I am again mystified. This isn’t shoutitfromtheroof news. I’m often mystified.
I know I mystify others, too. Especially my wife. She often avoids asking questions to clarify, preferring to express her doubts and confusion with her facial expressions. I used to ask her, “What’s that look for?” when I was young. I don’t make those inquiries these days.
My mystification is again with other people. Specifically, other drivers. They often mystify me. Cars stop four car lengths back from the car in front of them. “Why do they do that?” I ask myself and my wife. We laundry list reasons for fun. It’s not satisfying because I never know the real answer.
Other driving aspects which mystify me is the lack of adherence to speed limits. It’s not that I’m worried about speeding. I speed. No, the other drivers’ weird behavior in regards to speed limits trigger me. “It was thirty-five,” I tell my wife. “And they were going thirty. Now it’s a twenty-five miles an hour limit and they’re still going thirty.”
“I think most drivers don’t pay attention,” my wife says.
I agree with her in principle, but I don’t know. That bugs me.
The latest driving mystery involves turn signals. “I’ve noticed a new trend,” I tell my wife. “People are coming to a traffic light, stopping at the red light, but if they’re turning, they’re not putting on their turn signals before until they start to turn. Why do they do that? Don’t they understand what a turn signal is about?”
“Maybe they forgot where they’re going,” my wife says.
That’s possible. But I don’t know. That bugs me.
Returning from the library the other day, she rushed in and said, “You’re right. I had three different drivers not turn on their turn signal until they began turning. What’s going on? Why are they doing that?”
“Right?” I respond. I’m very pleased.
It’s always good to have someone else join your party.
The cat was mad at us this morning. Papi the ginger blade made this clear in several way. One, he’d bang on the door to come in the house but then would refuse to come in. He would eventually, though, because it wasn’t his preferred weather outside, as the local weather gods ordered rain and wind. Also, inside is where the food is. Once inside, he’d sit ten feet away, giving us hard, judgemental stares.
“Butter Butt is mad at me because I refused to let him out,” my wife said. “He kept crying but I told him no and he shut up and went away.”
My wife and I have been sleeping in separate rooms because of her medical issues. “Butter Butt went away from your door but he came to me. I let him in and out a few times but finally also said no,” I answer.
“How does he let you know that he wants in?” my wife asked.
“He bangs on the bedroom door slider.”
“So I let him out the front door and he goes around and asks you to come in the back,” my wife said.
“That’s the gist.” It’s more involved, but why go there.
“You’re a demanding little animal,” my wife says to Papi in scolding tones
The orange floof lifts his chin, gives her one more long look, and walks away.
Back in the 1980s, desktop computers began coming on the scene, along with some useful software. I was in the military at that point, part of the Air Force, involved in command and control.
We loved our reports in the military, especially in the Military Airlift Command – MAC – where I spent some time, but also in the covert reconnaisance world and war readiness reporting. All these reports had predefined fields. Typing them out was a true pain and a challenge for many people. White out and correction tape were not authorized. Along with these were flight orders which we needed to prepare each day, and operations and situation reports to report critical and often classified matters to command authorities on the theater or national level. They had names like SITREP, Red Rocket, White Pinnacle, and OPREP-3. We used these to report on matters such as aircraft accidents/incidents, the movement of nuclear weapons, or the impact of a local natural disaster or international incident.
When I was introduced to the first TRS 80 personal computer, I realized almost instantly the time that could be saved by developing computerized report formats to predefine the fields. Besides saving time to prepare the reports, errors could also be reduced by simple built-in quality checks. Once I found a commander and organization to support these efforts in the late 1980s, I set about acquiring the hardware and software and then setting up every format that we used. Word of what my unit was doing soon spread; others came to us for help on doing the same for them.
Computers truly revolutionized the way we did business by the time I retired in the mid 1990s. I can only imagine how it’s changed since then.
I popped the final radish into my mouth and crunched away. That was the last of my lunch. Cleaning up, I noticed my coffee cup still had a few swallows in it.
The cat wanted out. 3:20 AM, according to my sleep-blurred vision. Following his victory prance to the door, I gave him the usual admonitions about being safe, smart, staying close, and not letting anything get him. He meowed back with a little defiance, as if to say, “Gosh, I know! You tell me this a million times a day.”
A while later, sun was breaking in through the window. I cowered from it like a vampire. But it wasn’t the sun calling me: the cat wanted back in. 6:32. He came in, rushing to his kibble bowl like a starving maniac. I stumble-walk back to bed.
“Meow,” he said shortly, batting blinds. I want out.
“No,” I answered. “Not gonna happen.”
Of course it happened.
This is Twosda, March 25, 2025. The sun is glowing hard, heating an endless blue sky. Sensing a change in the air, the cat is eager to take advantage of it. “Sure,” I sleep-spoke to him. “You slept all day yesterday. I saw you, curled up in the malabar chair.”
“Meow,” the cat answered. “Out.”
It’s already 54 F. I don’t know what it feels like. I feel like I’d like more sleep. Supposed to get to 78 F today. Huzzah. Yawn. Seriously, I mean, huzzah, but I gotta get some coffee in me before I can give it the enthusiasm it deserves.
I’m suspicious of the weather. This is Oregon. Snow still covers some mountain tops, eyeing us in the valley. I suspect winter is gonna try to slip another storm over us. It’s just like weather to lure us with warm temperatures and friendly skins and then spring out at us like a demented drunk uncle and shout, “Got you.” And then laugh like they’re crazy.
Today’s morning mental music stream Neurons are offering The Friends of Distinction with “Going In Circles”. The gentle soulful 1969 song is in there because The Neurons think it’s funny about how the cat has me getting up to let him in and out over and over again. When it’s warmer, the pet door will be put back into place so he can leave and enter as he wants. But that temperature threshold hasn’t been achieved yet.
In recent news items, Donald Trump was caught lying. Trump said he didn’t sign controversial proclamation. The Federal Register shows one with his signature. Isn’t this rich from the administration which tried to say that President Biden’s pardons weren’t real because, signature. Autosigning thingy. “Did he know what he was signing?” they asked. Think they confused which person doesn’t know what they’re saying. Really, we know that Trump knew what he was signing; he just lied about it because it was giving him negative heat. Trump melts and lies under that kind of heat, sure as the sun’s motion.
Also, measles outbreaks are spreading. It’s mostly among the unvaccinated. You know, intelligent people, learning from what’s happening, would develop and administer vaccines to stop that. But we’re dealing with a new level of denial and irrational thinking with the Trusk Regime and the MAGAts who installed them.
A silky blue sky weaves hope and optimism in Ashlandia. A gorgeous spring day is being promised. 63 F now, ‘they’ tell us it feels like 71 F. I agree with them. Plentiful sunshine, as ‘they’ say. 73 F is the predicted high.
This is Munda, March 24, 2025. I dig this kind of sunshine. Especially after months of rain and clouds and the kind of chilly weather that makes me feel older than I am.
The cat is also quite pleased, I think. He zooms around furniture and through rooms. “Sun recharge your batteries?” I ask. He stops, sits, stares. Classic 3s floofhavior. After three seconds of this, he sticks a rear leg out and washes its underside. I begin for the kitchen. He pauses the washing to gift me with a scrutinizing stare. “You’ll get yours,” I say, because I know that whereismyfood look.
In the kitchen, I’m doing my morning things. Gotta move faster today. Leaving to do Food & Friends deliveries at 10 AM. Everything must be slightly accelerated. Nanoseconds must be shaved away from routines. I don’t feel like shaving time off today. I’m not a Formula 1 driver doing qualifying laps.
I give Papi his first feeding. That’s misleading. He’s already eaten from kibble bowls several times. This is a wet food offering. Eyes bright, he chirps at me as I lower the food bowl toward him. “Yes, you love me now,” I say. His purr vibrates the floor.
Time is flying. I eat. Make coffee. Drink same. Clean and dress. Examine my lower limbs for swelling and find none, knock on wood. My compression socks are easily drawn over my feet and up my legs. I’m becoming very proficient getting them on. It’s the other end, taking them off, that’s the challenge. I might have made a mistake by turning down the doffing stick. I reassure myself that not using the doffing stick gives my wrists, fingers, and hands a needed workout. My self is as suspicious about that as a cat might be.
We hit the Senior Center for the food pickup and schedule. Cars surround the center. Parking is limited. “That’s a bad sign,” my wife declares. “The food must not be ready.”
I’m resigned to wait. “Go check.”
She returns with the first load of food within a minute, surprising us. We’re off and running with a minimum wait.
“Only ten stops today,” she says.
“Ten stops. I remember when we had twice that.” Yes, people have disappeared from the list. We usually don’t know what happens to them. They’re Schrödinger’s elderly people. That’s a miserably depressing thought for such a sunny, bright day.
Today’s morning mental music stream inhabitant is the Pat Benatar offering, “Invincible”. Released in 1985, it was quite a hit at that time and stays on classic rock stations as an offering for the elderly still feasting on the past. The Neurons called it up today to support the April 5 Hands Off actions rising. Annie commented on a post, “I just read that the April 5 coalition includes at least 83 organizations, among them the Communications Workers of America and the Service Employees International Union. It’s gonna be big!!”
We need big energy to combat the Trusk Regime and GOTP. We need the energy of “Invincible”. Written by Simon Climie and Holly Knight, the song was made for the movie The Legend of Billie Jean.
[Chorus] We can’t afford to be innocent Stand up and face the enemy It’s a do-or-die situation We will be invincible
[Verse 2] This shattered dream you cannot justify We’re gonna scream until we’re satisfied
[Pre-Chorus] What are we running for? We’ve got the right to be angry What are we running for? When there’s nowhere we can run to anymore
It could be that I’m overwrought by the Trusk situation in the United States.
Hope your day satisfies you in some meaningful ways. I’m writing and then planning long-delayed chores. I’ve always blamed the weather. Now that the weather has improved, my excuses are gone.
Funny to me that this is a prompt today, as I was remembering these two teachers this morning before I went online. The pair of teachers were my favorites and most influential. One was encountered in sixth grade while the other taught me two years later.
First, each encouraged me to think harder and try harder. Through their support, I gained self-confidence. Both introduced me to new areas of literature. My sixth-grade teacher, Mrs Forsythe (who was previously Mrs Fogle) read aloud to the class every afternoon. One book she read to us was Flowers for Algernon. Noticing how much I enjoyed it, she took the time to suggest other books and authors to me. From this came my infatuation with science fiction and fantasy, and a lifelong love affair with reading.
Mrs Rubenstein, in the eight grade, taught me to read the news and actually think about what was being said about events of the era. This was during Nixon’s first term. The United States was still fighting in Vietnam. The intense Cold War with the USSR was one facet of worry for us, but many other wars raged, and students were protesting the world’s direction across the United States.
Both of these teachers fired an intense interest in events beyond the end of my nose. I hope that everyone has at least one teacher like them in their lives. I was fortunate to have two. There were several others for me who opened my mind as well, but these two women were very special in my development.
I will never forget them and the debts I owe them.
From nothing but a whim, my favorite short stories. Well, it began at the library. My wife and I went in to pick up two books she had on hold. The ‘Staff Picks’ display at the front desk including a book called Nine Stories, a collection of short stories by J.D. Salinger which I enjoyed when I was a teenager. I read the first one while my wife was doing her librarying thing. That triggered thoughts about short stories I remember and count among my favorites from my youth because they affected how I viewed the world after reading them.
A Jury of Her Peers – Susan Glaspell
Sandkings – George R.R. Martin
The Lottery – Shirley Jackson
I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream – Harlan Ellison
I kind of cringe and debate about answering this. It feels like bragging. But I’m gonna take a deep breath and put it out there.
I received the same compliment from six different people, six different times. It really felt flattering, receiving it every time, and I glow as I remember it now. Each of these people were individuals I respected. So I thought it the best compliment when each called me years after they’d last worked for me and said, “You’re the best person I ever worked for.”
I mean, you know, I tried. I think many do try to be a good boss, someone who is honest to their people, trying to help them grow, and hopefully developing bonds. Half of those people who called were from my military career, and the other half were from my civilian positions. Regardless of whether I was in the military or a civilian, my stance as ‘boss’ was driven by several tenets. One, treat everyone with respect. Two, trust people. Three, be honest. Four, teamwork and communicating are critical to get things done. And five, the best evidence that you’re a good leader is how well your team does when you’re not around. So after all those years, to get those calls, man, it was satisfying and rewarding.
Probably a good thing that they waited and called me up to tell me that, though. Otherwise, it would have gone right to my head.
We’ve touched down on Twosda, March 18, 2023. The rain has ceased. Winter still dominates the seasonal dance off. Those blackened tufted clouds don’t bespeak of spring. Temperature is sticking close to the upper thirties as if it’s been ordered but 46 F is a projected high, the weather ‘they’ say. Sunlight has been flitting in an out on butterfly wings.
News…we won’t get into that yet. Except, locally, a woman died in rural Central Point flooding brought on by our spate of heavy rains. Was apparently clearing branches from a culvert when her waders filled and she was taken into the culvert and drowned. Sad end to a life, fighting water, trying not to drown.
Jesse Colin Young, a member of the Youngbloods folk pop rock group, passed away, 83 years old. Part of the sound of the 1960s frquently heard through a transistor radio’s thin sound as I moved from being young innocent into inquisitive teenager, Mr. Young was also an activist for peace, justice, and the environment. Soon as I read of his passing, The Neurons slotted the Youngbloods’ 1967 cover of “Get Together” into the morning mental music stream.
Coffee and I got together in the kitchen, continuing our brewmance. Hope your day goes solidly your way. Here’s the music. And off we go, into the darkish grayish yonder…
Michael Seidel, writer 