A word about electricity and a lot about book bans

 

I may be the last person in the world you would suspect of doing scientific investigations, but I sort of did today. When I found both my teakettle and my can opener weren’t working, I unplugged them, moved them to another plug—and voila! They worked. Just when I was on the verge of calling the electrician who has worked on my house for years. When I told Christian this, he (much more practical than I), said, “It probably just needs to be reset.” And he did. And tonight they both work in their original spots. I also read the troubleshooting directions for my garbage can and decided what we hadn’t done was to unplug it and leave it for hours. That was less successful. It still doesn’t work. Still, one savors the small victories.

I am overcome tonight with the hate in the world. A lengthy article on a bookseller’s newsletter this morning details an Arkansas law that bans almost every good book I’ve ever read and jeopardizes not only the jobs and income but the freedom of librarians, teachers, and booksellers. Can you spell Nazi? The law, signed by the odious Governor Sarah Huckaby (yes, I used a pejorative adjective) provides that anyone can challenge the ”appropriateness” of a book in public libraries, but it does not define “appropriateness” nor does it provide a standard by which to judge books. Those who support the law say anyone under eighteen should not have access to books that include racism, sexual activity, or LGBTQ topics. They call such books indoctrination. I call such laws suppression of knowledge. Seventeen organizations, including booksellers, librarians, publishers and parents and some international groups, have brought a lawsuit. I wish the Godspeed.

I did not raise my children in a vacuum. I remember when one of my daughters read Flowers in the Attic, about four children struggling to survive as they are hidden in the attic of a mansion. Scary stuff but intriguing to a fourteen-year-old mind. We talked about it. When she moved on to books by Danielle Steele, I did read a couple of them, because I wanted to know what my child was reading. One of her brothers was devoted to the Dungeons and Dragons series and was the kind of a kid who read by flashlight under the covers at night. I never had a complaint about that, except that he was hard to wake in the mornings. None of my four grew up to be a sex maniac, racist, or bigot.

The Arkansas law means booksellers can be liable for displaying “questionable” books but does not define questionable. That means booksellers can display only innocuous titles—cookbooks, maybe?—or they have to forbid children to come into the store. If there was anything my son Jamie loved, it was a trip to the bookstore where he would beg and plead until I bought whatever caught his fancy. And I remember a nephew who at fourteen or so was fascinated by Anne Rice’s vampire fiction. He’s a successful physician today, father of four, a good guy.

Locally, I am not over my disappointment in Mayor Mattie Parker of Fort Worth. The Fort Worth Public Library prepared a big publicity campaign—print materials, etc.—for its annual Mayor’s Summer Reading Program, with a special Pride Badge for youngsters who read one book with an LGBTQ theme. A splinter group—with “Liberty” in its name, of course (such words have become red flags to me)—complained to the mayor and she caved. Gave the library an ultimatum: withdraw the Pride Badge or she would withdraw her endorsement. The library felt it had no choice and withdrew the badge. So wrong. I wished for just a moment there that I were director of the library because I would have, I hope, told the mayor to go fly a kite. And she did this at the beginning of National Pride Month. Bad call, bad timing, Mayor Parker.

Today I read that Texas and Florida (of course) have passed stringent laws that forbid immigrants from certain countries to buy land except under certain circumstances—proof of citizenship or a green card and then only land not close to a military installation, etc. The laws in large part are aimed at Asians and decisions are often made on facial structure. Is this really the land of the free?

There’s a meme on Facebook that says if you have to pass laws punishing certain minority groups to prove your faith or morals, you have no faith or morals to prove. So true.

I cannot fathom people with so much hate and fear in their hearts, but I know that they are a slim minority, and we must all fight back, each of in whatever way we can, to keep them from changing the face of our land, the way we live and raise our children. My moral standard may not be yours—as long as neither of us infringe on each other or commit a crime against society, that’s fine with me. How about you?

No sweet dreams tonight. Dream instead of every good book you want your children or grands to read.

 

The gods of small (and large) appliances

 

Our front yard has a mass of cone flowers I planted years ago.
Jordan brought me this bit of cut blooms. I love the color.
Some folks call them echinacea, but I like the simple name.

Somehow, I have displeased some mechanical gods. They say things break in threes, but I think I have already gone beyond that. Last night when I turned on the HVAC unit hanging from the ceiling in my living room, just before I went to sleep, it wouldn’t open its vents. The power light went on and all that, but no air came out. I finally resorted to the unit in the bedroom, which is sometimes noisy. I didn’t set it very low, and I think that helped keep it quiet. Plus the humidity was low—I think high humidity makes such things work harder. This morning the living room one worked like a charm. Electronic things sometimes need time out to collect themselves.

But last week, my electric teakettle quit. Switch wouldn’t turn on. I figured it wasn’t worth repairing, ordered a new one. The new one is fancy—clear glass, with blue LED lights that match the lights on my electric corkscrew—and my Blue Willow plates. I took seriously the instructions which said not to immerse, so I stewed over how to clean a new pot. Jordan finally rinsed it with hot water and pronounced it ready for use. So this morning, I filled my two-cup measure and dumped it in the pot. It worked for two seconds, flicked itself off and refused to do anything else. I retrieved the box, thinking it would have to go back to Amazon. Jordan came along, said it was all wet, dried it and let it sit. After a doctor’s appointment in the late morning, I tried it again, and it worked fine.

But tonight the electric can opener won’t work. It has to be plugged tightly into the wall—I’ve run into that before—but just to be sure, Jordan pushed it in. I tried it a few minutes later and nothing. So tonight I let it sit, unplugged, to collect itself.

Meantime, the touchless garbage can has been collecting itself for two weeks with no results. When you run your hand over the opening, the lights come on, but the lid doesn’t open. When you open it manually you can feel some tension it the lid—it’s not just limp and dead, but nothing automatic works. I found today that you can order parts, but I don’t think a new battery pack is what we need. Christian has promised to take a screwdriver to it so he can get inside to the working parts—or nonworking as the case may be.

Funny how dependent we get on these small appliances. I know my mother would scoff.

Not a good day. I don’t have panic attacks anymore, hardly ever, but I had a brief, mild one today. Jacob drove me to the podiatrist’s office. I really like him and his wife, who is his receptionist, assistant, and all good things. But I dislike the handicapped ramp going into the building. It’s steep and a rough texture. I especially feel like my walker will get away from me going down the ramp. Jacob was really good, holding on to the walker, but when we got to the bottom, he started to walk away while I was still struggling with the change from rough ramp to parking lot. I got into the parking lot, no more than five feet from the car, and had that irrational thought: I can’t do this. I called to him, and he, sweet boy, came instantly, held the walker so I could sit on it. I ended up back peddling to the far door of his SUV, which was probably much more dangerous than if I’d walked. When he put out the stool so I could climb in, he said, “I’ve got you,” and I told him climbing on a stool to swing into an SUV was a piece of cake. It was that open parking lot. Nobody ever said panic made sense.

That kind of finished my writing ambition for the day. I took a nap, and Mary came for happy hour. Jordan was under the weather and didn’t join us, but we had a good visit, though both of us were a bit boring, confessing that we really didn’t know much new. I fixed breakfast sandwiches for supper so I could use up the Canadian bacon in the fridge. I intended to put them on croissants, but Central Market sent me mini croissants with a sugar coating. Not the stuff of an egg and bacon sandwich. Luckily, I had English muffins in the freezer.

So tonight, in bits and pieces, waiting for the Burtons and then after supper, I wrote 500 words. The thing is when I went back to bed this morning after feeding Sophie, a long, complicated scene came clear in my mind, and I wanted to capture it. Now I’m hoping it will stay until tomorrow, when I have, I hope, a clear day of writing, followed by supper out with friends.

Life is sweet, but a bit complicated some days.

A long night

 

My brother, home and in the wheelchair.
I think he looks great considering all he's been through
I am so grateful.

Was there a spot on the moon last night? From my cottage, I heard all kinds of spooky things and had some wild dreams. I went to bed late, maybe just before midnight, and immediately fell deep asleep (yes, I am blessed that way). But after about twenty minutes, I came awake suddenly because I heard voices, men shouting and hollering. And Sophie barked. I jumped out of bed and grabbed my walker so fast that I ignored the medical wisdom I’d heard about sitting on the edge of the bed and collecting yourself for a minute before you stand up—good advice, I think, for the elderly. Except I didn’t do it and felt almost woozy. Now in the cold light of day I don’t know if those voices were in my dream or real. I pulled the kitchen shade aside, but all looked peaceful. I heard nothing. But if there was nothing out there, why did Sophie bark? This morning, Jordan told me she heard nothing.

After prowling around the cottage a bit, with Soph at my heels, I went to bed—and then I began to hear the police helicopter circling. Not directly overhead but probably a bit to the north. It seemed to come close when it circled and then fade off into the distance. And it circled for almost forty-five minutes—by now I was wide awake and watching the clock. Finally it disappeared, and eventually I went back to sleep.

Only to have something on my bedside table beep loudly to tell me it was out of batteries. So I waited, hoping it wasn’t like the alarm system which keeps beeping until you do something. Apparently two beeps was enough. I tried to take a mental inventory of what it could be: not the hearing aid charger, not the remote control for the lamp, not the digital clock, not the remote for the security system (yes, my beside table is a bit crowded). Either the automatic control to my Sleep Numbers bed or the remote for the HVAC unit that hangs from the ceiling and was not in use. I have not investigated yet, but writing this reminds me I must.

As for wild dreams, eighteen hours later I can’t remember them, but at the time they were crystal clear and in my mind I wrote about them in detail. I’m not sure now how much was dream and how much reality. I often remember dreams at least for a few hours and should have written these down. There were two separate dream stories. Wish I knew.

I also in my mind (you can see I was busy) wrote a preface to what I’m calling the cottage memoir. And I remembered that, because this morning I wrote a rough draft of about eleven hundred words. I have had what I call memoir angst—all around me women are writing their memoirs, yet I never felt I had enough to say. I guess I never felt my life was interesting enough, though I will say the one big thing I have done in this life is to adopt four children and raise them, after twelve years, as a single parent. But then I began to learn about the difference between autobiography and memoir, and I began to imagine a memoir about my seven years, so far, in the cottage. There is a story there, but then comes the question of why I feel compelled to share it. Perhaps I’ll share bits of that preface in another blog.

This morning, Jordan, probably aware I’d had a sort of lonely weekend, assured me Christian would grill tonight. That has fallen apart to the point that we are debating what to do with leftovers. Christian brought home some taco meat with bell peppers—that rules it out for me. So he and Jacob will have tacos, and Jordan and I will eat the two salmon patties I have left. She will toast hers; I will make a sandwich spread with lemon and mayonnaise out of mine. Not exactly a coordinated, bountiful Memorial Day picnic! Not it’s almost eight, and no one has appeared. The kind of evening when I wish I had planned a big meal ahead of time.

I just found a message from Jordan that said she was “Kirkegaard delayed.” Puzzling, especially since she is not given to an interest in philosophers, and I’m not sure she even knows who Kirkegaard is/was. I assume autocorrect got her. She was telling me just this evening about autocorrect changing Virginia to virginity and how you have to be careful these days because when you send a message to some one with one of the new cars, the phone system reads the text aloud, no matter who is in the car with the driver. She had texted a message to a friend about meeting at Colonial with Virginia, and it made the change—she cancelled it because she knew the friend had his young daughters in the car with him. Technology isn’t always that great.

My week is off to a good start. I hope yours is too.

A boring, lonely weekend

 

Sophie hoping someone, anyone would come visit
so I would have someone else to talk to.

With Jordan and Christian at the golf tournament and Jacob celebrating the end of the school year, Sophie and I have found it a sort of lonely, boring weekend. At least we have each other to talk to, though the conversation is pretty much one-sided. She contributes by cocking her head and looking at me as if to say, “Really?” I do have work on my desk, but sometimes I just don’t feel like doing it on weekends. So I piddle a bit and read a lot.

I did spend much of the day on domestic chores—hanging up clothes, putting away groceries, generally straightening things, and making a batch of my pea salad because I like it a lot. Contrary to most recipes, I do not put bacon in it, and I grate cheddar instead of cubing it. Last night I asked Jacob to get me a ream of paper from the corner where we store such supplies, and he asked, “What’s a ream?” I explained, he looked, said he didn’t see any such. This morning, Christian found an unopened box of three reams. I had already ordered three, so I’ll return the package that arrived today. Poor Jacob—he had no reason to know that’s how paper comes, but I’ll tell him so he can add it to his knowledge bank. Who knows? Someday he may work in an office.

I do have a slight domestic dilemma. The electric teakettle that Mary Dulle handed down to me several years ago gave up the ghost. The switch refused to work, and while I know those things can be fixed, it’s usually less expensive and easier to order a new one. That does, however, leave me with the guilt about the footprint I’m leaving on the earth. But I ordered a new one, partly because I don’t know anyone who does such repair. And for once, I read the instructions and warnings. One of the latter was: do not immerse. Okay but I always wash a new appliance before using it. Can I use a soapy dishrag on it and then rinse without immersing?

Good dinner tonight: since I was cooking for myself tonight, and Jordan was picking up my grocery order at Central Market, I included a quarter lb. filet of Dover sole. First problem: a half lb. is too much, since I don’t really like leftover fish the next day, but a quarter lb. is too skimpy. Second problem is I can only occasionally sauté sole in one piece—it usually turns to hash when I try to flip it, as it did tonight, even with a fish spatula. The delicate flavor, however, is so good, I don’t mind the hash. And even though I didn’t get the crispy brown crust I like, it was so tasty that I forgot to put lemon on it. What I did do, however, was to sprinkle it with a bit of the lava salt Jordan brought home from Iceland. Really enhanced the flavor without making it too salty. I do need, however to learn to use a lighter hand with the black salt. To go with it, I made a big batch of English pea salad which is a favorite of mine. Thinking of people who don’t like English peas—Christian, Barbara Ashcraft, and Jean, who once said she didn’t like pea salad and then ate two helpings. Mine has no bacon and no little lumps of processed cheese—I grate some good cheddar. We always buy Tillamook cheddar from Oregon but today Jordan wasn’t watching, picked up Lucerne, which is I think the Albertson’s house brand, and then was so mad at herself. I am sure it will be fine.

Not an appealing picture--too monochromatic. I am
obviously not a food photographer, but I was trying to
show the black lava salt on the fish. Honest this
tasted a lot better than it looks.

My political brains is whirring happily tonight with the vote of the Texas House to impeach Ken Paxton. I may despise Texas politics, but I have to admit it is interesting, and I’ll wait to see what the state Senate does. Maybe tomorrow my further thoughts on politics. Tonight I have a new issue of Bon Appetit to read.

Sweet dreams, y’all.

 

A day of good stuff … and some trivia, some of it not so trivial

 

Fireman getting ready to load the trailer.

Three cheers for my sister-in-law, Cindy Azuma Peckham! She drove their pickup with a trailer to Fort Worth from Tolar, maybe forty-five miles, much of it heavily trafficked. She was picking up the electric wheelchair, and the pickup caused a brief flurry of activity at the cottage. I have written about our indecision about how to load the heavy thing. Turns out John and Cindy have a neighbor who’s with the Fort Worth Fire Department, and he offered to come and bring three firemen to load it. They arrived in a fire truck, which may have caused a bit of a neighborhood stir, and it was done before I could blink. John’s neighbor, David, simply rode the chair through the patio and back yard, down the driveway, and across the street to where Cindy had parked the truck. The firemen tied it down securely in the trailer, and Cindy took off for home. And therein is my admiration—I was a good driver in my day, but a pickup with a trailer and a wheelchair would have intimidated me. My tribute to Cindy: “She may be small, but she is mighty.”

And three more cheers for Morgan Helene Alter, who graduated today from Tomball Memorial High School. In what I thought was a lovely innovation, the ceremony was live-streamed, so I got a much better view of her walking across the stage than I would have if I’d been in been in that crowded auditorium. She had a sweet, cute smile on her face, even though the principal or whoever called her Morgan Helen when her name is Morgan Helene. So proud of her. She will go to Texas Tech next year.

Morgan, inducted into National Honor Society

.

And another three cheers for Jacob Burton who is as of yesterday a senior in high school. He and friends celebrated by helping or officiating or something at a Powder Puff game and then, just as I was about to serve supper, seven hungry boys landed in Jordan’s living room. I told her and Christian they are blessed that Jacob has such good friends and that he is comfortable bringing them home. Jordan scurried around to find something to feed them.

New seniors, on the last day of school.

Not so trivial: Amanda Gorman wrote yesterday about the banning of her inaugural poem, “The Hill We Climb,” in Dade County (Florida) elementary schools. I thought her words were eloquent: "I wrote 'The Hill We Climb' so that all young people could see themselves in a historical moment. Ever since, I've received countless letters and videos from children inspired by 'The Hill We Climb' to write their own poems. Robbing children of the chance to find their voices in literature is a violation of their right to free thought and free speech.” Today I learned that the lone woman who complained about the poem is a notorious bigot who has protested countless things before and—get this—she hasn’t yet read the poem in its entirety. And then I read somewhere that the national banning of books is due to eleven narrow-minded people. It’s not a chorus objecting to certain titles—it’s eleven lousy people. And look at the furor they’ve caused, the damage they’ve done. Why is this country letting a few extreme voices control our daily lives, from books to abortion to guns?

Speaking of book banning it amused me yesterday that Goodreads’ list of books on sale at Amazon included Lady Chatterley’s Lover, by D. H. Lawrence. I’m old enough that my first memory of censorship has to do with that book when it was published in the US and the UK, years after Lawrence wrote it. I haven’t one back to read it, but I wonder if it wouldn’t seem tame today. If you want to check it out, go to Amazon. Don’t tell DeSantis.

Trivial to everyone but me: the other morning, with coffee-hour company, I watched out the French doors while a squirrel had the time of his life at our new bird feeder. I know, they are God’s creatures too and have to eat, but do they have to eat when we put out for the birds? Today, I was much happier when I saw Mama Cardinal at the feeder. We have a cardinal couple who have come to our back yard for several years now.

Special days: Yesterday was National Wine Day. Jordan and I did our best to honor it appropriately. I thought today was the day to wear orange to protest gun violence and dutifully put on my one, raggedy, stained orange shirt—turns out it’s next week.

Tonight, Jorda is at a concert if Dallas with a busload of neighbors. Of course she is—John Mayer is performing. Christian, having no interest in John Mayer, is probably still at Colonial, and Jacob is who knows where. Once again, I followed a recipe for something I know perfectly well how to make from scratch—salmon patties. The recipe was from Southern Living, which I think is reliable. They were tasty but once again fell apart when I tried to turn them. Followed a new, quick salad dressing suggestions—a bit tart, even for me. Now to do my Central Market order and then settle down with a mystery.

As you grill your hot dogs and eat your potato salad this weekend, pause for a moment to remember those who served our country and never made it home again. God bless.

A mixed-up kind of a day

 

Sophie and Jacob
a long time ago when both were puppies

Even before daybreak, it was an odd day. I woke twice in the night to find Sophie standing by my bed. If she’d been lying down, I wouldn’t have thought much about it, but she was standing. I thought that was a bit eery, a bit worrisome. I of course was afraid of another diabetic incident, etc. When I asked if she was all right, she gave me a soulful look and came for some loving. I looked outside and sure enough, it rained, but I didn’t hear thunder. Apparently, as I learned today, I must have slept through it, because there were several reports of thunder and lightning, no none that I saw in my immediate area. Even if it wasn’t much here, Sophie would have sensed it. This morning she was back in her crate, sleeping peacefully.

My brother called early about the wheelchair. He said Cindy would come get it, and I protested she could not handle it alone. He said she’d drive the truck with a trailer and a ramp and could just drive it up the ramp—that sounded a bit like going on a roller coaster to me. Could she strap it down, I asked, and he said no, but her sister’s partner could. He’d check schedules with Ralph and get back to me. After a series of phone calls and texts—I simply don’t text well and images completely throw me—I have heard nothing more and seen nothing of either Cindy or Ralph. Christian estimates that the chair weighs between fifty and seventy-five pounds, and it will take three grown men to lift it. Guess I’ll call again in the morning. I want to get the chair out of my closet and the standing walker out of my bedroom, and more than that I want John to have them if they will help him. I once threatened to open a store for used disability devices—if John takes those two, my inventory will go down appreciably. Though someone returned the potty chair yesterday—at least it can go in the attic.

Soph was part of the mixed-up day. She had an 11:30 vet appointment, and Christian was to take her. He told me before he’d be running close on time, would be teaching a real estate class until eleven. By the time he got here at 11:20 I was in the doorway, with Soph on a leash ready to hand him. He asked me to call the vet and say he was running late.

Called the vet clinic, and they said they showed no appt. for today and our vet and his team were not in the clinic. The kind receptionist wanted to keep talking about it, but I wanted to get her off the phone so I could call Christian and tell him to come home. Now, tomorrow, I must call and ask the questions I meant to send with Christian today. Meantime, Christian was glad to come home and eat lunch, and Sophie had a nice outing in the car.

Mixed up again tonight. Jordan had told me yesterday that she had a happy hour tonight, her first event as the mother of a high school senior. Apparently an unofficial group of mothers was getting together—she expected to be a bit tearful. Christian said he’d be home, so I promised to make the German potato salad I didn’t make last night. But then just before five Jordan came out and said there was to be a dinner, with dads and boys, following the happy hour so no one would be home for supper.

I put the German potato salad off one more night and made a recipe I’d been wanting to try—scrambled eggs with pinto beans and cotija cheese.  I can tell you—don’t bother. Admittedly it called for jalapenos, which I left out, but it was kind of just there. The cotija was the best part. I filed the recipe in the wastebasket.

So it was that kind of day, when life gets in the way of what you have planned. Best to be as resilient as possible.

A day of visiting and a dinner that wasn’t

 

This morning I had company for morning coffee, something I rarely do because such a visit cuts into my work schedule. But when I mentioned happy hour or supper, Priscilla said she no longer drives in the evening, so I impulsively suggested a morning visit. Priscilla is in some ways a Facebook friend—oh, we’ve known each other for years, mostly professionally, never close, not even crossing paths frequently,, A few years ago a mutual friend set up a series of monthly lunches that Priscilla and I both attended, but neither of us got to talk much.

In recent times, though, Priscilla has been one of my most faithful followers on Facebook, commenting when she particularly liked a post. She is evidence of what I continually say: for all its critics, Facebook has a lot of advantages. One is that you occasionally make new, good friends.

This was Priscilla’s second visit to the cottage, and it was such fun to see her walk in and immediately greet Sophie by name and talk directly to her. We talked about our lives, about wanting space and yet not wanting to be lonely, about TCU friends—we know so few people there now! She is off for her annual four or five months at her seashore home in Maine (yes, I’m sort of jealous, but in other ways I’m not—Priscilla, however, loves it). It was a good time, and an hour flew by. As for my work? Hey, nobody but me cares if I get behind.

Tonight, as usual on Tuesdays, Mary came for happy hour. She and I share German heritage, so I had a special treat for her—a roll of Braunschweiger. She said she’d had that brand before, and it was good. Indeed it was! Buttery and soft and mild—I loved it. Sent half the leftover home with Mary, but now I intend to put it on my shopping list.

Once again a pleasant visit with conversation ranging over a bit of everything—the neighborhood (Mary misses her old house and was dismayed when, out of habit, she drove by it and saw that the lawn desperately needs mowing); summer plans; food—we can always talk groceries and recipes. Jordan joined us, so the talk was also much about travel and Jacob’s summer and other odd bits. Once again, an hour flew by.

Jordan had a consultant from her office coming to work with her at seven, and I was to feed the boys. I hope that wasn’t the reason Mary hurried away because dinner fizzled. I planned to make Christian’s favorite hot German salad, but he came home and fell asleep on the couch, Jordan wouldn’t be eating, and who knows where Jacob was. Story of my dinner planning. I put everything away to cook for tomorrow night. I’d eaten enough Braunschweiger that I really didn’t need dinner—I was just on the edge of wanting more. So I ate the last few pigs in a blanket and called it a day.

The Colonial Golf Tournament starts tomorrow, so the rest of the week is at best  uncertain. Christian says he’ll be home for supper tomorrow, and I will play the remaining evenings by ear. I know nobody will be here Sunday, the final day. So I’m going to do some single-serving meal planning tonight.

I’m happy to report that my brother is safely at home at his ranch. He said today that he watched the sunrise from his sunporch, and his daughter sent a picture of him in as she put it, “real clothes,” instead of a hospital gown. Big progress. Now to get the wheelchair from here to there!

Life is good.

Lost my oomph

 

Christian's porch plants

Somehow, today, I lost my oomph. Not all that unusual on a Sunday. Sometimes my body seems to say, “Nope, it’s Sunday. The day of rest. I’m not gonna do that, no matter how you nag.” And my brain follows right along. So I fiddled the day away, browsing on the net, napping, reading.

I did a couple of good things—sent off a critique to an as-yet unpublished author. She replied that she was taken aback by some of my comments, and I admit I was brutally honest. But the manuscript didn’t engage me, and I saw some clear ways to fix it. I was honest about the fact that I only read fifty pages—because I was bored, though I didn’t say that—and she of course said if I’d read further, I might have been more engaged. I replied that if most readers have to go fifty pages into a book, they just won’t do it. Ideally, you should capture the reader on the first page. I have lingering regret over the whole thing—it will teach me not to volunteer to critique. But I couldn’t see encouraging a writer about a manuscript that, in my best judgment, has no market appeal. At least, I was honest, and it’s off my desk.

And after a bit of difficulty I sent the neighborhood monthly newsletter to the designer, so that too if off my desk. But it will come right back in the form of proof tomorrow.

Jean came for supper, and Christian fixed his delicious hamburgers. I made smashed potatoes to go with them, something I’ve just learned to do. The first time I asked Christian to get tiny Yukon Gold potatoes, he got about four times the number I thought I needed. So tonight I cooked what was left. In duck fat. Jordan and Jean really like the potatoes but would like to call the fat something else. When Megan first told me she cooked these, she said she had chicken fat. I refrained from asking if it was kosher schmalz, but I don’t think the girls would like this any better. The first time I used duck fat, I thought it instantly made my tiny kitchen small like Thanksgiving. It makes terrific potatoes.

The big accomplishment of the day belongs to Christian and Jordan: tonight they pulled the electric wheelchair to the middle of my closet, located the charger, found that the chair still turned on, and plugged it in to charge overnight. My brother goes home from rehab tomorrow, so the timing is good. Now we have to get the chair from Fort Worth to Tolar and all is well. Except of course that the chair is in the middle of my closet—no way my walker and I can get in for clean clothes, laundry, etc. Zenaida comes tomorrow, and the first thing she does is start a load of my laundry in the house. Not tomorrow. I am telling myself none of it is the end of the world.

I had a hilarious conversation with Christian tonight—because I thought I was talking to Colin. Too detailed to tell all, but the voice said he would need make and model number of the wheelchair to check the battery location, and I said, “Sweetheart, I sent it to you days ago.” The voice, incredulous: “You did? I don’t remember seeing it.” When I asked when he thought he might come look at the chair (mind you, this was, in my mind, Colin who is four hours away in Tomball), he said, “Well, tonight when I come out for supper.” That was my clue I was talking to the wrong person.

The fact that they were able to charge the chair is good news/bad news. It means there is no excuse to get Colin up here to do chores, and as I freely admit I will use any excuse to get any of my children to come visit. “Want a deli sandwich from Carshon’s. Colin? I’ll buy!” But I don’t want him to drive all this way if he doesn’t need to.

One of the things that the voice said to me in that misbegotten phone call was, “I’ve been out all day planting.” Didn’t sound like Colin to me—he is more likely to spend the day building or repairing something big. But who am I to ask. It was of course Christian, and he was busy with the pots on the front porch. Christian is a pot gardener (no, not that kind!), and each year the front porch is amazing. I’m letting a couple of his photos carry the weight of this blog tonight.

Hope everyone has their oomph in place as we approach this new week, the last for most pubic school kids in Texas. Who knows what the schools

will look like in the fall, after this legislative session is over. Fingers crossed, prayers said.

Memories of Scotland

Megan and me at Culloden,
Can't you just feel the wet cold on that vast battlefield?

If you know me, you know I’m not a traveler. I’m just too content tucked away in my cottage with good friends coming to visit me. Oh, maybe before quarantine, I was a bit more inclined to get out, but quarantine worked a number on me when I saw how easy it was to stay home. But there’s another side to me—and that’s my ferocious love for Scotland. Believe me, in my younger years I traveled enough to see a lot of America though never Europe, and I loved many places. But the trip of a lifetime, for me, was 2012 when I went to Scotland with Colin and Megan, my two oldest children.

I don’t care what 23 And Me says about my having no Scottish blood about—I am a member of Clan MacBean, as was my father. And I’m proud that I have been to the MacBean Memorial Park above Loch Ness and that I have signed the clan registry at the Inn of Dores. In the fifties, Hughston MacBain, chairman of the board of Marshall Field & Company, was the MacBain of MacBain, and he used to call Dad and talk about how they were related. My dad loved every minute of it—and I love inheriting that tradition.

So in 2012 we flew to Edinburgh (the only time I stepped foot in England at Heathrow, which had too many escalators for my comfort). We spent a day in Edinburgh, including a wonderful bus tour of the city in a double decker. And then the next day we drove to Inverness, with a stop at Stirling to see the castle and hear the story of William Wallace, hero of the Battle of Stirling (and yes, I ate haggis). What impressed me was the contrast between the intellectual atmosphere of Edinburgh with the university that was the cradle of so much intellectual advancement in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century and the bloody history of Stirling. They don’t call if bloody Scotland for nothing.

What brings this all up now is that it was mid-May when we traveled, and now my computer is spitting up pictures of Scotland every day. I would repeat that trip in a heartbeat. But what dismays me is that many of the images on my computer are not jpegs but something called JSON which I can’t reproduce. So there are wonderful pictures, I can share with you—Megan and me in the door to the Inn of Dores, for instance.

But I can show you the two of us at Culloden, scene of the decisive battle between the forces of England and the followers of Bonnie Prince Charlie who sought autonomy for Scotland. The Scot were technologically outdoor, armed with claymores (swords) while the Brits had rifles and an amazing technique—they lined up three men at a time: one lay flat on the ground, the next knelt, and the third stood and they all fired at the Scots—the guy on the bottom knew not to raise his head or he’d be shot. The Scots had amazing heart and bravery but no rifles.

The display in the visitors’ center at Culloden was amazing—we walked down a corridor, with audio tapes playing on both sides depicting the troops readying for battle: Scots on one side, Brits on the other. Men muttering around campfires as they talked the next day. Then we saw a demonstration of the rifle technique and saw a video that absolutely broke my heart as all those brave Scots rushed to their death. Hero of the battle? Gilles McBain, who killed fifteen or more of the enemy before he was cut down. The Duke of Cumberland, British commander, was said to express regret at the death of so brave a man.

The day we visited Culloden was cold and rainy, and we never ventured out to walk the battlefield, though I would much have liked to. Today it is a peaceful looking, grassy plain, but stone pillars serve as monuments to mark the battlefield. It gave me the shivers and made an enormous impression on me. Note: I’ve heard Americans pronounce the name with equal emphasis on all three syllables, but the Scots emphasize the second: Cul loden.

If I were to travel again, I would go back to Scotland. My heart truly is in the highlands but I am okay with the memories of one glorious trip: eating haggis in pubs in small villages, taking a ferry from the Isle of Skye to the mainland, visiting a different castle every day including Urquhart which was blown up by its defenders to keep it out of the hands of the enemy (most dramatic end to a video I’ve ever seen), tasting Scotch at ten in the morning at a distillery (I am not a Scotch drinker!). It was wonderful, every minute.

Sláinte!

You can sort of go home again

My older brother, John Peckham, called last night to say Sunday he will be moving from a rehab facility where’s he’s been doing PT back to his ranch outside Tolar. He will need the big, clumsy electric wheelchair that is taking up way too much space in my closet, and I am delighted to give it to him. Christian determined make and model last night, and I called Colin who is smart about these things so he could look online about new battery, etc. As a bonus, Christian found all the original paperwork in a pocket on the back of the chair, but he reported when not turned on, the chair is dead weight. Moving it will be a problem, and we are still working on that.

But it was much on my mind when I went to bed last night, and so, of course, I dreamed about it. We (not sure who we was) were at John’s, waiting for word to come get the chair in a truck, but John said first he wanted to go to the Dunes. A word of explanation: when we were growing up our family had a time-share on a rustic (operative word) cottage in the Indiana Dunes State Park. Dad and a colleague had owned it years before in their bachelor days. At some point, the State of Indiana exercised eminent domain and took over the cottage, but every year Dad got a rental contract for the season. He said each year he held his breath until that contract came.

The cottage really was rustic. On a high dune, three flights of stairs above the beach, it had a commanding view of the length of Lake Michigan to the front (I loved to watch storms roll down that lake and to this day I trace my love of a good storm, sans tornadoes, to the Dunes) and a dense forest to the back. It also had no running water (a cistern pump) and no electricity. There was an outhouse down the hill in the woods, and at night you went to bed early because Dad was paranoid about burning the mantle in the Aladdin lamps. It was too dark to read. And you didn’t just drive up to the cottage—you had to pack in your clothes and groceries, either a mile down the beach (too hot) or through the woods (our preferred route).

So in my dream we were talking about going back to the Dunes. John and I and my ex-husband went in the late sixties and had not been back since. When I went to Chicago with my children six years ago or so, they scheduled a morning trip to the Dunes followed by lunch at a North Side restaurant. I had to explain that the time schedule did not work, but their intentions were the best: they knew how big a place the Dunes hold in my heart.

But suddenly, in my dream, it dawned on me that I couldn’t go back to the Dunes. There is no way to maneuver a walker either through the woods or down the beach and up all those stairs. That made such a huge impression on me that I sat bolt upright in bed.

My rational mind has known for a long time that neither John nor I are very mobile. We haven’t had a contest, but in a walker race, I think I would win. Besides there is no there at the Dunes for us anymore. Sometime around 1969, the state stopped renting cottages to long-term leaseholders, rented them to weekenders for a while, and then tore them all down. So I guess in some deep way that aha! moment I had was sort of a Thomas Wolfe You Can’t Go Home Again bit of reality, a recognition that John and I are older and different, and we can’t ever recapture the past. We can remember, but we can’t relive.

Over the years John and I have sometimes been close, sometimes almost estranged in recent years. There’s an elephant in the room with us—politics. But we have much more that binds us together—our Chicago background, our families past and present, osteopathic medicine, Texas (we both like dogs—he can have the cattle). We had grand, huge family celebrations, until both our families grew too large to do that. Since his health has taken a turn, I think, without ever talking about it, we are closer. We talk on the phone often, and I have taken all four grown children to see him. From his hospital bed, a wink or a look with a smile tells me he’s glad I am there, and we are still brother and sister. He is, after all, the one who used to protect me from all kinds of evil, like bad boys who teased me when I was little and very shy. And he is the one who said, “You need to get away from home” and took me to Missouri to graduate school. He had a hand in shaping my life, and I have always known he was there for me.

I think he will like this story. But now about that blasted wheelchair ….

A strange sort of a day

 

Tonight a friend was coming for happy hour at five. He emailed this morning to confirm, and I wrote back that I would have the gate open and a snack ready. So at quarter to, I put out smoked salmon, cream cheese, and crackers. Jordan poured me a glass of wine, and I fiddled at my computer while I waited. Five-fifteen, five-thirty—nothing. At quarter of six I decided something must have come up, he wasn’t coming, and I put the food away—just as he walked up the driveway. Then we both fell all over each other apologizing—he insists that I said six when I confirmed. I can’t imagine that because I know he gets off work at TCU at five, and it’s two minutes from here. I may have made a typo, but I can’t find the email to find out. At any rate, we had a good visit about books and TCU and restaurants.

Christian had thought to join us, but Jacob’s car died in the high school parking lot today, so it was towed to the house and carefully backed into the driveway, with the tow truck driver holding the battery in place, so Christian could install a new battery. When James left, about seven fifteen, he, Jordan, and Christian had a good driveway visit. And I had a salmon and cream cheese sandwich for supper.

Today I finally cleared up the last of the busy-ness details that had burdened me this week. Got my Origins (cosmetics) account straightened out and was able to place an order. But it took three chat sessions over three days, which I consider a chunk of my time. Those chat options are great for me because when I get a tech in Indonesia, I can’t understand her or him, but the chat moves slowly and does take time. And often it’s over such silly small matters. But I feel good that by mid-week, I have those niggling little items off my desk and calendar.

A few days ago I wrote about my renewed conversation with the older sister of one of my best friends growing up—and mostly with the sister’s daughter. You may remember I sent them a manuscript titled, “I Wish I Lived at Eleanor Lee’s House.” Today, Leslie, the daughter, sent me a PDF of faded newspaper clippings about the daycare program Elizabeth, Eleanor Lee’s older sister, established in their back yard when she was twelve, and Eleanor Lee and I were probably eight or nine. I remember it well—they had maybe ten or twelve neighborhood kids, fed them snacks (probably Kool-Aid, yuck!), and played games with them. One summer my mother was gone a lot—her sister was dying—and I spent my days helping with the daycare children. We were all impressed that it made the newspaper, probably the Chicago Tribune, because the Harrisons were conservative. The Tribune was not allowed in my liberal household; we read the Chicago Sun-Times.

Those clippings triggered another memory. Liz and Eleanor Lee used to go around the neighborhood after Christmas, dragging home every discarded Christmas tree they could find. This was in the days before artificial trees so there were lots. They stashed them all in the backyard and made a forest. Great for playing hide-and-seek—until the fire department got wind of it and cleared out the forest as a fire hazard, which it really was. But you can see why I wanted to live at Eleanor Lee’s house! No such excitement at my house.

Today, as almost every day, I don’t know whether to weep or celebrate when I read the news. But today there are several disturbing developments—Ron DeSantis has absolutely gutted education, particularly higher education, in Florida. Public universities cannot teach DEI, nor anything that reflects a biased history, racism, etc. He even gets specifics about what pronouns are to be used, though I don’t see how he can enforce that. I hope the ACLU hops on this quickly. Many students at public universities in that state are people of color who cannot afford private or out-of-state schools, so they are being robbed of their only chance at a broad, liberal education which will help them advance in the world. And we will have a generation of people so uneducated that they are not qualified to be leaders in government, industry, health care, all the fields vital to advancing America. It is classic dictator tactics.

In Texas the gun news continues to be horrifying. You probably have heard of the Sonic employee killed in Keene, south of Fort Worth. A thirty-some-year-old man took a leak in the back of the Sonic parking lot. When the employee went out to talk to him, a twelve-year-old boy in the man's car grabbed an AR-15 which just happened to be handy and blew the Sonic employee away. Dear Governor Abbott: that is not a mental health problem; it is a problem of the availability of an assault weapon. I am not sure what the answer is, where we will find a solution, but I know that something like eighty-seven percent of Americans want better gun control. We do not have to live like this. And I am ashamed that Texas leads the way in killings.

On that note, be safe, everyone. And do whatever you can to protest. I’m thinking hard and long about it.

If you were fourteen again ….

There’s a wonderful meme going around Facebook: a youngish woman wearing a gorgeous yellow gown, her hair piled on top of her head, seated on a settee with her arms spread wide in a confident pose. And she says, “I want to be fourteen again and ruin my life differently. I have new ideas.” It’s a brilliant rephrasing of the question we all are asked all the time—if you had your life to live over again, what would you do differently. I usually scroll right on past that question, but this time—maybe it’s the woman with her direct stare--but it got me.

I don’t think at fourteen I did anything to ruin my life. I was too sheltered, too naïve. But my first thought along that line was of the man/boy I fell madly in love with at eighteen—when he was twenty-four. Our two-year relationship was intense, though too much of it was by correspondence while I was away at college. Eventually, mostly due to parental pressure, we parted in a bittersweet moment. There was one time, a year later, when I could probably have rekindled the passion—and I didn’t. That moment has haunted me since. I have carried him in a corner of my heart, all these long years, and I know—because he told me years later—that he did the same. He is gone now, and I feel freer to talk about it, but every time I come up to that thought, one thing stops me: if I had married him and followed him to Florida, I would never have my children. They would have gone to other homes.

And then there’s the question of the man I did marry—ultimately a mistake, though there were good years. Would I do that over again differently, listen to the voices, parental and otherwise, who told me it was a mistake? Given hindsight, the answer is no, again because I would not have the four children I cherish.

And that is pretty much the theme of my life: I wouldn’t change anything because of the children. Yes, there were other men, but none that I felt would fit into the circle that the children and I had—and still have. Do I regret that? Sometimes, briefly, fleetingly. But the reward is always my relationship with my children and the extended family that I am blessed with.

Looking back, I think I am extremely fortunate that there is not a lot in my life I would change. Maybe it makes me dull, but I have few if any new ideas. I stumbled into a good career. Heaven knows, I didn’t think ahead and plan it. If I had, I might have been more dedicated, more proactive. Instead I puddled long at my own pace, so when school children asked me, in class presentations, if I am rich and famous, I told them neither. (I fudged when they asked how old I was.) When I bemoaned my lack of writing success, I remember Bobbi Simms who was part mother/part friend and always kept me grounded. I can hear her yet saying, “Have you ever considered that you have had as much success as you were meant to have?” She was probably spot on. My writing has won enough awards to make me think I’m okay. And beyond awards, I have had great experiences—how else do you get to spend the night at the famed King Ranch or find yourself friends with notables like Texas giant John Graves and Elmer Kelton and Bob Flynn and Larry L. King of “Whorehouse” fame.

And who knew, in my mom’s kitchen, way back when, that her lessons would result n a lifetime of enjoying cooking. What is drudgery for so many is pure joy for me. Wait till I tell you what I cooked tonight—no, that’s for Thursday’s cooking column.

As I age into what one friend calls “eldering,” I am again struck with good fortune. Lord knows, I’ve had my share of health problems, but for now I am healthy, energetic (okay an afternoon nap helps), and still working at what pleases me. The good part is that I never again have to accept an assignment that bores me. In fact, I have just withdrawn from a project that was dragging me down instead of energizing me. Time to move on, and I was free to do that.

I may sound like Pollyanna with my positive outlook, but that’s what works for me. So no, I don’t need to be fourteen again. No new mistakes. But I do like that woman in her yellow dress and hope that her new ideas work out for her. And when I first read her question, I had no idea of the direction my answer would take. Call it stream of consciousness or free writing or whatever.

Have you thought about being fourteen again and starting over with new ideas? 

The world was too much with me today …

 

Well, I may not mean it exactly the way Wordsworth did, though I appreciate his ideas about the healing aspects of the natural world, but it was the world humans, not nature, shaped that was too much with me today.

There was a piece of good news: Henny James was featured in Dru’s Book Musings, talking about Irene Deep in Texas Trouble and her premonition that Irene Foxgloves would ruin the James’ family Christmas in Fort Worth. Henny proved to be right, but not in a way she ever dreamed of. You can read it here if you want: https://drusbookmusing.com/henny-james-2023/

Then on to the real world. I started the day with a longer list of “busy-ness” chores than I liked, and I still haven’t conquered some of them. I ordered a product online, something I’ve been using for at least thirty years—and got the wrong thing. So I “chatted” with an AI person (he really did have a name though I can’t remember it). He (that AI person) was pleasant and efficient, and I got a refund, but then I went to order the correct item, ran into a real person who I couldn’t understand and who insisted he couldn’t help me. I have yet to order what I wanted.

Next was the plumber: I had a couple of small plumbing problems in the cottage that could have waited a while, especially if Colin was coming soon. But then an outdoor spigot on the front porch began leaking big time. A plumber is coming tomorrow, but to my dismay the man I have used for twenty years has retired.

There were other small calls—reminders about things we needed to order, appointments to be made, and the like. Then mid-morning my alarm system began to beep at me. It told me that the battery in the bedroom window was low. Now, there is only one window in the bedroom, and because of the configuration of the room (once a parking bay), the arrangement of furniture is a bit awkward. Part of the six-foot headboard on my antique board overlaps the window, and there is a bedside table (my mom’s old sewing cabinet) in front of it. The window shade is never up, the window never opened (yes, I wish it had worked out differently, but you take what you have). I asked if we could bypass it, and the tech said I’d have to do it individually each time. Cancel that. She did bypass the warning alarm for several days so that it was silent and sent me a video on how to replace the battery. She was efficient, bright, and personable, but she might as well have been talking Greek to me in that video. I’m hoping Christian can understand it.

A couple of times in the morning I thought I heard Sophie banging around in her crate. She can come and go at will, but she’s usually not that noisy about it. About noon I looked out the window, and she was standing on the grass, shaking hard. When she tried to move, she stumbled and fell. Fortunately Jordan was home and came flying out the door when I called her. We flew around in a panic, Jordan issuing order like call Christian, call the vet, open the gate. Margaret from across the street came and walked Sophie in the driveway while Jordan collected car keys, etc. By then Sophie was walking okay, though Margaret said she seemed a bit out of it. And off they went to the vet.

Long story short, Sophie’s blood sugar had dropped dramatically. I know how perilous this is from a friend who has brittle diabetes. Once Soph was home, the vet told me to feed her immediately, and he adjusted her medications. By mid-afternoon, she was just fine. Barked furiously at the yard guys, demanded her dinner, all normal behavior for my Soph. I am so relieved and if it happens again, I know immediate food is the answer. Even before calling the vet. I had horrific thoughts of seizures and TIAs and all I could think was that surely we hadn’t gone through all that we had only to have her develop something else. She’s getting a few extra treats tonight.

Needless to say, I did not get much work done today, and I still have miles to go before I sleep, with apologies to Robert Frost. Good night, sweet dreams, and I hope for a better day tomorrow—for you too if you need it.

Mother’s Day whirlwind

 

Happy Mother’s Day to all—birth mothers, adoptive mothers, stepmothers, surrogate mothers, yes—even mothers-in-law. I fit in more than one of those categories, and in my long life I have had several mother figures whose memories today leave me filled with awe and gratitude. Mothering, I’ve decided, is what Ron DeSantis would call “woke”—simply the willingness to care for others, to nurture. So cheers—and pots of flowers or special dinners or whatever—to all those “other mothers.”

This weekend I was on the receiving end of Mother’s Day thanks to my two daughters—and it was a whirlwind of a weekend. Megan arrived Friday, having ridden the Vonlane executive bus from Austin, and, after much planning and changing of minds, we had Cobb salad for dinner. Before I knew it, it was midnight—we had talked the night away.

Last night, Megan said to me, “I feel like all I did today was eat, drink, and hang out.” She was exactly right, though we started the morning (eleven o’clock is a start for my girls on Saturday) with a visit to my brother in the rehab facility. First time the girls had seen him in a long time, and there was lots of laughter.

Then on to Quince, the new restaurant on the river. I had heard both good and bad reports on it. Jordan had recently been to the mother restaurant in San Miguel and was eager to go back. And Megan was excited because Quince will be opening just blocks from her house in Austin. They loved it. I had a good salad of charred peaches, tomato, and burrata but much of the menu was too spicy for me (just cannot do spicy!) or had shrimp (I’m allergic). Several dinner entrees seemed to fit my taste more, and I’ll look forward to a dinner trip. It’s a lovely, bright space.

Home for a nap, and then a clothes modelling session. While I slept the girls bought me what seemed like an entire new wardrobe, and I had to try it all on. Of course I had to wear one new outfit for dinner. We went to Grace, the restaurant in the Omni Hotel. It’s not at all new, but I had never been, always considered it beyond my grasp. Megan is good about teaching me to spurge, and we had a lovely meal—steak for her, Diver scallops on tiny potato cakes for Jordan and me. And an inventive side of roasted onion with bacon and blue cheese. Impeccable service, interesting décor, and a great place for people watching. Megan said more than once, “Mom, you’re not paying attention,” and I said I was too busy watching the scene.

Some happy encounters during dinner: we were discussing the dessert menu (before we ordered so we’d know if we should save room) and Megan read off cookies and milk. A little boy at the next table, maybe four years old, leaned over and said, “You can dip the cookies in the milk,” and proceeded to demonstrate. His party left and was replaced by one with a younger boy, maybe eighteen months. When the adults at his table raised a toast, he joined them with his sippy cup. I saw it, mentioned it to the girls, and the child turned around and toasted with Megan. Finally, an older gentleman (well, not as old as I am) stopped by the table to wish me Happy Mother’s Day. No, we did not know him, but he told the girls, “You are almost as lovely as your mother.” Now there’s a charmer! And those are the kind of things that make me love living in Fort Worth.

My clean and neat closet

Christian's perfect
Egg Benedict

Today started with Eggs Benedict that Christian fixed on Jordan’s request—it was his first try to poach eggs and to make Hollandaise. He nailed both—perfection! But the big gift of the day was my closet—the girls totally cleaned it out. Six and a half years ago, they had just moved everything from house to cottage—the goal was to get it in place. I’ve never sorted it since, can’t reach the high hanging bar. They were
ruthless about discards—stains, too small, too dated, and out it went. Megan color- coordinated the hanging things (amazing how many red tops I have, which she thinks she is mostly responsible for). Tonight I have a neat, orderly closet and my dresser is piled high with discards. A huge Mother’s Day gift, and I am grateful.

closet discards

Megan has gone to Austin, but we will have one last celebration: roast salmon, smashed potatoes, and shredded Brussel sprouts. Then, tomorrow, it’s back to routine, but it has been a wonderful weekend, and I am feeling most blessed and grateful.