Color Me Done!

I have been poked and prodded, studied and examined, from head to toe—well almost. Within a very few weeks, I have been to the cardiologist, the dentist, the endodontist, the podiatrist, the ophthalmologist, and my family physician. I have worn a Holter monitor, had a mammogram, learned that my eyes aren’t as good as I thought and rechargeable batteries are no longer available for my hearing aids. I have had blood drawn and, today, a root canal. I am through, I tell you---through, through, through!

Mostly, the intensity of my medical update is my own fault. During the omicron surge, I cancelled appointment after appointment. When it comes to medical matters, I am not one to do it today if I can put it off till tomorrow. Eventually, of course, my conscience catches up with me—along with a little voice that says, “what if?”

Anyway, today was the root canal. I will not lie and say I was not nervous, because I was. Afraid of the fear and anticipation. I would not want to have the procedure often, but it was painless—just a lot of lie still, don’t move, and don’t’ swallow kind of stuff. The doctor was kind, the set-up incredibly efficient and professional—and now it is behind me. I am so grateful.

I read a blog today by an author who is a good friend. We’ve never met, but we’re Facebook friends, and we agree on a lot of things. Today she wrote about distraction in these difficult times—how hard it is to write. I really found that true these last few weeks when I was so occupied with medical matters—and dread of the root canal. All that seemed to pile on top of Ukraine trauma and global worry, for what Putin has done attacks not just Ukraine but the balance of the global system.

I think most of us, at one time or another, think what’s the point? What’s the point of putting one foot in front of the other, if the world as we know it is going to end? Oh, I’m not talking about nuclear holocaust, though that possibility looms on the horizon again as it did in the 1950s. I’m talking about a change in world order—from democracy to autocracy, Fascism, dictatorship, whatever you want to call it when a handful of the entitled rule and have all the wealth while they make life miserable for the rest of us. As a person of faith, you can’t tell me that is what God intended for our earth.

We see all the danger signs, the biggest of course being the ongoing brutality in Ukraine. But never overlook the small warning signs here at home—book banning, laws passed by the states that over-ride the Constitution and a Supreme Court that seems inclined to look the other way, the denigration of public education in favor of charter schools, the overreach into people’s personal lives, be it their reproductive life or their parenting of trans children.  It’s all very scary.

The blog I read today gave me pause about one thing: the cozy mysteries (hopefully humorous) that I write seem so insignificant, so trivial in the face of the world situation. But neighbor Mary reassured me tonight that people need the distraction, they need to escape to another world. And heaven knows, as an author, I need that other world too.

So tomorrow, I begin again after a hiatus, putting one word on top of another until, the Lord willing, I end up with a novel. It’s a challenge I’ve issued to myself.

You too, no matter what your life consists of, can put one foot in front of the other. And then contribute in whatever way you can to support the people of Ukraine, to fight censorship and authoritarianism here at home. None of us can afford to sit back in complacency.

Remember the words of William Faulkner in his 1949 acceptance speech at the Novel Banquet in Stockholm: “I believe that man will not only endure. He will prevail.”

Preaching over.

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Lost in the past…and wishing I was

I have been having so much fun lately reading the Fort Worth Star-Telegram and the Fort Worth Register from around 1900. You know, the kind of paper that reported the social news. Mrs. So and So entertained Mrs. A. B. Wharton at tea, and Mrs. Wharton honored her sister-in-law with a luncheon that was “delicious and delightful.” Of course, there are endless advertisements, but there’s an occasional lynching—two ranchers angry at a third rancher—and the lawyer who was surprised when his wife did not greet him at the train station when he arrived from a business trip. He went home and got to exploring—found a letter to her from her lover.

Articles about the early use of automobiles in Fort Worth are especially interesting to me. Did you know there was a racing park, sort of behind where the Montgomery Ward’s Plaza now is? Car races were all the thing, almost as popular as horse races, and A.B. Wharton once raced against legendary driver, Barney Oldfield. I remember my mom talked about Oldfield—if she thought someone was driving too fast, she’d ask, “Who do you think you are? Barney Oldfield?”

These old newspaper accounts are hard on the eyes but a joy to the mind. Sometimes I think I’d like to have lived back then, but of course I realize I’m reading about people of privilege. For large segments of our population—the poor, people of color, the ill—life back then was even harder than it is today.

I’ve had the thought lately that I’ve lived too long—not because I’m tired of life, but because I simply cannot believe what’s going on in our country. For much of my life, Russia was the great enemy to be terribly feared. Their government, if not their people, was bent on destroying America. I lived through the McCarthy era, though my memories of it are vague, and through the Cold War, where we were terrified that atomic bombs would rain down on us. School children hid under their desks or in hallways during raids, and William Faulkner assured us in his acceptance of the Nobel Prize for Literature that mankind will not only endure, he will prevail.

And yet here we are today, with clear evidence that Russia manipulated our presidential elections, indeed was responsible for scooting a criminal into the presidency. Putin as much as said the goal was to turn Americans against their government. Mission successful. Yet the controlling political party does not bat an eyelash. No outrage, no anger. Chin up and eyes out the window—they act like nothing happened. Predictions from those who know are that meddling in our elections is continuing and will increase with the 2020 election—and yet the Senate vows to do nothing, rejects bills that might protect the process.

In another day, in another time there would have been outraged howls of treason and immediate action. What has happened to us as Americans?

I guess one of the things I do when stressed is to cook, because today I made pesto from the basil plant growing in a pot on my desk and made a big pot of the cold cucumber soup I love. For m supper I cooked scallops. Unless I’m going all out and making Coquille St. Jacques, I have a hard time with scallops. But tonight I sort of followed Ina Garten’s recipe for scallops Meuniere—dredged them in flour, browned quickly, then simmered briefly in white wine, and served with a dash of lemon. So good!

Sweet dreams everyone. I hope I dream tonight of scallops and cold cucumber soup and turn-of-the-century teas with “delicious and delightful” food—and not of Russians rigging our voting machines. And I really hope that Faulkner was right.

Those Who Do Not Learn from History

I am sharply reminded today of the Cuban Missile Crisis of October 1962, almost fifty-five years ago. Alarmed by the failed 1961 Bay of Pigs invasion, Cuba asked the USSR to post missiles off the island to repel further advances. Russia, in retaliation for US missiles in Italy and Turkey, agreed. The US effected a naval blockade to prevent more missiles from reaching Cuba, but that was closing the barn door after the horse. So there we were, sitting ducks with short-range and intermediate-range missiles armed and pointed at our country. It was an interminably long thirteen days, as we went about our daily business almost consumed with fear.

I was in graduate school in Missouri, engaged, and looking forward to marriage. My parents were in Chicago, deemed a major target, and were deaf to my pleas to join my brother and me in Missouri. My father’s long-held philosophy held firm—no bullet had his name on it in WWI and if one did now, so be it. I had friends who were expecting their first child, so it was for them, as for me, the wrong time for the world to end. Young, we have a self-centered view of things. Today, much older, I know that it is always the wrong time. Life is too precious to lose to the folly of men’s egos.

Today I want to dig a deep hole and shepherd my children and grandchildren—and yes, our dogs—into it. Remember the bomb shelters of the 1950s? I once knew a family who bought a rambling 1950s ranch house with a bomb shelter. We laughed then but it doesn’t seem quite so foolish today. Until now, the Cuban Missile Crisis was the closest mankind had ever come to nuclear war. There is one big difference. Both John F. Kennedy and Nikita Khrushchev recognized what was at stake. They entered lengthy negotiations that eventually defused the confrontation. What we as a nation learned was that quick, clear, full communication was necessary, even crucial.

Today we have two petty tyrants shouting insults at one another, like schoolboys in a sandbox. Wiser heads in Washington are counseling the president that he endangers the future of negotiations with Kim Jong Un’s government, but he, like a school-yard bully, seems not to care, not to realize the fate of millions is in his hand. What seems to matter is his own unquenchable thirst for power, to be the biggest, the best, the loudest. It scares me to death.

But I take comfort in the words of William Faulkner in his 1950 speech of acceptance of the Nobel Prize for Literature. Before the Cuban Missile Crisis, yes, but at the height of the Atomic Age, which some call the precursor to the Age of Anxiety, much of which lingers in our national consciousness even today

Faulkner believed it was toxic to creativity to write from a fear so long sustained. Poets, by which he meant all writers, must write from the problems of the heart in conflict with itself. Their words must speak to the heart of long-held values, not of physical fear. His stirring words comfort me to this day: “I decline to accept the end of man … I believe that man will not merely endure; he will prevail.” I say those words to myself as I pray for peace and for sane heads to prevail.

We owe the NFL a debt of gratitude. The players who are peacefully trying to call attention to huge problems in our country, have diverted the president’s anger from North Korea to themselves, and they seem willing to bear the burden of that anger and its consequences.

A quiet, empty house

I'm feeling a little pensive tonight. My house is quiet and empty after having Jacob here for three days. Even Sophie has chosen to be outside instead of in with me. Jacob's gone to visit his grandparents in Coppell--they are so much better than I am about taking him to football practice and the like. He'll have a good time, and it's good that he's there, but I miss him. He was all dressed up this morning because his class was going to Bass Hall to see a performance of the Nutcracker. At the last moment, he decided against his tie (it was a different shade of red, and I thought the decision wise). I did not make him tuck his shirt in, as his parents would have--I think it looks dorky. The hardest part of having him was making sure he was fed, dressed, teeth brushed, (who cares about that curly mop?) and out the door on time--the school is across the street and I watch until he gets to the crossing guard.
We had good moments in our three days--I realized he's spoiled and wants to eat out every night. We went to the Grill one night and to Lucile's another. Last night he was distinctly disappointed when I said we were staying home--but he settled for scrambled eggs (I almost made an omelet because I turned away for a moment too long). At Lucile's he wanted to taste lobster, so I gave him one tiny bite from my pot pie. He tasted it and announced next time he would order lobster (this child has a supreme disregard for cost). When I asked if he wanted another tiny bite, he said no thank you. Doesn't bode well for a future order of lobster.
Tonight for my solitary dinner I made salmon cakes (a favorite of mine--eating them is enhanced by anticipation of a sandwich with mayo and lemon tomorrow) and zucchini vegetti. A friend gave me a spiral thing that turns vegetables into spaghetti--I sauté the zucchini with a bit of butter-flavored olive oil, salt and pepper. A good dinner--and I could read while I ate.
Tonight I read a seasonal letter from a fellow Guppy that really resonated with me. She quoted Ursula Le Guin who predicted hard times are coming, times in which we will need artists and writers while we live in the grip of capitalism. But she reminded human resistance can change things, and change often begins in art. "The name of our beautiful reward is not profit. It is freedom."
The writer of the message went on to say the two things she thought most important are to take care of our planet and not pollute it--sometimes I think we're already too late in coming to that conclusion, but it is so vital. And we need to see all people on our planet as equally human. I wanted to rise up and cheer, though these are two cardinal principles that are being trodden into the dirt right now. It all reminded me of William Faulkner's speech (when we all thought that atomic bombs would wipe life from the planet). Faulkner believed that man would not only survive but will prevail. I have to believe that too, just as I have to believe that Le Guin is right--we need artists and writers in our lives now.
It makes me wonder if what I write is frivolous--and there's a bit of me that vows to change that.
Okay, pensive mood over.