It is Monday in Ashland. I hear the sound of a train horn, next the crossing gate’s alarm , now the bell and screech of brakes as #86 Northbound pulls in to pick up passengers on its way to Washington and ultimately New York City.

There are people who commute to Washington on this train, bureaucrats, contract emloyees or contractors’ emloyees. Perhaps a tourist is making a day trip to Washington. A day trip to New York isn’t out of the question, but that is a stretch.

I miss both big cities. I miss the museums of both cities. I miss the excitement, the noise and the smells of Manhattan. The adventure, for me, starts by climbing aboard the train.

Other sounds for Monday bring me back. The hum of traffic on England Street where street crosses tracks. It is not yet 6:30. The tradesmen, electricians, plumbers and mechanics are headed to work, maybe some doctors, definitely nurses, headed in for the shift change. And there is another train horn, most likely a freight. Here it comes. Not a freight this hour, but Northbound #52 Autotrain, headed to Lorton, VA on its nonstop run from Sanford Florida. The train carries passengers and their cars, or trucks, or motorcycles.

We have reverted to quiet again. Now I hear the refrigerator in the house and not much else.

Truth be told, I’m cold this morning. I guess I should turn up the air conditioning.

I wonder what the sounds of an inefficient world were, with steam locomotives that had whistles, rather than air horns. There were horse-drawn wagons once that delivered ice in summer, coal in winter. That meant the sound of shod hooves on cobblestone pavements. And we can close our eyes and imagine the sound of the town band performing in the bandstand in the park, Perhaps Sinclair Lewis, John dos Passos, Edgar Lee Masters, or Sherwood Anderson wrote of such a moment. Maybe Samuel Barber, Charles Ives, or Aaron Copeland gave that musical moment music of his own.

We listen to America going about its business. I fight the sleep returning. I watch this day begin. I hear the throaty diesel of the refuse truck. Later a train will pass, hauling giant green containers, filled with Washingtonian refuse. Refuse, picked up compacted, hauled and dumped, only to be loaded hauled and dumped again. What strange effluvia of progress is our waste!

I wonder if I just heard the sounds of progress or simply more noise.

Those of us of a certain age will remember how the local drag strip promoted their lineup of Sunday races. Sorry to disappoint but this post has nothing to do with either automobiles or crossdressers racing. It is simply about my Sunday so far.

I decided to go to the 8:30 AM Mass, since I was awake and had no idea how I would feel later in the day.

This was the first Sunday in the parish for our new priest, Father John David. He seems like a good priest, a quiet, soft spoken man who gave a thoughtful homily about the Mass itself. His approach to The Sacred Liturgy emphasizes traditional settings, no guitars or “hootenanny” service music and hymns.

A friend told me that I looked like I was in pain. I was in pain, so I got home and lay down as soon as I could.

Now after a nap, all that “holiness” from the Mass has worn off and I feel lazy and lustful again, my usual operational state.

I’m trainspotting, reading blogs, waiting for J to get back home. She went to lunch with a friend. I need more coffee and probably a real meal.

Later.

Dear World,

I try very hard to transcend the limitless number of petty opinions I have about the world and the people who live in it.

It’s hard work.

If I upset you today, I will try harder tomorrow to be the Sunbeam for Jesus He wants me to be.

Cordially,

Dave.

Please do not confuse love

With stimulation of your genitals.

Just suggesting that.

Do whatever you wish.

In that vein, do not expect the government to pay your medical bills.

I woke up after sleeping fairly well, but not long enough. Pakistan is playing Bangladesh at Lord’s in London. Looks like a good game so far. There is a rhythm and timelessness to cricket. I listen to the satisfying thunk of a bat striking the ball. They seem to come at a regular interval.

I was curious as to where Northbound Silver Meteor #98 would intersect with Southbound Silver Meteor #98 this morning. Sometime around 1:30 AM, they intersect just North of Fsyetteville, North Carolina. This is your useless tidbit of information for the day.

Saving souls works through a gentle heart. I don’t know where that came from.

And I’m tired now.

This tooth deal is bigger than I thought, as my good buddy Olivia pointed out. The actual extraction was OK. The novacaine was a good local anaesthetic. After the extraction comes the course of antibiotic and the pain meds. I didn’t feel the need for hydrocodone after yesterday. I’m taking naproxen now, an NSAID. The antibiotic plays havoc with my intestinal flora, so plenty of yogurt for me.

J’s work schedule compels me to be up when she gets up, although with cricket starting at 530 AM, her early starts dovetail nicely with my latest diversion.

The political scandals here in the States are about to explode. I fear very much that some high profile political figures will be involved in human trafficking and drug smuggling cases. An awful lot of well-intentioned people will discover that their anti-Trump outrage was ginned up to provide cover for the crooks. Just sayin’.

I’m tired. Part of the recovery, I think,

.

India and Bangladesh are facing off. India is batting first. They have 133 runs for 0 wickets Rohit Sharma just hit another 6. I don’t know what to say. This is a remarkable partnership with Rahul. Both could have centuries.

I got up way too early. I shall go back to bed. But watching cricket is like eating salty snacks like peanuts or a bag of crisps. “Just one more ball, one more over.” “I’ll turn it off when they take the first (next) wicket”. Pretty soon the morning has evaporated.

I have come to think of India and Bangladesh differently from watching Cricket World Cup. Prior to the tournament, I thought of these nations in terms of their problems and little else. These nations have their competitiveness and sportsmanship on display. They have every right to be proud.

There is something evocative of the Nineteenth Century reflected in this match. Sure the technology is much advanced. But spirit of the Empire lives on.