Facebook, politics, and—oh, my!

 

Last night, one of my closest friends, a woman who has lived in small-town Texas all her life, whose late husband is buried in her town, who has many ties and memories and friends here, told me she’s thinking of leaving Texas. She just can’t stand the politics. I sympathize but I can’t—or won’t—leave. I am too old to start again, my beloved family is all in Texas, my career has been built on writing about Texas. Where would I go? I like living here—except for the politics, which are horrifying. My big thought about all that is that it is terrible what Republicans have done to my beloved adopted state.

By now many of you have discovered I spend too much time on Facebook and too little time writing brilliant fiction. Many of my friends are disparaging about FB—it’s too vitriolic, it’s a time suck, you can’t convince those you oppose, only old people read it, etc. A long list of objections. I am not here to defend Mark Zuckerberg. In fact, I think he does a lot wrong, from pushing advertising to censoring. But still, I find it informative and useful.

I think you must be discriminating—click through the gossip, the accusations, the conspiracy theory folks, even the advertising. Underneath all that, you can find some cogent political discussions, and these days, that’s what I’m looking for. No, I do not expect to convert a trumper by my words or even a lifelong Republican who doesn’t realize this is not your father’s Republican Party. What I hope to accomplish with my posts is to bolster those who think like I do, encourage them that we can win against the Republican gargoyle that has Texas and the nation in a stranglehold, spur them to action.

I know how to pick and choose the posts I read. I ignore obvious right-wing extremists and conspiracy theorists, but I learn from posts by rational conservatives and progressives. And every little bit of knowledge helps me understand what's going on. I am sometimes moved to action, as I am now with the terrific walk-about by the Texas Democratic legislators which, at least for now, killed the draconian voter suppression bill. I intend to write my state senator and representative tonight to express my outrage over several of the measures passed by the Texas legislature in the session just ended—the harshest anti-abortion bill in the nation, the “constitutional carry” gun law, the law which allows carrying open liquor containers out of restaurants, the unbelievable law that restricts what teachers can say about American history. A history of racism? Us? Oh, no, you must mean another country. Talk about blindersl

But the voter suppression law is perhaps the most egregious, clearly racist to the point that no Republicans dare deny that. The bill is praised for ensuring safety of elections against fraud—but absolutely zero fraud was found in an analysis of the 2020 election in Texas (and precious little in the nation at large). Still, Republicans are terrified by the rising tide of blue votes. So they wrote a law that was clearly aimed at persons of color—who coincidentally mostly vote Democratic. The scariest part of that awful bill is that it allows a judge to overturn the popular vote. Whoa and wait a minute—wasn’t this country founded on the sanctity and privacy of the individual vote? It is, as President Biden said, an attack on democracy.

Gov. Abbott, the emperor who has no clothes, will call a special session to push this voter bill through. Those of you who join me in horror at it must actively fight against it—write your senator and representative, speak out on social media, do whatever you can. Democracy is too precious to lose it to a bunch of power-hungry old white men.

Sorry for the political rant, but it comes from the heart. Tomorrow I’ll get back to telling you about the goings on in my small world of the Alter/Burton compound. Not much happened today anyway—too rainy and dull.

Stay safe—and think about righteousness in this crazy world.

A lovely supper in an old place made new

 

See that teenager? I'm betting one day he plays the Colonial.
Meantime, he and his mom and dad enjoyed being spectators today.

For years there was a Hoffbrau Steak and Grill House on University Drive in Fort Worth—both my daughters worked there at one time or another. What can I say? It was a burger joint, not much ambience, dark, lots of wood, a bar where folks sometimes got noisy, a big wooden deck.

Well now it’s been redone into Maria’s Mexican Kitchen—you wouldn’t recognize the place. The bar area where you enter is upscale, bright with color, clean. We went through a dining area (where the old main dining was but much lighter and cleaner, all that wood gone) to the patio—tiled floor, two small pools, very upscale and modern.

We were given ever consideration from valet to wait staff. Because I must use a walker, I’m always a bit sensitive to that, but the valet made sure I got up the curb, parked the car close to the front; the host showed us the ramp, arranged the chairs to my convenience. I felt downright spoiled.

I was dining with two longtime friends—fifty years we figured out tonight. All of us once married to osteopathic physicians—now widowed and divorced. Did we talk about the past? Not at all. The present had too many wild stories to tell. We tried—okay I failed—to avoid politics, because we are not all on the same page. But children and in-laws and all kinds of stuff.

I was a bit leery of the menu because everything sounded spicy. A conversation with the waitress told me I could substitute crab cakes in sour cream for the spicy sauces. That sounded so good to Linda that she ordered the same thing, and they were wonderful. Nancy had a platter, with a mole enchilada, I think.

Food was good, atmosphere was great, staff was friendly and kind. What more could you ask?

Interesting side note: a woman at the next table was friendly, telling us how good their dinner was. When she left, she looked at me and asked, “Are you Judy?” Turned out to be someone I am Facebook friends with (we share fairly strong political views) and, perhaps more important, we both adore the woman who cuts our hair. Her husband is also a Facebook friend, but he had moved on, talking to someone else. A nice chance encounter that brightened an already pleasant evening.

Other than that, it was a lazy Sunday. I didn’t push myself to get any work done. Coincidentally, the sermon this morning was on keeping the sabbath and not feeling we have to work every minute. That all-consuming focus on work, the minister suggested, is something that intensified during pandemic when so many people worked from home. Today, as usual, I worshipped from home, but we are about ready to go back to the church. Christian talked about it recently, and we’re waiting for the right Sunday.

You know those people who make all kinds of excuses for not being in church? That’s us! Mother’s Day was out because we were getting ready to do lunch for ten. Last week was out because Jordan was out of town—yes, we could have gone without her, but we didn’t. This week was out, because Jordan, Christian, and Jacob were going to the PGA tournament at Colonial Country Club. Who knows what next Sunday will bring? I will say while we have not been there physically, I have been faithful about attending virtual church, and Jordan has joined me most Sundays.

A busy week ahead and one in which I will get out of the cottage more for a variety of errands and appointments. It’s about time.

Sweet dreams, everyone!

 

Living in two worlds

 

This is what happens when you party at the zoo.

The weirdest dreams last night, intense and very real. I am in the midst of writIng a new mystery, and I had read a colleague’s comment that she loved to dream the next scene in her work-in-progress, because all she had to do was wake up and transcribe it. I guess I took that to heart, though I often think, as I drift off, that I’m going to plan what’s next in my current work. Last night it was like I was living in the world of my book, and when I woke this morning, I was back to the cottage and my real world.

I would dream a scene in its entirety and then realize that it wouldn’t work because of plot mechanics. So I’d go back and re-create it—and then something else would occur to me, like that character couldn’t have done such and such because she still didn’t know this and that. I would swear the dream lasted for hours, but it was probably only an hour at the most. And I would also swear that I wrote the entire book in my mind, but that wasn’t true either.

You might expect I would be exhausted when I woke up, but on the contrary I was energized and anxious to get back to the manuscript. When reality hit me, I followed only the very first part of my dream, and I wrote only 1300 words, a productive day for me. But those words didn’t take me anywhere as far into the story as I hoped, which is a good thing.

I am a pantser, which means I don’t outline—I write by the seat of my pants, hoping that inspiration will carry me to the next scene, the next red herring, the next plot development. My first drafts are woefully short, even for a cozy where the length requirements are much less than for suspense or thrillers. So it was good that I was able to draw out this one scene.

Tomorrow I know I will introduce a new character. What I must figure out is how she fits into the story—she, an mouthy eight-year-old girl—has been telling me she has to be in there, so we’ll see. Perhaps my dreams will be productive again tonight.

Aside from the 1300 words, it was a good day. I sorted through my recipe file which had grown out of bounds and probably threw out half of what I’d printed, clipped, and saved. I mean really—am I going to cook a prime rib in my toaster oven? I don’t think so. So now my wastebasket is stuffed with discarded recipes, and I’m not even going to take a second look.

Then my accountant called. He was missing 1099s from three sources. (Since I’m in Texas, my taxes aren’t due until June 15 because of the terrible ice storm we had in February.) I thought I would have to wait until Monday to find out about the missing forms. Then my brain clicked in, and I searched for them online. Found the one from my bank easily; the one from the brokerage was not so easy, so I called my oldest son and he found it, sent it to me, and I forwarded it to the account. Two out of three down! The third was my pension fund, which has multiple accounts (I have never understood why it’s not consolidated, but….) I found the tax forms but couldn’t see a way to forward them, so I printed. Then I called the accountant and said, “This is Judy Alter, who is feeling smug.” He roared with laughter and said I was doing well so far. I explained the dilemma, and he volunteered that he was just leaving to go get lunch, would drop by and pick up what I had printed out. And that’s what happened. I haven’t heard from him again, so I guess all must be in order.

Color it a good day.

After their big night out at the zoo last night, Jordan and Christian reported they are exhausted—I couldn’t resist a comment about growing old. But nobody had the heart to say what they wanted for dinner or to cook it, so we ordered take-out from the Lebanese/Italian place down the street. I got eggplant lasagna in a vodka sauce—so good, so rich, so spicy. Too much left over. Tomorrow they go, with Jacob, to the golf tournament for the entire day—I expect more exhaustion. Will go to dinner with friends but have willingly taken over dinner for Monday. Going to splurge and make crab cakes. Sometimes I fear my life revolves around what I eat or am planning to cook and eat.

This Memorial Day take a moment to think about all those who have given their lives for us. Then think about where our country is today. Where do you stand? Me? I’m indignant at attempts to destroy our democracy but also grateful for those who have fought for us, like my dad who fought in WWI, and grateful for those like Joe Biden who fight for us today.

Dressing up and eating leftovers

 

Christian's description of this photo: "We fancy."

Interesting happy hour tonight. Two good friends, Sue and Teddy Springfield, came around six on their way to dinner. Sue and her two children, then young, lived next door to me for several years, and we became good enough friends that she dubbed me her Fort Worth mom—her real mom lives in Ottawa, Canada, and Sue felt she occasionally needed someone closer. After she bought a house about ten minutes away, we remained good friends.

And then she met Teddy and that charming Californian didn’t hesitate to move to Texas. Like all of Sue’s friends, I fell in love with Teddy. Was pleased to be one of the few invited guests at their small but classy wedding, with a seat reserved to accommodate my lack of mobility. I ended up sitting next to Teddy’s daughter—getting to know her was lots of fun.

So every couple of weeks, they come by for drinks. They have only let me cook for them once—after Teddy confessed that he loves eggplant, and I said I had an eggplant recipe I’d been wanting to try. Tonight, no eggplant but Jordan had fixed a fancy charcuterie plate. Left to my own devices I probably would have put out a few crackers and that hunk of Cumberland cheese I’ve been saving. At any rate I thought we’d have a pleasant, semi-sophisticated happy hour.

That thought went south when my favorite a/c man called. He had called this morning and said it didn’t look like he’d get here before two o’clock so he’d see me after four. I almost laughed aloud—he’s been here so much that he knows I keep two-to-four clear so I can nap within that time frame. Only he didn’t call until Teddy and Sue had just settled on the couch with their wine. The a/c unit (it hangs from the ceiling) was maybe three feet from Sue. But Donald said he wouldn’t be working again until Wed. so I thought I better ask him to come ahead.

He was soon part of the conversation, and we had told stories, talked about restaurants, and laughed a lot. But then it was obvious I had lost the attention of Teddy and Sue—they were looking beyond me, out the window. And there came Jordan and Christian in all their finery—and I do mean finery, as the picture above testifies. They were going to a debutante party in the African Safari area of the zoo, just blocks from our house. So they came in for a few minutes, and I’m sure Donald wondered what he had wandered into the middle of.

After everyone left, I had cheese and crackers for supper, gave Jacob his leftover cheese enchiladas, and settled back at my computer. Jacob came to return the casserole dish his dinner had been on—my request because I didn’t want to wait days while it went through the dishwasher in the house—and I asked again when he thought he might put together my new walker. He rolled his eyes and said, “I’ll do it.” Then he modified it to “Me and my dad will do it.”

The walker, an unassembled upright one, arrived Thursday, and Jacob brought the large box out, opened it, and looked for a minute like he might put it together. But then he said, “I’m going to Colonial. I’ll do this tonight.” (The Charles Schwab Challenge PGA tournament is in town at Colonial Country Club, which is about two miles from our house.) Since this fifteen-year-old has his eye on a career in golf or at least a college scholarship (as a freshman he’s already on the high school team), I could see that. But I never saw him again that night.

Last night, he looked at it again, and said, “I can’t do this now. I’ll do it tomorrow.” I decided he was intimidated by it. So when “tomorrow” became today, I asked, and he said, “Do you know what a big project that is? It will take hours.”

So my fancy new walker sits unassembled, while I itch to try it out. I am hoping it will ease the pressure on my shoulders and arms and make me more inclined to get out of the house because it will enable me to walk farther. But I can’t tell until I can try it.

In the meantime, I am sleeping with my feet higher than my head, doing my exercises, enjoying happy hour with good friends, and grateful for a repairman who doesn’t mind working late on a Friday night. Life could be better—but not a whole lot.

Learning to count my blessings

 

The resident papa cardinal in my back yard just flew down to the railing around the deck, sat there a moment surveying his world, then flew to the sidewalk, pecked at a few things, and flew away. I love sighting him and was so relieved to see him and “mama” again this spring. Cardinals are not travelers. They generally stay within one yard, so I am indignant if I see mine in the yard behind me. They say when you see a cardinal on your property, it means someone in Heaven is thinking of you. I always think it’s my dad, a great gardener and bird lover. When Jacob was little, I taught him about cardinals, and he would say excitedly, “Look, Juju, the red bird.”  I don’t suppose he’d let himself get excited today, but I do.

The cardinal is one of many things that makes think I should count my blessings, on this a day when I’m really feeling sort of whiny about several things, including the small health hiccups of age. Frequently you see a question asking people if they age would they rather keep their mind or their physical well-bring. Having seen my mom sink into dementia as the result of several small strokes, or TIAs, my answer is unequivocally that I want to keep my mind lively. It’s one reason I continue to write (aside from the pleasure I find in writing).

But for the last couple of weeks, I’ve been struggling with swollen legs and feet—puffy is the word for my feet. I’ve contacted the cardiologist, and he has prescribed more physical therapy, which is okay but sort of a nuisance because it’s a repeat of what we did not a month ago and what, since then, I do every day myself, though not as often as the therapist would like. They don’t want to give me a prescription because of my recent bout with a kidney injury, so I’m sleeping with my feet in the air—above my heart—and trying compression stockings. Not sure the latter was a success today.

I have exercises to do—chair yoga and five loops around the small circle from living area to bedroom to bath in the cottage. The PT figures it’s about 100 feet total if I do it five times But I have a problem: Sophie goes bat-shit crazy, especially over the chair yoga, though she follows me, barking furiously, when I do the walking. She can easily tell the difference between me just walking from desk to bedroom or bathroom and me doing the exercise walking. On nice days I can lock her outside, though she protests, but on rainy days, there’s no such out. In the past when she stayed outside for long periods of time, I longed for her to come in—guess that’s come home to bite me.

At any rate, with all this going on I fight the temptation to think of myself as an invalid. It’s part of my worry over being a recluse—it’s so easy to stay home and not make that extra effort to get ready to go out, especially when I don’t know the accessibility of my destination. I have ordered myself an upright walker, hoping that will relieve some of the pressure on my arms and shoulders and entice me to get out in the world more.

I thought that was so smart, until I read an email from a friend who said her husband ended in the hospital for two nights because he took a hard fall off his—yeah, you guessed it—upright walker. She thinks, however, there were extenuating circumstances.

Tonight, neighbor Prudence had a meet-and-greet for a run-off candidate for the city council election scheduled for June 2. Jordan sort of co-hosted, and I wanted to go because I wanted to meet the young candidate. I am really impressed by how he organized a neighborhood that had lost its sense of neighborliness and helped earn it the Best Neighborhood of the Year award. But because of my swollen legs and not being sure of access to Pru’s and not wanting to burden Jordan and Christian with looking after me, I elected to stay home. I think it was the right decision, but it’s also the decision that makes me worry that I’m becoming—or have become—a recluse.

After days of rain, it was lovely, sunny, and almost hot today. Tomorrow will apparently be sunny also but then more rain Friday. Of course, it’s the Colonial Gol Tournament (which has a better name) that is attracting all the rain. Happens every year.

Stay safe and dry.

Grand Central Station

 

That’s what the cottage was like today—Grand Central Station. The PT guy always comes early, sigh, so I was up and at my desk by eight, if not exactly dressed for the world and professionally presentable. I called the plumbing company to report a leaking pipe, and to my amazement, my favorite plumber was here by eight-thirty. So he and the PT guy crossed paths for the second time in less than a month. I’m sure Dan the PT man thinks I have an odd relationship with my plumber, but if he saw the bills he’d know exactly the nature of the relationship.

Actually, the plumber, Keith, has been keeping my house running for almost thirty years, and I consider him a good friend. And being one of his longtime customers has its advantages, as it did when a pipe burst during snowmageddon. Today it was a kitchen faucet that whistles and whines at us, especially when we’re washing dishes in my kitchen which has no dishwasher. I thought I could fix it, spent a long time on the phone with a Delta rep (it’s a Delta faucet) who said she’d send me the wrench or key to clean out the aerator. But then yesterday we noticed water collecting in the recycle bucket that is stored under there. So I called for Keith. His verdict: order a whole new head. Delta has amazing records—with my name and address, they pulled it right up, knew what I had, and are sending the head which has a lifetime warranty. But with a warning that we must “flush the system” before installing. I know how to install, but I guess I’ll have to call Keith again about the flushing part. Maybe he and Dan can meet again😊

They both left, and I sort of fiddled at my desk, waiting for the PT nurse who comes once a week and was due any minute. Instead of the nurse, we got a storm. The sky turned really dark and the rain, while not torrential, was pretty heavy—as it has been for day after depressing day. And the atmosphere also depressing. Impulsively I contacted the three friends I was to have supper with and suggested rescheduling. It took a bit of coordination to check everybody’s schedule, change the restaurant reservation, etc., but we are now on the Sunday supper. It reminded me of that old saying, “Morning gray, evening red/brings down rain on the traveler’s head/,morning red, evening gray, speeds the traveler on his way.” Not sure I got that right. But, of course, by late afternoon the sun came out, and it would have been a lovely evening to go to dinner. See that egg on my face? One friend wrote cheerily that she heard that egg and sunshine were good for your complexion.

The nurse never did come, so she’ll come tomorrow. Sigh. Another interruption in the middle of my work morning. I did actually write a bit on my new mystery today. Working on getting myself back into the middle of it after too many distractions.

Late this afternoon, the yard crew came, which led to the usual frantic barking from Sophie, who now sleeps peacefully at my feet. And then, since the rain had stopped, our usual Tuesday night neighbors came for happy hour. Though the sun was shining, it was still too damp to sit outside, so we were in the cottage. Much talk of politics, both the city run-off schedule for June 3 and the 2022 election in which we are all determined that Governor Abbott must go. Abbott is pretty sure of his base, but I read somewhere that Beto O’Rourke, who says he won’t run, is out-polling Abbott. Politics is a funny business.

I am ambivalent about Beto, though I was fiercely for him when he challenged Cruz Whatever, but Democrats must field a strong candidate against Abbott. He and the Republican controlled legislature have been on the wrong side of every issue: abortion voter suppression, liquor to go (I don’t mind at all if people drink, enjoy wine myself, but the potential for deadly accidents and short tempers is appalling), critical race theory (which is a fancy way of saying do not teach the racist history of this country), constitutional carry (another fancy phrase that means almost anyone can walk around with a loaded gun any time—combine that with liquor to go and what could possibly go wrong?), health care for trans teens (though I understand, with gratitude, that one is dead for this session). I am appalled. One of my friends wrote that she was sure the Republicans are working toward a state where only white, male property owners can vote—they’ll call it constitutional originality. I’d laugh, if it weren’t so serious.

Now, as grand central station aka the cottage closes down, Jacob is outside in the dark hitting practice golf balls into the cage he has in the driveway. The other day he presented a sight so touching it almost made me teary—rain, gentle but steady, was coming down, and Jacob was out there, hitting golf balls and oblivious of the soaking he was getting. God bless Jacob…and God bless golf. I have much to say about teens who find something they are passionate about, but I’ll save it for another time.

Sleep tight. I hope each of you have found what in life you’re passionate about.

Peonies

My topsy-turvy world is right-side-up again, My world is in order again, which is mostly good though a tad bittersweet. Megan and Ford left Saturday mid-day to return to Austin. I do so love to have them here—Megan and I had some good visits, Ford and Jacob picked up their close buddy relationship without a pause, Christian came out to the cottage several times to visit with Megan, she and I both got some work done—all wonderful. Friday night we took both boys to Pacific Table, and I was proud as I could be to have my two grandsons with me. Meant to get a picture but didn’t.

Last evening, Jordan came home in time for supper, and dug right in helping me make a giant stuffed hamburger for dinner and one of her classic tossed salads. The hamburger is the size of a pie, with traditional bread stuffing between two layers of hamburger meat. We put it in a grill basket, and Christian cooked it on the grill. So good. 

Jordan brought a West Texas cactus for my coffee table arrangement

 My computer woes are fixed, but it was a long two days with spotty, unreliable Wi-Fi connections. I called Jamie Saturday morning, and he told me to run diagnostics. I did and it told me the problem was fixed. Well, sort of—it just got a bit better. Then Megan called Brandon who has a degree in computer software. He said it was router trouble. Megan had unplugged the router and re-plugged it but apparently it needed a hard boot. Saturday afternoon the connection was again timely and worked perfectly. Saturday night I was up too late, getting my neighborhood newsletter together so I could send it to the designer. This morning it is proofed and finished and off to the printer—off my mind for another month. 

Christian went to a friend’s party Saturday night, had such a good time he stayed longer than he planned. When he came home, he came out to the cottage and we had a good visit, once again talking about local politics which seems to be a frequent topic. I’ll be glad June 1 when the run-off is settled.

While he was often partying, I had a guest for supper, a minister from church whom I’ve come to count as a good friend. As usual I fixed something the kids won’t eat: tuna Florentine. Jordan doesn’t like cooked tuna, Christian doesn’t like tuna period, and neither of them like cooked spinach, though he is more adamant than she. It was so good, and I sent a piece home with Renee. The rain kept us inside—so nice these days not to feel you have to be distanced on the patio. We visited about everything from grandchildren to theology, and of course we solved the world’s problems. If only Biden and Netanyahu and a few others would listen to us! 

I had a lesson this weekend in the dangers of my joking about being a recluse. People take me too seriously. One good friend thought I am still staying in because of Covid. I’m not. I’m fully vaccinated, most of my friends are, and I’m comfortable going out, especially to restaurants where they are careful. If I find myself in a crowd, I’ll wear a mask—always have one in my purse. But quarantine made me lazy. I’m not used to the extra effort it takes to get me and my walker out, and sometimes it just seems easier to stay home. I’m perfectly happy in the cottage, especially when I have a lot of desk work and friends to visit. It’s a tempting trap, and I’m working to avoid it because I’ve always thought of myself as a people person. One of my goals: to get Jordan to take me to Central Market to browse. We do curbside pickup once a week, but I want to go inside, up and down the aisles. 

So here we are, at the foot of another week, wondering what lies ahead. Even with my own little world back in order, it sometimes seems to me chaos is all around—from international happenings to local. What I take from church most Sundays is that we must love each other, and we are all in this together. I cling to those beliefs.

A last look at West Texas

Topsy-turvy and out of kilter

 

That’s how things have been at my cottage the last few days, but mostly in a good way. Jordan is off in Fort Davis, with a group of girls, staying at the family home of one. While she’s away, Austin daughter Megan has come to visit, bringing along her youngest son, Ford. He and Jacob are only four months apart in age and are close buddies, so that’s a treat for both of them.

We’re a working group. Megan has her computer, though much of her work is by phone. She’s alternated between working in the main house and at my coffee table. Jacob of course has virtual school all day, while Ford, best as I know, is preparing for those standardized tests he will take next week. I have been trying to put together the June issue of the Poobah, our neighborhood newspaper, but my wifi connection has been slow to nonexistent. I’ve had a good lesson in how dependent I am on the internet—even editing articles when I want to look for illustrations, etc. Several of the information sites I rely on, including cooking sites, are so slow to load that I confess I lost patience. A frustrating day.

Last night Megan’s longtime friend, Amy, came for happy hour. The girls went to kindergarten together and then all through elementary, high school, and college. In law school, they were roommates. So they had lots of catching up to do. I visited with them for a bit and then came inside. By 8:30 I realized that I was really hungry, and we should feed two teen-age boys. I had fixed my current favorite casserole, Queso Chicken, and we ate a one-dish meal late at night and sat and talked until way too late.

Tonight, we took the boys to Pacific Table, one of Megan’s favorite restaurants. Lovely to sit on the patio with just enough breeze. Who cares about the noisy trains? Both boys ate sushi, an incredible amount for Ford and a chopsticks lesson for Jacob. We dined early, were home by seven o’clock and Megan asked, “What will we do now?” She cleaned and organized my freezer. Visiting daughters are so wonderful. And she gave my computer at least a temporary fix, so I am back in business and was able to clean up a lot of details from this morning.

The pictures I’m posting are from Jordan’s trip to West Texas. Such beautiful country. Makes me want to be there. I hope you enjoy them.

Goodbye to an old friend

 

Just beginning to come down

Almost thirty years ago I bought this house because two things spoke to me: the large front porch, partially roofed, and the huge elm tree that stood like a sentinel at the foot of the driveway. I think I mentioned last week that a large branch fell off suddenly, unexpectedly one afternoon about two o’clock. An hour later, and it could have landed on a child leaving the elementary school across the street. Today we lost the tree.

Over the years, several branches have fallen. Once I came home late at night from a long trip to find the front yard covered in branches. Another time, a neighbor rushed down to saw a branch that hung by a thread, saying he was afraid it would fall on a child. Then he charged me sixty dollars. I finally figured out that it was the city’s tree, because it’s in the boulevard, the patch between the sidewalk and the street. Thereafter, I called the city whenever it lost a branch, but I did so with fear and quaking, because I was terrified they would take it down.

Somehow, in my mind, that tree anchored the house in the neighborhood. I could not imagine the property without it. But last week, when the city cleaned up the fallen branch, the arborist said the tree was dead and a danger. And today, they came to take it down. Jordan pointed out that you can see how hollow some parts of it were. I’m a bit relieved, because we are to get storms tonight, and I don’t need to worry about a tree falling on the house and killing my family. (Yeah, I can usually find things to worry about.)

A sad view of the destruction
Taken from the front porch looking at the school across the street

The house will be a hundred years old next year, so I’m assuming the tree is that old. That leads to the question of another tree. I will check but I don’t suppose the city replaces them. I know no tree, unless maybe a junk tree like a hackberry, will grow in my lifetime, but I feel a tree is a legacy I must leave behind. It will seem so odd to have a sapling where that grand, majestic tree was. I don’t think another elm. Perhaps oak, because they seem to do well in Texas. A redbud? Pretty, but I don’t know.

I read somewhere recently that research has demonstrated that trees communicate with each other through their root systems. Sounded a bit anthropomorphic to me, but I am always willing to believe such spiritual things. So now I worry about those other trees, like the lovely oak that stands between our front lawn and the neighbors. Are they missing my elm?

The city did a fairly nice job of cleaning up, shaving down the big roots that might trip people and taking the stump down to ground level. But the stump is still there. We will have to find someone to grind it out and fill the resulting hole with dirt. It’s not a DIY project for this household.

And we have other tree concerns. The pecan that provides wonderful shade for my patio and probably keeps my cottage cool in the afternoon is shedding those tassel-like catkins that result from blooming (no technical botanical discussion here). They blanket my patio right now and cling to Sophie’s fur whenever she ventures outside, which is sometimes five times an hour—you know: I want in, I want out, I want in, now I think I’ll go out. Jordan blows the patio daily and trained Jacob to do it when she was out of town recently, but with all the rain we’ve had, the catkins don’t easily blow away.

And then there are two glorious big oaks at the edge of the drive—gorgeous canopies that shade the main house and no doubt help keep it cool. But their roots are encroaching on  the already-skinny driveway, making it a hazard for the unsuspecting driver. I have lots of friends who won’t even attempt it, which is a problem if they’re picking me up. Complicated but there are few other places where my walker and I can fit. We can’t move the drive even an inch, because it already abuts the neighbor’s property line. I worry about these trees as much as I did the one we lost today. But I am also thankful to live in a neighborhood so full of luxurious trees.

Joyce Kilmer was right about never seeing a poem lovely as a tree. He just forgot to mention worry and maintenance.

What's left tonight

Kitchen thoughts on a rainy Sunday morning

We’re getting a lovely, soft, gentle rain this morning, and it’s supposed to last all day. Good day for books and naps and a pot of soup. I was talking recently with a longtime friend who will be moving into an arrangement like mine—a cottage on her daughter’s property. I asked how much space she would have and volunteered that I have 600 square feet. She said her cottage, not yet built, would have about 1200. That got me to wondering what I would do with more space. What I have is fine—except the kitchen. I would love a bigger kitchen.

My kitchen is probably 6 x 10 feet, with a counter that holds a double sink and a smaller counter that holds my hot plate and toaster oven. In my small space, I have a huge refrigerator—but no stove. The lifesaver has been a wooden butcher-block type piece I had built for a different kitchen years ago. A lower shelf holds junk—dog food and treats and water, paper bags for carrying out garbage, a couple of odd flowerpots I should get rid of.

What I don’t have: air fryer, instant pot, microwave, and storage space, although Jordan has loaded my cabinets with a remarkable amount of canned goods—she did that at the beginning of quarantine, and we keep replenishing it.

In my limited quarters tonight, I’ll cook pork medallions in a mustard/tarragon sauce and a black bean/corn/feta salad. Maybe I’ll ask Christian to make some noodles. Jordan has been away for the weekend, so this is a welcome-home dinner.

Last night I stumbled on a website all about things that Americans cooked and ate in the fifties and sixties but never see now. I beg to differ with the author—for instance, my family still loves our Christmas cheeseball, and I would like some cheese fondue made with Emmenthal. The fifties were notable for jellied foods and most of those were pretty extreme, but I have a chicken loaf recipe that I treasure—just chicken, saltines, and Knox gelatin. Also on my maybe list: creamed chipped beef on toast. I know, I know. It has a horrible reputation, and the last time I made it I didn’t find it as good as I remembered. But I have had it when it was a rich and good breakfast dish. A banana split may not be as popular as it once was, but I think it would still be a tasty occasional treat.

One of the longest lasting controversies in the food world is about cooking with canned soups. Many people declare them passé, but I still fix recipes that call for mushroom soup (several tuna and chicken dishes) and my family craves a rice dish that has cream of celery soup. I remember a critic who reviewed my first cookbook and declared haughtily that she would never use canned soup—she would make her own. I looked at recipes for approximating what the Campbell folks do pretty well and decided that it had as many preservatives, were three times the work, and probably were watery. Nope, I’m sticking with my canned soup. They take up some of that minimal space in my cupboard.

Not so high on my list: jellied potato salad made in a loaf pan—potato salad is so good. Why mess with what works? How about onions stuffed with peanut butter and baked? I’ll pass on that too, thank you. Rainbow grilled cheese? I shudder to think how the cheese got to be all those colors.

There seems to have been a concerted effort to sell hot dogs. Food companies offered recipes for a crown roast made with hot dogs, the center filled I think with mashed potatoes. (Sauerkraut might be a tiny improvement.) Or you could make a jellied ring of Spaghetti-Os and fill the center with chopped hot dogs.

All of this interests me particularly because of my study of Helen Corbitt, the duenna of food service at Neiman Marcus. Throughout a long career, not just as Neiman’s, she was spokesperson (and teacher) for the highest quality as opposed to expediency, and she came to fame just at the height of the introduction of convenience foods to American kitchens. A fascinating contrast.

If you’re interested in the website, here’s the link: Profitable Food Industry Trends Through the Decades | Investing Magazine. You might find some old friends among these vintage recipes. I would welcome your comments, stories, and recipes.   Contact me at j.alter@tcu.edu

 

Feast or famine

 

Egg salad on rye, garnished with heart of palm

Most nights I have company either for happy hour or supper, be it friends, neighbors, or family. Last night was a special treat. Longtime treasured friend Linda came in from Granbury (for non-Texans, it’s maybe forty miles from Fort Worth, so Linda doesn’t just casually drop in). Jordan joined us for a half glass of wine, and then Linda and I were off to meet three other friends for dinner.

The ladies we met, like ourselves, were former wives of osteopathic physicians. Linda and one other are widowed; three of us are divorcees though only one ex-husband survives. (No, I’m not rubbing my hands in glee—they were friends of mine too.) We meet for dinner only occasionally, but quarantine kept us apart longer than usual, and we were glad to share stories of old times, catch up on families (who got Covid and who didn’t), and share our outlooks on life now that the world seems to be opening up again. As usual, I was the only one who enjoyed quarantine, and Linda, who knows me better than the others, snapped, “Of course you did. You’re a nester.” I think she’s right.

It was lovely to have dinner on a patio surrounded by trees, at a table still socially distanced. Caesar salad, veal piccata, and a couple of glasses of wine. We came back to the cottage and sat on the patio with Jordan and Christian until the chill in the air drove us inside. Linda was to meet a friend this morning in the Stockyards district, so she spent the night on my couch rather than drive back to Granbury, and I kept her up later than she’s used to talking and working at my computer. Strange but nice when you’ve lived alone for so long to wake in the night and know there is someone else in the cottage. I have one light in the living area that stays on 24/7, but she turned it off to sleep. So I kept thinking, “Why is it so dark in here?”

This morning we lingered over tea and scones. Then she was off to the North Side, and I was left to play catch up and do some work. Somehow it slipped my mind that I was supposed to be reading page proofs, so I devoted time to that.

But if last night was a feast of company, tonight is a famine. Jordan has gone to Austin to visit older daughter Megan, and the Burton boys—Christian and Jacob—were helping someone move and would eat dinner thereafter. So I was on my own. When you have no inspiration for dinner, what do you fix? Usually with me, it’s tuna, but tonight I made egg salad.

I’ve been making egg salad all my adult life, always the same ordinary way. So I saved a recipe with ideas for variation, principally bacon and cream cheese. But when it came right down to it, I remembered the reason I quit buying Central Market egg salad was I didn’t like the bacon in it, and when I tried to put cream cheese in a dish a few days ago, it was hard to work with and clumped, even though I heated it. I decided on plain old-fashioned egg salad with mayonnaise, mustard, and dill relish. Made a great sandwich.

A thought in passing: Americans do and believe so many things these days that are, to me, beyond belief. But the current one that boggles my mind is all the people who panicked and began to hoard gasoline when the East Cost pipeline was hacked. I saw a couple loading the back of a Suburban with containers of gas. My first thought was that I didn’t want to ride anywhere with them. But looking further, I began to appreciate their use of proper gas containers, because I saw pictures of people putting gas in plastic bags, tying the tops, and putting them in their cars. Are they serious? What level of stupid are they?

Did you read about the man who loaded his Hummer (who knew they were still around) with gas (it did not say what kind of container), got in, and lit a cigarette? Within minutes, his Hummer was ashes. Fortunately, he escaped injury.

A post somewhere on the net skewered these hoarders, saying some people at a party hearing there might not be enough pizza to go around, take three or four pieces, while others, fearing not everybody would get some, limited themselves to one piece. It is, the poster aid, a perfect illustration of Americans today.

Which brought me back to the theme of so many sermons at my church today: do you always think of others first or do you think of yourself? A question that might make a lot of us do some deep introspection.

How to write a mystery

 

Now available in paperback, digital, and audio editions
You're bound to love Henny and laugh at Irene

The other night I started a blog on how to write a mystery, because I’d discovered a new and unorthodox method. Since it seems to be going well, I’ll try again and hope I don’t erase it. I well know that a whole bookstore could be stocked with nothing but “How to write books.” Too many would-be novelists read book after book as a way to dodge getting to the actual writing. But they need to search no more: I have come up with the formula.

The backstory: way before pandemic and quarantine, I idly started a mystery about a second-tier TV chef in Chicago. Just playing with ideas, I told the story from the viewpoint of her assistant or “gofer,” a young transplant from Texas. Chicago is my hometown, and Henny, the narrator, settled in the Hyde Park neighborhood, where I grew up. Lots of fun to revisit the scenes of my childhood, but also fun to research the many changes in the long years since. But after about twenty thousand words, I was distracted by nonfiction assignments that actually came with advance money. I labeled the fragment “Saving Irene,” and put it aside.

Fast forward a year to the middle of quarantine. I had finished my nonfiction assignments and was at loose ends, so I reread “Saving Irene.” To my surprise I liked the tone, the story, the way it was headed. Long story short, it was an indie publication in September 2020 and got really good reader comments.

More nonfiction and then loose ends again. Several people wanted more of Henny and Irene, and I had committed to name a character for someone who contributed to MysteryLovesGeorgia. So I started, “Irene in Danger.” This time, I quit at sixteen thousand words. An early reader liked it, but I wasn’t sure.

During all this for at least a year, I was delving into the life and cooking of Helen Corbitt, leading light of food service at Neiman Marcus stores. Her fascinates me because she came to prominence in the late fifties—after Poppy Cannon advocated for convenience foods but before both Julia Child and Betty Freidan who exerted polar opposite influences on American cooks. I had hoped my nonfiction publisher would be equally enthralled, but the new editor wrote that she didn’t think a cook in an upscale department store was worth a book. Her loss. I have now sent a formal proposal to an academic publisher and been assured they would give it careful consideration. Which means I’m back at loose ends until I hear from them, which may be a while.

I wrote profiles for the Handbook of Texas Online, the most recent of a husband-and-wife team who were instrumental in saving the history of Fort Worth’s Stockyards district from Disney-like commercialization. A light dawned: I could bring Kelly O’Connell, heroine of eight mysteries, back in a Stockyards setting. The first ten pages went well and after that, crickets. Sound familiar?

I went back to “Irene in Danger,” decided l like the tone, the story, the characters. And this time around the dialog flowed naturally. I’m back to writing it. I make no promises, because as you can see I’ve abandoned manuscripts before. But I’m trying my old formula of a thousand words a day. Slow but steady going. Still not quite to twenty thousand. We’ll see what happens.

I have once again been distracted, this time for page proofs of The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas. Due in September.

Retirement is such fun!

 

 

A really dumb mistake

 

No blog tonight. I was almost done with a brilliant (of course) blog on how to write a mystery. No joke—I knew exactly what I wanted to say, and the words flowed. Then I noticed a funny symbol by the second paragraph and tried to delete it—and deleted the entire rest of the blog. Then spent way too long searching for ways to recover it. Finally located the recycle bin, but it wasn’t there. None of Windows’ helpful hints were helpful. If you want my newfound take on how to write a mystery, you’ll have to wait for another night. I will say that in a long career of writing on computers, this is maybe only the second time I have lost copy. I’m really lucky. But now I’m burnt out and too frustrated—or angry with myself—to rewrite it.

I will content myself with some trivia: one is that my oak leaf hydrangea survived the snowmageddon and is flourishing with big, beautiful blooms. But it is another dark and stormy night in North Texas. Thunder rolling, but we are lucky—the hail all around missed us, and we got a nice rain. I’m grateful the hail didn’t batter those new blooms. Jacob moved the deck plants under the roof overhang, just in case. Now we’re sorry they didn’t get the blessing of the rain, but there’s a better chance tomorrow with a 90% chance of rain—a mixed blessing. I will have to get out in the late afternoon for a medical appointment, and it is the day the neighbors come for happy hour. I have said since we’re all well vaccinated, we can move happy hour indoors if need be.

I had planned to go to dinner at a patio restaurant with friends who live perhaps a mile from me, but we cancelled because of the prospect of rain. She emailed to say she was glad we weren’t there in the lightning, but I honestly did not see any lightning tonight. Sophie for sure heard the thunder though, and it didn’t please her.

The other thing is to post a picture of my second-oldest grandchild and her father (my second son). She was ready for her high school prom, and since graduation will be distanced and limited—we won’t get to go—I am grateful she had the prom experience and an all-night after-party that I am assured was well chaperoned. This is Eden, getting a kiss from her dad, Jamie. Needless to say, I love them both a lot.

G’night all. Maybe tomorrow I’ll share my new secret on how to write a mystery. It’s an untried theory at this point anyway, so you’re not missing much.

Mother's Day memories

 

Me, Jordan, Christian's sister Julie, and Christian's mom

Facebook was alive with pictures of mothers today, many of them vintage, taken when the mothers were young. I loved looking at them, but it made me sad that I have few such of my mom, and they are packed away because of my limited space. When she was very young, Mom’s father told her she took such a bad picture the only place he would hang it was in the barn. She avoided the camera the rest of her life, but at midlife, when my best memories are, she was lovely with wavy auburn hair and a quick smile.

That’s the first thing I think of when I recall Mom—laughter. She was always quick to find something to laugh, even giggle about. When we were young, she told my brother and me stories of our fathers (they were roommates) in their medical school days, and the tears would roll down her cheeks. She could recall her own foibles with equal glee, like the time she signed important legal papers Alice P. MacBread (the name was MacBain, but she was making toast).

Once secretary to Robert M. Hutchins, chancellor of the University of Chicago and founder of the Great Books program, she remained intellectually curious most of her life, reading everything from historians Will and Ariel Durant to nutrition theorist Adelle Davis. She was a strict believer in Davis’ theories, and healthy eating was important to her. She was equally comfortable fixing a full dinner each night for my meat-and-potatoes father or entertaining twenty or so friends and Dad’s colleagues. In summers, she carried clothes and groceries on her back in a duffel bag for a mile and fed us from a primitive kitchen that had no electricity, no running water, and only bottled gas. Mom taught me to cook by letting me experiment in the kitchen, and I bless her to this day for that.

She was tough. Born in 1900 (always easy to keep track of her age), she lived through the Spanish Flu and WWI, lost a husband to complications from a war wound, lived through WWII and married my father, saw us through the polio years (one of the stories she didn’t laugh about) and all the ups and downs of life in America until the early 1980s.

I lost Mom in 1987, but I really lost her much before—to dementia caused by a series of small strokes. It broke my heart, and I wanted to shake her and ask where the gracious lady, full of manners and good taste, had gone. As it was, I didn’t handle it well, but I did the best I could. To this day, I talk to her—about people from the past, about cooking, about her grands and greats—she never knew any of the greats though she adored the grands.

One other woman mothered me. In my sixties I met Bobbie Simms, bookseller and former English teacher, some thirteen years older than I. She was half mother, half sister, a great booster of almost anything I did but never shy about telling me when she thought I needed bringing up short, from having on too much perfume (I didn’t—she was sensitive) to being overly ambitious for my writing. She adopted my grown children because she said they still needed a grandmother, and they adored her. “Bobbie tells it like it is,” they used to say. For a few years, we had a grand time doing “literary” things and lunching and shopping. I lost Bobbie in 2000.

The two are buried in Greenwood Cemetery here in Fort Worth, and I used to drive by, wave, and shout, “Hi, ladies! Are you talking about me?”

We had a lovely Mother’s Day lunch today, joined by Christian’s parents, his sister, her husband and two daughters. Much laughter, many stories told, and memories shared. Christian fixed pulled pork sliders, I made potato salad, and Jordan made a huge fruit salad. So good. Julie and Aaron brought rich, rich desserts which did me in, and I had to nap for two hours after dinner. Just barely recovered now, at seven, but it was a wonderful day. And I am blessed.

Mother's Day table

On kitchen duty

 

Today I spent far too long making potato salad for our Mother’s Day lunch. Which really means I spent far too long peeling potatoes. My plan was to use Yukon gold, because I like the texture and because I wouldn’t have to peel them. But when it came to it, I couldn’t put unpeeled potatoes in a salad. I remember Paul Simms, now long gone, who was infuriated when restaurants started serving mashed potatoes without peeling new red potatoes.

We are having Christian’s family—his parents and his sister, her husband, and their two daughters, ages something like eleven and thirteen. Let me tell you that making potato salad for this crew of ten is no simple matter. Two of them—Jacob and his grandfather—do not eat onions. The grandfather is so vehement about it that I’ve never heard what his objection is, but Jacob has said, more gently, its not the taste but the texture. That surprised me, because I turn down few foods because of texture. I can even eat tripe in pepper pot soup, a good tongue sandwich, or the chicken-fried lamb kidneys my mom used to fix. Yet I know texture is a thing—we have family members who will not touch a mushroom.

Christian admits to being a picky eater, and today I replayed the cause. His mom always said she fixed four separate meals for a family of four. I swore I would never do that, but right now there are two single-serving containers of potato salad without onions in my refrigerator.

I was following a recipe from daughter-in-law Lisa, which called for a good bit of pickle relish and then an astounding amount of salt, which I reduced. I also cut back the mayonnaise, but the salad is still soupy. I’m hoping the potatoes will absorb some by tomorrow. There’s a reason you do best making these things ahead.

And then there’s the matter of eggs—the recipe calls for four hard-boiled. Christian doesn’t eat hard-boiled eggs. I’ve left them out, but I’m wondering if that’s not the reason there’s a bit too much dressing for the number of potatoes. I did add celery just to have something besides potatoes to justify the term salad. But truth is neither Jacob nor Christian like celery.

What happened to three bites for politeness? Or even, “Sit there until you eat it or go to bed”? One of my children didn’t like lamb, but he ate everything else in sight, sometimes ravenously. Instead of picky, he was sort of all-embracing, so I respected the one thing he really didn’t like, just as I ask people to respect my aversion to bell peppers.

Making potato salad for ten just wore me out. Maybe it was all the figuring of who eats what. Let’s see, what was I supposed to be doing today? Oh yes, writing a mystery. I did a big 300 words today—at that rate, I’m sure I’ll leave an unfinished novel. Maybe someone will turn it into a posthumous publication for me!

A truth about me: left alone, I would turn into slob. I’m eating dinner alone tonight. Jacob wants to order in, so we just ordered hamburgers from Shake Shack, which he tells me are the best. I shall eat in the pajamas I’ve been in all day. And I sort of haphazardly pulled the covers up on my bed.

Usually, I nap in the afternoon and then make my bed, so when the family comes for supper, it’s neat and I look disciplined. The physical therapist I just worked with was adamant that making your bed is a sign of a disciplined mind—he makes his kids do it every morning. So when he was coming, I made mine in the morning. Several years ago, the same therapist worked with me before I had surgery and when I was having a lot of problems. I remember I felt guilty or inadequate because my bed was always a rumpled mess. I simply didn’t have the energy to make it—just getting through the day took all I had. Somehow the fact that I make my bed every day is an indicator of how far I’ve come from those days. But today I give in to laziness.

It’s good to be lazy every once in a while. Try it. Tomorrow will be a busy, full day. I’m storing energy.