The Benadryl Battle

 

Ny allergy queen

Sophie is sick again—or still sick. I hardly know which to say. Her tummy troubles seem gone, but her snorting, snuffling, whatever the sound, is still with us bigtime. I worry about describing it to the vet, and sometimes I want to say it sounds like a horse blowing. Or maybe she’s trying to clear her throat as a lot of us do in allergy season in Texas. And sometimes, when she’s not making all those noises but lying peacefully on the floor, you can hear a rattle as she breathes. I was really tempted today to ask the vet if dogs can get pneumonia. It stands to reason they can, but he keeps reassuring me it’s allergies.

Last night she began hawking, honking, whatever you want to call it at three in the morning. Poor thing was absolutely miserable. I gave her water, talked soothingly to her, massaged her throat. Nothing happened—except both of us lost sleep. I did get to doze a bit but it was not real sleep. I let her out and fed her about six-thirty, but she, who was ravenous last night, refused her food. About seven, I got in one of those funny hours—I dreamt but I knew I was dreaming. And in the back of my mind was the thought that she wouldn’t eat.

Relief, of course, comes from Benadryl. But I defy you to get a pill into that dog. She is far smarter than we poor humans. She has fished the pill out of the canned dog food she adores, pieces of Velveeta, spoonfuls of cottage cheese. This morning, in what I thought was a fit of brilliance, I pulverized two pills and mixed into the wet canned food she now loves. No go, one sniff and she wouldn’t go near it. She smelled the medicine. Tonight I gave her straight dog food and kibble, and she ignored it—but a couple of hours later she ate every bite.

Asking me about her behavior is sort of an exercise in futility. She’s an older dog, so she sleeps a lot during the day. I would say she was normal today, chasing a few squirrels, overjoyed when Zenaida came to clean the cottage, but tonight Jordan said, “She’s clearly not herself.” So there I went into panic mode again. Praying for good sleep tonight.

Other than Sophie worries, there’s always the larger problems of Ukraine and Russian aggression and worldwide moves toward autocracy—or in our country, the unraveling insurrection and worries about midterms and horrible disinformation—no, Joe biden is not senile; no, he is not in control of gas prices or inflation—and so it goes. In Texas, if you’re inclined to worry, I give you Abbott’s latest threat to declare an invasion at the border and the ongoing media blitz supportong the right. I am so disgusted with the Fort Worth Star-Telegram I am about to quit with a noisy flourish—but Fort Worth is my home, and I want to read my hometown paper. But it offends me they have a community board for conservative voices but not the same for liberals.

Closer to home, things look good. I have been finishing the first pass edits of Finding Florence and doing considerable rewriting, filling in plot holes, finding new scenes I think will improve it. I am so wrapped in that world that when a friend told me she was switching winter clothes for summer, I corrected—she meant putting away summer for winter. When she wrote back and said, no, she meant exactly what she said, she was getting out summer clothes, I realized that it is near winter in the book and I was still in the world of my fiction. Yes, in Texas, it is spring, although unusually cool. I could get spoiled to that.

Last night, out of the blue, I said to Jordan, “I want some Mexican food.” She laughed and said, “How did you know I just pulled up the menu from Enchiladas Olé!” I ordered a chalupa with ground beef—it came with all the good stuff, except the ground beef. I was bummed, but tonight everyone is gone, so I had my favorite: a salmon croquette and a big blue cheese salad. We’ve had such a busy week, we haven’t had many family meals in the cottage, and I hope we can get back to that.

Life is good. Pray for peace and love, not hate, here and abroad.

Dinner at the Star

 

In one week, we went from feeling sophisticated to funky western. Tonight, the Burtons, Jean, and I had dinner at the Star Café in Fort Worth’s National Historic Stockyards District. For forty-two years, my good friends Betty and Don Boles have owned the Star. As I wrote a couple of weeks ago, Betty and Don have sold the classic steakhouse. Saturday night will be their last hoorah. So the last couple of weeks they’ve been busy with folks who have come for a last supper. Tonight was out turn.

Betty was waiting for us, with a reserved sign on the front table that I’ve always loved. It sits right in the front window so you can watch the comings and goings on West Exchange Avenue. Of course, you have to mind the sign that says, “Please don’t mess with the neon lights!”

Wine was served, and we fell to nostalgic stories and memories, with lots of laughter. The late-night dinners when the café had emptied, the night one of Jordan and Christian’s friends fell asleep in a booth, the times Jordan wanted to take home a pint of the house-made ranch dressing, the luncheon after Jacob’s christening. I asked about the people I remembered—Bino, the cook who is still there; Emilio, the clean-up guy who left after long years; the prep guy who’d been there since I remember; the postman who used to come for supper before he went dancing and always wanted to talk about western history. Other faces and memories swam before me, but I couldn’t be specific about them.

For me, nothing would do for dinner except chicken-fried steak. You can get steak, nicely done, in a lot of restaurants in this city, but good chicken-fried is a special thing onto itself. Betty and I split an order, with mashed potatoes and lots of gravy. Saying she knew they’d never serve it at Trinity Terrace, Jean also ordered chicken-fried, declaring she would take half home with her. She didn’t. She ate it all. Jordan and Christian ordered filets, and Jacob had chicken fingers which I remember were so large I could barely eat one. It was all delicious.

Best of all was seeing Betty. For years, she and I went to dinner every Wednesday night, sometimes to our regular places, other times adventuring out to try new places. In recent years, we added Jean to the tradition. But then pandemic hit. I knew Betty was still working weekends at the Star, which made me leery, and then I got to the point that getting me out in my walker was just too much trouble. I stayed home a lot. Tonight I realized that it took at least two people to help me at the two steps in and out of the Star—Betty couldn’t do it herself. So our habit fell by the wayside, much lamented by both of us. We have gotten together occasionally—a couple of times to go out with others, a couple of times on my patio. But we have missed each other, and it was good to reconnect tonight.

A thoroughly happy evening!

In other nonconsequential news, I got my hair cut really short. I notice in the picture how fat my face looks. But my doctor said, sanctimoniously, “We do not encourage the elderly to lose weight.” That’s because if a health catastrophe hits, you might need that reserve in the hospital. Also losing weight stresses organs in your body like the heart. So here I am, eating modestly—honest, most of the time, just not this week—and still gaining weight. I have decided to be happy and not worry about it.

One thing I did worry about: my extreme fear of weight, as it showed itself in Jean’s seventeenth-floor apartment the other night. By serendipity, 23andMe, which I subscribed to several years ago, sent me the next day a report on my fear of height. My first thought was “How did they know?” Well, of course, they knew by profiling, and they said most people have a 29% chance of fearing heights; I have a 38% chance. Furthermore, people who fear height get their sense of balance from visual points of reference—if you are at the edge of a high balcony, you have no such visual points. I instantly remembered being in a wide, empty lobby where the walls and floor were of neutral marble (faux, I presume)—no pictures, no furniture, no plants, nothing. Just that faux marble. I told Jordan it was the kind of space that made me feel spacy. When she asked what would happen, I said, “I don’t know. I’ll lose my balance and fall on the floor.” Now that makes sense to me. There were no visual points of reference. I am deeply relieved to know the reason for my fear and that it’s not just a silly idea in my mind.

So, a great evening, a good week, and I am ready to sleep. ‘Night all. Sweet dreams.

Feeling sophisticated

 

Dinner in the Blue Spire, Trinity Terrace

Last night, Jordan, Christian, and I were treated to dinner at Trinity Terrace by Jean, who moved to the high-rise retirement center in October. I had been to her apartment and dined in the Blue Spire, the more formal dining area, a couple of times, but the Burtons were most curious. For me, it was being transported to a world that I’ve long since left behind. A wonderful menu, good wine, white linen—all the trappings of fine dining.

Jordan and Christian predictably chose steak—and I forget what Jean had—but I had the tenderloin in a crème fraiche sauce with noodles (and will have the rest tonight). What really made the meal for me was my appetizer—fried oysters that were crispy on the outside and soft and succulent inside. A rare treat. I used to love them raw but am now a bit afraid. We even indulged in dessert—bread pudding for Jean and chocolate mousse for the rest of us. I had eaten so much, but I cannot ever pass up mousse. I don’t think Jordan had ever tasted bread pudding and she was surprised and pleased with the one bite she tried.

Because the kids asked, Jean explained the advantages—and disadvantages—of living there, plus all the things she had considered in visiting various retirement communities. Jordan listened so avidly and asked so many questions that I said, “Don’t even think it!” She replied, “I’m not thinking about you! I’m moving in.” When I had said to Christian way beforehand not to think they could move me there, he said, “We know better than that, Juju.”

After a two-hour dinner, punctuated by a lot of laughter and a lot of pointing out this building and that from what would be the thirteenth floor (only they don’t call it that), we went up to the seventeenth to Jean’s apartment. Her reupholstered furniture was now in place, things arranged as she wanted them, much different from when I first saw  it. Her late husband was a craft artist, and one whole wall of lighted bookcases displays much of his work, with weathervanes marching across the top. The view from the floor-to-ceiling windows is spectacular. The kids went out on the balcony but, seventeen floors up? No way. I stayed clear across the room. But the whole place is sort of a wonderful blend of artsy, modern, and cozy, one of the most striking apartments in all three buildings, I’m sure.

Jean is happy there, at home, and comfortable. Communal living doesn’t attract me—I didn’t even like dorm life, for goodness’ sake! With an innate fear of height and a dislike of self-service elevators, I want to be able to step out my door onto the good earth, and I very much want to be able to just open a door and let my dog out. (A good friend, Jeannie, has the apartment next to Jean, and she has to take her dog down seventeen floors to pee.) Christian said if he lived there—and I could see he liked the idea some twenty or more years on—he wouldn’t have a dog, but I replied, “I don’t want to live without a dog.”

Dogs in Trinity Terrace are a funny story. They are not to walk on the carpet in hallways or on the elevator, so Jeannie takes her small poodle in what looks like a baby carriage. I reported this to other friends who are seriously thinking of moving to Trinity Terrace. Phil has a seeing-eye dog, a lab, and I can’t quite picture him in a carriage or even a little red wagon. I’m sure there are exceptions for service dogs.

Between the church, the university, and just Fort Worth in general, we all know a lot of people who live in Trinity Terrace. In that way it would be welcoming. There’s a wide buffet of activities every day—Jean is looking forward to a patio jazz concert this weekend—but there are some people who hide in their apartments. I am so accustomed to my daytime solitude, I don’t know if I’d do that or not.

Any way you look at it, it was a lovely and informative evening. At one point when one of us said how much we enjoyed the elegant meal, Jean said it gets kind of routine. She, a good cook, is thinking about fixing more meals in her apartment. I meantime am counting my blessings because I think I have the perfect set-up. Close but not too close to one branch of my family, comfortable quarters, a great patio and small backyard—enough for Sophie—and a place to work.

Retirement is different for everyone. I’ve found my niche, and so has Jean.

A lesson in dependency

Me with the walker that tried to dump me.
My friend there is Pierre, a visitor.

Last night I was sitting in my seated walker doing I don’t know what at the butcher block in the kitchen when suddenly I felt a strange pull to the right, looked down, and saw that the front right wheel of the walker was splayed out of line. Got up and walked it to my desk where I could sit in the chair and see what was wrong. At first, I thought it was a loose joint and could be temporarily fixed with that magic solution, duct tape. I would walk it everywhere and only sit when I was perfectly still, like brushing my teeth. Good plan but faulty. As I was walking through my tiny kitchen, that whole leg of the walker broke off and hung uselessly in the air.

I was lucky to make it to the bedroom corner where an old-fashioned walker waited—the kind with no seat, no way to carry anything. It takes both hands to balance and use it. I was essentially helpless. I could go from desk to bathroom to bed, but that was about it. And I was the only one home.

I did two positive things: I put a notice on the neighborhood email list that I needed to borrow a seated walker, and I ordered a new one from Amazon—they promised Tuesday delivery. Then I went to bed.

This morning, lying in bed, I ran through all kinds of options in my mind—a friend whose husband had died might still have his walker, I could use my transport chair as a walker, I could rent one from a handicap store. It took me five trips to assemble and carry Sophie’s food, medication, etc. from the kitchen to the desk where I could sit to mix it altogether.

I went back to bed and wondered if it was worth getting up. I might have stayed there except I remembered two women: Mrs. Taylor lived across the alley when I was a kid. She had bad arthritis and decided she would spend just one day in bed—she never walked again; a friend’s sister, in her late seventies or early eighties, announced that she was tired and was going to spend a few days in bed. She died before her few days were up. I practically jumped out of bed.

Jordan came out dutifully bearing duct tape—I hadn’t updated her. She immediately ruled out using the transport chair as too dangerous. When I mentioned renting, she said we could make do until tomorrow when Amazon delivers the new chair. She made my tea, refreshed my ice water, took me to brush my teeth in the transport chair because I really don’t think I could balance to brush them while standing. She got me settled at my desk and came back to fix my lunch.

Sophie watched all this carefully. The transport chair alarms her because it means I am going somewhere. When it stood in the kitchen, and I was still at my desk, she was clearly puzzled.

Then Jeannie called. She had a walker in her car from the resale store at the retirement community where she lives and she was on her way to my cottage. You cannot imagine how happy I was to take my own dishes to the sink and wash them, tidy up the kitchen and the bathroom.

Two lessons came out of this, the first rather obvious. I pride myself on being rather independent despite my mobility challenges and yet, I am almost completely helpless without one special piece of equipment. If I can’t sit in various locations, I can’t cook, wash dishes, make the bed, brush my teeth or put on makeup—a whole lot of the little business of daily living is beyond my grasp. Without my four-wheeled walker, I would need a lot more help each day.

If that lesson was humbling, the second one made me feel much better. Jordan has been out of town almost a week, helping Megan tend to Brandon who broke his jaw last Tuesday. When I said this morning that I had chicken for a sheet pan dinner tonight, which I thought would be easy, she said, “If we don’t have a walker, I’m not cooking. I don’t want to be on my feet. I’m exhausted.” So I realized that’s my contribution in this cooperative living arrangement—I do a lot of the cooking, and it’s a real help to them. That makes me feel a lot less like a burden and more like a contributing member of a team.

To add troubles to troubles, the wonderful lady who cleans for us once every two weeks cancelled this morning because of an allergy flare. The cottage is dirty and the laundry basket full. I am so disappointed! And so spoiled, and I know it.

The week is bound to get better. Hope your Monday was better than mine!

Rain? Always hopeful

 

Rain all weekend, they said, and we all rejoiced. But then they said, “Maybe a little on Saturday, but for sure on Sunday.” Sunday was indeed gray, like it could rain soon. Christian worried that Jacob wouldn’t get his practice golf game it, but he did with no problems. By late afternoon, I was sitting at my desk, French doors to the patio open, marveling at how still the world was. Still waiting for rain.

All of a sudden, a whisp of cool air, and the wind was ruffling the trees. The sky darkened, and I thought, “Here it comes for sure.” Pretty soon, though, it was still again. Now an hour later there is the lightest breeze moving the trees, it is still too gray for the time of day, and the air definitely feels cooler. But rain? Not yet.

My family has gone to a John Mayer concert in Dallas. Jordan got home at three-something on the Vonlane bus from Austin, and they were all out the door at four-thirty to ride the train to Dallas. Made me, just awake from a deep nap tired, but then I am not a John Mayer fan, though I admit if I were ever to go to a concert, his is probably one I’d like better than a lot of others. I think the boys in the family deserve credit for being willing to make the mom happy—Christian bought expensive tickets not because he’s wild about Mayer but because he’s wild about Jordan who is wild about Mayer. And Jacob? I doubt it’s his kind of music, but he got to take a buddy, and he’ll enjoy the outing. And if Sawyer, the hard rock musician in the family, could go last week and enjoy, so can Jacob and his friend.

Meanwhile I sit home and wait for rain. In a few minutes I’ll fix myself a loin lamb chop and a salad. I’ve written the last line of the first draft of Finding Florence, the third of my Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries. No, I didn’t rush it off to the printer. There’s lots of work ahead—editing on my part which means at least two more pass throughs, sending the mss. to beta readers, and considering their suggestions and questions, sending it to my longtime mentor if he is still ready to read, then sending it to a professional editor who works with cozy mysteries. Finally, I’ll send it to a graphic designer for formatting, cover design. One more proofing, and then she’ll post it to Amazon. Yep, it’s a months-long project.

But I’ve been thinking about what happens when you write a novel. One thing that’s come to my mind is that at the end of that first draft is you know your characters a lot better. That means, for me, that now as I go back and start over, I have to tweak the characters to let the reader know them better. I must fill our not only descriptions but actions and words by which they reveal themselves.

And another thing I found tonight just going over three chapters is that as I went through that first draft, I was putting words on paper—but sometimes they contradicted each other, or left holes in the plot, or raised questions, “Why did so-and-so do that?” or “Would she really have said that?”

I won’t read more chapters tonight because I want to do this slowly with focused concentration. After a bit, my focus wanders. So I’ll spend the rest of the evening reading that Diane Mott Davidson novel I’m deep into—Dark Tort. A good mystery with lots of food talk and recipes.

Have a great week everyone!

Bad days and good days

 

We all have them—ups and downs—but this week was particularly chaotic for me. Early in the week, I bumbled along writing my neighborhood newsletter which came out this month to a whopping thirty-two pages. Not sure if that’s a good thing or not, but I was pleased with a lot of the content.

But then Wednesday was an unsettling day. Tuesday night when neighbors Mary and Pru came for happy hour, we sat on the patio, and my Sophie joined us. Nothing she likes better than company on the patio. But that evening, it was clear that she was having stomach issues—I shall not get more specific. But she woke me to go out several times during the night, and I am one who values sleep. By three a.m. she quieted and slept until we both got up close to nine. Still, I dragged all day.

And I was barely up when Christian came to tell me Brandon, my Austin son-in-law, had spent the night in the ER. That was all Jordan, also in Austin, told him in the middle of the night. So we were left to wonder much of the day. Gradually we learned that he had checked out one of Austin’s city electric scooters and fallen, broke his jaw. By that night, we knew that he had surgery and, a biggie in my mind, did not have to have his jaw wired shut. Now, he’s recuperating, sleeping a lot, taking his meds, the swelling is going down. But Wednesday was his fiftieth birthday--bummer. The “epic” party scheduled for this weekend has been postponed.

Today has been a much better day. Because I’m a foodie at heart, grocery shopping, while a chore to many, is a delight to me. I love to wander the aisles of Central Market (for non-Texas folks, it’s an upscale market with a wide selection, but I especially appreciate the freshness of the vegetables, meat, and seafood). Jordan doesn’t like to go there, because parking is difficult, and she is so busy it’s easier for her to just shop without me. We order curbside pickup from Central Market about once a week.

But today, neighbor Mary took me. I drove through the store in one of their motorized carts and only had one near miss—a trash can latched on to my cart and wanted to go with me. Honest, it was a great delight for me. I bought groceries for the family, but a few treats for me, like smoked salmon. Plus Mary and I had fun together—she was great about reaching items off the shelf for me, returning the cart from the car, etc. We hope to do that again. And yes, I had a long list and spent a lot of money. The last thing Mary’s husband said to us was something like, “Try to make considered decisions.”

This evening Jean came for supper—she had been on a museum outing to Mineral Wells where they visited various sites, tasted some mineral waters, learned some history, and had a good time. She came straight here, and we relaxed. Dinner was good—fresh beets with greens, cod, and half an artichoke each. Beets take a long time to cook and then I waited for the pan to cool so I could roast the fish in it. So we had a good long time to visit and catch up. A lovely, pleasant evening.

This has not been a good week for writing, and I intend to focus on my work-in-progress this weekend. But a friend in a writing group talked about “brain writing,” when you’re not actively working on a project, but your brain is always busy with it. That’s what I’ve been doing.

I’m happy to report Sophie is feeling much better and was unbelievably demanding for attention tonight. The vet sent home some prescription canned dog food. That dog has never had wet food in her life, and now she’s ruined—I am afraid she’ll never settle for kibble again. She loves the wet food, and I can easily hide medicine in it and she never knows.

So here we go, sailing into the weekend. Jordan is to be home Sunday, so maybe Monday we can get back to normal. Meantime I have much enjoyed having the attention of two men—one almost fifty and one almost sixteen. There’s a silver lining to every cloud (wasn’t that a WWI song? I remember my mom was offended when I as a youngster suggested it was a Civil War song). Anyway, it’s a good thought, so make it yours for tonight. It sort of describes my week.

Some thoughts on caretakers

Jordan and me
at her St. Patrick's Day birthday 

Jordan left today for five nights in Austin with her big sister. They plan all kinds of activities from pedicures to party shopping, culminating in my son-in-law’s fiftieth birthday party Saturday night. And let’s not forget the John Mayer concert Thursday in Austin—my girls will go to the ends of the earth to hear John Mayer, but that’s another story.

My nose was a bit out of joint that I wasn’t invited. I somehow have the bad senior parenting idea that I must be included in everything. I remember when I first realized that as adults, they were talking to each other without going through me. Wait! I thought I was communications central. Now they all four talk to each other all the time, and I rarely know what’s going on. As for this trip, both girls said this was simply not the right time for me to be in Austin, and though I want to make a big fuss and give them a guilt trip, I know they are right. I can’t—and don’t want to—do all that running around. And though I’d love to celebrate B’s birthday, the party would be loud with a lot of people I don’t know at someone else’s house, so I couldn’t sneak away whenever I wanted. No, I’m better off at home.

But for me it raised the caretaker question. Jordan is unofficially designated as my caretaker, and yet she’s not only leaving me for almost a week, she has tasked me with feeding her boys Christian and Jacob, a task I willingly take on. But my mind lingers on the thought of how much I need a caretaker.

Granted, I am in my early eighties (I can still honestly say early). Still, I live alone (though help is only yards away), I can handle the routines of daily living, I am still writing and publishing, I socialize with friends albeit mostly on my patio or in my cottage, and I routinely cook meals for four on a hot plate and a toaster oven. I have an active life of my own. Not too shabby.

On the other hand, there are things I can’t do for myself. I don’t drive so I can’t go to doctor appointments, I can’t mop up a spill on the floor (though I try from my seated walker), I sometimes can’t get clothes down from my closet (why did the closet designers put those bars so darn high up?), I need help in the shower to make sure I don’t fall. If I want a dish from the top shelf of the cupboard, I have to ask Jordan.

So it’s a mixed bag—and I admit I probably could not live alone without assistance. On the other hand, I don’t want to go to assisted living for a lot of reasons. I love people, but I don’t want all of them around me all the time. Right now I have the perfect mix of solitude and vibrant company, I want my dog to be able to wander in and out. And a silly, picky point: I get claustrophobic alone in self-service elevators, so the high-rise where most of my friends are is not a solution for me.

But there’s more. I relish the company of Jordan, Jacob, and Christian. I love our dinners together, my garden that Christian and I sometimes agree about and sometimes not, the friends they bring to the house who inevitably come out to give me a hug and maybe sip a glass of wine, the joy of watching Jacob grow and become his own person.  I love being part of their lives and having them in mine.

And in anticipation of this week, I realize that Jordan is what—or who—holds it all together. Yeah, sometimes she’s too busy with work to talk about menus, and I get frustrated. And sometimes, she’s frustrated that I need to ask for help on little things—and big, like finding the exact pan I want to cook something or feeding Sophie a pill. But without her, we are a bit adrift, without an anchor.

Tonight I had my two neighbors for our usual Tuesday night happy hour, and then I served the boys Big Mac salad. Jordan had given me explicit directions on how she did it—she does what I decry and tailors each plate to individual taste. I was raised that you eat what was set before you and there were no exceptions, except in case of allergy but I can’t remember any allergies from my childhood. Dislikes, yes; allergies, no. So tonight I let each “boy” serve himself, and Christian did most of the dishes. We’ll be all right this week, but we will be glad when she’s home again.

And I’ve already planned a couple of dinner for next week—four nights, including some out—so she doesn’t have to worry about that, because I know she’ll hit the deck worrying about her business that’s been neglected.

Have fun, Jordan and Megan. Happy Birthday, B. And Christian and Jacob, thanks for stepping up to the caretaker’s role. I know you’re there if I need you. I love you all a lot.  

Going to the dogs

 

Sophie is still having issues—so consequently am I. She’s off her feed, as the old folks used to say, and refused anything edible all weekend, which meant I couldn’t get a pill down her. Then last night, she woke me at two-thirty. I was so proud of myself: I did not yell or get angry. I talked in a calm, low voice, explained I knew her tummy hurt (she had been eating grass) and I would call the dog doctor in the morning but she should go to her crate and go back to sleep. Her anxious look turned to inquisitive—I’m sure she was thinking, “What in God’s name is she talking about? My stomach hurts!” But eventually, she turned and went away, and I didn’t hear from her.

Until five o’clock, when sweet talk did not work. I let her out, stayed up with her for almost an hour, and finally went back to bed with her curled right outside the back door to the house. I do not leave her out unattended and won’t do it again, but I thought desperate situations called for desperate measures. When daylight came, I cracked the door so she could come in, and when I finally got up at eight-thirty, I found her curled in a chair.

Today the vet sent medicine, suggesting I give it to her with honey. Honey? Are you kidding? Have you ever tried to get a pill, slippery with honey, down a dog’s throat. I hid it in cheese, stroked her throat, talked sweetly, felt her swallow—let go and she spit out the pill. Jordan got it down her tonight, and she ate her first food since Saturday night so I hope we’re on the mend.

Otherwise, a workday. With my late start on the morning I barely got my emails out of the way when neighbor Margaret came to talk to me about the Lily B. Clayton centennial book for an article in the neighborhood newsletter. Pleasant visit, and I spent the rest of the morning struggling to incorporate the interview with Margaret, who worked on the archive and did the photo permissions, with what I’d learned from Deb Nyul, who wrote the text of the book. It’s a wonderful story of dedicated volunteer neighbors—and a beautiful, professional book.

If you are interested in women’s literature, here’s a whole reading list for you: The Sarton Book Awards have been announced by Story Circle Network. Presented for memoir, historical fiction, contemporary fiction, and nonfiction, the award is named in honor of May Sarton for her contributions to women’s literature. Winner in the memoir category is Susan Tweit for Bless the Birds (She Writes Press), a recalling of her husband’s final days with a glioblastoma. A powerful book about love and grief and illness. I am not familiar with the other winners, but here they are: Contemporary Fiction: The Sound Between the Notes by Barbara Linn Probst (She Writes Press); Historical Fiction: Vindicated: A Novel of Mary Shelley by Kathleen Williams Renk (Cuidono Press); Nonfiction: The Strong Black Woman: How a Myth Endangers the Physical and Mental Health of Black Women by Marita Golden (Mango). Given at the same time is the Gilda Award, honoring the memory of Gilda Radner and recognizing memoir with fresh and authentic voices. Winner this year is Act Like You're Having a Good Time by Michele Weldon (Northwestern University Press). And special recognition went to The Book of Awesome Girls: Why the Future Is Female by Becca Anderson (Mango). Story Circle Network is an international organization, founded by Texas author Susan Wittig Albert, to support women writers and raise public awareness of the importance of women’s personal histories. Check out some of these titles—they contain a wealth of good writing and insight into women’s lives.

Other than that, I’m happy to report that my garden is growing, the lettuce leafing out nicely, the green onions standing straight and tall, although the lone tomato plant is struggling. My mouth is already watering for good, fresh salads, especially wilted lettuce like Mom used to make.

Hope this is a productive week for everyone, with still enough time to read, play, cook and eat really good food, sleep, and enjoy life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Counting my blessings on Easter Sunday

 

Jacob and Eva today

For complicated reasons, I did not go to church this morning but watched online. The rest of the family went to the nine o’clock service and sat in the very front row with two couples who are their good friends and to whom I feel close. And one couple had their daughter, Eva, with them. Jacob and Eva have known each other all their lives—born two months apart—but
rarely see each other these days. For several years, we had an Easter tradition of brunch at the house following the nine o’clock service (a couple of years it was the sunrise service!). Covid called a two-year halt to that, so it was fun to see the two of them together again. And to

Jacob and Eva
2014

be with the adults.

Some year in between

I admit I got a little teary, the good kind of tears, seeing them all sitting in the front row. The Burtons have not been back to church in person since pandemic, so it was an occasion. They had worried about getting seats—the Easter services are always overflowing—so I laughed that they were in the front row. Hope our minister friend noticed. Even online, the service was lovely, the sermon good (“the worst is never the last” which sounds like a more intellectual way of saying what a physical therapist said to me not too long ago: “God’s got you!”).

The music was glorious (and would have been more so had I been sitting in church in person). The melody and words to so many old hymns are firmly fixed in my mind from childhood. I was never much of a singer (neither my dad nor I could carry a tune, but we sang heartily, making up for melody with volume) and now, with age, my singing voice is weak. But watching at home, I could sing along—and I did. They sang “Jesus Christ is Risen, Alleluia!” and another familiar one—my mind just went blank—and then the Hallelujah Chorus. I did not sing along with that but I was much impressed by a soprano in the choir who closed her music and sang from memory. She had a strong voice and pretty much carried those extremely high parts.

Everybody adjourned for brunch—a noisy, happy affair with several conversations going at once, but lots of fun. It was potluck and very good, though we repeated some of the dishes at a traditional mid-day dinner with Christian’s family. Different folks, but still lots of laughter.

There was some picture taking, and it provided, for me, the only sour note. Five or so years ago we had taken a picture of me with the girls who went to church this morning, so nothing would do but we duplicate it. Then there was a picture of me with the guys (including Jacob) and finally, one of me with one of the guys which again duplicated one from several years ago. I had taken care with my hair, fresh and clean, and I had on my new sunflower shirt (a tribute to Ukraine), so I smiled my way through the pictures. I have to say, defensively, I have never been photogenic: my grandfather used to tell my mom the only place he would hang her picture was in the barn because she took such a poor picture (parenting has changed, thank goodness). I think I inherited that mindset from my mom. For several years Bobbi Simms was half mother/half friend to me. She also as the kids said, “Told it like it is,” and she used to worry about why I never look as good in a picture as in real life.

Today’s pictures were pretty bad. I look like a pale but puffy old lady with wispy thin hair. Not at all how I feel or think of myself. I will only share one, but you’ll see the contrast between me and those vital women in the forties. Two resolves: I’m going to put on make-up more often, and I emailing my haircut person tonight.

I hope, if you celebrate, that your Easter was as full of blessings as mine. Remember, the worst is not the last. The ending is up to God.

Bragging on grandchildren

 

Morgan and her clarinet

Got to brag on this Easter eve on my sweet Tomball granddaughter, Morgan Helene Alter. She is setting high school on fire. Morgan has been active in the marching band all through high school, playing the clarinet, practicing and rehearsing in all kinds of weather. Most recently, she and a group of band friends got together an ensemble, and now they’ve advanced from regional to state competition.

Morgan seems to be good at competitions. She is active in an organization called Family Community Career Leaders of America. In recent competition, her local group was in the food innovation category, and they put their own spin on Hello Fresh and other meal delivery services. They developed lunch box kits, created their own recipes, did taste tests, marketing research, and much more. They won the regional competition in Galveston and advanced to state in Dallas. Although they did not move up to national, Morgan and her colleagues all thought it was a great experience.

The FCCLA group is not Morgan’s first brush with food and cooking. She has been helping her mom in the kitchen for years, and it is a tradition every year that she fixes her dad a Father’s Day meal. Last year it was Beef Wellington with crème brûlée for dessert. I need to take cooking lessons from that girl!

One Sunday some fifteen years ago, all my grandkids were dedication in my church. We lined them all up on the chancel steps for a group picture with Madison, the oldest, holding Kegan, the youngest, then something like three weeks old. But it was Morgan who stole the show—she kept edging away from the group, giving them looks like, “I don’t want to be associated with them.” An independent spirit from the start. And a daddy’s girl—I remember how frantic she was, at maybe four, when her dad helped carry a chiffarobe up to the second floor of Jordan and Christians house.

Other scenes flash through my mind—when I babysat Morgan and Kegan and she told me she’d eat a whole tube of sweet rolls for breakfast. I told her she wouldn’t., but I made her open up her bedroom and get some fresh air in the space where she’d been hibernating. (I had a daughter who did that too.) Or her fondness for bread—one night at Texas Roadhouse when she quietly ate four or five rolls before we even got out dinner.

Or the weekend Colin and Morgan had come to Fort Worth. As they packed up to go home, Morgan said, "I think I've got everything, Juju," and I turned around to see that she had Sophie neatly tucked under her arm. 

And now all of a sudden, she’s such a lovely young woman. At Christmas just past, I had a couple of good visits with her, without the whole fam damily around, and was so pleased and proud of the person she’s become. Kudos to her and her parents.

Other grandchildren are doing well: Maddie, the oldest, has had a year out of school after earning her bachelor’s, but is preparing to start that advanced post-grad nursing program in June. And Kegan, Morgan’s brother, is limping along on crutches but hopes his broken tibia will heal in time for summer workouts. My suggestion of golf falls on deaf ears with him.

It's such a joy to watch grandchildren grow and develop—each their own person, each developing in such individual ways. I have Sawyer, who’s a genius on the guitar, and his brother, Ford, who’s an all-star baseball, basketball, soccer star, Eden at UCLA who excels equally in academics and college social life, Jacob and his absorption with golf. I look at them all with such pride.

Oh yeah, there are lots of days when I think back to the years when they were all toddlers—they did all arrive in bunches—and I get nostalgic. I want that cuddly little boy who adored me back, but he’s been replaced by a lanky, deep-voiced teen-ager who doesn’t talk a lot (though his sense of humor is intact). Or I want Edie back who used to say to me, “I believe I’d like to watch the food channel now, Juju.”

Grandparenthood (is that a word?) is like a lot of the rest of life as you age—you enjoy the present moment and treasure the memories. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

Happy Easter, Passover, and Ramadan to those who celebrate. Tis a wonderful time of year, this spring season of renewal. My cup runneth over--I hope yours does too.

Morgan's mom, Lisa, on balloon duty 
for Easter at their church

Highlights from a stand-out day

 

Yesterday was a stand-out day because of two things. First was that friends Subie and Phil Green took me with them to get second booster shots at Tom Thumb grocery. What I dreaded turned out to be a pleasant experience. I woke in the night before worrying about it and couldn’t figure out why—in recent years I have been poked with more needles than I can even begin to count. I am not afraid of shots, so why was my antenna aquiver. When we got to the grocery, I realized it was a very long walk from the handicapped parking to the pharmacy. Told Subie I’d really like to drive one of the store’s motorized carts if I could figure out what to do with the walker. After she skeptically asked, “You know how to drive one of those things?” she volunteered to push the empty walker. So we paraded through the store—Subie with the walker, Phil led by his seeing-eye dog, and me bringing up the rear in my grocery cart. Don’t get Indy 500 ideas—they don’t go very fast at all

We got our shots after a wait that wasn’t too long. Today Phil has no after-effects, Subie has a sore arm, and my arm is tender to the touch but nothing more.

What I learned from this incident is that when I am anxious about leaving my secure little cottage, it’s anxiety about negotiating unknown territory. The walk from car to pharmacy would have taken me forever and left me breathless and exhausted. The motorized grocery cart made all the difference. In the spirit of recognizing that and planning ahead to take care of myself (yeah, that’s a hard lesson to learn), I have requested that we take the transport chair to church Sunday. It will be my first Sunday in physical church in two years, and I am mightily looking forward to it—but only because I won’t have to negotiate the walk from car to pew amid an Easter crowd. Thanks to Jordan.

The other thing that happened is that my longtime good friend in publishing, Fran Vick, sent me a picture of her with the only cat I’ve ever loved—Winona Juddley, so named by my son Jamie. I am a dog person who has never loved cats, exceopt this one who wormed his way into my heart. Jamie found him abandoned as a young kitten on a country road in Minnesota (please do not ask what Jame was doing in Minnesota) and brought him home. Wywy had an identity problem—born male, he identified as female. Or we identified him as female. For a year I kept telling Jamie not to let her out because she’d get pregnant. When Jamie finally had the money to take her to the vet, that good doctor said, “I can tell you why this cat isn’t pregnant.” When Jamie moved on with life, Wywy stayed with me—a beautiful, large, fluffy animal (part Maine Coon we think), and I adored him. I never knew until Wywy that cats could have such sweet dispositions.

This particular night, Fran had come from Dallas to support me at a program where I was being interviewed. Rather than drive to Dallas late, she spent the night. About one o’clock a stray cat came to our glass front door to taunt Wywy, who howled pitifully. So I picked him up—bad mistake. In his rage, he bit me (I am quite sure he ddn’t realize it was me), and when I lifted my arm, the cat came with it. Blood everywhere, and when I woke Fran she helpfully said, “Judy, that’s deep.”

We were in the ER until three or four, getting antibiotics and whatever. For Fran that ended that night. For me, it went on for days as I had to return to the ER for an antibiotic infusion—my hand was red and huge with infection. But it didn’t diminish my love for Wywy, though I swore if it happened again, I’d get a broom.

I had Wywy until probably 2015. When it was clear he was miserable, almost unable to breathe, Jamie came from Dallas to hold him while the vet put him to sleep. (I’m getting teary writing this). And then Jamie cradled him in his arms taking him out to the vet’s truck (it was a house call). I miss that cat to this day, and now I miss Fran because we’re older and our lives have gone separate paths.

She was director of UNT Press when I was at TCU Press, and along with Gayla Christiansen of Texas A&M Press, we called ourselves the three ladies of university publishing. We had lots of good times, plenty of sleepovers fueled by wine and good food, and now have wonderful memories.

The cat night is not one of our best memories. But both Fran and Wywy are memories I cherish.

The sounds of spring

 

I am beset with the noise of high-school athletics. In the house behind me (and my cottage, grandfathered in, sits on the property line), a young man bounces a basketball incessantly. In my own driveway, my grandson whacks golf balls against a new target. I find these sounds comforting—those boys are at home where they belong on a school night. Now dusk has faded into dark, and the neighbor’s dog is barking incessantly (I like that word), the bark of a lonely dog who wants attention and wants to be let in. I wonder if they’ve gone out because the dog doesn’t often bark like that. I’m comforted though that it is not Sophie whose barking is upsetting the neighborhood. Sophie saves her barks for those pesky squirrels who invade her yard, though today she roused herself from a nap long enough to tell the yard guys exactly what she thinks of them.

For all its isolated location, the cottage is a noisy place. All day long, I hear birds singing. Too often, I hear planes and helicopters--we are in the flight path for the city's municipal airport and close to the hospital, so we get air ambulances overhead. And in a strange twist, I often think in the mornings that I hear voices—no, no, it’s not my mind slipping. Today I realized that there were workmen at the house directly behind me (the basketball house) and one of them must have had a radio. They are sometimes just barely outside my back wall, so it’s no wonder it sounds as if they are in the cottage with me. I keep thinking they will finish that major project—building a cabana, pool, and new back porch. But they seem to come back frequently.

It finally seems to be spring in North Texas—but don’t count on it. We’ve had several false starts this spring. Last night we had a good, old-fashioned thunderstorm with heavy rain which we much needed. It soaked the new sod we’d just had put down in the front and back yards, and the herbs in my portable garden got a good watering.  Things are greening up—the pecan that shades my patio is showing it’s first few leaves, and so is the unknown tree by the side of the main house. Every year I think it’s dead, but I’ve learned that if I am patient, it will leaf out.

This spring has apparently brought a full-blown allergy season. The vet tells me that it is at level five, whatever that means. Sophie has been plagued with long, drawn-out, hard coughing spells. She sounds like she’s trying to clear her throat and can’t. This morning, Jordan came to the cottage for something in the midst of one of those spells and said, “Call the vet.” Tonight Sophie has had a shot that is supposed to last twelve weeks, which should she us out of the season. She is still coughing but not as long and hard, and she slept most of the afternoon. At least she’s stopped eating grass. Christian tells me his allergies have been off the charts.

Today was a nice, at-home day for me. The days this week have been marked by distractions—an interview on Monday which didn’t distract much but still was there on my calendar; a dental appointment Tuesday, which I dreaded and which turned out to be much easier than anticipated. Tomorrow, a big chunk of the morning will be taken up when I go with friends to get our second boosters. We have appointments half an hour apart, but I cannot imagine it will take all that time. Still, it breaks up the morning. Friday I am looking forward to fixing a light supper for friends, and Saturday will be taken up with cooking for Easter—I am to make potato salad and a marinated vegetable salad. Both easy, but the chopping requires time. Oh, and I’m making matzoh crack for dessert.

The reason all these small distractions matter to me is that I can’t settle down to work on my novel unless I have a chunk of time. Granted, sometimes I surprise myself and write more in a half hour than I would in three hours. But I always feel I need that block of time set aside. And now I am so near the end of the first draft that I can practically recite from memory what I intend to write—of course, it never works out that way.

Tonight was dinner on my own. Jordan and Christian are at a meeting—plans for Cowtown Ball are gearing up already, months ahead of the event, and Jacob, I was told, had his own dinner. I always translate that as “Jacob doesn’t really want what you cook.” And tonight he would not have. I scrambled a couple of eggs with butter, sliced green onion, diced tomato, and chopped smoked salmon—an old favorite of mine. Makes me wonder why I don’t keep smoked salmon in the fridge all the time.

Too sleepy to work on those last pages of Finding Irene, so I think I’ll spend the evening reading Cynthia Kuhn’s How to Book a Murder, which I am thoroughly enjoying.

Sweet dreams, y’all.

Some reading I find powerful

 

Gabe Fleisher, a sophomore at George Mason University in D.C., writes a column five days a week titled, “Wake Up to Politics!” He’s celebrating the twelfth anniversary of the column, which means he started it at ten or eleven. He has established such a reputation that he is respected by people liked historian Doris Kearns Goodwin. I truly recommend his newsletter—it’s bipartisan to the extent that I frequently hope he’s wrong, but it is always fair.

Today he ran a link to an excerpt from the new memoir coming next week from Valerie Biden Owens, Joe Biden’s sister. I sat at my desk reading, with tears streaming down my face. The excerpt chronicled the night his first wife and baby daughter were killed in a horrendous automobile wreck, his two boys left badly injured. And then it follows with the days in the hospital, the uncertainty about continuing his newly won seat as a senator from Delaware. Not only is it heartbreaking stuff, it will convince you, should you have any doubt, that, as Lindsay Graham once said, “God never made a finer man than Joe Biden.” (We don’t know what changed Graham, but that’s another story.) Here’s a link to Gabe’s column, and you’ll find the link to the excerpt at the end: Wake Up To Politics  I want you to know Gabe, and I want  you to know Joe Biden and the kind of man he is—bright, dedicated, kind, compassionate. Not the picture the right would have you believe of a demented, senile, corrupt man who is at the bidding of Barack Obama and George Soros. Please!

I’ve been thinking a lot about President Biden lately. In a tragic accident, highly respected columnist Eric Boehlert was killed last week. His last column was about why the press is against Biden. He put the finger on something that bothers me. There are two general assumptions gaining currency for all the wrong reasons.

The first is that Democrats will lose the House and the Senate at mid-terms. History supports this, except in a couple of instances, but history has not seen a situation like this where daily we learn more about the corruption of the “former guy” and his followers and cohorts. They clearly tried to stage a coup, to overthrow a democratically elected leader. Trump is under investigation by several branches of authority. So far he has dodged charges, but there is no way this man is innocent. But in the face of that Biden has low favorability ratings, in large part to media skewering the message. Hunter Biden’s laptop is falsely big news; Donald Trump Jr.’s infamous memo to Mark Meadows fades quickly from the public eye.

History has not seen either such a worldwide battle between democracy and autocracy. It’s not just in our country, but my take on it is that so many in this country are wide awake (okay, that awful word “woke”) to the dangers facing us. I’m counting on them to turn out from the county to state to national level.

The other myth that the press promotes is that Democrats are incapable and inefficient. You constantly read lines like, “The Democrats need to get their act together,” or “Democrats better learn to play politics,” or similar things that reinforce the image of a bunch of doddering old men led by a senile man who hides in his basement. Nothing could be farther from the truth. It’s like celebrities—those who lead ordinary, responsible lives are not news. But let a salacious story come up about an affair or a drug overdose or Will Smith’s slap to the Chris Rock’s face, and the press is all over it endlessly. Democrats don’t make good copy because they are hard-working, honest, determined; Republicans make terrific copy because they lie a lot, they are outrageous, and they play to people’s fears.

So that brings me to another column I’d like you to read if you don’t already: Letters from an American by Heather Cox Richardson. Richardson is a historian at Boston University, and her daily column often traces the history of political developments, how the history impacts us today. Her column this morning is particularly meaningful: it lists Joe Biden’s accomplishments as president, and contrasts the failures of the “former guy.” It is a revelation,

There, you have your reading assignments. I wish I could make all those who claim Biden is ruining democracy and America and trump was great and accomplished so much read these works. But I’ll start with you, my friends.

Memories of the Star Café

 

Bud Kennedy’s article in this morning’s paper announced the sale of the Star Café in Fort Worth’s Stockyards National Historic District. I’d known about it, but seeing it written up in detail, with a marvelous picture of the dining area, made it all too real. The Star is one of my happy memories. Good friends Don and Betty Boles have owned it for forty-two years. I’d  hate to correct Bud, but I think before that they owned it for a spell, sold it, and then bought it back. And I was always told it was the oldest, continually operating restaurant in Tarrant County. I don’t doubt it.

I’d call the décor funky, but I know Don would object to that. But the place is crowded with memorabilia, even a porch swing hanging from the tin ceiling, the requisite deer head with antlers, a giant beer bottle, and neon beer labels. Signed pictures of celebrities and rodeo stars line the walls, along with a sign that says, “Don’t mess with the neon lights.” Behind the bar and high up a shelf hold more western “stuff,” including an old tricycle that fell on Betty one night. Fortunately, her injuries were minor.

If the décor is funky, the food is delicious. The Star is known for chicken-fried steak (my favorite) and baseball steaks—the latter too big for me to tackle, but they sure do a good rib-eye. They make their own ranch dressing, which tastes better than other I’ve ever had, but the house dressing is an oil, green olive, and cheese concoctions. I don’t know who invented it. Long ago, when Eva, the then-elderly cook, was working at lunch, Wednesday was meatloaf day and friends and I from TCU would go for lunch. And there was always Betty’s own banana pudding.

For a few  years, I ran the cash register on Saturday nights, and oh—the lessons about mankind! I made some friends, like John the postman who loved to talk western history with me and tell me all he knew about Elmer Kelton. I learned to be cautious about a group of people who would cheat you every way they could, like demanding change for a hundred when they gave you a fifty. There were regulars—people who were there every Saturday night, and if I never knew their names, I knew them well enough to greet them as friends. Many were dressed to the nines to go dancing in the honky-tonks just down the street. When there was a national act at Billy Bob’s legendary country music nightclub, we knew the Star would be busy.

So many memories—like the time Betty and I worked from morning to late at night because there was an all-day festival (talk about sore feet), or the birthdays and family occasions we celebrated there—wedding parties during Jordan and Christian’s week-long nuptial festivities, a party to introduce Colin and Lisa as a couple. My kids often chose it for dinner, and I remember Megan saying one night as we sat in the downstairs bar waiting for a table, “I am perfectly happy right now.” Or Jamie begging the kitchen staff one Sunday morning to put an egg on his chicken-fried, even though they had stopped serving breakfast. Or grandchild Maddie at three wandering back to stand by me at the cash register—Betty disapproved of that one.

My favorite time at the Star was late—the café closed at nine, so we though nine-fifteen was late—when people began to drift away, and I saw Betty come down the restaurant with a glass of wine in her hand. I knew then it was time to quit and have dinner. Betty and I usually split something, from steak and baked potato to chicken-fried, but we occasionally deviated. One night I brought a jar of sauerkraut with me, and we had Polish sausage.

I haven’t been to the Star since before pandemic, mostly because I got out of the habit of restaurants. But I will go for a farewell meal. I imagine the Burtons will want to go, and Betty suggested Jean and I go one night. I’m told the staff will all stay—including Bino the cook—and the new owner, somehow connected to the stars of Yellowstone and 1883 plans to keep it like it is. But it won’t be the same.

A PS: I even wrote a short story set in the Star. Rumor always was that it or Miss Molly’s B&B upstairs, was haunted. And I knew that Don kept a baseball bat by the cash register in case of trouble. So I wove a story about a ghost, a waitress with “the sight,” and a baseball bat—one of the few times I ever included paranormal in anything I wrote. Hmmm. It never was published. I’ll have to see if I can find in on my computer.

Y’all really should get on up there and have you some chicken-fried! Go for the mashed potatoes, green beans, and salad with ranch. Top it off with Betty’s banana pudding.