Starting over. Where to begin?

For days now, my first thought in the morning has been that today is the day that I must pick up the dropped threads of my blog. After all, I’ve been blogging since 2006. I checked just now, and my last blog post was June 08, just shy of a month ago. But where to begin? I think I’ll go wash my hair.

Truly, that’s been sort of my attitude. A Scarlett O’Hara-type tendency to put off what I’m not sure about dealing with. When this attack on my physical well-being began, I was woefully ignorant of how severe the impact would be. Just a minor problem while I went merrily about my family, writing, and social life. In the hospital I wrote, in my mind, great blogs and even roughed out a new Irene adventure (she told me she was not through yet, but where she got this hare-brained idea, I’ll never know). I had no idea how hard everything would be. For goodness sake, walking from my bed to my desk this morning with the four-wheeled walker was a major challenge. Write another Irene novel? Maybe on down the road, but not this week, thank you.

My blog started as a mix of writing, cooking, and grand-mothering. Pretty much all of that is changed now (yes, I sometimes want to howl, “I want my old life back!”) The grands are mostly grown—youngest is now sixteen (maybe seventeen—I lose track). Because I have had a tracheostomy, my meals are liquid and bypass my mouth and taste buds completely—so boring. I guess I have always measured out my life not with Prufrock’s coffee spoons but with meals—they were like punctuation for each day. Without that incentive, there goes maybe half my blog. Writing remains, but I am not sure even avid readers want to read about writers and their doings all the time.

Originally the blog was a stew of those three elements, but eight years ago when I downsized to my cottage, I made a half-hearted attempt to change it to “View from the Cottage.” It seemed to me that my view of the world then was limited to what I could see from the cottage—like the tiny sliver of the street in front of the house and the glimpse of children walking to elementary school. But that wasn’t really true then—to a certain extent I was out and about in the world. Now my view really is limited to what I see—and hear and read—from the cottage. So what do I write about?

I am loathe to give up the blog. I’ve made so many good friends, met so many interesting people. For me, the blog is like Emily Dickinson’s letter to the world. My blog links me to a wide, wide world, and I like that a lot.

So bear with me. I’m not extraordinarily private, but I do promise not to share daily medical updates. I am known for strong political opinions, and I’ll likely share more of that. I’ll watch for other topics, and maybe you’ll have some ideas to share.

Can we start View from the Cottage, Part II together? I’d be so grateful if you’d take this new journey with me.

Not my finest day

 

When by late morning the only thing you can say you accomplished is refilling soap dispensers, you have a pretty good indication that this isn’t going to be your finest day. Actually, it did get better for a bit, but there was discouraging news too. The press that I had hoped would jump at the idea of my Helen Corbitt manuscript rejected it—kindly but firmly. The director wrote that he didn’t see a market for it since the updated cookbook is available and people are more interested in recipes than her life. I know you’re not supposed to protest, but I did gently, telling him the point was not her life but her importance in the culinary and retail history of our country. But a no is a no, and I must move on.

The question is what my next project will be. Seems to me I have two options: researching presses that are interested in women’s studies and/or culinary history or writing that memoir I keep babbling about but doing little on. Today I decided it would not be a cohesive narrative but rather a series of connected essays. For a start, I labeled a section, “A Life with Dogs,” and listed all the dogs I’ve had in my life. Quite a list, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten some. And then I did a bit on the overall picture—but just a bit. Maybe I’ll work on that tomorrow, though I managed to fritter away much of today—you know, filling soap dispenser and the like.

On a more positive note, Carol, my favorite historical consultant, sent back my Sue McCafferty sketch for the Handbook of Texas with just a few suggestions—that lady knows how to ferret out long-buried facts that I never can find. As always, she improved the profile a lot, and I have now sent it off to the editors. Carol still has the profile of Charlie McCafferty, but I expect it in a few days.

We had leftovers for dinner—always welcome when they’re good, and these were—Doris’ casserole, our family favorite, and a big, tossed salad. So that was another bright spot. And so was menu planning with Jordan, a process I always enjoy. We even settled on a Mother’s Day menu, since they will host Christian’s family which means ten people of varying gastronomic tastes. Shhh! I won’t divulge the menu, lest someone object with “I don’t eat that!” But I will say I have committed to make a big potato salad. When I was a kid, cold turkey and potato salad were always my requests for my July birthday.  

The weather has not exactly brightened the day. It’s been dull and overcast all day, although so far the rain has held off. Still, we expect storms tonight, with more likelihood tomorrow. Temperature is warm, but happy hour plans are on hold. Our usual Tuesday night guests both cancelled, which led me to wonder if I had offended them.

I’ve been trying to track down my good friend Betty, who fell, broke her hip, and had surgery last Thursday. The only reports I’ve gotten are from ministers at the church, where she was music director for over forty years. Phone calls went unanswered, and then I found out I had the wrong cell phone number. No one responded to repeat messages left on the landline at their house, but I know Betty’s husband does not like to talk on the phone. Tonight, I finally learned that she was transferred yesterday from the hospital to a rehab facility, and I’ve gotten the correct (I think) phone number. So perhaps tomorrow I can talk with her. When I told a friend I’d heard Betty had considerable pain, she said, “Hips are bad things.” I couldn’t help but chuckle and say, “Tell me about it.” It has been slightly over four years now since my hip revision surgery (that’s different from replacement). So I hope I can be encouraging to Betty. And I’m glad to be past the frustration of wondering where she is, what’s going on.

I’m going to go to sleep and wake up with more ambition. One rejection won’t stop me on a story I feel needs to be told.