What my imagination does to a bit of excitement

 

North Texas was under severe storm alerts this afternoon and evening. Predictions called for hail the size of ping pong balls and strong winds. So far, we’ve had one nice spell of rain—medium heavy with thunder rolling. I’ve said this before—my mom told me thunder was the gods bowling. A recent article for our neighborhood newsletter, which I edit, came from a neighbor with thirty years with the National Weather Service. His description of thunder is that it’s a warning of bad things to come.

The nice folks behind me are tearing out their back porch and replacing it with a screened-in porch and putting in a pool and a cabana/guest house. All this will take time—I’m guessing the whole summer—and will entail a lot of construction noise. But they are good neighbors and have done their best to see that I am not disturbed (my cottage is right at the property line at the back of our property, so close to whatever they’re doing).

Today the young man called to tell Jordan workers digging at the back of their lot detected a strong smell of gas near my tankless water heater. Of course, Jordan semi-panicked, came running out to the cottage, and I called our plumber. They said they’d send Lonnie, who is more than familiar with the house and cottage—I’ve used the same plumbing company for over 25 years.

But before Lonnie could get here, the sky darkened and the thunder rolled, and my imagination conjured up a vision of lightning striking near leaking gas and an explosion taking out my cottage—and me. Seriously, the thought flitted across my mind that this could be the day I die. On the other hand, I was concerned that this foolishness would interrupt my nap. Oh, the trivia we choose to worry about. Fortunately, Lonnie arrived.

He sniffed and smelled—nothing. The ground was wet, but he saw no bubbles which would indicate a leak. He saw a sewer line that the cap had come off, and said if you’re not a plumber, you might not recognize the difference between dangerous gas and sewer gas. And if you stand near the tankless heater when it kicks in, you get an odor—fumes, not gas. He assured me I was perfectly safe but just to err on the side of caution I should call the gas company. Am I the only customer to whom the plumber says, “You have a good day now, sweetheart”?

The gas company is beyond efficient, but they can scare the daylights out of you. They have an obvious prepared list of cautions: leave the area at once, do not use your phone again, do not move a vehicle, no open flames, etc. l told the woman I would go to the opposite end of the house and nap—no need to tell her how small the cottage is—and she laughed.

So all is well that ends well. The Atmos guy said it was no doubt the start-up fumes from the tankless water heater, and he saw no problem. The only problem I see is that now I’ll get another plumbing bill, and they are never modest.

And our storms? They’re due to be over in fifteen minutes, and the sky does not look at all threatening. I’m grateful there was no hail, but darn! I’d have loved a good rain. I guess I’ll sleep well tonight—no gas leak, no storms.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

My lost day

 

Do you ever have a day that is simply lost? That was me today. For all the good I did the world—or myself—I should have stayed in bed. And in a way, that’s what I did. At the risk of sounding like a neurotic old lady, I’ll blame it on—wait for it!—foot pain. Yesterday afternoon, I started having intermittent, sharp pains in my left foot. To my dismay, they continued all night.

By three a.m., that dark hour when your imagination can run away with you, I had convinced myself that my hip revision/replacement/whatever had gone south, that was why my whole left leg ached, and I would have to be hospitalized to have it repaired—probable/possible surgery. I was a mess. To add to the atmosphere, a thunderstorm was raging outside, and Sophie was clinging to me, following me each time I went to the bathroom, which I did a lot because walking made my foot and leg feel better.

As things often do, they looked better in the morning—but not a whole lot, because I was exhausted. The pain in my foot was not gone but was less. Jordan suggested I go back to bed, which I thought was a brilliant idea. So I did. And that set the pattern for the day—I had no ambition for any of the several things on my desk, so I got up, went back to bed, got up, took another nap, etc. In between those naps, I managed to make Reuben dip for Jordan’s late birthday dinner tonight (her request), go get blood work done (something I dread—and no, it’s not the needle; it’s the whole depressing place, even though the people are polite and friendly—not sure why I’ve developed a “thing” about it).

Tonight, our regular Tuesday night happy hour ladies came to celebrate Jordan—they brought flowers and cheese and crackers and wonderful mini-grasshopper pies for our dessert. And a gift certificate for Jordan to Saint Emilion, which I had strongly suggested was too extravagant (is this where I can use the Henny Youngman line about getting no respect?). They ignored my request.

And poor Jordan cooked her own b’day dinner, though I helped some. At one point, she moaned, “I’m in the weeds, and it’s my birthday dinner!” We had oven-roasted salmon with anchovy/garlic butter—delicious—and a big salad.

It ended being a festive day, but I had the nagging feeling of not having accomplished much. Do not ask me why in retirement I feel I must “accomplish” something every day. I think that compulsion was coded into me at birth. I have never been able to putter well. One of my good friends used to say she could happily watch paint dry—I would go stark, raving mad.

So Sophie and I are settled down for the night. My foot is no longer zinging me, but I am still sleepy. It’s early to bed (fits in with my day). I plan to get up tomorrow ready to conquer the world—or at least finish organizing my tax stuff. Usually, when I go to bed with that resolve, it works, so we’ll see.

Stay safe, all. North Texas is supposed to see more storms in the afternoon, some possibly heavy.

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!                                                                                                                                                                                 

Chicken-fried steak and motorcycles

Friends Betty and Don own the Star Café in Fort Worth’s Stockyards National Historic District. The Star is known for steaks and for my favorite—chicken fried steak. Local food guru and restaurant critic Bud Kennedy has rated it the best CFS in town for several years now. So last night Betty and I planned to go to the Star, so I could have a CFS fix. Until word came down that between 300 and 700 members of a Southern California motorcycle gang, with a pretty tough reputation, were expected to arrive in the Stockyards last night for a weekend rally. Betty thought it the better part of wisdom not to mix me and my walker into the inevitable parking mess, and I agreed. I declined her too-kind offer to fetch my dinner in mid-afternoon—too much coming and going for her and besides, I am quite sure reheated CFS at home would not taste the same as the real deal freshly cooked in the café. So we’ll reschedule.

But I looked this gang up on the internet, and they are indeed scary. So then I began to worry. Fort Worth police promise an extra-heavy presence in the Stockyards, and some merchants have posted signs that anyone wearing gang insignias, etc., is not welcome (that seems like throwing a glove in their faces as a challenge, to me). The aura is one of tension before a storm. And of course, rumors are flying. Is it safe to go to the North Side for dinner?

Last night I sat home, ate a leftover salmon patty, and worried. My imagination conjured up scenes of violence—shattered store fronts, people injured, etc. Of course, none of that happened. Betty said this morning she saw nary a motorcycle—apparently, they didn’t arrive until later at night. But while my imagination ran wild with the worse possible scenario, the practical side of me was wondering where 700 motorcyclists sleep. Do they pitch tents? If so, where? There’s not much public land up there, and surely they would need a permit. Would motels rent to them? I think I had a primitive vision of all these men—and surely some women—sleeping out exposed to the rain (yes, it’s supposed to storm) with their motorcycles as their pillows. You know, like cowboys around the fire using their saddles as pillows. Told you I have a good imagination!

Hmmm. The imagination and the practical side. See why I write fiction?

Moths, Food, and Aging

I had a row with my neighbor last night—yes, the good-looking one. He and Jordan were in the kitchen, where she was cleaning out the fridge, something I’d asked her to do. She opened the pantry and three moths flew out. Jay immediately got the trash and began pitching half the staples I kept in there—opened packages of pasta, rice, cereal, bread crumbs, and I don’t know what all. I told him to stop, and he explained—claimed?—either that they’re laying their eggs there or that those products had the moths poop on them. When I said I’d stored things that way as a housekeeper for fifty years, he said, “I do it at my own house.” Non sequitur. I stalked off to my computer (my place of refuge.) As he left, Jay said, “I’m going to Central Market tomorrow to replenish your pantry. Want to go?” The politest I could manage was, “I’ll call you.”

Truth was I was crabby. I hadn’t slept well in several nights—my leg kept hurting. I had no appetite and no energy. But beyond that, I felt marginalized in my own home. Other people were making housekeeping decisions about my kitchen! I suddenly understood how my mom felt. She, having lived through the Depression, saved every tiny bit of leftovers, storing them in small jars in the back of the fridge where they soon began to grow mold. Drove my brother wild, and we periodically cleaned it all out. I can still hear Mom mimicking me, “Just pitch it!”

I think aging has been the Joe Bftsplk black cloud hanging over my head all week. The possibility of a blood clot scared me, and then in spite of medical reassurance that there was no clot, I began to suspect they’d just missed it. It wasn’t getting any better—in fact, the leg pain was worse. It’s amazing what you can convince yourself of at 3:30 a.m. when you can’t sleep. I truly began to think I’d never walk self-confidently again (okay, there was even one vision of me in a wheelchair), that perhaps the clot would break loose in my sleep (what sleep?) and I’d never wake up. In calm retrospect I’ll just say that a writer has to have a vivid imagination.

My leg was particularly painful last night, so that at 3:30 I was thinking not about wheelchairs but who I could call. I realized that it didn’t hurt except when I lay down, so I sat dangling my legs (against all medical advice to keep that foot elevated) and then I walked around. I also realized if I lay perfectly still, the cramping in my calf was less frequent and severe. The doctor had assured me the pain was because I was favoring the foot and walking funny. This afternoon I took a long deep nap—slept on in spite of Jacob crawling in and out of bed, coming to talk to me, etc. No cramping. Good sleep. This evening, a vegetable dinner tasted good, and I have my enthusiasm back.

Amazing how the mind can push us into aging if we let it. And Jay? We went grocery shopping this morning and mended our fences. He’s too good a friend and takes too good care of me to stay angry. My world is looking good tonight.