The eloquence of companionable silence

 

The other night my visiting daughter, Megan, and I were in the cottage, each absorbed in whatever we were reading. We had about chatted ourselves out, catching up on what’s going on in the family, what’s happening with my Austin grands (the younger of the two got a job hosting in one of my favorite cafes—I can’t wait to go there again!), talking about recipes which we can do endlessly. But we had settled into silence. About nine-thirty, she came for a hug and said, “I think I’ll go inside and get ready for bed. It’s not as though we are talking to each other.” I protested, “But I was enjoying your company, even If we weren’t talking.”

It made me think of a favorite poem, “Speech after long silence,” by W. B. Yeats, so I looked it up and printed it out. Only when I reread it did I realize it didn’t really apply to a mother and daughter—it’s obviously two older lovers—but I have always thought it spoke to the eloquence of a shared silence. I printed it out for Meg, but she is not much given to poetry, I don’t think, and was busy with other things. So I’ll share it with you. Yeats having died in 1939 and the poem being all over the internet, I’m pretty sure it’s in the public domain:

Speech after long silence; it is right,

All other lovers being estranged or dead,

Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade,

The curtains drawn upon unfriendly night,

 That we descant and yet again descant

 Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song:

 Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young

We loved each other and were ignorant.

That resonates with me on so many levels, so I hope it may with you too and bring you some comfort on this almost-rainy night, whether you have companionship for your silence or, like me, memories.

Yes, rain—almost but not quite. Last night we had an impressive serenade of thunder. Sophie took it seriously enough that she was right by my side. But we probably didn’t get more than two minutes of scattered drops. Tonight the sky to the northeast is dark and blue, which is strange because our weather usually comes from the west/northwest. I understand downtown they got a brief shower and much farther east, they got some good rain. Not us.

Jordan has pulled the dead herbs from my wooden garden and the petunias from the pots by the door. You wouldn’t think that is cheery, but I am relieved not to look at dead, brown plants. The pentas are still struggling, and nothing has bloomed—not the pentas which were so tall and colorful last year nor the magnificent oakleaf hydrangeas. It’s a brown, sad world. But the bright note is that at seven-thirty, my computer tells me the temperature is only 85.

Trivia for the day: I really appreciate the man who took the time to write me about my You-Tube page, what is wrong with it, what he would do to make it vibrant and attract customers. Trouble is, I don’t have a You-Tube page. I think he may be worse than all those men who write to tell me how beautiful my smile is and how impressed they are with my posts and how they’d love to be friends but they’ve tried a couple of times and the requests didn’t go through. Would I please respond so that we could correspond. My first thought as I hit “Delete” is, do they know how old I am? Second is, how dumb do they think I am?

And I found out the name for cottage: it’s an “Accessory Dwelling Unit,” ADU for short. I shouldn’t joke because I read that in a moving article about a challenged adult whose family built an ADU so he could be close and still get personal care. For me, I like “cottage” a lot better. Granny-pod is maybe okay, though those are often simply a bedroom in a separate building. For heaven’s sake, I want to do more than sleep out here in the back forty. Just fixed myself a dinner of salmon patties, leftover cooked carrots (which I adore and no one else eats), and leftover oven potatoes with gravy—too full to eat the potatoes, so they went back in the fridge.

A good, productive day—I wrote maybe 800 words on Helen Corbitt and a thousand on Irene’s latest adventure. I think I’m entitled to spend the rest of the evenin with a book—in companionable silence with myself.

Stay cool and pray you get wet. If it rains, walk right out into it and raise your arms in glory!

The guard has changed

 

Me and Megan at Don Artemio.
I should have taken pictures of the food.

The Burtons are home, exhilarated but a wee bit fatigued, Megan is on her way to Austin, and routine has settled over our compound. I’m about to fix tuna salad for lunch—what could be more routine?

My week of kids ended with a dining adventure last night. Megan and I went to Don Artemio, the new, upscale steakhouse and tequila bar that has Fort Worth agog. I am by no means knowledgeable enough to critique food from central Mexico (the only other Don Artemio is in Saltillo, near San Miguel), but I can tell you what I liked and what I was uncertain about.

Megan was absolutely fascinated by the décor and the “feel” of the restaurant, especially the thousands of hand-made Saltillo bricks that make up walls, deliberately just a kilter off. The industrial ceiling with its ducts is dark gray, and the colors throughout are muted, perfect foil for the blue-and-white molcajete that several dishes are served in. At one end of the large space, sound is baffled by an intriguing installation of yarn and wood that looks a little like one loom after another.

We split the guacamole with chicharrones of ribeye, and it was wonderful. Megan loves hot, spicy things; me, not so much. In fact, not at all. So for me the guacamole was perfect—creamy, smooth, and flavorful without a bite but a perfect contrast in texture and taste to the tiny bits of delicious steak. I am also always cautious about ceviche because it often contains shrimp, and I’m allergic. But this was salmon and whitefish in pungent lime sauce. Tasty, but the fish was diced so fine! I’d like the pieces a bit larger.

Megan had a salad of grilled hearts of palm, tomato, avocado, and panela cheese, which proved to be a solid block of a mild cheese—all with a chili vinaigrette. Most people scorn tongue, but I grew up eating it and like it, though my acquaintance is almost entirely with corned beef tongue, as served in our local deli. The menu last night offered tongue tacos (Taco de Lengua) with salsa verde and tequila-cured tomato, onion, and cilantro. I asked the server about the dish, and she said it was one of their most popular. Belatedly, it occurred to me that was probably a clever way for her to encourage me to order it. At any rate I did, and it was superb—rich tasting. The meat had been braised overnight. The salsa was too hot for me, but I put some of the tomato on one of my three tacos and later wished I’d put it inside.

A most satisfying experience. We were too full to even consider tres leches cake or ice cream, but I had a second glass of good chardonnay and Megan had another margarita. Then we drove around the Monticello neighborhood a bit, with Megan remarking that she knew the part of Fort Worth she grew up in and the area around her high school, but there are large chunks of the city that are strange to her. We had planned to do a quick drive to Mule Alley because she wanted to see the Drover Hotel and other developments in the stockyards, but we ran out of time. Megan’s a lawyer and got stuck on a call so we barely made it to the restaurant for our reservation. I told her that tour is a good reason for her to come back soon.

The Burtons were here when we got home, demanding to know why we’d been out so late (nine o’clock). They were full of stories of Cabo with a crowd of birthday celebrants. Megan and Jordan pored over pictures (I figure I’ll see them later) and laughed as they always do when they’re together. Christian gave up and went inside, and I soon announced I was going to bed. This morning there was no sign of life from the house—oh I did see Christian let a dog out—until ten o’clock when Megan came out. The two sisters had sat on the front porch and finished the bottle of wine Megan brought.

Happy times—and now I hear Helen Corbitt calling me.

Soph says goodnight.
A girl needs a pillow for her head.

Changing of the guard—again

 

With Megan. Not my best picture,
but my new tortoise-shell glasses are cool!

Colin left around noon, and Megan arrived about four. I am the most spoiled mom in town. Burtons will be home tomorrow night, but Megan will stay until early Tuesday morning. We have lots of great plans—dinner at Pacific Table, organizing my freezer (she did it not long ago, and it made such a difference!), a drive to the Stockyards because Megan wants to see the new restaurants and hotel on Mule Alley, and I just want to get out. She has promised Sophie a walk around the block—a rare treat. But we both have work to do, so we’ll see what plays out.

I am eating well during this week of kids. Megan and I collaborated tonight on a recipe new to me: Light Chinese Chicken Salad with Hoisin Sauce. I knew Megan likes salads, Asian food, and light suppers. It was a perfect choice, though Christian may think I’m invading his territory. He’s the Asian cook in the household, though less inclined to make salads than more complicated Asian dishes. When I once suggested a chop suey recipe, he informed me that the chop suey of my childhood is today’s stir fry. He gets a bonus from tonight’s dinner, because he didn’t have hoisin sauce in his armament of Asian condiments, and now he does. I bought it for the salad.

At any rate, the salad was good—a vinaigrette with sesame oil, hoisin sauce, rice vinegar, soy; salad was cabbage—do you know how much Napa cabbage costs? I didn’t use it. Used shredded cole slaw mix, shredded cabbage, scallions, bean sprouts, chicken. We topped each serving with chow mein noodles, though Megan points out slivered almonds would add the same crunch and are healthier.

In addition to my children, I have been helped several times by the pet sitter here to take care of the Burtons’ two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. The girls are old and a bit of a challenge, but Andrea has gone about it, five times a day in this heat, with good grace and a smile. And she has gone above and beyond to help me with kids locked out of the house, packages on the porch, keeping June Bug out of my cottage (her house manners are unreliable) and other small things. If you ever need a pet sitter, I recommend Andrea Rutledge highly. Email or call me for contact info.

Colin stayed to go to virtual church with me this morning, which was a treat, but he chided me for not paying close attention to the readings. I did pay better attention to the sermon, which was about the role of doubt in faith and the wrongness (is that the right word) of being certain you are right about faith and that yours is superior. We “attended” early church and after that, I got a lot more reading done on Helen Corbitt

Now Megan is looking at her phone, and I am going to read. I’m still reading the mystery series by Helen Currie Foster, and to my delight, the current one, Ghost Dagger, takes Alice to Scotland, so as I read, I’m reliving my own visit to the land of my ancestors—and loving it.

We’re to be cooler this week—in the nineties. Six months ago we would not have thought that sounded like relief, but it does now. Enjoy the break everyone and pray for those threatened by fire.

My two sons

 

With Jamie here for two days, followed by Colin for two days, I’ve been thinking about how alike and yet how very different my two sons are. This occurred to me because meal prep for each was so different. For Jamie, I fixed a vegetarian dinner Wednesday—green noodles and squash casserole—and Thursday we had BBQ. They did overlap on that, because Colin suggested he’d stop and bring BBQ and I had to say I’d just had it. So last night, I fixed him salmon croquettes—Jamie won’t touch salmon, wouldn’t have liked the capers I put in them (neither did I—kitchen fail!).

Then I began to think of other differences. Jamie drives a red Lexus sports car; Colin drives aFa huge pick-up that for some reason he has jacked up since the last time I tried to get into it. Jamie lives in an upscale suburb; Colin, on the edge of a small Texas city, virtually in the country. (I have a wonderful picture of the two of them, but I can't find it, so there's Sophie again.)

Of course, they share many similarities. They are, like their sisters, fond of their siblings and close to them. Nothing makes these grown Alter kids happier than a family get-together. But there’s something special between the boys—a loving rivalry that one year prompted me at Christmas to get matching T-shirts that said, “Mom loves me best.” Another year, each one got a tool belt, and they had tool-belt duels in my kitchen. Both are marathoners or have been, literally and figuratively following in their father’s footsteps. And both now, are in their fifties-how did that happen?

Another thing they have in common but don’t is a disregard for time: Jamie is chronically late because he gets involved in something and doesn’t leave it. Colin, on the other hand, never sees a reason to get upset or hurry. He’s the one who, when I get upset about a rude driver, will say to me, “Look at you! Why are you so upset?” Tonight he left a little before five to pick up groceries at Central Market, swing by Lucile’s for lobster rolls, and come home. By seven I called to ask if he was negotiating to buy Lucile’s (he’s in the private equity business). He said no, but he’d met some interesting people at the bar, and he just stayed talking.

Tomorrow, Colin leaves and Megan arrives. It will give me the prompt to think about how my girls are alike and different. They, too, are best friends. Each watches her weight and diet, so I have to be careful with both. Fixing an Asian chicken salad for Meg tomorrow night—an experiment.

Meantime, Colin took Sophie to the vet this morning but was back so fast I couldn’t imagine what he’d done. She got a steroid shot and an order for Robitussin. Dr. Minnerly said her cough is aggravated by the heat and the dust and will diminish if and when we ever get some rain. I can tell she’s better already—unfortunately one thing that tells me is that her bark sounds better, and she is frantically barking at something the neighbor boys are doing. But early this morning she was uninterested in her food; an hour after her visit to the vet, she ate. And I haven’t heard a cough yet. (I did hear some coughing late in the afternoon, but nothing prolonged like it had been.)

A side note on the vet trip: Colin came home and said, “Dr. Minnerly said he has a patient base of 6,000. Do you know what number you are?” and I replied right away, “Two, and number one is inactive.” I had known about second place for a while but did not know the extent of his client list. It’s a milestone of some sort, though I’m not sure what. We moved to the TCU area in 1969, when Colin was not yet a year old, and I’m sure that’s when we started going to University Animal Clinic.

It's like Carshon’s Deli, where Colin has been going since he was an infant. Now, he won’t come to town without a visit to Carshon’s. Today he got himself a Rebecca sandwich. How lovely is it to have all that history, all that tradition built into our lives!

I repeat, as I often do: I am blessed.

Politics all around me

 

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I think we ought to scrub our whole government and start over, perhaps with the wisdom of hindsight. There is so much disorganization, so much disinformation that it makes my head hurt. I am deluged with emails in these days leading up to the mid-terms.

Emails seen to fall into several categories. There are those frantic-sounding “Breaking News!” which often announce news that instead of breaking is at least a week old. Sometimes it’s just a twist on old news.

Then there are the appeals designed to make you think you are special. Maybe because I am outspoken on social media and have donated to various Democratic candidates across the country, I get emails telling me I am one of three chosen to speak for Tarrant County or I have been chosen for a special focus group.

Then there are emails claiming we are so close to passing this or that legislation, and won’t I contribute to help. For instance, I’ve gotten way too many telling me we’re close to passing the judiciary act, and If I’ll just send $10, $20, etc. we can get it passed. I resent the assumption that money will facilitate passage of legislation. How does that work? I understand that candidates need money to make the public aware of their candidacy, but by the time legislation is before Congress, how does money help? The issue should already be beyond advertising and public opinion. Does whatever PAC is soliciting intend to bribe legislators? Supposedly the legislation is now up to the wisdom of congressional members (don’t laugh—wisdom was the only word I could think of).

For candidates of either party, it all comes down to money, not policies. Apparently, the one who buys the most TV time and garners the most name recognition is assumed to win. The worst that can happen is to be out-raised, I don’t understand Citizens United enough to know how much of this harks back to that decision from SCOTUS. I do know that there are some candidates I hear from six, eight, ten times a day, and I’m tired of it.

If I’ve got my history right, the Lincoln/Douglas debates were ground-breaking because up until then it had been deemed unseemly for a man (no women allowed) to speak on his own behalf as a candidate. The office-seeker was supposed to sit back modestly, while others extolled his virtue. I don’t know but my instinct is not much money was involved.

I’d like to go back to a state where candidates could not accept contributions, even from individuals, let alone political action committees and corporations. In the spirit of getting money out of politics, I think lobbying should be a federal crime. Extreme, I know, but we’ve got to clean up this system somehow. Maybe if we did that, we would be ruled by an iron-fisted minority.

And then there’s social media, specifically Facebook. I make no apologies for being active on Facebook—I use it to tell people about my books, to build my reputation as an author (and, I hope, as a friend and a cook). I have renewed old friendships and made new ones that I treasure. But there are some awful people on Facebook who sling lies and insults without blinking an eye. They not only accuse without proof, but they are also often obviously uneducated (spelling and grammar are clues). To me that correlates with a lack of critical thinking and a willingness to accept what they are told. And as we are increasingly finding out, Russia has for some years had an active campaign to sow disinformation in our country and cause divisions among our people. Count that a success for them, and an abject failure for America.

Today a man wrote about the descrace [sic] that Biden is. I resisted the temptation to be snarky and tell him I’d take his opinion seriously when he learns to spell. Others tell me Biden is corrupt, the worst president ever, determined to destroy America, has done nothing while in office. If I suggest I’d welcome a calm discussion, I am told I need mental help. When another person went on about Biden doing nothing, I replied that I just wanted to ask her one question: did she get and accept a relief check from the government during quarantine. No answer.

I know, I know. I should just move on and not try to reason with unreasonable people—and many times I do that. But sometimes I just can’t resist.

Yep, we need to untangle this mess and start over.

A great babysitter, cooking together, and the Sophie saga continues

 

Jamie in the kitchen

Son Jamie arrived about noon today for his two days of babysitting Mom since the Burtons are in Mexico. I looked up from my computer one moment, and there he was. I had texted to ask about his arrival time and gotten no answer—he discovered why. My texts to him were somehow going to his junk email. So he spent a long time fixing that.

Sophie had been somewhat livelier this morning—ate a couple of spoons full of dog food when she first got up and then scarfed down the chicken and broth I made her. She did go out and chase squirrels, but she mostly slept and sometimes I would hear her wheezing. But when Jamie arrived, she was suddenly a whole new dog, jumping, tail wagging, happy as can be. I mentioned that I couldn’t get her to take her pills, and he said, “I’m usually pretty good at that. Let me try.”

Sophie has her favorites among my friends, and she greets them appropriately, but she somehow knows who’s family and saves her wildest enthusiasm for my four children. Later this week, I expect her to greet Colin and then Megan with the same enthusiasm. Truth to tell, I’m a little jealous. But I think tonight she’s still a bit uncertain about me, the wicked witch who tried to shove all those pills down her throat and then mixed them in her food.

Jame got decongestant and antibiotics down her, but it took an entire slice of processed cheese—I may end with a healthy but overweight dog. To add insult to injury, the little traitor followed him into the house and spent the entire afternoon sleeping at his feet while he worked. But when he brought her out about five, she ate her dog food and seemed quite content. I think she’s on the mend.

Jamie had suggested we cook together tonight. He wanted a family dish—green noodles. Mushrooms are essential to this dish, but Jamie doesn’t like mushrooms. So I was puzzled. He remembers the dish from childhood, but when I suggested recent elaborations on it, he wanted the purist version: spinach fettucine, butter, lemon, green onion. And the mushrooms had to be sliced really thin. No way I was doing that—I left it for him.

But I did the prep, including making, this morning, a summer squash casserole because I know he loves it. I added just a bit of sugar which was not detectable but, I think, made it really good. So I baked the casserole, assembled the ingredients for green noodles as we call it, cooked the noodles, and left him to make the sauce. We had a great collaborative dinner. I did add Pecorino to mine. Watch for the recipe in tomorrow’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog.

Having one of my “away” children arrive makes it a special day, but it was a good day in other ways. I wrote a thousand words plus on the new Irene book. I’m about to start asking for title suggestions: Irene Goes to Texas is pretty blah to my mind. I like the titles Saving Irene and Finding Florence and would love something snappy like that. Yes, it will be a murder mystery, with a wedding, lots of Texas atmosphere (I hope), and lots of good food. Having done that, I also wrote the one paragraph that I had in my head about Helen Corbitt, and tomorrow I’m geared to get back to the project.

Jamie has gone back to work in the house—and taken Sophie with him. I will not let him have her overnight!  But I’m going to enjoy the peace and quiet and read the book I’m almost through with. I’ve found a new (to me) mystery series—each title has the word Ghost. I am currently reading the third book, Ghost Dog. Author is Texan Helen Currie Foster.

Happy times, everyone!

Our supper tonight. So good!

 

A good president, a sick dog, and another day

 

Irene was the subject of my radio interview today--
or was it Florence? We kept mixing the names up.

Here I go again, probably preaching to the choir. But I am struck again today about President Biden’s strength and what he has accomplished—jobs up, covid deaths down, international reputation back up, and a lot of smaller, less headline-making stuff. Today it’s the death of the Al Qaeda leader who was responsible for so many American deaths—a targeted take-out that did not kill any civilians, including his own family. When Biden pulled our troops out of Afghanistan, many vilified him, ignored his statement that there were better ways to fight that enemy than losing men and money in an endless war. This weekend, his theory came home to roost, without much fanfare. Because that’s the kind of guy he is. Low key. Quietly getting things done.

I see so much on Facebook about how he’s the worst president we’ve ever had, he’s too old, he’s tearing the country apart, etc. Where were these people during trump’s four years? A post today compared him to Jimmy Carter, who was labeled another poor president. It was meant to be derogatory, but I think the comparison is right—they are both quiet, low-key men who feel no need to blow their own horns and who don’t want to play the loud-mouth political game, but they accomplish so much for America. Too many Americans are blown away by the bluster and braggadocio of someone like trump or even Bush or Clinton to see real quality when it hits them in the face. I think that was a problem with Obama, and it's a problem wth Biden. I read today, with gratitude, an article that explained that Biden is not too old. Compared to “the former guy” in everything from policy to athletic ability to weight and health, he’s light years younger than the man who is actually two years younger. The article concluded, “Biden has a history of being counted out until he sweeps away the alternatives. It's too early to count him out.”

And those people on Facebook who post about ageism and worst president? They are inevitably so angry. I cannot count the times I’ve been told I need mental health help. Today I suggested I would welcome healthy discussion and was met with the wide generalization that all Democrats are corrupt. Does that mean Republicans are lily white? I see signs across the country, glimmerings of common sense and hope. I think the mid-terms will be most interesting.

Meantime, back at the cottage, Sophie is still sick—or she’s mad at me—or a bit of both. I tried, on someone’s suggestion, to crush pills and mix into her food. This was yesterday at noon. Big mistake. She went on a hunger strike and did not eat again until late morning today when, after consultation with the vet, I shredded some chicken in broth. She ate two helpings but ignored all other offerings.

Tonight, with neighbors here for happy hour—an event that usually enlivens her—she just lay around. As if to prove my theory, she refused to come to me when I encouraged her but jumped right up on the couch by Jordan. I just cooked a bit more chicken in broth, but I may be creating a monster who will never again eat dog food. Jordan made her a turkey sandwich, mayo and all, but she tried to hide pills in it. Then, at Prudence’s suggestion, she put it at the edge of the coffee table, so Sophie would think she was getting away with something. She moved one quarter of the sandwich but ate none. If she is still refusing to eat tomorrow, I’ll ask Mary to take her to the vet.

For me, it was another day of no writing, except what was going on in my head. This afternoon I had a one-hour radio interview with the city cable station in San Marcos. The interviewer, Priscilla Leder, had sent me questions in advance, and I spent all morning crafting answers to them. It was time well spent. If I hadn’t done it, I’m afraid my answers would have wandered into vagueness. As it is we did get off topic some, but it was all good conversation. I hope at least two people heard it. That’s the way too many days go—I do things related to writing but little actual writing. Except in my head at three o’clock in the morning, when I wrote volumes about both Helen Corbit and Irene in Texas.

Perhaps tomorrow will be a nice calm day, except my Jamie is coming over, and I plan—shhh!—to surprise him with squash casserole which he loves. He asked for a family dish, green noodles, for supper, even though he doesn’t like mushrooms, which are essential. “If they are sliced real thin,” he said, and then, with a big grin, “let’s make it together.” So my knives are sharpened—thank you, Lisa—and I’ll let Jamie slice the mushrooms.

Stay safe and cool, everyone.

Why does everything happen on Monday?

 

It’s been that kind of a Monday. I was behind before I ever started. Partly work issues, partly domestic. On the work front, I belong to a couple of online groups that prod you to check in with your plans and goals for the week. It’s a good way to keep focus, but it also means, at least me, that I should respond to some of the posts. Plus midway through posting about my upcoming week, I came to a startling decision: I’m stressing over Helen Corbitt, and it’s time to back off a bit. So tomorrow I’m going to wrap up the chapter I’ve been working on and then take a vacation—a week or more—and work on the upcoming Irene novel. Just for a change of pace.

I guess a lot of people feel that “start the week off right” syndrome, because I seem to always have a lot more emails to deal with. Plus right now, I’m deluged with political posts and solicitations. That are a lot of people, nationwide, that I wish I could support financially but I can’t, so I end up feeling guilty over them. I used to think I should just support those who represent me, but I’ve learned a a twofold lesson: the elected officials who count me as a constituent, don’t represent my thoughts or approaches to government, and it’s more important for me to support like-minded individuals in other districts and states. We’re all in this big boat together, ant it’s truy in danger of sinking.

And this morning my Canadian daughter and I got into an email political discussion, sparked by a NYTimes article she sent me. We basically agree, but we have different approaches—I like to say she’s the cynic, while I’m Pollyanna. At any rate, it took several emails for us to sort that out, plus she was reporting on their recent trip to Scotland. She keeps calling it the “trip of a lifetime,” and I can agree, because that’s how I feel about my one trip to the Highlands.

So it was 11:30 before I turned to the Helen Corbitt project and realized that what I wanted to write today didn’t fit where I thought it did. And realized I was temporarily burned out.

An interview with me was scheduled to post this morning on C. M. Mayo’s monthly post about Texas books—but it didn’t. When I inquired, she said she never got it. I couldn’t find it on my computer. Panic! But I did find it in the file for the Waggoner book, The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas. But when I started to send my answers, I realized I hadn’t finished it. I must have started, gotten distracted, and put it aside—and forgotten. Usually I mark such on my calendar, including where the file is. Not this time. So I frantically finished the interview and sent it off—almost missed my nap. It will post first thing tomorrow, and I’ll share if anyone is interested.

On the domestic front, Sophie and I are having a war. I called the vet because she’s still wheezing and sounds awful; he prescribed a new medication. I gave her two pills buried in canned dog food. She ate around the pills. Then I tried cottage cheese.e She ate around the pills and left a few curds in the dish. Zenaida suggested “smashing” them, so I did that tonight—you can see yellow flakes, and Sophie has refused to touch her dinner, yet I know she’s hungry. I’m undecided between trying something else and waiting her out. I have explained that the pills will make her better, but she is unmoved.

To add to my day, our favorite a/c repairman came at 5:30. Now I’m not complaining, because I know how fantastically lucky I am that he came the day I called, even when I said it isn’t an emergency. The unit was working but not at full capacity, not putting out as much cold air as it should. Two hours of his time, and it’s working beautifully.

Zenaida was here this morning and left the cottage looking spic and span, so it was discouraging to have Donald, the a/c guy, clean the indoor part of the mini split and spread dirt on the floor. He did carefully move furniture out of the way and clean up after he was through. But I never concentrate as well when Zenaida is here—in such small quarters we are on top of each other. And she teaches me things about housekeeping that I’ve never learned in all my years, from spotting clothes to crushing dog pills (not her best one) and restoring stained pots and pans. Today, she completely straightened and organized my hall closet. It’s so neat and orderly! I am challenging myself to keep it that way.

Perhaps tomorrow will be a day with fewer interruptions. Tonight I did read the three and a half chapters I have on the next Irene novel, so that I’m ready to hit it tomorrow.

How about you? Are Mondays different from other days?

Yet another day older

 

 My drawn-out birthday kind of hit its peak yesterday with the arrival of my four children, four of my seven grands (I had all the boys and none of the girls), and a wonderful b’day dinner last night. We had all talked all week about chores, and I had a list of things that needed doing around the cottage—the bulb replaced in the outdoor light, the filters in my a/c cleaned, some computer things. All got done, plus lots of visiting.

Ford, Kegan, Eden, Sawyer, and Jacob

The four boys—all so different in character and interests—enjoy being together, and when I see them trooping in and out of the house, in single file, I am reminded of that classic picture, much imitated, of the Beatles crossing the street. When not out doing whatever boys do once they have a car, they closet themselves in the back TV room at the house and spend but a bare few minutes with adults. Last night they went to a late movie, came home and turned on another movie. Jordan found couch spots for all four, and Colin and Lisa got Jacob’s bed. Here’s a picture of the boys, with their cousin Eden, taken a year ago. They’ve grown in so many ways in that one year, including taller.

My friends Jean and Renee joined us for dinner and were a hit with my four kids, who described them later as “interesting” and “good friends for you.” The menu was what I used to request as a kid: cold turkey (smoked, although I grew up on fresh), marinated vegetables, and potato salad. Poor Jordan labored long and hard over the potato salad Friday night—the first batch she’d ever made—and she nailed it. Her version of County Line potato salad was perfection. I did the vegetables (much easier than potato salad), and Christian got the turkey. For dessert? My favorite has moved from Black Forest Cake to chocolate mousse cake. Rich, but oh so good.

We lingered over cake, just as they all say, “hanging out.” About ten o’clock, I decided it was time for Sophie and me to go to the cottage. I intended to read a bit after I brushed my teeth and got into pjs, but there came Jordan, Megan, and Lisa, wine in hand. So we had a late-night girls’ talk. Lovely way to end a lovely day.

But my determination to count my blessings took a real hit during the night. Sophie does not go out during the night. She may get me up early in the morning, but she hasn’t needed to go out in the middle of the night for some time. I can tell the difference between, “I want to go out and chase squirrels and play,” and “I need to use the restroom now.” At two-thirty, her dance of clicking nails told me it was the latter, and I let her out. She disappeared into the shadows and was gone—for twenty-five minutes. I called and did everything I know except venturing into the dark overgrown strip between our house and the neighbors. Finally, I called Colin—no answer. Then I called Christian, then Jordan, and finally Colin again. He said, “Just a minute,” and hung up. Of course, that’s when Sophie came trotting onto the patio.

But she had to go out again at three-thirty and at four-thirty, so I thought she caught whatever stomach bug Cricket has had. Both times though she came right away after doing her business. And then she slept until I got up at 8:45. She didn’t ask for breakfast, and I didn’t offer it, figuring her stomach needed to settle. She's subdued today, and I'll call the vet first thing in the morning.

Pitiful Sophie

I decided in retrospect that the blessing was that at eighty-four I am fit and able enough to take care of a dog who needs to go out three times in the wee hours. When Sawyer came in this morning, he asked if I felt a year older and I told him, “No difference. And that’s good thing.” And the blessings are my family, my friends, my dog, my work, my health--even if sometimes the latter seems a bit iffy to others.

Have a happy week everyone.

Thoughts on aging, independence, and who knows what

 

My generation has grown old

A friend complained to me the other night about ageism, and I thought to myself I rarely feel that. When feminism had us ladies all up at arms, I rarely felt that I was discriminated against. Maybe I’m just insensitive, but I remember Karen Perkins, founder of the Women’s Center and a real dynamo for women’s rights. I once heard her say she didn’t mind bringing the potato salad as long as she had a seat at the table. And that was me—I almost always felt I had a seat at the table. Oh, sure, at the university, some tried to pat me on the head (thank goodness not elsewhere) and tell me I was a good girl, but I knew how to use that.

But as if to spite me ageism came up the very next night after my friend brought it up. I was frustrated with a computer access problem. To this minute, I remain convinced that it was a problem of the slight tremor in my hands (Facebook wanted to photograph my i.d. card and each try resulted in the command to retake) and not of my computer understanding, but somehow my whole family got involved, it became a big issue (via telephone), and I was advised to read a book and go to sleep. My computer guru son-in-law would fix it in the morning. Let me say it outright: I was offended, probably out of proportion because my frustration level was so high. Contrary to everyone’s loving advice, I did not go to sleep. I tossed and turned and fretted well into the wee hours of the morning.

Brandon did fix it, though bless him, it took about an hour out of his workday and a long phone call. But all is well, and I am back in Facebook’s good graces—don’t judge, it’s an important part of my day. But the incident got me to thinking about independence. As Jean, who dines with me often, will testify, I’m pretty firm about not wanting help in the kitchen. I remind myself of my kids when they were little: “I do it by self!” But to me, it’s part of showing that I’m still capable—in the kitchen, at the computer.

If I need help, I ask for it. And I often do. I can’t get that bowl that is stored high in my closet, nor can my walker and I get around the coffee table to straighten the pillows Sophie has dislodged on the couch. Little stuff, but the things I can’t do. Someone asked recently if I was getting the care I need, and my response was, “Care? I don’t need much care. I just need someone to check that I’ve not fallen (I almost always have my phone with me, especially in the night on a bathroom trip) and to make sure I didn’t die in my sleep. A longtime friend recently was home alone for several days. When his wife returned from a trip, she found him on the floor, unable to get up. Best guess is that he had a stroke, fell and hit his head, and lay there for 24 hours. When you get to be my age, such is always a possibility, so I am grateful that Jordan looks out every morning to be sure I have raised the blind in my kitchen door.

But if insisting on doing what I can is part of the picture, so is accepting what I cannot do. Someone recently said unhappily that she could no longer walk a half mile—since from here to the main house stretches my abilities, I wasn’t as sympathetic as I perhaps could have been. But my philosophy these days is that in my 80+ years I have lived a full life, had a lot of wonderful experiences, and now the time is for me to treasure those memories, perhaps live on them. Oh, sure, in my dreams I am sometimes once again fleet of foot, but that’s a dream, not a reality. I probably cannot take that cross-country railroad trip I’d love to take, though Jamie insists he and I can do it, and I may or may not ever get to Santa Fe again (jury’s out on that one). I probably won’t fly again, mostly because I’m not an easy flyer and there’s no place I want to go badly enough to get on a plane. Chicago is a possible exception, especially since I’m now writing books set there. But my whole point is that I’m not going to kvetch (a great Yiddish word for complain) about what I can’t do but stress what I can do. And enjoy.

Last night, Jordan had a group of friends at the house to pick up their travel documents. They are all going to Cabo together to celebrate Christian’s 50^th (other kids will babysit me and at first, I was a bit unsure about needing babysitters, but our friend’s fall has me grateful they will be here). As the party was dwindling inside, some five or six of them came out to say hello. We laughed and joked and for ten minutes or so, the cottage was the happiest place you can imagine. Jordan (and I) have known these folks since their high school days. All I could think was how lucky I am that all these years later, they still want to come see Juju, share their excitement, show a little love (no hugging—covid lurks). I am blessed, and that’s what I will continue to focus on.