hobbies, diversions

Stitching Together Financial Noise

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The world of business and markets and trade and economics and human behavior is and has been and will forever be a fascination to me.

From the WSJ: … One illusion that’s bursting is that Mr. Trump is imposing tariffs in the cause of free trade. He’s imposing tariffs because he likes them as an economic policy. … There’s a mood of triumphalism in MAGA circles because the sky didn’t fall after Mr. Trump announced the highest tariffs in memory on April 2. But he retreated from that fiasco after a financial market panic. (my bolding) Mr. Trump’s tariffs on present course would take $300 billion in border taxes from the productive economy this year, and he seems bent on going higher. That’s an anti-growth tax increase, and an arbitrary one…

To many, me included, $300 billion (with a “B”) seems like a lot but in the context of the deficit, a trivial sum. As a percentage it is not even a rounding error.

More from the NYT: …Economists expect the tariffs, which Mr. Trump sees as a way to revive American manufacturing and add revenue to the federal budget, will reduce U.S. imports. American companies, as well as their business partners abroad, would suffer lower profit margins as the government levies are split between consumers, importers and exporters. Firms would be left with less money to pay wages and invest in their growth.

There are two sides to every coin.

(6/6/25) Meanwhile, Trump Coin, the meme cryptocurrency backed by the president, was down 12% in afternoon trading. Today coin is trading for about $8.50 each.

What does any of this mean? The takeaway seems to be America is already great. There is no AGAIN needed. As capitalists extraordinaire we will bet on anything. The market for anything and everything exists. Follow your passion. Or simply keep your money in your pocket.

Recommended reading – “The World for Sale” available on Amazon.

Carpe Diem.

Gilgamesh

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Various lines left from the past for us to understand today.

Reading the editor’s notes in poetry magazine, I noted that she made reference to Gilgamesh. In my technical education I was not exposed much if at all old and ancient writings. This fact became apparent to me when I walked into take the MAT test cold while I was working on my M Ed. Over the past twenty years or so if someone made reference to some old work or an author with which or whom I was unfamiliar, my inclination is to find that work or another work by the same author to familiarize myself with the style.

So it is with Gilgamesh. I found a volume on Amazon.

“The strongest of men will fall to fate if he has no judgment.”

This lesson (take away) from the story of Gilgamesh has been translated from a Babylonian clay tablet that was carved 900ish years BCE. This is I think the earliest known discussion of the death of common sense.

Reading about Gilgamesh who is two thirds god and one third man running around chasing down Enkidu who was living the good life like Tarzan or the roman twins brought to light the quoted comment from the gods shown above.

It is a cobbled up story about how Enkidu came to be. As it turns out, Gilgamesh was a stinker running around grabbing stuff even if he did not need it. That activity tends to use up all your kudos and the people get grumpy about it. Common folk started looking for a way to get rid of Gilgamesh so they can be in peace. They – the people – were feeling jilted and put upon. (Good king Wenceslas has run amok.) They talked to their god(s) who then talked to another group of designer gods who got the creator god on the phone. She, her name is Aruru, was told by the design team, you messed that up (Gilgamesh) so fix it.

Aruru invented Enkidu so that Gilgamesh (Gil) would have a playmate and leave the regular folks out of it. To make it seem plausible Gil had to do more conquerings. (We do a similar thing today. If you get assigned a drug that has (a) crappy side effect(s) there is also a drug to treat the side effect(s).) The story goes on to tell about various conquerings after Gilgamesh and Enkidu become mates and spend time doing the random conquerings. They do not spend much time thinking about the consequences of their conquerings. Eventually stuff turns to crap because the infrastructure is not being maintained. The flood happens. Etc.

The book of Genesis seems to be the same story with a few more begats in it and a little more specificity instead of leaving the story of everything up to a few random gods. The term god means starter person. In the beginning there had to have been starter people. Those early folks who through random chance developed the fire gene.

Once they developed fire, the world went rapidly crazy from there. Food tasted better. Drinks were better. Try making whiskey with cold water. Or try making bread without an oven. Smelting metals from ore is especially hard to do without fire, a really hot one. Wars became easier to fight with spears and swords and knives and arrows. It was easier to hunt when the war was on pause. Better longer lasting food led to affluence which led to opulence which led to pondering the universe and the why of it all. Steam was invented and that got rid of that annoying job of rowing and rigging the sails when not rowing. On and on it goes.

These days there is AI (arbitrary innocence, automated ignorance, artificial intelligence, you pick) which allegedly will either save us or kill us all and the grumpy folks are talking (still) to the gods. Where is Aruru?

The strongest of men will fall to fate if he has no judgment.

Throughout man’s existence the smart money has been on the guys who looked at all sides of some action before leaping into it with both feet. Fate in this instance is random happenstance. Planning is important. Even with all the planning fate can jump up and bite you in the left cheek while you are moving by it.

Maybe it is true. Stories must be told and retold over and over and again and again.

Carpe Diem.

Gnats

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A gnat is any of several species of small flying insects that magically appear in the late spring and stick around until late autumn. Here and there they show up without seemingly any help from anyone. It is truly magical. Tiny life, once not here and then here.

I thought of this while waiting for the Nespresso to complete this morning. I was watching one of God’s creatures hop across the kitchen counter nearby as my cup was filling. To be honest, I was focused on whether it was a gnat or one of the floaters that occasionally appear in my vision. Gnat it was.

Imagine the world we live in from the view of the gnat. Big does not begin to describe it.

Imagine your universe … big does not…

This is the kind of thought experiment that I have when I allow myself to do it. We are all here doing the same thing. – Eat, survive, stay alive, reproduce. Why do we spend so much time getting in front of each other? If the hope was I would answer this question so that it could be rebutted with opulent dismissiveness, I cannot. I cannot answer why many are willing to advance unwanted or unasked for interference. I cannot answer why we cannot merely be present for each other.

Gnat is a term that means small fly. There are many species of tiny insects that are referred to as gnats in a general sense. Gnat is a generic term. Gnat is a stereotypical term. Stereotypes are assessments of a small group and extension of those assumptions to a larger group with a bias toward that larger group. The bias often comes from a sense of envy.

In the New Testament there is a story about an owner of an olive grove who hires day labor several times a day to pick his olives. At the end of the day the guys who worked all day became grumpy that they were not paid more than the guys that had only picked olives for a couple hours. They expected their deal to change simply because the olive grove owner was generous to the late comers. The early group was envious of the late comers good fortune.

Envy is a powerful force in life. Envy is all mental. The guys who worked all day could have celebrated the two hour workers’ good fortune instead of mourning their own perceived misfortune but they did not. They chose to be grumpy. The olive grove owner admonished them for their grumpiness.

Everywhere in the world people, animals, insects, plants, fungi are doing the same thing – eat, survive, stay alive, reproduce. Seemingly not recognizing that our fellow people, animals, insects, plants, fungi are doing the same. Recognizing that we are all doing the same thing in life brings peace to the soul. Some would call that woke, a slang term that intends to demean the idea of compassion for our fellow man. Peace only comes with the awareness of the needs of others.

We are all human on Earth with the same needs.

We are all gnats or smaller in the universe. Our needs do not change nor do others.

Carpe Diem.

Kilo 8 Kilo Bravo Kilo

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Yesterday as I spent time paying bills electronically a conformation code from my bank began with KBK. It made me think about my older and only brother.

When I was much much younger, fourteen to be precise, I took all the testing and successfully received an amateur radio license. My brother Bill had achieved that many years prior. His call sign was K8KBK or as he often said, and I can still hear his voice, kilo number eight kilo bravo kilo. Dad was also a ham radio operator. His call sign was K8JZA. With my success I became WA8PRQ.

It is interesting to me how earlier experiences in life influence situations later in life. Early analog radio communication was often full of scratchy static and in order to clarify that communication a mnemonic was added after the original series of letters.

“Hello, CQ, Hello CQ, this is K-8-K-B-K, kilo number eight, kilo, bravo, kilo.” This is a request for contact of a non-emergency nature. CQ is Morse code shorthand for: calling all stations that are able to hear me. Ham radio folks just like to yak a lot. I used to have a key much like the picture. I could not get proficient with the dual key. We had one but I did not like it. I could do about 15 words a minute with this J38 style. Those days are other memories.

To this day, if I see WTF in a text message, in my head, I translate that to Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. Other leftovers from my Morse code days include TNX for thanks. Text messages from young people are often full of cryptic hieroglyphic-like emoticons and pictures of vegetables. The old Egyptians would be proud.

My ham radio days with Dad appeared in my head last summer while wandering through my time without Cheryl and wondering what to do with my time. I thought to develop old interests and maybe make new friends. Something that I was looking at caused the Facebook lunacy checker to send me a teaser about the American Radio Relay League (ARRL) and memories from teenagerhood came flooding into my head about QSL cards, Field Days, portable communications, hidden transmitter hunts and the Oh-Ky-In clubhouse which is now part of the I-275 loop around Cincinnati.

The memories are numerous and fond. I got excited and sent them money to get the current books to study up get a license back which made me wonder if I could get my original call sign back. I have not found that out, yet. When the books turned up a week or so later, I wondered what I was thinking about when I ordered them.

Life is like that when your anchor gets disconnected from the chain as mine was. The summer moved on and so did I. The books look good on the shelf next to other technical references of greater but passing interest. Once an engineer, always an engineer.

Cheryl was not interested in any of that but she was if I was. These days I write and read and read and write and wonder if I will ever get certain students to understand certain engineering topics and translate a control diagram into a physical circuit (that works.) I have over time morphed into an instructor at a community college near me. It has become over time either more of an interest or less of an interest depending upon which day. Life is full of ups and downs.

I think I have found a new anchor, a person to be with, a listener, a friend, a place to feel comfortable and home.

We read and I write and we text and we talk. She teaches me the meaning of various glyphs (emojis). She admonishes me for the incorrect use of other glyphs. We have fun and enjoy each other’s company.

I think I have mentioned that before in other posts here.

I have fond memories of my earlier days. It has taken this past year and a few strategic moves and removals for me to mainly think about the great times in my life.

Reminders of recent sad times are still here and there. They are just not in the front row any longer.

Carpe Diem.

Winter and Wonder

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I have always wondered, well maybe always is not the correct word, whether I could be a creative writer. I write a lot and think to myself what a neat thing it would be to be a real writer.

Others have told me that I have a pleasant voice, an informative voice. And I, as an observer of life and my own self detect a certain ego trip, something that makes you puff up your chest, a feeling that makes you want to, because I am male, straighten up your sports jacket when others have said or written that to me. I smile inside when I think about it.

Over the years I have attended writers classes and workshops. They are all full of ideas and techniques for writing creatively. I think my brain is too technical and hung up on the details of spelling, grammar, structure and voice. I am comfortable with my own voice when telling a story and I am comfortable with a camera view and the third person. I have a hard time writing past the little red squiggly line that Word uses to say, “Hey I don’t recognize that word!” That little red line shouts at me from the page and I have to do something right then which, and I recognize this, often bumps me off the thought I had going.

You are shaking your head and thinking, you can turn that off. Yes, I know that I can disable the spell check thingy in Word or LibreOffice which is one word with a capital in the middle, but it produces a background anxiety which is unwarranted but there nevertheless. Keeping all of that in mind I can go on with my story.

On my blog which has turned into a running commentary of life of the past few years with Cheryl and about Cheryl I notice that I am slowly turning inward to examine myself. The grief and anxiety of the past half decade put me in the mindset of taking care of her and making that work. She is gone now. Although I wish she was not, she is. But that is not the creative writing part with which I started this essay this morning. I am still working on that. I know many people who do puzzles. Stories are my puzzle.

—

Weather patterns in the Ohio valley in winter are gray and depressing. The occasional clearing sky lets in the sun. Muted browns and grays seem more so when the cardinals appear in the woods in back resting from attacking the bird feeder of my next door neighbor. The sky is bluer. Winter is in its early weeks but the light is returning to the planet and the cardinals know this. They will establish their territory to attract a mate. For now though it seems the females are waiting out the snowy season. The winter season has many weeks to go yet. And maybe, just maybe, one of many ideas floating around in my head will turn into a story before the end of it that I will keep instead of delete.

Carpe Diem

Connections

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I really enjoy playing this game from the New York Times. It gets me to think beyond what I perceive.

One of the words today was “shiva”. To me in my environment in my meager knowledge of the world, other cultures, other traditions, “shiva” says mourning and is part of Jewish faith tradition. I am also a poor speller. That shiva is spelled with a h on the end. It can also be something that one does in a cold late Autumn drizzle while waiting for the bus if you are located in the part of New England where the r is often dropped at the end of the word. These two thoughts in combination led me to type shiva into Google’s AI driven (assisted?) interface.

The Hindu god of destruction appeared with a picture. All became clear. Before I returned to the NYT Games page to search for the rest of the connections to shiva, I spent some comfortable blissful time reading about Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. (Creator, Preserver, Destroyer) I play this game every morning but I do not always finish it because I become impatient with myself and the search for the connections. Patience is a virtue that has to be practiced often even in small ways to become comfortable. And I am not a keen observer of pop culture. Some connections are those kind.

All of this came while I am baking another new recipe and became distracted with thinking that Carl Sagan had written a book called Connections but his book is actually entitled, “Cosmos Connections”. I used to have it somewhere. His show from the 1980s is called simply Cosmos. Astronomy, planets and stars and night time sky phenomena also fascinate me. Oops I have fallen down another rabbit hole but it has led me to thinking about Cheryl. Or maybe the smell of baking has caused me to think about her.

Cheryl at the very end of her life became enamored with the moon and its phases. A couple times sitting with her in the evening in front of our home watching the moon and airplanes and the international space station go by, I saw the wonder in her eyes and voice as she marveled at the bigness of it all and the smallness of us. These little snippets of lucidity appeared at random. I think she was sensing something that I could not.

I miss that and I miss her. I am glad that our connection is so strong. I am glad that she leaves me little messages around when I hunt for things.

Carpe Diem… (I’m sure you can smell it. Banana Nut bread)

Poetry – And Other Thoughts

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Thinking all the way back to high school, I have had a fascination with poetry of all sorts. I credit Fr. Averbeck and his English Literature class for this fascination. His love of Shakespeare and poetry came through when he taught. The school was re-organizing the scheduling for many classes and trying to fit as much as possible into the school day. Eng. Lit. was merely thirty minutes long. It was the best thirty minute block of time in my day.

Poetry invokes a picture which develops into an emotion and a feeling which awakens other senses. Smells erupt and colors appear as you let the words tell the story of the author has penned. The picture may be very different from the words. The picture may be very much like the words. Listen. You will see it.

With Cheryl gone, I find myself reading more and reading poetry out loud. I am surprised sometimes at the involuntary emotion that sounds in my voice. I am not surprised at the memories that are awakened by various poems. This one – Casey at The Bat – is sort of corny, and yet, my voice always wavers and most times tears well up in my eyes. It takes me to a time when our youngest child had to memorize a poem in grade school. His intention was to find a short poem. I challenged him to commit to memory “Casey At The Bat”. I will learn it with you. It became a dinner time thing.

I would say, “The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day, the score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.” We traded lines back and forth. When he recited the poem in class for the rest of the students and his teacher, he told me one of his classmates asked him, “Did they win?” I laughed. He went on to tell me it was the longest poem anyone recited.

Those are good memories. It should not be surprising to me that tears of nostalgia appear in my eyes. 

Casey at the Bat
By Ernest Lawrence Thayer
A Ballad of the Republic, Sung in the Year 1888

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clinched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

Copyright Credit: n/a

I love that poem. I can hear the crowd and smell hotdogs. But mostly I can see Scott as a young boy stretching his arms and growing into himself. This effort by Thayer is an ode and tells a story. Many poems that I read are more prayerful and and paint a much different picture and evoke a feeling of calm. Some can enrage. This one brings with it family time.

Carpe the Labor Diem

The Apaches Invaded

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The Apache is an old war bird. This group which is dressed up like an air National Guard unit were parked behind the terminal at Lunken today. Sorry guys the Ski Galley is closed. Did you bring your own lunch?

It is rainy and overcast in southwest Ohio today but the weather held off long enough so I was to get 11 miles logged on my Zeopoxa cycling app. The stats do not mean much since I stop and do not pause the time except once when I paused it while taking pictures of the tarmac.and did not remember to un-pause it right away. Bummer.

The view from the water stop bench was more interesting than normal.

Carpe the bike Diem.

Strange New World

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It is a strange new experience for me this new existence without Cheryl. In order to fill a large part of the time void I have been riding my new bike around for exercise, but mostly, I am exploring bike paths that I have not ridden on before. Occasionally I ride on streets nearby but car drivers generally scare me. I am an old man and I have first hand experience with falling down. I imagine being knocked down by a car would be significantly worse.

I am sitting here in my living area next to Cheryl’s empty chair. between that chair and mine is an end table. It is one of a pair I built many years ago as an off the wall furniture building project I created for myself. There is no special significance to any of that except that one evening last summer Cheryl began to scratch off the coating of varnish that I had finished them with. Over a period of several days she picked at a nick on the edge of the table until she had exposed a flaw in the finish. She worked on that flaw until she had scratched an oval area about the size of a soup spoon. I may have been upset at the time but I distinctly remember thinking to myself, I can refinish the table later sometime.

I think I shall never do any refinishing on the table. It is such a strong image that I get when I look at this little marred spot. She was so very determined. Her only tool was her thumbnail.

As I ride my bike around I think of things like this. How memories can be remembered by an insignificant prompt like a scratch on a piece of furniture. Scratches give furniture life.

Yesterday I teased my neighbor to ride with me. He had expressed an interest before. Occasionally he tells me about seeing a used bike for sale somewhere. I bought a new bicycle and as a result have a spare. He told me he has not ridden a bike since grad school.

It was a good day to ride. It was relatively cool. It was mostly overcast. He could not find his helmet in the garage clutter. I told him we were going to a park and it was mostly flat. As long as he did not fall off, he would not need a helmet. It was my own little joke. Besides I continued, aim for the weeds if you are going to fall over.

We started by riding around the park loop which is a bit shy of two miles. I took him over to a connector that joined this loop to the nearby airport loop. I stopped at the bottom of a long gentle grade and asked if he wanted to continue. He said yes and off I went. At the top of the grade I stopped near a bench to drink some water and watch the airplanes for a bit. A little out of breath, he remarked that the grade was longer than he expected. I laughed and told him the reward for going up was coming back down. We continued on for a couple more miles of flatness and at another bench stopped and watched the planes some more.

We turned around and headed back to the car. When we got there he remarked that he had forgotten that he had hand brakes. His old bike had a coaster brake. It reminded me of another story.

Many years ago Cheryl and took a Road Scholar tour to Mackinac Island in northern Michigan. One afternoon that we had to ourselves we rented bicycles to ride around the island. I tried to get her on a tandem bike with me but she was not having it. We rented a couple of bikes that looked like old Schwinn bikes. Both had coaster brakes. I had not ridden a coaster brake bike since I was about ten years old. I was fine until we stopped at an ice cream place on the island to get a snack. I had a mild panic stop by dragging my feet. Cheryl however made a smooth controlled stop because the only kind of bike she had was one with a coaster brake.

Old furniture and conversation and bike riding remind me of life stories with Cheryl. I hope that it will always be that way.

It was a good day. We only rode for eight miles which is coincidentally the approximate distance around Mackinac Island. When I asked him today how his legs felt he replied fine, but I can still feel the bicycle seat. He used to come with Cheryl and me to pizza Tuesday. He is a good friend.

Yesterday, I left him hunting for his helmet in the organized clutter of his garage as I left to visit with my son. Perhaps when the bicycle seat impression fluffs back out and if he finds his helmet he will come again.

Carpe Diem.

Dear Cheryl

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Dear Cheryl,

It has been exactly four weeks since I have written to you. The days blend together, so, ever since you have moved to Bridgeway Pointe, I have kept a journal of how you appear to me, your moods, your alertness, my thoughts and other things. As I look through this log of information about the past few weeks I noted many things that have happened during the last four weeks.

A couple days after I wrote the last letter, I was enjoying the sunset with some of our neighbors and was a little more inebriated than I thought at the time and fell while getting up from my chair. I admit to myself that I was feeling a little sad when I came home from visiting you that day. I do not know why. You appeared frail and I noted that I cried when I first saw you that day. I suppose that was still with me when I returned home to make myself dinner. For whatever reason I give myself, I found the bottle of vodka that I had in the freezer and added a little sprite to it in a glass. ( I was out of tonic. ) It was sweeter than I like but I imagined watching the sun go down while I was waiting for the casserole I had put together cook in the oven. Two of our neighbors showed up to join me and all was well until I fell on my face. I must have knocked myself out because I have little memory of the incident until I was looking at a fireman who strongly suggested that I go to the hospital. I had no interest in doing that but I gave in and went anyway. Now I have this collar to wear that you see me in when I come to visit. And now I know what an annoying experience that must have been for you when you were taken to the hospital over the past several years. Although I was not hallucinating at night, sleeping was like trying to get forty winks in a busy elevator.

I went to the hospital on Thursday evening. I came back home on Sunday afternoon. Sleeping on Sunday night was wonderful. I made it to six hours before my bladder took me to the bathroom. All of our kids came to visit with me on Friday. Scott gave me a ride home on Sunday. Anna and David and Scott visited you and me that whole weekend. We have wonderful children.

On Monday I was a little stiff and wearing an old set of eyeglasses. I could see okay but not comfortable driving with my new neck apparel. Your sister, Nancy, offered to drive me over to Bridgeway Pointe so that is what happened on Monday, bloody Monday. About every other day of that week you were sleeping when I came and Nancy gave me a ride to visit another day and we rode you around the building that day. You were more alert and Nancy seemed pleased to do it.

On Monday March 25th I went to see Lauren, our PCP folk. Her office called me the Monday after I got home from the hospital to check on me and ask if I wanted to come in for a visit. I admitted to her that I felt a little sad that day and asked her if there was a grief counselor or psychologist I could talk to about me. I am not sure what I want to get out of such an encounter. Sometimes when I leave you to come home I feel an overwhelming sadness. I did that Thursday a few weeks ago. I thought to have several drinks. That was a normal, I suppose, and stupid reaction. I will have to be aware of that when it creeps up on me. Perhaps I should just call Joyce or your sister Nancy and talk about what I am feeling. I am unsure about how talking to a complete stranger or a group of complete strangers will help. Joyce asked me if it affected my manliness when I felt sad and teary-eyed with others around. I replied that it did not bother me so much but I wished that it would not happen. She pointed out to me that you are a very important person in my life and although you have not passed on from this Earth, in many ways you have passed on from me and that is always going to be hard on me. (I think it is not so hard on you because you seem off somewhere else most days when I come to visit.)

Anna had a party for Virginia’s Birthday. She is sweet sixteen now. Do you remember what a cute two year old she was? I spent David’s birthday in the hospital. I wished him a happy birthday when he came to visit me.

Britney called me on the phone one evening as I was driving home from kissing you good night. She said you had slid out of your wheelchair as they were getting you into bed for the evening. Are you having a harder time sitting up in that chair? Or were you in a hurry to get into bed? I remember when you were home with me sometimes you went to bed early and were in a hurry to get there.

On Easter Sunday when I came to visit, You asked me where I was going today. I told you that I was going to Anna’s house for the afternoon for a cookout. I noted this in my journal because of two things; your voice was very plain and understandable when you asked, it seemed to me to be a very lucid thought. After you asked me that, you said; good, I am going to stay here today. (I noted a small patch of lucidity.)

I took the seat cushion from your wheelchair home to clean it on April Fools Day. It needed it. I traded the other cushion from the kitchen chairs with you. The last time I washed it I had to chase the washer around the utility room. It was out of balance after the cushion had sucked up ten pounds of water from the wash cycle. This time I thought that I would just soak it in the utility sink. I put about six inches of hot water in it and added a little bleach to the water. (It looked like you may have leaked a little onto it one day.) After soaking overnight it had these vivid purplish stains on it. There must be some metal in whatever it is stuffed with. Bleach reacts with a couple different metals to produce a purplish stain. Its clean but it looks bad.

This situation we are in, as I watch you become more and more frail. And as I watch you lose more and more weight. This whole process makes me worry about losing the picture in my head of your lovely smile. I have made a new project for myself of making a collage of you and your smile. So far it is pretty good, I think. I printed it out for you here so you can see for yourself and judge. I do not have a copy of every picture. There are many. On the next page you can see what it looks like so far. I am still searching for one or two other pictures that I know I have but with the cleanup I have been doing around our house I have placed them in a safe place where they will not be lost. I have not found that place back yet.

I have learned many things over the past four weeks. Do not drink vodka if I am sad. Beer will make me get up for a trip to the toilet more often and the alcohol is more dilute.

Avoid overnight stays in a hospital.

I am not interested in puzzles. I tried to become interested after one of the trips to Bridgeway Pointe with your sister. (new hobby and all that…) I have had it partially assembled on the dining room table for about two and a half weeks. I am told that real puzzle workers do not leave them dissembled out for that long. All I can say is that I am not that interested.

I am interested in writing more. I have a loose collection of stories that I call a hitchhiker’s guide to parkinson. That is much like a puzzle to me. Fitting it together as a story and memoir of our last fifteen years or so is a goal. Whether I achieve it or not is up to me.

A total eclipse of the sun is a magnificent sight. I shall remember it forever.

My journal is becoming more than a log of you and how you are. Two days ago I felt that my sourdough starter was far enough along to use it to make a loaf. Over that day I came to visit with you three times while I was waiting for it to proof and develop. At the end of the day after dinner and I got the loaf out of the oven, I came back over to Bridgeway Pointe to visit you. This is what I wrote that night when I returned home: I use this book to write about Cheryl and how she is doing but tonight I was disappointed that she was already in bed. I suppose I could sit with her in the darkened room but I sat on the edge of the bed for a short time and held her hand. I kissed her good night and went home disappointed. — I wanted to sit with her like we used to do.

(In the evening, some nights I really miss just sitting with you – maybe we watch TV, maybe we just talk, maybe you beat me at Scrabble, maybe I read a book and you are sewing on some project.)

Cheryl that is all I have for now. I have tried to catch you up on all the doings that happened since last I wrote. Know always that I love you.

Paul

Carpe Diem