Growing up—and bored—in the time of quarantine

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These pictures were on Facebook, with lots of comments about the difference a year makes, so it seems redundant for me to say that. Except to say Jacob also now has a deep voice—and a new mullet haircut that he really likes. For an only child, he’s been remarkably understanding about the quarantine. We got past “It’s annoying” rather quickly, and now he seems to grasp the importance, and he follows the rules. He and his parents have been playing card games late at night, going for walks and drives, and I truly think this has brought them closer together than if he had gone about the normal business of being a teenager. And I have to add that of the two pictures, I think Christian looks better in the new one—he’s lost a bit of weight, his color is better.

That said, I know nothing else to say about the day. I wondered this morning—and still do wonder—why if you’re self-isolating and self-employed Saturday seems any different than any other day. And yet it does. I woke with no ambition this morning, and it was almost noon before I got myself together to do much except piddle. I did finally buckle down and work on a newsletter to my fans—you know, all three of them—and was overwhelmed by how much work it took to pull it all together. What I have so far, late at night, is the roughest draft I’ve ever seen.

It’s that Puritan work ethic again—I think I should write and accomplish and achieve every day. That I don’t have to do that is a lesson I’m trying to learn from the pandemic. But it nags at me that I did not write word one on the new mystery today. Maybe the Lord or the fates or whoever is telling me I don’t quite have the next plot step in my mind, and I need to think more about it. I confess I do some of my best creative thinking in bed when I’m dozing—half awake, half asleep. The subconscious is a marvel not to be underestimated.

The Burton family is out tonight—dinner on the lawn with friends. Jordan assures me they will all stay six feet apart. So I fixed myself a good solitary supper—beans on toast and spinach. The beans were canned pintos left from the night we had taco salad—I didn’t do them quite right. I should have softened some butter to spread a thick layer on the rye toast. I thought sautéing the beans, with celery, onion, and garlic, would be enough, but that mixture soaked up all the butter and there wasn’t enough to soften the toast. Still the beans were delicious. The spinach—straight out of the can with a little salt and butter—was as good as always. It’s a throwback to my childhood, when my best friend and I waited for my folks to go out to dinner so we could split a can of Spaghetti-O’s and one of spinach.

Once, my parents took us on Dad’s business trip to Kalamazoo, Michigan (yeah, we hit all the high spots). Mom took my friend Eleanor and me to lunch in the hotel cafeteria, but she noticed Eleanor wasn’t eating her spinach. Knowing how much she liked it, Mom asked what was wrong. “I think it’s fresh,” Eleanor whispered.

I look back on those days with fondness. I had a good childhood, but I am not necessarily of the school that thinks kids today should be raised as we were so long ago. It’s a different world, with different opportunities and challenges. The thing I find most encouraging today is that young people, like my grandchildren, are listened to. They have more of a voice in family affairs and in their own lives. I don’t think we are necessarily setting a good example for them, but perhaps they will learn—especially from the pandemic.

But none of my kids or grandkids will eat canned spinach. Oh, well.

Distant thunder

I just heard, I think, distant thunder. We're supposed to get storms tonight, with the greatest likelihood between 11 p.m. and 1 p.m. Jacob is here, and I'm going to try to get him asleep before that--we both tend to stay up late when it's not a school night. But if he's asleep he won't be frightened by the storms. I on the other hand may stand at the front door and watch in fascination.
There's a nice companionship about having Jacob here. He ate his dinner at the coffee table, and I ate at my desk. We don't talk much--his conversation consists of "Is there anything more to eat?" and "I'm hungry." I surprised him with three Girl Scout thin mint cookies, and his eyes widened, "Three?" He sorely misses the Blue Bell ice cream that came in individual servings. But even if we don't talk much, we each know the other is there.
There was a video on Facebook of my Austin grandson, Sawyer, playing guitar with a band. Jacob decided Sawyer was really good, the singer not so much. We also decided we can see Sawyer's future, and Jacob insisted on adding "To be continued" to the message I sent. My grandchildren are all so different. Morgan in Tomball just skipped a level and advanced in her karate training, and her eight-year-old brother, small for his age, tried out at the coach's suggestion and made the 11-year-old soccer team. He's a killer on the soccer field, and that coach knows it. Jacob's baseball team lost last night but aren't out of the playoffs yet--at least one more game to go.
I fixed his kind of dinner tonight--corn on the cob and broccoli, and he ate two helpings of each. Our meat was Taylor's Pork Roll. I recently rediscovered it. Colin used it for eggs Benedict (instead of Canadian bacon) over Mother's Day, and it was delicious. I had some one evening later, sautéed. So I thought I'd try it on Jacob--fixed two pieces for each of us. He ate one and said he liked it okay, but he didn't want any more. I ate his other one. Somewhere in my past I've had Taylor's Pork Roll, but I can't put my finger on it. I want to say in graduate school in Missouri, but my brother doesn't remember it, and we were in the same small town in those days.
Which brings me to a coincidence: at the postal station in the local hardware today, the clerk was complaining her plants were drowning. "I'm from Missouri, and this is Missouri weather, not Texas." So I said I'd gone to school in Missouri, and it turns out we were about thirty miles--and a lot of years--apart. I told her the one thing I remember about her town of Macon, a restaurant, and she said it had re-opened after a fire. Small world.
It's been a lazy day, and I've enjoyed it. Some work, but not much. A grocery trip plus post office plus cleaners. Long nap. I love weekends, which strikes me as funny since I'm retired and theoretically weekends are no different than weekdays. Doesn't work out that way.
And that, my friends, is enough trivia about my life. Hope you all have a good weekend. Stay safe, those of you in the path of storms.

Weekend doings

I so often have a seven-year-old on Saturday night that weekends without him loom long and empty. Frequently I fill them with dinner guests but I decided against that this weekend for several reasons--mostly the diet I'm trying to maintain and my budget, which has already run riot by the fifth of the month. Instead I decided to do a lot of those little things that had been undone, I packaged up and returned two lampshades to Amazon--they didn't fit the lamps, and I learned a lesson about old floor lamps (definitely mine) and uno fittings. Went to the grocery and then to the hardware for a nozzle to replace the one that gave me an unnecessary and unneeded drenching yesterday, Then I buckled down to the chores that had been looking at me--I made some tile and tub cleaner--equal parts white vinegar and Dreft, cleaned the kitchen sink thoroughly, and washed my prayer shawl in it. Tricky part was finding a place to lay the wet shawl out but I cleared enough space of kitchen counter, turned it frequently, and replaced wet towels on which it lay.

Now barely damp, it's on the table in the playroom. Tonight it feels soft and smells wonderfully fresh. Normally it lives on the back of my office chair for chilly nights. Finally I made an all-purpose cleaner, according to a formula I'd found in the neighborhood newsletter--more complicated, it used rubbing alcohol, white vinegar, a bit of laundry soap, a tiny bit of ammonia, and plenty of water. We'll see. They're in spray bottles, labeled as neatly as I can be with a Sharpie.
A friend came to pick me up for lunch, and when I regaled her with all this, she said, "Little Miss Domesticity."
After a good lunch--best tuna salad in town is at Swiss Pastry Shop--the day deteriorated into Facebook, email, and a nap. But tonight I'll write--and savor my feeling of accomplishment.
Tomorrow is supposed to be rainy and, while it won't be cold, I still feel a pot of vegetable soup coming on.