Grandchildren again

I love comments on my blog. I love Charles Rodenberger for writing that he has hated okra ever since he had to pick in on the farm--I assume as a child. I grew up "in the North" and don't remember ever having okra. I do remember though that my ex-husband loved it breaded and fried so one time I tried to fry it in matzo meal, which for some reason was all we had. I still didn't like it. And I appreciate Susan Adcox, whom I don't know but who lives in Texas and has seven grandchildren, for writing me that she has learned being a grandparent is not a 24/7 lovefest.
Tonight, however, has been a lovefest. Jacob arrived in a happy mood, played contentedly for hours in the playroom, barely watched his DVD. I decided to give up on enlarging his gastronomic tastes and gave him a pbj sandwich--he ate two. I am definitely NOT giving him the pureed prunes his mother brought--enough said. Right now I am listening to him on the monitor, talking loudly to himself. Lately he insists on the light staying on in the guest room, which I think keeps him awake longer. After tonight, I'll try the lamp instead of the light, and if that doesn't work I'll put a dimmer switch on the old light switch.
Other than that, it was not a remarkable day. I have no deep thoughts on literature, life, even cooking. I had promised to take a roast chicken tomorrow to my friend Jean, who just got out of the hospital, but I find my time for roasting a chicken running out so I'm going to take foil packets of chicken, a fruit salad, and some of that roasted broccoflower Jacob rejected.
I was saddened today to learn of the death of Bud Shrake, a Texas author who was revered and yet maybe never got the notice he deserved. He shouldn't be compared to Larry McMurtry and Cormac McCarthy--Bud had his own voice and style, and they were powerful. TCU Press reprinted one of his novels, so I had only a slight acquaintance with him--but I remember wry and funny email exchanges. Texas has lost another of its greats. I sometimes wonder if it's another sign of my aging that the people I consider the "greats"--Betsy Colquitt, Lou Rodenberger, Bud Shrake--are dying. Maybe it's time for me to retire and give way to someone who knows the younger writers. All my "connections," are older, as one of my board members pointed out to me about the readers I choose to evaluate manuscripts. There's a whole new generation out there that I know little about.