Another day in the life

Here’s how the system works around here: Technically, I’m retired, but I go to work for half the day then spend the other half trying to figure out what to cook for dinner. It’s not like I don’t have a plan, I’m just not sure if I have all the ingredients.

Just to be safe, I usually make a stop at the grocery store on my way home. Get this or that. Avocados. Bottled water. Coffee. A new rice maker.

Out of all the kitchen appliances I use, the rice maker gets the most wear and tear. So much so that it recently went kaput. It was a good rice maker. It worked faithfully for 12 years — which is 87 in human years. We gave it a good soldier’s burial, right underneath an old oak tree. No telling what the future owners of our house will think if they ever dig it up.

(Just kidding. We gave it a Viking’s funeral. Placed it in the middle of a wooden canoe, surrounded it with bags of rice, and burned it right in the middle of Lake Bob Sandlin.)

(Just kidding, again. We threw it out with the rest of the non-working appliances.)

My wife works at a local bank. When she gets home, she walks the dog around the block. I fix the supper. When she’s finished, we sit down to eat. Maybe read a book. Maybe watch a TV show. Maybe talk about this or that.

One time we talked about the different cars we owned. Another time we talked about the history of the spoon. Last night we talked about septic tanks and haunted houses. There’s no telling what we’ll talk about tonight. Or maybe we’ll just sit in silence and see who’ll be the first one to break it.

(She can go hours and hours without saying a single word. I have a feeling she wished I had the same talent.)

“Have you noticed we never talk about socks anymore?” I say.

She looks up from what she’s reading and says, “Hold that thought.”

Thirty minutes later: “OK. What were you saying?”

And I say, “Hmmmm. I have no idea. You did that on purpose, didn’t you.”

“Socks.”

“Right. Cavemen wore socks. They were mostly just leaves and grass. A few thousand years later, the Greeks wore matted animal hair under their sandals. And then later on, the Romans came up with fitted socks made out of strips of leather or fabric. Somewhere around 400 AD, the ancient Egyptians made the first knitted socks. Everybody was wearing socks by the Middle Ages. And then at some point in history they became fashionable, expensive, and the poor working-class started knitting their own, which beget the French Revolution, The Revolutionary War, the Civil War, Korea, Vietnam, The Gulf, and now cheap socks abound in packages of four or eight, they last about a month, they’re too small, too thin, they make my feet itch, and all I want is a pair of quality socks — polka dot, striped, it doesn’t matter — that will be comfortable and last forever. So, I’ve decided I’m going to knit my own socks.”

My wife is now sound asleep.

Three days ago, I made a plan to bake some salmon filets for supper. Salmon, a batch of greens, and maybe some brown rice and lentils. I put everything on my shopping list, went to the store, bought avocados, grapes, cookies, cat food, a bag of gluten-free tortillas, and a new rice cooker. I completely forgot about the salmon and greens. So, I’m heading back to the store when I finish this paragraph. Like I said, that’s really how the system works around here.

Just me and the dog

 

Slow TV and me

“Slow TV” is the Norwegian concept of televising every-day activities in real time, without storyline, script or narration, allowing viewers to immerse themselves uninterruptedly in an unfolding subject.

Conceived by the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation (NRK) in the early 2000s, the first slow-TV broadcast featured a 7-hour driver’s-eye-view train ride from Bergen to Oslo through the Norwegian countryside. Following the show’s success, the NRK then broadcasted a 134-hour-long ship voyage, a 24-hour-long opening day of salmon fishing, a 12-hour-long broadcast on firewood, and a 12-hour knitting marathon.

Can you imagine what a 12-hour-long broadcast of a writer trying to beat a deadline would look like?

We first see him getting out of bed at 4:57 on a Saturday morning because the dog has to pee, and she won’t be denied. He puts on his shoes, grabs his phone to use as a flashlight, and walks her out the front door. 

“If I don’t think of something to write today, I’m toast.”

He brings the dog back inside to feed her. Since the cats also show up, he might as well feed them, too. While they’re all eating, he starts the coffee maker.

“Did I write about the dog recently? I think I did. Coffee? Coffee mugs! Nope, I did that last year.”

He takes the dog outside again to let her finish her morning bathroom routine.

“I smell something smokey. I think it’s that new junk yard. They’re always burning something. Is that even legal?”

He brings the dog inside, she goes back to bed, and he fixes himself an early breakfast of coffee and avocado toast on dark rye. While he eats, he watches some YouTube videos to pass the time, and if he gets a writing idea, so much the better.

“Mongolian throat singing? Not sure. The ins and outs of whittling a spoon? Maybe later. The art of drawing caricatures of people for people who really don’t know how to draw for the one-time price of $47.50? I’ll think about it.”

After breakfast, the dishes go on the counter to be washed later, he lets the cats in or out, depending on which way they want to go, and he settles down to his laptop to begin the process of writing his story. But first…

“I think I’m going to make jambalaya tonight, which means I need to do some shopping. Bell peppers. We’re out of onions. Got rice. Need some shrimp. Are we out of milk? Might as well put some toilet paper on the list. We can always use more TP. I feel a bit sniffly today, so maybe some tissues. Pet food? Yep, they go through it fast. What to fix with the jambalaya? Asparagus, maybe? Cornbread. Need to put cornmeal on the list.”

He stops, opens up a new document on his laptop, and types: My old grandpa once told me, “Never trust a man who can’t make his own cornbread. He’ll rustle your cattle, cheat at cards, and put beans in your chili and claim YOU’RE the one who can’t be trusted.” 

He deletes the document because his grandpa said no such thing, “but it would’ve been awesome.”

Four hours go by and the writer has done practically everything he can think of besides writing. He pours himself another cup of coffee and watches some more YouTube videos about Africa, fingerstyle guitar playing, Octoberfest, motorcycles, classical piano, how to play a Chinese sanxian, Career Ladder, Scarlett Johansson, How To Move To Finland, Norwegian slow TV, planting a garden, building a…

“Wait a minute. Norwegian Slow TV. That beautiful Norwegian concept of televising the mundane as entertainment. Now THAT has possibilities!”

I wish I had a late-night talk show

I wish I had a late-night talk show. I’d dedicate an episode to bunny rabbits, if that’s allowed. I haven’t seen a bunny rabbit in my yard for ages. I’d invite all the bunny rabbits in town to a bunny rabbit roundtable to discuss where they’ve been lately. I saw a fox the other day. I wonder if there’s a connection between the two.

I saw a skunk in my yard last week. He wouldn’t be invited to the “Where Did All The Rabbits Go?” roundtable. I’d invite the skunks to their own episode. I wouldn’t bring them into the studio. We’d go out on location. “Out On Location” episodes are very popular.

I can’t imagine a single person having a gripe about letting bunny rabbits speak their mind. Well, maybe a farmer. The rabbits would probably complain about the farmer’s fences that keep them away from all the good vegetables. But everybody would agree, farmers have that right to build fences. I wouldn’t suggest trapping them (the rabbits) and putting them in cages and hurling insults at them until everybody believes bunny rabbits are the sole reason for the decline of our way of life, but I don’t see any harm in some chicken wire between good neighbors.

I wonder if Jessica Rabbit and Bugs Bunny are still in “the business?” An interview with both of them together might make the ratings shoot through the roof. We wouldn’t talk about shooting anything, though. That probably wouldn’t be allowed.

On second thought, Bugs Bunny can get a bit sarcastic. He might indulge in jabbing social commentary that would offend Elmer Fudd to the point he’d blow a gasket and sue another network. We can’t have any of that. And Jessica Rabbit might be too sexy. Can’t have any of that, either.

Puppies. A late-night puppy episode could be the ticket. Everybody loves puppies. Puppies and kittens. Maybe not on the same night. Puppies, kittens and baby squirrels. If ya can’t make an Emmy-nominated show out of THAT, you’re doing something wrong. 

Speaking of squirrels: I wasn’t raised to be a hunter, but I have shot a few squirrels in my life. I’m not proud of the fact. They never did me any wrong. And since they tasted mostly like chicken, I should have just eaten chicken. 

Squirrels are fun to watch. That’s why I believe audiences would thoroughly enjoy a nightly segment on my show titled, “Squirrel on the Move.” Squirrels on seesaws, squirrels on poles, squirrels on roundabouts where anything goes. It’d be the highest-rated show in the history of the universe. Unless it’s not allowed.

I’m so thankful we live in a country that cherishes free speech concerning bunny rabbits, puppies, kittens, foxes and squirrels. I imagine in some countries, talking openly about those subjects might be frowned upon. You might even be thrown in jail or sent off to a floating prison surrounded by man-eating Great White Sharks.

An episode about sharks? Nah, too scary. Somebody from the midwest might call saying the episode gave their kids nightmares. Can’t have that. 

Butterflies. Episodes about butterflies would always be allowed. We could…

Nope. This is just getting too silly. I don’t want to be a host on a late-night talk show. I just want to stay home and read a book. Drink some coffee. Watch the cats do acrobatics around the living room. Listen to owls asking endless questions. Figure out extravagant reasons for not mowing the yard today. Or tomorrow. Tell terrible Dad Jokes in the safety of my own home — while it’s still allowed. 

RIP Aroma. You served us well.

Well, it had to happen someday. Our Aroma rice maker bit the dust, bought the farm, skedaddled out of town to meet its maker. It was a good rice maker. It worked faithfully for 12 years -- which is 87 in human years. It will certainly be missed...until we buy a new one.

Autumn, rain and lemmings

It always feels like a little Autumn miracle when it happens — when the temperature finally drops into the 60s after a long sauna summer and the cooler breeze entices you to listen to uplifting Irish jigs and reels as you drive off to work instead of the sad piano music you’ve been listening to for months on end; and then when you return home, you feel so energized and refreshed that you spend the rest of the day out in the yard, mowing and trimming and cutting and tending and dreaming of the future, fixing whatever has needed fixing for years, making plans to burn all the downed limbs in a bonfire you’ll keep lit all weekend long, and even contemplating cooking some steaks on the open fire, even though you’re pert near a vegetarian.

But it’s just a trick. A preview of things to come. Not the actual “movie.” Just the trailer. All the reviews say it’ll be the best thing you’ll ever experience. Coming soon. But not today. While you’re waiting, go back to listening to sad piano music.

And then rain comes down in torrents — “Forget about cats and dogs, it’s raining elephants,” “But it’s a good rain, and we really needed it,” “There goes my driveway again,” “But remember, into each life some rain must fall,” “All at once, though?” “Be still sad heart and cease repining, behind the clouds is the sun still shining” — good torrents that bring back memories of the Summers of 2011 and 2012 when the rain DIDN’T fall, and the lake was so low your neighbors were mowing the grass underneath their boat docks.

It was indeed a good rain. Needed. And the electricity only went out once. For a short time. It could have been worse. A lot worse. You might’ve waited to do all that yard work. Weeds begetting weeds. Sure, you can’t burn those limbs or cook that steak, but there are plenty of chores and things to take care of inside. Where it is dry. 

Like striving to create the perfect 365-day “Theory of Everything” dinner menu list which has eluded chefs and physicists alike for decades due to the realization we all perceive reality differently — some dealing with food allergies, some gluten-free, some who can’t stand Brussel sprouts, others who love them — or maybe that’s just in my imagination, and chefs and physicists couldn’t care one iota if they ate pizza every day for dinner, or PB&J sandwiches. 

All this to keep my mind off of lemmings. Lemmings blindly following other lemmings. See cliff, jump off cliff. A misconception not based in fact, but invite your friends. We’ll have a good time. Criticize those who don’t follow. They’re the enemy. Round them up and throw them off against their will. They’ll thank you for it later. We’re the greatest. They’re not. Jump, baby! Jump.

I had no idea that lemmings were little rodents akin to hamsters and gerbils. I always pictured them as something different. My friend, Ethan, gave me the strangest look when I used “lemmings” in a sentence that implied I thought they were non-flying birds like penguins or miniature emus. His look implied the contrary. I did a quick search. And to my surprise…

Believing you have all the answers is foolish. Never admitting when you are wrong is ludicrous. Thinking we have always been “the greatest” is delusional. Refusing to lend a helping hand is plain cruel. When your core belief is centered around “My way or the highway,” others start making good use of detours, finding comfort in long and winding dirt roads.

Canna? Of course you can

 This monster Canna in our front yard is well over 7 feet tall!

And Venus stayed quiet

The clock is ticking. Only 10 more days until payday. And then before you know it, Trick or Treaters are knocking at your door. Three weeks later, it’s Thanksgiving, then Christmas, and then the end of the year — or the beginning of a new one, depending on how you look at it.

Out with the old, in with the new. A chance to get it right this time. A chance to make things better. 

Birthday? Yep, it’s here before you know it. As consistent as winter. But please, this time around, I don’t need anymore pocket screwdrivers or Ikea gift cards. Maybe some new socks. Planet and stars on black. Or Tie-dye hippy socks. A cheesecake would be nice. That and half a day of peace and quiet.

I usually find peace and quiet in the front yard around 5:30 in the morning. I’m out walking the dog. There might be a low hum of an engine way off in the distance, but other than that, wind and crickets. Or recently, cicadas.

Venus is hanging low in the east, just above the tree line. The “Morning Star” is very similar in size and makeup to Earth. It even has an atmosphere. Unfortunately, it’s filled with carbon dioxide that traps the sun’s heat. Venus’ surface temperature is around 900 degrees Fahrenheit, much hotter than Mercury which is closer to the sun than any of us.

Come January 2026, Venus will pass behind the sun and reemerge about 50 days later as the “Evening Star.” Until then, we share a quiet morning together — me walking the dog, thinking random thoughts; Venus not caring at all how early or quiet it is.

The clock keeps ticking. My brother’s birthday. Spring Break. Cinco de Mayo. Anniversary. Is Six Flags open yet? I don’t really want to go. I thought I’d just ask. Summer break. Fourth of July. Hotdogs. Hamburgers. Watermelon. Okay, okay! I’ll mow the yard tomorrow. If I have the time.

Electrons vibrating around atoms; planets around suns; the solar system around the Milky Way. Who knows what the Milky Way is circling? Day and night, off and on, up and down and around again. A universe of spectrums where nothing is just black or white, day or night.

When did tolerance become a four-letter word? Why did “me first” become the motto of the land? How many clowns does it take to turn a lie into a truth? Who, on their turn, will rise and take a stand?

It’s not hard to believe that school is back in swing. That’s what happens every year about this time. Summer break is over. School supplies. New shoes. Watch out for school buses. When is the first football game? I wonder what kind of show the band will perform this year? 

Round and round the cycle goes, when it stops, nobody knows. 

The ancient Romans named Venus after the goddess of love and beauty. The Italian astronomer Galileo Galilei was the first person to look at Venus through a telescope. The United States was the first country to make a successful flyby of the planet. And the former USSR was the first and only country to land a vehicle on its surface. 

I think a lot about Venus as I’m walking the dog down the driveway at 5:30 every morning. I think on how the planet will not be visible in the morning come January; how Christmas quickly follows Thanksgiving and Halloween; how payday seems to always be 10 days away; and how the clock keeps on ticking. Random thoughts on an early August morning.

Afternoon nap

His name is Porch Cat. We call him Porchy, for short. We found him several years ago on our porch, thus the name. He's an awesome cat, if you like cats. We do. He likes taking naps in the afternoon sun. 

It's more than just a game

After 1,000 rounds of a silly game I thought I’d never download to my phone and get addicted to but did — after 1,000 rounds I said enough was enough. It’s controlling my life. I need to stop and delete. But not right now. Maybe after just a couple of more rounds.

When I got to Round 1933, I started seeing the numbers as actual dates in history, with 1933 being the year my father was born; the world was in the middle of the Great Depression: Franklin D. Roosevelt was president; Hitler became Chancellor of Germany; prohibition was repealed; Roosevelt established the Civilian Conservation Corps; and Albert Einstein was living in the United States as a German immigrant.

I’m too embarrassed to tell you the name of the game, but I will hint it’s all about matching things up to blow them up to help you clear the screen and finish the round. If you don’t clear the screen, you have to start over and become so addicted you forget you’re boiling eggs on the stove and they become pert near uneatable.

Round 1935 was the year my mother was born; Kodak released Kodachrome; Persia was renamed Iran; Germany enacted the Nuremberg Laws; Babe Ruth hit his last home run; President Roosevelt signed the Social Security Act; Elvis Presley was born; and the Supreme Court case of Norris vs Alabama made racial diversity and proportionality an expectation in the courtroom. 

My parents grew up through Rounds 1936, when Jesse Owens won the 100-meter dash during the Olympics in Berlin; 1937, when blues singer Bessie Smith died; 1939, when Germany invaded Poland; 1940, when Warner Bros. debuted Bugs Bunny; 1941, when Japan bombed Pearl Harbor; and 1951, when my father enlisted in the Navy and served during the Korean War.

My parents got married in Round 1958 and had me at the start of round 1962. That’s when I decided, “I’ll just play until the present year — 2025 — then I’ll be done.”

My brother was born in Round 1964, the same year Congress passed the 24th Amendment outlawing the Poll Tax; the Beatles performed for the first time in the United States; Sidney Poitier was the first Black person to win an Academy Award for best actor; President Lyndon B. Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act; and more than 23,000 U.S. troops were in Vietnam.

Round 1976 was when I entered high school; Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak formed Apple Computer; the U.S. celebrated its bicentennial; and NASA’s Viking I landed on Mars.

Round 1984 saw me graduating from college; India Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was assassinated; crack cocaine use began; and South African Desmond Tutu won the 1984 Nobel Prize for Peace. 

Round 1985, my wife and I were married. Round 1988, our first son was born. Round 1990, our second son was born. Round 1997, our daughter was born. We partied like it was 1999 before Round 2000 and Y2K. Then the Twin Towers came down during Round 2001 and nothing has been the same since.

I thought I was going to stop playing the game after Round 2025, but it seems to be one of the best ways to keep my mind distracted from all the things blowing up in the real world. 

So, I’m currently on Round 2225, long dead, buried and forgotten. But still, I hope we’re not living on Mars. I hope we’ve cleaned up our environment. I hope we’ve learned how to live in peace and love with ALL of our neighbors. And I hope nobody’s playing this game anymore. But I guess I’ll never know. What a shame.