A new study on why art matters

 

A cookbook combining writing and cooking.
Part of the ars?

When iconic Texas novelist the late Elmer Kelton told his father, a ranch foreman all his life, that he wanted to be writer, the elder Kelton gave his son a look that “could have killed Johnson grass” and said, “That’s the trouble with young people. They don’t want to work.” Elmer by his own admission never made a ranch hand, but he made a heck of an important Texas writer. Does it matter?

Almost every congressional fiscal resolution includes motions to defund the National Council for the Arts and the National Council for the Humanities, on the theory that the money could be better spent in more practical ways. In the US the arts usually play second fiddle to business and “practical” matters. Perhaps it’s our Puritan heritage, when art was suspect of being at best unorthodox, dangerous, and at a worst a tool of Satan. Perhaps it’s the more modern reality, as Elmer’s father thought, that it’s hard for a young person to make a living in the arts. Nonetheless the notion remains in too much of society that the arts are frivolous.

“The arts” is an umbrella term. What, really, does it include? When people hear the word, they usually think visual arts—painting and sculpture—with the performative arts next—theater, dance, musical performances, etc. And finally poetry. Somehow creative written works are often left out of the mix. And yet, they require as much creativity as the other arts. So I often include books in the definition and even that is too narrow, but it may be the best we have at the moment.

Writing in the “Maine Crime Writers” blog, author Dick Cass reviews the book Your Brain on Art, by Susan Magsamen and Ivy Ross, an exploration of the ways that art and science, instead of being antithetical, actually come together. Our brains need both, and art, instead of being frivolous, is essential to good physical and mental health. Here are some of the research-based findings that Cass reported from the book:

·        Music with a rhythm of 60 beats a minute can synchronize with human brains to produce alpha waves, the brain frequency associated with rest and relaxation. Take it down to 40 beats or so and the rhythm synchronizes with delta waves, associated with sleep. Music can also help rewire the brain after a stroke.

·        Colors have a biological effect on human thinking and emotion. The color red raises the galvanic reaction in humans, how much sweat glands react, more than colors like green or blue. In one study, people in a gray-painted room displayed higher heart rates than people in a more colorful room.

·        Research into architecture shows that building with elements like curves instead of straight walls can reduce the blood pressure and heart rate of the people living within.

·        Imaging studies show that poetry has neurological benefits. Reading poems lights up the part of the brain associated with restful states, and rhythm is something our brains are hardwired to respond to.

·        Coloring, drawing, even doodling stimulate the prefrontal cortex, the area of the brain that keeps us focused and interprets sensory information.

·        Research even supports the notion that people who engage in art have a lower risk of developing chronic pain as they age.  

Note that the last finding specifies people who engage in art, not passive recipients who study paintings on a wall in a museum.

Are you familiar with the concept of Tikkun olam, literally meaning “repairing the world.” It’s a Jewish concept, although echoes are found in many Christian teachings and writings, that each of us is obligated to leave the world a bit better than we found it, to contribute something to the good of the universe. I worry a lot about that, because I fear I write frivolous things—young-adult literature, light mysteries. Yes, I hope my historical fiction brings a greater understanding of history and women’s place in it, but there are all those other works. What, really, am I contributing? Cass’ article and the book have made me turn my doubt on its head. The question is not what am I contributing through my art, but what is my art enabling me to do for others? Is it because I write, a creative activity that stimulates both brain and body, that I am able to write historical fiction and even some young adult novels that may shape some pre-teen’s reading.

The creative arts are not something self-indulgent nor something to be lightly dismissed. They are part of the total development of an individual.  Kurt Vonnegut put it so well: Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.

I think my avocation of cooking even falls within that category, along with writing. They are both activities that allow me to share some of me with the world at large, whether it be a book you read, a recipe in a blog, or a dinner you share at my table. And I think that is a good thing.

Go, free your spirit, do whatever brings you pleasure (well, within reason)—it will help you grow.

A personal note on our family woes: my brother thinks he’s a bit better, we are moving ahead with fixing the plumbing problem, and Sophie didn’t snap tonight for her shot (after three tries—I got a donut collar). Maybe writing about all that has helped.

Thank you for listening and sweet dreams.

 

 

The butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker

 

Only in my case it would be the veterinarian, the plumber, and the HVAC guy—doesn’t have quite the same ring, does it? Trust me, it has more pain to the pocketbook. Yesterday, Sophie spent several hours at the vet for treatment of an abscess—I won’t go into detail, but it involved several procedures, none of which are cheap. Now, she’s home, with medication, and snapping at those who give

The old house we all love but which is now
causing us maintenance problems

her an insulin shot (Jordan and Christian). And also yesterday, for the Burtons, they took their new-ish male kitten to be neutered. A traumatic pet day all around. And, my older brother was hospitalized. It was a medically oriented day.

But things are never dull around the Burton/Alter compound. Today it was plumbing and air conditioning. The plumbing problem seemed simple enough—the bobber on my toilet wouldn’t bob, and it was running all the time. The plumber I have sworn by for almost twenty-five years has retired, so I called a new company, recommended in our neighborhood list of vendors. The main house had a leaking sewage problem, but we planned to call a contract company about that. Then I suggested we ask the plumbers to look since they were on site. They diagnosed a severe problem, with water gushing out of a leaky sewage pipe. After an early afternoon call, they left, and said they’d be back either late afternoon or tomorrow. They came back late afternoon with the smallest, thinnest guy in their crew because part of the problem is that the deck is built over the sewage pipe. At first they said they’d have to shut the water off overnight, but then they recanted—after Jordan and Christian had filled pitchers and ice buckets and everything they could think of. The plumbers got the gushing slowed to a trickle, said they wanted to sleep on the solution, and went away.

Before I bought this property thirty years ago, an addition had been added on to the back and that’s apparently where the problem is—what should be two separate pipes for water and sewage is not (no, that does not mean we’ve been drinking sewage water—I don’t quite understand the whole thing, but the reason they didn’t cut the water at the curb is that they were afraid of backflow when it came back on). I had happily been thinking if the main house didn’t have water, they could have access to mine. Another no: it’s all one pipe which it shouldn’t be.

All of this meant Jordan and Christian were in and out of the cottage every five minutes around five o’clock, just when Donald from Rhinefort A/C was working to fix my heating/cooling units. He got them working and promptly got it so cool I needed a sweater. So there I was, wearing my sweater, trying to write my thousand words for a day with Jordan, Christian, and Donald coming and going and giving me updates. Proud to say that I did it.

But it’s not over. The plumbers had to cut a larger hole in the deck for their small guy to get down into that gosh-awful mess. Now they think they will have to come inside to the add-on back room, move the washer and dryer, cut the floor under them and locate the pipe that should have a Y and doesn’t. I told Jordan to ask for an estimate; she did, and the guy apparently in charge said, “I have no idea.” Not words to lull me to sleep tonight. And as plumbers, they won’t be repairing the floor where the washer and dryer go. Christian pointed out we will be without laundry services for a while, and I asked how he feels about the laundromat. If there was anything that made me grateful to be a homeowner, all those years ago, it was giving up the laundromat.

At least, as the sun goes down tonight, the dog and cat are healthy, my toilet isn’t running and my a/c works. The huge shadow looming over us is the plumbing problem. Wonder what tomorrow will bring. My brother is still in the hospital, and he has one thing in common with our plumbing: they aren’t sure what’s wrong (except maybe age—he’s almost 92 and our plumbing is a hundred in some parts of the house) and they don’t have a plan. He remains in fairly good spirits and his mind is sharp for which we are grateful. I do so much appreciate those of you who have sent good thoughts for his treatment.

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe it’s true that trouble always goes in threes. People caution that old houses are maintenance problems, but todays’ trouble spots are in mhy cottage which is a new construction except for the shell. I’m waiting for the plumber—the bobber in my toilet doesn’t bob, which means the toilet softly and gently runs all the time! Plumbers are never inexpensive—and the main house has a major sewage problem we’ll ask them to look at and give an estimate (that’s an old house problem, although that kitchen was redone less than ten years ago). And I’m also waiting for Donald, the faithful HVAC repairman. I discovered late last night that neither of my ceiling-hung units will open to operate. When I use the remote a light goes on and the thing beeps, but nothing else happens. It’s a lovely day today and will be okay, but it was stuffy and hot at midnight last night.

A useless day—or a day when I was useless

My brother and me, in happier days

Truth is, probably no day is totally worthless; each has some redeeming quality. But I am hard put to find much good about today. No, it was not a bad day. It was just a day, a plain day, one when I didn’t know what I wanted to do and did almost nothing. I checked emails in the morning and made chicken salad for our dinner, so it could cool and blend its flavors in the fridge all afternoon. And then I fiddled, manufacturing things to do, avoiding what I’d set as my goal for the week.

You see, I’m almost at the end of the first draft of Irene in a Ghost Kitchen. I have the end—the climactic scenes, if you will—in mind, and I think I know how they should go. But I am avoiding putting the words on paper. I think in part I’m afraid to ever call the silly, short book finished, and in another part I’m afraid the end won’t work out as I intend it to. With Irene, one never knows. The entire cast of characters could take off in their own direction and spoil what I think are my plans. So I piddled.

And I didn’t know what to blog about. It’s been a different day—my brother is in the hospital again, just down the street from us. I knew last night they had requested transport from Granbury to Fort Worth where his cardiologist is but there were no beds at the hospital. And then all day today, I knew nothing and was afraid to call, maybe because I didn’t want to intrude or interrupt and maybe because I feared bad news. Finally at six o’clock, I called, he answered, and we had a short but semi-reassuring conversation. When I asked if we should come visit him, he said his dance card was already pretty full. And then he said it was complicated to get there, and I thought he was thinking of me in my transport chair. I have found in the past that hospital has a lot of twists and turns, and you can get lost if you don’t know where you are going. So we will talk again tomorrow.

Also today, Jordan’s new cat went to be neutered, which didn’t affect me much but did throw a monkey wrench in scheduling. They took him eight and were to pick him up at three. Then I called Sophie’s vet because we discovered an abscess on the back of her neck. I had a faint hope he would prescribe antibiotics over the phone, but no—he wanted to see her. Diabetes complicates infection. Jordan took her at eleven and, to my dismay, they kept her. Then they called and said she could go home at three. Schedule conflict! No way the kids could have the dog and cat in the car at the same time. It all worked out: they got the cat, Jordan and the cat came home, and Christian got Sophie about four. She is home, has some antibiotics, and my wallet is a lot lighter. But I am grateful she didn’t spend the night.

Last night we had a farewell happy hour for my Canadian daughter and her husband—I fixed a spread instead of just a light snack, because I knew they would have packed their kitchen and couldn’t cook. Pigs in a blanket, devilled eggs, veggies with a dip, olives, pickles, cherry tomatoes, etc. We had a pleasant evening, and I worked to avoid topics on which we disagree, but somehow the subject of money ruling the world came up. Reluctantly I realize it’s true, but I hate it; she accepts it with a degree of cynicism that frustrates me. When Sue said she as always proven right, I didn’t remind her that she had absolutely guaranteed that trump would win in 2020 because money rules—and he didn’t. But I hated that a touchy subject came up when who knows when we will see them again.

So maybe all that baggage was on my mind tonight and kept me from writing or, until now when it is almost midnight, from blogging. Who knows how creativity works? Tonight, because I as so at loose ends, I took a nap about eight-thirty and that was when I really came to grips with how out of sorts I felt. So I got up, came to the computer, and deliberately wrote three sentences. And I felt the muse kick in, I knew where I was going. It was too late to keep at it, but now I’m fired about tomorrow. I had promised myself I’d write a blog post first thing in the morning, so I turned to the book I’m currently reading. And then it occurred to me that if I wrote the blog tonight, I could go right to the novel in the morning. And sort of what I wanted to say flitted around in my mind. So that’s why these cobbled together thoughts on creativity and indolence.

Sweet dreams all. I hope I dream of Irene wrapping up that story in her usual fine style.

Watching the world go by

 

Obviously a picture from a previous year with colder temperatures

My neighbors and I in Fort Worth’s Berkeley neighborhood were virtually housebound this weekend with a double whammy of events which closed our streets. Saturday was sunny and beautiful, with temperatures in the high seventies or low eighties. I think half the families in Tarrant County decided it was a great day to visit the world-class Fort Worth Zoo, which is on the edge of our neighborhood. Traffic on my street, Park Place Avenue, was backed up for four blocks—we do have the world’s longest red light at the corner before the road descends to the zoo. And by afternoon, cars were parked for blocks along many of our streets. This routinely happens over Spring Break, especially at half-price day at the zoo, and the Fort Worth Police do a good job of planning their strategy and keeping traffic moving as best they can. But who expects zoo weather in late February? Another sign of climate change, and one we should all take seriously. The traffic is not just an annoyance for those of us in the neighborhood: it’s a real problem if emergency vehicles such as an ambulance or fire truck are needed. Christian wanted to go to the store and could go out by going the opposite direction from the zoo, but he was afraid he could never get back home.

I was proud of my neighbors though—several posted on the neighborhood Buzz how good it was to see happy families enjoying the zoo and the fine weather. Said one, “It’s a happy day in the neighborhood,” with a hat tip to Mr. Rogers. There have been suggestions about a parking garage, which I don't think would fit the neighborhood ambiance at all, and a few other remedies, but the general mood is that we're happy to have the zoo and have people enjoy it. The only thing niggling in my mind is the off chance of the need of an emergency vehicle.

Today one of Fort Worth’s major events hit our neighborhood: the Cowtown Marathon, which attracts almost thirty thousand runners for the marathon and associated races—half marathon, ultramarathon, 10K, children’s races. The regular marathon goes right through Berkeley and then down one of our main access roads. The halfway point for the full marathon is approximately in front of our house, so we get to watch the runners go by. When I was in the main house, I used to sit on the porch and, silently to myself, assess the style and form of each runner. Now, from the cottage, I can only see them at a distance, if I peer down the driveway and through the iron gate.

Back when the marathon began in 1978 my then-husband was one of the founders, and I was on the publicity committee. The group from what was then the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine met in my living room for months, talking about health and fitness and planning the marathon. I laughed each Sunday, because after the meeting, another girl and I served them fantastically rich desserts—and that ate every bite. Come race day, I woke my four children, ranging from nine to three, at five in the morning, and we headed for the Stockyards District where the race then began and ended. And I abandoned the children so I could help with whatever needed to be done (I remember a TV station had a van on site, and I periodically updated them). I can’t believe now that I turned the children loose, but I did. They reported in when they were hungry, but otherwise they joined other “race orphans” and roamed the area. They uniformly recall it as one of the really fun times of their childhood. This went on for two or three years until my husband and I divorced. But like my children I have mostly fond memories of the marathon, so race day is always a bit nostalgic for me.

The night before that first race, we were sitting in our home office when we heard it—and my husband said, “Sleet! I didn’t want sleet!” Actually he didn’t say it that politely. Next morning the streets were ice-covered. Unfortunately I don’t remember the temperature, but today it is sunny and clear and 80 at one o’clock—far too hot for marathoners. By now, as I write, all but the stragglers have made it to the finish line. It’s five hours after the start. And the zoo traffic is less, but it will pick up again when the zoo closes.

The weekend events are but another reasons I’m glad to live in Berkeley.

 

Good food and good times in Cowtown

Megan and me at Bowie House
The fetish necklace was my nod to western wear 

My oldest daughter, an Austin lawyer, had business in Fort Worth Thursday and stayed over a couple of nights so we could have some together time. As it happens Jordan was out of town on a business trip, so she missed the good times and we missed her. Thursday nigh I had plans to go to 61 Osteria, an Italian restaurant downtown, with friends, so we decided when Megan was through with her day, she’d just meet us there. I told her it was in a bank building—but oops!  I told her the wrong bank, and she walked all over downtown in high heels.

The restaurant had a happy hour special with great price on wine and tiny snacks—I don’t eat olives so was pretty much out of that. But we ordered—a cheese and meat platter, focaccia, a polenta dish, and an artichoke hearts dish. The kind of food I would never fix—in truth, I was a bit intimidated by the complexity of the menu and nature of the offering—this was definitely not your spaghetti and meatballs in a red sauce kind of Italian restaurant. The décor in the bar is Fifties moderne, sleek and clean, with too tiny tables. The food was delicious, but what intrigued me all evening was the view. A wall of windows looked west, so I watched the sun go from gold to pink to flame and then, almost suddenly, gray. To one side was Burnett Park, a two-acre urban park in the midst of downtown that features the iconic statue of a man with a briefcase. The statue is fifty feet tall, weighs 24,000 lbs. and is made of brushed aluminum with the figure of the man cut out of the piece of aluminum. After dark, trees in the park are lit with ever-changing colors. Megan said she couldn’t believe I was going downtown, me who has always avoided the center of the city as much as I could. I loved being there.

Man with a briefcase

Megan and I both had work to do Friday, but by evening we stopped for a glass of wine with Christian and then headed off for dinner at Bowie House, a new boutique hotel and Auberge property with a well-planned, consistent western image—not flashy western but more low key. We had reservations at the restaurant, Bricks and Horses. Where to begin with the hotel? From reading, I knew that it has an unusual art collection. 400 pieces from the private collection of the wealthy horsewoman behind the hotel project. Young men in western garb and the required Stetson roaming the foyer and bar area may have been subtle security but their main function seemed to be seeing to the guests comfort. The minute we were through the door, one such man directed us to the ramp for my transport chair. The furnishings are heavy and dark, with echoes of the culture of the American west everywhere—cowboys, native Americans, cattle, and buffalo in paintings and sculpture. Dress for men was boots and jeans, and for women mostly boots and short skirts. I was the only mobility challenged person in the entire place and easily the oldest.

We had one of those long slow dinners, with nice breaks between courses. At Megan’s choice, we started with tuna tartare and then moved to Caesar salad. For an entrée, I had lobster Thermidor and she, a filet with a side of cauliflower casserole. Our dessert was a gussied-up banana split in a croissant shell. Finally, just before ten, we headed home.

Megan was having a difficult time backing my transport chair over the metal band between sliding glass doors at the exit (If she had gone forward she would have likely pitched me headfirst onto the concrete) when I heard a man say, “Here, hold my hand.” And I did. He was a middle-aged, cowboy type, and while he had a firm hold on my hand, his pal helped Megan lift the chair over the offending metal. Then as they got into their SUV they called out, “We’re going to Billy Bob’s. Want to go dancing?” That quick bit of help made a great impression on me, after an evening of everyone seeing to it that we were comfortable and being careful and respectful of my wheelchair. In a world rife with hate and anger and cruelty, Fort Worth is still a friendly city. With wonderful opportunities for good food and good times.

Tonight for supper I have leftover lobster Thermidor. Life is good.

A red trike, the pickle report, a lot of cooking, and not much else

 

Allow me a moment of nostalgia and excuse the blurry picture above—those kids were really moving. That’s Jacob on the trike and Morgan behind him, trying hard to unseat him. That trike was the cause of more battles when the grands were little! And it has a history of its own—it was some eighty years old when it was given to me by family friends whose children and grandchildren had enjoyed it. Repainted at some time by loving hands, it had solid rubber tires, and the front one had a huge hole in it. I can still hear Maddie, looking down one day, and exclaiming, “There’s a hole in my tire. When the playroom at my house was transformed to a TV room (what happens when grands outgrow hobby horses and trikes), the trike went home with Colin. I hope he’s still keeping it safe for the next generation.

Since someone asked about my kitchen experiment, here’s the report on the pickles infused with Hidden Valley Ranch Dip: pretty good. I let them sit for twenty-four hours in the fridge, as recommended, and served them with a bowl of plain Cheezits. Verdict was favorable, and we decided that the dip infusion softens the pickle flavor a bit. I used a 24 oz. jar of Claussen kosher spears. You may remember that I also tried the recipe where you coat Cheezits with a seasoned olive oil mixture and bake them---and I burned them to a fare-thee-well (and wasted a whole box of Cheezits).

Christian wants me to try it again at a much lower temperature than recommended. His theory is that my toaster oven, being smaller than a regular oven, burns much hotter—and I have noticed that before. The other night he brought out a chicken-and-wild rice casserole (their oven is broken) and said the recommended temperature was 350 but he wanted to do it at 300. I admit it was nicely heated through—and delicious. Christian is one of those cooks who needs a recipe to start with but then often branches out on his own, adding and subtracting ingredients.

It's been a cooking week. I fixed Norwegian hamburgers Sunday night, having forgotten that they are a bit of work although well worth it. Last night I did a hamburger Stroganoff—a lot less work and still very good. Yesterday, Melinda, who worked with me at TCU Press for years, came for lunch so we could catch up on families, publishing news—and, of course, politics. Melinda is, if possible, even more fierce about trump and the Republicans these days than I am. But cooking both lunch and dinner for others takes a chunk of time. I made salmon patties and a salad for Melinda and asked if she preferred Thousand Island or buttermilk dressing. At first, she chose Thousand Island because she hadn’t had it in ages. I proudly boasted that both were house-made, to which she promptly said, “Oh! Maybe I’ll just have lemon.” Seems she’s leery of mayonnaise, but my cooking ego was deflated.

Much as I like to cook, I am happy that we have leftovers today and Christian will be at a meeting during dinner. I’ll have Norwegian hamburgers and mashed potatoes for lunch, Stroganoff for supper, and somewhere I’ll work in something green. My mom believed you must have something green every day which led me once to sit across the lunch table from the man then in my life and exclaim in horror: “You don’t have anything green on your plate.” He had chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and cream gravy. He rolled his eyes and said, “Once a mother, always a mother.” My current green favorite, besides salad, is the fresh frozen green beans I get at Central Market. Give them three or four minutes in boiling water, add butter and salt, and feast like they just came off the vine. Don’t get the microwaveable kind. Not as good.

Sweet dreams, everyone!

 

 

Monday trivia, some of it political

 

My favorite student of the week, a child I wish I knew, is the one who asked his teacher if a certain word needed a “flying comma.” He meant an apostrophe, of course, but I thought it a great description. And it leads me to one of my pet peeves: you don’t need a flying comma when you refer to a decade by numerals: its 1950s, not 1950’s.

My favorite meme of the week: Don’t give the nuclear codes to a guy who isn’t allowed to own a hot dog stand in New York City. Another similar one says Don’t give the reins of government to that same guy. And that brings me to the tackiest thing any of us have seen all week: a man who wants to head one of the most powerful countries in the world hawking glitzy, cheap-looking gold hightops with his logo at a political rally. Do you suppose he comes up with these ideas himself or has help?

I realized this week there is a new wrinkle in the manners we customarily observe with friends and neighbors: it used to be if you had the sniffles, you could still go to the party. Now it’s de rigueur to cancel because you might have covid, My neighbors missed a weekend party because of this and my happy hour guest tonight cancelled because he woke with the sniffles. I thanked him.

Something that seems odd to me: the Catholic Church is on a full-blown campaign to defeat Biden because he, a good Catholic, has not come out against abortion. (He does have a few other pressing matters on his mind.) So I guess the powers that be think it’s better to urge followers to vote for a proven rapist and fraudster who still faces felony charges? And they think they are following in Jesus’ footsteps?

Kitchen fail: I saw two recipes making creative adaptive use of Hidden Valley Ranch Dip. First called for putting a packet in the juice of a 24 oz. jar of dill pickle spears. I tried it, and it’s sitting in the fridge for the required 24 hours, so I can tell you if it is a keeper or not. The second called for mixing olive oil, dill weed, garlic powder and the dry dip mix, coating two boxes of Cheezits, and baking them. Now, I loved Cheezits as a child ….in fact I used to hide them under my bed until one night I heard a strange noise that scared me half to death: a mouse had found my stash.

Back to today, I thought this sounded great and I could make it first thing, easy and quick, and get to my desk. In fact, I dreamed about it too much of the night. But the logistics were off especially for my toaster oven. It called for a single layer, which I think would require a professional oven and half sheet pan. I only used one box, but they were two and three deep. I followed the recommended temperature—375 for 30 minutes, which is high heat and a long time. You can hear this one coming: burned you-know-what out of them. (It’s fortuitous that my happy hour guest cancelled, because that’s what I was going to serve). So tomorrow night, Mary D’s regular night, she’s getting plain, unseasoned Cheezits right out of the box.

And a dog crisis averted: at five this morning, I realized I did not have a can of dog food for Sophie’s breakfast. Sophie has her routine down pat, and if you deviate from it, she lets you know with indignant barking. In the evening, she gets two tiny milk bones for treats—and she counts. If you only give her one, she demands the second. So she would definitely know she was getting kibble instead of the canned meat she adores. It’s a holiday—President’s Day—no school, no work for Christian—so I assumed they would all sleep late, and I didn’t want to wake them for a can of dog food. (I didn’t know Jordan was up at four to see Jacob off to a golf tournament). I lay there, stewing about this until I finally got up, broke my cardinal rule about never waking a sleeping dog, and fed her dry food, more of it than usual. She did give me a funny look, but she ate it and went outside. Just after she came back in, I saw Christian letting their dog out, so he brought me the case of wet food, and the day was saved.

Except between the Cheezit project and the wrong kind of food, I couldn’t go back to sleep. As I write this, the day is half over, and I’m wondering what else will happen.

The day ended peacefully, with a chicken and wild rice casserole Christian made and me getting to write my daily thousand words. Life is good, and I am grateful.

A short dissertation on a word

 

Celebrating another birthday on that path to old age
note the walker I'm sitting in

The word that’s on my mind today is resilience. The dictionary defines it as the capacity to recover quickly from difficult circumstances. I think of it as the ability to bounce back. Several years ago I was in the hospital with stage four acute kidney failure, caused by an antibiotic that I should have known better than to take. I had already within recent years been hospitalized for a hip reconstruction (a fractured hip so bizarre that people in the hospital looked at me and said, “Oh, your ‘the hip’” and a diagnosis of atrial fibrillation. By this time I was feeling a bit down when a medical resident, a woman, came in to talk with me.

I said, “I guess this means that my health is going to change forever.” I was having a pity party, but I saw visions of dialysis three times a week dancing in my head. She replied, “Oh, I don’t know. You seem to be pretty resilient.” Right then, right there, that woman, probably unknown to her, gave me a great gift. I began to think of myself as resilient. I was in the hospital for six or seven days, but every day my creatinine (high is bad, low is good) came down. Eventually I went home and over the next months my creatinine came down almost to normal levels. The nephrologist saw me every three months, but my triumph came when he said, “I’ll see you in a year.”

I think so much of resilience is in our minds, and once I began to think of myself as resilient, I began to bounce back. Christian says I’ve been resilient about other things, like moving into the cottage. There are lots of things I cannot do these days, between the confines of the cottage and the limitations of my mobility: I cannot give the big parties I used to love or even the elaborate dinner parties for six that I loved. There are some recipes that I’d love to tackle but can’t with a hot plate and an toaster oven—those that boast of a skillet dinner you start on the stove and finish in the oven are beyond me. I have a closet that is nonfunctional for me—the hanging clothes are so high that I cannot reach them, even standing, and have to plan ahead so that I can ask Jordan to get this shirt or that down. But I love my cottage. Christian says I have made it work.

This is not to brag about my health or resilience to my friends who are walking the eighties path with me but to suggest that it helps to give yourself a message of resilience. When I posted about life in a tiny house yesterday, one friend wrote that she didn’t know if she could do that or not, but then concluded she probably could. My message is that we can do almost anything If we set our mind to it.

It seems to me a companion word to resilience is flexibility. It’s too easy to cling to the old ways, the ways we’ve always done things, from cooking to child raising. Living with one of my grown children who is raising an adorable seventeen-year-old son, you have no idea how hard it is to keep from saying, “When you were his age, you had to be home for Sunday supper.” Or some such. A long-time friend was here the other day and mentioned how angry she was to be quarantined at a daughter’s house for Thanksgiving because she developed covid. “But I apologized,” she said, “Their house, their rules.” That’s flexibility. And perhaps apologizing is resilience.

To my friends walking with me, think about those two words: resilience and flexibility. How do they apply to your life?

Okay, sermon over.

 

A leftover day

 

Sue and Jordan

I think that’s a perfect name for Saturday. After a work week and before Sunday starts a new week, Saturday is the day left over. I had a busy week and a more active day yesterday than I am used to, so I promised myself a slow, easy day today. It turned out to be a day of leftovers.

I wrote like a fiend much of the week, averaging over a thousand words a day plus, most days, my blog. That wasn't drudgery—it was joy. I’m in one of the spells when the words seem to come easily and the story flows—and writing is fun. But yesterday, no writing. I was up early making tuna salad for a lunch guest and a dip for happy hour guests. At noon, my long time (50 years?) friend Linda arrived. She had the good manners to rave about my tuna, and we caught up with families, the few old friends we still know about, life as elders, and touched on the world situation. Her (relatively new) husband had an appointment elsewhere but popped in. and they both left shortly after two, because Linda insisted I need my daily nap. And I do. Sophie and I are always overjoyed to have Linda in the cottage.

In the evening, Subie, Phil, and Renee came for happy hour. The discussion was wide-ranging but got particularly spirited when we talked about wolves and their effect on the ecosystem and about the city of Greenville (see below). It was all fun, and we were tempted to stay where we were, but a little before seven we left for a farewell party for Teddy and Sue. I’ve explained this relationship several times, but fifteen or more years ago Sue moved into the house next door to me. I can still see her dad walking down the driveway when I asked him, “Are you my new neighbor?” and he replied, in a wonderful Canadian accent familiar to this daughter of a Canadian, “I’m your new neighbor’s father.” Sue, newly divorced, moved in with two young children, and her parents went home to Ottawa, Ontario. In time, Sue declared she needed a Fort Worth mother, since hers was so far away. I was honored and consider her my Canadian daughter. Along the way, she bought a house ten minutes away and married Teddy (one of my favorite people in the world). Now they are moving to Greenville, South Carolina—because they fell in love with the area. My parents retired to a small North Carolina town nearby, and I can easily understand the pull of the region. I’m excited for them but will miss them.

The party was fun, and I even knew a few people. But there were two stairs to get in, and we had to recruit a friend from the party to help me. That sort of got me off on the wrong foot, and it was hard to get my party face on. Still I knew a few people and enjoyed visiting. The setting was a gorgeous house, and I was particularly impressed by the hostess’ daughter who acted as the party angel. Teddy, bless him, helped me out and saw me safely into the car.

So that’s why today is my leftover day. I confess I am still wearing the flannel pants and T-shirt I slept in, and I think I’ll just fall into bed tonight, still wearing them. My work today was leftovers—my neighborhood newsletter, some bills and some insurance matter, more worry about the trees. Kept me busy all morning.

Even my meals are leftover: tuna salad from yesterday for lunch; a bowl of split pea soup brought to me some time ago by a friend. It’s been waiting for me in the freezer for another cold night, and tonight is perfect (at 6:30 it is 41 and headed down). The Burtons are going to Plank, the new seafood restaurant I really want to try. I threatened them if either one came home and told me they had a steak or a hamburger in a seafood house.

Tomorrow won’t be as easy. I’ll go to church in the morning, and I’ve promised to make Norwegian hamburgers for Sunday dinner. Norwegian hamburgers are something we learned about from Colin’s mother-in-law, who lived in Norway until she was seventeen and came to the US to marry Lisa’s father. The hamburgers are meat patties in beef gravy, but don’t dismiss them as like our hamburgers. Different texture, different flavor and delicious. We love Torhild, and we love her cooking. I hope I can do them as well as she does, and I hope there are leftovers.

How about you? How was your Saturday Stay safe and warm on this chilly night.

Thoughts on tiny houses

The living room in my cozy cottage.

Because I live in what should be described as a “spacious tiny house,” I’m curious about other tiny houses and spend way too much time looking at them online. My tiny house—I call it “the cottage”—is approximately 600 square feet, which really is spacious compared to some. I have a postage-stamp kitchen, a bedroom that was once a parking bay for a 1920s car (skinny—there’s only one way my standard double bed will fit, in a corner, and a king or queen would never fit), a walk-in closet bigger than any I’ve ever had (it was a tool shed in a previous existence), and a good-sized living area/office (I can seat seven in a pinch). Truly, it’s all the space I need. When I lived in the house where Jordan, Christian and Jacob are now, I was aware I only used the kitchen, bedroom, and my office.

My tiny kitchen deserves mention, because if I were wealthy and thought I’d be healthy and cooking for another twenty years (unlikely) I would have a professional kitchen designer come in and tailor it for maximum use of the space and ease in cooking from a seated walker. Due to zoning restrictions, I can only have appliances that I can plug in. Hence I have a large refrigerator, but no stove or dishwasher. I cook on an induction hot plate and a toaster oven, which means things like that leg of lamb I crave are impossible. You know all those skillet recipes that start on the stovetop and finish in the oven? I have to pass right by those too.

In my online prowlings, I’m not so interested in school bus conversions, though I admire the ingenuity, and I’m not at all interested in the process. I don’t need to see one more picture of the interior of the shell of a school bus. No, I’m more interested in those free-standing tiny houses. But I have several reservations, and the main one speaks to who I am and what I do for a living: most of those houses have no desk! Where do people sit to work at their computer, pay their bills, correspond with friends, keep a calendar. Never one to read in bed (hurts my neck) or take my computer to the couch (I lose concentration easily), I have made my desk the center of my world. I spend far more than the recommended hours seated here, and I almost always eat lunch at my desk. At dinner, we in effect have assigned seating—me at my desk, Jordan at the coffee table in the barrel chair to my left, Christian in the wing chair on the right of the table, and when he joins us, Jacob on the couch. My desk is also nicely situated so that I have a large window on my right and French doors straight ahead—on nice days I can almost bring the outdoors right inside.

I have other concerns about a lot of tiny houses: privacy almost goes without saying. The open sleeping is fine for one person or a couple but the loss of privacy for an intimate life must be a problem if there are children or guests. And that aside, loss of privacy, of some spot that is yours and yours alone, must be a psychological problem for many. Of course, living alone, it’s no problem. I find that daily I appreciate my privacy and, once out of the cottage, am almost always ready to return.

Two-story or story-and-a-half construction is a great idea for a tiny house, adding a lot of space. But that small space rarely leaves room for anything like a conventional staircase. As one whose whole life has been marked by a fear of heights and general bad balance, I could never do nine out of ten of those staircases, ladders, etc. I require low steps and banisters on both sides. And the open sleeping lofts? I’d been afraid of rolling out of bed and tumbling down into the main living area. Night-time trips to the loo would be complicated by a staircase!

When I first moved into the cottage, Jacob was about ten. I lectured long and hard about the necessity for neatness in a small space. Now, Jacob has moved on to a full social life with his buddies, and I rarely see him in the cottage, so I can’t blame him for the clutter. The fault is solely mine, but I am no Marie Kondo. My walls are covered with art, my tables and one big marble buffet with mementos and family pictures. Sometimes my cottage makes me think of the late nineteenth-century craze for miniatures. One of my sons says my cottage looks well lived in—I would change that to well loved. But that’s another thing that strikes me about tiny houses—they are usually uncluttered, at least the ones se see online. Perhaps they are dressed up for a photo shoot, but they often look impersonal with sparse decorations—maybe a plant or a picture here or there, but that’s it. (That is not true for bus conversions.)

So here I am, in my semi-tiny, cluttered cottage and ever so grateful to be here. How about you? Could you live in 600 square feet?

Part of my tiny kitchen.
I frequently feed full meals to four of us
out of this kitchen.

Tree hugging on Valentine’s Day

 

 

Chinese pistache when new.
In the background to the left, you can see
the large trees that line the driveweay

I think that I shall never see

a poem lovely as a tree.

“Trees,” by Joyce Kilmer

I admit it—I’m a tree hugger. But when you buy an older house, as I did thirty years ago, you don’t (or I didn’t) take the trees into consideration. Our house had a huge, old elm at the curbside by the driveway, a beautiful graceful tree that served as a signpost for telling visitors where we lived. I always had the fanciful notion that the tree anchored the house to the property; without it, the house might float away into space. I could not imagine losing that tree.

But the house was a hundred years old two years ago, so the tree probably was the same age. It had begun almost twenty years ago to drop an occasional limb. Once I came home late at night from a trip only to find the entire front yard covered by a huge fallen branch. Another time, it dropped a long skinny branch that had been dangling right alongside the curb. Christian worried about parking his car beneath it, though he loved the shade. We all worried about a branch falling on a schoolchild—the house is across the street from Lily B. Clayton Elementary School and watching children come and go is one of our extra delights.

There came the day that the city tree crew informed me the tree was rotten inside and hollow. Because it was in the boulevard between street and sidewalk, it is legally the city’s tree, and they said it had to come down. Jordan took pictures of the demolition, but I hid in my cottage not wanting to watch. With Christian’s help, we replaced it with a Chinese pistache—it’s a pretty tree, doing pretty well now and supposed to have brilliant colors in the fall (taking into account this is Texas and we don’t get a lot of fall color). The pistache will never be as tall and majestic as the late elm, but it is a tree, and I am grateful.

The house boasts two remaining large trees on the edge of the driveway, equally as tall as the elm we lost. They are sort of squeezed between the house and the driveway—perhaps, when planted, no one expect them to grow so big or the house to last so long. But they are a problem—they have pushed the driveway concrete up until only the hardiest of souls will attempt my driveway, and that’s a problem because people drive all the way back to the cottage to pick me up. For several years now, I have worried about what to do with these trees. They shade the house from summer heat, and I know that we need more trees to fight pollution—we surely don’t need to be cutting them down thoughtlessly.

When we had all the trees trimmed last month, I asked the arborist, and he recommended jackhammering up the concrete and replacing it with decomposed granite. I happen to have a good friend who is a mason, and he said he and his crew could get rid of the broken concrete, but he wanted to meet with the lawn guy about the granite. We met yesterday, and ideas went back and forth, with John, my trusted yard guy, recommending tearing up the old concrete and laying new. That didn’t sound right to me, but they assured me the trees would be fine. And so we left it.

This morning I called the arborist, and he said no concrete. A porous material so the roots can breathe, which makes a lot more sense to a tree hugger like me. So we still haven’t worked it out completely, but what I thought would be a simple thing has turned out to be complicated. And it’s once again on hold until I get everyone on the same page. I think Mark, the mason, is more comfortable with my return to my original plan; Jordan is not, because she’s looking at the convenience of using the driveway and appearance. I’m looking at saving the trees. The appearance of the driveway is second to me. The permanence of concrete is part of my hesitation. I figure if the granite doesn’t work out, we can go to Plan B. John seemed to say the granite might be all right for ten years. I reminded him I am eighty-five!

Stay tuned for updates, but my final word is that older houses always bring new problems. That said, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

Happy Valentines Day! As I write, I am waiting for the Burtons to come out. I understand we’re having steak and salad for dinner, having abandoned the idea of smashed potatoes to accompany. I’ve made a new Caesar dressing, which is a bastardization and I’m not sure about it, but I have house-made croutons and mini-ice cream cones for dessert.

Some days I’m up, some days I’m down

 

That familiar spiritual pretty much defines my political barometer. Some days I think reason and common sense and human decency are taking over the political scene in our country. This is not one of those days. I’ve read in several reliable sources the opinion that trump has now solidified his total control of the Republican Party, especially with the firing of Ronna McDaniel and replacing her with a prominent election denier, one of trump’s top aides, and—wait for it—trump’s daughter-in-law, that seasoned political pro who has never done anything. Great lineup there, trump. But why is he allowed to dictate who leads the Republican Party? Granted, he is the most recent Republican president and the obvious forerunner for the nomination for the presidency in the coming election. But neither of those standings give him official power, and yet he exercises power as though he were the leader.

The trouble is that almost all Republicans have bowed down, given in, and made him their absolute leader. Most of them know better, and best I hear is that they grumble among themselves but then end with that classic useless line, “It is what it is.” In his daily Wake Up to Politics newsletter, which I sometimes admire, sometimes think leans too heavily toward trump for the bipartisanship it professes, Gabe Fleisher says that trump is now getting from the party a kind of rote support, a ho-hum acceptance by the party of the way things are. It is, Fleisher writes, sort of like getting in line at the grocery store. Two images come to mind: one is the women of The Handmaiden’s Tale (or the Stepford Wives—take your pick) and the other is of a school of lemmings. Quoting from an anonymous web site, a person called a lemming is one “who follows the will of others, especially in a mass movement, and heads straight into a situation or circumstance that is dangerous, stupid, or destructive: These lemmings that eat up conspiracy theories are so blinded by lies, they don't even see the cliff they're about to plummet over.”

It's dawned on me what the nature of that cliff is: Isolationism. Trump boasted about ignoring NATO and encouraging Putin to attack “whoever the hell he wants.” Increasingly, what is apparent is the thread of isolationism that underlies all trump’s vague, threatening, wild statements on foreign policy. I doubt the trump would benefit much from a study of history, but it makes one wish that the Republican legislators who are now following his every word had learned their history lessons, particularly American history.

IN the sense that America should use its power and strength to encourage democracy and freedom in other nations by negotiation rather than warfare, I’m all for isolationism. But that’s not what trump means. His isolationism removes our country from any involvement in the affairs of other countries, be they European, Asian, or African. As far back as WWI, President Woodrow Wilson made the case for America’s involvement in maintaining a peaceful world order. WWII and Pearl Harbor cementer that we cannot remain aloof from worldwide conflicts.

How in heaven’s name does anyone of sane mind think in this day of instant communication, intercontinental drones, and instant nuclear weapons that we can afford anything but world peace? The world’s security assures our security. If Russia conquers Ukraine (Tucker Carlson aside), it will walk all over Europe, and we will have a much more formidable enemy who will eventually come to our shores.  We simply cannot afford isolationism today. President Biden has done a magnificent job of restoring our international relationships and securing our place as a world power active in promoting peace throughout the world. Trump would tear all that down.

Trump’s isolationism is particularly ironic coming from a man who had all his election materials made in China, along with who know what else, and whose daughter is actively engaged in widespread business with China. Such irony is lost on the lemmings in the House of Representatives.

Other depressing things today: on their second try, the MAGAs managed to impeach Alejandro Majorkas, a good and honest man who as Secretary of Homeland Security has the world’s most difficult and unrewarding job. Republicans decided to make an issue of the border, and the lemmings just did it in spades. It won’t pass the Senate, but it will forever be a blot on the record of a man who did his best in an impossible situation. All the House could come up with was “a breach of public trust,” the vaguest of charges.

And in their eternal quest to find something anything against the Biden administration, the House will now subpoena DOJ records in an investigation of Biden’s age. Good gravy! We all know how old he is, we all know he’s in better shape than trump, including cognitively, but they will make a big deal out of a horrifically biased report.

I’m hoping tomorrow will be a better day for the good guys.

Superbowl and thoughts on sleep

 

No, the two aren’t really connected, though I do find the Superbowl broadcast overwhelmingly noisy which tends to make me want to retreat to my bed. I am not a football fan, and it is immaterial to me which team wins—except this year I want the Chiefs to win simply because I’ve heard too much hype about Taylor and Travis and I want them to enjoy their moment. I think what they have right now is true love, the kind that lifts you off your feet and takes you to a new stratosphere. Some people never know that in their whole lives, so I‘m delighted for Travis and Taylor, Whether it lasts or not, let them have it now.

But the fact that much of the Superbowl makes me want to retreat to my bed reminds me that I’ve been thinking about sleep patterns and age lately. You know those obnoxious people who spring out of bed at six in the morning, alert, bright, and ready to take on the day? I used to be one of them. I always said I did my best work, writing, whatever in the morning. Not anymore.

And you know how teenagers can sleep until noon? I never could do that. My internal clock woke me at seven, and If I stayed in bed, I got a headache, tossed and turned, and found it easier to get up rather than pretend I was sleeping late. Not anymore.

My internal clock has shifted. It happened gradually, but these days I find myself up and working at my computer until midnight. And I can happily sleep until nine in the morning—once in a while, nine-thirty, though I haven’t made it to noon yet. Sophie gets me up at seven or seven-thirty for her breakfast, but I can go back to bed and go sound asleep until she wakes me again for her second breakfast (the two-step breakfast is another subject and has to do with her diabetes).

Then there are naps. I have always been a napper, grew up in a family where everyone napped, made my children nap until they were way beyond the point where most kids take naps. I would tell them to take a “body rest” if they didn’t sleep. But like most responsible adults, I had a nine-to-five job and couldn’t nap during the week. On the weekends, it was an indulgence. But now that I’m retired, it has become a necessity. I get unbearably sleepy about after lunch, and I’m good for a nap of anywhere from one to two hours. Some days I sleep deeply, with wild dreams (I’m one of those who often remember dreams, at least for a while); other timrd I think I’m not sleeping but realize when I get up that I’ve been off somewhere else. More frequently these days, waking up to reality is difficult—I’m grumpy. Yesterday I’d had a good and productive morning but woke from my nap with the feeling that I was sick somehow. I wasn’t. It just took me a while to get back to myself. That’s a new thing too. Please note: don’t call me between about one-thirty and four-thirty. Give me a bit of flexibility

And then there are what a friend calls pajama days—those days when all you want to do is go back to bed. They don’t happen often, but when they do, I give in to them. I may nap off and on all day. It seems to be what my body needs. I’m not sick, not sad, not depressed—just sleepy. I never think I can plead I’m tired or overworked because mine is not a demanding daily schedule.

The National Institute on Aging says the elderly (isn’t it strange to apply that term to yourself?) need the same amount of sleep—seven to nine hours—and lists causes for lack of sleep, from pain to medications, and results—irritability, memory loss, more falls. Other sites say the elderly spend more time in bed but experience a deterioration in quantity and quality of sleep—I can testify to that because I wake frequently during the night. The result, the National Library of Medicine says, is more daytime napping, on purpose and unintentionally. But the Institute on Aging refers to “senior fatigue,” which they say is a real thing—and begins in your thirties. Makes me think of my mom. I clearly remember one day when we were in the garage and she was going to drive me to school. ‘I wake up wondering how soon I can go back to bed,” she said, and she must have been in her fifties. Strange how moments like that stay forever clear in one’s memory.

My own conclusion is that the changes I’m experiencing are a normal part of aging, and I am blessed to only occasionally suffer from insomnia. Most of the time I sleep deeply and satisfyingly—and sometimes with wonderful dreams that I am reluctant to leave.

Sweet dreams—and how well do you sleep?

Testing the family culinary limits, progress on the bucket list, and 8,000 words.

 

Plaque certifying that our house is a hundred years old

It’s been a good week. My family has decided, a bit belatedly, that they ate too much over the holidays. So to avoid more Keto stuff and Whole 30 meals, I have started serving what I call light suppers, often meatless. These are the kind of meals that my mom used to fix on Sunday nights for us to dine in front of the fireplace in the living room. Since it’s acknowledged that I cook for some picky eaters, I approached this with some trepidation. A couple of nights ago I fixed Welsh Rarebit, a thick cheese sauce served on toast and fancied up with pickled onions and micro greens. My mom fixed Welsh Rarebit, but as I recall it was mostly melted sharp cheddar over saltines—once when I served it for supper, Colin said, “This is dinner?” No wonder I was nervous. This time, following a recipe, I served it on English muffins, and it seemed to be a hit. Christian praised the flavor of the cheese. Great! One down.

Last night supper was scrambled eggs with a ranchero sauce and (canned) refried beans on the side. The beans were, to me, a disappointment (I want Joe T’s refritos) but the ranchero sauce, heavy with chopped bacon, was another hit. Even Jacob ate with us, and Christian commandeered the leftover sauce for his eggs this morning. My light meals may not be exactly diet food, but I think people eat less in quantity than they do if we have a casserole or a meat-and-potatoes dish. Tonight, for a guest, I served creamed mushrooms on an English muffin (I’m really into that muffin business) and a marinated beet and feta salad. So good, and so colorful on the plate. Once again, I blew it and should have taken a picture. A digression: Central Market sent me the biggest beet I have ever seen. I ordered two, cooked the smaller one twice as long as should have, cooked the superhumongous one even longer, and I’m still not sure it’s done. The smaller one made plenty for me and my dinner guest.

This week also marked progress on my bucket lists of maintenance chores. Jacob put my compost tumbler together, but it had far too many screws left over. Christian said he’d take it in the house and deal with it when he had time, but he was noticeably not enthusiastic about the chore. I called a handyman who advertises in the neighborhood newsletter and was recommended by a friend. He installed our brass hundred-year-plaque on the front of the house and fixed the tumbler, using almost all the screws. He said the instructions for the tumbler were totally inadequate and it was no wonder a highschooler didn’t get it right. So now I’m happily saving all those vegetable scraps and making a list of other chores that need a handyman. My walker and I have really dinged up the woodwork in the cottage, and I would like to have it touched up, repainted. whatever it needs.

It's been a great week for me in that I wrote 8,000 words on my novel-in-progress, tentatively titled, Irene in a Ghost Kitchen and fifth in my Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries. I had, as I may have said here before, put the manuscript aside at about 30,000 words. I’m not sure why I abandoned it except that I was in that muddle in the middle—halfway through and couldn’t see clear to the end. Ivan Doig once said writing is like driving in the dark—you can only see as far ahead as the headlights. And my headlights weren’t working very well. But at an informal gathering of publishing people someone praised Irene as a fascinating character, and that somehow was all I needed to hear to move ahead. So now I’m trying to write as much as I can. And I’m grateful to the former colleague who said that.

Big goof last night: Sophie wanted to go out at 5:30 in the morning. Somehow I set the burglar alarm off and didn’t get it cancelled in time to satisfy the security company’s automatic system. So there I was trying to talk to this recorded voice and unable to answer Subie’s call. Finally got it solved, only to have Jordan call, ask what was going on, and say Subie was on her way over here, which made me feel guilty. Got it all solved and went back to bed, with appropriate apologies to Jordan and Subie. But thanks to Subie for true friendship! And to Jordan and Christian for patience.