy holidays and merry Christmas, world. It’s Monday, December 25, 2023 in Ashlandia, where the weather doesn’t resemble winter today. 51 F with strong winds kicking the trees around and fog keeping the sun socked in makes it less than merry out there. It disappoints the cats who are like, “This isn’t what we ordered. We ordered sunshine and warm weather. Turn off the winds or someone will pay.”
Been exchanging texts with family today. Mom has some potential DVT issues. Her doctor wanted her in for tests today but she rejected that, heading to her daughter’s house to celebrate the day and eat. Almost veryone gravitated toward little sister number two’s house for a holiday meal. It was a small spread.
She and my other sisters take after Mom and are good cooks. Dessert is off in another area.
COVID is rising, judging anecdotally. Another friend reported positive, with sneezing, coughing, body aches, and a fever. He’s the fifth in our circle in the last three weeks. A sister and her hubby are down with COVID back in the home zone, and it’s reported to be bad. Hope they all fully recovered.
Today’s holiday music comes by way of my spouse. She heard Duke Ellington and His Orchestra doing a jazz interpretation of The Nutcracker Suite. Here they are with “Sugar Rum Cherry (Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairy)”.
Stay pos, move forward, be strong, and test negative. Wishing you all the best for the rest of this year and many more years to come. Off we go, coffee in hand, ho, ho, ho.
T’was the day before Christmas and all across the land
few people were thinking that everything was grand
those with money to spend had brought presents to no end
while those lacking food and shelter did what they could do
Yes, today is Sunday, December 24, 2023, the day before Christmas in the US. Light rain intermittently douses us in wintery 43 F temps under a dystopian dim sun stuck behind the clouds. It’s today’s high, already achieved, so we have that going for us in Ashlandia, where the Christmas decorations are average and the Kwanza and Hannukah celebrations are muted.
I found myself with the Red Hot Chili Pepper’s 2006 cover of Stevie Wonder’s “Higher Ground” in the morning mental music stream (Trademark gifted). Those first lyrics that include soldiers keep on warrin’ was in my mind during this holiday month, when so many people talk about peace on Earth and goodwill toward man while doing the opposite so often. Few walk the talk. They’re just depressin’ damn people, especially the faux christians who have emerged.
Let’s just call them faustians, which is really similiar to faustian, isn’t it? Interesting; those faustians (faux christians) focus on themselves, complaining about how overlooked and put upon they are, which, in their words, is terrible because they have the best religion and god. Meanwhile, faustian is an adjective to describe things often done for present gain without any thought about the future, which is exactly what the faustians (faux christians) do; they want to go back to some faux good ol’ days when women knew their place and it was in the house, and there were only two genders and one sexual orientation – male on female – and men were in charge, and all bad things like racism, bigotry, and discrimination were all swept into places where it couldn’t be seen. They didn’t want to hear about women being raped (because they probably deserved it anyway, in their minds, because of how they dressed or acted). Nor did they want to know about people born with a mix of gene sets that creates a spectrum of true and viable genders. God only created two genders, darn it, and science is bad because it teaches otherwise, so don’t trust it.
Factories were in America and all things were made in America, because it was and is and always will be the greatest nation in the world (because, god), and the houses were all the same clean cottages behind fine white picket fences, except for the wealthy but noble and pious people who lived in mansions on the hill, away from the riff raff. To achieve their goals, faustians will lie and pretend their leaders are wonderful people, overlooking or even rationalizing their crimes, and go to war to make peace, because they believe in god, and that makes everything that they do okay. Diversity is not good in the faustian world. Nor is critical thinking.
Anyway, that’s why I’m playing “Higher Ground”.
Stay pos, be strong, and keep leaning forward toward a higher ground. Coffee drinking is underway. Here’s the music. Cheers
Monday cometh, cloaked as December 18, 2023. I’m starting to plan some holiday purchases.
Winter painted the morning sky lazy grays and thickly mottled white. Will it rain, even snow, was being mentioned around town everywhere. At 52 F, snow didn’t seem likely but as some of winter’s sky work darkened, rain possibilities seemed to be inching up.
Meanwhile, heavy winds are playing with us. I watched a large fir tree across the street madly swirling, waving its branches like an angry MAGA at a rally. No other trees were moving, so I was thinking, “WTF? Why is that tree moving while no others do anything?” Must be a haunted tree, I decided. Then it went still. I watched for a demon or sumpin’ to emerge. Instead, all the other friggin’ trees started waving at the same time. Like watching a home crowd cheering a touchdown. Then it stopped again. I decided I needed to have coffee before watching more. Coffee helps me make sanity out of the insane, or pretend that I don’t care.
Wind is still going but the sky has disrobed the clouds. Sunshine spreads itself over the pavement and buildings. The temperature is up to 53 F.
In the ‘I don’t care’ side of things, I had to tell myself that I don’t care that GOP darling Ron DeSantis, Lord Destructor of Floriduh, says dumb shit. I almost gagged on the latest dumb shit as he declared that liberals allow abortions after birth, aka ‘post-birth abortions’.
WTF does that mean, the interviewer didn’t ask Ron. Can you tell me where this happens, Ron, the interviewer also didn’t ask. Wouldn’t that be murder, Governor, also wasn’t asked. Talking about it with my wife, she informed me that this is a standard GOP talking point. I looked it up and Politifact confirmed, yes, this is something Republicans regularly mention, and no, there’s not truth to it. Would’ve been nice to have the interviewer pursue the truth while they had DeInsanis in front of them, but no, that sort of journalism is rarely practiced in ‘Merica. Don’t want any snowflakes meltin’ on TV, no sir.
No wonder the United States is going to shit when GOP ‘leaders’ say such ignorant and foul ideas and don’t get challenged by the media. No wonder so many voters are ignorant and blind. The media deserves a huge fucking chunk of blame.
Musically, my wife mentioned a song to me the other day, to wit, Miley Cyrus singing her version of “Santa Baby” with some feminist lyrics about not needing Santa to bring her things. The Neurons took it up in the morning mental music stream (Trademark given away), and now I can’t get it out of my head, so here it is for your listening and viewing entertainment. Ho, ho, ho.
Stay pos, be strong, lean forward into the wind, and press on with pride. Coffee has been poured into me and I’m now firing on six out of eight cylinders. Hopefully, more hot caffeine juice will push the other two cylinders to start firing, and then all eight of them will get into rhythm, right? Yes, hopefully.
Oh, look, the sun is gone, the clouds have returned, and it’s raining. Here’s the video. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 