A cautionary tale

This is embarrassing and maybe the picture tells it all, but falls are such a dangerous threat for the elderly (that’s me) that I feel I should recount my tale. Last night, I fell in the bathroom in the middle of the night. Usually when I get up to use the bathroom in the night, I sit for a bit on the edge of my bed to sort of orient myself to being awake and make sure I’m steady. I can’t remember whether or not I did that last night.

But one minute I was sitting on the commode and the next I was face down on the tile floor. My family repeatedly asked today how it happened, and I honestly cannot tell them. It just happened—suddenly. Clearly, I was not paying attention. I had been sound asleep, and perhaps I dozed off for just a second. If so, it was a rude awakening. Perhaps my mind just drifted—I’m given to letting my mind wander when I’m awake during the night—get some good writing down that way.

My cheekbone took the brunt of the blow, and my theory is that the free-standing toilet paper holder fell on top of me, leaving a good-sized goose egg on the right side of my head. Christian gets the prize for the best question of the day. He asked, “Did it hurt?” Uh, yes—a lot! The rest of the night I slept only fitfully and was aware of throbbing in the cheekbone and pain all along the side of my head. I put ice on my cheek and took two Tylenol. By this evening, if I don’t touch my head and don’t look in the mirror, I can forget about it. But brushing my hair out of my eyes or scratching my head is painful—my scalp is so sensitive. And Jordan says the bruising is spreading.

There’s good news in all this. I had my phone on the seat of my rolling walker (Rollator), but I had no need to call anyone. With the help of the grab bar, I pulled myself up, got my feet under me, and was back where I started—on the commode. I bless those grab bars—there are four in my small bathroom. And I’m sort of proud of myself for being able to get up.

In truth, I was incredibly lucky and will look at this as a wake-up call. With my walker, I had gotten complacent about my poor balance. My fall could have had much more serious consequences—as it is, they are mostly cosmetic. It may be a while before I’m ready to make many public appearances. I will  go to church on the computer tomorrow morning, because I know I’d get questions. And what would I say? “I fell off the toilet” sounds pretty lame.

All you seniors out there, please don’t let down your guard. Please don’t think it won’t happen to you. It happens faster than you can blink.

 PS Keep your phone with you at all times. Yes, take it to the bathroom.

A do-nothing day

Sophie watching me at my desk

See those eyes?

Sometimes I have a do-nothing day. I think it’s therapeutic, because it usually signals the start of an intense work period the next day. So today I had one of those days, partly because my plans for yesterday and today fell through and left me at loose ends. I’m not sure why that’s an excuse, but it is.

So I got off to a slow start this morning and didn’t worry about it. Lingered over the morning’s email and political news, spent far too long on Facebook answering messages and inserting my two cents much more often than it was called for. Then I decided I had to study all the unread titles on my Kindle. A friend mentioned Gabrielle Hamilton’s memoir, Blood, Bones, and Butter, and I had read the free sample last night. But in the cold light of day I convinced myself to read something I had already bought before moving on to that one. So I decided on The Chilbury Ladies Choir, mostly because it reminds me a bit of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society—how English citizens coped with World War II.

But before reading, I moved on to a delightful hour going through recipes I’ve put aside to try. Doing this is productive because I make myself take a long look at each one and admit with about half that I’ll never fix them. So the folder grows thinner. And I planned some good suppers for myself—tonight, a potato and wurst skillet, tomorrow salmon—King salmon is on sale this week, and I think I’ll make cucumber soup to go with it. Had a great debate with myself—decided I wanted lamb, but did I want a loin chop or ground lamb for burgers? Decided on the burgers because then I’ll have them all week.

Finally, after a lunch of cottage cheese over cucumber, chopped tomato, and sliced scallion, I settled down to re-read an article online that is pertinent to the book I’m working on. I’ve read it before, but now, with much research and background behind me, I find new meaning in it, new facts that take on significance.

And then about two, the day suddenly and unexpectedly darkened, the sky turned gray, and the wind blew hard. Well, of course, nothing would do but that Sophie and I curl up in the bed for a nap. First time in a long while that she’s actually stayed on the bed, pretty much motionless—a blessing. Even now, with the day brighter and the rain seemingly stopped, she is reluctant to let me out of her sight. If I go to the bathroom, she accompanies me; if I do something in the kitchen, she lies in the bedroom doorway where she is close.

Guess it’s time for me to fix that supper of knockwurst, potato—I’ll add a bit of kraut for good measure.

Fighting City Hall in the rain

Surely I was not the only one surprised to wake to a wet, dreary world this morning. I overslept just a bit because I’m not used to many morning deadlines, but Jordan had asked me to be ready to go in the house at 7:55 because we were to meet with an engineer from the traffic department at eight-thirty, and he might be early. Of course he was late. But we enjoyed sitting on the porch in the rain, waiting and watching for him.

You see, they’ve put “No Parking” signs in front of our house, forbidding parking from 7-9 a.m. and 2-4 p.m. for the safety of the children at the school across the street. I have lived in this house twenty-seven years, and this is the first time parking in front has been an issue. For our three-car family with a skinny 1920s driveway, it’s a real problem. So I appealed to city councilwoman, and the appeal ended in the traffic office.

The gentleman who came out this morning was not the one I had corresponded with nor the one who had chosen the date and time of the meeting “in the field.” The gentleman who showed up, fifteen minutes late—when Christian had to leave though I’d made that timing plain in correspondence—clearly had little grasp of the situation. What he had was a lot of generic excuses, so that we never got a real answer to the question of why our house alone was chosen and what the penalty for violation was nor how equitably it would be applied. Police park there during prohibited hours, as do many citizens—we have pictures. After a lot of generalities about safety, state law, and neighborhood requests, he left with a promise to take it back to the office and a warning that the whole process—whatever that is—would have to start again. I have already drafted a letter of protest to be sent to his superior and several others, including the councilwoman and the school principal.

So that was my cheerless start to the day, but it proved to be a lovely day. The rain continued, slow and gentle, through most of the day, though it is gone tonight. It is still damp, wet, and blessedly cool. And I buckled down and wrote 1700 words today—a real record for me when working in nonfiction. Not sure they’re all keepers, but I wrote them. And I made a squash casserole for my supper and had happy hour with Mary, who has been away for several weeks.

Last night we had happy hour with a new neighbor—interesting and fun, a lovely young woman who has four children and a surgeon/husband at the county hospital. They have bought an older home that has been vacant for way too long with all the deferred maintenance that implies and are fixing it up. Our neighborhood owes them a debt of gratitude for restoring the charm of an older home and for keeping it out of the hands of developers who would turn it into multi-family units. Fun to meet new neighbors with different backgrounds and different ideas about the neighborhood.

           

Long but lazy Sunday

Somehow, I found myself up at 6:30 this morning, way before I usually get up. For heaven’s sake, it was still dark! Even Sophie gave a long stretch and looked at me as if to say, “Really?” The thing was that we were going to nine o’clock church, and I have an internal alarm clock that signals me when I have to be someplace early in the morning. It takes two hours for my hair to dry, and I hate to use a hair dryer. Another sacrifice for the cause: as soon as my feet hit the floor, I washed my hair—I usually wait and do that after a cup of tea and an early prowl through the news.

So there I was at eight, all dressed and ready for church. We were even a bit early—unusual for us. The sermon was on discipleship, and the scripture was the story of the loaves and fish. Struck me as particularly appropriate and bittersweet because I had just read of Kansas City officials pouring bleach on food to keep a community organization from serving it to the homeless without a permit. That reminded me of those bracelets that read WWJD—remember them? What would Jesus do? He sure wouldn’t be pouring bleach on food. What kind of people has our country created?

After church, Jordan and I did a quick grocery run. These days we don’t often go to a “regular” grocery—I do a lot of online ordering—but there are some things you really can’t get without actually going to Tom Thumb or Albertson’s or Kroger’s. We went to the old Albertson’s in the neighborhood where we used to live—familiar, and I know the geography of the store, but they put so many dumps in the narrow aisles that it’s hard for me to navigate in the electric grocery cart. I did fine until I got to a rough place in the parking lot, and then I truly thought for a moment I was going to dump over. Didn’t happen, thank goodness.

Tonight we had a strategy meeting with neighbor Margaret, in preparation for the meeting “in the field” with the engineer from the city about the “No Parking” signs in front of our house. I feel we are on solid ground to argue that we are so far from the new “Stop” signs that they are not needed and are a great inconvenience to us as well as a reflection on our property values. Margaret has a Stop sign in front of her house but says if she puts on her mother-of-toddlers hat, she understands (her two boys are both college age). She feels, and I agree, that the school and the city are being disrespectful to the neighbors who have supported the school.

Of course, we couldn’t have a strategy meeting at 5:00 p.m. without happy hour, and Jordan fixed a lovely tray.

Two sentences and forty meatballs

Yep, that’s the sum of my accomplishments today. Two sentences, a bit under a hundred words, isn’t much. Some novelists write two or three thousand a day. Writing nonfiction, I often let myself feel pretty good about 800 words. But under a hundred? Still, I feel pretty good about those two sentences. They aren’t exactly golden, but they’re probably keepers, at least until the editor gets hold of the manuscript.

You see, I’ve been away from my work-in-progress for three weeks. First, there was that glorious week in New Mexico. My plan of long hours alone in the cabin, working, while everyone else fished didn’t exactly work out. I spent long and lovely hours sightseeing and in, ahem, the lounges of historic hotels.

Once home, life got in the way—and that reprint manuscript that I was working on. And then there was the neighborhood newsletter which took more time than usual this month. Always, though, this past week, the work-in-progress was in the back of my mind, and I knew I needed to get back to it. I had left it at the beginning of a new chapter, and almost as if to validate my theory that the subconscious works on things when you think you’ve put them aside, those two sentences—the first of the new chapter—appeared in my brain. Actually, they arrived in rough form a couple of days ago, and my brain has been refining them ever since, at odd moments, like when I wake in the night.

And the very good news for me, is that I am back in my groove. After writing those sentences, I dug into the book that I need to study for research and got a goodly page or two of notes. And a confession: I’m a happier person when I’m actively working on a project.

My other goal for the day was to make meatballs for Sunday supper, so in the late afternoon—after a lovely lunch brought by Chandry and her stepdaughter, Ella—I dug into hamburger, ground pork, pecorino and parmesan, and all the makings. I confess that it was a production big enough to strain my tiny kitchen facilities—and maybe me. I started at four—and it was seven-thirty before I had all the meatballs cooked and put away, dishes washed. In my toaster-oven, I had to cook the meatballs in three batches, let them cool, etc. Tonight they are in the fridge in a store-bought marinara—Rao, the brand recommended in several places. Tomorrow night I’ll serve them with soft polenta instead of pasta.

And now I’m tired. A major cooking project like that wears me out physically—it’s not easy to cook from a walker seat, and I spill everything everywhere, so my clothes are a mess—and mentally, but it’s done, and I am glad I did it. Probably should have halved the recipe for our family, but we will have leftovers. And Jacob, who doesn’t like my cooking much, loves meatballs. We’ll see if these meet his standards.

Wonderful rain tonight—steady for at least twenty minutes. Sophie stuck by my side but was pretty much okay. Jordan told me they were going to friends for a cookout and to watch their new outdoor TV. Good luck with that.

The air is cooler and smells wet. Lovely.

A magnificent accomplishment for TCU Press

I went to a reception last night, book launch if you will—for a simply magnificent book from TCU Press. It’s The Art of Texas: 250 Years, Ron Tyler as editor and contributions from well-known scholars, art historians, and curators. At 456 pp, measuring 10 x 12, and weighing 7 lbs., it’s a big baby. Kudos to TCU Press production manager Melinda Esco and to Vicki Whistler, who designed the book. No detail is overlooked, nothing spared—the color reproductions, on coated paper, seem to shimmer.

It's the kind of book that I always wanted  TCU Press to do during my days as director, the kind that establishes the press as a serious contender in the world of academic publishing. University presses were for years—and maybe still are—an endangered species. Certainly during my tenure as director I faced more than one dire administrative threat to close the press in order to get its budget, which was miniscule in the face of the university’s overall budget. The provost simply didn’t see the value of a press, and we constantly tried to produce worthy scholarly books that would prove our worth and convince him that academic presses were not money-making ventures. They exist to contribute to the existing body of knowledge and to bring prestige to their institutions. With this art history, the first to take a serious and in-depth look at the broad sweep of Texas art, TCU Press has achieved this.

While I enjoyed support for the press from several administrators and from Dea of the Library June Koelker, I always felt we were on thin ice. That has apparently changed, and Director Dr. Dan Williams has broad support from the administration. I congratulate him and wish him well.

TCU Press has done other, notable books in recent years—memoirs from the late Lonn Taylor, a recollection by Fort Worth TV personality Bobby Wygant, serious yet informative and interesting studies of Texas politics—thank you, Jim Riddlesperger. The press has been a strong influence in maintaining the strength of Texas fiction, publishing new works by Texas authors Jan Reid and Tom Zigal as well as rescuing from oblivion significant out-of-print titles by William Owens, Jane Gilmore Rushing, Dan Jenkins, and almost the entire canon of Elmer Kelton’s fiction. In my day, Kelton’s books were the backbone of the press’ list.

For me, retired some nine years now, it’s been like sending a child off into the world and watching its success. When I retired, one of my colleagues said, “Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of your baby,” and that’s about how I felt about it. My congratulations to everyone connected with this project—and a challenge: now that you’ve made your mark in Texas fiction and art, what’s next? Women’s studies?

The book launch party had another side for me, a chance to visit with people I once saw often and now see rarely. I caught up with a history professor who served on the press board, with an old friend from the Star-Telegram, with June Koelker, and with the editor’s wife, who I think I’ve known forever. And I am always glad to see Melinda Esco, who was both colleague and friend and remains my dear friend.

Afterward Carol and I went to Lucille’s for a quick supper, and I had another treat—crab fingers! A nice day.

Lots of nothing—and maybe a lesson in political reconciliation

That’s the kind of week it’s been. Seems like there’s nothing going on, but really there’s been a lot.

Jacob went off to eighth grade Monday morning without notable enthusiasm for the prospect—he looked cute though. Temperature was forecast to be 102, so he wore his hoodie. Just in  case, I suppose. In Austin, grandsons Sawyer and Ford went back to school—eighth and seventh grades—and in Tomball, Kegan went to seventh and Morgan started her first year in high school. I tried to grab their first-day pictures from Facebook but couldn’t. In Frisco, Eden started her junior year in high school, while Maddie is junior at Colorado in Boulder. They’re growing so fast! I laughed at the friend who confessed she still thinks of Megan as a TCU student—only about twenty-eight years behind, but that friend moved away years ago and until recently didn’t keep in close touch. Nice to have her back in the fold.

School also started at Lily B. Clayton Elementary across the street from us and brought complications—the city has put up No Parking signs in front of our house, effective from 7:00-9:00 in the morning and 2:00-4:00 in the afternoon. For a three-car family, with a skinny 1920s driveway, that’s a real hardship. We also have new Stop signs, though thank goodness they are not in front of us. I don’t see how the No Parking is going to help—it should be down the street where the crossing guard is. An engineer from the city will meet with us “in the field” next week. Perhaps he’ll explain the logic.

Monday was much taken up by Jordan’s bad back and a doctor’s appointment. She has been referred to a specialist but won’t been seen until August 29. When you’re in the kind of pain she is, I’m sure that seems an eternity. There’s not much I can do to help, but I’m trying. Made Frito pie for everyone one night, and helped put together a big salad last night.

Tuesday I managed to get a whole lot done. Finished edits on my ranching history novel, and it has now gone back to the formatter for finishing touches. I’m excited about publishing it in September. And I put together what I think will be a huge issue of the Poohbah, Berkeley neighborhood newsletter. Lots of good stuff about who did what over the summer, back-to-school pictures, and marvelous photographs of the painted churches around Schulenburg plus the usual monthly features. Still tying up loose ends.

My former student, now a chef, came for lunch today and declared I had fixed the perfect light lunch. Always pleases me to get her culinary approval. Recipes will be on my cooking blog, http://www.gourmetonahotplate.blogspot.com, tomorrow. After lunch we had our own mini meeting of Better Angels, the group that tries to bring together people of opposing political views. I asked why she supports trump, and she said the economy is doing well. I fear that my protests that it’s not really healthy at all fell on deaf ears.

But on a lot of issues she agreed with me—the hilarious folly of this kerfuffle over buying Greenland, the unbelievable promise to the NRA’s LaPierre that background checks are off the table despite trump’s words at the times of the shootings in El Paso and Dayton. She’s not sure climate change is real and says there are two sides, doesn’t believe we could lose the earth, while I think it is desperate. We agree that we need health care reform and immigration reform—pre-existing conditions might be a deal-breaker for her, and she says trump is not the kind of person she’d ever sit down and have a beer with.  It astounds me that given that she still thinks he’s the person to run the country. We kept it light, but that is hard for me because I feel so intensely about the earth’s current situation. I did find that she was unaware of several things I mentioned—one of the reasons I keep posting on Facebook. We need an informed voting populace.

I have one other friend that I haven’t seen since trump took office because I can’t bear her support for him. I don’t know if I have the strength for reconciliation there, but today was a lesson for me.

Tonight, a relaxing dinner with Betty at the Tavern.

How much things have changed

And so, another year begins….

It was “Back to Church Sunday” at our church today, and at the end of the service, an invasion of young children poured into the sanctuary, each wearing a backpack. They crowded together on the steps of the chancel for the blessings of the backpacks. A truly wonderful sight. If you feel cynical about our old world, the sight of those bright, hopeful faces would soften your heart.

Jacob, going into eighth grade this week, is of course too old and too sophisticated to get his backpack blessed, but we all went to a Sunday-school hour program to hear about the offerings coming up this year for students from middle school through high school—bell choir, missionary trips, Sunday night snacks, day trips. Someone—children’s minister Jamie Plunkett and his assistants—had worked hard on some complicated programing.

The whole thing took me back to my high school days. I think in part the course of my adult life was determined by my close involvement with a church group. The United Church of Hyde Park, and its neighbor, the Hyde Park YMCA, were the center of my social world. We all went to church together and afterward to hang out at Thomas’ Drugstore across the street—the drugstore owners were not always thrilled but we usually had fries and cokes; sometimes we sang in the choir; we met every Sunday night, though now I’m a little vague about what we did. My first boyfriends and all my close girlfriends came from that group. The group was called something that sounded like “Tuxus”—I never saw it written out and am quite sure I have gotten it wrong. An internet search turns up no such word.

When we weren’t at the church, we were, as a group, at someone’s house. There was usually a chess game going on and lots of pizza ordered. To this day, I avoid pizza with the excuse the I overdosed on it in high school—that includes cold, leftover pizza for breakfast.

This was not my family church. That was in another neighborhood, where I knew no one. A close friend introduced me to the United church when we were young enough to be in a Brownie troop. We graduated not into Girl Scouts (though I was a Scout for a while) but into the high-school church group (there was no middle school in Chicago in those days). My parents, familiar with the opportunities for youngsters to go astray on the South side of Chicago, sanctioned my attending another church, though Dad, son of a Methodist preacher, remained loyal to the Methodist Church. I occasionally went to football games or “hung out’ with kids they deemed inappropriate, and I think they saw the church as a safe haven.

Our dances were at the YMCA— those were the days of the jitterbug, but I was too self-conscious to learn to do it –and my high-school “sorority” was a YMCA group called “Calliope,” probably after the Greek goddess who presides over poetry and eloquence. I’m not sure I can see a connection, but I had the sweatshirt to prove it.

I was in the middle of a group of what today we would call nice young people. They were by no means goody-two-shoes, but they knew where and when to draw the line. And at that age, group acceptance is so important—especially for someone with my shy, wallflower tendencies. I was part of the group, though strangely one of the youngest and shortest, and I was happy. I had no need to look beyond my world for thrills or new experiences.

Jacob has his own group, a bunch of good boys from elementary school. In middle school, he’s branched out a bit in friendship but some of those boys are still the core of his social life. He is not as comfortable with the church kids, because he only knows a few of them, and as I looked at a gaggle of girls and boys today, I realized that I didn’t recognize any of them. A few others, like Jacob, sat quietly with their parents.

I wish for Jacob, and for all my grandchildren, as rich a high school experience as I had. It’s served me in good stead over the years. I’ve been saddened as word came of a death here and there of someone who remained forever young in my mind, and I occasionally wonder the familiar, “Whatever happened to….” But I am still in touch with two of the girls and what they say about old friendships is true—they are gold.

I drove by the church a few years ago when my children and I were in Chicago, and I was surprised at how small it looked. I wonder if the Fellowship Hall still has that wavy floor and the balcony around the edge with Sunday school rooms off it. ah, the memories.

And so, another year begins….

It was “Back to Church Sunday” at our church today, and at the end of the service, an invasion of young children poured into the sanctuary, each wearing a backpack. They crowded together on the steps of the chancel for the blessings of the backpacks. A truly wonderful sight. If you feel cynical about our old world, the sight of those bright, hopeful faces would soften your heart.

Jacob, going into eighth grade this week, is of course too old and too sophisticated to get his backpack blessed, but we all went to a Sunday-school hour program to hear about the offerings coming up this year for students from middle school through high school—bell choir, missionary trips, Sunday night snacks, day trips. Someone—children’s minister Jamie Plunkett and his assistants—had worked hard on some complicated programing.

The whole thing took me back to my high school days. I think in part the course of my adult life was determined by my close involvement with a church group. The United Church of Hyde Park, and its neighbor, the Hyde Park YMCA, were the center of my social world. We all went to church together and afterward to hang out at Thomas’ Drugstore across the street—the drugstore owners were not always thrilled but we usually had fries and cokes; sometimes we sang in the choir; we met every Sunday night, though now I’m a little vague about what we did. My first boyfriends and all my close girlfriends came from that group. The group was called something that sounded like “Tuxus”—I never saw it written out and am quite sure I have gotten it wrong. An internet search turns up no such word.

When we weren’t at the church, we were, as a group, at someone’s house. There was usually a chess game going on and lots of pizza ordered. To this day, I avoid pizza with the excuse the I overdosed on it in high school—that includes cold, leftover pizza for breakfast.

This was not my family church. That was in another neighborhood, where I knew no one. A close friend introduced me to the United church when we were young enough to be in a Brownie troop. We graduated not into Girl Scouts (though I was a Scout for a while) but into the high-school church group (there was no middle school in Chicago in those days). My parents, familiar with the opportunities for youngsters to go astray on the South side of Chicago, sanctioned my attending another church, though Dad, son of a Methodist preacher, remained loyal to the Methodist Church. I occasionally went to football games or “hung out’ with kids they deemed inappropriate, and I think they saw the church as a safe haven.

Our dances were at the YMCA— those were the days of the jitterbug, but I was too self-conscious to learn to do it –and my high-school “sorority” was a YMCA group called “Calliope,” probably after the Greek goddess who presides over poetry and eloquence. I’m not sure I can see a connection, but I had the sweatshirt to prove it.

I was in the middle of a group of what today we would call nice young people. They were by no means goody-two-shoes, but they knew where and when to draw the line. And at that age, group acceptance is so important—especially for someone with my shy, wallflower tendencies. I was part of the group, though strangely one of the youngest and shortest, and I was happy. I had no need to look beyond my world for thrills or new experiences.

Jacob has his own group, a bunch of good boys from elementary school. In middle school, he’s branched out a bit in friendship but some of those boys are still the core of his social life. He is not as comfortable with the church kids, because he only knows a few of them, and as I looked at a gaggle of girls and boys today, I realized that I didn’t recognize any of them. A few others, like Jacob, sat quietly with their parents.

I wish for Jacob, and for all my grandchildren, as rich a high school experience as I had. It’s served me in good stead over the years. I’ve been saddened as word came of a death here and there of someone who remained forever young in my mind, and I occasionally wonder the familiar, “Whatever happened to….” But I am still in touch with two of the girls and what they say about old friendships is true—they are gold.

A day in the country

Confession: I am a workaholic, a conclusion I probably reached years ago but am acutely aware of again today. For the second day in a row, I did not a lick of work. Jordan and I went today to visit my brother at his ranch outside Tolar—for those not in the know, Tolar s a small town mostly of deserted stone buildings beyond Granbury, between Fort Worth and Stephenville. Okay if  you’re not from North Texas, it won’t make sense.

Tolar does have a fine-looking bank and an all-purpose quick-stop store and the Methodist church which is our signal of where to turn off the highway. But the stone buildings have taken root in my mind—several are shells, roofless, windows gone, yet standing strong and straight. Someday I want to know the story of Tolar when it was a vibrant community, when those stone buildings were filled with people and activity. Today, I want to see someone move in and put clever gift shops and restaurants in those structures, but I suppose the problem is that Granbury is too close. Everyone goes there for shopping, dining, whatever. Granbury has the historic square and a new, supper HEB grocery—what else could one want? 

When you turn at the Methodist church in Tolar you go through a small residential area—so people really do live there—and worship there, because there are a couple of good-sized, solid-looking churches. But when you turn you still have nine miles to go to my brother’s ranch. 

We went because John, a retired osteopathic physician, has inherited the family ability for osteopathic treatment. In short, he has magic hands. And Jordan has been, as we say in the vernacular, down in the back. So while John treated her, I had a good visit with sister-in-law Cindy, and then we all had a wonderful lunch of chicken salad and fruit salad—delicious peach from a tree in their yard and wonderful large sweet blueberries from Costco.

Is Jordan cured? Not by a long shot—to both their disappointment. But she and her uncle now have a better handle on what’s going on in her back. And if someone comes at her saying “surgery,” she knows her response.

And it was a fine day for a drive in the country—hot but sunny and the land looks partly green, partly brown—it is, after all, August in Texas. We went the Chisholm Trail Tollway, which is empty and fast, but we saw a horrendous accident. On the way out, the entire north-bound side of the tollway was shut down; on the way home, it was open with one lane only. An eighteen-wheeler had apparently hit the guard rail, flipped, and caught fire. Makes you worry about the driver—and is a sobering moment.

Scallops, which look belter than they tasted

Home, with most of the day gone, I fixed scallops for supper. I ordered a quarter lb. from Central Market and was tickled that they called to say that would only give me two—how many did I want? I said, just for me, three. Tried a new recipe and was disappointed—it called for brining them, and maybe I did it wrong, but they were way too salty. I’m going back to my tried-and-true and much simpler method.

A long but happy day.

Let’s reboot this day

tuna salad and squash casserole

an odd pairing but really good

No kidding. About noon today, I thought, “Judy Alter wants to recall this day,” so I could start over. It wasn’t anything really bad, just a lot of stuff.

My oldest daughter had surgery in Austin this morning. Routine stuff, all went textbook well, she is doing fine, her husband is taking good care of her and keeping us informed. Despite all that, there’s that maternal feeling that I should be there. I was there when both her boys were born, and I should be there now. And I’m not.

Then there’s the fact that I have not gotten one lick of work done, not read one word of the manuscript I’m editing. Spent a whole lot of the morning working on meal plans and grocery shopping—there seems to be a general sense of “We’re heading back into the school year, and we have to get organized.” And we got our family schedule mixed up. Jacob was going to the store with me, since Jordan wants someone on hand when I get in and out of the car and since there are grocery items it’s awkward for me to reach. But when Jacob would be available—he’s dog-sitting—was problematic.

I finally tried something I’ve been meaning to: ordered from Tom Thumb through Instacart. But then that bound me to the cottage to await delivery. All worked out, and delivery by a nice young man was fairly prompt. But they left out the Fritos I’ve tried three times to get—can’t make Frito pie without.

Then, in a rush, Jacob had to be driven up to the school to pick up his spirit shirts—only he couldn’t find the right person, said there was no spirit store, and returned to the car empty handed. This did not please his mother, who thought he hadn’t listened to her instructions, and he countered that she had it wrong—and there I was in the middle. Everyone lived happily ever after.

By the time lunch (sardine salad) had come and gone, I needed a nap. But refreshed, I went to pick up more groceries at Central Market. I remind myself of my mom—she used to get somethings at one store and others at another. I remain committed to Central Market for meat, fish, and produce but won’t buy household staples like toilet paper there. So I went to get my weekly order from Curbside Pickup.

And on the way home I went by our local mechanic, and he put a new light bulb in my right turn signal. That rapid clicking that indicates a burnt-out bulb is so annoying, and besides, I think it leaves you liable for a ticket, if not being rear-ended.

So those are three good things today, despite the negative atmosphere—Megan is doing fine, I found I can use Instacart successfully, and I got that darn right-turn signal fixed.

Tonight, after a pleasant happy hour with Jordan and Christian, I fixed a squash casserole and paired it with tuna salad from Central Market. Maybe tomorrow the world will be back in order.

New Mexico—wildflowers and hot food

I was unprepared for the gorgeous wildflowers in the mountains. Our friends’ cabin sits in a meadow that is literally a sea of flowers, mostly daisies but some black-eyed Susan and an occasional Queen Anne’s lace. It’s impossible to capture the glory of the wide sweep of grass and flowers on a cell phone camera, but a close-up gives you some idea.

In Holy Ghost Canyon, we saw a delicate pink flower that does not grow anywhere else in the world. Botanists have tried unsuccessfully to cultivate it, but the soil in the canyon must have just the right conditions for it.

Lower down, roads are often lined with feathery silver-green chamisa, so lovely to look at. Subie tells me however that many people are allergic to it, and I remember suggesting it for table flowers for my oldest daughter’s wedding—she was married at Bishops Lodge in Santa Fe. I thought the native plant touch would be nice, but the florist said that once cut, chamisa stinks.

Roads are also lined with larger willow bushes, and this year, because of heavier than usual rains, everything was green. So much for New Mexico as an arid state—at least not in this part.

While I loved the flowers, I had, as usual, a problem with food. I do not, cannot eat spicy food—neither my tongue nor my gut tolerate it. And hot pepper spice is everywhere in New Mexico. I have had some of the best meals of my life in Santa Fe but always in restaurants that offered alternatives. I remember a wonderful lobster dish at the Pink Adobe, for instance, or a trout hash at Pasquales. This trip, we had lunch the first day at Casa de Herreras in Pecos where the waitress steered me away from Frito Pie—it’s ubiquitous in New Mexico—and toward the chalupa cups, which I loved. Heavy with guacamole and no chili unless I wanted it, which I didn’t—so good. Chili in New Mexico is not chili in Texas—it’s a thin sauce, either red or green. On the theory that green peppers are milder than red, I always thought I should choose green. But even it is too hot.

With Jacob at Frankie's

With Jacob at Frankie's

In Santa Fe, at lunch one day, I almost reduced the waiter to tears. Having not seen much on the menu that appealed I decided on cheese enchiladas with chili. My Tex-Mex orientation was dominating, because I was envisioning a rolled enchilada stuffed with cheese and topped with chili con carne. Not so. I asked if the chili was hot, and the waiter said he’d bring both green and red. Did I want beans or posole? Refried. They only had charro. What kind of tortilla did I want? No tortilla. “Not under the cheese?” he asked incredulously—well I was thinking of the side tortilla that accompanies everything and not the enchilada. We finally sorted it out, with the waiter shaking his head, and I got a flat enchilada—tortilla and cheese, with two flavors of chili that were both too hot. And I know the waiter thought he’d met a dumb blonde gringo from Texas.

Another day we went to Frankie’s, a popular restaurant in Pecos—only brunch was being served. I was afraid to try most of the selections—huevos rancheros, migas, a casserole with chili and beef or chicken—if the chili had been mild, that would have been good. But it  wasn’t. I ended up with the basic breakfast—eggs over easy, sausage (despite my trepidation, it was really good), and seasoned potatoes, which were also delicious. The honey toast was sort of pitiful—ordinary toast with a slight drizzle of honey in the middle of each slice. I would have loved a traditional sopapilla, one of the small ones that you can cut a corner off and pour honey in. Clearly, Frankie’s was not catering to the mild palate.

But it was an interesting place, especially with a formal table set for the missing soldier. The décor was pure New Mexico and charming.

In Las Vegas, I had a terrific chef salad. And the menu in the old hotel where we had drinks had some wonderful things—oysters Rockefeller, liver pate, crab cocktail—I was sorry we had a big lunch and weren’t hungry. It struck me that the menu was simulating the dishes that railroad travelers in the twenties would have ordered. Similarly, the bar at La Fonda, Santa Fe’s classic old hotel, had several appealing choices.

Clearly, I can eat happily in New Mexico. I just have to pick and choose. I’m working on my bucket list for a return trip. And meantime I’m about to fix Frito pie, the Texas way.

Some pictures I can't resist adding. Our host, Phil, has a service dog, Porter, and Jacob and Porter had a grand times together. Here they are playing and in  sweet moment. 

The beauty of a get-away

My blog and I have been on vacation, along with my Fort Worth family. We spent a few days in the Pecos River area of New Mexico, at the cabin of good friends. And we had a wonderful time. I have always been drawn to New Mexico—I swore I wanted to move to Santa Fe but had to content myself with visits. This time I saw an entirely different part of the state—high mountains in the Santa Fe National Forest. I learned again that I love the scenery, the fresh air, the crisp temperatures—and I loathe mountain driving, even as a passenger. I am white-knuckled on hairpin curves. Nonetheless, I wouldn’t have missed a minute of it.

Jacob at Cowles pond

We went ostensibly so Jacob could fish—the Pecos is a fast-moving, shallow, freezing cold river full rainbow and brown trout. Jacob fished several times, once with a guide who is a neighbor of our friends and gave him a slow introduction into casting in fast mountain water. The first evening there he and our friends’ grandson caught their limit or close to it---and we had pan-fried trout for dinner.

Castenada Hotel by the railroad

Armand Hammer University

I expected to spend my days working at my computer while the guys fished but not so. We went into Santa Fe one day—highlight of the day was a prolonged happy hour at La Fonda. Another day we explored Las Vegas (NM). It’s an unexpected treasure of a town with a rich heritage, a history full of outlaws and railroads and mining. We had lunch in a historic hotel and then stopped for drinks at the restored hotel by the railroad tracks. Drove out in the country to see Armand Hammer University—in a castle-like building, although we couldn’t get close to it.

More on New Mexico tomorrow, maybe on the food, and on the wind turbines that are all over northwest Texas.

Confused, angry, sad—and some small mishaps

I woke this morning sad and angry and confused, with thoughts tumbling in my mind. It seems today that anger is what binds most of us together. These tragedies are preventable, but politicians stand in the way. I sense a lot of anger on the internet. I wonder how trump and McConnell feel about the overwhelming backlash—and what they surely must recognize as a weak response from Republicans—49 out of 50 red legislators contacted by CNN refused to comment. There was criticism from an Ohio Republican member of the legislature and a stalwart Texas Tea Party supporter announced he will not run again—the fourth this week. The rats are deserting the ship.

Meantime trump woodenly read a speech he had neither written—word choice made that clear—nor read before. In it he blamed everything but guns—and cited the wonderful progress of his administration. Big deal—they outlawed bump stocks after the Las Vegas massacre. He blamed mental health—but he’s the one who made it easier for people with problems to buy guns. He blamed social media, which sounded to me suspiciously like a step toward censoring freedom of speech. He may not have written the speech, but he sure should have okayed it before he read it on national television.

Like everyone, I have my opinion on what should be immediate action: McConnell should haul his broken shoulder back to DC, reconvene the Senate, and consider legislation that the House passed months ago. Why has he stalled? We all know the answer to that. New and immediate legislation should outlaw assault weapons, require strict background checks, outlaw TV and gun show sales, and restore the domestic terrorism branch of the Department of Homeland Security. So clear cut, so simple, so safe.

My apologies. I’ve tried to keep politics out of my blog, but I am too angry, too upset to do it today. On a more personal note, the day didn’t go all that well. My walker almost lost a fight with a plastic cleaner’s bag—try as I might there are still bits of that sheer plastic wrapped around one wheel. That stuff is a wicked enemy. At first, I thought I was marooned and would have to wait until help arrived. My first concern was for the favorite gray sweater in the bag, but I managed to save it intact. Then I pulled endless plastic—and there’s still some left. I don’t expect time will make it go away.

My lunch date forgot about me. Luckily, she was to pick me up, so I wasn’t abandoned at a restaurant. I stewed that maybe she forgot and was waiting impatiently for me at the deli. Turned out okay, because Jordan agreed to pick up a chicken salad sandwich for me from Black Rooster. I love those sandwiches, have half left for my supper. And the lunch is rescheduled for later in the week.

Jacob came out to repay some money he owed me—and woke me from a sound nap to tell me he was repaying it. His presence activated Sophie, who jumped on the bed and began licking my face. I’m afraid I wasn’t gracious to either one, though I have since apologized.

Tomorrow will be a whole new day for me, but our country will still be shadowed by grief and frustration and anger. Maybe I’m a cockeyed optimist, but this time I think we’re all angry enough to effect change. I pray so.

The blahs—or feeling numb

Not feeling my perkiest this morning, so I stayed home and “went” to church on the computer. Sigh. Always makes me wish I was there in the richness of the University Christian Church sanctuary and the comfort of the congregation. It’s a joy to greet old friends on Sunday morning, and I missed that. A timely sermon, ”Possessed by Possessions,” on money, greed, wealth, affluenza—yes, the ministeer used that term. Timely because a dear friend had just this week predicted to me that the current sitting president will be re-elected in spite of his lies, deceit, cruelty, destruction of everything from international treaties to the environment. “It’s all about money,” she said. I guess I’m Pollyanna, but I could not live with myself if I supported someone like that because I thought it would make me rich. Besides, to my understanding, those who vote for the orange man because of their pocketbook are fooling themselves—the economy is not doing well. Indexes like job growth have slowed dramatically and the deficit is out the roof. But I digress.

Hymns draw me to church. I love to sing the old familiar hymns, and most of the words come to me from memory implanted in childhood. But these days they do away with the old familiar—Betty, my organist friend, won’t play “The Old Rugged Cross”—and they change either the words or melody. Not much is as frustrating as singing a strange hymn and realizing that the melody has other words, an older version my memory calls up. This morning the closing hymn was “Take my life and let it be consecrated, Lord, to Thee.” I waited with anticipation—but it was the wrong melody.

My organist friend is concerned at the changing nature of music she is asked to play at weddings. She was taught that only sacred music belongs in a sanctuary and was distressed recently when asked to play an Elton John song. My argument that music, like language, is an organic, growing, changing thing fell on deaf ears. And now I hear myself being as deaf about changing lyrics and melodies of my favorite hymns. Go figure.

My inspiration for the day: a 101-year-old woman, assisted living resident, who just published her first book of poetry. A fellow resident, her age, got her interested in attending some classes and pouf! She wrote a book. Would that it were that easy for all of us.

I used to watch “Restaurant Impossible” on the Food Network with fair regularity. Haven’t seen it in quite a while, so I don’t know if it’s gone away and come back or if I just haven’t happened on to it. But last night I watched back-to-back episodes—the first a black mother-and-daughter team in a family restaurant, and the second a Mexican restaurant. Robert Irvine pointed out that the mother and daughter were buying prepared things which ran up their costs. “You’re letting someone else do you prep work,” he thundered. And he showed them some great-looking twists on ordinary dishes. In the second episode, I couldn’t help noticing that when he was interacting with the owners, his hair was dark. But in narrative segments, with him alone, it was gray. I guess even chefs age.

Like the rest of the nation, I am numb with horror tonight. There’s so much to be said, but it’s all been said before—and to no avail. I weep for America, but I still also have faith that we can save our nation. It will be a slow rebuilding. But I read somewhere that the next election is not so much about who leads the country—it is about saving the soul of our country. I’m ready for that fight, and I will do whatever I can to save our country—and our planet.

Restoring my topsy-turvy world

Impressive presentation of great-tasting food

An unexpected Texas treat—waking up this morning to a cloudy, rainy world with fairly moderate temperatures. It even smells like rain. Heavenly!

I’ve spent the morning trying to bring order to my world—specifically to move back into my bedroom, now that the floor is done. It’s still a work in progress, so I’m not showing pictures. Waiting for some muscle from the house to do things that I can’t and that kind of hold up the process.

Last night Christian enlisted Jacob and two buddies to carry bags of things back out to the cottage. Jacob lay down on my bed and, as I’ve asked him not to, fooled with the bed position. He got the foot of the mattress into its highest position—and stuck. It took at least fifteen minutes of Christian working with the remote and me envisioning another night on the couch to get to the point where the remote told us, ”the bed is flattening.” Christian told me firmly, “Don’t touch anything!” I told Jacob just as firmly that I had dire consequences in mind for him. His response? “You should sleep on it that way. It’s comfortable.”

Truth be told, while I’d said I was okay on the couch, I was really glad to sleep in my bed last night. Slept soundly and an hour later than I ever do. Slow start but I began to unload sacks of things I’d taken out of my drawers—treasures such as some jewelry I had forgotten I had, small jewelry boxes that have significance for me—lovely hand-carved small box a boy gave me in grade school and ruined by impressing my initials in the top with a lead pencil, my mother’s jewelry box, that small oil painting with a rip that I never got repaired. On the mundane side—a whole sack of socks, my winter sweatpants, and odds and ends of gift wrapping paper.

Lovely break from my topsy-turvy world last night—dinner with friend Carol at Café Modern. We had a table by the window and the water, which I always love. I’d looked up the current menu online and wasn’t wildly enthusiastic about it, but to my delight it had nothing to do with the menu we were given when seated. I chose scallops with veggies—squash, sugared carrots, micro planed cilantro, ad tiny bits of radish. It was all wonderful except for the bed of edamame hummus on which it sat. I am not an edamame fan! Tried this, in the interest of trying all new things and thinking maybe it would be better in hummus form--still didn’t like it. Blueberry tart for dessert. Great meal.

Watching the Food Network with half an eye this morning and am interested that the chef (don’t know who she is) creates zucchini boas of uncooked zucchini. I always parboil them first and they tend to fall apart Will try this next. Stuffed zucchini is a summertime treat, though I can’t convince my family. Another thing this chef does: separates whites and yoks when frying eggs--starts the whites first and then carefully places the yolk on the partially cooked whites. I think it would give you nice, crisp whites.

Cooking Trivia: corn salad, poached chicken, pasta, pesto, and a lesson learned

A bit of everything on my mind this warm summer morning.

Corn salad

A great accompaniment for whatever you grill, from ribs to burgers.

3 cups corn, preferably from about six ears of fresh corn, but you can cook and use frozen

Salt to taste

½ c. mayonnaise

¼ c.  feta, crumbled

Juice of 2 limes

2 Tbsp. chopped cilantro

1 tbsp. chili powder

            Mix and chill. At serving time, garnish with more feta and chopped cilantro

Poaching chicken

            I’ve been making a summer soup that calls for diced chicken. First time I made it, I did what’s reflexive for me—bought and boned a rotisserie bird. But I hate the chore of boning, and it’s always so greasy I feel that I’ll never get clean again. So recently, I bought one large chicken breast and poached it. The ideal is to simmer and never let it boil—a state of perfection I didn’t quite reach, so it was a bit tougher than I’d like. But far better than the rotisserie version with its seasoning.

The soup is the cucumber soup, with a base of yogurt and buttermilk, that was in this column in June.

Easy, light pasta

1 lb. linguine

½ cup good butter—I like Kerry Gold, which has a higher fat content than most butters

½ c. grated Parmesan or Pecorino cheese

Cook pasta and leave in hot water just while you melt the butter. Use tongs to transfer pasta from water to butter in skillet. A bit at a time, add pasta water, until you get a smooth, creamy sauce—shouldn’t take more than a cup of water if that much. Sprinkle with cheese. For serving, top with chopped Italian parsley if desired.

Pesto

This is so easy!

3 cups packed fresh basil leaves

4 cloves garlic

¾ cup grated Parmesan cheese

½ c. olive oil

¼ c. pecan bits (I know, pine nuts are traditional, but I’m not wild about them and one family member is allergic—you can also substitute walnut bits)

½ c. chopped parsley

            Combine ingredients in processor and blend to smooth paste. Spoon into a flexible plastic ice cube tray and freeze. When cubes are solidly frozen, pop them out (sometimes you have to use a table knife to carefully pry them out) and into a baggie. Store in freezer for use whenever.

But here’s the tiny-kitchen tip I learned, something you’d think someone who’s been cooking as long as I have would have figured out. I knew the ingredients wouldn’t fit in my counter-top processor, so I decided to do it in batches. I did it by ingredients, so the first batch was garlic, cheese, and nuts. Second batch—parsley and basil, saving the oil till last. But the processor just tossed the herbs around without processing them. Duh! The mixture needed liquid. So I put half of all ingredients, including the oil, in the first batch and then finished with the other half.

For a minute there, however, I was ready to warn that a counter-top processor just wouldn’t do a whole batch of pesto. The problem, of course, was me, not the processor.