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The rains are back; it was dark and gray here in the Greater Portland Area, and I had to use lights in the house. I try to ensure I work in bright white light. It is rain clouds, not smoke from the war, in Portland, which is primarily words. There was, I read, a scuffle on Tuesday night, and a few people were taken in for being overly rude. The troops are inbound but stopped for a few days for additional training, I also read. No tear gas, fires, or arms were used. I was suggesting to my liberal friend that we have a parade for the troops and ask Portlanders to take-a-marine-out, like we do for Fleet Week during the Rose Festival.

I rose after 7 and soon enjoyed Mexican coffee roasted and ground in Hillsboro. I had no plans on Wednesday as Z had soccer. I already have the heat on. Winter is colder this year as the ducks and geese have returned. I understand that they were staying further north as it was warmer the last couple of years, but they are back this year. I suspect that means a cold, wet winter.

I returned to my transactions and updated Quicken with all of that, making a few corrections. I also saw a $31 payment from the Treasury, as my short-term $ 5,000 Treasury Bill rolled over using their automatic process. This is my first time doing this, my first rollover. And while it rolled over to 4%, this has a zero expense, and none of the interest is taxable in Oregon. I have parked $50K in short-term Treasuries. I also parked $10,000 in SGOV shares, which pay about the same and are also Oregon tax-free, but come with a slight expense. It is easier to get in and out of SGOV as it is just shares. A recommendation from Scott.

I started working on the blog and managed to finish it by 10, decorating it with a few pictures. I received a note from the Nixon Library that they are having a sale and discovered that signed copies of Trump Jr.’s books are on giveaway prices, as is William Barr’s book. I could not resist taking a screenshot and sharing it on Facebook.

I wrote a card for Mom Wild using my new Notorious RBG cards and stamps. I did not get it out in time and did not take Air VW the Gray out yesterday. It went in the mailbox for Thursday. I did remember to put out the trash and lawn waste.

As often happens, the days seemed to slip away in little tasks and conversations with people about church matters. I did watch some more of this season’s Wednesday. I have mixed feelings about this one. The plot is good, the special effects are excellent, but the character of Wednesday seems somewhat blunted due to her anger and foot-stomping. Still a fantastic show. I will start the next season of Foundation later this year. I am on season 2; there are three seasons so far.

I ordered the cake for Deborah’s birthday in consultation with her son, Donovan. I have corrected my hotel stay in Detroit to cover all my time there (oops); I leave 10 October for two weekends in Michigan. I called the hotel, and since I used their website (getting a reasonable price), they could update the reservation.

I was also slowed down by my vaccines, as my arm hurt and I experienced a slight feeling of exhaustion and flu-like symptoms. I avoid the fever and chills this time. It is undoubtedly better than my last flu, which went on for three weeks. I have found that as I age, it takes me longer and longer to recover from the flu.

The sun appeared, and the clouds returned to high, clear skies. I took a full walk and reached three thousand steps. Again, good for a day after a vax adventure. I punched my newly purchased wargame, Guns of August (named after the famous book), and read the rules. It is a low-complexity war game that covers only three months of the start of World War I, and I will try to play it against myself to see how it works and check the setup. There are also mini-scenarios in the rules. I have the massively complex and monster games that cover the war, but I never found the will to invest that much in the games. I have also read reviews that say the games fail to reach realism. I have learned that what a game should simulate are the decisions and their results. Many board games do this, but wargames often dive too deep into the details to do this. But that also makes them interesting as you struggle running a couple of hundred counters on a front.

Dinner, spent talking to Deborah as she ends her day, and then with others, consists of more cheese from Market of Choice, crackers, and some battered shrimp from the freezer, processed through the Air Fryer setting on my double oven stove. I do more episodes of Wednesday and then read Elephants Can Remember by Agatha Christie. This one is told from Mrs. Ariadne Oliver’s point of view. Christie said Mrs. Oliver is written with a strong dash of herself. I enjoy seeing the author as a character within the story. I recall the plot from the BBC version, and I appreciate Christie’s concise writing; I will try to remember a few things for my own writing.

I remember to take my pills and read in bed in my PJs. It is 11:45 when I start to nod off. I turn off the light; this is a physical book. I dream.

I recall being asked in my dream to explain the math behind a collectible card game I was learning, which involved a lot of bits and cards. I seemed to have played this before in other dreams, and I discovered that we were being interviewed for some kind of dream broadcasting system. I try to explain the game after the others I played with got all the easy questions about playability and art. While talking, I remembered another game I had played and enjoyed, but I stayed focused on this new card game. I now remember that I have been playing some interesting games in my dreams. I often start in the game where I left off when I dream.

The rest is faded and in shadows. I slept well beyond 6 today.

Thanks for reading.

 

 

 

I woke on Tuesday with my alarm at 6:30 and considered for a few moments that I could skip writing the blog until later, close my eyes, and wake at 8-something and rush. But no, I climbed out of bed, found my slippers. I try to remember to wear slippers or shoes at all times, as my feet are slightly numb from chemo and diabetes, and I can damage them without the requisite pain-to-injury to warn me to care for them. I have found a small puddle of blood after nearly shattering my toenails. Shoes and slippers work to prevent that.

I located the kitchen; it was still in the same place, and I poured out Mexican coffee (assembled the night before), locally roasted and ground. While less bitter than my usual blend, sipping its bitter darkness while reading the news and the impending Federal invasion of Portland, I thought once again we have a long way to go until we discover Justice with Compassion in our country, and here in the Pacific Northwest, it appears seldom of late. I have a banana and a muffin with the coffee. I forgot to mention in yesterday’s blog (there are often things you remember an hour or so after trying to recall events; sometimes I return to the blog and add them in) that I made Maple Pecan Muffins from a box of King Arthur Flour. And while muffins are a gluten- and carbohydrate-rich wonderland, they are still good, and I like them. An occasional dietary sin.

I write the blog until the last moment and even more into my planned travel time. I quickly shower, shave, dress, and get in Air VW the Gray, at about 90% charge, and head to war-ravaged Portland with my laptop and a card for Mom Wild. The traffic is slow and I am ten minutes late. I connect 26 to 405 and travel through the streets to reach Richards, and with the exception of some extra-legal driving, see nothing to suggest the war has reached downtown or lawlessness that calls for Federal troops with Trump’s shoot-to-kill order.

We, Richard, James, and I, return to the Tainted Grail cooperative and role-playing style game (dudes-on-a-board game). I took up my character named Maggot, a druid of the old powers, and we wandered the fantasy world, a mix of Arthurian legend, SciFi, and dark magic leaning towards Lovecraft. James added a notebook to the game and started writing down things. I seem to remember most of it, but James and Richard, both avid board gamers, do not recognize the storyline as I do, being a Dungeons & Dragons player. The story is everything to a D&D DM or player. We retrace our steps and find various complex challenges this time. Things we missed in the last plays, as we had previously rushed to complete missions. We discover items we were asked to recover in various minor quests. As our time is running out, we often play to 1, we solve another quest, and hit chapter 4. Yay!

I am enjoying the game more and push Richard and James to explore the story and stop searching for awards like board gamers. We are comfortable with the rules, combat, and diplomatic challenges. I could see the stories changing and morphing as we play, and I like that immersion. Better. It is less about building up my character, but rather about the story and how we interact with it. It is beginning to feel like a campaign to me.

We will play next week and then take a break for my and James’ travel. I head to Broadway Grill and get a parking spot in the nearly empty streets on Tuesday. There are a few folks there finishing their lunch. I get my same booth, open my laptop, finish the blog, and talk to Deborah a few times. We spoke on my drive in and while I waited for my lunch. I commit another sin and order the chili dogs. I am hungry.

I eat my onion-covered spicy dogs with meaty chili while I finish and publish the blog. I write a postcard for Mom Wild. It is the last day of September, and I remember this is the weekend a few years ago when Susie’s blood pressure crashed and she passed on the following Friday. It is hard not to let depression rise. But Susie passed in her sleep next to me (we both had nodded off) and left us among family and friends without pain or fear. You can ask for nothing more.

I manage to find my mental feet, mental stand, and brush away the depression and accept the sadness with the colors even brighter in the world. I take another picture of Portland, showing that it is all quiet on the Western Front, to borrow a phrase. And get back in the EV, not stopping at the excellent Broadway Bookstore, carefully backing into traffic, and then travel in a messy, near-rush-hour return to Beaverton. It is slow going with the speed never approaching extra-legal. This time, there are no wrecks, and I soon reach home. I am only an hour from my next appointment.

I stopped by the post office and mailed two holiday-themed D&D 5E adventures to Clint in New Hampshire. I purchased some stamps as my order had not arrived, and I had only a few left. I say I will take the Boston stamps and not the William F. Buckley, Jr. stamps. I liked his spy story books, and he was interesting to listen to when he did his show, but he was, to me, the best example of White Privilege running riot over people’s rights. If I were going to write a play with Mephistopheles, I would say just sit in a chair in a light suit and do Buckley. I was misunderstood by the postal clerk and took home those stamps too. Hmmm.

I receive the mail and open a package; yes, I also get my stamps. There in, I find a set of Ruth Bader Ginsburg cards and stamps of the Notorious RBG to go with the cards I ordered from the postal service. Yes, the same organization that published William Buckley, Jr. stamps. How bizarre and so American. It does give you faith. Those Buckley stamps are going on my next tax payment!

I next reboarded Air VW the Gray and headed to Walgreens. There, we discussed and finally agreed that I am not yet qualified for the RSV vaccine (I need a prescription), but the flu and the COVID-19 vaccines were ready for me. These are the updated versions that cover the latest versions and provide limited protection against new versions that will emerge later this year. It is the cheapest way to avoid costly medical adventures, terrifying adventures. My wait was longer to get the paperwork done; the person in front of me took quite some time, too, but once that was passed (and insurance was approved and paid), I received my cost-free injection from a kind pharmacy intern. I put them in the arm that did not enjoy the IV and blood donations. Now both arms hurt.

At home, I cut the New York Strip into pieces and let it sit in teriyaki sauce. I had stopped by Safeway and picked up some items to make dinner. I cut up one bok choy (I should have done all three). I sliced onions and browned them in oil. I added the steak and sauce. When browning, I add the veggies and cover them, letting the steam work on them. I made rice, 1/2 cup dry, to go with it. Rice is not good for me, so I keep it to small amounts. It was too heavy in meat and needed ginger to give it an extra kick, but it wasn’t bad. Ginger and 3x bok choy next time.

I spoke to Deborah for a while, and she rang off as she got sleepy in Michigan. I could feel the usual slowing from the vax. I get flu symptoms and slow down for a few days. I do the dishes, watching my best news source, late-night comedians (I do read the NYT, CNN, and often BBC and Jerusalem Post). I am dragging, and it is past 10. I find the bedroom (it is still in the same place), put on my PJs, and crawl into my bed. I bring a mystery novel as I finished another Chinatown story, but the racist writing and poor storytelling have not made me happy, and I think some polite British Murder is a good brain cookie.

But night closes in on me, and my mind is happy to drift off to dreams. And while the dreams were forgotten, they were not horror or me wandering lost, and seemed pleasant, and may have been walking in my dream kingdoms where I am likely running some version of Wild’s Furniture and Appliances, Inc. “We Beat City Prices!” in my phantom world. Selling dreams of comfort and ease, I suspect, with Grandpa and Dad. They close the deals when I can’t. Well, at least it is a happy fantasy for me to find in my mind this Wednesday morning while I write this.

Thank you for reading!

 

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!