Looking out the window

Immediately to the right of my desk, there’s a large window that looks out to a corner of the yard toward the main house. It’s large and an odd size, because the cottage is old enough that none of the windows are standard size, and they vary wildly form this large one to a small one that seems crowded into a corner of the living room.

But I often stop and stare out my desk window. In summer, it is a happy view. I can see the blooming plants Christian puts on the patio, including a gorgeous bougainvillea, and the pentas blooming below it (except last year when our pentas took the prize for the most pitiful crop). I can also see the new native plant garden the yard guys planted for me last year.

Not so happy today. It’s one of those Texas days that can chill your bones even if the temperature is moderate. Damp, rainy, dull, and dark. Sophie woke me this morning just before seven to tell me that it was thundering outside, and she did NOT want to go potty. But she wanted to dance, clicking her nails on the wood floor by my bed, just to be sure I didn’t sleep through this danger from the gods of thunder.

It rained and thundered off and on during the morning—a nice gentle rain, but there was that thunder. A particularly loud crack would bring Soph off the couch frantically barking, and an occasional bolt of lightning startled me. But the view out the window was not inspiring. My pair of bluebirds haven’t been back in a couple of days, and I haven’t yet seen Mama and Papa Cardinal who summer here year after year. What I did see was a squirrel, industriously digging in the bed around my native plants. The plants themselves are bright green with spring growth, but I sure hope they fill out some.

It was a workday for me, and I made good progress with the editorial comments on the Irene/ Texas book. It feels like I’ve been with Irene in Texas forever, and I am ready to move on. But I want to do the best job possible with the manuscript, so I slog along. The editor catches remarkable small things that I never would, and I am so grateful, but I laugh a bit too. She is not, never has been a Texas girl. She wants to capitalize western as in western clothing; I will repeat to her my maxim learned in years of writing about the American West—the noun is capitalized; the adjective is not. People in the West wear western clothing. And since Longhorns were made a registered breed some years ago, the word is capitalized.

I wrote something about a norther sweeping cattle south as it roared down on Texas. She wrote that she looked norther up on Google and could not see that it had anything to do with cattle. Must I recount for her the story of the 1886-87 Big Die Up, when countless cattle were swept far south, trying to get ahead of the unbelievable blizzard. When they came to a fence, they stacked up and died. Ranchers lost cattle by the thousands. Not as bad these days, but cattle will still try to move ahead of a storm.

A word on my highly successful career: I got royalty notices today from some Amazon branches: Amazon Australia paid me twenty-two cents; Amazon Europe, eighty-nine. Will success spoil Judy Alter?

Something is alarming Sophie. She is barking and running from one end of the cottage to the other (not a far distance). Night before last, some low life kinds stole the catalytic converter from Jacob’s Toyota Sequoia, so now I’m a bit more cautious. We always knew that we have night-time visitors—folks who try the handles of the cars just in case. But now we’re on high alert—all cars will be behind the electric gate. And though I always lock the cottage and turn on the alarm at night, I have now started locking it when I nap in the afternoon. Jordan came out the other day and was frustrated that the door was locked. Sad that we live in such times.

If you’re in North Texas, stay safe tomorrow and be prepared to take shelter. Bad storms coming.