A long night

 

My brother, home and in the wheelchair.
I think he looks great considering all he's been through
I am so grateful.

Was there a spot on the moon last night? From my cottage, I heard all kinds of spooky things and had some wild dreams. I went to bed late, maybe just before midnight, and immediately fell deep asleep (yes, I am blessed that way). But after about twenty minutes, I came awake suddenly because I heard voices, men shouting and hollering. And Sophie barked. I jumped out of bed and grabbed my walker so fast that I ignored the medical wisdom I’d heard about sitting on the edge of the bed and collecting yourself for a minute before you stand up—good advice, I think, for the elderly. Except I didn’t do it and felt almost woozy. Now in the cold light of day I don’t know if those voices were in my dream or real. I pulled the kitchen shade aside, but all looked peaceful. I heard nothing. But if there was nothing out there, why did Sophie bark? This morning, Jordan told me she heard nothing.

After prowling around the cottage a bit, with Soph at my heels, I went to bed—and then I began to hear the police helicopter circling. Not directly overhead but probably a bit to the north. It seemed to come close when it circled and then fade off into the distance. And it circled for almost forty-five minutes—by now I was wide awake and watching the clock. Finally it disappeared, and eventually I went back to sleep.

Only to have something on my bedside table beep loudly to tell me it was out of batteries. So I waited, hoping it wasn’t like the alarm system which keeps beeping until you do something. Apparently two beeps was enough. I tried to take a mental inventory of what it could be: not the hearing aid charger, not the remote control for the lamp, not the digital clock, not the remote for the security system (yes, my beside table is a bit crowded). Either the automatic control to my Sleep Numbers bed or the remote for the HVAC unit that hangs from the ceiling and was not in use. I have not investigated yet, but writing this reminds me I must.

As for wild dreams, eighteen hours later I can’t remember them, but at the time they were crystal clear and in my mind I wrote about them in detail. I’m not sure now how much was dream and how much reality. I often remember dreams at least for a few hours and should have written these down. There were two separate dream stories. Wish I knew.

I also in my mind (you can see I was busy) wrote a preface to what I’m calling the cottage memoir. And I remembered that, because this morning I wrote a rough draft of about eleven hundred words. I have had what I call memoir angst—all around me women are writing their memoirs, yet I never felt I had enough to say. I guess I never felt my life was interesting enough, though I will say the one big thing I have done in this life is to adopt four children and raise them, after twelve years, as a single parent. But then I began to learn about the difference between autobiography and memoir, and I began to imagine a memoir about my seven years, so far, in the cottage. There is a story there, but then comes the question of why I feel compelled to share it. Perhaps I’ll share bits of that preface in another blog.

This morning, Jordan, probably aware I’d had a sort of lonely weekend, assured me Christian would grill tonight. That has fallen apart to the point that we are debating what to do with leftovers. Christian brought home some taco meat with bell peppers—that rules it out for me. So he and Jacob will have tacos, and Jordan and I will eat the two salmon patties I have left. She will toast hers; I will make a sandwich spread with lemon and mayonnaise out of mine. Not exactly a coordinated, bountiful Memorial Day picnic! Not it’s almost eight, and no one has appeared. The kind of evening when I wish I had planned a big meal ahead of time.

I just found a message from Jordan that said she was “Kirkegaard delayed.” Puzzling, especially since she is not given to an interest in philosophers, and I’m not sure she even knows who Kirkegaard is/was. I assume autocorrect got her. She was telling me just this evening about autocorrect changing Virginia to virginity and how you have to be careful these days because when you send a message to some one with one of the new cars, the phone system reads the text aloud, no matter who is in the car with the driver. She had texted a message to a friend about meeting at Colonial with Virginia, and it made the change—she cancelled it because she knew the friend had his young daughters in the car with him. Technology isn’t always that great.

My week is off to a good start. I hope yours is too.

Singing the blues

 

This dismal, damp day is a perfect reflection of the way I feel. I don’t know how long it’s been since I had a good, old-fashioned common cold, but one of the upper respiratory type has hit me. For several days I passed it off as allergies, but clearly it is not. I’m coughing, my throat feels tight, and I’m hoarse—I won’t get any more clinical than that. I was emailing with Sue, my Canadian daughter, this morning, and she wrote, “How in the world did you catch cold? You never go anywhere?” That startled me. Do you have to go somewhere? I actually have been out a couple of times, and people come to see me. And who knows how you catch cold? Maybe it’s just airborne. I’m not sure scientists know. It just happens, and then you have to live with it for a week or ten days.

Last night for our regular Tuesday night happy hour we had “Hot Dog Happy Hour.” Mary’s husband doesn’t eat hot dogs, and good German girl that she is, she occasionally craves a hot dog with relish and kraut. Always a good meal to me, so Jordan served us and included some Bush’s Original Baked Beans. A great meal, but hallway through I couldn’t eat. I think it was my cold. Took a moment and finished most of my dinner, but the episode upset me.

Then I had an angry phone call about the neighborhood newsletter I edit. I am really upset with myself that I ended up raising my voice in an effort to stop my critic from talking over me. Didn’t help and worsened my hoarseness and sore throat. Looking back, I should have put the phone on speaker, let her rave, and ignored it. But I was blindsided by the call. Next time!

Unfortunately I took those two incidents to bed with me and dreamt about them. But I slept ten and a half hours which I figure I needed. Sleep for me is never continuous—I am up to use the restroom (a curse of aging, I think) and in the wee hours, up to feed Sophie, then up an hour later to let her out. But still, I had plenty of good long sleep.

This morning I cancelled my dinner plans, a good move since I feel lethargic, and my cough is now to the point where it might alarm other restaurant patrons. I actually did a lot of work this morning, but then took a long nap. When Sophie first woke me, I thought I had written a long blog, but the details blurred as I got going.

My dream blog had to do with a company re-introducing Dorothy Gray cologne—you have to be really old to remember that, but it was the fragrance my mother always wore. In an effort to imitate that, I have worn Jean Naté for years—nothing else, just the one scent. Once in a car going who knows where one of my granddaughters held my hand and then said, “You smell like your house.” “Maybe,” I suggested, “my house smells like me.” The idea must have intrigued me because the rest of the dream had to do with a log cabin that smelled like Dorothy Gray.

At lunchtime I got ambitious and made myself some chicken salad, though I ate very little. I’m in the mood for “invalid food” though not quite to the point of my mom’s milk toast. Her crackers and butter in milk were pretty good, though, and my stock favorite was a can of tomatoes (they didn’t come diced in the day, and in my childhood, they were often home canned) with crushed saltines and lots of butter. But tonight, I think a “Tom Sawyer”—poached egg on a raft of cheddar cheese and toast. What’s your favorite comfort food?

On becoming my mother

 

The Chicago house of my childhood.

Several years ago, when my oldest granddaughter, Maddie, was five or six, she and I were in the guest room giggling about something, the rest of the family was in the living room, and the dogs were in the back yard barking continually.

“Colin really must do something about those dogs,” I said, getting up off the bed and heading for the living room. Maddie darted ahead of me, stormed into the room, and hands on hips said, “Colin, you really must do something about those dogs.” She mimicked me perfectly—tone, inflection, even the semi-angry stance. I clearly heard myself. Everyone laughed, and Colin went to quiet the dogs.

That incident came to mind because I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the conventional wisdom that every woman turns into her mother. In my case, that would be a very good thing. But it’s not her laughter or her wisdom, her passion for learning and food, its not even her enveloping love that I’m thinking of. It’s little things.

In Chicago summers, in an old house without air conditioning, Mom would throw the house open in the early morning to bring in cool, fresh air; by noon she had it closed up tight, shades drawn against the sun, and it stayed that way at least until dark set in. I do the same with my cottage, turning off the a/c and opening the French door so Sophie can come and go, and I can get the feel of being outdoors, even at my desk.

For her children, Mom was a one-woman clipping service, often sending us news pieces that she thought we would or should enjoy. I’m afraid Christian gets the brunt of that from me because I’m always sending him links to stuff about garden and lawn care (I did just this morning) or recipes I think he’ll like. I did send all the kids a note yesterday that their favorite greasy spoon in Waco is for sale and I wondered if they wanted to make it a family business. Only a million and a half.

Mom lived through the Depression as a young wife and mother, and the rest of her long life she wasted nothing. When we cleaned out her refrigerator that last time, we found baby food jars with unidentifiable bits of food in them, some of it moldy. She used paper towels twice—once on a counter spill and the second time on a floor spill—and she had a special place she kept them in between. She saved bits of string, used gum wrappers (they were aluminum back in the day), and rubber bands. She canned her own tomatoes, made her own applesauce and soups, and cooked from scratch. I’m not as frugal, a fact she often pointed out to me once I had my own home, but I save leftovers in the freezer, and I do a lot of scratch cooking. I thought of Mom the other night when I made salmon croquettes, one of the dishes she regularly rotated though in retrospect I can’t imagine how she got my meat-and-potatoes father to eat them.

I’ve got a long way to go to be as kind and gracious as my mom, let alone as good a cook and as good a mom, but sometimes I hear her in my voice or recognize her in my attitude. It makes me smile.

On another note, I slept so hard and dreamt so vividly this morning that I woke thinking if I could write like I dream I’d have best-selling novels and box-office hits to my name. My dreams were jumbled but somewhere in there was a sit com about New York fashionistas enduring the hardships of camping for the sake of the men in their lives—it was all slapstick humor, and, by the end, there was not much love to be lost. And then there was a movie about what a wonderful life on the lam a runaway girl had, and I remember thinking what an awful, unrealistic role model that was for young girls. No, it had nothing to do with the movie by that name or the band. It probably came from a book I was reading last night where a young girl is kidnapped, and some officers insist that she was probably just another runaway.

Here's my cheer for the day: to Jou Joubert, barbecue pitmaster who was delivering the wedding dinner to a party at a private home, only to learn that the minister hadn’t shown up and the bride was in tears. Asked if he was an ordained minister, he told them yes and married the couple in a ten-minute ceremony.

And here’s my boo-hiss for the day: to the Fort Worth Star-Telegram for a headline proclaiming that Beto swore at an Abbott supporter. Beto’s got too much class for that kind of cheap political stunt. Swear he did, but who the man would vote for wasn’t the issue. Beto swore out of passionate, deep-down anger at a man who would try to make a joke out of AR-15s and the massacre at Uvalde. I might not have used the same word, but I’d have sworn too. Go, Beto!

Election anxiety prolonged

 

Jordan and me in our matching shirts

No one should be surprised that the election is too close to call this Wednesday morning and may be that way for several days, in spite of trump’s premature and unfounded announcement of victory in the wee hours. What surprises me is how drained I feel, exhausted, worn out. I am staring at the TV and trying to make myself do some work at the same time.

Election night at first seemed a gay lark in the cottage. We had an early supper—Jordan fixed lemon/chicken/pesto pasta because she wanted a simple meal—from the number of pots and pans I put away this morning, I’d say it was anything but simple. But it was delicious. Jordan and Jacob settled down with a jigsaw puzzle, and Christian left for the peace and quiet of their house. I was the one who suggested the puzzle, but I stayed firmly rooted to my computer and the TV. Eventually, Jordan and Jacob had to take breaks—and I even took a nap, though Sophie was not cooperative.

As states were called for Republicans, I grew increasingly depressed. I knew better than to hope for that much-vaunted blue wave, but nonetheless the thought was there. Clearly, it didn’t happen. I’ve been noticing for some time that Jacob, although favoring Biden, doesn’t see a whole lot wrong with trump. For distraction last night, I took it on myself to educate him. His explanation made some sense: “I just got interested in politics because of the pandemic.” That means, though, there is much history to catch him up on. He laughed a lot as I rattled off incidents and problems--I suspect he was laughing at his grandmother’s intensity. I am now in search of the perfect email or Facebook post that summarizes what I want him to know.

I didn’t sleep well. Insomnia is not one of my problems, but the last few nights I’ve wakened about three in the morning, beset by obsessive worries. Last night, of course, it was the conviction that while I slept trump was winning—well, he was indeed declaring victory, just not winning. There was one mental image that I kept going back to though for the life of me this morning I can’t remember what it was. Another night recently I was fixated, again about three, with those audio files. When my mind latches on to a problem at that hour, I seem to be unable to distract myself. I try to puzzle out other subjects or write something brilliant, but my mind snaps back like a rubber band. Occasionally I wake with obsessive COVID-19 worries.

Then, typically, around five, I feel a great sense of calm, and I sleep. This morning I dreamt that Christian and I were on the front porch of my childhood home (where he has never been)—he was studying tax information and I had Reader’s Digest in my mind—haven’t read that for sixty years or more! What interests me in retrospect is that there were two huge bulldozers in the narrow street around the park in front of the house and they were so noisy—I guess my dreams are audiovisual! Sophie woke me at  seven, far too soon. She was full of joy, racing around the yard, while I sat and tried to wish her inside so I could go back to sleep.

It may be a long week, folks.

Some Saturday musings

 

The death of RBG is one of those events—after the news flooded the internet, the airwaves, and print journalism, there’s not much left to say. On the other hand, if you write an (almost) daily blog, as I try to do, you can’t just not mention it or prattle on as though it had never happened. My only original thought is that all today I have not heard any criticism of her, no negative comments. People have either been sincere in their respect and admiration—or they’ve been silent.

Even trump, who she openly disliked, a disaffection that was mutual, apparently  said, “Wow! She was an amazing woman.” Although he requested flags be at half-staff, I have not heard a formal announcement of either respect and honor or loss. Similarly, Mitch McConnell has said nothing about RBG, although he was quick to talk publicly about replacing her, not long after she had drawn her last breath.

There has, of course, been much speculation about what her death means to the country and specifically to the election. That now-empty court seat will surely be an election issue as much as COVID-19. I leave it to wiser heads than mine to predict and prognosticate. Specifically I’d recommend reading Heather Cox Richardson’s column tonight—her column last night was an eloquent tracing of RBG’s life, career, and importance. Perhaps tonight she’ll take on the consequences. Meantime, I of course hope that the eventual outcome will be a balanced court, but I am probably dreaming. McConnell has spent trump’s entire term packing the courts, and there’s little reason to think that this opportunity isn’t the stuff of his dreams.

Interesting to me and that I didn’t know is that after the Depression President Franklin D. Roosevelt packed with Supreme Court with liberals. Much more to my liking, but I recognize that what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander or whatever (does that go the other way around?) Eventually, balance was restored, and that will happen again someday. Meanwhile, the question of women’s rights looms large.

We were kind of off our feed—or at least our schedule—last night, which is why I missed Richardson’s column. Christian had planned to grill—steaks for them and a lamb chop for me. But he got home so late that the idea had little appeal and we ordered take-out from Chadra. I have not been really happy with almost any take-out we’ve had, but I have to say last night was great. Chadra’s spaghetti with meat sauce isi a favorite, and I am glad to have leftovers in my fridge.

I may have to give up my daily nap, because I’ve been having bad dreams. Today it was people chasing a dog to kill it—supposedly a vicious dog, but nonetheless a living, terrified creature. I couldn’t bear to stay on the front porch, so I grabbed my dog and went inside. Only I went from the porch of our house in Fort Worth inside to my childhood home. A Freudian psychologist might have a field day with that.

Why bad dreams? I have a friend who almost came undone with the news of RBG’s death and explained that it was just too much on top of the political uproar already whirling around us. I think that’s the tension I’m feeling. Quarantine hasn’t been hard for me, mostly because Jordan has seen to it that I am secure in my bubble, but nothing keeps me from the computer and from political news. I know many people have sworn off Facebook, for instance, because politics is so virulent these days that it upsets them. I think that’s a self-indulgent luxury we can’t allow ourselves. I think we must continue to speak out, to fight for democracy.

And I was going to write an apolitical blog! Apologies to any who do not see things the way I do.

Welcome rains and the power of imagination

No sign of rain this evening, although “pop-up thunderstorms” are possible, according to the TV weathermen. Yesterday I had no idea it might rain—first brief shower came while I was napping. But then, when Jordan and I prepared to sit on the patio with wine, the world darkened, and the gods began their bowling. Didn’t see lightning, but the thunder was fierce. It scares Sophie, and she takes it out with sudden, ferocious barking. We had two good, heavy rains.

I just had new grass put down in the backyard—it’s not a large lawn, because much of it is in ground cover and patio, but it was more than enough to challenge my pocketbook. The lawn care crew put down zoysia sod Thursday, with directions to water daily, twice daily if needed. So the heavy rain was a blessing.

I have a bit under the weather, and that’s frightening in this time of COVID. Mostly stomach issues, which led me to believe that it was a virus of some sort. But at three o’clock in the morning, it’s so easy to imagine yourself into all the symptoms of COVID. I did have a rash on my leg and other symptoms that could have been it but weren’t—no sore throat, no unusual cough (I always cough a bit from blood pressure medication), no fever. Still I felt I had to ask my doctor, even though I felt a little foolish. He was kind and gentle, assured me it was a transitory virus, unrelated, and since I was a little better each day, I am not communicable. I love being able to “talk” with my doctor via email—one of the great perks of modern medicine.

So tonight with my stomach feeling better, I’m going to test it. Jordan has gone for a weekend with her high school girl friends to a rental house in Blanco, so I am alone with Christian and Jacob. I will give them hot dogs, baked beans, and the potato salad I made a couple of days ago. A real Fourth of July picnic meal, only eaten inside. It’s pretty steamy outside, and we have a bad fly problem on the patio. Christian is enthusiastic tonight about some non-toxic fly traps that are found on Amazon.

Back to that problem of imagination. I am capable of all kinds of wild thoughts at three in the morning. When we first went into this corona virus quarantine, I would wake convinced that we were all going to die. I’ve since modified that opinion. My brother says he has three o’clock thoughts of, “Wish I hadn’t done that one.” I too have regrets—sometimes I fix on a lost love or a book not written and feel great regret. Why is it that three o’clock thoughts are always disturbing?

On the other hand, I can wake at six, go back to a deep sleep filled with dreams, and wake at eight with happy feelings. Sometimes I quickly forget what I dreamt, but other mornings I carry the memory around with me all day. When I worked in the TCU Press office, I used to recount my dreams. One was that a possum made its way into our office, and our production manager picked it up to carry it outside—when it peed on her. Ever after, she would say, “I sure hated being peed on by that possum!”

I am blessed that for the most part I am a sound sleeper and almost never bothered by nightmares or night terrors. Sometimes I dream that dream-within-a-dream where you know what you’re experiencing is a dream, but you can’t wake. I do have tenacious dreams—I’ll wake from a dream I don’t like, go to the bathroom or something to kind of divert my brain, and go right back into that dream. It’s like I can’t get rid of it.

Sometimes I write great fiction in my dreams, but in the morning, I either can’t remember it or realize that it was an impossible fantasy that would never translate into good writing. Still, I am blessed not to be an insomniac!                                                                                                                                                                                 

Busy night, busy day

This cute witch greeted trick-or-treaters

at our house

Omigosh, what a busy twenty-four hours. Halloween was hectic as it should be—lots of polite little kids in cute costumes. I had the perfect seat—inside the front door where I could see all the kids but wasn’t out in the cold. And I could snack on all the goodies laid out, mostly a re-run of the night before but I added a chili-cheese dip. When a friend wanted the recipe, I said it was awfully difficult: mix equal parts of canned chili (preferably Wolf brand, with beans) and Velveeta (get the 1 lb.box, not the big 2 lb. one). Don’t let it boil, because it will get a funny texture, and don’t let it scorch—Velveeta will burn. Serve warm and reheat as needed.

After a while, I’d had enough and retired to the cottage—one of the great advantages of my living arrangement. But maybe it was the chili, or I don’t know what. I had such a busy night. I have always had vivid, four-color dreams that stay with me in the morning. Sometimes I have a dream that persists—if I wake and want to get out of a dream that for some reason makes me unhappy, I can’t get rid of it. Takes a real effort.

That didn’t happen last night, but in my eight hours or so of sleep I did a lot of work on the project that I’m considering for my next after I finish the one I’m working on (I know, I should finish this one and stop thinking ahead); I wrote a juvenile story about a green dinosaur that stole a hamburger from the Star Café, owned by good friends Betty and Don Boles—somehow, dimly, I realized that here had to be more character development for a walking talking dinosaur if he was at the center of the story, and why the heck did he steal the hamburger anyway. Gave that one up fortunately. I also attended a convention of Western Writers of America—for years I was active in that group, on the board, president for a term, but I haven’t been in years, the travel having discouraged me. Finally, I dabbled in real estate—walking through large apartments in the Caverswall, a building down the street from the house I grew up in. Where that mishmash came from, I have no idea.

Instead of waking up tired, I woke with all kinds of plans for the day—and I’ve accomplished most of them. Some good work on the book I should be focusing on, stringed that pound of green beans I forgot I had in the fridge, froze the rest of the meatloaf, feeling it had lingered in the refrigerator long enough; took a sweater to the cleaners. But all my efficiency crashed when I started to make chocolate chip cookie dough—I had only defrosted half the butter needed. Now I’m waiting for a frozen stick to defrost.

Next on my ambitious list is supper. I will make shirred eggs. I could have said a baked egg, but shirred sounds so much more like a gourmet. I’ll put a slice of buttered sourdough toast in a ramekin, cover it with a bit of chopped spinach and then grated cheese, top with a raw egg and cover that in a bit of milk.

I’m worn out. Guess I’ll bake cookies tomorrow.

Of dreams and final exams

There it was again, that dream that I’ve had so often. It hasn’t come for quite some time, but last night it came again. I’m in college, but I haven’t been going to class—indeed, don’t know how to find the classroom for whatever subject is involved. Of course, I haven’t been studying or keeping up. The dream takes several forms—sometimes I’m taking a class I despise, like paleontology. Sometimes it’s a subject I’m fairly good at but would still need to do the assignments. It always ends with my assuring myself that I already have a college degree, and I don’t need these credits. I’m told it’s the almost the most common recurring dream for many adults.

Last night’s version was a bit different. I knew I had a doctorate in English, but I wanted to teach, so I was back in school taking philosophy, English and French. I had to spend all my time on a thick, dense philosophy book, so I ignored English and French, subjects I’ve always been good at. There are several flaws in this dream: I never wanted to teach, because while I’m pretty good at leading workshops, I’m lousy at regular classroom presentations. I’ve done enough teaching at the college level in my day to know that I don’t shine in the classroom. But I wouldn’t need to go back to school if I wanted to teach—I have the qualifications already. So where did this come from?

Psychologists are reluctant to offer firm theories about dream interpretation, but off the record some suggest that this dream is typical of type A personalities, people with strong ambition and drive who like to be in control, feel a sense of urgency, and value success (guilty!). The dream is likely to come in times of stress, when the dreamer is afraid of not meeting a certain goal (guilty again!).

I would tell you there’s no stress in my life, but that’s not true. I suspect I live in a state of perpetual stress. Right now, the fact that I’m not enjoying driving my car and dread outings where I must drive alone is stressing me, but I can push that to the back of my mind. More prominent, and I recognize it, is stress over my current work-in-progress, the history of a major Texas ranch and the family who owned it for 165 years.

I finished a first draft, getting all the facts, the chronology, the timeline in order. The result is a manuscript that is much shorter than my editor wants, and when I read it, all I could think was “vanilla, it’s plain vanilla.” I know, from working with this editor before, what I must do—I have to go back and interject my storytelling skills, insert fictional scenes and dialogue to make it lively and readable. Of course, that horrifies historians, so I’m caught betwixt and between. But I will go back and begin editing all over again. I just keep procrastinating, and it weighs on my mind. Right now, I’m doing the easy stuff—reading for typos and repetition (gosh, there’s a lot of that) and stylistic inconsistencies. But I’m going to have to buckle down and get serious.

It’s easy to procrastinate these days, what with the national turmoil. I would say I spent a large portion of the morning reading about the latest developments, the latest intrigue—and posting responses online. Last night, a friend who is a political activist said to me, “Keep your opinions coming. They’re valuable.” I hope she’s happy today, because so many things I read about trump and Barr and Giuliani cried out to be shared, information that any intelligent voter needs to know. We live in perilous times, and I think the most important factor is an informed public—some will scoff and cry “fake news,” but the tide has turned.

Tomorrow I’ll get serious about that book.

Three o’clock in the morning

Three o’clock in the morning is a wicked hour. Something wakes you from a sound sleep—you don’t know what—and you lie there, sleepless, restless, too hot, too cold, miserable. Everything looks worse at that dark hour—the scary is scarier, the worrisome now a real burden, an impending problem, a catastrophe.

That’s where I was last night, my mind racing from one problem to another. Somehow, I harnessed all that energy and came up with semi-satisfactory solutions to the problems on my mind.

First, there was a friend who lost her husband, a man I liked a lot though I didn’t know him well. She lives in Weatherford, so I can’t exactly pop in with the proverbial casserole and a hug. I needed to write, but those words are so hard to come by. Finally in the night I put together words that I thought would come close to expressing my concern and sorrow for her without being maudlin. Then, of course, I had to write the note in my mind a dozen times to be sure I didn’t forget it in the morning. No, heaven forbid that I should get up and write it down. Then I’d be awake until tomorrow night.

Next, I got to thinking about Representative Green and the motion for impeachment that he filed late yesterday. Talk about something that looms as a disaster in the middle of the night! This could be a brilliant move or a terrible one. It could expose the president’s crimes and treason (and the blatant racism he denies but even the courts have confirmed) or it could result in voters flocking to his defense as he plays the pitiful card. He has been distracting us with concentration camps, deportations, racial slurs on Congresswomen, much of it one suspects to deflect from any involvement in Epstein’s sordid crimes. But if faced with impeachment, to what drastic distractions would he resort? I have seen reports from members of the American Psychiatric Association, and they are not reassuring. In the dark of the night, I wondered if the 25^th  Amendment might not have been a better approach. I decided I can’t solve this one and must leave it to the Lord. Still I resolved to find as positive a spin as I can and to encourage others to do so.

The ruined carpet in my bedroom, stained and torn from an a/c leak, will be replaced with hardwoods the week of the 29^th. That means I must have movers take and store two heavy pieces of furniture—a mahogany bed frame and a marble-topped buffet—and that means I have to empty drawers. As I tossed and turned I saw ways that I could do that bit by bit. And this morning I actually emptied two sock drawers in the sewing stand which serves as a bedside table.

But having workmen also means I have to find something to do with Sophie. I contemplated taking my computer into the house and keeping her there. But taking the computer back and forth a lot is a pain, since I require help to do it. I sort of convinced myself that I will get her crate from the attic and keep it by my desk. She really likes her crate, and I think she’ll be reassured if she can see me. And I’ll placate her with frequent treats.

Having solved all those problems, I did fall asleep and dreamt I was cleaning up an unusually messy kitchen. That’s not an unusual dream for me, but I sometimes wonder about the psychological meaning of it. Do I go through life cleaning up messes? In reality, I’m one of those cooks who cleans as I go.

So what do you worry about at three o’clock in the morning?

To sleep, perchance to dream. …

Exhausted, I tell you, simply exhausted. That’s how I woke up this morning. No, it wasn’t the change to daylight savings that did me in, although Sophie did not sleep as late as I’d hoped. No, it was the dream.

You see, my daughter Megan’s house will be demolished tomorrow, to make room for a new house on the same spot. Preparation for this day has been intense—sorting out twenty-some years of accumulations, deciding what to keep and what goes, planning for life n a two-room guest apartment for her, her husband, and their two teen sons. It’s going to be tight, and as of Saturday there was still some furniture in the house, though a cabinet-maker had dismantled kitchen cabinets and granite. She assured me they were almost ready and would be by Monday morning.

A part of me feels I should be in Austin with her—for moral support. The sensible part of me knows I would be in the way and just be one more thing for Megan to worry about. So early this morning I was in Austin in my dreams—oh, those early-morning dreams! Most of the family was there, and the house still held way too much, including some of my best pottery (which I don’t have anymore anyway). Dogs and a goat were underfoot (they have one dog and no goast), and I was badgering son-in-law Brandon (me? badger?) for value estimates of some items so that I could file my income tax (a problem that has nothing to do with Brandon and everything to do with another of my brood).

Then I had to go find Scooby (poor Scoob crossed the Rainbow Bridge some seven years ago so I have no idea what he was doing in Austin). Jamie went with me, and we met with bankers and lawyers (back to the tax question, I guess) and all my old anxiety disorders came back to haunt me.

And then Sophie barked at me in a demanding tone, and I was back in my cottage bedroom. Got to call Austin today and check on them.

I just learned tonight that the demolition tomorrow will not be the great dramatic event I expected. I asked if they would bulldoze or implode, and Megan said neither. They will take it down piece by piece to save the foundation. The contractor has done a great job of protecting trees, etc.

For some reason I feel very sentimental about this demolition—there go twenty years of memories. Megan said tonight after all the work they’ve done to empty the house, she’s more than ready. She’s not as sentimental.

After my exhausting sleep, I really needed a nap this afternoon. Settled down, and not ten minutes later Sophie barked at me. I sat straight up in bed and in my meanest voice said, “No! Absolutely no way!” For good measure I shook my finger at her (can’t you just see the mean old lady?). She left, but turned around to look at me with an expression that clearly said, “Don’t you think your reaction was a little over the top?” Yeah, it was. These are tense times. Isn’t it great that I have no bigger problems in my life?

It is, in spite of all else, Sunday night. Dinner was steak hache with porcini butter and salsa verde, tiny oven-roasted potatoes with rosemary, and salad with blue cheese dressing. A collaborative effort--I did all the prep, Jordan watched over the potatoes as they roasted, and Christian cooked the steak patties. I worried a bit about this great and complicated experiment, but it turned out great.

Sleepless Nights and Better Days

Although so many people rave about the pleasure of reading in bed, I never could do it, never could get comfortable. But then my kids encouraged me to get a Sleep Numbers mattress where I can raise and lower the head and/or the foot (it proved important after my hip surgery). Now I’m addicted to bedtime reading. It’s often when I indulge in mysteries, while I confine my daytime reading to meatier subjects (not always). Right now, night and day, I’m reading Sara Paretsky’s Fallout, a V. I. Warshawksi novel. No matter the quality, most books put me to sleep in five pages.

But last night, as I took the cell phone out of its pocket on my walker, I must have done something wrong. It went to huge letters and wouldn’t let me move around nor would it let me turn it off. I gave up and got up for the iPad, which was out of charge. Had to rely on my imagination to put me to sleep.

In a half doze, I remembered words I read to the effect that the president is enraged that a Russian cloud still hangs over his presidency and is further enraged that Donald Jr has revealed the emails. Wouldn’t you love to have been a fly on the wall when senior confronted junior? Anyway, the thought of an enraged president, who I already think is unhinged, roaming the White House alone at 3 a.m., red telephone in hand, came to me, and I was suddenly terrified—really truly terrified. I must have fallen asleep—I dreamt of being alone at night and so terrified I couldn’t sleep so I was up changing the bed linen (don’t ask why—I have no clue), checking that lights worked, turning on TVs, and wishing it was morning. I was relieved to awaken about an hour later and realize I was safely in my bed, the cottage was intact, and the world pretty much was going around on its own. I slept fitfully all night.

This morning, Jordan declared that what was wrong with my phone was that I had gone “clackety-clack.” I protested innocence, and we had a testy moment. Then Jacob tried and announced, “Your phone is broke. Take it to the Apple store,” as though I could just jump up and go. I called the Apple store, was connected to a distance tech who said my email didn’t pull up/ She couldn’t wrap her mind around the server name—tcu. First clue she wasn’t in Fort Worth. Finally, she gave up, asked what the problem was, and quickly told me how to fix it. If you need to know: simultaneously hold down the volume and power buttons for at least 30 seconds. Magic!

After that the day went better; I took care of some detail work, including banking, answered a bunch of emails, roughed out a newsletter, and wrote my daily thousand words on the novel in progress. This evening, I’m free to prowl through a cache of recipes I found in my closet. To me, that’s bliss.

A friend brought barbecue tonight—turkey, sausage, pulled pork, potato salad, and good slaw made with red cabbage. Jordan and Christian joined us for conversation. A thoroughly pleasant evening.

Forgotten Loves, Some Not Forgotten, and a Dusty Storeroom

A random dream about a youthful romance last night was so pleasant, that I promptly went back to sleep and dreamt about other young loves, including the first man to steal my heart. We parted, with real regret on both sides, after two wonderful years. Many years later, we corresponded briefly and found that we both still cared. I was divorced, he was married, and that was that. But out of curiosity and spurred by my dream, I looked him up this morning on the internet. He is still living, at 84, but I didn’t go so far as to enroll and pay the fee for the program that would give me full contact information. I’d like him to know that all these years he has had a small part of my heart. Maybe it was first love but I like to think it was something deeper. When I have a moment of wishing our lives had turned out differently, I remind myself I wouldn’t have the four wonderful children and seven grandchildren that I do, and I am content. But much as I’d like him to know that, I’ll never contact him again. It wouldn’t be fair.

A few other romances, mostly brief and inconsequential, passed quickly through my dream, but brought to mind some men I’d totally forgotten about. Once again, I’m reminded that I’ve had an interesting life. I wouldn’t want you to think I went from man to man all my life. Like any young woman and then fairly young divorcee, I dated, and a few caught my fancy but not for long. After my divorce, as a single parent, I was occupied raising my children, and I feared no man would love them as I did. As for the present, I do believe romance can happen to seniors, but I’m not expecting it, wouldn’t know what to do if it arrived. I’m happy as I am—in my cottage, with my family and my work. I’ve said before that someday if I want to write a memoir I’ll have to come to grips with the fading of that dream of “Grow old along with me/The best is yet to be/ The last of life/For which the first was made.” But not now.

As for that dusty storeroom, it was at the university and connected to my position at the university press. Awake, I realized no such room ever existed. But in my dream, I had a crew from maintenance helping me—a whole crew! —and we hauled out overflowing ashtrays and cheap crockery coffee cups with solidified coffee in them. Where was the housekeeping service?  But I hauled out two huge hassocks, although even in my dream I was acutely aware I have neither need nor room for them in the cottage. And I found small figurines done sort of in the style of Giacometti. There were other treasures, but I was relieved to waken and find it was all a dream.

I woke to loud, rolling thunder and a steady dripping rain. It was predicted to rain off and on all morning, and I enjoyed it. For a while, it was dark as dusk, appropriate for a rainy day. Another happy day in my cottage.

Travel, sort of, and food

I was in Paris on a photojournalism internship. I wandered the city, finding charming homes and picturesque old business buildings to photograph. I marveled at the cleanliness of the city (true or not) and remarked on an article about their careful treatment of the disabled. I was just ready to write my essay on the week and grieved as my sojourn came to an end. And then I woke up!

Meanwhile, back in the reality of Fort Worth and my kitchen, it was a food weekend. It began with Friday lunch. Jordan ad I have developed the habit of getting lunch from our favorite take-out, Local Foods Kitchen. This week, she said she didn’t need anything, but I said let’s go because they might have salmon cakes (a mutual favorite). We came home with a salmon cake each (I thought mine dry and made it into salad—so good), ceviche, egg salad, and a Hello, Dolly dessert (which my daughter declines to eat and I parcel out through the weekend). In addition, our neighbor sent over some roast duck. What a lunch! Friday night I had dinner with a group of interesting people at the Kimball Museum buffet—delicious quiche, salad, a wonderful cucumber/spinach vichyssoise.

Then Saturday, it was back to my kitchen. I spent much of Saturday cooking, following a New York Times recipe for spring lamb and a snap pea salad. I should have known the recipe called for cooking the meat too long—what they called “tender” I call overdone. I love beef and lamb medium rare, and after an hour, these lamb cubes were well done, like stew meat. Good flavor, but not what I expected when I sprang for that expensive meat. The salad was good and a learning experience—I have long wanted to shave cheese, and vegetable peelers just didn’t work. I found that my mom’s old square grater does a perfect job—we had shaved pecorino. I also let the mint for the salad wilt and it didn’t refresh in ice water. The salad called for thinly sliced fennel—I’ve never used fennel, thought I didn’t like it because of the licorice taste. I loved it—crunchy and crisp, with the licorice taste barely a hint. Phil, one of my guests, thought it was a new kind of onion; I said no, fennel, and he said, “Fennel onion?” My summation: I probably won’t use those recipes again, but the cooking was fun, I learned some things, and an evening with old and good friends was priceless.

Today I volunteered to make Doris’ casserole, a family favorite, since Jordan, Christian and Jacob were out of town until late afternoon. The casserole has a tomato/hamburger layer (seasoned only with garlic, salt and sugar); an egg noodle layer with cream cheese, sour cream, and scallions, and a top layer of grated cheddar. It’s irresistible. It's also in my cookbook, Cooking My Way Through Life With Kids and Books.

However, it’s 8:00 and I’m still waiting for dinner—which has to be cooked in the house since I have no oven. Jordan has gone to a friend’s to borrow jewelry, a bit of a disappointment because I thought we would sit and have family dinner together. Win some, lose some. I’m still hungry, but it will be worth waiting for. And once again, it was a lovely happy hour on the patio.

Violent Dreams

I almost didn’t post about this because it was so disturbing to me, but I decided writing about the experience was the best way to explore it. I had uncharacteristically violent dreams last night. If you know me at all, you know any form of violence is not my thing. I don’t write thrillers because I don’t want to write violence—my one book with a serial killer had no violence because everything took place off-screen. I haven’t ever thought about writing paranormal for the same reason. Yet last night, both elements were in my dreams.

I am one of those people blessed or cursed (depends on your own experience) with total recall of my dreams. I have a son who shares that, and I laughed when he first married because they would wake up of a morning and share their dreams. Last night was one of those dreams I couldn’t shake. I would wake up, look at familiar surroundings, assure myself it was all a bad dream. But when I closed my eyes, I was back in it again. Finally broke the cycle by concentrating on things I want to do in the novel I’m working on.

The dream—was it two or one that segued into another? It began with a young boy who was violent, like a sociopath—he killed a cousin and kidnapped another. I don’t know whether I woke and could banish that or not, but suddenly I was in a world where people were randomly and suddenly vaporized, even whole buildings. You walked along the street and the person ahead of you might suddenly disappear. People were afraid to go into buildings for fear the whole building would go. There was, of course, mass panic, with crowds pressing to get I don’t know what—there was no immunity.

As I said, that’s where I left it. I reconstructed the evening. I had not watched violence on TV nor read anything but an innocuous cozy mystery; I had a turkey burger and Brussel sprout slaw for supper (that needs rethinking, but it didn’t lead to nightmares). I looked at violent dreams on the web. Seems, generally, that they do not mean you harbor a hidden violent streak (thank goodness) but that you are troubled, dealing with some conflict.

That led me down a blind alley. I have really thought about this, but I can’t imagine anything even in my subconscious that would cause me to want to destroy the world as I know it. And as for the young boy? Nope, not a clue.

Towards morning, when I slept again I had one of those lovely dreams about being young and in love again, courted by a wonderful considerate man. Now that I can identify with. I’m just going to forget the violence and hope it doesn’t come again. People vaporized?

Mexican night at the Alters

Years ago--twelve or more to be exact--when Jordan was still single and living at home, we used to have Mexican night on the front porch (no deck then). Jordan invited all her friends, and sometimes we ended up with as many as thirty people on the porch. It was strictly BYOB and pot-luck, and we had some amazing dishes. A few of her friends were married, most single, all childless--I remember well the first couple that arrived with a baby. We all thought the idea of any of them being parents was amazing.
Last night we had a mini-version of Mexican night. Seven adults and Jacob, who arrived late having been to a birthday party. Sat on the deck, and appetizers were queso and giant nachos that the girls made. For a main dish I made an enchilada casserole, new to me. It amounts to layering a chicken/tomato/black bean/cream cheese mixture with large tortillas and grated cheese in a pie plate. The recipe makes two "pies" (three tortillas each) but my challenge was that one of our guests is vegetarian and Jacob doesn't much like meat, never has. I cooked frozen corn and substituted it for the chicken in one plate--the vegetarian really liked it, though I never did hear much from Jacob (except for a few things, he's rarely enthusiastic about food though he's always starving). The recipe called for a tub of Philadelphia Santa Fe Blend Cream Cheese cooking crème. I have never seen such a product. I bought chive-flavored cream cheese spread, augmented it with a little plain cream cheese, and about a tablespoon of homemade taco seasoning (I always make my own these days--never sure about preservatives, etc. in the prepackaged kind). Beat it with a mixer until smooth.
It was a lovely evening, though it began to grow chilly just before we came in. To my embarrassment, two of the guests, both newcomers to my home, cleaned the kitchen, leaving me relatively little to do. So I read cooking magazines--a real indulgence on my part--and still didn't go to bed early.
Today was an off day. Woke up out of sorts and kept telling myself dreams don't have any relation to reality, which of course is not true--I firmly believe they come from our deepest thoughts. The rash that appeared on one side of my neck now covered both sides, in spite of my treatment with an OTC steroid cream and Jordan's with lavender drops. I'd dreamt heavily but my sleep was interrupted by a tapping noise that puzzled me. Figured out it came from my antique bed and this morning found the headboard and side rails were about to part company.  The night before we'd had a couple of episodes of the toilets running over, and even though they behaved all right this morning--if used sparingly--I called the plumber. He worked a long time, so long that I snuck off to nap before getting Jacob, and realized dimly that I didn't hear him any more. Too late I discovered the note that said not to use the toilets in the main house tonight; he'd be back in the morning. He could clear the main line, although he did show me some roots he'd pulled out.
So here I am, in a house without toilets--no, I will not go out to the guest house in the dark of the night--with a rash on my neck and a bed that makes noises of its own, even when I lie still.
To add to my woes, the publisher from the press I wrote in Chicago has not responded to my query; the next publisher on my list is not open to queries right now and promises that after you query, if there is a request for the next three chapters there is a subsequent six-month wait before they decide if they want the entire manuscript. I don't have that much time in my career, let alone my life. At that rate, I'll be in my eighties before if and when they publish. Self-publishing looks better and better.
Tomorrow, I'm convinced, will be a better day. I'm having lunch with a good friend who always cheers me. She loves turquoise--jewelry but also the color. I have a new brown and turquoise top, and I'm going to wear is on the theory I'm happier when I think I look good. And she'll be so jealous.

Food, dreams, and elections--not necessarily a good mix

Food is always on my mind but I’ve had some interesting dinners lately. My dining adventure pal, Betty, and I ate at Campisi’s the other night and shared the combination platter—more than enough for both of us. We each had a meatball, spaghetti with marinara, lasagna and a ravioli. With wine, dinner cost us a big $11 each—such a deal. The next night I browned an herb-marinated chicken breast from Central Market and then put it covered in the oven with white wine. So moist and good, but it didn’t make really good chicken salad the next day. Saturday I went to an event where the food was “heavy hors d’oevres” and I expected to starve—food was wonderful, plentiful and very imaginative. Still have figured out the filling that was piped into mushroom caps.

Last night neighbors joined me for lamb chili—part of my continuing quest for chili pictures. It was good, as was the apricot/blueberry pie Mary brought. Both were better a day later when they’d mellowed and blended flavors.

I had a bad dream last night—I was working in an office, I think for the executive secretary I worked for in high school—and I was going to school. But I was afflicted with laziness, no desire to do anything but piddle away time on things that didn’t really need doing. I woke in a three a.m. sweat, realizing that’s what I’d been doing all weekend. And in that panicky middle-of-the-night state I envisioned myself not working and growing rapidly older by the day. Needless to say I got up this morning and hit it running. I have this firm conviction that as long as you exercise your mind—as in writing—you won’t slip into senility. And for the physical end of things, I did my yoga routine again.

I will be so glad when it’s Wednesday—so tired of election calls and begging and predictions and wildly varying polls. I voted some time ago by mail, which I think is the best thing since sliced bread. I know how I want the elections to come out, and I care—a lot!—so this is like a time of suspense. And I’m trying to ignore it. I keep remembering though the Truman/Dewey election upset from my childhood.

Back to work. Had a new idea for a novel and want to make notes on it tonight. Tomorrow, ho hum--another run through the chili pictures to see where I stand. I think though I’ve been using the chili book as an excuse to procrastinate. Can’t do much more until the pictures come in.

A day gone to the dogs

Wow, such a day that I hardly know where to start, but many of you have asked about Steadman, the dog I vowed to rescue last night. I was told to call the shelter (about an hour away) at 8:30 this morning; called at 8:15 and was told they already had someone to take him. Disappointed but relieved. Figured it just wasn't meant to be, but I did get them to promise he would not be put down and take my phone number, just in case. The lady sounded bemused, but she took it, and I went on about my business--principally a quick trip to the grocery. Just after I got home I got a phone call saying that Steadman was available. Called my neighbor Jay, and we hopped in his truck and headed up to Decatur and the Wise County Animal Shelter. I figured the call was karma--this dog was meant to come home with me.
Long story short, we came home with Steadman, now renamed Luke. He is so sweet, so anxious for love. He was a stray, found on the side of the road, so we have no background, but he has obviously known love and had some training--he will sit, lie down, and stay. He and Sophie have to stay pretty much apart for three days, just in case he develops kennel cough. That's hard, but the couple of times they've been together--one going out, the other coming in--they danced around each other with tails wagging. I think it will be fine.
Jacob adores this dog. He said he'd be spending the night a lot more these days. And I once told him a six-second hug releases endorphins, so he has now proclaimed he'll give me 12-second hugs. And he did tonight--One Mississippi, two Mississippi, etc.

Luke appears to be an outside dog, although right now Sophie is outside and he's lying quietly in the study. Any movement, and he'll be up, wagging his tail, pacing, looking for love. I hope he'll do well in his crate tonight. He has a vet appt. tomorrow morning, and he will have to be neutered. I was amazed at that, but neighbor Jay says he was probably a ranch dog and nobody bothered.
So I've been juggling dogs today, but with lots of help from Jay and Christian. Sophie topped off the day by sneaking out the door when Christian brought Luke's new crate in. Poor Christian chased her probably six blocks until a home owner helped him catch her on his front porch, and Christian had to carry her all the way home. He was pleased that she seemed content and did not squirm.
I have visions of someday soon working at my computer with two dogs lying peacefully at my feet. Meanwhile we're in transition.
And Jamie, his daughters and one of Maddie's friends, are coming to spend the night tomorrow and bring their two dogs. Guest house for them!
I'm exhausted and going to bed early tonight, but I have to say I live a blessed life, and retirement is far from boring. A bonus to Luke's arrival in the family: it was so much on my mind last night that I dreamt about acquiring a dog and suddenly figured out how a dog would play a major part in my work-in-progress. As my mom always said, God works in mysterious ways.

The Dreamcatcher

I bought a dream catcher in Santa Fe, a small one because they were cheaper and because I thought a larger one might be too showy (actually I bought it in Chimayo, which is a great place for magical beliefs because of the healing dirt found in its sanctuary). For those who don't know, a dream catcher is a leather-bound circle, with a web in the middle and a central open space. Feathers and beads hang from the outside circle. Clearly a reproduction of a plains Indian artifact.
I thought it would catch my creative dreams and save them for my writing. After all, the other night I dreamt the opening of the sixth Kelly O'Connell novel--it's just that it wasn't really a dream. I was only half asleep and I was recalling actual events.
I figured dream catchers were kind of trendy because my daughter-in-law said my oldest granddaughter had one for a while. What? She got rid of it? I may have to discuss that with her, but my list of things to talk to her about grows. For instance, she didn't like To Kill a Mockingbird. To me, that's unpatriotic or something.
Today I read the tag on the dream catcher--it catches bad dreams in its web and holds them, while good dreams escape through the hole in the middle--wait! the good dreams are the ones I wanted to hold on to. Anyway the legend goes that with daylight the sunshine disintegrates the bad dreams, which is all to the good. I'm a heavy dreamer, sometimes dark, and I almost always remember my dreams, though I may forget them shortly after I wake. On the other hand, some stay with me for a long time. Once I came to the office and reported one to Melissa, my colleague, who has ever after said to me, "I hated being peed on by that possum." It's true--it was in my dream. I think we had discovered a family of possums in the building's courtyard the day before.
Anyway, today I hung the dream catcher in the window. Jacob looked at it and demanded, "What is that?" When I told him, he walked over to examine it and then said, "You don't really believe that do you, Juju?"
"Yes, I sort of do."
"It doesn't make sense. It's not true." Ah, a practical child of the 21st century. I refrained from reminding him that he still believes in elves at Christmas...and Santa too!
"Well, is it okay if I kind of believe it? I'd like to."
"I guess so," he said with a sigh as he walked away. I continue to have faith. Jacob sometimes thinks his grandmother is crazy.

Those blah days

I’ve had a couple of blah days this week, and, compulsive that I am, I feel obliged to search out the cause. Was it that extra glass (or two) of wine I had being sociable Sunday night? Sophie’s cough that had her sounding like a barking seal? Adjusting to a new routine without Elizabeth in the apartment? (Monday I found myself waiting for her to come in for “rat watch” wine about 9:30.) Or maybe it was stress over my work-in-progress? I’ve been pushing myself to write a minimum of a thousand words a day but I had only a vague idea of how the novel should end (I’m at 53,000 words, and my novels tend to be about 65,000 so I’m closing in on it). Maybe I’ve had too much of my own company.

Several things contributed to make this a better day: Sophie is not coughing nearly as much nor is it that deep, frightening sound, and, to my relief, she’s not spitting up as she coughs, though she’s left little marks throughout the house. Carpet cleaning coming up.

I slept soundly, which I didn’t do the night before, and had weird dreams as I always do, but they weren’t unpleasant. In fact in one, I was visiting with old friends, one of whom is now gone so it’s an opportunity that will never come my way again; in another dream, my father was prominent. I woke feeling rested but stiff and sore.

For two days I’ve told myself I felt too blah to do my yoga—of course, that’s when I really should do it. This morning, I made myself do it early in the day—because my back felt like someone had nailed a rigid board between my shoulder blades. Yoga got some movement into that tight section of my upper back and improved my overall outlook. It’s a lesson I’ll probably learn over and over again, but when you least feel like doing yoga is when you should do it.

And, finally, I had an aha! moment in the wee hours and knew exactly how that mystery is going to end—down to most of the details. I’ve written over a single-spaced page of notes on it, and I suddenly don’t feel the pressure I did, the worry about the novel. Warning: it will be different from preceding Kelly O’Connell works. A little more violent, sort of a cross between a cozy and a suspense novel is my take, but I’ll wait and see what beta readers say.

I topped off the day with an early supper with Betty at Sera, a new wine and tapas bar. A space we used to love has been redone, lightened up, and spruced up. And tapas always draw me. I had a white anchovy salad with greens, tomatoes, manchego—delicious, but it wasn’t enough. So I ordered the Spanish omelet—potatoes, eggs, and onion. The seasoning was just right, but the thick cake-like patty was too filling—Betty ate part of it. She had ordered a wonderful-looking oyster chowder with saffron. We’ll go back there.

Came home and wrote more. The world is gradually moving back into its proper place.