Tag: snowstorm

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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Satur-day’s Theme Music

Mood: consnowplative

Saturday, March 2, 2024. The winter storm finally discovered Ashlandia. Snow fell through the night and falls still this morning. Gathering to 4 inches around my life zone, the flakes come in an unending, peaceful, almost joyous descent. The scene out there is remarkably white and colorless. Even where parts of bushs and trees can be seen, their colors are diluted.

It’s 31 F now. Snow is expected to continue all day. Tonight’s low will be 24. This is what we needed. Maps show that it’s snowing the mountains, too, building the snowpack for summer.

I’ll stay home and try to write. The cats shouldn’t cause interference; Tucker has been medicated, and the pain meds knock him out for about four hours. He grows so stll, I check for breathing and notice one eye cracking open, ears shifting, to see who’s there. Papi has explored outside and is now exploring sleep in a warm living room niche. He seems to like this space between a tree by the button chair and the enterainment center. I refer to it as Papi’s Niche.

The Neurons have loaded my morning mental music stream (Trademark coming in two weeks) with music. Eric Clapton joins the Beatles to perform “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”, a particular favorite of mine. But there is also “I Want to Take You Higher” by Sly and the Family Stone, Chicago with “25 or 6 to 4”, and “Love Shack” performed by the B-52s.

Conversation with a friend may have inspired that last one. Meeting with a friend, he imparted some Vietnam conflict adventures he had as Army infantry. One story involved being ordered to get up and run because B-52s will coming in to bomb their location. He remembered looking up between the trees and seeing the bombers coming in, high and small from distance and altitude, while helicopters, lower but also small in perspective were entering the area from another direction. His order were running up a hill when then they were ordered, “Down now,” and the bombs began hitting.

But today’s theme music is another in the MMMS, “Superstar” from Jesus Christ Superstar, sung by Murray Head and the Trinidad Singers from 1969. This rocking song is relevant today as Christians work on tearing down democracy and freedom in America and work to estabish a white-man ruled theocracy ruled by a completely corrupt sinner, Donald J. Trump, by attacking reality itself.

Another dream storm last night. I’ve noticed now that I have this pattern; if I have a busy dream night, I’ll also have several songs in the morning mental music stream. But in parallel, my creativity increases, too. Wanting to understand more lead me to a search and articles like this one. I couldn’t find any decent articles talking about potential corelations between dreaming, ear worms, and creativity, but I’ll continue searching.

Stay positive, remain strong, lean forward, and vote. I will do the same. I’m up for more coffee. Here’s the music. Cheers

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Wednesday’s Theme Music

Mood: snowgo

Snow dilutes the light through the windows and blocks the solar tube and skylights, wholly changing the house’s ambiance. Yes, we’re part of the snowstorm holding the Pacific Northwest hostage on Wednesday, January 10, 2024, which is today. It’s 32 F now, as it has been for the last five hours. Snow continuously fell during that period, alternating the flakes’ speed, size, or density, but it falls nontheless. The road has been plowed a few times. I’ve seen one bird and no other animals out there. I hope the homeless are okay; the emergency shelters have been opened.

The snow is expected to yield to rain later. Looking out as a tow truck motors down the hill past my house, it looks like the snow is more sleetish. Snow is falling off tree branches, wires, and fences, so something is going on.

I’m happy, though, because the snowbank is climbing, part of the complicated, multi-faceted process for delivering us summer water.

My eyes yelp against the white-sheeted landscape’s intensity whenever I look out, like the snow is sucking up the light and then firing it back with a tenfold intensity. Sunglasses help but it feels odd wearing sunglasses in the house while looking out the window.

Les Neurons have loaded “Snowblind” by Black Sabbath from 1972 into the morning mental music stream (Trademark stuck). Lyrics easily return from when I listened to the album, Black Sabbath Vol 4 back in high school. Scott — a high school peer — gave it to me because he didn’t like it because it was too dark and brooding. “Kills my buzz,” he laughed with that light in his eyes. He was such a trip.

I understood what he meant, though. This song in particular felt like a downer with its plodding sound and semi-screeched lyrics. Still, they come back to mind with little problem: “My eyes are blind, but I can see. The snowflakes glisten on the trees. The sun no longer sets me free. I feel the snowflakes freezing me.” I sometimes sang them to myself countless times since learning them when walking in the snow in Ohio, Pennsylvania, South Korea, Germany, Oregon, and other places.

Stay positive, test negative, be strong, and lean forward. Coffee has come my way. Snow still falls, delivering fatter flakes to the four inches on the ground. Here’s the music. Cheers

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Wednesday’s Theme Music

The wheel has turned. We’re on Wednesday, 3.15.2023. May be a repeat for all I know. Could be a single, moi on his own repeating the day, or a mass repeat — a group, region, tribe, nation, world, see if the outcome changes. We won’t know. Not at our level.

After the rain became snow yesterday, it snowed for nine hours without relief. With temperatures flexing between 33 and 36 F, the very wet snow layered but accumulation ended up as a few thin inches. Rows of slush developed on the roads. I worried about them freezing in place. Even though the temperature drooped to 28 F, the problems didn’t emerge. Now the snow has iced over, sketching patterns on the roads where vehicles traveled.

Several interesting factoids emerged about yesterday’s snowstorm. Mid-afternoon, we queried Alexa about when the snow would stop. She claimed that it was “39 degrees and mostly cloudy. It might rain.” Fifteen miles up the road, friends reported it rained but they didn’t have any snow. Traffic cams confirmed it.

This was all part of an atmospheric river that came to us from down south in California. Watching the radar, the storm shifted east northeast and fragmented.

Sunrise was 7:24, buttery with warming light. Sunset will be at 7:16 PM. 31 F now, a high of 37 F with freezing fog is the forecast. The cats are out, checking. Young Papi trotted on out. Tucker approached the open door and stopped to stare outside. As I began closing the door, Tucker moved to see something, a motion that shouted, “Wait, wait, what’s that?” I saw nothing and figured it was probably sleight of floof to keep me from closing the door.

The Neurons tossed “Spin You Around” by Puddle of Mudd (2004) into the morning mental music stream, a response to my wife and I talking, and her comment about the weather spinning us around.

Coffee is consumed, black, no sugar, French roast. Stay pos. If this is a do-over, try to do your best to shift us toward a more positive direction. Here’s the music. Cheers

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Family Lore

I woke up thinking about Mom and being snowed in. I’d already sent her a quick, kidding message about having enough food on hand. It’s an ongoing joke that Mom always has a great deal of food on hand — especially desserts and treats. Besides, my three sisters and four adult grandchildren live in the area. They’re always checking in on her to ensure she has food. Mom’s boyfriend lives with her. His family also checks in on them. Food won’t be an issue.

Mom enjoys telling stories, and being snowed in reminded me of one. A retired nurse, she was a recurring baby-sitter for my grandniece, Amy. Once, when Amy was six (she’s graduating from college next year), Mom was driving her through a slippery Pittsburgh snowstorm on one of the back roads around Penn Hills and Monroeville. As the car began spinning and swerving, Amy shouted, “Grandma, don’t kill us!”

The car ended up off road, but a young man witnessed it and got her out in short order. However, the sentence, “Grandma, don’t kill us!” is enshrined in family lore.

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In My Neck…

In my neck of existence, back when I was a child, snowstorms meant listening to the AM radio to see if school was canceled. Snowstorms meant bundling up to go outside to play in this substance, to sled, build, explore, and experience. The storms meant returning home to hot tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich with a dill pickle, or a cup of hot cocoa.

Snowstorms changed our neighborhood sounds, forcing out the usual ruckus in favor of cars’ soft sibilant hissing, or a spinning whine as tires looked for a bite in the slick mess. Rhythmic chains, clicking studs, and the snowplows’ grinding blades broke the stillness, enhancing the ambiance.

The house was hot and the outside was frigid. Sunshine seemed hidden by infinite layers. Trees were starkly outlined, but cars and houses were buried.

Snowstorms made the day special as routines bent and fractured under the snow’s weight. Now I anticipate the snowstorm for days, hoping it’ll return some of childhood’s joys when the snow closes us in, but the storms rarely stand up to hopes.

At least, in my neck of experience.

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