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.

Oh, to be young again!

 

Jacob and his date

Kegan and his date

It’s Homecoming weekend across Texas, and two of my grandsons—one in Tomball and one in Fort Worth—got all gussied up for the dance. I did have a moment of laughter—Jordan sent me a picture of Jacob and his date, he in a sport coat and she is one of those skimpy dresses that all the girls wear now. But the first picture Colin sent me of Kegan and his date showed them in shorts and T-shirts, she holding a basketball (I think) and he holding a bunch of cut flowers. I laughed and told Colin the homecoming dances must have been very different in nature. Pretty soon he sent pictures of them wearing their traditional mums and then dressed for the dance, she in a skimpy dress and he in a suit.

Of course I did an immediate grandmother thing and, in my mind, went back to the days when they were littles together. At one point, about fifteen years ago, I had a bunch of littles around me. Now I have all these teenagers and young adults. Kegan is the youngest (and the tallest) of my seven grandchildren, and Jacob is the third from youngest. I think I don’t mind growing old myself as much as I mind them aging out of childhood. Of course, they’re neat teens and young adults, and I love them dearly. But there’s a lot of nostalgia there.

Otherwise a quiet, pleasant day. We didn’t go to church today—Christian had projects on his mind, and it turned out I was relieved because I hear there’s a lot of Covid going around. I know that last week, half the choir was out, and we learned later it was because of Covid. They even cancelled an upcoming choir concert. I went to church virtually and did see a few people, both in the choir and in the congregation, wearing masks. I’m afraid we may be headed back to a lot of us wearing masks.

Covid still seems to loom over us, even though many have sort of brushed it off. Maybe it’s my age, but having never had it, I am still quite afraid of it. When I had that whatever stomach thing one night last week, I briefly convinced myself that it was Covid. An easy thing to do alone in the dark at three o’clock in the morning. Three o’clock seems to be the witching hour. I hate to confess how many times I am awake at the time, with a wide variety of scary thoughts. I have had to learn to tell myself, “That’s a three o’clock thought. It will be better in the morning.”

Late this afternoon, thunder teased us, rolling around the sky. We even had one good, strong clap right overhead which sent Miss Sophie to barking angrily. Despite all that, we got perhaps five scattered drops of rain. Jordan and Christian were on their way to deliver a sympathy meal to a sick friend in Arlington, and she says they were caught in such driving rain that they couldn’t see the road, and she urged Christian to pull over. I don’t need driving rain, but a bit more than five drops would be helpful.

Tonight Jordan made the iconic dish that is our family signature—and certainly my signature. Doris’ casserole has been in cookbooks, articles, and blogs; it was served once by food service at TCU and is routinely served on special occasions at our home. The Burtons made a double batch today—one to deliver and one for us. And we all agreed, we hadn’t had it in a while, and it was so good.

I first ate Doris’ at a small dinner party in the late sixties, when my then-husband was a resident in surgery. The wife of the anesthesiology resident fixed it for us. It was called Mrs. America Beef Casserole or some such, but for us, because Doris served it that night, it has always been Doris’ casserole. One friend calls it American lasagna—it has a meat layer, the noodle layer, and a grated cheese topping. I know I’ve posted it before, but it may soon be time again.

And last night I had the first of what will be many “home-alone” dinners this fall. Splurged and bought myself scallops—three nice, fat ones. Cooked a small batch of baby spinach, and then sauteed the scallops in butter—didn’t get the crust I wanted, but they were a bit browned and still soft. Squeezed a half lemon over them, plated them on the bed of spinach, and poured the lemon butter over. Felt like royalty.

May the coming week bring you health, good food, and blessed gentle rain.

Random thoughts from my scattered mind

 

I

I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t resist watching the trump doings in New York around lunchtime. To my eyes, trump had lost much of his bravado—the look on his face was almost shock. What was fascinating, and a bit appalling, was how the media focused on the arraignment for two hours when we saw maybe two seconds of trump live and one still photo. They are doing it again—giving trump all the free coverage he could wish, and it’s working—his fund-raising and support among Republicans is up. Even Mitt Romney is calling the arraignment politically inspired—that’s another subject for another night. From trump’s point of view, however, I’d say the day ended with a whimper and not a bang (with a hat tip to T.S.Eliot). The protests and crowds on his behalf were feeble.

But there was other political news that interested me. A judge in Llano County—yes, folks, right here in bright red Texas—has ordered twelve books returned to school libraries within twenty-four hours and decreed that no books may be removed during the pending court case. The books had been removed by lawmakers who judged their content inappropriate without public discussion, and a group of county residents sued, claiming their rights had been violated. Books included some on transgender teens and a history of the Ku Klux Klan. The judge cited the First Amendment in his decision. Book advocates say this is a significant victory that may resonate across the country, Fingers crossed. Any victory for books is cause for rejoicing.

There’s another story about schools coming out of Texas. A group of parents at Fort Worth’s Tanglewood Elementary (a neighborhood adjacent to mine) have hired off-duty police officers as guards during the school day. Our local representative to the state legislature has embraced the idea, and a representative group of parents has traveled to Austin to present their pilot program, called Texans Against School Violence.

My worries about this kind of action are several. I can’t believe the solution is more guns, and indeed at both Parkland and Uvalde, armed security was helpless. Additionally, this school is in an upscale neighborhood where parents can afford to contribute toward the expense. Go across town to what is still an essentially segregated neighborhood, and that won’t be true. At first glance, Texans Against Gun Violence seems an elitist reaction, but I probably need to learn more about it. Wonder how many of them are gun owners.

I read an article recently that calculated the number of elementary schools in the country and then figured the cost of an armed guard at each of those schools. The figure was so high as to be laughable. To my mind, gun control, not more guns, is the answer. It’s never occurred to me though perhaps it should to be worried because I live across the street from what we in my neighborhood think is the city’s best, most historic, most diversified public elementary school.

Enough of schools and books. I found a question asked on a small writer’s group listserv this week puzzling and thought provoking. The question was, “Do you have rituals that give meaning and substance to your life?” My first instinct about rituals had to do with either church or passages of life—communion (for me as a Protestant), the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer, or a wedding, graduation ceremony, etc. . Big things,

But then I realized rituals can be pretty simple. What, I wondered, is the difference between routine and ritual? I like the routines of my life. When do those routines become ritual? After some back and forth with the friend who asked the question, we finally decided that routines become ritual when they bring joy and meaning to life. And they don’t have to be elaborate.

So what are the rituals in my life? Starting the day with a cup of hot tea at my desk, reading emails and the news of the day, anticipating getting to my writing work of the day whatever it is. And, similarly, ending the day at my desk, reading a mystery, with a glass of wine.  When I think about it, my life has been full of rituals. One I remember distinctly:

When our kids were in high school, my brother and I, both divorced, got our families together for Sunday dinners. Yes, I was the one who did the cooking. Sometimes for as many as fifteen people as neighbors, friends, and the kids school friends joined us. John would preside at the head of the table, as the patriarch, and he would go around the table, asking each of us what was good about our week. Those are times I treasure in my memory.  So perhaps rituals are the things that help us build memories.

How about you? Are there rituals in our life to which you cling?

And a parting note: The good guys are winning tonight. The progressive candidate has won the election for mayor of Chicago, and the liberal has won the swing seat on the Wisconsin Supreme Court, in a race that was called the most significant of this season—and a record-setter for expenditures.  I’ll go to sleep happy, maybe dreaming of rituals.

 

 

Chicago longings, a cooking weekend, and some good visits

 

J

View from Chicago's Lower Wacker Drive
How can I, who dislikes skyscrapers, be homesick for those tall buildings?
But I am.

Jordan Elisabeth Alter Burton (you know how when you’re angry you call kids by their full name? That’s what I’m doing here!)—that girl! Is besieging me with pictures of Chicago. Today it was several, including at least two of her enjoying drinks, apparently taken along lower Wacker Drive by the Chicago River. When I lived there, I never went anywhere near the river, but when my kids and I went for a visit six years ago, we had a hilarious time on Lower Wacker Drive, including a picture of me in front of Trump Tower (Colin tricked me into it) and the river architecture tour. Even worse, she sent me a video of what she called “my lake” in one of its better moods, with the water a deep blue and fairly gentle waves splashing against the shoreline rocks. That naughty child knows she’s making me homesick for my hometown.

I know all I have to do is damp down my dislike of flying, and I could be in Chicago for a long weekend. Any or all of my four kids and maybe some others would go with me. We’d stay at the Palmer House and drive by my childhood home, which Jordan apparently didn’t get to do this time. We’d take the transport chair, so walking wouldn’t be a challenge for me—though when we were there before, my sons took turns in seeing who could push me up and down ramps the fastest. But it’s doable, and I am tempted, and Jordan Elisabeth Alter Burton is tempting me all the more. She knows it too.

As is often the case, this was a cooking weekend for me. Friday night, Jean came, and I made Salade Niçoise with smoked salmon. I set it on a bed of spring mix greens and dressed it with sour cream diluted with lemon. I loved the salad ingredients, especially the smoked salmon, but the dressing didn’t work for me. Too thick, too hard to spread. Last night, Christian and I were home for supper, and I made a pot of spaghetti sauce that I’d been craving—good but heavy. I still have leftovers in the fridge.

Tonight, a friend had to cancel our dinner plans because of serious illness in her family, so I fixed part of what I would have fixed her—the turkey tonnato, but without the baked spinach casserole and broiled tomato I had planned. Instead, I fixed myself a salad of lettuce and avocado, dressed with Newman’s Own Vinaigrette and grated pecorino cheese. A good meal, but I was glad I hadn’t served it to a guest. I requested quarter inch slices of turkey from Central Market and got paper thin slices that are hard to deal with. It wasn’t the dish I’d envisioned. Tonnato sauce basically combines mayonnaise, tuna in olive oil, a bit of anchovy, some lemon juice and some capers—whir it in the processor. It’s good but a strong flavor, and you either like it or you don’t. I do.

But it was lovely to have visitors over the weekend. Jean and I had a good, catch-up visit on Friday night, and I think next weekend she’s going to force me out of my cottage to go to dinner. I’m looking forward to it, though I have a bad habit of backing out at the last minute. Not this time, I tell myself.

Saturday night, Jaimie and Greg walked up for happy hour, bringing granddaughter Ophelia. I had purchased a Beto yard sign; then I gave him some money—that $37 which is the mysterious figure he’s arrived at that will put him over the top—and he sent me another sign. So, I offered it to Jaimie, who was glad to have it. They came to get the sign…and stayed to visit. Ophelia was appropriately shy in a house she didn’t know with an adult she doesn’t know (thanks to Facebook, I know her a lot better than she knows me). When I asked if she liked pre-K or days with Grammy better, she said, “Both.” That child is a diplomat. Jaimie thinks of all kinds of creative activities for her, like cooking their way through the alphabet. Ophelia is also one of those children who early on looks like she understands the secrets of the universe in a way that most of us mere mortals never will. I had a child like that, and I recognize it.

So it’s been a pleasant weekend, hot but not too hot, good food, good company, some writing done, but I didn’t beat myself up about it. I am ready for Jordan to come home, but this coming week is shaping up to be busy. And that’s a good thing.

How does your week look?

Dinner at the Star

 

In one week, we went from feeling sophisticated to funky western. Tonight, the Burtons, Jean, and I had dinner at the Star Café in Fort Worth’s National Historic Stockyards District. For forty-two years, my good friends Betty and Don Boles have owned the Star. As I wrote a couple of weeks ago, Betty and Don have sold the classic steakhouse. Saturday night will be their last hoorah. So the last couple of weeks they’ve been busy with folks who have come for a last supper. Tonight was out turn.

Betty was waiting for us, with a reserved sign on the front table that I’ve always loved. It sits right in the front window so you can watch the comings and goings on West Exchange Avenue. Of course, you have to mind the sign that says, “Please don’t mess with the neon lights!”

Wine was served, and we fell to nostalgic stories and memories, with lots of laughter. The late-night dinners when the café had emptied, the night one of Jordan and Christian’s friends fell asleep in a booth, the times Jordan wanted to take home a pint of the house-made ranch dressing, the luncheon after Jacob’s christening. I asked about the people I remembered—Bino, the cook who is still there; Emilio, the clean-up guy who left after long years; the prep guy who’d been there since I remember; the postman who used to come for supper before he went dancing and always wanted to talk about western history. Other faces and memories swam before me, but I couldn’t be specific about them.

For me, nothing would do for dinner except chicken-fried steak. You can get steak, nicely done, in a lot of restaurants in this city, but good chicken-fried is a special thing onto itself. Betty and I split an order, with mashed potatoes and lots of gravy. Saying she knew they’d never serve it at Trinity Terrace, Jean also ordered chicken-fried, declaring she would take half home with her. She didn’t. She ate it all. Jordan and Christian ordered filets, and Jacob had chicken fingers which I remember were so large I could barely eat one. It was all delicious.

Best of all was seeing Betty. For years, she and I went to dinner every Wednesday night, sometimes to our regular places, other times adventuring out to try new places. In recent years, we added Jean to the tradition. But then pandemic hit. I knew Betty was still working weekends at the Star, which made me leery, and then I got to the point that getting me out in my walker was just too much trouble. I stayed home a lot. Tonight I realized that it took at least two people to help me at the two steps in and out of the Star—Betty couldn’t do it herself. So our habit fell by the wayside, much lamented by both of us. We have gotten together occasionally—a couple of times to go out with others, a couple of times on my patio. But we have missed each other, and it was good to reconnect tonight.

A thoroughly happy evening!

In other nonconsequential news, I got my hair cut really short. I notice in the picture how fat my face looks. But my doctor said, sanctimoniously, “We do not encourage the elderly to lose weight.” That’s because if a health catastrophe hits, you might need that reserve in the hospital. Also losing weight stresses organs in your body like the heart. So here I am, eating modestly—honest, most of the time, just not this week—and still gaining weight. I have decided to be happy and not worry about it.

One thing I did worry about: my extreme fear of weight, as it showed itself in Jean’s seventeenth-floor apartment the other night. By serendipity, 23andMe, which I subscribed to several years ago, sent me the next day a report on my fear of height. My first thought was “How did they know?” Well, of course, they knew by profiling, and they said most people have a 29% chance of fearing heights; I have a 38% chance. Furthermore, people who fear height get their sense of balance from visual points of reference—if you are at the edge of a high balcony, you have no such visual points. I instantly remembered being in a wide, empty lobby where the walls and floor were of neutral marble (faux, I presume)—no pictures, no furniture, no plants, nothing. Just that faux marble. I told Jordan it was the kind of space that made me feel spacy. When she asked what would happen, I said, “I don’t know. I’ll lose my balance and fall on the floor.” Now that makes sense to me. There were no visual points of reference. I am deeply relieved to know the reason for my fear and that it’s not just a silly idea in my mind.

So, a great evening, a good week, and I am ready to sleep. ‘Night all. Sweet dreams.

Memories of the Star Café

 

Bud Kennedy’s article in this morning’s paper announced the sale of the Star Café in Fort Worth’s Stockyards National Historic District. I’d known about it, but seeing it written up in detail, with a marvelous picture of the dining area, made it all too real. The Star is one of my happy memories. Good friends Don and Betty Boles have owned it for forty-two years. I’d  hate to correct Bud, but I think before that they owned it for a spell, sold it, and then bought it back. And I was always told it was the oldest, continually operating restaurant in Tarrant County. I don’t doubt it.

I’d call the décor funky, but I know Don would object to that. But the place is crowded with memorabilia, even a porch swing hanging from the tin ceiling, the requisite deer head with antlers, a giant beer bottle, and neon beer labels. Signed pictures of celebrities and rodeo stars line the walls, along with a sign that says, “Don’t mess with the neon lights.” Behind the bar and high up a shelf hold more western “stuff,” including an old tricycle that fell on Betty one night. Fortunately, her injuries were minor.

If the décor is funky, the food is delicious. The Star is known for chicken-fried steak (my favorite) and baseball steaks—the latter too big for me to tackle, but they sure do a good rib-eye. They make their own ranch dressing, which tastes better than other I’ve ever had, but the house dressing is an oil, green olive, and cheese concoctions. I don’t know who invented it. Long ago, when Eva, the then-elderly cook, was working at lunch, Wednesday was meatloaf day and friends and I from TCU would go for lunch. And there was always Betty’s own banana pudding.

For a few  years, I ran the cash register on Saturday nights, and oh—the lessons about mankind! I made some friends, like John the postman who loved to talk western history with me and tell me all he knew about Elmer Kelton. I learned to be cautious about a group of people who would cheat you every way they could, like demanding change for a hundred when they gave you a fifty. There were regulars—people who were there every Saturday night, and if I never knew their names, I knew them well enough to greet them as friends. Many were dressed to the nines to go dancing in the honky-tonks just down the street. When there was a national act at Billy Bob’s legendary country music nightclub, we knew the Star would be busy.

So many memories—like the time Betty and I worked from morning to late at night because there was an all-day festival (talk about sore feet), or the birthdays and family occasions we celebrated there—wedding parties during Jordan and Christian’s week-long nuptial festivities, a party to introduce Colin and Lisa as a couple. My kids often chose it for dinner, and I remember Megan saying one night as we sat in the downstairs bar waiting for a table, “I am perfectly happy right now.” Or Jamie begging the kitchen staff one Sunday morning to put an egg on his chicken-fried, even though they had stopped serving breakfast. Or grandchild Maddie at three wandering back to stand by me at the cash register—Betty disapproved of that one.

My favorite time at the Star was late—the café closed at nine, so we though nine-fifteen was late—when people began to drift away, and I saw Betty come down the restaurant with a glass of wine in her hand. I knew then it was time to quit and have dinner. Betty and I usually split something, from steak and baked potato to chicken-fried, but we occasionally deviated. One night I brought a jar of sauerkraut with me, and we had Polish sausage.

I haven’t been to the Star since before pandemic, mostly because I got out of the habit of restaurants. But I will go for a farewell meal. I imagine the Burtons will want to go, and Betty suggested Jean and I go one night. I’m told the staff will all stay—including Bino the cook—and the new owner, somehow connected to the stars of Yellowstone and 1883 plans to keep it like it is. But it won’t be the same.

A PS: I even wrote a short story set in the Star. Rumor always was that it or Miss Molly’s B&B upstairs, was haunted. And I knew that Don kept a baseball bat by the cash register in case of trouble. So I wove a story about a ghost, a waitress with “the sight,” and a baseball bat—one of the few times I ever included paranormal in anything I wrote. Hmmm. It never was published. I’ll have to see if I can find in on my computer.

Y’all really should get on up there and have you some chicken-fried! Go for the mashed potatoes, green beans, and salad with ranch. Top it off with Betty’s banana pudding.

Nostalgia all over the place

 

A small blowout

My youngest grandson, Kegan David, broke his leg in a “hard soccer collision” yesterday. It will, we’re told, require surgery, and his soccer season is over—just when it was ending anyway. Kegan is an athlete—lean and tall at fifteen (a birthday in a week), he’s too slight for football but is in demand because he’s a terrific kicker; even when he was tiny for his size, he was asked to play on teams of boys three and four years older than he was; a year or so ago, he decided to take up track as well and was no slouch at the pole vault. This is his second broken bone—if he is to keep up with his father’s early teen record, he has two more to go. At this point, however, he is tied with his Austin cousin, Sawyer, who broke his femur skiing and smashed an elbow doing some kind of trick bike riding. I have suggested that the boys should take up golf or swimming. Actually, Sawyer’s favorite sport is playing his guitar, so he’s less likely to break bones these days.

A much younger Kegan,
but look at that attitude!

But the broken leg made me nostalgic because I began to reflect on how my seven grands have grown—and, in truth, to miss the babies they were. I remember how the two older girls, Maddie and Edie, were always so anxious to nursemaid the little boys. When she was two or three, Edie talked incessantly about “Baby Sawyee.” And Maddie was always ready to play a game, change a diaper, do whatever the little boys wanted—well, almost. Somewhere on my computer are some adorable pictures. It’s true what they say—the time flies. My grands now include one college graduate, one college freshman, two high school rising seniors, a rising junior, and two rising sophomores. How did this happen?

Kegan this year

Then this morning in that banner MSN flashes across my Edge screen there was a feature about a beach-y national park just miles from Chicago. I knew instantly that meant the Indiana dunes. What I didn’t know is that there is now a national park adjacent to the Indiana Dunes State Park. I browsed with longing through pictures of beaches, carved into narrow strips by the encroaching water, and great blowouts—areas where no vegetations holds the sand and the wind has carved out saucer-shaped depressions or hollows, some quite large. Those are the scenes of my summer childhood.

My family had a cottage on a high dune, three long staircases above the beach. Mom used to tell us we were at the very foot of the lake as we watched storms roll in—I loved seeing the lake at its wildest, but for swimming I wanted calm ripples. The back of our cottage sat squarely in the woods, where the outhouse was—scary trip at night. We had no electricity, no running water (a cistern). Mom scalded dishes wit boiling water after she washed them, and our refrigerator was a three-shelf box that was lowered into a deep hole to sit on top of a huge ice block. You knew to always put milk in the bottom shelf where it stayed the coldest. When we finally got bottled gas, we thought we were really uptown.

The blowout pictures took me back to the time Mom made me and a friend hike all the way across a huge blowout, in the hot summer, so we could be dots in her picture—and that’s what we were: little black dots dwarfed by this huge, sandy landscape. And the beach pictures—when I was a kid, there were houses at the first level, kind of the top of the beach, where we got drinking water from a pump (and carried it up all those stairs!). Those houses, including one belonging to a family friend, have all long since washed into the lake. And speaking of drinking water, I will always remember the night we heard a plop—a mouse had fallen into the drinking water. We cried over a whole pail gone to waste, and Mom had to sterilize the pail.

When I was young, the beach was
three times this wide.

Today I was carried back to the past looking at the pictures. They say when you are troubled, you should go, in your mind, to a safe spot. My safe spot is a little knoll on the second level of the dune. Sitting there, with my arm around a wild collie mix female inappropriately named Timmy, I could look to the northeast at evening and see the round orange ball of the sun slowly sinking behind the skyscrapers of Chicago, which look like toothpicks from that distance. It is, for me, a serene spot. Somewhere there is a picture of that. Wish I could find it.

What about you? Is there your version of a comforting dune in your mind?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Believe It Or Not, This Beachy National Park Sits Just Outside Chicago (msn.com)

 

Kind of a nothing day but an evening of nostalgia

 

The Madison Park Apartments
Hyde Park Boulevard at Dorchester Avenue
Chicago

All work and no play, they say, makes you dull. Sort of how I feel today. I read emails, caught up on odds and ends, did a bit on the novel but not a lot, and the day just sort off went by. Jacob and Jordan were up at five this morning so that he could be at Farrington Field by six to go to a golf tournament. He came home and went right back to bed. Christian had an event tonight, so there Jordan and I were staring at each other. “What’s for dinner?” She has mapped out meals from now until Thanksgiving and we’ve done grocery lists—so organized. Only there was no plan for tonight.

She had said a big green salad with chicken, so as she came and went between the cottage and the house I thought surely she’d start to make a salad any minute. Finally, when she came in around seven, I said, “Starving.” (I confess for once I’d been enjoying not cooking.) Then it came out that she was not at all hungry, and Jacob had gone back to bed—they have to repeat the five o’cock thing tomorrow. She was full of apologies, said to eat the chicken, but by then I just wanted something quick and easy. So for the second night this week, I had scrambled eggs. And a bit of last night’s German potato salad.

So there I was, after a nothing day, looking at a nothing evening. But I began a little research for the current Irene novel. If Henny and Patrick are now happily married, they need to move out of two, small but adjacent apartments. I wanted to give them an old cottage in Hyde Park, but the more I looked, the scarcer cottages were and the higher real estate. It’s not at all uncommon for a modest house to be a million and up. Henny and Patrick can’t afford that. So I prowled around and gathered enough information to invent a house for them. I’m rather captivated by it

Built in the twenties, it’s a tall and skinny wood frame structure, with bay windows downstairs and up, dark, natural woodwork and wainscoting, hardwood floors, and pocket doors. Somebody kept all the good features of an older home—it’s hard to find original wainscoting these days. The kitchen however was maybe updated in the fifties, certainly not suited for a chef on the brink of her career. They have a lot of renovation to do, bit by bit.

This is sort of like playing with paper dolls when you were a kid. You get to make up houses, clothing, food, all aspects of life. A lot of fun. It occurs to me that traditionally the main character in a cozy is a single woman, in her twenties or thirties a the most, often with a love/hate romantic entanglement, though those parameters are branching out all the time. Still, I seem to keep marrying off my protagonists. So far, I’ve sustained series with married couples, and I’m counting on it to be true with Henny and Patrick. As she says early on, they are deliriously happily married.

Of course, Irene will be returning from France, this time drawn back by a murder. This time she announces that since she visits so often, she is thinking of taking a small apartment in a residential hotel. (No need to dwell on Henny’s reaction to that.) So I went back online to check residential hotels—and there are none under that classification. I guess I was thinking of the grand old hotels of my youth, where aging widows and spinsters lived and took their meals in quietly elegant dining rooms. The woman I worked for, as a gofer/typist, when I was I high school used to take me to such hotels for lunch. Once, wanting me to impress someone we were with, she suggested I have the calavo pear with tuna salad. I replied that I would if it were avocado, but I didn’t much like pears. She kicked me under the table. How was I to know calavo was another name for avocado? At any rate, those hotels are gone.

On an impulse I searched for the Madison Park Hotel—I grew up in Madison Park—and lo! It’s still there, in all its grand glory, but now called the Madison Park Apartments. No restaurant, but a breakfast bar and they’ve gotten modern with an exercise facility. The blurb says it still has its grandly luxurious lobby and all the amenities. I guess that’s where Irene will land.

Such fun to wander around my old neighborhood, even if only online. And fun to play with paper dolls.

Have a good sleep, everyone.

A lovely night I the neighborhood

 

Halloween is a big deal for Christian
and he decorates accordingly

Makes me think of Mr. Rogers and his neighborhood, but it was that kind of evening in Berkeley tonight, even if we did only have a couple of parties of trick-or-treaters. It was the Berkeley Fall Festival, a pre-Halloween event especially for kids in the neighborhood. But more than that, it was for kids with various disabilities, physical and social. It was the night MedStar brings two kids, either on stretchers or in wheelchairs, to trick-or-treat on a specially chosen block—a real thrill for kids who wouldn’t otherwise get the be part of the fun. And for the families, who are included and treated like royalty.

It was also a night for children who might be overwhelmed by the crush and confusion of real Halloween in our neighborhood—the autistic child who is frightened by crowds yet wants to be part of the fun, the child with severe food allergies who must pick carefully from any candy offered, the child who is just plain shy.

Sophie wanted to be part of the fun too

For me, it was also a bit of a nostalgic night. The trick-or-treating was advertised from five to seven, so Jordan, Christian, Jean, and I gathered on the porch. But the Berkeley map sent out ahead of time showed only two other houses on our block that were participating. In the inner neighborhood (we are on the fringe), there were clusters of houses passing out treats. So we got only one family—good friends—while we sat there. But then Christian grilled, and Jordan served dinner on the porch—kofta, tzatziki, hummus, and a green salad. With brownies, chocolate chip cookies, and gingersnap—such a wealth of sweets.

And then, about seven, Jordan’s friends, all people I’m fond of, began to arrive. I got lots of good hugs and saw people I’d missed for a long time. I’m tempted to call them young people, as that’s how I always think of them, but they are now nearing fifty. Not so young but still lively.

Twenty years ago when Jordan and Christian first got together, Jordan and I were in a

Jordan makes such a cute witch!

phase of giving porch parties. They were potluck, generally Mexican themed, and BYOB. And they were happy, warm occasions, part of the fond memories that I carry with me today. Some of the people who came in those days have drifted away—we watched some romances flame and then sputter out and others take hold and burn with a steady flame. But there were many there tonight who had been at those long-ago parties, so it was like a reunion, and it made my heart glad.

Being the old lady in the crowd, I left before eight—too many conversations confused my hearing aids, and I couldn’t hear anyone. Sophie was by then out in the cottage alone, and I used the excuse that she was lonely. The truth is I enjoy those parties a great deal, but the time comes early when I am ready to sneak back to my own quiet place of comfort.

Tomorrow night will be a madhouse if history holds true. Our streets will be packed with cars, our sidewalks crowded with families with young kids. It’s always nice to notice that politeness and good manners prevail—in many cases, as a child takes a treat, a parent says, “Did you say thank you?” It’s reassuring that not everything in this world or this country has gone amuck these days.

And tonight was sort of like a return to kinder, gentler times. I loved it, and I applaud Jordan and Christian for hosting.

 

Nostalgia on the Fourth

Probably a sign of aging, but holidays now seem to call forth memories of holidays past. Tonight, for instance, I am thinking of my teen years, when the Fourth always meant the stock car races at Soldiers’ Field in Chicago, followed by what was then the most magnificent fireworks display we could imagine—today it would seem tame. I’m not sure, but I think I must have gone with a well-chaperoned church group because I can’t imagine my parents allowing such an outing otherwise.

And then there was the year in the early ‘80s that my shirttail brother and I took my children to the Lancaster Bridge in Fort Worth. Midway through the show I had a panic attack—from realizing how high off the ground we were (heights are a big thing for me)—and it turned out to be catching. Uncle Bob panicked too, and my kids, still very young, had to lead these two doddering adults off the bridge.

One of my best memories was the time friends and I went to the historic Oakwood Cemetery (I belonged to the North Fort Worth Historical Society which sponsored the event). We sat in folding chairs on the riverbank and had the best view of the city display.

There were nights in someone’s back yard when I was afraid a child would lose an eye to a sparkler and nights watching from the twelfth floor of the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine, when my ex as still a faculty member and still with us. Nights at Colonial Country Club, when the fireworks exploded right over us and made me think my heart had stopped

Now I’m content to stay home and hear the fireworks in the distance. Jean came over tonight, and we had the supper you must have—hot dogs (we both like ours with sauerkraut), beans (why did I only have vegetarian in the cupboard?), and potato salad that she made. Delicious. And patriotic.

I think it’s sad, though, that on this day when we celebrate our nation, I’m acutely aware of gun violence. Eight people were shot, many innocent bystanders, on an incident in a nearby neighborhood; a golf pro was shot on the course at a club in Georgia; twenty-plus shots were fired into the home of an Alabama state senator (apparently not politically motivated); and in South Carolina, two boys, ages eight and nine, were arrested for shooting and killing a farmer as he worked on his tractor. They were just randomly firing, apparently not thinking about consequences. What in heaven’s name are kids that age doing with rifles? Every day, it’s at least one shooting in our city, usually more. Folks, this is not what the Second Amendment meant at all. My neighbor, who is a gun aficionado and Second Amendment advocate, claims it means you can protect your home, not that you can randomly go out and shoot guns anywhere, anytime. Hmmm. Guess Governor Abbott needs to read the amendments again.

Nostalgia may come with age but so, I have decided, do altered sleep patterns. Last night about nine o’clock I got so sleepy I could hardly stand it, so I lay down for a quick nap. I woke from a sound sleep at 10:45, feeling refreshed and ready to do a day’s work. I didn’t quite do that, but it was 12:30 before I went back to bed. Now I’m wondering what will happen tonight, because it’s 8:30, and I’m feeling sleepy. Maybe fireworks will keep me awake. Sophie does not appear to be bothered by them at all.

My email program has started doing something spooky—it anticipates what I’m going to say and types it ahead of my fingers. Sometimes it’s right, sometimes not. What I’m afraid of is that I will change what I meant to say to fit what the computer thinks I should say. Yikes! I think it’s something called Smart Keys, but I have no idea how to turn it off. Technology is ahead of me again.

Good night, sweet folks. Enjoy the fireworks, be they near, far, or televised. And remember this can be a great country. We are, as President Biden says, at a crossroads, and it’s up to each and everyone of us to reclaim our country. Do not be afraid.

Walking on the sunny side of the street

 

Jordan's Cobb Salad for our dinner
So good, and a great way to use what's in the fridge;
with a quick, creamy dressing I've just discovered

For many of us, internet exchanges these days are too often confrontational. There are so many outrages in our world, so many lies and distortions, that I cannot resist commenting. So a couple of recent pleasant exchanges were wonderful surprises.

One had to do with fast food. When someone mentioned Chick Fil-A, I commented that I liked the food but will not patronize them for political reasons. A woman I don’t know responded that she chose her food for taste and not politics nor friendship and wasn’t that okay. I responded that of course it’s okay, but I just choose not to enrich the coffers of a corporation that espouses inhumane philosophies. The same, I added, is true of Hobby Lobby. It’s okay for people to believe whatever they want, but when it negatively affects and hurts others, it breaks a certain boundary. I can, at least, I said, give my beliefs some weight through action. The woman who asked thanked me for explaining my position and commented that it would be nice if all of us could talk in that way on social media.

The other incident was a few days ago. A woman posted from a very conservative point of view, and when I disagreed (I must learn to keep my indignation to myself) she wrote, “That’s my opinion, and you are entitled to yours.” I replied that while I totally disagree with her, I admired her civility, and she thanked me, said she wished everyone could be polite.

This has also been a day of introspection for me. I have realized that in addition to being outspoken about politics and social culture, I am really good at knowing what other people should do with their lives. It’s hard for me to keep quiet. But with age, hopefully, comes a bit of wisdom. Today a good friend told me she was going to do something I thought totally wrong for her situation, but I managed to say why, once, and then let it go. And I will be supportive of the course of action she chose.

The weather is part of the reason I’ve been so introspective today. Rain has threatened all day but stayed to the west of us. Tonight, it is moving closer, and Jordan says we expect a storm with possible hail by nine. Actually, I have found the last two days kind of depressing—gray skies, heavy humidity, neither hot nor cold. And apparently tomorrow is supposed to be even worse. Ah, springtime in Texas.

Jacob, with the wisdom of fourteen years, said tonight it would be cool if we had a tornado, and I wondered what had become of the little boy who was so terrified of storms. Once he insisted that I hide in my closet with him. Fortunately, it was a long, walk-in closet with plenty of room. He had put a chair, a candle, and a glass of wine in there, getting it all ready for me. Then he settled himself with a pillow on the floor. If I remember correctly, I had a book and contentedly read until he deemed it safe for us to emerge. Other times, in storms, he would silently come from the trundle in “his” room to my bed and crawl in without a word of explanation. Sadly, those days are long gone, but now, Sophie comes close to that, though if she gets on the bed, she is uncomfortable and antsy and soon jumps off, all of which is not conducive to my sleep.

So here I sit, the world growing dark around me, with a glass of wine and a good book. Let it storm—only no hail or tornado, please!

Farewell to elegance

 

Marshall Field & Company
State Street, downtown Chicago

Lunch at Neiman Marcus has always been a special treat for me. That demitasse of consommé and the popover with strawberry butter. I once tried to make that and ended with globules of butter floating unattractively in strawberry jam. Clearly, I need the restaurant.

I’ve been doing some research lately on Helen Corbitt, the cook—she never called herself a chef—who oversaw Neiman’s food service from 1955 to 1969 and elevated the food to world class. Inevitably I’ve read a lot about Stanley Marcus and the whole history of that specialty store. So, when the corporations that now own Neiman’s announced almost a year ago that they filed for bankruptcy protection, I felt sad for the demise of yet another of the few bastions of elegance I’ve known in my life.

Years ago, I had a Neiman Marcus charge account, had my hair cut in their salon, dined in Fort Worth Zodiac frequently. For several reasons, I’m not so much of a customer anymore, but Neiman’s will always represent elegance to me. And I find the store’s history as a family business fascinating—sort of the ultimate success of a mom-and-pop store. It was founded in the first decade of the twentieth century by salesman Herbert Marcus and his sister, Carrie Marcus Neiman, and stayed in the family under the legendary Stanley Marcus until the 1970s when Mr. Stanley stepped down as chairman of the board. A series of leveraged buyouts saw it change owners frequently, and my unsubstantiated guess is that prices went up while quality went down. No more the philosophy that any sale was only a good sale for Neiman’s if it was a good sale for the customer. The whole atmosphere changed, and to me became less welcoming.

I’m grateful Fort Worth still has Neiman’s—in a new location, yet—and I can go have a demitasse of consommé and a popover with my chicken salad for lunch. But it isn’t the same. Somehow, I feel quality has become crassly commercial.

I don’t think any such heavy thought occurred to me when Chicago’s Marshall Field & Co. was purchased by Macy’s in 2003 and essentially disappeared. I remember, again, a sense of sadness. I last lunched at the original store with a friend in the ‘90s, and we found the famous Walnut Room, the classic upscale restaurant, a bit shabby. Perhaps elegance doesn’t always last.

But that store on State Street was my childhood playground. My dad, a physician, had his office on the seventeenth floor of the Marshall Field Annex, and you could go under the Wabash Avenue from store to annex. I could roam the store at a fairly young age, and as a teenager, I’d ride the “IC” (Illinois Central commuter train) downtown to Field’s by myself. I could lead you blindfolded to every department in the store, though I was especially fond of the teen apparel section and the restaurants. I liked The Verandah better than the Walnut Room. Then again, I knew where in the budget basement they sold hot dogs and something called a chocolate frosty.

When I wrote The Gilded Cage, about Bertha Honoré (Cissie) Palmer and her husband, Potter, I delved a bit more into the origins of Field’s. The store traces back to a dry goods store on Chicago’s Lake Street, opened in 1857. It went through several iterations, a longtime partner, and at least two devastating fires, before it finally became Marshall Field and Co. in 1881 and later moved into its twelve-story, opulent headquarters at State and Randolph just after the turn of the twentieth century. Want to learn more? Read What the Lady Wants, by Renee Rosen.

Obviously, I learned a lot more about the Palmer House from my research for my novel, The Gilded Cage. Potter Palmer arrived in Chicago in the late 1840s. By the time of the Great Fire, he was a successful hotelier and had just built the Palmer House. It was totally destroyed, but the plans had been saved in an underground vault, and Palmer rebuilt, adding more luxurious detail as he went. Like Field’s store, the hotel catered to the wealthy, fulfilling their every wish from fresh flowers throughout daily to the silver dollars embedded in the floor of the world-renowned barbershop. From writing about the hotel in the late nineteenth century, I felt like I knew it well.

Truth is, I don’t remember ever going to the Palmer House all my years in Chicago, but in late 2016 my four children and I went to the city so I could show them where I grew up. Naturally, after The Gilded Cage, the hotel was high on my list of places to visit. We had lunch there one day and took the historical tour—it’s the only hotel I know of with its own museum inside and a historian on staff. We craned our necks at the ceiling murals and exclaimed in awe over everything from the 24-karat gold Tiffany chandeliers to the souvenir ashtrays in the museum. Want to know more about the Palmer House? Read The Gilded Cage. The hotel also figures in my most recent cozy mystery, Saving Irene.

Maybe it’s a sign of the times, for better or for worse, and elegance is being replaced by comfortable casual, but I will always miss these grand old dames of the past. Next on my list is the Drake Hotel, which as a child I considered the epitome of elegance. My four kids and I stayed there on that visit to Chicago, but I will not go back lest I jinx it. It too was fading just a bit.

Going way back in time and memory

Photo by Marc Monaghan

A great blast of nostalgia hit me when I read my email this morning. One message from the Hyde Park (Chicago) Historical Society contained an article about Promontory Point, the scene of many of my happiest high-school memories, although in retrospect they are tinged with a bit of adolescent awkwardness.

Better known as just “the Point,” it is a finger of land that juts out into Lake Michigan from about 55^th Street on Chicago’s South Side. Daniel Burnham, the architect behind the city’s recovery from the Great Fire and the man still, all these years later, responsible for much of Chicago’s architecture, envisioned a city park in a thin strip along miles of the waterfront. The 40-acre Point made entirely of landfill and completed in the 1930s, long after Burnham’s death, was the southern most part of what became Daniel Burnham Park.

Aerial view 1940

Chicago Public Library

Along with an abundance of native trees, two things mark the Point in my mind. One is the pavilion, partly open shelter and partly one large enclosed room. Sometimes our church youth group reserved the pavilion for a picnic supper or some such, and I think maybe I went there with the Girl Scouts. I know we all used the smelly restrooms (I hope today that feature has seen improvement.)

The other feature emblazoned are my memory are the revetments or retaining walls of huge blocks of stone that kept the Point from dissolving back into the lake. When I was in high school, my friends and I rode our bikes to the Point where we spread our blankets and unpacked our snacks, radios, and suntan lotion on the grass above those rocks. If you wanted to swim, you jumped in off the rocks, watching carefully for those that were submerged. The water was cold and deep.

I was probably as good a swimmer as any of the others, but I had learned to swim on the sandy beaches of the Indiana dunes where the caution was always, “Be sure your foot can touch the bottom. Never get out over your head.” The big fear was the undertow which could drag you out too far to swim back. So I swam, always parallel to the shore, always touching my foot down. No way I was going in that deep water with nothing to hold on to but slippery, moss-covered rocks. I was always afraid the other kids would think I was chicken—and they would be right.

A family on the stone revetments

photo by March Monaghan

The kids I met at the Point mostly came from my church youth group, but my friend Eleanor Lee and I were kind of the hangers-on with the group, most of whom were older. We knew them all well because frequently when they weren’t at the Point, they gathered at Eleanor Lee’s house, thanks to her older sister Elizabeth. Neither a raving beauty nor an accomplished flirt, I felt like a bit of an ugly duckling and longed to be “cool” enough to be casual with those kids, probably high school seniors.

Years later, when I actually dated one of those older boys fairly regularly, we must have outgrown the Point. I don’t recall that we ever went there. I think too by then it was less safe than in our day, when there were people spread all over it on weekends. I think by today it has been reclaimed and residents feel free to go there, stare at the lake, sit on the stone benches.

It is such a place of strong memory for me that I managed to work it into my new mystery, Saving Irene. Henny and her next-door, good-looking, not-interested-in-girls neighbor, Patrick, ride bikes to the Point and picnic.

This morning it was like magic to see those scenes again. I hope you’ll like these pictures from the Point.

Random December memories…

Longtime special friends Martha and Dick Andersen, who know well my affinity for all things Scottish, sent me a Scottish Santa tree ornament this week. To my delight, it is by folk artist Jim Shore. More than a few years ago Shore’s Christmas figures—Santa, angels, snowmen—were the rage in Texas, or maybe I just thought that because I had a friend who carried his work in her gift shop. My great splurge one year was to buy a Saint Nicholas figure. A year or two later I looked for a tree ornament for a friend who collects angels but could not find a single Jim Shore angel ornament. I assumed his popularity had peaked and waned, so I was surprised to get this wonderful figure.

A web search showed me how wrong I was. Shore has gone from a regional artist with a few subjects to a one-man industry, with a craft studio, a superstore, an affiliation with Amazon, and contracts with Disney, Peanuts, Coca Cola and other name brands. His Heartwood Creek brand is now internationally known. But he still relies on themes and patterns from folk art—quilting, rosemaling (stylized painting on wood, a Scandinavian artform), and tole painting.

It’s a Jim Shore Christmas at my cottage. Want to see more of his work? Here’s a link: https://jimshore.com/pages/shop-by-type

I had a second nostalgia trip this morning when a friend confessed to one of those incongruities that can creep into fiction—she had mentioned the Golden Gate Bridge (I think that was the bridge) in a story set several years before the bridge was built. That triggered a memory of the Dorothy Johnson short story, “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance,”—I have a vague memory that Johnson had a Congressman witness an Old West gunfight and then head for the airport. It was corrected before publication, but the memory is rattling around in my head.  One mention led to another, and it turned out another friend is a huge fan of the film version of that story  but knew nothing about Johnson’s other work. Now she’s reading one of the short story collections.

Dorothy died in 1984, and her work, once widely heralded and filmed, is now pretty much unknown. Her most famous short stories, in addition to Liberty Valance, are “The Hanging Tree,” “A Man Called Horse,” and “Lost Sister,” her take on the sad story of Cynthia Ann Parker’s return from Indian captivity to white society. Western author Jack Schaefer wrote a classic introduction to her stories, describing the “singing sentence” at the end which causes readers to gasp with surprise and delight.

I was privileged to know Dorothy. Met her at Western Writers of America meetings and developed a correspondence with her. After her death, I gave my thick Dorothy Johnson file to Sue Hart of the University of Montana, who did a documentary on Dorothy’s work. My folder included not only letters but research notes for two introductions to short story volumes and the text of a monograph.

So this morning, Dorothy came galloping back into my memory, half falling off her horse as she did on her letterhead photo. A pleasant trip into the past. I wish I’d written that book about her. The memories are fuzzy now, the people who knew her well all gone.

Christmas is a time for making new memories and treasuring the old. Tomorrow night my entire family will be gathered under one roof. Lots of memories to be made. I am like a kid waiting for Santa, fidgety with anticipation.