I just looked at headlines in my Google newsfeed of stories I simply do not care about, nor will I ever care about. They are Google’s way of affirming my irrelevance as an old white man. I am an anachronism.

I see a pattern here.
You’ve been warned.

This is very sobering.
Fred Flintstone is a completely fictional character. So were Wilma, Barney, Betty, Pebbles and Bam-Bam.
Most likely he did not get around in that car he got moving by running.
He did not have that dinosaur Dino for a pet.
If they lied to us about Fred, what else did they lie to us about?

The need to urinate morphs into lying in bed, hoping for sleep to return. No luck. I dress, go downstairs, fix a cup of herb tea. I feel drowsy.

My dis-ease of late is prompted by thoughts of my late ex-wife. We had been divorced for over twenty years when she died. There is no good reason why I should feel this way, why I still mourn this person. I guess I could prove to her that I am a worthwhile human being, were she still alive.

No matter. I will make a donation to the Unity Church she attended in her memory, toward garden maintenance. The gardens were her special love. See if that helps.

At dinner tonight, J told me about a Joan Crawford movie from 1969 that she wanted to see, that we could watch together.

I told her that Joan Crawford movies, particular her later horror, schlock movies give me the creeps. I’m peculiar that way. So I said “NO”,

Big Victory.

In September 2010, shortly after coming into The Church, J and I did Marriage Encounter. We wrote in our notebooks, did the exercises, wrote the “love letters”. I was going through a drawer and found all that stuff that I had saved. I had planned to throw it out. Then I read what J wrote to me. And I could not toss them, at least not just yet. But it is painful to consider that lack of communication in our marriage. One cannot talk when one is asleep.

I’m watching Popeyes Cartoons from 1934-35 again. The propriety police have advised me about racist and sexist stereotypes that are depicted these cartoons.

Maybe so, but when Popeye eats his spinach the music gets real upbeat and justice triumphs. So I feel better. Popeye will knock the stuffing out of Bluto and the world is set a right once more. And the music….

The music is wonderful. Beautiful arrangements, performed by violinists, saxophonists, flautists, and other real musicians. No cheesy synthesizers.

And it is wonderful pretend.

Put off laundry for too damn long

Have extra large load of denim in the washer.

Change to Standard Time means it will be 2:00 AM twice.

Why can’t we do this every night?

I don’t know quite what to say. I am tired, mentally and physically. I had a lovely luncheon at my son and daughter-in-law’s house on Church Hill. This is the neighborhood where my parents grew up, courted each other and were married, seventy-five years ago. While sitting in the dining room of this lovely old (1896) row house, I had the odd feeling I had been there before. So did my sister and brother. We were all three familiar with this neighborhood from 60+ years ago. We flew kites with Dad and our Uncle Ed in the adjacent park, Chimborazo Park, when we were children. It was the odd feeling of being at home in a completely unfamiliar place.

We had a lovely time, talking and eating barbeque, collards, cole slaw. Southern stuff. But we’re Southerners and not merely Southerners, but Virginians, the most annoying Southerners of all.

The memories and anecdotes came to mind. We remembered the stock of family eccentrics, like Merle and Earl, Daddy’s cousins. They were rather affable bootleggers, who made. moonshine, because they knew how and didn’t see why they shouldn’t. They were pursued by the same revenue agents for years, were eventually caught, and did time. They finally got real jobs and went straight. Before they died, they had a reunion, an amicable reunion, with the revenue agents who sent them to jail. That kind of stuff did take place.

I don’t want to make a Civil War post. After seeing the sites, and processing what happened with an adult mind, it is too horrible to talk about The Civil War. The cemeteries filled with unknown dead, old daguerrotypes showing piles of amputated limbs, the stories of privation and loss handed down over not that many generations are the heritage of the Civil War, none of that Gone With The Wind Hollywood crap.

The old Church Hill neighborhood is not completely gentrified. The African -Americans who replaced my parents generation still live in the community. I suspect it’s a pretty nice community, but the trend to gentrification bids the real estate through the roof. We’ve found a pleasant and affordable niche. We’re too comfortable to go anywhere.