Author: alohawild

Monday started in a rush at 7ish and with local roasted and ground Mexican coffee. I barely had time to taste the coffee as I rushed through the blog and my usual Monday tasks. Instead of my usual Saturday-like Monday, I was rushed all morning and into the afternoon. I tried to write the blog, but Jeff, my fix-it guy, was headed here to discuss fixes to the drainage and to remove some trees that are leaning against my neighbor’s fence. I was able to finish it until the early evening.

Showered and dressed in time for Jeff’s arrival, we discussed creating a stone-filled creek in the back to divert the water to the French drain. We will also redirect the water spout on the deck to head towards the back, using a pipe to run along the base of the fence. Jeff will see if he can unclog the existing drains to the street in front. With the water redirected from the back and the pipes cleaned, maybe this will work better.

Jeff will get back to me on costs and see if this can work. I headed out after Jeff left with just a book, Bismarck, in my pocket. I put on a waterproof coat and my wool hat. The Oregon Mist was back, and some rain. The intersection was partially blocked, and I had to reverse my usual steps to the bus stop. I reached the bus stop moments before the TriMet 57 bus arrived on TV Highway. It was a short, uneventful trip on the 57 to the Beaverton Transit Center, and I boarded the MAX train to Portland. The station was being cleaned by a woman pushing a cleaning device, spraying water, and a man holding the hose for the machine while she worked. Typical. On the train, reading on my phone (mostly looking at warzone stories about Portland), I got off at the Portland Library stop and walked through a quiet Monday afternoon, in the usual sleepy Monday in Portland.

Note: Someone pointed out that I do not know what a warzone looks like (I value their input). I was told that a war zone may seem like a usual place until it is full of war (an eye roll goes here). I have been to real warzones in the 1990s and experienced the protests in Portland and the scent of tear gas. I have a good idea what this looks like. I was in the middle of cancer treatment back in the First Trump administration and could only visit Portland’s protests.

I had not been on the Portland Street Car in years and enjoyed the slow passage through the city to the waterfront OHSU clinic (three to four blocks from the ICE facility at the center of the mess). I arrived and had to forgo taking the Arial Tram as I needed to locate imaging first — I enjoy flying over Portland in it. I entered the OHSU Health Center building, located next to the tram that leads to the rest of OHSU on the hill above, and was directed to the third floor. I took an elevator and then remembered I was pointed to another set, which I found went to the parking garage under the building. Oops. After my tour of the lobbies of the garages and other unneeded locations, I slunk around the corner and took the correct one.

Having located the third floor and imaging, I was checked in and informed that they would fit me in early and to have a seat. I waited about thirty minutes and was then taken to a room, and an IV was put in for contrast. I was then taken to another waiting area and waited. I was told that a minor paperwork error caused the CT scan to be left without a subject for twenty minutes. Now, at my original scheduled time, I was taken to the CT scan and was popped in and out in about five minutes. This time, I was tired and felt a bit under the weather. Next time I will try to eat before!

I then wandered the nearly empty, damp streets, looking for lunch. My first attempt, a Lebanese place, was closed on Mondays and also closed after 2, as it only serves lunch. I found an Indian place and had a vegetarian meal; it is Portland, after all, and I nearly choked on the mild version of chickpeas and spices. Rice and naan helped, and soon, I was burned in and could eat my lunch. It would be the most dangerous thing I faced in Portland today, except for the ICE officers.

Needing more steps and feeling refreshed by food, I head to the ICE building using my iPhone maps. No surprise that it is on the map app. There, I find a small crowd and a single boarded-up building in a boring part of town near The Old Spaghetti Factory on the river. There were a couple of tents on the sidewalk, along with some grills, to make dinner around the corner and out of rubber bullet range of the Federal building (something I am sure I learned from the first protests). With one exception, it was a sleepy and bored group of about ten near the building. I took a selfie. I took photos of nothing happening.

 

One person, who I would say was out of control, was screaming obscenities at the building and the entrance. A group of vehicles, all scary-out-of-movie unmarked and dark windows SUVs and muscle cars came and went, and the two protestors confronted the guards and ICE agents and were escorted out of the way without contact. The person was all but jumping up and down and screaming. But that was ignored. I spoke with a protester, and the person was unsure of what to do, but they waved their sign and stood there. Eventually, the one-person confrontation ended. I found that the nearby building had signs asking not to damage them, as they were not Federal and certainly not ICE.

I did not think the President’s order to shoot-to-kill was appropriate, and I witnessed nothing that suggested it would be followed. I had my lunch a few blocks away, and my CT Scan was only a few blocks further. Hmmm.

I took public transit back. A demented street person walked in front of the Portland Street Car, which was already at its stop, and managed not to hit them by stopping a bit more abruptly. Yikes! The person then wandered through traffic and disappeared, stumbling here and there. The rest of my connections and trip were uneventful.

I did stand for twenty minutes in the Oregon Mist at the Beaverton Transit Center, and soon the little grass near me was full of ducks. Some flying just over my head. I was thinking a duck-face-plant would be unpleasant as my bus pulled up. I finished my walk home in the rain with my coat open, and I was getting slowly damp.

I took more than 6,000 steps today, which was good, and although tired, I was feeling better. I spoke with Deborah occasionally. She had some personal things to deal with. I did get to talk to her at the end of her day and say good night. I returned to the laundry and had some fruit for dinner. Later, I would add some cheese and crackers for a snack.

My CT Scan results showed no cancer, and that some issues, likely from the multiple surgeries, had faded. All excellent news. The best I could hope for. My weight has also fallen to 236, only 8 pounds away from my best. Better!

I read and slowed down as I was tired. I made the bed and crawled in. Clean sheets are always special. I read some more and soon was sleepy, and my mind glided out into the dark. No bad dreams and no waking until just before 6. I managed to fall back to sleep just minutes before my alarm.

Thanks for reading!

 

(Sorry, I got busy on Monday, and this went out late)

I woke and was enjoying coffee by 7:30. These are Mexican-sourced beans roasted and ground in Hillsboro, a few miles away. The flavor is lighter as I asked for less than the soul-blackening dark I usually consume in the morning. And while less bitter, it still reminds me that there is much to be done in this world to find Justice and Compassion, and to establish Hope for all.

Portland unhappily is appearing in the press and the President’s latest threats. My Facebook feed is filled with reports from Hell, one being a video showing people swing dancing to 80s music at Teacher’s Fountain. The protests at the ICE center involve a usual taco stand with free food and water in front of the ICE building, as well as individuals dressed in costumes protesting, sometimes alone, as it appears we are a 9-to-5 protest this time around. So far, the naked protesters and pole dancers have not appeared, but it has not gotten that serious yet. It is strange that the only thing I know that is nuttier than Trump’s RFK guy is, well, Portland. Trump seems attracted to crazy.

Returning to the story, I arrive at church after finishing the blog, showering, dressing, and chatting with Deborah through the morning. We learn, as the church is going, that a Mormon church in Michigan was attacked, and there are many dead. Honestly, it made me nervous to be there, “Here at the Heart of Beaverton,” as we say every Sunday in the service, when I read about these horrors. I am ushering and, as always, have my situational awareness in full attention. I often miss the sermon words, as there are things to watch and people to help.

The hymns are familiar, and the church and I sing them with joy. The new organist is excellent at both the organ and piano, with the only, so Methodist, complaint that he plays too loudly (“Sing louder,” is the usual reaction, but he has brought it down a bit). We all manage to enjoy the music.

Pastor Ken’s sermon is long and includes graphics that we project on the walls, and he turns into a full professor or writer for us. Each point is backed by references (some of which are displayed to us) as he covers how many churches pick and choose Bible verses and cannot distinguish between historical and cultural items and the message relevant to us. Paul, in the text, points out what Peter gets wrong, and Ken notes that Jesus also called Peter out. We cannot expect it all to be right for us, as even the apostles disagreed and Jesus gave them some talking-to’s. Ken’s details serve as a defense and an explanation of how, as general Christians, they arrived at this point, with our pick-and-choosing and assigning high value to things that are clearly just historical norms. Finally, he points out that the famous 99 essays that are the foundation of the fundamentalist view of the Bible never have the word ‘love’ covered. I realize that Ken’s sermon is an essay response to those. I found it fascinating when I could listen.

Next, still with the image of a truck slamming into the walls and an insane person jumping armed with an AR-something running in my mind, the service concludes with more excellent singing. We did not die today. It was a good day. The news from Michigan is sad and heartbreaking.

My last Sunday School Class went well as I covered the mechanics of our church and our denomination. I also read from the Council of Trent, I have a translation used in Catholic classes, and a slightly revised quote from St. Parrothead (Jimmy Buffett), “We are the people they warned you about,” here. With the pamphlet I handed out, clearly “condemned” in the 1451 council, often repeating, “We are the people they wanted you about,” as I covered this.

I had a few folks wanting to include some stories about Methodists for the group. I was happy to keep it light, and while most folks would not use the Council of Trent as a straight man, it was, I think, fun for everyone. I supplied Costco sandwiches, which, I suspect, were the best part for some folks. “Amen,” and I was done.

I also checked the stewardship box, as promised, and outlined the types of giving and options available to individuals and families.

With that done, I headed out and was soon home. I planned to cook too much food for dinner, use it as leftovers, and freeze some for later (I find it reheats well if you run it twice and let it settle for a bit after the first heating). Deborah called, and the details are for others to share, but she was upset, and we spent time talking here while I chopped and cooked. Deborah is fine for those worried.

Dinner was fantastic and spicy. A messy pasta dish that uses one pan. I spoon in Italian-style bulk sausage. This cooks little meatball-like clumps of the meat, and that really makes it great. Tomatoes, crushed, go in with the usual spices and partially ground fennel seeds. I just put the pasta into this and added cheese, including ricotta cheese, in spoonfuls on top. Then, more, you guessed, cheese (it is an American version). I don’t have the fresh basil leaves that really make this rock.

I bake it in the same pan with the pasta stirred in uncooked (I will cook it next time, as I think it comes out too starchy and flavored). I bake it for twenty minutes (or less, likely less). The bumbling mass, heavy, comes out of a hot oven and is just a vision of American Italian-style cooking. If I had the basil, it would be the colors of Italy’s flag.

I have two bowls, but not large ones, and I enjoy pasta with cheese and meat. There is so much left! I start to go for a walk, wanting to get moving again, and see that my neighbors are enjoying a BBQ, so I bring over the pasta dish. The adults are already stuffed with burgers and hot dogs, but the teenagers, always bottomless pits for food, jump in, and soon, much of the pasta dish is inside them. I walk 3/4 of my usual walk. I have skipped a few days, and my back starts to complain. Best not to push it. I retrieve my pan with about one large helping left and text Corwin to get some. He will give it a try on Monday afternoon.

Food is universal, and although I disagree with them on political issues, my neighbors and I get along and enjoy each other’s company. They often treat me as an anomaly of how a liberal can be nice, successful, and friendly. I smile and wave my hands figuratively or actually when they call out liberal policies or politicians they cannot stand. I am here for the food, as a chef says, and a chat about life, food, lawns, fireworks (don’t ask about the year they had to put out my roof when I wasn’t there for July 4th), or traffic. Those things that really matter.

Back at the house, I did the dishes, put things away, talked to Deborah until she went to sleep, and looked at cruises. I see my meds are running out, and with my medical coverage ending at the end of the year, I was holding out for one last 90 days of pills, and now I have ordered the refills (all done by mail). I might consider adding one near the end of the year, as they are always ready to refill too soon.

On November 1st, I have to select new Obamacare health coverage. I see that the Republicans have been messing with it and reducing coverage. I can never understand why we want healthcare to be more expensive and to make people sicker. I have been mansplained on this issue before. Please don’t go there.

I read more about Chinatown and wince, as my next story is quite racist in its wording, but the story elements are excellent and might be reused in my upcoming adventures, I plan to write for Dungeons and Dragons. I have ordered the Italian version, as the crime novel versions from the 1920s-30s are also from Italy. Those will be here next week.

Soon, I was sleepy and then put the book down and slept.

Thanks for reading.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Me driving thru the Hell of Portland)

Saturday ended after I returned from Richard’s house in Portland, not a burning hell-hole, but pleasant on this warm September evening. Air VW the Gray passed over bridges and highways without incident. Home, I cut off some more meat from the Costco chicken I had acquired that day for a snack, I did the dishes, most going into the dishwasher, though I did wash a pan, assembled the coffee for the next morning (and remembered to push the button unlike last night), and headed to the bedroom. There, I put on my PJs and read more Chinatown stories from the 1920s-30s. I got a chapter and then turned off the light, and soon was asleep. I woke up at 4 and felt quite off. I proved hydration and suffered night sweats for twenty minutes, something new, and then drifted back to sleep. I slept until my alarm.

I talk to Deborah all day by text and calls when I am driving. We try to share our day on the weekend when we are apart.

I read and discuss the impending federal invasion in Portland with others. From my informal poll, it appears that we are universally opposed to that here in Oregon. Nobody sees a good outcome. For those who need to recall a typical reaction to police actions in Portland, please refer to the Naked Athena article here.

Moving the story back further on Saturday, I started for Richard’s at 4:50, and although there were a few slowdowns, the pace was quick for the inbound to Portland. We set up the board game Luthier for four, with the same four players from last Saturday: Richard, Laura, Kathleen, and me. Which is also the rank of points. I managed to score 68 (my best score is 70), while Kathleen achieved an impressive score of 100+. Richard’s and Laura’s points were more than twenty points above that. And while I had no misplays, I felt I played too conservatively, which ultimately cost me.

(one of the few times that Yellow, my color, was ahead in the game)

I enjoyed the game, but it did seem to drag to me. We managed to play for about three hours. And while I like the game, I would not own it (it’s too expensive, a table hog, and too complex, except for expert board gamers). It seemed repetitive to me tonight. Kathleen likes engine building, and Luthier does not go in that direction. She prefers Terrforming Mars or Wingspan (or its various versions).

Moving on to the morning, I rose at 7:30 and discovered that the coffee had not been made, as I mentioned earlier. The blog would be a whopping 1600+ words. I also applied the newest update, Tahoe 26.0, which had me enjoying my coffee (after pushing a button) and looking out the window for thirty minutes. The new look and change of clicks and security were startling. I am usually unhappy with the look and feel changes; it requires me to relearn everything (i.e., mail is now a blue up arrow to ‘send’).

The update includes encrypting the data on the hard drive. I received a complaint that my Time Machine backups are going to an unencrypted device. I ignored that. This means the system is now consuming more power and reducing the processing power available to the user as data is written to the drive and requires encryption now, making the system ‘safer’ but also slower and reducing battery life. This was the reason I did not do this before. Ugh!

Lunch was reheated India-style chicken with grits I made a few days ago. Breakfast was just coffee. I watched reruns of the initial Lost in Space pilot, which is terrible. I remember being scared of the show when I was small and the antics of Doctor Smith. I was curious, as I saw it on Hulu.

Next, I headed off to Costco. I also sent a card to Mom Wild before the mail arrived. Costco, I was amazed, was busier than it had been on my last visit. I found my premade sandwiches for Sunday, a few items for church, and headed out. I found a short checkout line and was soon out for less than $100 from Costco, which is unusual, and my first cheap chicken at Costco.

I returned to the house in the EV, unloaded except for the non-perishable items for church (cups and some treats that can be used in backpacks filled by the church for hungry kids in Beaverton — 20% of the children in our schools, I have heard, are hungry). Next, I stop at Market of Choice. There, I visited again with Amanda, their cheese munger, and we selected some new cheeses for me this week to accompany my cheese and cracker dinners and lunch. I find a cheap red wine for cooking. I chose some high-quality meats, including an NY Strip, as I need the iron after donating blood. I find the rest of my shopping list (but forgetting the herring in cream sauce) and soon have two expensive bags in Air VW the Gray.

Time seems to run away from me after I return home and put away my belongings. I am soon saying good night to Deborah while I reach Richard’s in the EV. And that takes us full circle.

Thanks for reading!

I rose at around 7:30 as the coffee, assembled the night before and the button pushed for timed delivery, was ready and still being heated. With a cup, I returned to the office and began a more focused writing of the blog. I also scooped up the dirty laundry and loaded The Machine and processed it for two and a fraction of an hour. Just coffee, as I was out of bananas still, and I had an appointment with the Red Cross at 1.

As is my usual morning start, I summoned all the transactions from my busy accounts with a click (sometimes it feels less like technology and more like wizardry), both income and expense, and centralized them into Quicken. There were a few adjustments. PayPal is poor at documenting why a deposit is made, and each must be manually updated. I also logged into US Bank and checked my IRA balance, discovered it had been reduced by the planned $35, and I made a matching update to the balance in Quicken. The IRA downloads and information are only basic for Quicken; I keep it simple and manual, and only track the balance (also, the solution for the very arcane US Treasury account).

I read the email and continue to select unsubscribe to liberal causes, as I will not be a source of their funding, as I am retired and have nearly no income. I spend my funds on travel, dinners with Deborah, and some hobbies (although I am trying to be restrained even for those). But it is hard to resist good causes and liberal political options.

I write and read the news here and there, and find KINK.FM is too repetitive of late, and I switch to my playlists on my laptop while I write. I write and look out my office window. The aphids are thick on my rose out my window, and I wonder why the hummingbirds are not feasting. I may have to wash them away.

I write and publish around 10, and The Machine demands that I get my finished product. I hang up the shirts and pants and toss the rest on the pile from Monday. I will fold and put it away soon, I tell myself.

I unload the dishes, grab my laptop and a book, and head to First United Methodist Church for my donation appointment. I had previously called the Red Cross help desk. My appointments made no sense and were somehow rescheduled for Thursday at a different location. They could not untangle them, but agreed I could just create a new one at the church, and I did. I learned that the Rapid system is only valid for the day it was used, which is why I was rescheduled for Thursday and a different location. I will fill it out online the day of the appointment next time.

I reach the Red Cross set up at my church, and they agree that I can return at 1 AFTER I have eaten and drank more water for lunch. Oops. I walk to Ava Roastery and order their special with water, replacing the cookie with a fruit tart (more calories but different ones) for an upcharge. I had them pick the sandwich, and the turkey with melted cheese and pesto was fantastic. I drank two glasses of water, and that, with the food, filled me. I was worried about barfing (oops!) instead of passing out, but I was better once the water was absorbed.

I returned and followed the process, and Liz ran me through it; I passed. The Iceland trip was not a reason to be excluded. I was soon squeezing a foam thing in my left arm as I filled a bag. I was happy not to be dizzy this time and chatted with Rodger, another guy who was donating at the other table. They can do two at a time. We talked about Iceland, and he was looking for a place to travel and burn up some of his flight miles. It was a pleasant chat, and it remains true that in our country, strangers can converse without fighting over politics. It gives me hope.

I was feeling tired, and walking seemed harder. It was not a balance issue, but I could feel the change, and my body was trying to adjust to less blood. I am happy to donate blood at my own church. It just felt right.

I dropped off Mom Wild’s card at the post office. I now deliver them to a post box every day instead of rushing them in the morning. I like finding a box or visiting a post office. It also gets me outside and more sun.

Somewhere in the day, I discovered that my eBay account is unreachable because the password reset is only available through a phone I don’t have. I do what everyone else does: I use another email and create a new account. For my email, alohawild@me.com is conveniently serviced by alohawild@mac.com. This came up as a “Persian Carpet” revenue stamp was on auction at 1/10 the usual price from a reputable dealer I have acquired stamps from before. My bid is not likely to succeed, but it is worth a try. That is how I acquired my last Zepplin stamp for a reasonable price.

I took Air VW the Gray to the Pearl District (not the flaming Hell stated by Trump and his allies, but an excellent tourist stop and home of Powell’s City of Books main store). I find no easy parking and park underground in a garage. There, I discover an EV charger is open and charge the EV while shopping. It is a slow charge and will likely add only 10%, but at a low price (84 cents, compared to a supercharger that would cost me $10 or more).

Plugged in, I head to Powell’s and walk through the store. I ask for help and learn that they do not have any of the 1920s crime novels I am looking for. These are before China became the focus of crime novels of the 1920s-30s. I wanted to see how well the villains match Sax Rohmer’s text. But they had none, and I just wondered and found nothing today except a cheap math book, I think I could use — I could risk $6 on it. I was also tired from the blood donation and could not focus. I did find plenty of new postcards and cards, and soon checked out.

My checker, a young man wearing a mask (a good idea when you consider the number of people he is exposed to every day at work), looked at the book and told me that he found math much more interesting now that he was out of school. I lingered and suggested that he consider data science and artificial intelligence. I explained that the coding involves calling prebuilt routines, but the understanding requires a strong mathematical background and a clear understanding of advanced statistical methods. He thanked me, and he said he would think about it.

On the streets, someone was singing — bright and wonderful, and I gave them a dollar, got a fist bump and a smile, and another young person was in some distress and got a dollar too. I try to remember to bring ones when I am out and about. I gave a buck to a gal I have seen often at post offices the day before, when mailing Mom Wild’s card.

I found the EV, unlocked it, paid the low price, and then paid an additional $14 for the privilege of using the garage. I try not to react to that, as I knew that it would be about that. I will search harder for Parking Kitty spots next time.

I met Kathleen at Schilling Cider House & Gluten Free Kitchen. We were both worn out by then, and we spent the next couple of hours in this new place, parking for free on the streets, and enjoying the food and staff. Recommended. I did have a cider and revised my list of drinks to one beer and one cider a week. Less booze in their house cider too; it was sweet and friendly flavored. Very much how I find Portland, fresh and a little drunk. We talked and had dinner; I went with a pulled pork sandwich (gluten-free), and Kathleen had the de rigueur fried chicken sandwich.

I wrote a bit, Kathleen made a few edits, but we agreed that it was too much for today. We headed out before sundown. We will be back; we liked the place and the area near the Clint Theater. Next time, I will walk the area, saving at least $14.

The trip home was bouncing all over Portland with Nav. Traffic was complex and weird for a Friday late. It seemed everyone was late leaving Portland. I hit the tunnel on Highway 26, and the traffic vanished. Odd. The sunset over the Coastal Mountains was incredible when viewed from Sylvan Hill on 26. The air was clean, and the high clouds burned golden with the sun behind the mountains and the sea. The alternative name for the highway is the Sunset Highway, and today everyone was driving slower to look at the view (yes, we get sun jams).

Home was reading, doing the dishes, and heading to bed. It was a good day. I ignored the invasion threat from Trump to Portland, as well as other political news meant to steal headlines and prevent one word from appearing in the press (E-something). I found my PJs, still in the pile I will someday fold and put away, and crawled into bed. I spoke to Deborah for some time that evening, and we just chatted on the phone. I did send her words I did not know from the 1920s story, an early story by Dashiell Hammett. It was excellent, and I was wondering how he managed those interesting turns of phrase. It was a remarkable short story, “The House in Turk Street.” Deborah rang off to sleep, and I read more until sleep took me. I slept the night except for one waking.

Thanks for reading!

It is always strange when I try to remember the day before. I would, in the past, often write the blog before going to bed, and all the events were crisp and new. Now, the day before is a flash of memories, and they never come in the correct order. Often, I miss something as I follow the tangled sequence; some branches are missing, seemingly they appear in another memory that suddenly pops into my thoughts after the blog is published. Yesterday’s blog failed to note that I walked my usual mile and felt good with no pain and it felt good.

I also forgot to include yesterday’s, but it is not very interesting that I put stamps in my album. I have the strips of Showgard plastic containers for the stamps to cover most sizes now. I found a letter and stamps from months ago, and I learned I had made duplicate purchases again. Puke! But I was happy to get some more places filled. None of these were expensive stamps, and since I obtain them at auction, they are about 50% of the catalog value or even a better deal. Later, I bid on some more stamps, and I think I missed all the auctions as the prices were too high. The emotions of an auction can get you to bid too high. I prefer to spend my money on travel and dinners with Deborah; there is always another auction (as evidenced by my US 8A in my collection, which was purchased for less than one-quarter of the catalog value).

Today, I am writing Thursday’s story on Friday morning, and I feel especially tangled, but let me try to shake out the net of my memories and tell the story.

I rose around 7:30, and the coffee was made and still being heated. I poured a cup and grabbed the last banana (and while many folks here the song “Yes, we have no bananas,” I instead always hear a rewording of the Parrothead song, “The last banana in paradise,” here). I then head to the office, happy to see the mess is better and the desk just needs to be straightened up. So much better!

My favorite Parrothead music here and this one (you can’t have just one). Music that makes you swing and dance while singing.

I complete the blog (the missing bits I described) and get it published. I created another report on the refresh work, my seventh, and sent it out as well. I then completed my class notes for Sunday’s class and sent them out.

I then rushed to get to meet Scott for lunch, our usual Thursday meeting. Shower, shave, dress, and out the door with my laptop. I was only a few minutes late, and Scott was a few minutes early. He was an inch into his beer. I ordered my one beer-a-week, and we talked and ate. McMenamins Cedar Hills has a lunch special, and I had half a tuna with salad and a cup of soup. Our waiter did not know what the soup was, but we laughed and ordered it anyway (hearty veggie).

Scott and I talked about my battle with depression of late and my self-treatment of light, which is helping. He was also surprised to learn I fear the dark; I can sleep in the dark, but when I am ill, I often sleep with the lights on. We discussed our travel plans, and Scott headed to Florida before Christmas. I will see if I can overlap with him in Key Largo; I have never been there before.

Scott’s experiment of taking some of his retirement savings and investing it himself has produced a higher return than his Fidelity investments. Interesting. M@ says the same thing. I need the services provided by US Bank Wealth Management and am content, for now, to let them manage my affairs. We will both be in the area for a few more weeks, and we plan to meet again next week.

I headed to Hillsboro. I was surprised to get a parking spot on Main Street that was easy to pull into. I can do parallel parking (Air VW the Gray is smaller than anything I have owned before, and I can slide it into slots with ease), but I prefer something easier. I locked it and walked on the streets. I toured the antique stores, looking for excellent furniture and 1920s reference books. I found an Agatha Christie book, for too much money for an old hardcover, but it was a story I wanted to read: Elephants Can Remember. It includes the character Ariadne Oliver, which I feel is Agatha adding a version of herself into her stories. Hercule Poirot, her famous detective, is often heckled by Ariadne in the stories; I love that. Elephants Can Remember is a favorite of mine from the BBC show with David Suchet, but I have not read the book.

I stopped by the corner store and Bennett Urban Farm Store and spent too much on pasta, pasta sauce, and new locally roasted and ground coffee. We discussed how the past seems to be divided into ‘before’ and ‘after’ the Pandemic. I remember wearing a mask and buying coffee from them. We both agreed it was great to still be here.

I sat in the local Insomniate Coffee shop, a local competitor of Starbucks, and had their honey biscuit and a pumpkin spice something chai hot drink. It was recommended. I enjoyed the biscuit with butter (it, by itself, was enough of a diabetic crime, and I skipped more honey or jam). There, I assemble a list of events and travel plans for the Southern Trip, as we call it, for the church in November.

With my email out and time running away from me, I head to the house in the EV. I defrost some chicken thighs (boneless and skinless) in running water. I start watching some shows, but then talk to Deborah for a while. We spoke for nearly an hour. At the same time (timing is a bit unclear in my memory), I also cut up the chicken, fried it in a pan, drained the fat, and continued to fry it until it was browned. Next, I added the curry sauce. I also cooked grits, as they are easier to make than rice in small amounts. I managed not to get it to stick to the bottom of the pan. It was still a bit crunchy when done. Hmmm.

I put half of the chicken away and enjoyed most of the grits, 1/2 cup dry, with it. Better than rice, I think. Deborah, finishing her day with me, rang off and went to sleep. I read and was at loose ends. Instead of doing something useful, I read and tried to enjoy the evening.

I picked up a new book, Bismarck, and the terrible writing of the biography was getting to me, but I nodded off during the introduction, which included Chinatown stories from the 1920s and ’30s. Before my eyes grew heavy, I learned that before the ‘Yellow Peril,’ the villains were Italian, and that most of the villains were boilerplate characters that could be updated for whatever sold. I folded over the corner and will look for one and try, ‘Italian Peril.’

I turned off the light, sighed at the darkness, and slept in what seemed like a dreamless sleep.

Thanks for reading.