A Visit from My Son

When he can make time, Jamie comes from Dallas to spend a day with me. He works at the coffee table while I work at my desk, and he often begins his day before first light at the curb. I always ask why he didn’t come in, and he says he’s all set up with his computer and phone in his car and he’s busy. This morning he snuck up to the front door of the house and left Jacob something; then, about seven, called Jacob to look on the porch. Jacob was grumpy about being wakened, but joyful when he found the spinners—I think that’s what they were, something that’s “hot” in the toy business right now.

A tradition that I like on the days Jamie spends with me: we go to breakfast at the Ol’ South Pancake House. He has a German pancake—today it was the smaller Dutch baby—and I have a side of corned beef hash, no egg, lots of ketchup. It’s the part of the day when we visit—he tells me about his work, we talk about family, conversations we don’t have when he gets busy at his computer.

We had another nice interlude today: a Joan Baez interlude. When my kids were little, their father and I loved the folk music of the 70s, so my children know Joan Collins, Neil Diamond and others. But Joan Baez is a particular favorite, and the children still know all the songs. Jamie has tracked down all the albums and bought them (probably in vinyl). He brought his guitar today—he’s just started playing and, with help from daughter Maddie, is picking out the chords and trying to play, “Diamonds and Rust.” It’s a difficult song, and I, known for my tin ear, didn’t recognize it. But then we called up some of her other songs on the computer and played them, including “Bachianas Brasileiras No. 5: Aria" which I have not been able to find for years.

Jamie stayed until happy hour guests arrived at six. These were neighbors who meet at the local Grill for supper every Tuesday, and they all wanted to see my cottage. I made a good cold artichoke dip (as opposed to those you bake) and gruyere toasts—must have been a hit because it all disappeared, along with a lot of wine that our guests brought. Jordan served as hostess as she so often does, and did a magnificent job of making everyone welcome.

Betty and I planned to go on to supper with the group but neither of us were hungry enough for the heavy food at the Grill, and Jordan and Jacob wanted to stay home. I ended the day with a bowl of cold cereal at my computer. Not at all a bad ending.

An Ode to Saturday and to my oldest child

Colin and his family

probably four years ago at least

Why are Saturdays so delightfully lazy? There’s something about the nature of the day. My schedule isn’t much different on a Saturday than any other day of the week, except for Sunday and church. I get up when I want, spend the day at my computer, reading, cooking, and napping—all on my own schedule.

But somehow, emotionally, I feel a difference. This morning I slept late, stayed in those magic pajamas, scrambled some eggs instead of wolfing down a bowl of cereal, decided my hair doesn’t really need washing nor do I need make-up. Some Saturdays I have social somethings planned but not today.

I don’t even feel compelled to work, though I’m sure before the day is over I’ll edit that third chapter, maybe explore those blogs I want to mine for a possible memoir about my journey of the last year. The great thing about my work is that it’s all things I want to do, goals I set for myself. The world will not stop in its orbit if I never do any of it.

I spent way too long on Facebook this morning, following this lead, clicking on that bit of information. Facebook rarely returns you to where you clicked away, but starts you all over again at the beginning and the posts are always different—tells you how many posts we never see. I feel compelled to keep reading because I never know what gem I’ll miss.

For instance, a colleague mentioned her short story, “The Night They Burned Ms. Dixie’s Place,” (featured in the current edition of Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine—Debra Goldstein is the author). That reminded me of the Joan Baez song I loved, “That Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” and sent me in search of the history of the song. I could fiddle my day away following trails like that.

Today my oldest child, Colin, turns forty-eight. I can’t believe it. Poor boy suffered from all I didn’t know about babies, and raising children, and being a single parent. He survived it all, explored life on his own terms (sojourns to California and the Caribbean) and turned into one of the loveliest adults I know. A good citizen, a hard worker, a loving husband and firm but loving father, a caring son, a man still close to his siblings (not all are so lucky and loyal). The Lord blessed me the day the adoption agency called and said those magic words, “You have a son.” They said he might have red hair and did we mind? What? We were going to say, “No, thank you,” because of red hair? His hair is brown but his beard, when he lets it grow, has a touch of red—and now gray. I love you so much, Colin David Alter.

Tonight, Jacob is spending the night. His sleepover makes a shambles of my comfortable living area, but he’s worth it. On the other hand, I have to consider that he shushes me if I turn on the TV or talk on the phone, though he talks freely on the phone.