Get Outta Here

We heard them before we saw them.

Our walking route today took us about a block from a Tesla dealership. About a hundred protesters were jammed onto the narrow sidewalk in front, chanting and waving anti-DOGE signs at the busy intersection of a main road and a couple of off- and on-ramps for the interstate. A cheer rose up every time a passing motorist honked in agreement. 

As we turned the corner, a woman approached us from the other direction. "Were you at the protest?" she asked breathlessly.

"No," I told her. "We're just walking by. They seem to have a good crowd, though."

"Well, this cute dog looks like she might have an objection or two to Elon Musk's meddling in the federal government," she laughed as she leaned over to pet Lucy. "I heard the group is planning to demonstrate every week," she said as she turned to go. "They call it 'Tesla Tuesday'! Catchy, right?"

"Easy to remember, for sure," I agreed.

As we continued on our way, I thought about the history of that particular location. It had always seemed outlandish to me when they had replaced the long-time local seafood store with a high-end car dealership fifteen years ago. First, it was Maserati, but Tesla took over the site in 2021. Suffice it to say, I haven't had the occasion to patronize either business.

Elon Musk and his wicked ways aside, I wish they would bring back the fish!

What Always Follows

The day was deceptive: from the window, bright sunlight, blue skies, and blossoms suggested a mild warmth, but in reality, the breeze was chill, and the air cold enough to keep the temperature below 50. Even so, in my hoodie and sunglasses, the weather was fine, and walking the dog was a joy rather than a chore. 

As we meandered through the neighborhood, something about the sun's slant through the newly budding trees reminded me of so many Easter Sundays in the past, when we shivered in those nippy early spring mornings in our holiday finery, hunting for eggs and posing for pictures. Still, the cold didn't really matter back then, either.

Although we may have been surprised by the crispness of the day, the promise of warmer weather was always there.

A Prequel to What?

I read The Hunger Games shortly after it was released in 2008. Back then, reality TV was still in its early stages, and the dystopian premise of a show where kids fought to the death was darkly original. 

It's hard to remember how perceptive and novel Suzanne Collins's concept was because, since then, the book and movie franchises have become a part of our cultural fabric: the name is shorthand for any brutal, unfair competition, and the term tribute is widely recognizable as someone immorally sacrificed by the powers that be. 

In the 17 years since The Hunger Games was published, reality TV has also evolved into a cultural phenomenon; by some reckonings, 80% of American adults who watch TV watch at least one hour of reality TV per week. Many producers, cable stations, celebrities, and politicians (ahem) owe a considerable measure of their success to the genre. Arguably, its popularity also paved the way for people's willingness to share so much of their lives on social media.

Now Suzanne Collins is back with a new novel in the series. Sunrise on the Reaping is a prequel to the original trilogy and tells the story of Haymitch Abernathy and his experience in the 50th Hunger Games, 24 years before he mentors Katniss and Peeta. Despite its foregone conclusion, it's a really good book, in my opinion, almost equal to the first novel, which was my favorite.

I'll spare you any spoilers; what caught my attention was an almost toss-away line in a minor scene. Talking about editing footage for the broadcast, a character "sighs when he mentions the tools that were incapacitated and abolished in the past, ones deemed fated to destroy humanity because of their ability to replicate any scenario and any person, and in mere seconds." 

He's talking about deepfakes and AI, of course, and his words made me wonder just what we might be saying about those topics in 17 years.

Magical Gateway

At first, I thought I had gotten away with something. As I was leaving the parking lot of a big box store, the gate opened before I could even fish out my validated ticket. The relief I felt at not having to figure out where and which part of the ticket to scan was immense: those automatic gates can be so finicky, and a line of cars behind you waiting to exit the busy lot only makes the situation more stressful.

When I returned a few weeks later, I had my ticket handy, but I made certain to use the same gate. Sure enough, I was on my way out before I could even roll down my window, and I did a little happy dance in my seat. Curiosity made me try another gate the next time, mostly because it seemed so impossible for any machinery to read a parking ticket that was closed up in a car. But again, the barrier lifted as I approached.

The next phase of research would probably require not getting my ticket validated to see if they are just pretending to charge for parking, but that? Would entail being unprepared at the gate, and you know, that line of cars. So, for now my inquiry is on hold.

But whatever that technology is? I'm a fan!

2BR 1BA, Pets Encouraged

I ran into one of our long-time neighbors in the parking lot this afternoon.  She has lived across from us, off and on, for about ten years. "I heard you were moving," I said.

"We're out," she told me. "I'm just here to meet our renter." She must have noticed my slightly crestfallen expression because she hurriedly added, "He seems really nice!"

I nodded.

"And?" she continued, "he has a dog!"

"Well, I guess he'll fit right in, then!" I laughed.

Mysterious Matchbook

Lucy and I were walking on a well-traveled street in the neighborhood when we veered off the sidewalk so that she could have a sniff. I glanced down to avoid stepping in any messes and saw a matchbook at my feet. It was neatly closed and, despite recent rains, completely dry. But what drew me to pick it up for closer examination was the vintage typeface and the old telephone number.

Intrigued, I tucked it in my pocket and took it home to investigate. My first thought was that it was some sort of promotional facsimile, but nothing I could find confirmed that theory. Cook is a tiny town between the Iron Range and the Boundary Waters in Northern MN, and as far as I could determine, Cook Motor Sales went out of business in 1965 when the owner, Theophil "Phil" Parzyck, died. 

The telephone number is evidence that this matchbook is at least 17 years older than that, though, because in 1947, everyone in the lower 48 states and Canada got a ten-digit number with an area code as part of the Bell Telephone Company's "North America Numbering Plan."

To find out a little more, I searched for that old telephone number on Newspapers.com. In addition to a few ads for the car company, I found a couple classified notices listing bear cubs and wolf puppies for sale (!). It turns out that there were no regulations at the time about keeping wildlife as pets, so it seems to have been a side hustle to supplement the auto sales and repair.

My research did turn up a few of these same matchbooks for sale on eBay. Priced at $8.95 a piece, they were labeled "NOS," which evidently means "new old stock," an oxymoron for sure. The seller offered assurance that they were authentic and in new condition, so I figured there must have been a stash of them somewhere that was recently discovered. Even so? The vendor is in Oklahoma. 

So, how this particular matchbook made it to a sidewalk in Virginia is still a mystery, but what a history it holds! And it makes a good story, too. 

Now and Then

We live in a clapboard house, and one of our seasonal rituals is to place electric candles in each of the muntined windows when Daylight Savings Time ends in November. Seeing their cheerful glow in the early darkness always lightens my heart and is a harbinger of the warmth of home and the holiday spirits ahead. 

The advent of DST again in the spring is our signal to put those lights away until fall, and that's what I did today: carefully removing their batteries and placing them in a bin to go into the attic. As I completed this small chore, I remembered the promises the candles and their light seem to make each autumn, and it made me a little sad to see them go. I also wondered what the next eight months might bring and who I will be early next November when its time to get them down again. 

The windows were open as I worked, though. Yesterday's chill was replaced by soft spring air, warm and a bit muggy. I could hear birds twittering and tweeting as they hopped about their own tasks, readying for the longer days ahead, but fully present in the moment. I snapped the bin shut, slid it into its place in the attic, and headed out into this spring day.