Obituaries, a vet visit, and a good dinner

Haute cuisine in the cottage

Not too long ago, the obituary writer was a respected member of any newspaper’s staff. It takes talent, skill, and practice to condense a life into a few, meaningful paragraphs. These days, obituaries are syndicated, expensive, and in some cases a scam that can trap you into an endless cycle of intrusive emails. I learned these lessons the hard way. To begin with, the obit for my brother, John Peckham, in the Star-Telegram cost almost $3/word. We shortened and shortened, leaving out what we thought were some of his major accomplishments as well as some of the tidbits that made him a fascinating person. It seems you don’t really contract with your local paper but with a national company called Legacy, Inc. Since we were writing it ourselves, I never explored the options for help from either the newspaper or the national company.

The first problem came when we wanted an estimate. My niece, burdened with much on her mind, asked if I would get that. The only way to do it was to fill out the form, so pretty soon it looked like before they gave me an estimate I would have to guarantee payment. I couldn’t do it in her name because I didn’t know if she subscribes to the paper and that’s apparently a requirement. I did finally get a rough cost, and she took over. The obituary appeared as scheduled and looked fine—a bit bare bones and short, but okay. Jenn had added at the bottom the location of a small celebration of life.

Days later I wanted to verify the proper name of that location to share with a friend. Couldn’t find the obituary, so I clicked on one of those “find anyone” sites that came up when I asked to find an obit, filled in John’s information, and waited. I never did get the information, but I was somehow signed up for something called Truth Finder which offered, for a fee, to dig up all kinds of information about John, including previous arrests for assault and similar unsavory tidbits. He was by no means an angel all his life, but I thought that was stretching it a bit.

That site never did find what I needed, and I found it elsewhere. But now I get constant reminders, two at a time—Am I still looking for John? Would I like to bring John back into my life? And similar inanities. These “reminders” appear, large, in the corner of my screen so they cannot be ignored. You must click on them and then close out to get them to go away. There is no unsubscribe button, which I suspect is illegal. They’re not on Facebook, so I can’t block them, and I’m not tech savvy enough to know how to make them go away. Among other reasons why it’s so wrong, it’s an insult to grieving families.

While I’m at it, another internet complaint: this is aimed at various Democratic fund-raising branches. Republicans are probably just as bad, but I only occasionally hear from them, and I respond with an instant, “Stop!” or unsubscribe. But Democrats complain all the time that I have not confirmed I will vote for Biden—when clearly I have. There is apparently little or no coordination between sites—even though Act Blue is supposed to be a clearinghouse. They appoint me to focus groups and choose me as one of a select group to represent my city or county or they beg for m valuable input on a poll. Turns out the poll questions could be answered by a five-year-old with good sense, and inevitably they lead to a plea for me to pledge a good-sized monthly amount. I think one reason they don’t well in polling is because so many, like me, get turned off by these inane, repetitious emails and refuse to answer. Somewhere, someone smart about marketing, must think this works, but it beats me. I long for the days of Lincoln, when campaigning was considered beneath a candidate.

On a brighter note, Benji went to the vet yesterday. He, who is wild Indian and totally untrained on the leash, behaved like an angel and captivated the vet’s staff. He had been to his Humane Society vet (because he was a rescue) just a couple of weeks before we got him, but we wanted the family vet to know him—we have been taking dogs to University Animal Hospital since the mid- to late sixties. Dr. Minnerly pronounced him fit, said he is smart, and suggested some training ideas. Of the barking which worries me, he said, “At the end of the day, he’s a dog, and dogs bark.”

And last night, despite my curtailed eating habits, I fixed a smashing dinner for Mary V.: sour cream, smoked salmon, pickled cucumbers and onion, and capers on puff pastry. The pastry puffed so high I almost didn’t know what to do with it and ended poking the air out of it with a fork before adding the toppings. We enjoyed it, and I had my leftovers for lunch today. Smoked salmon goes on the list of foods I can eat with ease.

Happy Friday, everyone. Hope you have big plans for the weekend, if that suits you, or else look forward to a quiet day with a book and a chair in the sun. It’s supposed to be sunny, comfortable temperature, and pleasant in North Texas. Hope for you too, wherever you are.

 

Too much information!

TMI! That’s what my kids will say if they read this post. But I had a medical adventure today, and it taught me something about modern medicine—or maybe the exception to modern medicine. For a little over a month, I’ve had trouble swallowing the handful of pills I take morning and evening. When I mentioned it to my doctor, he immediately said, “You need a swallow test.” The way he described it, it was no big deal—you drink a little barium and they x-ray it going down. He seemed quite sure they’d find a stricture, easily fixed, so he said, with a minor surgical procedure.

There was about a three-week lapse between his order and the actual procedure, and during that lapse I managed to work myself into a snit, imagining all kinds of horrors. I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid of the test or the results, but I suspected it was the test. I nearly convinced myself that the whole things was due to allergies (it feels like I have a sore throat)—or may the stress of grieving my brother and my dog. By today I had also convinced myself that swallowing a couple of swigs of barium wasn’t that bad—Jean told me these days it’s vanilla flavored. I will discuss that with her later because when I said that to the tech, she said, “I wish!”

When the tech ushered us into a changing room (first alarm bell went off in my head—why was I changing?) and began firing questions at me, all that hard-won assurance flew out the window. “Could I stand for ten minutes?” Yes, if I had something to hold on to. Could I lie on my stomach? Yes, I suppose so. Could I drink on my stomach? If there was a straw. She kept saying during the questions things like, “The doctor is not going to like this, or “The doctor can stop it at any time.” Jordan encouraged me not to back out after we’ve anticipated this for so long.

We went into the room with the machine, and I visibly paled. It was a flat, upright panel to which the tech attached two handles for me to hold on to. I would have to hold on with one hand and take a drink with the other. Not sounding good. Then it turned out with me standing flat against it, the table would slowly move into a horizontal position—and then minutes later back up to standing. I’ve got enough phobias that gave me real qualms. The tech disappeared, saying she would talk to the doctor. By this time, I was envisioning an ogre of a man, quick to anger.

He emerged from wherever, a perfectly nice, reasonable man. He asked questions, we chatted, and when he asked if I wanted to cancel, I said “Yes.” But then he said, “Let’s try something. Let’s see if we can lower the camera enough to do the studies with you seated.” And that’s what he did—me in my transport chair, which he twisted and turned to get the views he wanted. And the stuff to drink? Not great, but not that bad. I got it all down, and it was only two or three sips of each kind of contrast medium. He was emphatic that he could not see nor study the esophagus, but we were both quite sure the problem is in my throat. And it is: he pinpointed it and recommended further studies.

But what I saw in this physician was adaptability—and I think that’s rare in most medical offices today. He was willing to adjust his methods to meet my needs, and in the end, we got what we wanted—an informative set of x-rays. I thanked both him and the tech profusely as we left. And I, who often long for the olden, golden days of medicine, was comforted.

I wish my brother were here. He’d love this story. That was the kind of medicine he practiced—people-oriented.

 

Big doings and lots of rain

 

Colman and Marge and their daughter, Eva.
Jacob, Jordan, and Christian

Big doings around our house this weekend. Yesterday, close friends of Jordan and Christian gave a mid-day celebration for Jacob and one other graduate, Eva, whom he’s known almost this entire life. In fact—shhh! Don’t say I told you!—they used to bathe together. As they went to separate schools they saw less of each other over the years, but they were always together for Easter Egg Hunts and brunch at my house, a tradition that continues to this day, except for the egg-hunting part. Now, by serendipity they are both off to the University of Arkansas where, for a brief time, it even looked like they might end up on the same floor in one dormitory—I’m not sure how that worked out.

The pictures and reports from the brunch were wonderful. It was apparently a gala, happy affair. I was feeling  a bit under the weather and decided to stay home, so I was sorry to miss all the gaiety, but as Jacob assured me today, there will be other opportunities to celebrate. Meanwhile I enjoyed a  quiet day alone at home, with Benji for company—slept a lot, ate very carefully, and felt better than I had toward the end of the week. Now I guess I’ve got my groove back. A medical appointment looms Tuesday which I’m dreading a bit, but which should provide some reassuring answers.

Jordan and Christian went straight from the graduation celebration to a huge Kentucky Derby Party, given as a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. Christian is once again co-chair of the annual Cowtown Ball, a major fundraiser (it’s his fourth or fifth year so I think, despite protestations, he likes doing it). Yesterday’s Derby party was a fundraiser for the Cowtown Ball, so both he and Jordan were heavily involved. They report it was a success, with about 150 people gathered to watch the run for the roses.

I am not a horse racing fun and am of fact in the school that thinks it’s cruel to push horses to their extreme limit – the 2023 Derby was run in the middle of a disastrous two-week period marked by multiple race-track horse deaths. This year, however, the 250th running of the race, went off smoothly. I do like to watch the parade of horses to the gate, though I never pick a favorite. I was surprised to learn that several friends “research” the horses before the race. Whether or not they placed bets, and whether or not they won anything, I don’t know. The actual race goes by so fast I can never tell who’s winning.

Because I’m kind of a nut for traditions and ceremonies, I always like the award presentation ceremony with the wreath of roses around the horse’s neck, but I am annoyed by all the folderol and filling of time between the race and the ceremony. This year, I had the TV on but only glanced at it from time to time—and must have missed the ceremony. After more than an hour of commercials and other stuff, I turned it off.

Nobody will be surprised that the food traditionally associated with the Derby interests me. I almost never drink hard liquor (wine is my choice) but I do love a good bourbon, so yesterday I had a bit of longing for a mint julep. I remember once going to a derby party years ago, drinking two mint juleps, and being home in bed by six o’clock, so it was perhaps best I didn’t have the makings. I’ve made Kentucky Hot Brown sandwiches for the family, and we liked them a lot—I may do it again soon. And pecan pie with bourbon is not to be missed. Pimiento cheese tea sandwiches and devilled eggs sound pretty good too. Then there’s something called a Benedictine spread—cream cheese, sour cream, green onions, and cucumber. I’m going to have to try that soon. Meantime, with all that glorious food, I was home eating a baked egg with toast and cheese!

Seems every morning lately Benji and I have awakened to a wet world. For different reasons, we both love it. He is not at all afraid of storms, and he loves to dig in the mud—to my dismay when he comes in and jumps on my upholstered furniture.  I enjoy a rainy day and am particularly grateful for the sake of our gardens. My cosmos and coreopsis get beaten down with all this heavy rain. Even the oak leaf hydrangea bends under the pounding. They work their way back up but never quite as tall and upright. It’s okay—come late July, we’ll be so grateful for whatever moisture remains in the ground.

I’m going to spend this evening reading a book I just started: The Paris Novel, by food critic Ruth Reichl. So far, it fulfills its promise of lush Paris scenes, odd characters, and lots of French food. I’ll feel Irene looking over my shoulder.

Hope the upcoming week is good to everyone.

An invitation I’d love and trying to sort things out

 

Image courtesy Freekpik.com

 I keep seeing Facebook posts urging me to apply to have ice cream at Rehoboth Beach with Uncle Joe and Jill—now there’s an invitation I’d love to get. IF I hadn’t vowed I’m not going to fly any more, and IF I were sure I would be absolutely tongue-tied if I ever really met them. I have a fondness for beaches, and they sound like such nice, genuine people—they love dogs, don’t they? The invitation to the Chicago convention doesn’t intrigue me—I remember too clearly, as a Chicago native, the Democratic convention of 1968, and it sounds like crowds and possible violence and noise—and everything I don’t want now. But a barefoot walk in the sand with Uncle Joe? So enticing. (Never mind that my walker would not do well on a beach!)

The continuing coverage of the student protests and law enforcement response overshadows what should be the center of the story—ongoing negotiations between Zionists and Hamas. Efforts in this country, especially the GOP bill that seems to outlaw anti-semitism and curb free speech and serve as a redundant repetition of laws already on the books, only serve to make matters more cloudy. If nothing else, I have been trying to figure it out in my own mind. Here’s what I’ve thought, sort of: Israel has every right to their territory (I’m not sure about the Palestinian land which they keep absorbing). The US recognizes Israel and that’s right because it is an established legitimate government. We do not recognize Palestine because Hamas, a terrorist organization, is in charge. We support Israel in its attempts to recover hostages (many of whom have died in captivity) and to eradicate Hamas—but we should not support the genocide of an entire people, and despite denials that seems to be Netanyahu’s final goal. It’s a fine line that President Biden and Secretary Blinken are trying hard to walk.

Look at the statistics: 1200 Israelis died or were taken hostage on October 7 (estimate down from 1400). Many died horrific, excruciating deaths, and there is no denying the brutality of Hamas, the absolute disregard for human life. But balance that against 35,000 Palestinians who have died since, including 13,000 children. We have no idea how many Hamas are included in that number, but the victims were inevitably mostly innocent civilians—especially the children. I know war and death have no balance sheets—you can’t claim, “You killed this many of my people, so I will kill twice that many of yours.” But still it seems out of proportion to me—overkill, if you’ll allow a bad pun about an awful situation.

One thing no one talks about is that if you look at a map of the Arab world, Israel is but a tiny dot in a vast sea of Arab countries. I would think that would make them more inclined toward negotiation than force, knowing that the entire Arab world could rise up against them. I think the US is an enormous stabilizing force in that regard, but Netanyahu does not seem inclined to listen to US advice that doesn’t go his way.

So the student protests? How do they fit in? The first thing that comes to my mind is that our country is quick to forget lessons learned. Someone pointed out to me that today’s leaders were mere children in the sixties, and the Vietnam protests didn’t register with them. Greg Abbott, for instance, was twelve years old when troops shot Kent State students. But he could read history, couldn’t he? Today’s situation is proof of that old saying, “Those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat its mistakes.” I am terrified that we are headed toward another Kent State type of tragedy. I know there is a lot of bitter anger on both sides, but I have also read that Palestinian and Israeli student groups have been meeting together on some campuses. And I know a few university administrations have reached out to students, invited them to talk. So much more reasonable than calling out troops in riot gear. The riot troops signify, to me, the conversative mindset: force, not reason.

A gentleman has posted elsewhere on my wall giving a reasoned history of Israel and why it must defend itself—cold hard facts, historical dates, reason. But what is missing is compassion. He keeps asking me in negotiation what I would suggest Israel give up to Hamas. I have no idea. I am not a schooled diplomat. But I know this—for Hamas/Israel negotiations, for the student protests, for most of the crises life faces us with: sitting down together at a table and talking is the solution. Not knee-jerk violence and punishment. We want to prevent more violence, not encourage it.

There are a lot of memes online about love and faith and one universal god—you and I dismiss most of them as trite and hackneyed and rightly so. But there is one thought I think worth repeating: we are all one people. We are all walking each other home—Jew, Arab, Christian, whoever. Humanity is or should be a lot bigger than religious or cultural lines.

When my children's half-sister was in high school, she signed up to work at a camp in Colorado that brought together Jewish and Palestinian women for conversation. One of her distant relatives said to her, "You can't do that! You're Jewish!" (She was half Jewish and not observant.) I thought that was such a negative incident that I've carried it in my heart for years.

Now about that ice cream … the thought takes me back to the Indiana Dunes of my childhood. Maybe Uncle Joe and Jill will join me there, in my I imagination. And we will have kind, caring conversations, with our dogs at our feet. Maybe I’ll blog about the Dunes soon.

Happy May Day, a baby tarantula, and a fascinating garbage can—just another day at the cottage

Here you go--an AI image, courtesy Freepik.com

Happy May Day! Have you ever danced around a maypole? I picture young girls in Scandinavian costumes merrily twining colorful ribbons around a tall pole. I’m told in real life it is neither that colorful nor that easy—it takes practice and skill to turn out a beautiful pole and not just a tangle of ribbons. Thanks to author and botanist Susan Tweit for reminding me May Day is also Beltane on the Celtic calendar, a day for celebrating the high peak of spring when things are greening and growing and our world is turning toward summer, a long day as we stretch toward those lovely summer evenings. I for one love daylight savings time and will be crushed if it is ever done away with. I love long, light evenings and dislike those shortened days when winter closes you in darkness as early as four or five in the afternoon. So go celebrate Beltrane and dance around your own imaginary maypole.

An ordinary, dull day at the cottage, but Jacob provided a bit of excitement. Jordan and I were watching the news and having a bit of wine when he came running out looking frazzled and said, “There’s a huge problem.” In literal terms, it turned out not to be huge but rather small—he’d found a baby tarantula in his bed. Mother and son tore out of here like the house was on fire, with me futilely calling after them, “They don’t bite.” I was so afraid in their panic they would smush the poor baby. Jordan is quite squeamish about bugs and critters, and she’s pretty much passed that on to Jacob. To my relief the tarantula was on a shirt, and they simply folded the shirt around it and rushed it outdoors. Score one for Mother Nature1\

I was reminded of the welcoming ceremony for my youngest son Jamie—because my husband was Jewish and I Protestant, our children were welcomed into the concerned community at a Unitarian church. When it was Jamie’s turn, a friend brought him a gift—a live tarantula in what I think was a cottage cheese container. If I remember correctly, the creature went to Colorado on a plane with my sister-in-law’s brother. And that wasn’t the most unusual welcoming ceremony: at another, I think for Megan, when parents were asked to bring their children to the front, a man brought his dog. The minister didn’t know what to do, so he simply asked the man, as he had asked other parents, “How do you call your dog?” Substituting dog for child was his only concession to the strange request. My brother loved to tell that story.

Benji has a new fascination—the motion-activate automatic garbage can. He will stand and stare at it, waiting for action, for hours. Once or twice he has gotten his nose close enough to the sensor that he has triggered it open—his nose is just the right height. Then he jumps back in alarm. Sometimes when I am cooking, I am tempted to open it just to give him a thrill.

I am disturbed these days by the protests—and the official reaction to them—on campuses across the country. Tonight I worry particularly about UCLA because I have a granddaughter there. I remember the sixties and Kent State too clearly. Instead of a knee-jerk reaction with law enforcement in riot gear, I think university officials should meet with protest leaders, listen to them. I read an eloquent statement by a Jewish student from New York who said pro-Palestinian and pro-Israel groups were working together, trying to find common ground. Why can’t the so-called grown-ups do this too? I have not read of much violence on protestors part, though there has been some, but I have read of at least two faculty members  badly injured by those heavily armed troops. And I think that’s a crying shame in America. There is another side to the story: Senator John Cornyn of Texas said today that a high percentage of those arrested at  UT/Austin had no connection to the university. If Cornyn is correct—he’s not one of my favorite people, so I’m not sure I always trust him—that means outside agitators are stirring up the trouble on campuses. Even so, I think administrations should meet with student leaders and listen and negotiate. As bombs rain down on Palestinians who have taken refuge, as told to, in Rafah, How do you tall people to take refuge somewhere and then bomb that place and threaten to send troops in? I am not at all certain of the US position of absolute support for Netanyahu. Israel? Yes. Netanyahu and Zionism, not so much.

May we find peace in our time, but not at the cost of liberty or democracy!

Life goes on

 

Benji resting by my desk

If you asked me how I feel today, I would probably say sluggish. Maybe tired. I have bouts of energy and then periods of fatigue. I tell myself I’ve had two major blows within a little over a month—the loss of my only brother and last blood relative and the loss of the dog I’d loved for almost thirteen years. It’s neither sacrilegious nor silly to say that I am not weighing one against the other—both have been real blows. Most of my life I have been known for a sort of “carry on no matter what” attitude—that’s gotten me into trouble when I ignored some physical symptoms until they became major problems. I think maybe this time I am listening to my body. I sleep well part of the night and then toss and turn, but boy do I sleep soundly at naptime. I’ve been taking two naps—my usual afternoon one (I slept two and a half hours today) and another about 8:30 or 9:00 at night, after which I get up and work. It’s a schedule that seems to suit me for now. A couple of small medical problems are not helping my frame of mind—the malignant place on my scalp is healing and itches like fury, but of course I can’t scratch, I am hoping next week I’ll hear that I can stop putting Vaseline on it—who wants Vaseline combed into their hair? But I have weeks to go with the medicine that is intended to stimulate the immune system and kill cancer cells—and it is the real cause of the itching storm. Also next week, I have a swallow test which I dread less because I’m worried about the outcome than because I am worried about swallowing the barium. I’m sure they have techniques for helping queasy people, and I tell myself it will be over quickly. But it looms. So that’s my sad story.

On the positive side, today marks one week that Benji has been with us, and he’s done a remarkable job of adjusting. So, I would modestly say, have I. This week he is apparently feeling enough at home to be a bit naughty—yesterday morning I found one of my shoes in the doorway to the patio. I showed it to him while repeating “No!” in the sternest tone I could muster. He looked appropriately chastised, whatever that means. A few minutes later, Jordan came in carrying the other shoe which she had found in the back yard. Since my hip surgery and broken ankle, my feet are so fat and swollen that I don’t have the usual wardrobe of shoes—this was my only pair of black. Stretchy, wide, easy to get on. I am keeping the closet door closed. I also caught Benji digging at the base of one of my new plants of muhly grass, and that’s got to be a no-no. He frolics among the grass, and I tap on the window each time and call his name. He’s so good he comes running to see if I really want him.

But he does not beg for food, even when we have appetizers on the coffee table—Sophie would have decimated that in nothing flat. And he puts himself to bed in his crate about ten o’clock, and stays there quietly until I get up, usually about eight in the morning. He’s responsive to his name and seems eager to please. When he’s outside, he frequently comes to the doorway to check on me. And, though he is right now barking, he’s toned that down a lot. With his wild energy, he is like having a teenager in the house—you know if you can just wait through this period, there’s a great person in there. Adjustment is a slow process for both of us, and Benji is distracted by all the people who love and fuss over him bigtime—and then go away. I’m here for the 24-hour long haul. He  seems to understand that—he follows me to the bathroom, lies by my desk at night when I’m working. He’s going to be a good dog.

I had a spectacular kitchen fail last night that was also a great learning lesson. It taught me how to make a good red wine sauce for hamburger steak, and it also taught me a lesson I should know: don’t multi-task when cooking. I was making sirloin patties with red wine sauce, but I was also trying to finish up some computer work. And I wanted to make sure Jordan’s pattie was not pink in the middle, because she does not like pink meat. So I let the patties brown too long, but gosh they had a nice crisp crust! Then the wine reduced about three times as fast as usual—it usually takes forever, especially if you watch it, but this time, I turned my back. Added the beef broth and it did the same thing, so by the time we served, there was little sauce. And the patties were surely not pink in the middle. Christian’s mom liked meat cooked to a fare-thee-well, so he once told me her salmon patties were like hockey pucks. He could have said the same thing about my patties last night, though he kept reassuring me they had a great flavor. I tried to steam one for lunch today and threw it out. I swear I’m going to try again next week—if I get it right, I’ll share what I did.

I have had my evening nap, and I’m feeling better, over my pity party. When I was young, my mom had migraines and would take to her bed for a day. But never longer. So I learned to say, “She’ll be all right tomorrow,” if someone asked about her. So that’s my motto tonight: I’ll be all right tomorrow. Thanks for letting me whine. Good night, you all. Good night, Benji!

Sunday evening supper and tears near the surface

 

One of my favorite pictures. 
John and I enjoying a happy time at his ranch.

Renee came for Sunday supper tonight, and we had a high old time talking about everything from Jacob’s upcoming prom to osteopathic medicine. Sunday supper is a longstanding tradition in my family, the sense that it should be just a little bit better, a little bit different from ordinary supper. When I was living at home and my brother gone to college or the Navy, Mom rolled her tea cart into the living room, in front of the fireplace, and we had a casual, light supper—a souffle or cheese strata. Today, Sunday supper is still special—we try to have everyone home and the menu is carefully chosen. Tonight Christian cooked an Asian beef and green bean stir fry, and, mixing cultures a bit, I fixed a Lebanese potato salad. Christian didn’t think the two would go together but admitted tonight they did complement each other

But tonight it was the Sunday suppers of my children’s high school years that were much on my mind. My big brother, the patriarch of our family, died yesterday morning at the age of ninety-two. He was my last surviving blood relative and the man I knew all my life would protect me. Everyone asks how I am, and the answer is “fine, but teary.” John and I have lived in close proximity probably more than not—as children, of course. He went to boarding school as a high school junior and was never home again, but in 1961, he declared I needed to get out on my own and took me off to Kirksville, Missouri where he was studying osteopathic medicine and his wife was working on a master’s in English. I too worked on that master’s. That move set the course for my life, including marriage to an osteopathic student and a doctorate in English. I moved to Texas in 1965, and he to Colorado in 1966. In 1980, he moved to Fort Worth to join the faculty of the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine.

In the early 1980s, John and I found ourselves both single with six teen-agers between us. Sunday suppers became an institution. We gathered at my house each week, inviting stray people we thought needed to join us—the parents of my goddaughter often, a good friend recently divorced several times, the kids’ friends. I fed anywhere from ten to fifteen those nights. Presence was required for the kids unless they had a job obligation, which some did. John presided over the table, led us in grace, and ceremoniously served the meal. Table manners were strictly monitored,  mostly by John, and I’m proud to say today all six of those kids have great table manners.

I loved cooking those dinners. Mostly they were a success, though sometimes not. I remember a turkey Wellington recipe which I have long since lost to my regret, and I distinctly remember one night I did a marinated butterflied leg of lamb (I must have thought I was a rich woman). Sometimes we had a turkey or a casserole or whatever I chose. One night, when my office was working on a regional cookbook, I fixed a cornbread/hamburger casserole I’d found the recipe for. John took one bite, looked at me, and asked, “Sis, is the budget the problem?”

Probably though the kids most remember the conversation. John went around the table, asking each person perhaps what they were grateful for or what they had done that week. No one was allowed to shrug it off—you had to have a cogent, intelligent answer. The classic that everyone laughs about to this day is the time we were asked what we were grateful for. Megan had brought a new beau to dinner (in retrospect quite brave of her) and the young man stood (his first mistake—none of the rest of us stood) and said, “I am grateful for Megan and her beauty.” The adults managed straight faces, but the teens couldn’t handle it. To this day, everyone laughs about this.

Today, Sunday dinner is served around the coffee table in my cottage, a far cry from that crowded, formal dining room on Winslow Avenue. But John will always be at my dinner table—and in my heart. We had our differences, particularly political—how he grew up in a staunch FDR/Mayon Richard Daley household and turned out a conservative is beyond me. But we learned, especially in our golden years, to put those aside in favor of our strong bond. We loved to talk, for instance, about the Indiana Dunes where our family had a cottage or Chicago, about which these days I am more nostalgic than he was.

John was sick, mostly bedridden for over a year, and our togetherness, such as it was, was always by phone—he lived south of Granbury on his ranch. We talked every few days, and I always ended the conversation with, “I love you.” It was hard for him, and he’d say, “Back at ya.” So here’s back at you John!

Benji has a fan club

My brother John and his puppy

Benji is so grateful for all the welcoming comments and praise for his good looks. He is especially grateful to one anonymous fan who sent him a gift—wonderful health bar treats in a variety of flavors and a chew toy he has not been parted with. I wish I had a name so I could thank the donor, but I hope he or she reads this and knows how tickled we were to receive this bounty and how grateful. Benji has found himself a special place in the yard, by a tree, where he hollowed out a hidey hole and stashed his favorites, such as the most ragged rope chew thing you ever saw. Now the new bacon-flavored bone is there too, after banging its way around the cottage while I napped. On the whole, Benji is really good about my naps—he puts himself to bed in his crate.

The barking is getting somewhat better. At least, I think so though I may be grasping at straws. He spent periods quietly outside today. I think that advice that he needs to get used to the neighborhood is spot on. In his previous home, as good as they were to him, he did not spend much time outdoors. Now he’s outside every minute he can be, although he frequently comes to the door to check and see that I’m still in here. If his barking gets to be too much, I simply bring him inside, and he takes this with good grace, going immediately to his crate. But he will emerge to lie on the floor by my desk, and this evening, I could hear him and his bone in the bedroom. Knock on wood, but so far he has not bothered one thing he shouldn’t, and his food manners are good. He’s not a beggar.

I had a chance to test my own food manners last night when Carol Roark picked me up for dinner at the Blue Spire, the upscale dining area at Trinity Terrace, the high-rise retirement community where so many of my friends live. It was one thing for Carol to invite me, but another much bigger one for her to have to leave TT to pick me up and deliver me after dinner. And on top of that to wheel me in the transport chair because it is a very long walk from the front door to the elevator in the newest tower which houses the Blue Spire. So I am most grateful. We had a delicious dinner—veal piccata for me (Christian fixes chicken piccata frequently but I never splurge and buy veal) and stroganoff for Carol. Beter yet, Carol and I had a good visit. We don’t have get a one-on-one visit—we are part of a group of four who dine together. But last night, it was just us, and I got a slide tour of her recent trip to New Zealand (all those exotic birds and plants whose names I can’t pronounce!) and she listened about Benji and the goings on of my family and even my cooking. A lovely evening.

Tonight, my heart is heavy. My 92-year-old big brother is in the hospital—again! —and not doing well. He has always, since I was small, been my protector, and as we raised our children, he filled the roll of patriarch with admirable grace—my kids and his know their table manners to this day! John and I have had our differences—politics! —but in the last year plus, we have again become close, talking on the phone every four or five days. And we have so many rich, good memories that they outweigh the differences in our views and sometimes our lifestyle. I am not rushing to his bedside, because I think that would be extremely difficult for both of us—we are the last of our family on the side of our mother, my father, and his father. His wife said she would she would ask what he wants, but I suspect he will tell me not to come. And so I wait on tenterhooks. Prayers for peace and acceptance are welcomed.

Update on Benji, history repeats itself, and a kitchen surprise

Benji was a dream overnight—Jacob enticed him into the crate with a couple of small treats, and I never heard another peep out of him until morning. I know he woke about six, but he was patient until seven when I let him out and fed him. Then back inside, I grabbed an extra snooze, and he was quiet and good. This afternoon, even before I headed for a nap, he put himself in his crate and settled down for a long sleep. He’s responsive, enthusiastic about being loved and talked to, and easy. And he’s loving having almost constant access to the backyard, although when he is in the cottage, he now mostly lies by my desk while I work—yesterday he paced. Just now, he put himself in his crate. I guess, like Soph, he considers it his safe spot.

But  yes, there’s a downside. He has the highest, shrillest bark ever—and he barks, as far as I can tell, for no reason. Christian asked why it bothers me, since Sophie was also inclined to bark—but she barked at squirrels and was quiet for long periods outside. Benji barks every few minutes, and I am hoarse from calling him to come inside—which he mostly does happily. I don’t want him barking incessantly and offending the neighbors. I’ve had long conversations with him about this, but they don’t appear to be taking. It’s still early in the game. Christian’s theory is that Benji has discovered lots of new friends in the neighbors’ dogs and is talking to them.

AS I posted elsewhere, I was appalled to read that state troopers in riot gear were called out to quell a student protest at UT/Austin. For those of you my age and even a bit younger, I’m sure that brings memories of the horror of the sixties and the Kent State Massacre (actually 1970). Apparently it’s not just UT/Austin but there are student protests across the country. All on behalf of Gaza. I read something today that said, in effect, if you find yourself opposing the student protests and siding with the establishment, you are on the wrong side of history—and this has been true throughout history. I don’t know about such a sweeping statement, but I think it applies to the protests of the sixties and seventies and to today.

I feel great sympathy and a lot of connection to the Jewish people. I was once married to a Jewish man who is now deceased, but my children and I remain close to his family. I am not ready to throw Israel to the wolves, but I wouldn’t mind tossing Netanyahu and some of his cohorts in that direction. I think there’s a huge difference between Israelites and Netanyahu’s official policies. I think what they’ve done to the people of Gaza is beyond horrifying. Yes, October 7 was a nightmare and Hamas must be conquered—but at the cost of all those civilian Palestinian lives? Especially the children? Today I read of victims at two Gaza hospitals whose bodies were found with their hands tied behind their backs. I suppose we aren’t sure if Hamas did that or the IDF. Supposedly Netanyahu said recently, “You will not teach us about morality.” But I think someone needs to. If those poor hostages, the few left alive, never come home, it will be because of Netanyahu’s scorched earth policies. And we frequently read that many Israelis are as upset as we are.

My measured take on this: it is possible to grieve for both groups of people at the same time, and America should reconsider the extent of its longtime support of Israel until Israel changes leadership. I thought this even before this war, when Israel was being a bully and grabbing Palestinian land on the West Bank. Over the years Palestinian-occupied territory has shrunk to almost nothing, evoking in my mind some sympathy for the Palestinian people. Now, what we see is awful. I don’t understand the politics of campus protests and the positions of various campus administrators, but my instinct is to listen to the students.

On a lighter note, I tried a Southern Living recipe for roast chicken Caesar salad tonight. First of all, I didn’t read carefully enough to realize I needed a bottle of commercial dressing as a base. Luckily, Jordan had one. Next I realized I didn’t have croutons, so everything came to a halt while I fished in the freezer for odds and ends of bread, let it defrost, and made croutons. Then I realized the recipe called for lining romaine leaves on a sheet pan, brushing with oil, and broiling. A quick survey indicated that Jordan and Christian both share my antipathy to charred lettuce. Now, finally, the chicken is coated with dressing and broiling—and Jordan says it’s turning black. Ah, the suspense of dinner in the cottage! A PS I was quite sure this was not a keeper recipe: they both loved it! Go figure.

A mixed day, good and bad, and I’m tired. But like Robert Frost, I have miles to go.

Meet Benji

 

With great enthusiasm and unbounded energy, Benji has taken up residence on Park Place in Berkeley. He thinks his person is Juju, but he’s not sure because then there are Jordan and Christian—and then those three high-school boys who came and rough-housed with him this afternoon. And that woman who came for happy hour and loved on him a lot. It’s a dog’s life, learning to go in and out of the flexible screen, running in the yard tossing his string toy for himself if no one else was around, even resting while Juju napped—though ever on the alert and occasionally letting out an ear-piercing howl. Who needs to eat? Life here is too exciting. He’s not sure about sleeping tonight, though Juju wants to put him in a crate, which is where he’s used too sleeping. Here are some pictures of his first day. And the facts: Benji is a two-year-old border collie mix, black with brown socks and white on his chest. He was rescued from a shelter as a pup, but now his first family must move to an apartment and couldn’t take him with them.

PS from Juju: I am so grateful for the love and support I have gotten from my blog community during this emotional dog journey I have been on. You all are the best, and I love you.