Yet another day older

 

 My drawn-out birthday kind of hit its peak yesterday with the arrival of my four children, four of my seven grands (I had all the boys and none of the girls), and a wonderful b’day dinner last night. We had all talked all week about chores, and I had a list of things that needed doing around the cottage—the bulb replaced in the outdoor light, the filters in my a/c cleaned, some computer things. All got done, plus lots of visiting.

Ford, Kegan, Eden, Sawyer, and Jacob

The four boys—all so different in character and interests—enjoy being together, and when I see them trooping in and out of the house, in single file, I am reminded of that classic picture, much imitated, of the Beatles crossing the street. When not out doing whatever boys do once they have a car, they closet themselves in the back TV room at the house and spend but a bare few minutes with adults. Last night they went to a late movie, came home and turned on another movie. Jordan found couch spots for all four, and Colin and Lisa got Jacob’s bed. Here’s a picture of the boys, with their cousin Eden, taken a year ago. They’ve grown in so many ways in that one year, including taller.

My friends Jean and Renee joined us for dinner and were a hit with my four kids, who described them later as “interesting” and “good friends for you.” The menu was what I used to request as a kid: cold turkey (smoked, although I grew up on fresh), marinated vegetables, and potato salad. Poor Jordan labored long and hard over the potato salad Friday night—the first batch she’d ever made—and she nailed it. Her version of County Line potato salad was perfection. I did the vegetables (much easier than potato salad), and Christian got the turkey. For dessert? My favorite has moved from Black Forest Cake to chocolate mousse cake. Rich, but oh so good.

We lingered over cake, just as they all say, “hanging out.” About ten o’clock, I decided it was time for Sophie and me to go to the cottage. I intended to read a bit after I brushed my teeth and got into pjs, but there came Jordan, Megan, and Lisa, wine in hand. So we had a late-night girls’ talk. Lovely way to end a lovely day.

But my determination to count my blessings took a real hit during the night. Sophie does not go out during the night. She may get me up early in the morning, but she hasn’t needed to go out in the middle of the night for some time. I can tell the difference between, “I want to go out and chase squirrels and play,” and “I need to use the restroom now.” At two-thirty, her dance of clicking nails told me it was the latter, and I let her out. She disappeared into the shadows and was gone—for twenty-five minutes. I called and did everything I know except venturing into the dark overgrown strip between our house and the neighbors. Finally, I called Colin—no answer. Then I called Christian, then Jordan, and finally Colin again. He said, “Just a minute,” and hung up. Of course, that’s when Sophie came trotting onto the patio.

But she had to go out again at three-thirty and at four-thirty, so I thought she caught whatever stomach bug Cricket has had. Both times though she came right away after doing her business. And then she slept until I got up at 8:45. She didn’t ask for breakfast, and I didn’t offer it, figuring her stomach needed to settle. She's subdued today, and I'll call the vet first thing in the morning.

Pitiful Sophie

I decided in retrospect that the blessing was that at eighty-four I am fit and able enough to take care of a dog who needs to go out three times in the wee hours. When Sawyer came in this morning, he asked if I felt a year older and I told him, “No difference. And that’s good thing.” And the blessings are my family, my friends, my dog, my work, my health--even if sometimes the latter seems a bit iffy to others.

Have a happy week everyone.

Thoughts on aging, independence, and who knows what

 

My generation has grown old

A friend complained to me the other night about ageism, and I thought to myself I rarely feel that. When feminism had us ladies all up at arms, I rarely felt that I was discriminated against. Maybe I’m just insensitive, but I remember Karen Perkins, founder of the Women’s Center and a real dynamo for women’s rights. I once heard her say she didn’t mind bringing the potato salad as long as she had a seat at the table. And that was me—I almost always felt I had a seat at the table. Oh, sure, at the university, some tried to pat me on the head (thank goodness not elsewhere) and tell me I was a good girl, but I knew how to use that.

But as if to spite me ageism came up the very next night after my friend brought it up. I was frustrated with a computer access problem. To this minute, I remain convinced that it was a problem of the slight tremor in my hands (Facebook wanted to photograph my i.d. card and each try resulted in the command to retake) and not of my computer understanding, but somehow my whole family got involved, it became a big issue (via telephone), and I was advised to read a book and go to sleep. My computer guru son-in-law would fix it in the morning. Let me say it outright: I was offended, probably out of proportion because my frustration level was so high. Contrary to everyone’s loving advice, I did not go to sleep. I tossed and turned and fretted well into the wee hours of the morning.

Brandon did fix it, though bless him, it took about an hour out of his workday and a long phone call. But all is well, and I am back in Facebook’s good graces—don’t judge, it’s an important part of my day. But the incident got me to thinking about independence. As Jean, who dines with me often, will testify, I’m pretty firm about not wanting help in the kitchen. I remind myself of my kids when they were little: “I do it by self!” But to me, it’s part of showing that I’m still capable—in the kitchen, at the computer.

If I need help, I ask for it. And I often do. I can’t get that bowl that is stored high in my closet, nor can my walker and I get around the coffee table to straighten the pillows Sophie has dislodged on the couch. Little stuff, but the things I can’t do. Someone asked recently if I was getting the care I need, and my response was, “Care? I don’t need much care. I just need someone to check that I’ve not fallen (I almost always have my phone with me, especially in the night on a bathroom trip) and to make sure I didn’t die in my sleep. A longtime friend recently was home alone for several days. When his wife returned from a trip, she found him on the floor, unable to get up. Best guess is that he had a stroke, fell and hit his head, and lay there for 24 hours. When you get to be my age, such is always a possibility, so I am grateful that Jordan looks out every morning to be sure I have raised the blind in my kitchen door.

But if insisting on doing what I can is part of the picture, so is accepting what I cannot do. Someone recently said unhappily that she could no longer walk a half mile—since from here to the main house stretches my abilities, I wasn’t as sympathetic as I perhaps could have been. But my philosophy these days is that in my 80+ years I have lived a full life, had a lot of wonderful experiences, and now the time is for me to treasure those memories, perhaps live on them. Oh, sure, in my dreams I am sometimes once again fleet of foot, but that’s a dream, not a reality. I probably cannot take that cross-country railroad trip I’d love to take, though Jamie insists he and I can do it, and I may or may not ever get to Santa Fe again (jury’s out on that one). I probably won’t fly again, mostly because I’m not an easy flyer and there’s no place I want to go badly enough to get on a plane. Chicago is a possible exception, especially since I’m now writing books set there. But my whole point is that I’m not going to kvetch (a great Yiddish word for complain) about what I can’t do but stress what I can do. And enjoy.

Last night, Jordan had a group of friends at the house to pick up their travel documents. They are all going to Cabo together to celebrate Christian’s 50^th (other kids will babysit me and at first, I was a bit unsure about needing babysitters, but our friend’s fall has me grateful they will be here). As the party was dwindling inside, some five or six of them came out to say hello. We laughed and joked and for ten minutes or so, the cottage was the happiest place you can imagine. Jordan (and I) have known these folks since their high school days. All I could think was how lucky I am that all these years later, they still want to come see Juju, share their excitement, show a little love (no hugging—covid lurks). I am blessed, and that’s what I will continue to focus on.

The 24-hour birthday dinner

 

Judy amidst the flowers
Photo by Mary Dulle

Mary Dulle brought me dinner last night, a belated birthday celebration. The wonderful thing about it is that it has fed me almost twenty-four hours. She got fried chicken from The Rim, my favorite fried-chicken restaurant—really, they have a full menu, but I think it would be heresy to order anything but the three-piece chicken dinner. Sides were, of course, green beans and mashed potatoes. Sometimes the mashed potatoes from The Rim are truly good—and sometimes they’re bland. Last night, they were truly good—a faint herb seasoning. We feasted and chatted, having not caught up on each other for a couple of weeks. To top it off, Mary brought a peach and cherry crisp she had made that afternoon—crumbly, wonderful, better than cake. Not only that, she arrived with fresh flowers, a book I will enjoy prowling through, and a bottle of chardonnay, a label new to me but one that she said a mutual friend recommended.

So today I have been feasting on last night’s dinner—fruit crisp for breakfast, cold chicken, warm green beans and potatoes for lunch. Only thing missing was Mary’s company. No, I haven’t touched the chardonnay yet—no day drinking—but when I have a glass and watch the news tonight, it will make last night’s dinner have lasted twenty-four hours. So grateful.

It's also been a twenty-four-hour research time for me. I discovered a treasure trove of information about Helen Corbitt in the archives of the Arkansas Gazette and the Arkansas Democrat. Corbitt visited Little Rock and Hot Springs so often that then-governor Orville Faubus declared her an honorary citizen. She also wrote a column for the Democrat in the seventies.

I found lots of interviews with her that gave me the view I’d been wanting. Until I happened onto this, I’d had a lot of information, opinions and comments about her but nothing from her. No glimpse of that famed Irish wit except what others reported on. Yesterday and today I began to see it come out, along with practical advice on cooking and a determination to get women back into the kitchen. That of course is the thesis of my study: that Corbitt was active in encouraging women to get back in the kitchen after the explosive introduction of convenience foods in the fifties—mixes and prepared foods and TV dinners and all that designed to cut down on women’s time in the kitchen. As Corbitt once said, “I’m old fashioned. I like to cook.” She wanted to reawaken that attitude in women—and she did a darn good job of it.

In one place, she told the story of a couple about to divorce. The woman went out, bought a cookbook, returned to her kitchen, and began to cook real dinners for her husband. She gained eleven pounds—but they were still together. For me, that’s the stuff that will make an interesting book—along with some recipes.

But staring at archival material all day wears you out. I had to rush because I only have a seven-day free subscription to the paper, which gives me access to the archives. Still, I found at night I was worn out with it and could do no more. Now, I’m through with Arkansas but still have Dallas and Houston to go. Woe is me. I need stronger readers.

Sophie has been coughing uncontrollably again. Actually she’s gone from that deep, from-the-toes cough to a sound like she’s trying to clear her throat. Poor baby must be miserable, but she steadfastly resists the Benadryl that would help her, even in pill pocket. Tonight I served it with her meal, and she ate it and is quiet, but at three in the morning I have to dredge up all my patience to pry her mouth open, insert the pill pocket and then hold her mouth shut while petting her and talking lovingly. She looks at me with sad eyes that say, “Why are you doing this to me?” My explanations fall on deaf ears.

I think all of it would be better without the heat. We are all worn down, and I won’t even begin to tell you how much in my garden is dead. I am so sad. Life goes on, however—that’s my new mantra.

An amazing supper, computer woes, and naps

 

Christian's amazing chop suey.
I love how colorful it is with beans, carrots, and baby corns.

Christian outdid himself tonight with chicken chop suey. We were supposed to have it for dinner last night, and I was supposed to fix it since it was my idea, but life intervened. For reasons too complicated to explain, Jordan’s purse ended up at a car rental agency at DFW Airport. So after happy hour with guests, Jordan and Christian were off to the airport. I was secretly relieved. The last couple of times I’ve volunteered to cook Asian, it’s ended up I did the prep work and Christian did the cooking. And we agreed on that tonight. He has the wok, and I’m not sure even my largest skillet would be big enough to do it on my hot plate. But I get ahead of my story: they did not get home until almost nine, by which time I had eaten my oh-so-good open-faced sardine sandwich. The purse, however, was retrieved with credit cars and license intact. A blessing.

So this afternoon I assembled all the ingredients for the chop suey. Side note: Christian pointed out that my childhood chop suey is really today’s stir fry. At any rate I cut the chicken thighs into strips snapped green beans into bite size, assembled a can of baby corn, onion, baby carrots, bok choy—and sent it all inside. I had given Christian the recipe last night, but I neglected to notice that it made two servings. There were to be six tonight. He had to adjust, plus he was late getting home. Dinner was delayed, but it was worth waiting for. And since he plated his dinner and mine and brought them out to the cottage while Jordan and her work colleagues ate inside, I had no dishes to do. Two forks. That’s it. A win-win situation.

I did not win today, however, with computer technology. Oh, I did some. I’ve been prowling through the entries on Helen Corbitt in the Portal to Texas History, an unbelievably rich research source. I swear with every nonfiction title I write I learn more about using my computer—if I could live to 120, I might really be a master. But this time, I have learned to drill down on entries and zoom to read the fine print in old newspapers. It can be tedious work but then I come across a nugget—something really reveling, and I am rewarded. My friend Carol, an archivist, has given me directions for narrowing my search so I don’t have to scroll through all 134 pages the listing pulls up.

So today I wrote, maybe close to a thousand words, patching in some new information in the existing text and writing new text about Corbitt’s travels across Texas to promote her first cookbook, all material I’d found in the portal. I felt it was a real step forward.

But then I turned, as I do once a day, to Facebook, to scroll through notifications and read new postings. Big problem: every time I tried to “Like” a post, Facebook popped up with a message that I had been blocked perhaps because I went too fast. What that meant, I had no idea. But the next line said that if I felt the message did not violate community standards, I should click here and report it. How, I wondered, could someone’s belated birthday wish or a post about a recipe violate community standards. So I reported it, and to my surprise, about half an hour later, it was fixed, and I could like posts again. But I missed a lot, like some birthday wishes, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get a chance to go back and acknowledge them. Frustrating as it was, I have to credit Facebook with prompt action. And, yes, before I reported it, I did reboot the computer which often cures a world of ills. Not this one.

Yesterday I took my usual daytime nap—I think most of the world knows not to contact me between 2:00 and 4:00—and woke up quickly. Since naps are a great time for letting my mind wander and plotting what I’m going to write next, I thought I’d just lie there and think about a blog on the value of napping. I woke again at 4:30 with guests due at 5:00 and appetizers still to make. I dressed in a flurry, made those pickle appetizers, and was still at it when Subie and Phil arrived. And now I can’t remember all that I thought about napping, so it will have to wait for another day. But there are some interesting statistics out there—napping is good for you, and I feel justified. Those of you who claim you can’t sleep in the daytime might want to reconsider.

Stay cool and safe. I hear slightly lower temperatures might be coming for just a couple of days. Not a big break but better than nothing.

Growing older day by day

Birthday orchid from Jordan and Christian
chosen for the pale yellow walls in the cottage.

If you extend your birthday beyond the actual date, does that accelerate the rate of aging? I certainly hope not, because that’s what I seem to be doing. My actual birthday on Friday was low key—I worked, as did everyone in the family. But Jordan insisted on dinner in the house at the dining table, with roses, good china, and all that. The menu, at my choice, was hamburgers and salad. Christian grills the world’s best hamburgers, and Jordan makes a killer blue cheese salad. For dessert, good moist chocolate brownies.

Yesterday was again a workday, but son Jamie and Eden arrived from Frisco about five o’clock. Eden is the youngest of Jame’s two girls, a rising sophomore at UCLA, brilliant and beautiful—very California looking with long bare legs and a bare midriff. She’s a sweet softie an has always had a special place in my heart. This was my chance to see her before she goes back to school next weekend.

We intended to go out to dinner, though I had mentioned a little hesitation because of rampant covid—I have so many friends with it, all of them vaccinated and boosted. Jamie reluctantly agreed to a patio, but I doubt many restaurants are opening their patios these days with the heat. Long story short, without advance reservations, we couldn’t find an open table. Jamie was amazed at the change in his hometown where it used to be you could drop in anywhere and get a table. Times are a-changing in Cowtown bigtime.

We ended ordering take-out from Bonnell’s, so all three of us piled in the car for the drive, with Eden at the wheel (it was her car). Since she doesn’t know the city at all we have to navigate for her, but it was fun. Honestly, I feel like a recluse, but I so seldom leave the cottage that I was amazed at all the changes I saw. Like a little kid, I’d say, “That’s new!” and “That wasn’t there,” and “Look at that!” Much of what I saw was new residential, some of it so very good, and some not so good. Why are they building so many white houses these days?

Jordan was at an office retreat, and Christian had gone to pick up Jacob in Plano, so we had tons of food—Jamie’s eyes have always been bigger than his stomach, since he was a little kid. Christian and Jacob came home about eight, and we all had a laughing visit.

Tonight, Subie and Phil came for happy hour before they take off for month in their cabin in the Pecos Mountains, where it’s cool and raining. I’m happy for them, and I now Phil is always at his most easy happiness in those mountains where he spent part of his growing-up years. But we will miss them. We fixed pickle snacks which are suddenly all over the internet, but we didn’t get them crispy. Just grated cheese in a mini muffin cup, a pickle slice, and a bit more cheese. I think the problem was that it called for a non-stick pan and, thinking the one Jordan brought me was not that, I sprayer it with Pam. After I washed it tonight, I think it is indeed non-stick.

At the last minute, Jordan and Christian had to make an emergency run to the airport so we tabled the chop suey Jordan was going to help me make. I will do the prep and Christian will cook it tomorrow. Meantime I fixed myself a supper that would not fly with my family, but it was so good I ate every bite. Artisan toast with garlic, butter, tomato slices, sardines, and onion slices, drizzled with olive oil and lemon.

My sardine supper.
Honest if you look closely, there are sardines under all those sweet onions.

But wait! My birthday isn’t over! That aging process goes on—next weekend, most of the family will gather, and I’m excited as always to have all my chickens in one coop (bad metaphor I think, but I will be glad to have them all at home). We’ve been hashing out menus and so on, but I believe it will be the dinner I used to request as a child for my summer birthday: sliced cold turkey (some among us will have to heat theirs, but I love cold meat), potato salad, and marinated vegetables. And chocolate mousse cake.

Meanwhile, tomorrow is back to work. I am plowing through Helen Corbitt entries on the Portal to Texas History—a wonderful resource, but Helen has 134 pages of entries. Good friend Carol, an archivist, is teaching me streamlined ways to winnow them down. I learn so much about computers with every project. This one seems particularly tough—tell me it’s not my aging brain!

Have a happy week, everyone.

Birthdy flowers for my desk.

Birthday thoughts

 

The annual birthday picture with Jordan
Lovely birthday dinner tonight--Christians good hamburgers,
Jordan's blue cheese salad, and brownies

Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about aging, long before my birthday, but today seems like an appropriate time to write about it. It’s no secret: today I turned eighty-four. I won’t say I never expected to live this long, because that would not be the truth. I will say that I am a bit surprised to be here, and no, I don’t feel my age.

When my mom was this age, she began a long, slow decline into dementia, painful for both of us. Maybe because the lovely, happy, laughing woman, always a prioer lady, was replaced by someone I barely knew, I began all those years ago to think about aging, and one very unscientific conclusion I arrived at is that some of us keep our physical health and lose our minds; others keep our minds but the physical body goes to pieces. Mom was generally in good health.

I on the other hand have 500 chronic physical problems—okay, that’s an exaggeration, but if you’d see the pills I take twice a day you might think it comes close to truth. And, as I said to Jordan the other day, it’s always something, often a little something, but an annoyance. The latest if that wearing sleeping shirts and sitting on the leather seats of my walker and desk chair, I took a layer of skin off the back of both thighs. Annoying and painful, plus needing a trip to the doctor, antibiotics, and messy wound dressing.

My mind, on the other hand, seems almost as sharp as ever (my kids might disagree). I’m still writing, still figuring out how to put concepts into words, and loving it. Sure I sometimes open a window on the computer and stare at it, puzzled about what I was going to do, and like all of us I sometimes wander into the kitchen and wonder why I’m there. And I forget names. Jean, who watched her husband disappear into the never-land of Alzheimer’s, tells me if you forget a name but get it back the next day and keep it, that’s okay. If you never get it back, that’s a problem. For some odd reason, the name I can never remember is a celebrity who has no direct effect on my life—historian Doris Kearns Goodwin. There! I did it! I called I up from memory.

I talked to my brother about this the other day. He’s ninety, with a lot of physical problems and not much stamina, but his mind is sharp. He agreed with my unscientific theory (not always the case), and I’m sure he too was thinking of Mom.

Pandemic did a number on me, and I have never gotten over quarantine. I am content in my cottage—going out is fun but a lot of trouble. And like my brother, I have no stamina. I couldn’t walk a city block if I had to. I’m a bit stunned to realize that I can’t do everything by myself and need someone to help me. Specifically, I can’t climb on a stool to get to high shelves nor bend down to the low (I’m afraid I’ll fall out of my walker). But when Jordan refers to herself as my caretaker, I wince a bit. Me? Needing a caretaker? I could survive on my own. I can certainly care for myself and feed myself, but there are many things I can’t do.

I’m the one who voluntarily gave up driving (long story, mostly involving the walker), but it’s sometimes a shock to realize I can’t jump in the car to run an errand but must ask someone to do that for me. And that’s a rub. My caretakers are busy, I am hesitant to ask for fear I’ll push them too far, but then I’m frustrated because the dog really n
eeds to go to the vet or I really need that package mailed. We have our moments of tension in this household, but then, who doesn’t. It’s a delicate balance. I have an occasional pity party—lonely, frustrated by anything from my work to isolation, discouraged—but then again, who doesn’t?

I’m fortunate in so many ways: I have a comfortable, manageable home in the cottage with my dog. I have work that gets me out of bed, albeit a little later all the time, I have friends who come to see me, and I have fun cooking some darn good meals. Eighty-four doesn’t feel bad at all, but then I realize I am so much luckier than many my age.

There’s a huge difference between aging and mortality, and the latter is a subject I’m not yet willing to tackle. Tune in next week—maybe. I will l say that it’s with curiosity as much as fear that I hear time’s winged chariot.

Happy Birthday from
Jordan and Sophie

It’s all about the dogs

 

Junie among the flowers

So it seems some days. We had a rough week last week—let’s put it this way, our dogs had a rough week, so therefore so did we. Wednesday Jordan called in a panic to say June Bug was dying. Junie is the youngest of the two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels and by far the most frail. She is eleven, I believe, had a heart attack some five-plus years ago, and spent a week in an oxygen chamber at the doggie cardiologist’s clinic. At the time they gave her another year to eighteen months, so she has surprised everyone and been living on borrow time. She’s fine and seems to enjoy life, although she shows signs of dementia and does not hear or see well. Still, knowing that doesn’t help much when you’re faced with a dog in crisis.

She didn’t die. She spent two night back at the clinic in oxygen and is back home, apparently her old self.

But my Sophie, who now is diagnosed with chronic bronchitis, began that deep coughing again. She’s no spring chicken either at eleven. I asked the vet what I could do to prevent another bout of acute bronchitis—seems like we just got through the last one. He said she was due her allergy shot and needed a refill of some medicine. It was today before we could get her to the vet, but she’s had her shot and pill. Tonight she is wheezing heavily but still hungry and ready to bark at the slightest threat—and there are many. I figure the medications take at least 24 hours to kick in.

For now, we’re all relieved to have healthy dogs. But it’s gotten me to thinking about dogs, people, and the relationships. Our shelters in this area are full, and once no-kill shelters have been forced to euthanize again. I once read that dogs sense that coming and know fear just as we would—and that thought haunts me. The shelters are full, of course, because people are irresponsible dog owners—they turn in old dogs, sick dogs, dogs that they are tired of without another thought.

And then there are the people who have dogs as sort of ornaments. They feed them and see that they have water and even get medical attention when needed, but they are sort of remote dog owners. No affection, no bonding, no attachment.

Sometimes on Facebook someone will ask if anyone else talks to their dog, tells them goodbye when they leave, etc. I do, and I assure her I’ll be back soon. (To tease me, my oldest son says, “Naw, we’re never coming back.” Sophie knows who to believe. I have a friend who developed back trouble and found she could no longer go up and down three flights of stairs several times a day to walk her dog. Her solution was not to give up the dog but to move to a first-floor apartment. Those are my kind of dog people. They recognize that dogs have feelings and emotions, they know joy and happiness and fear and anger just as we do. People who say, “My dog is family,” aren’t just kidding. They mean it.

Because I spend long days alone in my cottage, I’m dependent on Sophie for company. I carry on conversations with her, and she cocks her head and looks inquisitively at me. We have our routines: at 4:30 in the afternoon, she wants supper which involves several courses: first she gets a geriatric (no kidding) chew treat, then a bit of canned dog food followed by kibble and topped off with a second treat. Heaven help me if I forget that last step—she lets me know.

The new routine I’m getting used to is in the morning and is all due to the introduction of wet food during her last bout with bronchitis. She never before had anything but kibble and tiny tiny bits of cheese as a reward or bribe. But bronchitis and/the meds upset her stomach, and the vet recommended half a can of wet food twice a day. It was like giving me lobster twice a day—she was in heaven, and predictably when she could go back to kibble, she didn’t want to. So we have compromised. She wakes me between 5:30 and 6:00, I let her out (and warn her there will be no food if she doesn’t go potty). Then I give her wet food, stop by the bathroom, and go back to bed. I can do it in six minutes flat. And yes, I go back to sleep. The reason I could write a thousand words today is that as I dozed my subconscious mapped it out. I call that productive sleep.

Not sure which of us is in charge here, but we’re happy, and I think we make a pretty good pair. Sophie wishes all dogs had as good a life as she does.

Sophie's sweet face

                                                                                                                                                                                 

Texas is on fire—and so am I!

 

Here's the illustration for the post that nobody seemed to read.
Hope the picture isn't a jinx. I will not post a picture of my dying garden.

The wonderful herb garden I was so excited about has dried to dust, the pentas are shrinking instead of growing and nary a bloom on them (last year they were so gorgeous!), and the grass is brown. I’m sure it does not come as news to many of you that Texas is burning up. We’ve had days over a hundred degrees for a least two weeks now, and the forecast is over a hundred through the end of the month--no rain. The first three days this coming week are to be between 108-110. It’s brutal. And it’s taking its toll not only on our yards and gardens but on our dispositions and sense of well-being. It’s like being haunted all the time by a nameless, shapeless, invisible enemy.

I run two of those ceiling air conditioners—one in the living area and one in the bedroom—twenty-four hours a day, although in the early morning and late evening I can open the patio door for fresh air and freedom for Sophie.

In weather like this, all you can do is stay inside. So that’s what I did this weekend. Jordan and Christian visited friends at a lake house not far from here, and Jacob had a buddy spend the weekend. So, I was on my own. Had a welcome visit Friday from Sue and Teddy who are headed tomorrow for an intriguing far north Scotland resort hotel—so far north that it’s on an inlet from the North Sea. You may wonder about a resort in such rugged country, but it’s a place for hiking and maybe fishing, enjoying wonderful food, and lots of peace and quiet. I admit to a bit of jealousy—if I could go, I’d let everyone else hike, and I’d stay in the studio with a desk and write. Pictures of the interior of the hotel are captivating—imagine Scandinavian modern in a nineteenth-century stone manse. I admit I’m more than a wee bit jealous.

Saturday, Jaimie and Greg Smith came for happy hour—they live at the other end of the block, but the heat is so bad they drove from their house to my cottage! We had a good visit, caught up on each other’s doings—they had just been on an Alaskan cruise, another thing to make me jealous except they ate no salmon. Who goes to Alaska and doesn’t eat salmon? We ended, as we often do, talking politics, and it was a lively discussion but got us nowhere because we all agree, loudly and fervently. They are good neighbors and I treasure their friendship.

But most of all this weekend I wrote and researched like a mad fool—got the material I have for next month’s newsletter edited and ready to go, just waiting for final submissions; wrote my monthly column for the online newsletter Lone Star Literary Life (check it out every Saturday if you haven’t already) and wrote the first draft to a foreword of a forthcoming cookbook. Imagine that! Me, asked to write a foreword to a cookbook. I’m beyond flattered. And then I did a lot of research on Helen Corbitt. The next chapter is beginning to take shape in my mind, but the draft is still woefully short. And today, I wrote a thousand words on the next Irene novel, just because I miss being with my friends from that novel. For now, the next installment is titled Irene Goes to Texas but that's blah, and I hope to come up with something better. I am, however, ignoring the suggestion of Irene Does Texas. Bad connotation.

You may have noticed I didn’t blog. That’s because I’m a bit puzzled. Friday night I wrote what I hoped was an interesting post about the reprints of three of my historical novels about women of the nineteenth-century American West. Twenty copies of each suddenly landed on my coffee table—and that’s where they still are tonight. I gave a synopsis of each book, hoping it would attract readers. Nada. Not a single like nor comment. Now I don’t mean to whine, but there are some who comment on almost every post, which makes me wonder if this one somehow didn’t make it. It shows up on my Facebook page, but maybe not yours. Here’s a link if you missed it: View from the Cottage: Where is my librarian? (judys-stew.blogspot.com)

Tonight, the Burtons are back home, and I fixed us a sheet-pan supper of King salmon, potatoes and onions. I slow cooked the salmon—twenty-two minutes at 285^o. Salmon was delicious; potatoes and onion not so much. Undercooked. Close to raw. And those sweet onions I ordered? They weren’t. A substitution. Still the salmon with Jordan’s great salad was enough to make us all satisfied. And there’s cold salmon for lunch tomorrow. Who cares about potato and onion?

Stay cool, my friends.

 

Where is my librarian?

 

Not long ago I read a novel titled, The Personal Librarian by Marie Benedict, about a woman of color, who was “passing” and was the personal librarian to J. P. Morgan. Well, my library may not be as extensive as Morgan’s nor as full of rare editions, but tonight I feel like I need a personal librarian.

Jacob made three trips from the house to the cottage this morning to bring me big, heavy boxes (plus another trip with a case of tuna—but that’s another story). I was expecting twelve copies of the new mystery, Finding Florence, but I was unprepared for twenty copies each of reprints of three of my novels about women of the nineteenth-century American West. I knew they were coming, but the new editor at that publisher has been non-communicative, so I had no idea when to expect them. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve proofread all three books. But here they are, handsome paperback editions of Mattie, Cherokee Rose, and Sundance, Butch, and Me. All originally published in the 1990s.

Mattie is the first adult novel I attempted, and I’m pleased to say it won a Spur Award from Western Writers of America as the best novel of the year. One male WWA member protested, “But that’s always been a men’s action category!” The novel is loosely based on the life of Dr. Georgia Arbuckle Fix, pioneer woman physician who rode the plains of western Nebraska to treat patients, though I admit the background I gave fictional Mattie is purely of my imagination. But as authors often do, I worked some of my own life situations into the plot. It is the best-selling book I ever wrote, and I am delighted to see it have new life.

Cherokee Rose is loosely based on the life of cowgirl Lucille Mulhall. Tommy Jo Burns knew she was destined for greatness. Raised on an Oklahoma ranch where her father taught her to rope and ride, at fourteen she so impressed President Teddy Roosevelt that he dubbed her America's first cowgirl. Filled with dreams of joining a Wild West show, she left her parents to create her own family of friends on the road with Colonel Zack Miller's 101 Ranch Show. It was a new and exciting life, so she took a new name: Cherokee Rose. But it didn’t all go as she expected, especially the romance part.

And who among us didn’t see the movie, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, starring Paul Newman and Robert Redford (good heavens! Who needs to say anything more?). The movie resonated with me long after I saw it, immersed as I was in studies of women in the nineteenth-century American West, and I always longed to tell the story from Etta Place’s point of view. Once again, I made up a background for Etta, a brutal one in East Texas, but got her to the San Antonio brothel where history and/or folklore tells us she met the Sundance Kid. But note the title: it’s meant to subtly suggest there was a different but important current between Etta and Butch Cassidy, one of the kindest bandits you’llv ever meet. I am to this day enthralled by the story and delighted to see it back in print.

And of course, there were copies of Finding Florence, which may just have my all-time favorite book jacket face.

So I unpacked all these books. I know that copies of Finding Florence go to my children, the beta readers, the designer, and the two people who have responded to my freebie offer on my newsletter. But what to do with the others? My bookshelves are full. Do I need to add a lean-to to the cottage just for books? There’s no space for that. When I asked Jordan what I should do, she shrugged and said, “I have no idea.” Thank you, Jordan. Mary Dulle, the friend who helps me with my bookshelves, is out of town for two weeks. I am hoping that if Jordan looks at the overflowing coffee table long enough she’ll decide to do something about it. Unfortunately, patience is not my long suit.

And that reminds me: there’s a new issue of my newsletter out this week, with an offer for free copies of Saving Irene, the first Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery. If you’d like to sign up, please email me at judyltr@gmail.com

Now I’m going to figure out how to take a picture of all four books, without the stacks piled high. I’ve paraded the Finding Florence cover for a while, and I still think it may be my forever favorite. But these reprint covers are low-key, classy, and appealing.

I hope you all want to read a lot in this hot and dry summer. I read where a friend in Montana said finally the rains had stopped. Does she know what that did to my dry soul in this drought?

But this is where we eat dinner most nights.
What can I do with all these books?

Politics as usual

 

I don’t know about you and your political affiliation, but I suspect what I’m experiencing is true of you too. I guess it’s because I support liberal candidates financially, either when I’m feeling a bit flush or in some moment of political concern like the Dobbs decision, but I am deluged these days as the midterms approach with appeals for money.

Some are desperate: “We’re packing it in, giving up.” Others are bullying, “If so-and-so doesn’t win, the [other party] will be in control.” Strange how many contests, especially for the Senate, depend on just one seat. Lots of appeals cite “one-time matches” and yet I see them more than one time.

And the inconsistency: one day they’re ready to pack it up, but the next they are triumphantly reporting that their candidate is “surging,” or “gaining two points,” or even “leading by two points.” Of course, it’s too early to put much faith in polls, so I ignore these. And then I get emails that say, “We’re crying tears of joy,” or “Trump bawled when he read this.” You just must take everything with several large grains of salt.

I am leery of PACS and seldom respond to the emails, which often have blaring, boldface warnings and dire predictions with lots of exclamation points. What bothers me is that a few of them may really be doing good work, but they hide it behind the flamboyant, demanding presentation. Those are also the ones that often make you feel guilty: “We haven’t had your response!” or “Does Judy Alter not want to support so-and-so.” Katie Porter of California is one of six legislators who does not accept PAC money, and I support her.

The mailings I most dislike: polls. They want to ask your opinion on a certain topic, and I am always glad to share that. But say it’s a question about environmental concerns, you answer, even choose the dots for one or two opinions, and then the email becomes a series of such dumb questions, the answer so obvious that no one, but no one, needs a survey. And of course, finally, you find yourself confronted with a screen demanding to know if you want to give monthly (I never do, because I’ve known the bookkeeping to screw up) or a one-time gift. If I give, it’s always a one-time gift.

For years I thought I’d just wait and donate closer to the election, when who needed the most support was obvious. But lately I’ve been impressed by ads that include a reminder that giving now does much more good than the week before the election.

So I’ve settled into my routine, which is pretty unorganized. I give sporadically to a group of candidates that I think I want to support. Lately my list includes Val Demings in Florida, John Fetterman in Pennsylvania (love that he won’t wear a suit), Raphael Warnock in Georgia (can anyone in their right mind vote for Herschel Walker who gives all the signs of brain damage from too many hits in the head), Mark Kelly in Arizona (thought his emails are for some reasons particularly annoying), Michael Franken, the U. S. Navy retired admiral running to defeat the aged and infirm Chuck Grassley.

I have to remind myself that federal elections are not all that matters and to pay attention to local races, especially in Texas. Who controls our state legislatures matters a lot in daily life, and in Texas, we sure need new blood.

I’ve read lately about the divisions in both our major parties. I could not care less if Republicans fight among themselves—oh, okay, maybe I do care because it’s a sign that some are moving away from blind loyalty to trump. But I am concerned about divisions in the Democratic party at a time when solidarity seems most important.  The big concern to me is whether Joe Biden should run again. A good friend said to me tonight that after all, he is 84 and would be close to 90 at the close of his second term. I think that’s a common misconception—he is 79. No spring chicken to be sure, but he has accomplished so much for this country, that I am leery of abandoning him unless he himself decides to step down, which he had said he would do when he ran.

I think Biden has a magnificent vision for this country, one that would restore us in the way that FDR’s New Deal did in the thirties, restores the middle class, give every American a chance, not just the one percent. But he’s been stymied by a Republican congress and one recalcitrant Democrat—Joe Manchin. Biden has faced a looming economic recession, a pandemic, our destroyed international reputation, the Russian invasion of Ukraine, a near crisis in the environment, domestic terrorism, a rogue Supreme Court and the destructive Dobbs decision, and he’s dealt effectively with each of them. His rising employment numbers have kept us out of recession, his diplomacy has managed to restore out international reputation left in shatters by the former guy, and to contain the Russian invasion by assembling European nations as allies.

I also think that Biden’s own low-key personality betrays him. He hasn’t been as forceful in the public eye as even Obama. He makes me think of a guy who goes quietly and efficiently about his work, ignoring criticisms. But he ought to get before the public more, and I think he’s beginning to do that.

Before we succumb to the stereotype of ageism, let us look long and hard at the individual and his accomplishments, not his age, and make a rational decision.

And my question: who would the nominee be if not Biden? It’s time for Democrats to stop bad-mouthing their leader and pull together.

Oops. I’ve preached far too long.

Shortcut cooking

 

Last night I made a good, light summer supper—turkey tonnato (tonnato is a tuna/anchovy/caper sauce served on cold meat) and panzanella, a bread salad (no lettuce). Refreshing, different, and not a lot of work. But since I’m deep into food research into the 1950s and what they called convenience cooking, preparing that meal made me think about the difference. Everything I used last night was “from scratch”—or the meal was what some all “scratch cooking.”

By contrast, the 1950s saw the rise of convenience food, packaged food, frozen food. Everything from TV dinners to cake mixes. The goal was to have the housewife spend as little time and effort in the kitchen as possible. This was an era when women were easing into the workforce, not to replace men gone to war but on their own. Two female journalists recognized that women were stressed to cook dinner after a long day at work, and they determined to make cooking easier. You may never have heard of these two: Peg Bracken and Poppy Cannon. Each one is known today, if at all for one cookbook title, though they had varied writing careers  

You could say that Peg Bracken, a free lance journalist, lucked into a niche when she started writing about food. Her best-known book is The I Hate to Cook Book. Her recipes assume that the reader knows something about cooking and might even enjoy it. Bracken herself denied hating to cook. But she wanted to help women spend less time creating a really good meal. Taste was not inconsequential to her. One recipe I remember was Stayabed Stew—you threw stew meat, carrots, sliced potatoes, celery, onion into a crockpot. Add a can of condensed soup—tomato, cream of mushroom, cream of chicken, your choice—and dilute with two cans of water. No need to sauté the vegetables first nor brown the meat. You put it all in a Dutch oven, put it in a slow oven, and cook five hours. Probably at that time Bracken did not have access to those packages of frozen stew vegetables we see in the groceries today—remember despite the introduction of frozen food, not many homes had freezers. Bracken also apparently did not have a crockpot or slow cooker.

The fiftieth anniversary edition of The I Hate to Cook Book was published in 2010 and is still available.

Poppy Cannon wrote several cookbooks, including one for brides, but she is remembered for The Can Opener Cookbook. Whereas Bracken wrote for the housewife and really left her in the kitchen, Cannon, in person a sophisticated and well-traveled diner familiar with good food, wrote for the career woman who might be hosting a gentleman for dinner or a small cocktail party. Cannon knew that woman didn’t want to dally in the kitchen. So she invented shortcuts—a vichyssoise made with mashed potatoes and cream of chicken soup or espagnole sauce made of Franco-American canned gravy with a dash of Kitchen Bouquet and a splash of brandy. Cannon’s recipes often lacked exact measurements and gave vague directions such as “stir like crazy.” She believed that presentation was important—I can hear my mom telling me food is half eaten with the eye—and she particularly loved flaming dishes and those she could prepare at the table. Sometimes at dinner parties, she’d bring the necessary appliances—a mixer, an electric skillet, whatever—to the table so that she could cook before guests.

These cookbooks today are pretty much read for amusement rather than actual cooking directions though I maintain that some of Bracken’s recipes are pretty good. It’s like the Facebook page titled Disgusting Vintage Foods—what some find disgusting is a treat to others, salmon croquettes being a case in point. At any rate it occurs to me that the era of convenience food and shortcut cooking paved the way for the dramatic foodie revolution that followed, led by such luminary cooks as James Beard and Julia Child. Perhaps another blog about them another time.

Meantime, happy cooking!

A rough day

 

Jordan welcoming Jacob home from camp.
Yesterday, but I didn't get the picture in time for last night's blog.
Love it, love the smile on his face.

This, I decided, would be a lazy Sunday. No work. I would read the book that will be discussed in a group tomorrow and I should have read much earlier—getting something accomplished but not really working, not pushing myself. These hot days are hard on all of us. Even my cottage gets hot, and that almost never happens.

So the day went as planned until about one-thirty, when two things happened simultaneously: Jordan came out, obviously upset, because a strange man rang the doorbell and stayed on the front porch a long time. She and Christian were home but didn’t dare move about the house because the front door has glass panes and no covering. Christian was trapped in the room off the living room, and she in the bedroom. Jacob had just driven home, saw the man, called, and she told him not to come in because she didn’t want the man to follow or attack him. So Jacob drove “surveillance.” I dutifully called the police and then put it on the neighborhood listserv. The man went up and down the street, apparently stealing a bike and a package, stood in the middle of the street waving at our house, walked up the driveway we share with out neighbor. Clearly he needed help. He was here about an hour, and we never saw the police. Jacob thought he was probably on drugs.

Meantime, Jordan had been out to the cottage earlier and done something at the kitchen sink. I saw water on the floor, figured she’d splashed a bit, and put a paper towel over it. When I looked again the paper towel was soggy. I’ve had trouble, too much trouble with that faucet, and the last couple of days I noticed I had to push hard on the handle to keep it from dripping. So I intended to call the plumber in the morning. Now I called in the house, and Jordan sent Christian out—who found that everything under the sink was wet. He cleaned it up and turned off the water.

So now I have no water in the kitchen. You don’t realize how many times you start to wash your hands or rinse something. Tomorrow night I have company coming for a light supper—and a discussion of the Supreme Court—and I planned to cook in the morning. Plumber gets the first call. And we’re going to talk about a totally new fixture instead of repair. This is not the first flood I’ve had.

So dinner in the house tonight—steak and baked potatoes. I tried the British method of baking potatoes, as I mentioned last night—cut a cross in the top instead of poking holes all over, bake two hours at 400, take out of oven and deepen the cross, and bake ten more minutes. They were fluffy and good—and I do love a good baked potato. Steak as flavorful and cooked just right—Christian is so good at grilling. They announced that this summer Jacob should learn to grill—Jacob look uncertain about that, but I think it’s probably a great idea.

So tonight I’m going to finish off what should have been a lazy day by reading that book! Stay safe, everyone.

Some plans go awry

 

This started out to be a great cooking weekend, but somehow it went amuck. Okay, not somehow—I know what happened.

Last night Jordan and I welcomed Renee, a minister at our church and a good friend. We planned a girls’ evening, and I came up with an experimental light supper—I had the idea, and Jordan carried it out beautifully. She mixed flaked tuna with tabouleh, topped it with lemon, avocado, and good Greek yogurt. Then she put a dab of hummus on the side of each bowl. Delicious, looked gorgeous in the bowl, and so filling! Anyway it was the cooking success I hoped for. Tonight not so much.

Jacob came home from two weeks at Sky Ranch camp tonight. That is, Jordan and Christian drove to Van in East Texas to pick him up. He had been on a bus from Colorado all night. The plan was to have a welcome-home celebratory dinner, and Jordan chose carnitas for the entrée, because that’s something he likes. First mistake.

I make carnitas the way a man who once worked in my office taught me—simmer cubes of pork butt until the liquid disappears and the meat gets crusty. That makes a simple boiled pork dinner, but if you season the water, you get carnitas. I add onion, garlic, orange peel, bay leaves oregano, cloves, a cinnamon stick—I guess that’s all. I’ve made it a lot before, and usually it turns out great, but tonight the liquid would not cook down no matter what we did. I figure I made two mistakes: too much liquid and not long enough cooking. Easy enough to correct next time, and there will be a next time because I ordered 2.5 lbs. of beef in cubes and got 4.35 lbs. So I have leftovers in the freezer. And to add to my discontent, the one-inch cubes I requested were big hunks of meat, so I spent a lot of time cutting them into one-inch cubes. Next time I will be firm in my request. Another lesson learned: my knives need sharpening, even my big, good chef’s knife.

And then Christian suddenly had to go to Plano for a memorial service for a high school friend. So that dinner for four planned for seven o’clock? Three of us sat down at almost eight-thirty, and I have to say our tempers were a bit testy from hunger. We do have good leftovers for lunch tomorrow.

Jacob responded easily to questions about his camp experience—he loved it. No swimming, which astounded me. Why go to camp if you don’t swim? They did play soccer, football, baseball, etc. They also had Bible study—Ephesians, but he was a little shaky on the content when asked. That’s okay because I’m a bit shaky too. We both know that Ephesians is letters Paul wrote while in prison.

But for me the big disappointment came when he talked about group singing, which he apparently enjoyed. I asked if they sang “Kumbala,” or “Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore,” and he looked at me blankly and said, “I don’t know what those are.” They sang country songs, like “Country Roads” and others I’d never heard of. So I guess we’re even. But it makes me sad to think that those songs, which I always thought generations sang, are fading from memory. Jordan challenged me to sing “Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore,” but I may just have to find a rendition online for her. And I bet Jacob has no idea who Joan Baez is. Travesty.

So tomorrow night, one more experiment: I read about baking potatoes the British way. Two hours in a 400^o degree oven. Instead of poking them all over with a fork, you cut a deep cross in the top. The long cooking time makes the skins really crisp. Then you take them out, cut the cross deeper, and return to the oven for ten minutes. This is supposed to make the potato meat fluffy. We’re having steak tomorrow night, so I’ll report on how the potatoes do.

My day was work—I wrote 800 words, which is really good for a nonfiction project—and I napped and made carnitas. And that sums up the day. I did finish a new mystery which I thoroughly enjoyed: Murder in G Major by Alexia Gordon. An African-American classical musician is stranded in a small Irish village and challenged with transforming the rowdy musicians of the local boys’ school into an award-winning orchestra. But along the way she shares a cottage with an absolutely charming ghost and uncovers a lot of old murders—and some new ones. Will hers be next? Good story. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

One never knows what tomorrow will bring. Sweet dreams, everyone.

The patriotism dilemma

 

Yesterday, President Biden presented the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian honor our country bestows, to seventeen people, people he said “demonstrate the power of possibilities and embody the soul of the nation—hard work, perseverance, and faith. They have overcome significant obstacles to achieve impressive accomplishments in the arts and sciences, dedicated their lives to advocating for the most vulnerable among us, and acted with bravery to drive change in their communities—and across the world—while blazing trails for generations to come.”

There were names I did not recognize but many I did—Gabby Giffords, the representative from Arizona who, a gun violence survivor, crusades for gun control; gymnast Simone Biles; creative genius Steve Jobs (posthumous); Khizr Khan, the Gold Star father who advocates for religious freedom; gymnast Megan Rapinoe, an advocate of equal pay, racial justice, and LBGTQ rights; the late Senator John McCain; actor Denzel Washington. You may recognize more than I did, but my first thought on reading the list was how proud it makes me to be an American, to be represented by these people who have accomplished so much not just for themselves but for our country and out people. It made me feel patriotic.

But there’s the rub. I don’t feel patriotic much these days, and the uncertainty is a feeling I remember from the days of George W. Bush’s presidency. I am not always proud of my country. Don’t get me wrong: I love the United States. Despite my jokes about Canada and Scotland, there’s no place else I’d rather live. Shoot! I don’t even want to move from Texas, and it takes a mighty effort to be a proud Texan these days with our out-of-control extremist governor and high-ranking officials. But I am not at all of the “America, love it or leave it” mentality. I think that’s a cop-out.

In an online group I belong to a few days ago, I saw a blog about the dilemma of patriotism (I can’t quite remember the exact title). At first, I thought, “Aha! Someone shares my dilemma, and I read it eagerly. The writer is a psychologist and tackled the subject by addressing groups and their importance. Being patriotic, she wrote, gives us a sense of belonging to a group. It makes us feel safe and valued. But the trouble with groups is their tendency to ostracize those who are “different” in some ways. And there, she came close to the reason I cannot feel a hundred percent patriotic.

I cannot be proud of a country that openly and covertly practices racism, isolates LGBTQ citizens, discriminates against women, devalues the elderly, and has the highest rate of deaths by gunfire of any civilized nation, topped only by Brazil. I cannot be proud of a country where an extreme religion is gaining more and more control over our lives. I cannot be proud of a country where much of the population remains blind to the threats of climate change and the desperate need to save our environment for the sake of the entire world. I cannot be proud of a country where recently at least a third of the population swore fealty to a con man, a demagogue known to be a liar, cheat, sexual predator, politically ignorant, blustery—you come up with the rest of the adjectives.

What am I proud of? A country with a history, sometimes glorious, sometimes despicable but a country that until recent times tried to be honest about its past, tried to learn and grow. A country that values the individual, values truth, does not hide from its glaring mistakes but tackles them, a country of kindness and caring people. I want the day back where teachers could teach what they as educated experts deemed important and not what bullying parents want; I want the day back when women’s medical care was a private thing between her and her doctor; I want the day back when librarians, using their education, could shelves books they thought important without government interference; I want the day back of social networks and government services that provided for the least among us.

Right now I’m doing some research into the 1950s, mostly culinary. It was the decade that saw the introduction of preserved and convenience foods, of weird foods such as all those gelatin salads, a time when women may have worked outside the home, but they were primarily housewives. That decade in many ways teaches us to be grateful for all the progress we enjoy today. But in 1950 we had just won a huge war, the men were home (most of them), our international reputation was high, our economy booming (where do you think the term Boomers came from?), and our country optimistic. Nobody quibbled, as they did this year, over whether or not to fly a flag on the Fourth of July. We were all Americans, and we were all patriotic. (No I’m not blind to the Korean War, McCarthyism, the nuclear threat which was then new—but I’m talking in generalities).

Someone posted the other day that in these trouble times we must all love each other, to which I retorted that was great but would do little to tame a rogue Supreme Court which is rapidly destroying democracy. But maybe I was hasty—maybe that’s where change begins. But time’s a-wasting, and we better hurry. The future looms, and I’m not always sure I can be optimistic—or patriotic.