And so it begins…

Jacob and his overnight guests cleaning up after some girls teepee-ed the house. It’s a n innocent, if annoying, prank that kids have been doing for years. Jordan and the boys intended to retaliate last night but all fell asleep, and we all slept with lights ablaze all night.

Some not so innocent pranks are going on. I hear rumors of Trump followers attacking minorities, and Trump opponents protesting, though peacefully as far as I know. Facebook has poignant posts from people who have been unfriended by longtime friends and are hurt, angry, puzzled. All over politics. At this time, when the nation needs to come together in unity, the division is getting more sharp.

I had my own minor experience. A friend I’d known and shared confidences with,  encouraged her publication hopes, cheered for her over the last few years, sent me an email saying her opinion was good enough to elect a president, and I needed to stop thinking that my opinion was the only one that matters. Their sanctimonious attitude defeated the Democrats, and I needed to get off my high horse. I was stunned, and naïve as I am, thought she’d been hacked. Not so. Politics, she said, has nothing to do with friendship.

I’m not so sure about that, not sure I separate the threads of my friendships so easily. And I am saddened that someone has that opinion of me. Beyond that, there were several ways I could have responded, the most obvious being to retort with comments about Trump and rudeness and compassion.

I didn’t. Because I believe that message is exactly the kind of thinking we need to eradicate, the pitting of one side against the other. I wrote instead that I was stunned, sorry, apologetic. It was my step into my new world of love, forgiveness and unity. I truly believe in these troubled, contentious times the only hope for America is for us all to come together as Americans—not Trump followers, not Trump protestors, not black, white, gay, straight, Muslim, whatever—just Americans. And work together to build unity in our country.

Begin with that safety pin that says you welcome and will protect people of whatever persuasion. But don’t attack those who differ with you, and don’t bemoan the incoming president’s election. It is what it is—now what can you do to make it better?

I almost didn’t post this story. My friend will read it and she will be angry and I’m sorry. But I truly believe the larger message is more important.

Let us put differences aside and remember that we are all Americans, with a glorious heritage and, if we will work for it, a bright future.

Hallucinations…or goodbye to the good times

The lovely 19^th-century people no longer party and mingle and linger in my back yard in the middle of the night. Nor does the magnificent wild dog lie next to the wall and survey his peaceable kingdom. My hallucinations are gone.

At first I thought they were simply middle of the night flights of fancy. Then I thought they made an amusing story. Neither my family nor my doctor were amused, and the latter expressed his opinion in one word: hallucinations.

It’s not a bad thing that they’re gone, at least from my point of view. I no longer wonder where I am when I wake up. One morning I’m sure I scared Jordan by asking if I was truly in my own space. Then I sat up in bed and pointed to the foot of the bed—the baby? I asked. She moved a pile of clothes and showed me there was no baby there.

Other mornings—and one afternoon—I thought I was in neighbors’ houses. I remember when Subie let herself in by the deck doors—my first thought was, “Subie, do you know these people well enough to walk into their home without knocking?” Of course, it was my home, and yes she knows to come and go without knocking. Other mornings I woke up in a purple and lavender bedroom—not my style, I assure you. I soon learned that if I closed my eyes and waited the bedroom would once again be a soft yellow.

So, amusement benefits aside, it was a disquieting experience and a huge lesson in the power of modern medicine. Bless my physician, Dr. Richwine, who knew right away what was going on. And my advice? Don’t accept strange behavior as just something that happens—ask your doctor. Amazing what those trained professionals know!

Obviously, I can’t find a picture to go with this. Wish I could. Some of those night scenes were truly lovely. So instead here's a new picture of Sophie.

Do we go forward or backward?

My friend Devorah Winegarten had a really good take on Trump’s election and what it means for the country. I posted her comments on my Facebook wall if you want to look; otherwise I’m going to paraphrase her here, with credit freely given.

We’re all moaning that so many people voted for Trump, though it’s worth pointing out that he did not win the popular vote. Still his campaign exposed an ugly underbelly in American society. And the people who followed him all voted or so it would seem. They are people who are threatened by change and progress, at a time, particularly under President Obama, when our country is moving toward inclusion, diversity, recognition of different faiths, lifestyle, beliefs and the fact that we can all be one diversified society.

Trump followers feel they are losing their way of life, their future. They cling to the life they know, with all its hate and prejudice and bigotry because it’s familiar. It makes them feel safe, better than the next guy, to have those beliefs. In his campaign Trump played to those fears, though I will say he’s sounded a bit more mellow in recent days.

It is time, Debra says, for us not to wring our hands and moan about a future we can’t control but to move forward positively. It is a pivotal moment in our history that calls for us to say, “No more.” We won’t be governed by hate and prejudice, small minds and violence. We will live in an America that values and embraces differences. What Trump does with the presidency remains to be seen but it is beyond our control. We need to start with what we can do.

I don’t think the mass protests we’ve seen across the country are at all helpful. They emphasize the division in the country when we should be concentrating on bringing the country together. We are, after all, Americans—not gays, straights, women, Muslims, and other isolated populations.

I read a post by the mother of a teenager in a private school in New York. One of his classmates is a Muslim girl who wears a hajib. He planned to go to school this morning, give her a hug, and tell her he had her back. That’s the kind of thing we can do to overcome hate.

So many people are swept up with gloom and doom right now. I urge them to adopt Debra’s attitude and look at this as an opportunity to be part of change and progress.

Besides, as someone pointed out, the Republicans now own it. They have the White House and both houses of Congress. Whatever goes wrong, they have no one else to blame.

Some glimpses from the cottage

Most of the views from the cottage these days are unfortunately political, but I do love this picture of my youngest grandson, nine-year-old Kegan, focusing on his soccer game. He’s small for his age but makes up for it in skill and dedication. His ambition has been to get his hair long enough for a man bun and now he’s made it—or, as his mom says, a boy bun. This is one of a series of pictures and at first I thought Kegan’s  sister has started playing soccer but there’s no mistaking that boy. So proud of him. Last I knew he had been invited to play on a team of older boys.

We did sort of have a watch party last night. My friend Linda came from Granbury and reminded me the last time she came to a watch party, everyone left by eight—George W. Bush swept the election, which didn’t please my liberal friends. As the evening wore on last night, I assured her I’d never invite her again, and she retorted that if invited she wasn’t coming.

The dogs, however, thoroughly enjoyed watching—because all their people were here.

Jacob is doing homework out here tonight, having refused the good taco soup I had for him. He asks me questions, then flings himself on the couch in despair when I don’t know what he’s talking about. But really, he wanted a definition of deposition—but then he added the qualifier “science-wise.” First of all, science-wise is not a word and if used as one is bad usage. I had no idea what he was talking about.

The view from the cottage the last almost week has been a wet one. We’ve had an incredible amount of rain. The gutters on the back of the main house have a thousand holes, despite frequent and recent repairs, and I watch the water sluice off the roof in a marvelous imitation of Niagara Falls. I look at Christian’s new grass and think how happy it is with all this wet, and then I realize how happy Christian is that his grass is getting watered.

Jacob announced last night he was cheering for Trump-a definite change of attitude. I asked why, and he said because of the e-mails. I tried to explain that was a dead issue and he said stubbornly, “You don’t always know the truth.” It occurred to me that his understanding of that and other issues was about on the level of all those Americans who voted for Trump.

Of course I have thoughts on the election but I don’t know that they add to anyone else’s. I am hugely disappointed in the American people—and stunned by their collected voice. Many of my fellow liberals have chosen the route of gloom and doom, but I refuse to do so. Not because I have any confidence in the incoming administration but because I refuse to let my life be dominated by a demagogue filled with hate. I take the high road recommended this morning by President Obama and Secretary Clinton. Someone posted on Facebook that the Obama legacy is now shattered. I don’t think so. I think the class he brought to the presidency, the goals he set and the things he accomplished, the example his family set will not go away.

Be of good cheer, folks. America is still America.

Texas Honors Its Own

The Texas Literary Hall of Fame (Fort Worth Public Library) inducted a class of five on Friday, November 4, at the Botanic Garden Conservatory. Inductees were George Sessions Perry and Dorothy Scarborough, both honored posthumously with James Ward Lee accepting for them and beginning his comments with, “I speak for the dead.” Novelist Rick Riordan sent a young girl to accept in his place. Living and present were H. W. Brand, UT, a historian who brings history alive through individual characters; award-winning western writer Jane Pattie best known for her classic work on spurs; award-winning Latina poet Carmen Tafolla, (who  will now always be Carmen Tortilla in my mind); and folklorist, novelist, historian, rancher, naturalist, former teacher—I could go on and on with accolades—Joyce Gibson Roach, who can give the funnies after-dinner speeches you’ve ever heard.

Okay I went a little overboard about Joyce—I know some of the other inductees but Joyce and I have been writing buddies and traveling companions for years. We’ve traveled the West together, hitting every writers meeting that would have us and some that shuddered when we walked in. We knew the road from Fort Worth to Amarillo and beyond like the proverbial back of our hands, and we once took eight hours to drive from Amarillo to Decatur because we stopped at every small town, every junque store that caught our fancy. We’ve done our dog-and-pony show—she a fifth-generation Texan (and a bit stuck on herself because of it) and me, a newcomer, interloper, she never lets me forget—in front of bleary-eyed writers at 8 a.m. and before the selects guests at one of the TCU Chancellor’s luncheons. We’ve worked on books together and rejoiced in each other’s awards and commiserated in failures.

I am indebted to Joyce for help on many books. Once as we settled for the Amarillo/Fort Worth run, I announced we could use the time to plan my next juvenile book—and I numbered from 1-10 on a legal pad. “That’s all?” she asked. “That’s all you do, and you’ve got a book?” I explained that we still had to figure out what happened in each chapter, so she began making suggestions. I finally snapped. “Joyce, it’s my book.”

Another time I was writing a book based on the life of trick roper Lucille Mulhall, and I wanted to know every tiny detail about roping, preparing ropes, etc. Finally it was Joyce’s turn to snap: “Enough with the ropng, Judith Ann. Get on with the story.” She was so right.

Joyce has been honored many times in many ways—Western Writers of America, the Texas Institute of Letters, the Texas Historical Association and the Texas Historical Commission. But this hall of fame was a missing chunk in that awe-inspiring biography, and I am so glad to see it made right, even if belatedly. In her acceptance comments, Joyce said all she ever wanted was to stand tall enough for her hometown of Jacksboro and for the state of Texas. “I believe tonight,” she said, “I am tall enough.” Yes, Joyce. You are tall enough. You always have been, but we could never make you believe it.

Our traveling days are behind us now as aging reaches out and grabs us. But those days are forever in my memory, and Joyce is forever one of the special people my life. Hush, Joyce, or I’ll tell everything I know about you and cooking and recipes and your mom.

te

When Your Mind Plays Tricks on You, or Hallucinations

November6 6, 2016

One thing I learned in 75 years: ignore nightmares or hallucinations. I distinctly remember a nightmare when I was about five. I cowered in bed next to my mom. Every time I peeked another figure leered at me—George Washington, Donald Duck, and the like. But I kept peeking. Last night I didn’t look.

Having lost two nights’ sleep, I decided the best way to handle nightmares was to ignore them. So when my secret friends gathered in the yard, I took one long look—and went to the bathroom. The art du jour last night was sort of an impressionistic painting of a 19^th-century artist studio, perhaps in Manhattan. People mingle and visit and art lines the walls along with gold-framed mirrors. The colors are muted—blue and a sort of taupe, lots of beige and off-white. It reminds me of a Degas or the lines from the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock: In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo. It is an inviting scene, and I could linger. I don/t though--I will have a couple more chances during the night, but I ignore them too.

And when I wake in a purple and lavender bedroom, I sigh and close my eyes, knowing it will return to its lovely soft yellow. The result is that I wakened this morning refreshed and well aware of where I was, whereas the two previous mornings I was disoriented, sure that I’d been moved out of my cottage even though I saw it all around me.

A puzzlement: when I first saw the crowd in the artist’s studio, Sophie went crazy, barking to go out (I didn’t fall for it). It was the bark she uses to tell me she has to investigate our safety outside. Do you suppose she “sees” my hallucination?

An unsatisfcatory day...and a wild dog

There’s no other word for yesterday—unsatisfactory. I capped it off by falling as I stood up from my desk. My shoe had come off, and I didn’t realize how slippery the brace bottom is—it scooted out from under me, followed by the walker, and I was flat on my back. Christian and Jacob came to get me up and are my heroes—after several tries, and after I calmed a bit, we got me on my knees and then Christian seated me on the coffee table. I rested, caught my breath, and headed for the bathroom which is where I’d been going all along. No damage done but it’s disquieting to fall.

Earlier Jordan and I had a good visit with my family physician—at least mostly good. He took over my meds and became traffic director which is just what I wanted him to do. But it turned out that what I saw as lovely middle of the flights of imagination, he was as hallucinations and changed a prescription. It was because of the dog.

In the wee hours Thursday morning I looked out and saw what I presumed was a plastic bag flapping in the breeze. It looked like some large and majestic wild dog—or wolf. I stared for a long time, and of course the more I looked the more real it became. I was convinced there was a wild animal—peaceful for the time, but who knew?

I called Christian who is a sound sleeper (understatement) and said, “Okay. I won’t let the dogs out in the morning.”

Me: You don’t understand. We have to get it out of there. You collect yourself, and I’ll call 911.

Christian: do we have to deal with this right now? (hear plaintive tone).

Just as I was about to say we did, I saw a bit of bag flap in the breeze and confessed it was, after all, a trash bag. “But be sure to tell Jordan just in case.”

Christian: Oh I will. I undoubtedly will.

I think what he intended to tell her was that her mother was bat-shit crazy. In the morning she quizzed me, and I asked if she couldn’t see the dog—I still could. No, she couldn’t.

I had no idea this would come back to bite me at the doctor’s office, but it did, and my protests that I wrote fiction fell on deaf ears. So now the doctor probably has the same opinion of my sanity as Christian does, and I left the appointment feeling neurotic. (There’s a sequel to te story, but I’ll save it for another day.)

I truly think the doctor thought it was a medication problem, and he adjusted things for that. But like the fall, or not, crossing a street canbedsietig \ was disquieting.

The dog was there again last night. Shhh! Don’t tell.

Halloween has come and gone

Like the buildup to Christmas and other major holidays, the run-up to Halloween is too long and protracted –all those cooking shows and ads and store displays and then, poof! It’s over. At least that’s how I felt about it this year. We anticipated the event with hamburgers and pumpkin carving—about ten of us. And I ended the evening at my desk with two carved pumpkins glowing at me from the deck. I notice tonight that they’re gone—presumably to the front porch.

Yesterday, the day, I was isolated from the festivities, including the approximately 1300 children who came trick or treating. My cottage proved ideal—no one found it to trick or treat except grown girls who came begging a glass of wine. And I was back here in solitary quiet, enjoying it.

I am not usually such a curmudgeon. Usually go to Jay and Susan’s for a bowl of stew and to watch them hand out treats. No kidding—we get about 1300 tricksters on our block. Most are small, sweet, and oh so polite. In the next block over, Medstar brings handicapped children and allows them a rare chance to participate. I’m proud to live in a neighborhood that welcomes so many and such diverse children.

But last night I was not myself. All day I had noticed that I tended to fall asleep over the keyboard—in fact, I had noticed it a few mornings during last week and of course my brain immediately went to brain tumor. When Jordan said to me last night that I looked like I was about to fall asleep, I said that was because that was how I felt. She suggested—being oh so reasonable—that perhaps I was overtired. Since I slept 10.5 hours last night I suspect she was right. I still fell asleep a bit this morning but nothing like yesterday.  Maybe cumulative tired, like six months of it, has caught up with me.

But now it’s over, and I think we can settle down to a few peaceful days—If Jordan doesn’t invite half the world for another function which she has yet to dream up. I am not falling asleep over the keyboard but I am weary tonight.

I did wish at 3 a..m. this morning I’d had my camera at hand. I was in bed, thinking those black three-o’clock-in-the-morning thoughts about things that didn’t really need to be worried about. I decided to go to the restroom to sort of break the cycle, but I forgot to turn on the bedside light. When I came back I could barely make out that there was something large, black, and rumpled in the doorway between the bedroom and kitchen. Sophie never bothers towels, but that was what it looked like. As I inched toward the light, half of mass moved several feet. Sophie had gotten her color caught in the afghan that covers her chair and was doomed to drag the blanket with her wherever she went. She gave me the most pitiful look that said, “Help me, please” I scooted into the kitchen, got scissors and freed her.

It was one of life’s little lessons—don’t fret and stew over things that are not here yet, if ever, but help your dog. Priorities.

An Award Turns Into An Adventure

Last night my daughters and I set off with an Uber driver for the Will Rogers Medallion Award Banquet at the iconic Cattlemen’s Restaurant in the Stockyards District. Helping me in and out of an SUV these days is a bit problematic but I have found Uber drivers almost always helpful and cheerful. We arrived safely and my chair and I rode a small platform the six steps up to the main level—only to be told that event was down a set of about 20 stairs. The manager assured me he had strong staff who could carry me safely down the stairs. I hesitated. The girls said, “Think of it as an adventure, Mom.”

Let the adventure begin! And it wasn’t nearly as unsettling as I expected. The four young men kept my chair almost upright and they moved in concert with steady assurance. I felt like Cleopatra or some other ancient queen. Perhaps I should  have waved my hand in benign blessing to the crowd below.

Downstairs we found a few good friends and acquaintances, wine, and dinner seats in that order. Then we waited for dinner …and waited…and chatted and laughed …and waited. A pleasant couple from Arizona across the table chatted. Then one of the largest men I’ve ever seen slid (sort of) into the chair next to Jordan and his equally large wife fitted herself in on the other side. (We guesstimate he was 400 llb.) Fighting off hysterical laughter, Megan came around and   moved me a few inches the other way, giving Jordan a bit more space. But periodically I asked Jordan why she was hovering over me, and we all laughed. I was not amused however that the gentleman (?) never apologized, asked Jordan if she was all right or in any other way acknowledged that his size caused a problem for others.

Dinner arrived and I ran smack into my new dining restrictions. Green beans oozed butter Megan reported the dinner rolls were already glazed with butter, and I voted against olive oil as a substitute for sour cream on my potato, I will have to do some solid research on dairy substitutes. By the time it came to a really nice-looking filet, done just the way I like it, I was through. 

The awards presentation went smoothly. Charles Williams, the man in charge of the whole event, was knowledgeable and precise, saying just enough about each entrant without inviting them to respond and thereby drawing out the evening. At intermission we thanked him and fled homeward, but I brought with me a lovely bit of recognition: the silver medallion in the cookbook class for Texas Is Chili Country.

Brazen Hussies Friday

           
I belong to a small but oh so significant writers group that holds Brazen Hussies Friday every week. I‘m not sure of the official requirements, but I do know that every Friday, we celebrate the good things we’ve accomplished or that randomly came our way during the past week. Some of us have to be coaxed; others are indeed truly brazen and we all cheer for them because the more brazen you are the more you get done.

I am somewhere in the middle—often having things to brag about but never feeling they measure up to the brags of others in the group; after just a couple of weeks, you learn to recognize brazen hussies by their bragging styles.

I think the custom is great because it encourages looking back on your work and assessing it. This week was one of medium accomplishment for me. The biggest was that I survived, with my sanity relative untouched, a whole week of computers glitches. The technician I was dealing with was patient and finally got it fixed.

Beyond that I edited the November issue of our neighborhood newsletter and got it off my desk, blogged occasionally when the computer would permit, finished and evaluated the book I was reading for the Sarton award,

My bad for the week: when you are told you are lactose intolerant that means even a little cream cheese tucked away in sushi. Lesson learned the hard way.

On Mondays this same group plans the week—each of us outline our goals for the week, which is great because it forces you to look at your work pile and prioritize. It will be a reading week for me, and I have to look at due dates—first up will be a friend’s manuscript for which he needs a blurb yesterday, then the next Sarton book (last in my pile), and then a book loaned to me too long ago by a friend. I’ll take some rain please to go with all that reading.If I get really efficient I’ll tackle the cooking magazines that have been on the corner of my desk forever

As I write I’m watching a Halloween cooking show—they come up with some disgusting things. Glad I already had breakfast. A meatloaf fashioned too look like a grimy, grungy foot?