My brother called this morning to ask where my blog has been. "I look for it every morning," he said. Flattered? Of course I was. I admitted I was aware I hadn't posted anything in a while because I didn't know what I have to say--a few family secrets, mostly good news but not ready for public announcement. (Bless him, he didn't point out that silence is uncharacteristic of me.) I promised to think about it and turned back to the newspaper--and there it was in an editorial by a man who found himself alone for a weekend with his six-year-old daughter. To comfort the child, he grasped for what the girl and her mother often did together--they baked cookies. His point in the editorial was that we turn to the comfort of such familiar rituals when we can do nothing but watch in helpless horror the chaos around us in the world. I'd just remarked to friends last night that I, who hadn't baked cookies since my children left home, have recently baked two batches--those double chocolate ones I mentioned in an earlier blog and, more recently, oatmeal/raisin cookies (next time I'll put in more raisins, more cinnamon, and a bit more allspice but they're good as they are!). That's what I've been doing--cooking for comfort and surrounding myself with people who comfort me. It's not just because I'm horrified at the situation in Iraq, the way the government seems to be feeding us the same story now about Iran, the partisan politics that still rule in the midst of a horrible war--but that may be part of it. (My brother, who does not agree with me politically, also tactfully did not mention my letter to the editor, published earlier this week in the newspaper.)
Last night Mary Lu and I took Charles to a restaurant specializing in mussels--having spent childhood summers on Long Island Sound, he has fond memories of mussels. Confronted with about eight choices on the menu--white mussels, green mussels, dependant on the sauce--he had to ask the waitress for help. "They didn't come in colors when I was a kid," he said. Then he regaled us with the story of the electric company woman who called wanting to lock him into a guaranteed two-year rate. "I'm 90 years old," he told her. "I may not need two years. Do you have an escape clause?" They didn't.
It's been a busy week--my novel is finished, and I've reworked it once, sent a proposal to the agent who agreed to look at it, and am still stewing over changes that must be made. This weekend I've spent every minute editing essays for a TCU Press book on early Texas maps--it will accompany ten museum exhibitions, so the book can't be late. I am suddenly aware we have several books with such deadlines, and I'm afraid we're not setting our priorities right and forcing them through the publication process, so I've become the office nag. But I do my part by editing on my own time--fortunately, it's material that I find interesting and about which I know enough to catch one or two errors.
This morning I'm going to church. I made a pact with Mary Lu last night that we would meet there--neither of us have been regular in our attendance lately. For me, I haven't figured out what that's about, but it bothers me a bit that I can always find something else to do on Sunday morning. I did, however, find a lovely prayer in one of the mysteries I recently read. I called a friend, wife of an Episcopalian priest, and she confirmed that it is an evening prayer from the Book of Common Prayer. And then she said if I liked that language so well, I should read A New Zealand Prayer Book, in which prayers are beautifully translated from the Maori. I have been picking at it, and there is some beautiful language there. Katie assured me the Book of Common Prayer is copyrighted but no one in the Episcopalian Church would come after me if I used it, so here's the prayer:
"Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night; and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love's sake. Amen."
And a grandchildren P.S.: When 18-month Morgan sees her mom's computer screen, she says, "Juju." So they Skype me, and she blows me kisses, brings her toys to show me, and shouts "Wow" a lot! What a wonderful thing! Some of the new technology baggles and frustrates me, but I love this one because it brings me close to a grandchild I don't see enough of.
There, John, that enough?
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