Tag: memories

Saturdaz’s Theme Music

Daybreak’s first peeps brought awareness. Today is Saturday. Were I a child of the days back then, I’d be up with joy, heading into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal and into the living room to check out cartoons. Maybe it’d be Bugs and the Roadrunner. Johnny Quest. Speedy Gonzales, Top Cat, Deputy Dawg.

With awakening today, I thought, February 8, 2025. Taxes have been prepared but not filed. We owe money at this point so why pay now? Wait till the bill is due. Not acutally my philosophy; this was my spouse’s input.

It’s 25 F outside. Sunshine and clouds take turns showing themselves. Snow flurries fall. The road looks slick with ice. Snow is still the landscape’s dominant feature. Much melted off yesterday as the snow turned to rain and rain turned to sunshine. The temperature climbed into the low forties before retreating into the mid-20s overnight. ‘They’ tell us today will bring partly sunny skies into Ashland and a high in the upper thirties.

Today’s song is from a movie. The movie is is based on the 1979 book The Falcon and the Snowman: A True Story of Friendship and Espionage by Robert Lindsey. A friend of mine was the book’s editor, and he told about how the manuscript came to be in his hands and his conversations with the author, insights which I lapped up. The movie was released in 1985 and starred young Sean Penn and Timothy Hutton. I’ve posted about the hit song that emerged from it before. Suffice today to say that after reading news yesterday about PINO Trump and Musk — PINO Trusk — activities, The Neurons plucked the song from memory and has it rolling in the morning mental music stream. Key to the song’s position in the MMMS is the line repeated throughout the song, “This is not America”, which is also the song’s title.

Unfortunately, through an accumulation of actions and a confluence of misguided thinking and behavior, what we have now is America. It’s not the place visualized by our founders. Nor is it the nation which survived a civil war and two world wars. No, this is an ugly vision of America, and what many feared would happen. Too sadly, it is celebrated as ‘the right direction’ for a segment of the population.

I ran into coffee in the kitchen and consumed. Sunshine has lifted the light and temperature outside and the falling snow has faded. Ice has melted on the streets.

Things are looking up, for the moment, here in Ashlandia.

Cheers

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Friedaz’s Theme Music

We’ve clocked into Friedaz, February 7, 2024. Snowfall greeted me when I checked the weather. A couple more inches had been added during night’s rule. Now 30 F, more was piling up.

Or was it? The temperature crept up to 31. 32. 32.3. 32.4.

Papi the ginger blade, aka, ginger butt, had a vet appointment. 10 AM. I’d made it three weeks ago. He was suffering fur loss, ravenous appetite and some weight loss. Hyperactive thyroid was suspected by us. We’d seen the same in Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah). In fact, based on that, we’d started sharing Tucker’s medicine with Papi. Stopped it on Monday so we could get it out of his system and see the test results.

After strapping chains onto the tires and putting a complaining Papi into a kennel, I made the drive under heavy snowfall.

Turned out that chains were only needed for our driveway and street. The city’s main roads were plowed. As we traveled west and north, the temperature rose. Snow became rain. Precipitation ceased by the time we reached the vet.

That’s okay. Little inconvenienced. Important thing is to get Papi checked and healthy. Yeah, blood work shows hyperactive thyroid. Five hundred clams later, she prescribed the same med that Tucker is getting. Wants to check him in a month.

BTW, I researched why we call money ‘clams’. Turns out that it’s an old joke, based on settlers observing natives using clams for cash. Actually, I made that up. Figure that in this era of fake news, what’s a little more?

I have a 1974 Procol Harum song, “Pandora’s Box”, in the morning mental music stream. Procol Harum often brought interesting music to the scene. This is one I knew from their albums but I don’t believe I ever heard it played on the radio. Funny enough, Aerosmith had a song with the same title in the year before. That caused some confusion among some of us. The two songs sound nothing at all alike, with vastly different intentions presented by the lyrics. I later bet a friend about who performed the song, cleverly inserting the year as part of the bet. I won but he accused me of being underhanded and taking advantage of him. Guilty! But the bet was just a beer, come on. It was at the NCO club and was five dollars for a pitcher. Of course, it was American lager…Miller Lite, I think.

Coffee has resuscitated my energy levels again. Time to get on the day and ride. Hope your day fills your needs.

Hey, look, the snow has stopped and the sun is out.

By the way, I thought I’d utilize the original spelling used today, Friedaz. In doing research, I learned that ‘day’ was actually ‘daz’ almost universally until it became Anglicized. And the prefix, Fri, was originally Frig or Frigga, after a Nordic Goddess. Those rebelling against Nordic influence because they were chaffing from looting done during Viking raids in Europe, changed it to Frie. That spelling upset Christians, as Frigga day or Frieday was a day of fasting. People thought that calling it Friedaz gave them permission to eat fried food. Hence, they started eating fried fish on Friedaz, giving rise to the Catholic rule of eating fish on Friday. The spelling was changed to try to stop people from eating fried foods on Friedaz, but it had became too embedded. Even so, a last ditch attempt was made by religious authorities: they changed the spelling to Friday. And that’s why we have that spelling.

Naw, I made that up, too. Blame the coffee. It’s always forcing me to write and say crazy things.

Until another time, cheers

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Thursdaz’s Wondering Thoughts

I was busy scrubbing oven racks the other day. My Neurons played by themselves. Out of that rolled a remembered television commercial:

“New Ajax laundry detergent, stronger than dirt. (Stronger than dirt!)”

It’s a terrific slogan. Who wouldn’t want a cleaner that’s stronger than dirt? I bet the rest of the cleaners were so jealous because they weren’t stronger than dirt.

And how ’bout that knight with his magic lance? I could use a lance like that.

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Thursdaz’s Theme Music

The sixth day of February has boarded our minds in the year of 2025 CE, a Thursdaz. Crazy frog — our home’s expression for freezing fog, based on a mondetext — has stolen the sunlight, gifting us twilight colors of, gray, white, and black. No snow falling but ‘they’ are warning us that more is on the way. It’s 32 F and greater warmth isn’t anticipated. Snow might be on the way. Or rain.

The primary roads have been plowed here but get off them and yer on yer own. Sidewalks on not cleared, so people must walk on the streets. Everyone gives pedestrians on the roads wide passage but given the environment, I imagine people walking worry with every step about someone losing control of their vehicle.

Weather caused cancellation of my first two lymphedema massage therapy sessions. Another one is scheduled for tomorrow. Also have an appointment for Papi the ginger blade, aka butter butt, Meep, and butter booger, to see what’s going on about his fur shedding.

The Ban Man is at it. Trump bans with a petulant thump. “Ban transsexuals in women’s sports.” Thump. “If I can’t have fun and play sports, neither can they.” “Ban DEI. I’m a rich white guy, born into a wealthy white household. I don’t understand how that was an advantage over others.” Thump. “Ban it all, everything that isn’t me.” Thump.

Of course, the craziness of the first term is still flowering. ‘The U.S. will take over Gaza. Move the Palestinians out.’ What? Friggin’ nuts. Then his ‘team’ scrambles to make it sound sane, plausible, and supported by everyone, and then Trump realizes how nuts he sounded and tries to change what he said. Brother.

It was a busy morning. Friend called to ask advice about his ailing cat. Another called for help with his recalcitrant computer. And, caught up with Mom drama via texts with Mom and a sis. Mom fell again. She refuses assistance and she’s been at war with her live-in boyfriend for months. She’s 89 and he’s 94. I have never witnessed him be anything but polite and nice to her but she declares him mean. My siblings and I have a lifetime of Mom so her claims draw leeriness as a first response. It’s unfortunate but she’s been married multiple times and has had several boyfriends, and drama is her drug. She makes everything contentious with everyone. It’s a sigh-inducing relationship with her.

With that gray-tinged white world staring back at us, it’s no surprise that The Neurons pulled a Cream song, “White Room”, into the morning mental music stream. It’s a Cream favorite o’ mine. A poet, Pete Brown, was responsible for the lyrics, which strike many as enigmatic. I think iyhat pushes me to look inside myself.

My favorite part is this stanza, followed by the chorus.

You said no strings could secure you at the station
Platform ticket, restless diesels,goodbye windows
I walked into such a sad time at the station
As I walked out, felt my own need, just beginning

[Chorus]
I’ll wait in the queue when the trains come back
Lie with you where the shadows run from themselves

h/t to genius.com

I like the way the stanza is belted out, angry, defiant, challenging, before the softly resigned introspection presented by the chorus.

Then, too, there are three phenomenal rock performers demonstrating their craft with bass guitar, lead guitar, and drums. Awesome.

Coffee and I introduced ourselves to one another again and I’m indulging in more caffeine-infused dark goodness. Hope your day offers some escape from the world’s woes and some satisfaction to your plans. Cheers

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Wenzda’s Theme Music

Greetings from snowy Ashland. It’s Wenzda, February 5, 2025. Our first snowstorm of 2025 came in, kicked our asses, stamped its feet, and moved on.

The entire time that it snowed, there was no wind. The snow fell straight down. The temperatures hung between 31 and 33 degrees. When the snow ceased late yesterday afternoon, the light shifted. Rosy hues colored the snow. Probably sunset from behind clouds, I speculated. Then, it all went gray.

Next, the temperature, released from its obligation to remain at freezing while the snow fell, shed nine degrees in three hours. Clouds now sail through blue skies and sunshine. Trees and utility lines are shedding large clumps of melting snow. It’s up to 29 degrees F. A high of 38 F is possible, ‘they’ tell us. When all the snow stopped falling, my yard was buried under 14 inches.

Watching all that snow falling yesterday, my wife summarized the day well for us: “I guess it’s good to be retired and not need to go anywhere.”

Yes, good thing, because the storm dropped a ton of chaos on our little town. White stuff falling from the sky really confused people’s sensibilities. Didn’t help that the city on which we depend on services seemed really confused by what was happening. Or maybe it was people out sick, miscommunications, or people overcome with two much going on. Roads weren’t getting plowed — no, some roads were getting plowed. Several roads were plowed over and over while other roads, particularly on the newer south end of town, didn’t see plows at all. For the record, our road was just plowed for the first time. It’s not a major matter, as it’s not that long and only has about forty houses on it.

FB photo of I-5 in the valley not far from Ashland. If you zoom in on the road, you’ll see what looks like a train. Those are actually semis stopped in traffic because the Interstate is closed.

Other factors threw complications into the mix. Trees and branches found new resting places on the ground. So did power lines. People who lived on hills parked down where the roads were flat and walked home. Snow convinced some folks to just stop their cars where they were and walk away.

Without much local media, we were at a disadvantage. The city did nothing to bridge that gap. We have an emergency text message system but that wasn’t engaged much, other to say, “It’s snowing. Stay home.” Our best tool turned out to be Facebook. Friends in three other parts of town reported their situation. Between the four of us, we could compare notes and track developments.

One thing that puzzled my household as we surveyed activities from our window: why were so many people out in light jackets without hats and gloves?

But it’s over. Lessons learned? Probably not.

Our snowstorm stirred memories of another snowstorm. This one was in 1978. I’d just returned from a tour of duty in the Philippines. My wife was living with her family in WV while I was overseas. Now, with me back in the U.S., we bought a car and were driving to a new duty location by San Antonio, Texas. A huge blizzard struck. We made the decision to get the hell out of there and drove several hundred miles through blinding snow.

Thinking back on that time, I looked through a pop list, remembering songs. I’d been overseas. This was pre-Internet, pre-satellite TV, etc. When I returned to the U.S., I felt a deep disconnection with the nation. Looking at a list of songs from that time, I saw “Follow You Follow Me”. I know the song but there’s no memories connected to it, much like a lot of music I know from that period. It’s just there, floating in my mind, unmoored to anything.

One good thing emerging from the two snow days for us is that we used the time to clean the oven and pantry. My wife was the major mover on the pantry, emptying it, tossing outdated stuff, wiping the shelves. I only helped with the reorg and handing things to her.

The bad thing about the snow days is that she kept getting sucked into the bad news cycle. Infuriating to watch the checks and balances disintegrating in the face of GOP complicity.

Coffee and I have ran into each other in the kitchen, so we sat and had a cup to talk about the day. Hope you enjoy a good one. Cheers

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Munda’s Wandering Thoughts

“It sure is coming down,” my wife declared a while ago. It’s an expression we heard often from our parents. I don’t hear many say it any longer.

Watching the snow, she chose to walk to her exercise class. It’s about .6 miles. She caught a ride back home.

“How was your walk?” I asked.

“Slippery! It’s very slick on the sidewalks. The roads don’t look too bad.”

That was three hours ago. The roads have gotten worse. Snow hasn’t ceased. The temperature continues to hang around 32-33 F. All of this triggers memories of snowstorms I’ve endured. It’s good to have experience but one thing that you learn from experience with this sort of weather conditions is that anything can happen without warning.

You gotta remain vigilant.

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Sunda’s Wandering Thoughts

Snow was falling, and I was walking through it. No wind was bothering us, and the temperature is hovering around 33 F, so it’s not too cold. I enjoy walking in general but walking in snow is special. Snow affects all the senses for me. As it collects, it muffles sounds. Falling, it alters light. Snow flakes feel different, too, because each is as unique as a person, animal, or leaf. Everything seems magnified, walking in snow.

At the intersection of all these sensations, I fall back into memories of being a child, walking through snow. Tasting snowflakes with my tongue. Watching air condense as I breathe out. Examining the world as a new cover falls over it. Snow often drove people into buildings, and my walks outside were rewarded with solitude. Sometimes, semi-profound observations visited, but I mostly just walked, holding hands with nature.

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Soup Time!

Daily writing prompt
What’s your favorite thing to cook?
View all responses

I’m gonna tell you in full disclosure, I’m not a cook. I cooked more when I was teenager, and it was just Dad and I. Pulling out the cookbook, I made Yankee pot roast, did different things with chicken, concocted meat loaf, scalloped potatoes, and stuffed green peppers, along with the usual breakfast fares and pasta dishes. Now I’m all about the soup.

Soup is fun and easy to me. I have six go-to recipes that my wife found for me. My current favorite — because these things change, you know? — is the fall roasted root veggie soup. Quarter five pounds of small potatoes. I like to use a medley of golds, purples, reds. Cut up a couple stalks of broccoli and carrots. Drench an garlic clove in olive oil and wrap it in aluminum foil. Spread the veggies across a couple baking sheets with the garlic clove in the middle of one. Drizzle olive oil over the veggies. I don’t add salt because of sodium issues, but you can. I do pepper it. Roast.

After they’re roasted, the veggies are put into a big pot. Two quarts of mushroom broth is poured in. Add water if needed. Take apart the roasted garlic clove and add. Simmer for twenty. Now you’re in yumsville. Add hot bread with butter, of course. It’s a cold day dish that’ll warm and satisfy. Good for you, too. That makes it a win-win.

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Sunda’s Theme Music

Sunda, February 2, 2025, arrived in Ashlandia as inviting as a gray, wet mop. Sunshine feels like an alien life form. 35 F, the thermometer says the air temp is, and ‘they’ tell me that the temperature will punch up to 36 F. Light snow is falling.

Kind of light snow is falling. Sometimes, it’s rain, sometimes it’s sleet. A position can’t be staked and claimed for the local weather. Reactions on NextDoor about the weather are frequently amusing about this. “The forecast is for rain. Or snow! Maybe we’ll get zero inches, maybe we’ll get 88! Who knows?!!!” I can imagine someone looking a little wild-eyed and giggling to themselves typing this up. But she has aptly captured the general flow of thoughts.

Part of all this is elevation. Ashland is built on a series of southern mountain slopes. Weather changes are experienced as you slipslide up and down. Our house resides around 2100 feet. Looking up the street, where elevation increases a few hundred more, snow is visible lining roofs.

A winter storm warning is out for our area, so ‘they’ think it’s gonna be something. The rest of us are giving the forecast a jaundiced ‘we’ll see’ gaze. It is good soup weather. Soup, with hot buttered bread, as been conditioned into me. Mom had a practice of dishing out soup on days like this. Campbell’s had advertising campaigns predicated on the need. My wife is also out of that school. Her eyes and expression gain a little light as she states the idea, “This looks like a good soup day.” Best of all on a day like this, with trouble in the news — I haven’t looked but this is now the Trump era, and that’s all there is since he’s been installed as POTUS — would be a big bowl of Mom’s chili. She had an awesome recipe, and I could eat that stuff eight days a week.

Today’s theme music emerges from more conversations with my wife. A lifelong feminist who took on the ideology that everyone is born with equal rights regardless of anything else at an early age, the Trump’s administration to break the world and shove us back into the 1800s has her GRRRRRRR cranked up to eleven. The match point from the convos is that Trump respects nothing. We suspect that he doesn’t even have much self-respect; although he blusters about how great it is, his statements ring with a desperate need to be believed. That’s why he lieks his rallies, where the gullibles line up to worship him as he needs.

The other portion of these talks is that Elon Musk doesn’t respect the Trumpet at all. Being genuinely more intelligent, craven, and cruel, Musk is eagerly taking advantage of Trump to plunder the United States, with eyes on plundering the world. He has no respect for anyone but himself.

All these talking about respect invited The Neurons to pulled up a song from my teen years and dropped it into the moring mental music stream. “Respect Yourself” begins with the lyrics, “If you disrespect everbody that you run into, how in the world do you think anybody’s gonna respect you?” Trump thinks he can get respect by bullying everyone; he’s convinced himself that’s how it works, and his sycophants feed him a steady diet of ‘you got that right, sir’, so he never hears — or learns — otherwise. So this 1971 tune by The Staple Singers is dedicated to Trump and the Grand Ol’ Trump Party as they go about disrespected all others. No one is gonna give you respect in return.

Beyond the sentiments of the song, I love the funkiness dropped by the electric piano and bass. What a sweet sound. With its beat and vocals, it’s an excellent song to sing along with as you dance around the house. Feel free to turn it up loud.

Coffee has suggested that I have a cup. I didn’t want to be rude, so I agreed. And off we go, into the gray and white yonder. Look, it’s raining again. Or is that snow?

Cheers

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My First ‘Puter

Daily writing prompt
Write about your first computer.
View all responses

I purchased my first computer when I came back to the United States. I was in the military, and my wife and I were stationed on Okinawa in May of 1981, returning to the U.S. in January of 1985. After settling into our new assignment at Shaw Air Force Base in South Carolina, we went out and dropped about 2 grand on a Kaypro II. That was a huge chunk of cash for us. Looking like a portable sewing machine when it was closed, the heavy blue computer had a small green screen, 64K of ram and two 5 1/4 floppy drives. Running at 4.77 megahertz, the machine’s operating system was CPM 87.

Not my machine.

My primary software was MicroPro Wordstar on a floppy.

In 1987, I replaced the Kaypro with a Zenith 100, which could use PC Dos, MS Dos, and IBM DOS. Still ran at 4.77, but the monitor was a big separate RGB monitor. I later added a 10 Meg hard drive, changed the processors, and added more RAM. 10 Meg, we thought, wow, would I ever use that much?

So much has changed in the decades since.

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