Mourning the Queen

 

My father woke me in the wee hours of the morning, and we sat together on the edge of my bed listening to a crackly radio transmission from England. To this day, I am not sure if it was the wedding ceremony of Elizabeth and Phillip or, a very few years later, her coronation. I rather think it was the coronation, and I would have been thirteen (don’t do the math—I’m old). The coronation was one of the first public events widely televised, but we were one of the last households to get TV—not until Dad wanted to watch the Nixon/Kennedy debates. Obviously, I didn’t really grasp the significance of the coronation, but I knew it was something that Dad, Canadian-born, of Scottish descent, and a dedicated Anglophile, did not want me to miss. Seventy years later, I wish I had paid more attention.

I hardly know where to begin with my thoughts on the life and death of Queen Elizabeth II. The monarchy now is, to so many, an outdated institution with a dark history that needs to be dissolved. On the other hand, its fans are legion—and I am one. The Queen, as its head, has for most of my lifetime been a symbol of strength, of all things good, of the grace and dignity with which one can meet the obstacles in life. And obstacles she has had—with the government of the nation she rules, the private lives of her children. But she always held her head high, and in times of trouble, she reassured us that it would all end well. She said that at fourteen, and she said it at ninety-six.

We all knew she would die. Her health was visibly failing, though up to the end she had a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. Still, the actual news shocked me. It seemed to happen so quickly. Yesterday morning we were told she was under “medical supervision,” and within a very few hours she was gone. I admit to tears and to spending much of the rest of the day watching TV as program after program replayed her life. I never tired of it. I was reminded of the funeral of Princess Diana, when Megan and I were awake far into the morning, watching the ceremonies. I told Megan she’d have to come to Fort Worth to watch the Queen’s funeral with me.

President Biden in his tribute said that the Queen reminded him of his own mother. If he can say it, so can I. My mom believed in ladies, in the quality of being ladylike. She was one of the last to wear a hat and white gloves to church. You did not mention offensive subjects in her presence, and you minded your manners. She herself was always gracious, always kind. And she and Elizabeth had that in common. In a world gone amuck with casualness and disdain for formality and manners, Elzabeth remained a beacon, always wearing a hat and carrying a handbag, showing us how life could be lived with grace. And in a world increasingly beset by the abuse of power and by anger and hate, she showed us a quieter, calmer approach to government. The world is much less for her absence.

I am not sure how I feel about King Charles III or his stated plans to slim down the monarchy. I suspect many, both in Britain and throughout the world, are like me—not sure of his judgment. I know he advocates for causes I am passionate about—the environment and animal protection—but the stain of his first marriage remains. And his mother left large shoes to fill. Time will tell. I thought it interesting to see him this morning greeting crowds outside Buckingham Palace, shaking hands and speaking to as many as he could.

Meantime, I will be watching the pomp and circumstance of the next few days and possibly watching “The Crown.” I’ve seen part but not all. This may have come when I need a break from my own concerns, when I need to move beyond my own small world, even if it is to grieve for a great woman.

God bless Queen Elizabeth. May she rest in peace and rise in Glory. And God Save the King!

 

An outrageous day

 

Let’s talk mystery for a minute. Because “the mystery” as a literary genre is so varied, no one definition fits, so over the years sub-genres have developed: the traditional mystery (for which everyone keeps trying without success to find a definitive description), the sci-fi mystery, the thriller, the hard-boiled/noir, the police procedural, the historical, and of course the cozy. Frequently, the lines between blur.

But I think there’s a new kind of cozy—the outrageous cozy. The reader must suspend disbelief with these books—no individual, no set of circumstances could possibly be that outrageous. These books have one thing in common: a snarky, irreverent narrative voice, lots of spoofs about society and pretensions.

Of course I’m think of my Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries. Irene Foxglove, my diva chef, was never intended to be a believable character. You won’t meet her in the grocery store or the beauty salon. Henny keeps rescuing Irene from kidnappers and death threats, but the truth is Irene’s behavior is so impulsive, so demanding, so difficult that any self-respecting criminal would have dispatched her long ago. After one book, Irene rekindles her love affair with the fabulously wealthy French father of her only child and spends her time jetting back and forth across the pond in his private jet. Once again, she’s unbelievable—and it takes Henny’s voice to make the reader accept her outrageous behavior. Escape literature with no heavy moral message but some good food hints and recipes.

A few other series fall into my outrageous category—there’s Lois Winston’s Anastasia Pollock craft series, in which trusting wife Anastasia learns her husband, supposedly at a business meeting, has died at the Vegas roulette table and lost their nest egg, the tuition money for two sons, and the money he owes a loan shark who’s threatening her. He left her with the burden of his mother, an eighty-something, card-carrying, loud-mouthed Communist.

Or there’s Julie Mulhern’s Country Club Mysteries. featuring wealthy and widowed artist Ellison Russell who has probably stumbled over close to fifty bodies. She finds them in swimming pools, the hostas in her front yard, the country club parking lot. These murders are set against the waning of country club social ways in the 1980s, with Ellison dealing with her stereotypical dominating mother, her rebellious teen daughter, the cop she’s fallen in love with, and her almost psychic housekeeper.

And then there’s Finley Donovan Is Killing It by Elle Cosimano. A struggling novelist and always-broke single mom, at the mercy of her smarmy ex, Finlay is overheard talking about the plot of that novel that’s stalled and is mistaken for a hit woman. Lured by an enormous pay-out, she goes along with the charade, thinking she can bow out at any time. Of course the consequences are frightening—and hilarious.

In Two Parts Sugar, One Part Murder by Valerie Burns, social media expert Maddy Montgomery, left standing at the altar, is #StartingOver in small-town Michigan after inheriting her great-aunt’s bakery and a 200-pound English Mastiff named Baby. Her plan to sell the bakery and go back to her sophisticated life is spoiled by a restriction in the will requiring her to spend a year in New Bison. Maddy doesn’t bake, and her Louboutins aren’t made for walking giant dogs. But when she is prime suspect in two murders, she has no choice but to stay.

And today I discovered another outrageous cozy: The Ex Who Wouldn’t Die by Sally Berneathy. When Amanda's lying, cheating, scam-artist husband, Charley, saves her life in a near-fatal motorcycle accident, she can almost forgive him for dragging his feet on their divorce. Then she discovers he'd been dead for several hours at the time she thought he rescued her. And not just dead…murdered. She's the primary suspect in Charley's murder and, as if that isn't bad enough, Charley's ghost shows up in her apartment. He was rejected, not allowed to go into the light. He claims to be unable to go more than a few yards away from her. She can't even be certain he isn't peeking when she undresses for bed. She must solve his murder so she can send him back to the light and be rid of him forever.

I don’t think outrageous cozies will ever become a big trend, but they’re fun to read—and I’m having fun writing one. If you’re looking for a way to escape all the stresses of our world, try an outrageous cozy.

Is there a spot on the moon?

 

Crotchety old woman

Last night as Jordan walked by my desk, I said, “I feel like a crotchety old woman.” Not only did she not rush to deny that, I think I heard her mutter, “Yeah.” We had company for happy hour—good, dear longtime friends, the kind who fortunately love you in your worst moments. It may not have been my worst, but it surely was not my best. Everything irritated me, from the a/c which was too cold to the conversation that was too loud to the discussion of house repairs, a subject I am vehement about: I want the service people with whom I have a longstanding relationship, and Christian has finally come around to believing that is best. But when someone suggested our plumber wasn’t doing a good job, I bristled. It’s not the plumber, it’s the pipes, some of which are a hundred years old.

This morning my mood was not much better, but with what little good sense I had left I recognized that the problem was with me. Granted, some influences mostly beyond my control contributed: the atmosphere has been a bit tense around here since the refrigerator in the house quit and then, Saturday morning, a pipe began spewing raw sewage out under the deck. My work on a big project is consuming me but not going well, and I feel that it’s always on my mind. Jordan is consumed with a heavy workload, and I miss the easy camaraderie we used to haveand now enjoy less frequently. I could probably dig up other excuses, but the truth is that the problem is with me. I am in a fun and trying hard to claw myself out of it

It didn’t help that tonight two neighbors came for our regular Tuesday night happy hour, and I lost patience with one of them and spoke when I should have kept quiet. We did part as friends, but I was aware that my funk overtook me.

Lots of good happened today, and it should make me happy. For a brief period this morning everything happened at once: Keith, my favorite plumber, came, with a helper, and fixed the sewage problem, though he warned it is not a permanent fix—old pipes you know. While they were working on the deck, the yard guys arrived to fertilize, and Christian ran back and forth between the two.

When the plumber’s helper was getting ready to leave, he left the gate open. Suddenly I realized Sophie was nowhere around and not answering my frantic calls. I alerted the helper, called Christian, and began to alternate between prayer and chewing my nails. The plumber’s helper started down the street—Soph was in sight—intending to call her to come. Christian said, “That won’t happen. She’s not trained. I have to get the car.” So he got in my VW, drove down the street, opened the door, and she hopped right in. Moments like that, though, when I’m worried that she’ll be hit by a car or snatched by someone who wants to sell a cute dog, I realize how much she is a part of my life. I held my breath until I could lure her back into the house with a treat. And by the by—she is trained. She knows about “Come.” She just chooses not to do it.

The garden is something that should make me happy. Christian is going to buy a few herbs for the elevated herb garden which was decimated by the heat, but I noticed this morning that four or five green onions are poking up, straight and strong. The hyacinth bean vine on the fence is blooming, so I’m now reassured that we may get seeds to plant next year. And this morning I noticed that the Turk’s Cap, almost hidden by a tree, has a few brave blooms. On the downside, the pentas are growing and have a few blooms, but they are nowhere near their glory of previous years. When John, who owns the lawn company saw them, he said they were the worst he’d seen, and he felt sort of like an oncologist delivering bad news. Thanks a lot. And on the real downside, the deluge of nuts on the patio continues. And the mosquitoes are back!

Still the garden’s resurgence is a sign of hope to me, and I’m going to take it to heart and vanquish my funk. And I will take a few practical steps with my work projects, diverting myself to something with more immediate rewards.

Sweet dreams, all. Tomorrow is a newer, better day.

Rain, busy squirrels, and a lot of good food

 

We had lots of thunder again tonight and only a brief gentle rain. Better than nothing, even to dampen things. Dallas is getting deluges, and we are getting gentle showers. I’d love something in between, but I am getting weary of non-productive thunder. So much promise, so little show.

We have another kind of rain however—showers of pecans. The squirrels in the tree above my patio are really busy. The eat half a nut and then throw it, sometimes with pretty good force, on the patio—or the roof or wherever they land. I sat here and listened to strange noises until I figured it out—took me a full day. The cottage is full of noises anyway. Sometimes in the dark of night I think it’s a critter banging into the walls, and occasionally it sounds like there’s one in the bedroom with me or in my closet. I figure Sophie would sound the alert. I’ve gotten kind of used to the noises, though like anyone who has ever lived in an older house, I am ever on the alert for the sound of running water.

We’ve had some domestic tragedies of late—the Burtons refrigerator quit, so now mine is extraordinarily full. Thanks to Mary for reminding me that a full refrigerator is an efficient one. I am less concerned about efficiency than I am being able to find what I want. I keep trying to eat up leftovers and clear out some of the icebox dishes, but I think they are procreating in there in the dark of the night. This morning Christian came out to get eggs to cook for their breakfast, and I accused him of taking my eggs. He patiently showed me which were his and which mine. We started out confining their things to the top two shelves and mine to the bottom, but that didn’t last long, and they are now comingled. I really didn’t care if he ate my eggs, so I’m not sure why I jumped him. A symptom of frustration, I guess.

Saturday, he announced that there was a leak under the deck. Turned out that raw sewage was flowing out of the crawl space under the house. It stopped, they decided it was the older bathroom, and they wouldn’t use it since it was a holiday and our plumber didn’t respond. But then Sunday, sewage flowed again, and no one had used that front bathroom. Christian did say tonight that they had all showered, and I know Jacob for one takes a long shower. My suggestion about few showers and scant if any apparently fell on deaf ears. So I’ve left a message for Keith, the wonderful plumber who has kept our house together for twenty-five years or more.

As usual, it was a weekend of good food. Saturday night was a Baylor game, and the Burtons watched, with company. Christian grilled pork tenderloins and roasted tiny diced potatoes; I contributed asparagus. I’m not fond of pork tenderloins, usually too dry, but these were moist and flavorful, and the potatoes were outstanding. Of course, he couldn’t quite tell me precisely what he did.

Last night being Labor Day I staged a faux picnic. Memorial Day and the Fourth of July don’t bring out the picnic idea in me, but Labor Day does. So I enlisted Jean and Renee. After that I realized my picnic options were limited by my cooking equipment. Couldn’t grill hamburgers, and skillet burgers didn’t seem quite the same; wasn’t willing to go through the process of frying chicken, though I honestly did consider it. In the end, I steamed hot dogs over kraut, bought some potato salad (how unlike me!), and made a spinach casserole with cream cheese and Pecorino (maybe the best thing about the meal). Jean brought a crudities platter and deviled eggs, and Renee brought some faux madeleines that were cake on top and brownie on the bottom. We feasted, and today I had the best lunch leftovers.

And tonight, we ordered in—Asian. We haven’t done that in forever, and I loved it. I grew up in a household where you never ordered in, and you never had what was then Chinese food. I didn’t know about all those little white cartons, but my ex-husband did. His mother talked about going to eat at the Chinks, which offended me because our third child is half Chinese. “Can’t we teach her a new word?” I asked. But tonight I enjoyed all of it, though I had forgotten how rich it can be. We had crab Rangoon and cashew chicken and chicken fried rice and a chicken I couldn’t identify but it was good.

My sons used to have a beloved Boy Scout counselor who, after a big dinner, would chant, “I am full enough!” That’s how I feel tonight.

And so back to regular workdays. Have a good week, everyone.

 

 

The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity—W. B. Yeats

When my younger son, Jamie was in fourth grade, his class studied Texas history. Jamie was enthralled, particularly by the idea of doing rubbings of cemetery stones. He dragged me to the historic cemeteries in Fort Worth and regaled me with the history of the city and stories of its heroes, while he rubbed furiously. To this day, Jamie has a good grounding in Texas history.

But our state history is controversial. The legislature has mandated guidelines for the way it is to be taught, with their focus on forbidding the teaching of CRT in public schools. You’d think a body of citizens charged with governing our state would be open-minded enough to study CRT and learn that it is not now, has not ever been, and will not be taught at any level below graduate school—and then mostly in law schools. But no! The legislature also wants the martyrs of the Alamo depicted as heroes and does not allow teachers to suggest there is more than one way to view that episode in our history. Read Forget the Alamo, a book which so incensed lite gov. Dan Patrick that he cancelled a program at the Bullock Museum at the last minute. Racism and slavery? Not to be discussed with young minds, lest they feel guilty about being white, a theory that does not consider black and brown children.

Volunteer groups of teachers have been working for at least two years to rewrite the social studies curriculum and had created guidelines that integrated various cultures into the curriculum, including immigrants and LGBTQ citizens. The fourth- and seventh-grade focus on history was replaced with a more chronological teaching. This week, the State Board of Education voted to delay implementation of the new curriculum for two years for “more study.” They objected to the possibility of “woke indoctrination,” which is both as difficult to define as CRT and is the worst grammar I’ve ever heard.

The Texas Freedom Caucus is rejoicing. One conservative said, “The purpose of government is to secure our God-given rights” and stressed that children must be taught American exceptionalism—the idea that we are better than the entire rest of the world and destined to be the leader (apparently ignoring how far we fell in international esteem under trump). Another said, “We need to teach them to love freedom and to love limited government …. to replace those things with things that are going on in our world now with globalism, foreign relations, LGBTQ agenda, Marxism and other foreign ideas ... to swap those would be against the will of Texans and would be terrible.” I’d guess this guy is not a futurist.

I am at a loss for words. The majority, even in Texas, is letting a vocal minority determine our educational system, our personal lives, everything about our culture. I am so weary of people who rant about CRT in the schools and “woke indoctrination”—that use of woke grates every time I hear it. I cannot fathom that education is not valued, that critical thinking is not a way of life, that blind fear of what they don’t understand is a driving force behind these overbearing, loud-mouthed people.

It's one thing to urge people to vote blue—and I am not minimalizing that at all. But I think we all also have to educate ourselves so that we have cogent arguments to meet conservative prejudices. Of course, I know some won’t listen, many will deny, but we can’t just sit back and accept the rantings of those who would take us back beyond the 1950s, to Jim Crow laws and women without a voice and educational discrimination. It simply can’t happen! A good starting place: fight for our schools.

I read a lengthy post on Facebook today that suggested some of these parents—and maybe some of us whose kids have aged out of schools—ought to volunteer instead of criticizing and demanding book bans and refusing posters from other cultures (Yes, hello, Southlake!). We should see what’s really going on—read to the kids, eat lunch with them, listen to them and their questions, learn with them without lecturing at them. It’s a big challenge. But more and more I think it’s the schools where Biden’s battle for the soul of our nation will be fought.

Wonders of my small world

 

Sophie telling me she's hungry. 
That's a language I can understand,
the barking not so much.

I hardly know where to begin, so many odd little wonders have happened in my world today. Early this morning, I was half-heartedly scrolling through news sites online when I came to an article about an app that will let people decipher what their cat is saying. The program is called MeowCat and has both interesting achievements and questionable outcomes. Only halfway interested in cats, I read through to see if there was anything about dogs. Yep! A project called Zoolandia is trying to decipher dogspeak—and the language of other mammals.

The other evening, as Babette and I were talking, with Rosie curled at her feet, Soph began to bark frantically at me. It was obvious she wanted something specific, and I was frustrated because I didn’t know what it was. I had fed her, given her treats, filled her water bowl. Finally Babette said, “That kibble you put aside so she and Rosie wouldn’t quarrel.” That was it: Sophie wanted the second course of her dinner. Once she had that, she curled up next to Rosie and slept. How I wished for an app that would tell me what she was asking for. I’m going to keep tabs on this developing technology. Sophie is very verbal—you can tell from the intonations in her barking—but I can’t often tell what she wants. I’d love this new technology.

Some technology I’m not so happy about: Facebook decided I offended its community standards and would not let me post today. I think by now my isolation has passed, but it was frustrating today. I have no idea what I posted that was offensive—and I don’t think they know either. Last night I got a flurry of message about community standards, but I didn’t pay close attention. My mistake. I think now their algorithms had gone amuck, and I got caught in the middle. Me, Pollyanna? Post something offensive? I don’t think so.

I know the common perception is that writers are recluses who sit at their desks long hours and have no relationships in the real world. A lot of the time I’m inclined to think that about myself, but today I was glad to read about some outreach programs by the writing community. PEN America, the international association of writers, is sponsoring “Words on Fire: Writing, Freedom, and the Future,” an afternoon’s conversation about the issues of freedom of expression in these “dire times.” The program is sponsored by the New York Historical Society. Originally, Salman Rushdie was to speak; now that he is recovering from severe injuries, it has become a tribute to him.

And another story about the writing community: When the two senatorial seats in George were closely contested, a group of mystery writers formed a loose organization called Mystery Loves Georgia and solicited donations for an auction—autographed books, the naming of a character, a free review or critique, and so on. The effort was wildly successful, and now they formed Mystery Loves Democracy with the goal of raising $100,000 to fight voter suppression. I contributed a signed copy of Saving Grace to Mystery Loves Georgia and committed to name a character after a donor. To my surprise, Linda Rutledge, the character, proved to play a much larger role in Irene in Danger than I anticipated. So now I have promised to send another copy of Saving Grace (my thinking is it’s best to start a reader on the first book in a series and hope he or she gets hooked) and have promised to name a character in Irene Takes On Texas after whoever buys that. Since I’m at best a low mid-list author, I price my contributions low—starting at $15. The auction will be held in mid-September.

Tonight Jean took me to a local bistro for supper, a place that we have both liked for a long while. The atmosphere is pleasant, the food good. Ah, not so tonight. Both of us felt our dinners were not up to par, and the restaurant was so noisy, we kept having to repeat ourselves. Once some time ago when we debated eating at the cottage, Jean said something to the effect that the food here is better and the atmosphere much quieter. Tonight I decided she was right. But I was glad to get out, and Jean was good to undertake hauling me and my walker around.

After supper, we drove by the house where she and her husband lived—new owners have changed the exterior a lot (I will say no more) and then she took me for a tour of the TCU campus—the east campus, where there are buildings I never heard of. And dead-end streets and parking barriers so you hardly know where to go. I have only been retired for eleven years, and I only live maybe a mile from campus, but I didn’t realize how out of touch I am. But I was left with this lingering doubt: do building make a university or is it the people—faculty and students and staff. And which comes first: buildings or the academic program. I had been interested earlier today to read the qualifications of new liberal arts faculty—they specialize in gender studies, race, queer studies, indigenous literature. It’s a far cry from the days when I said my specialization was American literature with a special interest in women of the American West. Today, that sounds quaintly old-fashioned—or just plain lame.

I am glad to be retired. I think I’m too old for this new world of wonders.

 

Welcome visitors

 

Not Rose, but close.

Sophie had a dinner guest tonight—and she was only medium graceful about it. Rosie, a yellow lab twice Sophie’s size and just her same age, was graceful and ladylike and not at all interested in Sophie’s food or her treats. I fed Soph early, in anticipation of the visit, but she hadn’t had her treat or eaten her second helping, which is kibble, when Rosie arrived. I put the kibble out of the way to avoid disagreements. The dogs got along but pretty soon Sophie began her demanding bark—I gave each of them a treat, but Rosie, unfamiliar with that treat, declined it. And Sophie barked until I gave Rosie’s treat to her.

Then she began to bark again, which made conversation difficult. I tried fresh water. I tried everything. Finally, Rosie’s person suggested it was the kibble. I gave Sophie that, she ate and settled down on the floor. At one point, she was lying so close to Rosie I thought they were cuddling.

Rosie’s human is Babette Hale, columnist, publisher, and short story writer. Her collection, A Wall of Bright Dead Feathers won the 2021 best short story award from the Texas Institute of Letters. Babette is also the widow of Leon Hale, longtime columnist for the Houston Post who died just over a year ago at the age of ninety-nine. Hale’s columns, musings on everyday life often down back roads, were legendary in Texas and his fans legion.

Babette and I have known each other a longtime but really bonded after we both sort of retired—and got new pups. I said tonight it was the dogs that brought us together, but she said it was also cooking and writing. And those were the topics tonight—the kind of intellectual discussion none of us get often. Shared interests, shared subjects—such fun. Babette lives in Winedale and was stopping in Fort Worth on her way to Santa Fe (yes, jealous—I wanted to sneak Soph and me into the back seat of her car!).

So what did I serve to someone who says we bonded over cooking? An appetizer of goat cheese with pesto; a crab salad—halfway through the meal I confessed it was Krab, faux crab, really whitefish—she said it tasted more like lobster than crab, and who’s to argue with that?). For dessert, chocolate bon bons from Trader Joe’s—small chocolate covered bites of ice cream and cookie. A good light meal.

As so many people do, Babette had trouble backing out of the driveway. I swear I had the dishes washed before she successfully hit the street. But what a lovely evening.

Otherwise, not a lovely day. Not a bad one, but not lovely. This morning it took me until almost eleven-thirty to read and respond to emails plus read the news of the day and do a quick check for messages on Facebook. I find the news of the Democrats increasing approval—both mid-term candidate and the president—an occasion for cautious encouragement, though I never want us to become over-confident too soon. But I am increasingly appalled at the arrogance and disregard for our country that trump showed in stealing security documents.

I suspect I’m preaching to the choir here, but I find the possibilities of what he may have already done with them, who he may have shared them with, increasingly frightening. It may be the one most blatant case of treason ever in our history, and I am anxious to have him punished to the full extent of the law. We cannot live in peace until that is done. At whatever cost. (If I weren’t a lady, there are several things I would say to Lindsey Graham.)

Locally I am perturbed by what I just found is a new Texas rule: schools must display a banner or whatever that says, “In God We Trust” and displays the American and Texas flags. I love the poster who suggested it be on a background of rainbow colors, since the background isn’t specified. Yay to the Carrollton/Southlake ISD which has rejected the signs (and I thought they were a leader in book banning—got to rethink that.) The power of the alt-right Christian movement scares me more than I can say, and this is just one little ripple.

It is in the seventies tonight, and my patio door is open. Poor Rosie couldn’t figure out how to go in and out of the flexible screen door, no matter how often we showed her. As Babette asked tonight, “Why is it so humid if we’re in the midst of a drought?” At any rate, I am enjoying the cooler temperatures, sorry that the rain has skirted all around us.

Time for all good dogs and the rest of us to be asleep. Sweet dreams. I bet Sophie is dreaming of food and treats.

Sadness and Safety

 

Hiding from the world
behind a book.

I was horrified a day or so ago to learn that a seventeen-year-old and a five-year-old had died and an eighteen-month-old was wounded in a daytime drive-by shooting in a peaceful neighborhood. Then this morning I read of two more shooting death of males seventeen years old. Put aside the fact that I have four grands who are close to or at that age in my family, I am saddened. My first thought was, “We are shooting our children.” Today I read of a twelve-year-old in California who shot a classmate.

I am so weary of those who proclaim loudly if we outlaw guns, only the bad guys will have guns. Or laws don’t matter. It won’t work. It works in other countries, and it can work here. We have got to get guns out of the hands of young people and the mentally ill. There’s absolutely no excuse for the horrific statistics of gun deaths in this country—so many of them our children. I don’t even know what to say about the greed that perpetuates this killing—congressmen who pocket gun lobby money, gun manufacturers who are making enormous profits. They are all stepping on the broken bodies, slopping through the blood of dead children.

Today I answered a political questionnaire—I usually don’t do that because they always end being a guise for asking for money. This though was from Sarah Longwell, founder of Republicans Against Trump. I respect her common sense, and I knew I wouldn’t feel guilty about not giving money to Republicans, even good ones, so I answered. It was straightforward, asking what party if any I identified with, how I voted in 2020, how I intend to vote in November. Then I was stumped: what one issue was most important to me. I wavered between gun violence and abortion. Ultimately, I chose abortion and now I’m second-guessing myself. The conservative stance on both issues is immoral, selfish, cruel—I could go on and on.

But as most things are circular, that brings me to Greg Abbott. Beto warned us Abbott would dump a lot of money into advertising, and now we’re seeing it. I’ve seen the same ad countless time—a casual Abbott in a sport shirt is sitting in a restaurant. Plastic dispensers for ketchup and mustard are at his elbow. You know—good guy, one of us, eats ketchup on his burger. But one thing is wrong: the restaurant is totally empty except for Abbott. If it were Beto sitting at that table, he’d be chatting with someone, the restaurant would be noisily full, people everywhere, some waving Beto signs.

Consistently I’ve noticed the Abbott keeps his distance. He’s on stage, above the audience, sometimes alone. Beto on the other hand is in the midst of the throngs of people who come to see him. He really is one of us. Abbott is not. Mean, little man. Who favors guns and letting women die from toxic pregnancies. Who knows nothing about medicine, the female body, or the female reproductive process, but oh boy, can he make laws. Why require seventeen-year-olds to take gun safety courses or be licensed? Might hurt Abbott’s big business buddies. Just like fixing the grid would.

Okay, Judith, stop. You’re rambling and getting carried away. It’s easy to do.

Distant thunder rumbled late this afternoon but, alas, no rain. Mary Dulle is back from almost a month at Chautauqua, so we had a happy hour visit, caught up on news. Then she and Joe went off to supper, Jordan and Christian went to a concert, and I heated leftover spaghetti. A thoroughly pleasant evening. Tonight I’ll do some menu planning and then settle down with a cozy mystery. No sign of that rain.

It's nice to feel safe from the world. Maybe that’s fooling myself, and none of us ever are really safe, but for now it’s nice to retreat into a fictional world when reality seems to much with us, from national and local politics to drive-by shootings.

Chicago longings, a cooking weekend, and some good visits

 

J

View from Chicago's Lower Wacker Drive
How can I, who dislikes skyscrapers, be homesick for those tall buildings?
But I am.

Jordan Elisabeth Alter Burton (you know how when you’re angry you call kids by their full name? That’s what I’m doing here!)—that girl! Is besieging me with pictures of Chicago. Today it was several, including at least two of her enjoying drinks, apparently taken along lower Wacker Drive by the Chicago River. When I lived there, I never went anywhere near the river, but when my kids and I went for a visit six years ago, we had a hilarious time on Lower Wacker Drive, including a picture of me in front of Trump Tower (Colin tricked me into it) and the river architecture tour. Even worse, she sent me a video of what she called “my lake” in one of its better moods, with the water a deep blue and fairly gentle waves splashing against the shoreline rocks. That naughty child knows she’s making me homesick for my hometown.

I know all I have to do is damp down my dislike of flying, and I could be in Chicago for a long weekend. Any or all of my four kids and maybe some others would go with me. We’d stay at the Palmer House and drive by my childhood home, which Jordan apparently didn’t get to do this time. We’d take the transport chair, so walking wouldn’t be a challenge for me—though when we were there before, my sons took turns in seeing who could push me up and down ramps the fastest. But it’s doable, and I am tempted, and Jordan Elisabeth Alter Burton is tempting me all the more. She knows it too.

As is often the case, this was a cooking weekend for me. Friday night, Jean came, and I made Salade Niçoise with smoked salmon. I set it on a bed of spring mix greens and dressed it with sour cream diluted with lemon. I loved the salad ingredients, especially the smoked salmon, but the dressing didn’t work for me. Too thick, too hard to spread. Last night, Christian and I were home for supper, and I made a pot of spaghetti sauce that I’d been craving—good but heavy. I still have leftovers in the fridge.

Tonight, a friend had to cancel our dinner plans because of serious illness in her family, so I fixed part of what I would have fixed her—the turkey tonnato, but without the baked spinach casserole and broiled tomato I had planned. Instead, I fixed myself a salad of lettuce and avocado, dressed with Newman’s Own Vinaigrette and grated pecorino cheese. A good meal, but I was glad I hadn’t served it to a guest. I requested quarter inch slices of turkey from Central Market and got paper thin slices that are hard to deal with. It wasn’t the dish I’d envisioned. Tonnato sauce basically combines mayonnaise, tuna in olive oil, a bit of anchovy, some lemon juice and some capers—whir it in the processor. It’s good but a strong flavor, and you either like it or you don’t. I do.

But it was lovely to have visitors over the weekend. Jean and I had a good, catch-up visit on Friday night, and I think next weekend she’s going to force me out of my cottage to go to dinner. I’m looking forward to it, though I have a bad habit of backing out at the last minute. Not this time, I tell myself.

Saturday night, Jaimie and Greg walked up for happy hour, bringing granddaughter Ophelia. I had purchased a Beto yard sign; then I gave him some money—that $37 which is the mysterious figure he’s arrived at that will put him over the top—and he sent me another sign. So, I offered it to Jaimie, who was glad to have it. They came to get the sign…and stayed to visit. Ophelia was appropriately shy in a house she didn’t know with an adult she doesn’t know (thanks to Facebook, I know her a lot better than she knows me). When I asked if she liked pre-K or days with Grammy better, she said, “Both.” That child is a diplomat. Jaimie thinks of all kinds of creative activities for her, like cooking their way through the alphabet. Ophelia is also one of those children who early on looks like she understands the secrets of the universe in a way that most of us mere mortals never will. I had a child like that, and I recognize it.

So it’s been a pleasant weekend, hot but not too hot, good food, good company, some writing done, but I didn’t beat myself up about it. I am ready for Jordan to come home, but this coming week is shaping up to be busy. And that’s a good thing.

How does your week look?

Priorities

 

The view of the Highlands from Stirling Castle

As I write, I have friends just back from a few days in LA and before that a longer stay in far north Scotland; other friends are in New Mexico, Pecos and Taos specifically, and one of them is only recently back from a tour of Scandinavian countries. One of my daughters is in Chicago, one son just back from LA, one son-in-law in Nashville at a music camp. My friend Jean has recently been to Mackinac Island, before that New York, and is making plans for a winter trip to Santa Fe, while Jeannie, who also went to Mackinac, is going to the Galapagos and then will be in on the Santa Fe trip. Mary is going to Galapagos, and Babette will stop in Fort Worth on her way from Winedale to Santa Fe. The whole world is traveling.

Meanwhile, the lawn service guy and I spent time looking out the window at some decorative grasses that are not one bit decorative. Mostly brown, they are lying limp on the ground—and were before the awful heat so that wasn’t the cause. This is the third thing we’ve tried in two smallish beds outside my desk window. And he said our pentas are the saddest he’s ever seen. (He has a horticulture degree from A&M, so he knows what he’s talking about). We have decided to put wildflowers in the two beds where the grasses are, and I will live with puny pentas until October when it’s time for mums. The wildflower beds will not be cheap—replanting beds usually involves a three-man crew, and time is money. My son says I pay too much for lawn care.

Tonight, Jean is coming for supper. We’ll have store-bought guac for starters, a smoked salmon Salad Niçoise, and a splurgy piece of chocolate cake for dessert. I usually keep smoked salmon on hand and often guac. I buy good wine, good quality meat and fresh fish, and my grocery bill is high for one person, though please remember that I feed four of us many nights. I haven’t yet bought the leg of lamb I crave, but I know I will someday. Or a rack of lamb.

You can see where this is going. I said to Jordan the other night that I know some friends and family think I spend too much on the yard and at the grocery, and she said, “It makes you happy.”

“It’s my travel,” I replied.

If I listed all the travel of my lifetime, I’d realize I’ve been far more places than most people. I’ve been to Scotland and Hawaii, California and Florida, New York and New Mexico, Seattle, Spokane, and Spartanburg, and more. Generally, I have great memories of trips, but the truth is I am not an easy traveler. I feel like the little old lady who, just off her first plane ride, was asked how she liked it. “It was all right,” she said, “but I never did put my full weight down.” I’m not really comfortable on flights, though when we went to Scotland on a red-eye, I was the one who slept while two of my grown children could not. But when I’m away, no matter how much I’m enjoying the new experience, I’m always counting how many “sleeps” (Jordan’s term) until I can sleep in my own bed again.

I do still have a bucket list of sorts. I never got to Alaska, and I’d like to do the inland waterway cruise and maybe visit Victoria on the way, see the abundant flowers, and have tea at the Empress Hotel. And I’d love to go back to the Scottish Highlands. But those are pipe-dream trips, given my mobility challenges. So I will content myself with wonderful memories of my one trip to Scotland. On a more practical level, I’d like to go back once again to Chicago, my hometown, drive by my childhood house, stay at The Palmer House that I’ve now written so much about. I could do that one. Just have to gear myself up to fly.

And I’d like to have a family get-together in Santa Fe. We used to go every Christmas, but now it’s been several years. I have some hesitation about the long drive. I love watching the flat Panhandle turn into the mesas of New Mexico as we head west, but ten hours in a car seat? Colin said, “We’ll rent a motor home.” Now that’s an idea to my liking.

Meantime, I’m content and happy in my cottage. I travel to the kitchen and the garden, though right now the latter is pretty pitiful.