Saturday, June 08, 2019

A happy hour kind of day

A slanted view of happy house
Happy hour on the patio. In truth, I needed that sociability. Happy hour was a welcome break from a long day in which I was getting tired of my own company. I did work—my usual thousand words, and I was pleased with them. I’m finding my brain tires after a thousand words, and I best give it up. Today I was deep in cattle drives of the 1860s, from Texas north to Abilene, Kansas, and then points ever closer until the railroad got to Wichita Falls. Not sure if tomorrow will be a working day or not, since it’s Sunday and church is on my agenda. I hope to go in person, but if that doesn’t work out, I’ll be a virtual attendee.

But at any rate, the next workday will be devoted to a study of the “Indian depredations” in nineteenth-century North Texas. The trouble with writing about this is the problem of politically correct language. I know better than to refer to Native Americans as Indians—they should be referred to by tribe or called Native Americans, but the latter does not roll off the tongue easily, and it sounds downright awkward in some passages in writing the kind of history I’m writing. On the other hand, I can only say “Comanche and Kiowa” so many times, and I end up using the word Indian which is inaccurate and derogatory. I tell myself it’s okay because back then it was the current usage.

I worked hard this morning, wore my brain out, and had a nice nap dreaming of preparing to take a cruise, with Jordan, to Alaska  For some reason we were staying in an upscale hotel for several days before departing, but Jordan had left my walker in a field where we’d parked to load the VW van (don’t ask). The worst of it was that she’d left Sophie tied to the walker. That image alone sent me into the giggles, because a walker would never stop Soph—she’d just go where she wanted, dragging the thing along with her, albeit somewhat unhappily. Tonight on the patio, she wormed her way into the passageway between our yard and the neighbors, and Jordan and Jay (yes, the handsome neighbor I haven’t blogged about much lately) had to go fetch her. When I scolded her, she refused to look at me.

Jordan, who has been working all day helping clients even on a Saturday reminds me of myself at that age. She doesn’t sit still but pops up to feed Sophie, water a plant, get the wine bottle, let her June Bug out and then in when Junie changes her mind. Jordan’s moments of peaceful rest are few and far between.

We did have a nice visit with Jay, who we don’t see much these days. Mostly we talked about garden matters, and it left me with a list of things to do. Some tree branches are threatening to fall on my car and must be tended to, there is nut grass in the lawn, and the lawn crew needs to weed eat in that narrow strip behind the cottage. Sigh. It’s always something.

I came inside and fixed myself a squash casserole, which was really good and will, I’m sure, show up in a “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” blog sometime soon. The innovation I am proud of? I topped it with crushed Cheez-Its, those crackers I remember from a childhood addiction. Neighbor Mary likes them as much as I do, and I keep them for our Tuesday happy hours. Tonight, when I went looking for Ritz crackers, the Cheez-Its seemed like a perfect solution—and they were.

Sweet dreams, y’all.

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