The coffee is hot. Classic rock plays softly in the background. The neighborhood houses are black lumps against a dark blue-gray sky. I rock slightly in the un-reclined recliner looking out the window at nothing. It is cold, but not too cold outside. It is comfortable in the old office.
I usually block off Saturday and Sunday mornings to write. Today, I’m in a lazy mood. I should sit at the computer and write. I don’t want to put in the work. I’ve hit a writers block wall of my own design in my latest novel. I ended the last chapter and started the current one with exposition, not action. I have stated that things happened, not described the happening, if that makes sense.
For example, I might write that the basketball team lost a tough game in the State basketball tournament. I should describe the hot, sweaty, loud, raucous, competitive atmosphere of Hoosier Hysteria in the gym from the old days of single class basketball. The days when entire towns showed up on Friday night to see the team on the hardwood. I should write what the fans did, describe the smell of popcorn in the lobby, the sweat of the railroad worker crammed on the bench seat next to you.
See what I mean? I wrote one sentence when I should have written a hundred words. By the same token, I write a hundred words when one sentence would suffice. It is the endless editing and rewriting that sucks the fun out of it.
I know what I want to happen. I’m just too lazy to do the actual work. As the historian Barbara Tuchman once said, “research is endlessly seductive, writing is hard work.” I’m not talking the writing like here at the old blog, this is ridiculously easy. I sit and words flow stream of consciousness fashion right onto the electronic page. Narrative writing is difficult. I’m afraid I was only moderately successful in my first book. I learned from it. And to Tuchman’s point, since the current novel takes place in the past I am drawn and sucked in by the research. Do I really need to spend two hours researching the history of the Nickel Plate Railroad and the machinations of Jay Gould and the Vanderbilts?
Oh, I know I can write prose. I can craft sentences that flow, that describe, that are easy to read. Writing an actual story, that is a completely different animal. There were a couple of passages in my first book I thought were good writing. There was also some complete crap. There are chapters and passages that do nothing to push along the narrative. I should have taken an figurative red pen and marked them with a big red X.
None of this is compliment fishing. Rather, as Clint told us, “A man has to know his limitations.” I know mine. And a big one today is that I don’t want to do the hard work of writing. I think I’ll read a few blogs, then saunter off to watch something, anything on TV.
Ahhhooogha....Ahhhooogha...the fog horn sounds a mournful warning over Mudsock this morning. I can hear the lonely ship bells of the big freighters anchored in the icy White River cutting through the silence. Ding ding, ding ding as a warm breeze moves across the slowly thawing ground. It is still dark, only the neighbor’s porch lights cutting a weak yellow beam through the fog.
I sip my coffee. The furnace kicks on to bring warmth to the blogroom. Soon I will fire up the old laptop and slave away at my desk as Bob Cratchet babbles away over the pitiful exploits of his family one desk over. Scratch, scratch. Why won’t Bob use a computer?
Ahhhooogha.....Ahhhoooga....the foghorn sounds a mournful warning...
What? Do not push me. The Captain and Tennille are just a click away. I’ll do it, so help me...
Consider this four-slice toaster on Amazon. I’m sure it is a fine product, but it is a toaster. It cooks bread. That’s all it does. It is not made of gold or platinum. No artisan hand-forged the metal or inlaid delicate filigree like a Faberge Egg. We are talking 1920’s technology here.
What I do find remarkable is not that a company is selling a $300 toaster, but rather that more than three hundred people actually bought one of these in the last month! I mean what were you thinking?
Look, I’m not judgemental. Well, maybe a little. Okay, often, but stick with me here. I may judge you by your politics, your face piercings, or your blue hair. How you spend your hard-earned money is your business. You work hard and want a sports car or a Bentley. Not my concern. If you want gold plated hardware in your bathroom, it is none of my business. If you collect guitars or guns, I say, whatever.
If you buy a $300 toaster you are a blithering idiot.
A few days ago we found an old straggly cat at our door.
She was a sorry sight. Starving, dirty, smelled terrible, skinny and hair all matted down. We felt sorry for the cat and put her in a carrier and took her to the vet.
She had no name so my we named her Pussycat.
The vet decided to keep her for a day or so and said he would let us know when we could come and get her.
My husband, [the complainer] said,
“OK, but don’t forget to wash her, she stinks.”
My husband and our vet don’t like each other.
He calls my husband El-cheap-O. My husband calls him El-Take-0. They love to hate each other.
Next day my husband had an appointment with his doctor, which was located next door to the vet.
The doctor’s office was full of people waiting to see the doctor.
A side door opened and in leaned the vet; he had obviously seen my husband arrive.
He looked straight at my husband,
“Your wife’s pussy is finally clean. She now smells like a rose. And by the way, I think she’s pregnant. God knows who the father is!”
And he closed the door.
I have no memory of writing this.
I was “standing” in the hall bathroom bit after 4PM yesterday when power kicked off. I quickly finished, trying to maintain my aim in the dark, washed up, and went to check what was going on. First, I turned off he laptop since it was now running on battery mode. I looked across the street to see if the neighbors had power. It was not evident either way. I opened the electric company app and sure enough, their was a widespread power outage reported already.
Wait? What did that say there in small print at he bottom of the outage report? Power was expected to be restored at 10:30 PM! I looked down at my right hand. Let’s see, 4:30 to 10:30...I need more fingers...
I looked out the window, dark was not so far off. I grabbed a couple of flashlights, my Kindle Paperwhite, and little Bose bluetooth speaker. I had a seventy percent charge on the phone, that was good news. I called the wife, who was attending the grandgirls, and told her there was no need to hurry home. I lit a candle on the kitchen table, then, for next few hours I read, looked out the windows, and listened to music in the ever-darkening house.
Finally, around 6:30 the wife came to get me to go somewhere for dinner. After dinner we went to Target for stuff. I checked the electric company app. Power is expected to be restored at 1:30 AM. YGTBFKM.
Returning to the darkened house in a blacked-out neighborhood, I was happy I spent a few bucks extra for the battery backup on the garage door opener when I replaced it last summer.
It was chilly in the house, but not too bad upstairs. I retired to my office to read on the ebook’s lighted screen, the wife to the other recliner in the girl’s bedroom to play on her iPad.
No wonder our ancestors went to bed at sundown. They were bored. There is not much to do after dark but hump and draw stick figures of deer on the cave wall. Well let me tell you, the wife said no, and I couldn’t find the crayons.
Fortunately, the power kicked on a little after eleven. Satisfied all was good, I went to bed. In the dark. Now I have to reset the stupid clocks.
Here is some Saturday music that has nothing to do with power outages.
The eldest granddaughter got glasses yesterday. She is really excited. They look good on her. She already looks much older than her nine years, and the glasses emphasize the notion. I feel bad for her. As soon as the “new” wears off she will realize all of the things everyone hates about glasses — they hurt your nose, your ears, they get so very dirty, they fog up, they slide when you sweat, they fall off when you are doing stuff, etc. I suspect in a few years she will beg for contacts.
I first got glasses when I was eighteen. I mostly used them for reading. I hated them. By the time I was in my mid- twentiesI had to wear them all of the time. I hated them even more. In my forties I had to get bifocals. I hated them more. In my fifties my Fuchs Dystrophy got worse and I had to get cornea transplants in both eyes. The good news, I thought, new eyes means no more f-ing glasses. Nope, wrong. My severe astigmatism means I had to keep my glasses. Did I mention I hate my glasses? Within a few years I was back to bifocals. So it goes. First The astigmatism prevented the possibility of contacts, then the Fuchs, now the transplants. Currently, the I am waiting on my retina to recover fully from my surgery so I can get new, stronger glasses. Whoop!
Did I mention I hate wearing glasses?
Anyway, my granddaughter got glasses and she looks cute and grown up and the rest of the diatribe was not necessary, but there you go. That’s what you get around here.
It does give me an opportunity to play one of my favorite songs since it marginally mentions seeing:
Looks like an ugly weekend. Right now we are on the warm side of the front, lots of rain and a little snow before the really cold air seeps in.
A stiff wind is rattling the eaves. The neighbors’ porch lights cut a narrow holes of brightness through the black of night. Seventies rock music plays softly on my Amazon Echo spy device. Currently it is Fleetwood Mac. I have been up since 3:30 this morning. I don’t know why. These things happen.
I made a pot of potato soup for dinner. We had BLTs to go along with the meal. I had plain old iced tea, the wife added copious amounts of sugar to hers. It is possible the greasy bacon woke me up early. Perhaps it was work. Aches and pains in my joints from the changing weather patterns are equally complicit, I am sure.
It is okay. I will fire up the old computer and do a little work when this post is done. Maybe I’ll doze in the recliner instead. I spend a significant amount of time here in the old blog room, office, man cave — whatever I chose to call this spare bedroom at any given moment. I am more than comfortable here.
So we are at a crossroads with this post. I find it is a bit like a weak SNL skit, I don’t know how to end the thing. I could go searching for an old photo and turn it into a Wayback Wednesday post. I could post some music. The Allman Brothers Whipping Post is currently playing in the background to this one-fingered typing and is setting a fine atmosphere.
The answer is neither. You get Wednesday. Make it a good one.
Last week we went to our favorite pizza joint. They have awesome wood-fired pizza and we go there usually every week. The total for pizza and a couple cans of diet drinks was $19.35. The wife hands the girl a twenty, two dimes, and three nickels.
The cashier is a nice young girl, probably 18 or 19, definitely old enough to be out of school. She looks at my wife. She looks at her hand. She looks at my wife again. The cashier lays down the $20, then stares at the coins. She turns them over and stares some more. She looks up at my wife helplessly.
“That is thirty five cents,” says the wife.
The girl gives a little half smile. “Thanks, I have problems with coins,” she says. She drops the coins in the drawer, and stares at the twenty.
“I get a dollar back,” the wife helps move the transaction along. The girl says a polite thank you.
The wife and I wander to our table completely baffled at a person who cannot count change.
The girl hands the pizza ticket to the baker, completely baffled by old people who refuse to use a debit card.
The wife has a red KitchenAid stand mixer that I think she loves almost as much as she does me. It’s okay, she uses it to produce cookies and cakes and goodies. Her mixer has a white ceramic bowl with red stripes to mix the good stuff in. If there is anything my wife likes it is stripes (she wears a striped shirt nearly every day) and red. It is her favorite color. The combination of red mixer and red striped bowl makes her happy.
Flash backward to early December; way back last year. Yeah, I know it was just a month ago. Stick with me, I’m trying to gin up drama here. I was washing dishes and I bumped the mixer bowl on the side of the sink. There was a tremendous crash and ceramic pieces and shards were all that was left of the red striped bowl. “What was that?” she called from upstairs.
“You know what is was,” I replied.
“Did you break my mixer bowl?” She tried to not show she was ticked. Her disappointment grew when she discovered the bowl was a limited offering from Crate and Barrel and no longer available.
I scoured the interwebz and found the bowl on a kitchen ware website. Debit card in hand I placed my order. It was now December 15, so I paid extra for expedited delivery. Only when I paid and I got my confirmation email did it become clear I had ordered the bowl from China. The email assured me in polite Chinglish my order was on the way.
Then nothing. Finally two days before Christmas, I was emailed tracking information. They shipped it via the Chinese version of the post office. After moving around various terminals, I’m sure being dropped kicked onto trucks with poor suspension on pothole filled gravel roads, the box was loaded onto an airplane on December 30. Fifteen days to leave China. I’m glad I paid extra for fast delivery.
It is now January fifth. Tracking says it is enroute. I suppose my bowl was loaded on a Piper Cub flown by a pilot with narcolepsy because they only way it could take more than six days to fly a box from China to the US is if the pilot stopped to take a nap on every island across the Pacific. Planes back in the 1930s made it across the Pacific in a couple of days, including stops on Wake Island and Oahu. Did the pilot stop for a slice of Hula Pie at Dukes on Waikiki?
Anyway, my wife may or may not get a replacement for her beloved red striped mixer bowl. I’m betting the odds are high it will be in pieces when it does arrive. Her birthday is in June. Maybe it will be here by then.
I often tell my wife interesting facts and trivia. She almost always gives that blank look indicating she would roll her eyes, or worse, tell me “I don’t care,” if she didn’t love me too much to be rude. It is quite possible you roll your eyes or say “I don’t care” when I offer up fascinating tidbits.
These days when you think about the greatest MLB hitters ever, Pete Rose, Babe Ruth, and Ty Cobb come to mind. Some of you will think of Hank Aaron or Barry Bonds. Of course Mickey Mantle and DiMaggio always make the list.
You know who you forget? Stan Musial. Yes, I know he was a Cardinal, but he couldn’t help where he ended up. Musial ranks fourth in all-time hits. Did you know that? He only trails Rose, Cobb, and Hammerin’ Hank. When Stan the Man retired, he was second, only behind Cobb.
Okay, you say. Here is a fact you might not know. In his last at-bat Musial drove a single past a lunging second baseman into right field.
That is Harry Carey on the call. The second baseman? None other than rookie Pete Rose, the man who would later take the National League hits all time leader title (and MLB). What a strange bookend.
Did you know that Stan Musial, Ken Griffey, and Ken Griffey Jr. all came from the same little Pennsylvania mill town?
Yeah, you don’t care.
Why not? I actually saw the Go Gos in concert back in the early eighties. The Flock of Seagulls was the opening act. Here they are on American Bandstand.
True confession, I’m a sucker for dark curly hair.
It has been a quiet work week. I have received about as many emails this week as I normally get in an hour or two. I’m sure I’ll make up for it next week. I’ve been working on round two of big customer quotes. That means I have been staring at spreadsheets and numbers all day, every day, without a break for phone calls, Teams meetings, or emails. Yawn. Trust me, it is more tedious than it sounds.
On the bright side, I have 4 hours of vacation left and since it is “use it or lose it,” I have the afternoon off. The wife is heading to the Southside to meet a friend for lunch and shopping, so I will have the run of the house. Lest you think that is a big deal, she is gone every afternoon anyway watching the grandkids. So it goes. Maybe I’ll call up some hookers and midgets and stage a crazy toga party.
Maybe I’ll take a nap.
In the not-so-distant future my grandkids are going to listen in amazement to stories of constant electricity. They will not believe there was a time we could flip a switch and virtually always get electricity. They will guffaw incredulously as we describe cars that could run nearly unlimited miles continuously, stopping only for a few minutes for more fuel.
They will wonder at forbidden energy sources like nuclear power, gas, coal . They will drool as we describe the taste of steak or pork or chicken as they snack on Solient Red, Blue, and Green.
They will wonder why we allowed Government bureaucrats and socialists to destroy our economy and country in the name of the always on the brink of disaster climate change religion. They will believe it was necessary, since we still will only have five, maybe ten years to fix the problem. All it will take is a little more sacrifice and more money for the global elites.
Well readers, Christmas is over and done. I hope Santa was good to you. The whole family got lots of presents, especially the Grandgirls. The whole clan gathered for a feast at my daughters, everyone was there except my middle child who lives a thousand miles away. It was a good holiday overall.
It is back to work tomorrow with a light schedule. Most of the company will be on vacation.
Regular meaningful blogging may return. Or not. I find it hard to work into a righteous rant these days. I keep thinking I can’t continue to publish useless boring posts, yet readership is at the highest in a long time. It is so weird.
Have a great Tuesday!
Maybe it would come true if Bing wished in song for a rainy Christmas. 🎄
The first of the Christmas get together is tonight. It should be a lot of fun.
On this date 45 years ago, I went on the first date with the girl who is now my wife. It was the best decision I ever made.
Today marks the oldest granddaughter’s ninth birthday. We are all going for dinner tonight then to see the big Christmas Light show at the State Fairgrounds. It should be a great time. It seems like yesterday she was born.
I finished shopping for the wife’s presents yesterday. One gift she knows all about, she picked it out and stood there while I bought it - a new pair of boots. This way we know they fit and it was what she wanted. I’ll wrap them up and we will both pretend it is a big surprise on Christmas morning.
I told her what I want for Christmas. It is the same thing I ask for every year and never get. It don’t cost nuthin’, but that doesn’t matter. She is always too stressed by the time Christmas rolls around to think about nekkid wrestling. Oh well, my birthday is in March, maybe I’ll get it then.
Here we are on a beautiful Friday. I am on vacation, kind of, sort of. Really big customer dumped a huge project on my desk, and I need to get a head start with the coming holidays. I suspect I will be at the desk for a few hours. So it goes.
I plan on getting to the stores today to finish up some Christmas shopping before the wife uses up all of the money. Are her on-line fingers faster than my walking pace at the mall? Probably.
Perhaps I will hie myself down to the cigar bar this afternoon. On the other hand, the temperature is supposed to get in the low fifties, perhaps I will just smoke one of my own stogies out by the fire pit. Maybe I will get ambitious enough to rake up the remaining leaves in the backyard.
Who knows? Have a great Friday.
Quite a while ago I was describing how I often find myself searching historical rabbit holes.
I’ll wait why check the link.
Really, I don’t mind.
Look, the rest of this post makes no sense if you fail to get the backstory.
The subject of Reeses Mill has bugged me for a couple of years now. I finally contacted the Boone County, IN historical Society, which forwarded my message to the Boone County Library. Seems that Reeses Mill is another name for The 'Burg, as my grandmother called it -- Mechanicsburg, IN. Located along Sugar Creek near the Clinton County line, my grandmother grew up on a farm outside of Mechanicsburg.
There, our curiosity is assuaged. We can all sleep easy tonight. And don't even pretend you don't care.
Now I need someone to explain how my great-whatever grandfather was born in Ohio, migrated at some point to Cleopatra, Missouri, fought in the Civil War, and ended up back in Nowhere Indiana -- The 'Burg.
That question will probably never be answered, and I did not know enough to ask my grandmother when she was alive.
Ah, the arrogance of youth.
 |
| Cell phone picture 2010 |
View of the Columbia River Gorge from the Vista House on the old Scenic Highway.
I used to travel to Portland 4-6 times a year and I tried to drive the old 1917 highway as often as possible at least to Multinomah Falls.
I built a snowman. I think he has anger issues. It warmed up today and he had a total meltdown.
If you are looking for a great last minute Christmas gift you cannot go wrong with giving a copy of my super-wonderful first novel. Get a copy for yourself, if you haven't already, while you are at it.
 |
| Buy It |
You won't be sorry. If you are, I will give you your money back.
Happy Saturday! A light rain is gently falling outside, holiday music is softly playing on my smart speaker. My butt still hurts. Getting old is tough. At least I can mostly remember where I am and why I am in that room. That's something the Most Popular President Ever seems to struggle with. Let's elect him again!
I had coffee on my vacation day with an old work colleague I haven't seen for a couple of decades. It was great to catch up. What is interesting is to compare career paths. He started as an accountant but ended up where I thought my career would take me.
I might have mentioned before I had no intention of going into sales. I believed my lot was in manufacturing; management trainee, customer service manager, production scheduler, production supervisor, master scheduler, materials manager, production manager, plant manager. I made it through the master scheduler role when corporate asked me to go into sales. I said "no". They said, "we will double your pay". I said "Yes".
My friend started in accounting, did the production supervisor thing, moved to a different company and ultimately rose to plant manager and then in charge of all the plants in the Americas. He is now semi-retired. Good for him. I always say things work out like they are supposed to. I wouldn't change things. I love my job. Mostly. Okay, I like my job. Well, I don't hate my job.
Anyway, the most interesting part of the conversation is my friend hooked me up with a contact I might find interesting. This guy is a salesman who has also written books. More to the point, we both sell the same widgets, but for different companies. How strange is that?
I need more coffee. Enjoy your Saturday.
What? Sure, I will post some Christmas music.
The original lyrics were "for next year we may all be dead." Judy Garland refused to sing it, so they changed the words.
I can understand the rash of negative reviews on Ridley Scott's Napoleon movie currently in theaters. I went to see it last night.
I am no expert on Napoleon, but I would wager I know more about that period than the average bear. I have studied the Napoleonic Wars and the Revolutionary period quite a bit, not to mention the Emperor himself. The film condenses about two decades into a few hours, and that means a lot needs to be left out. The movie segues from one event to another without any context. In one scene the Corsican is defeating the British at Toulon, the next leveling canon at a Royalist uprising, then immediately we see Napolean in Egypt. There is nothing to describe what happened to bring each of these seemingly disjointed events about.
I will not criticize the battle scenes as many a reviewer has; they are of course wildly inaccurate. For starters the Napoleonic Armies attacked in column, not line. But the point of the movie was not to show a military history, the battles are part of the narrative, not the story. If you want great battle scenes from the era, watch the 1970 epic Waterloo staring Rod Steiger and Christopher Plummer.
In the end, the movie does not know what it should be. Perhaps Scott should have called the film Napoleon and Josephine, that is seemingly what the movie is about; the relationship between the two. Except then how do you account for the exposition on the Reign of Terror? I think Scott had more movie than he could fit in the allotted, already long, timeslot. I have no doubt a lot of context was left on the cutting room floor. This should have been a series, not a movie.
How do you tell the story of Napoleon in a single movie? He was perhaps the most charismatic leader ever born. He was a military genius, an organizational mastermind, a political savant, and an administrator of excellence. Parts of the Napoleonic code remain law today. He gave us the metric system. The way he organized armies remained the blueprint for a hundred years, used by friend and foe equally. His tactics survived in many armies right up until the advent of modern weapons (and proved a disaster for the French in both the Franco-Prussian War and WWI).
There has never been an equal to the Corsican Upstart, and perhaps never will. It is no wonder an effort to capture the man in a simple movie is a failure.
Not so long ago the entire family was dining together, and the discussion turned to the inability of my wife and daughter to get up without hitting snooze repeatedly. I remembered that the oldest boy once had a Nickelodeon alarm that played the Nick theme song (from the 90's) and then launched into an alarm blare like a battleship klaxon. I remembered it was annoying.
My daughter quipped that "No, I had the most annoying alarm ever, and it looked like you", pointing at me. I could only laugh because it was true. She only sort of laughed.
Here is some background.
My mother went to work full time when I was in sixth or seventh grade. It was my responsibility to get up and go to school. My brother wasn't going to get me up any more than I would have dragged him out of bed. I learned early to put my alarm across the room. I had to get up to turn it off, so why bother going back to bed? It was effective. I still get up without a snooze. Thus, my patience with chronic snoozers is limited.
When I went to college, I pledged a fraternity. Pledges lived in the house. One of the duties was to wake up everyone in the fraternity. Wake-up calls started at six and ended at 10 AM. Everyone was entitled to three calls every morning, the last call you had to insist the sleeper was sitting up with feet on the floor. There were no exceptions, no matter what the sleeper said. Now, we had a small pledge class, so the pool of those on wake-up call duty was limited. Most guys served one day every week or two, depending on class schedule. Usually two guys did the duty, 6-8 and another 8-10. Classes started at a little after 8, so no one would miss an early class doing calls.
I had the misfortune of no classes on Monday, Wednesday, or Friday before 10:30. That meant every MWF I had wake up calls from 8-10. It sucked. Some guys did calls every two weeks, I was doing it three times a week. I became good at my responsibility. I knew the problem sleepers -- the ones who cursed, who begged, who fought. I knew the guys who would refuse to be "dragged". I had a duty, and I did it with ruthless efficiency.
The next semester, again by chance, I had no classes before 10 on Tuesday or Thursday. Again, guess who got screwed? At least one other brother had the same schedule, so the burden was shared. I spent a lot of time my freshman year waking up the 70+ brothers in the house.
Anyway, years later, when it came to get my daughter out of bed, I took the same approach. I would shake her the first time until she responded. Fifteen minutes later I shook her until her eyes were open and she could answer me. The third call I was relentless, shaking her and talking to her until she answered, sat up, and put her feet on the floor. In the fraternity I was done at that point, with my daughter I stayed until she was completely up and out of bed.
Yes, I was an annoying alarm clock. But she got up.
It is a chilly 16F outside this morning with a threat of flurries. Winter is upon us, I believe.
I am back to work after the long weekend. I took yesterday off to see the wife through a colonoscopy. All is good with her.
Some of you are insanely curious, so here it is; "D" none of the above. I drove down to the gas station and got a cup of black coffee Sunday.
The wife has the house transformed into a Christmas wonderland. There are five trees of varying heights, counting the one on the porch (4'). The big one is the 9' one we got last year. The stairs are wrapped in lighted garland. The dining room and family room each have little skinny trees (6' / 7"). I will try to get some pictures later in the week.
Now I have to get caught up on nearly a week's worth of emails.
Have a great Tuesday.
Yes, that is the indomitable Esther Williams.
I woke up in a good mood. Then the Keurig refused to make coffee. It won’t even make hot water. Nothing. I think the bleeping pump has died.
Now I’m faced with going out and buying stupid coffee from the coffee shop. They opened a new Starbucks in walking distance. I could get some exercise and coffee in one fell swoop. I could drive a little further to the Donut shop. I could sit here and complain.
Choose your own adventure. I will tell you tomorrow what I did.
It is a bittersweet day. I won’t belabor the point. Today is my grandson’s sixth birthday.
Later this afternoon the wife and I will go down to the cemetery and smile and cry. We will celebrate the life, not the death.
He is, I know, in God’s arms.
I do have plenty to be thankful for. While I usually fill these pages with sarcasm, bombast, and complaints, I appreciate you more than I can say. Thank you for letting me in your life a few minutes each day.
Now get off the interwebz and watch a parade or some football. Eat something!
Here it is on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Work has been slow, and I expect today to be a real snooze fest. I’m torn, I need to call a customer, but I know the last thing on his mind is talking to a widget salesman on the day before a long holiday. Maybe I’ll call late morning and hope for voicemail.
It is my hope I can wrap things up in time to get the outside lights up before dark. If not, I can work on it during the day tomorrow. I am quickly heading towards the “heck with it” stage. I just can’t get in the holiday mood this year.
It not just the holidays. I started writing a new story. I’m four chapters in, have the balance of the tale outlined in a broad sense, but I have no motivation to do the actual work. Frankly, this story is better than my last one, but that makes no difference. I guess I’m at the why bother stage. I spent hundreds of hours on my current book for about 25 books sold. A follow-up effort will likely garner fewer readers. I cannot see working that hard for a vanity project. I can spew my nonsense right here with a modicum of effort.
Boo hoo, boo hoo.
How about some righteous rock and roll? After the holiday I will start playing Christmas music, despite my Jewish readers. So maybe you should listen to this today.
Back when they rocked instead of singing power ballads. Of course there is nothing like being lectured to by rich musicians.
Have a great Wednesday.
I was not long out of college and working as a management trainee at an injection molding factory. The factory is long-closed and the OSHA statute of limitations, if there is such a thing, has long expired.
It was my lot that week to spend some time on the graveyard shift, that 11-7 time slot no one likes. The factory had a range of presses, from 50 ton to 2500 ton machines. Some of the molds were quite large, all were very heavy. Cranes crossed the factory ceiling, not construction cranes, but the overhead machines that are ubiquitous in nearly every factory.
There was one particular mold technician, maybe in his late thirties, who was eccentric, to say the least, but he was a wizard at his job. He could set up a press, wave his fingers over the controls and make the mold spit out perfect, repeatable parts every time. But he was batshit crazy.
Big heavy 4x4 boxes that originally held raw material were used to collect scrap and recycling - plastic can be reused - and one of these boxes was at the foot of every press. I was walking along when I heard a thud. I looked down to see a quivering screwdriver embedded in the side of the box right beside me. Crazy mold tech Marty had thrown his screwdriver like a knife into the side of the box. He grinned, pulled it out and walked off. I learned he did this all of the time and could famously launch his screwdriver from 20 or more yards away with unerring accuracy.
It was late in the week, in the doldrums that hit around 4 AM, that I finally saw his famous act up close. Over the roar and pound of the presses, I heard laughter. I looked up to see Marty flying above my head.. He took the hook from an overhead crane, and fastened to the back of his belt and raised himself up fifteen feet above the machines and was slowly transversing the factory floor like an Industrial Age Peter Pan.
The plant manager called me in to ask if I had seen the flying on the crane. I asked what would happen. “Ah, Jose (he always called me Jose), he’ll have a couple of days at home. When he takes his meds he’s a good worker,” he said. “Besides,” the plant manager grinned at me, “We would all like to do it if we had any balls.” He glared at 23 year-old me. “Don’t get any ideas. Your ass will be fired.”
It did look like fun.
It is a short work week. That is a good thing. But it is still Monday.
I spent all afternoon raking and bagging up the ankle-deep leaves in the front yard. As I padded past the front door with my coffee, I noticed the yard is covered again this morning. While not a solid layer, there are plenty of bleeping leaves on the ground. It is also spitting snow. Imagine I typed a bunch of cartoon curse word symbols right here. You know, @&$#*!.
I made beef and noodles for dinner last night, and because I live in the Midwest I made mashed spuds to go with them. The best part is I have leftovers for lunch. Sure, it’s a carbapalooza. Sure, it’s bad for my blood sugar. Sure, I don’t care.
For the first time in a long time, there will be no immediate family Thanksgiving this year. Daughter and her family have other plans. Youngest is feasting with his girlfriends’ family. The wife and I will motor north to spend the holiday with her family. I’m cool with that. Unfortunately, that means no turkey leftovers to nibble on over the weekend.
So it goes.
Happy Monday.
There are far, far worse ways to spend fifteen minutes or so of your Sunday.
BTW, was there ever a musician more into the tambourine than that guy?
No more bad seventies music videos, at least for today. My strength is returning from my covid spell. Better yet, the wife is finally feeling better. The projects around the house have been in suspension for the past week. Stuff still needs to be put up on the walls, the new rug put down, and finding a place for all of those Barbies and toys.
Outside, the leaves are ankle deep in the front yard. I still have limbs from the lilac bushes to cut up into small pieces. The front gutters are overflowing with leaves.
We need to go to the grocery and make a Walmart run. I will take another test to make sure I’m not infectious, but there is zero chance I’m wearing a mask. If you are worried about my germs, go ahead and mask up. I don’t care. Just don’t wear it in the car, driving by yourself. You look (and are) foolish if you do.
Overall, it is time to start digging out the Christmas decorations. That means rearranging all of the stuff we just put into place! We have so much to do, all without overtaxing our weakened systems. There is plenty to do.
And a decided lack of energy to it.
Ha ha ha now you have it.
BTW, is that the most Seventies of seventies videos?
I know there is an East Chicago (in Indiana), but on the “old east side”? I guess they mean the friggin’ lake? The song writers were clearly from the UK and geographically challenged.
That one will really get stuck in your head. BTW, why does The Godfather get all the “greatest movie of the seventies” hype? Did the critics even watch BillyJack?
Of course that is a joke.
BTW I am getting better, very tired.
The wife is really sick.
It is confirmed. I have the covid. My earlier hyperbole aside, that explains why feel like crap. I have slept probably 17 of the past 24 hours. While it isn’t the “we are all gong to die” panic the government tried to foist upon us, it isn’t the sniffles either. Mostly it feels like a solid case of the flu.
For all who served. The song dates from the civil war.
