An old Fort Worth scandal revisited

Downtown Fort Worth, 1940
A city with a high-dollar underside

In 1940, Dial Press published a novel titled The Inheritors, written by James Young Phillips under the pseudonym of Phillip Atlee. The story had echoes of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, a tale of the daily life of over-privileged, over-indulged young men of the country club set as they drank, chasing women, and openly scorning the capitalistic, empty lifestyle they were about to inherit. Trouble was, it is a thinly veiled picture of Fort Worth and, as one reviewer claims, the River Crest Country Club crowd.

The main character is George Bellamy Jimble, III, supposedly based on Phillips himself. Phillips came from one of the staid, moneyed families who lived in a mansion by one of River Crest’s golf greens. His father, Edwin Sr., made a good living as a lawyer, housed his family in that mansion, and belonged, of course, to the country club. But he died just before Black Friday, and his widow lost their fortune in the crash of 1929. She went to work for the school district, but James and his brothers were forced into a difficult situation where they had little money and yet tried to keep up with the lifestyle of their neighbors. It was apparently enough to jade the young man about what was called the “dollar aristocracy” of Fort Worth—mostly the big oil money.

Fort Worth high society erupted in indignation at the book—and took their revenge, buying up every available copy of the book. By the time I was at TCU Press, few had ever heard of it. Cissy Stewart Lale, the indomitable society editor of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, told me I should read it and the press should reprint it. That never came about, but I had some interesting correspondence with a brother of Phillips, who was deceased by then. If I remember right, the brother was Olcutt Phillips or something similar. By then, you could hardly find a copy of the book—I think Cissy loaned me hers. I read it and wasn’t that impressed, but then I was not of the society being pilloried in it. I simply found all that debauchery pointless. Today, the Fort Worth Public Library and TCU’s Special Collections hold copies which may only be read on site. I’m sure there are probably a few copies squirreled away in some Fort Worth attics, but it is hard to find.

Phillips always claimed Fort Worth ruined his budding writing career, and, indeed, his career never achieved what might be seen as the promise of that first book. He served in the Air Force in the war, lived in Mexico, Burma, and the Canary Islands, did some work in Hollywood, died in 1991 in Corpus Christi, and remained forever bitter about Fort Worth.

In a way, the book fared better than its author. It is included in selections of the best books about Texas and Fort Worth: George Sessions Perry’s Roundup Time: A Collection of Southwestern Writers, A. C. Greene’s Fifty Best Texas Books, Literary Fort Worth, the collection that James Ward Lee and I put together.

Fort Worth author E. R. Bills knows a lot more about Phllips/Atlee than I do. Indeed much of the above is taken from an article he wrote for Fort Worth Weekly. He points out that The Inheritors had a long tail, reaching into many aspects of Fort Worth life, citing the Cullen Davis shootings and the Legion of Doom from Paschal High School as evidence that the aristocracy continues. There’s much more to the story behind The Inheritors and its effect on Fort Worth than I have sketched here.

Saturday, December 2, you have a chance to hear Bills talk about the book, its author, and its city. Bills will present a program, cosponsored by the Fort Worth Public Library and the Center for Texas Studies at TCU, at 10:30 at the Southwest Regional Library. For more information, contact Linda Barrett (linda.barrett@fortworthtexas.gov). Seating is limited and on a first-come basis. The program will also be available on Zoom, and Linda can give you instructions for registering for that.

There’s a postscript to this story. In 1984 a novel titled Lords of the Earth, by Patrick Anderson, has almost the same effect. It too revealed the underside of Fort Worth’s moneyed community. Heiress and artist Electra Waggoner Biggs called me late one night to rant about “that awful book.” It seems that Fort Worth never will run out of stories to be told—and scorned. I’m going to be glued to my computer Saturday to hear what Mr. Bills says.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas

 

My cottage is now cozy with soft Christmas lights. Jordan has done an amazing job of decorating with all my favorite things—the tree (okay it’s fake, and I don’t love that, but I bow to convenience). The fake tree is redeemed by Scottish ornaments sent by dear friends in Omaha. And Santa Mac—a very Scottish Santa complete with bagpipes, gift from Jeannie Chaffee—dominates the coffee table. On the bookcase is a lighted glass block given to me years ago by a friend of Christian. It sits next to the Jim Shores Kris Kringle I bought myself as a treat when my friend Linda carried Jim Shores works in her store in Granbury. Like the cottage as a whole, each piece has a meaningful story.

Santa Mac

What I love most is the overall effect—the sometimes-harsh ceiling lights stay off, and the Christmas lights, including the electric candles Jean gave me, give a soft glow to the whole living area. It’s a cozy cottage look. And on my desk is the small faux fireplace Jamie gave me. For safety’s sake, we have it turned so that it gives almost no heat, but the flames inspire warmth.

I am all set for the season.

Jim Shores Santa

I didn’t feel so Christmas-y this morning, however. I usually get up about seven, feed Sophie her first breakfast and let her out. By now, she knows I have a piece of cheese waiting for her, so she doesn’t stay long. Once she’s safely back in the cottage, I go back to bed for my second sleep. Well, this morning I totally missed my second sleep because I had to get ready for a nine o’clock dental appointment.

I won’t say I’m a dental phobic—although my dentist might say that. But as a young teen, around twelve, I had to have extensive dental work, and back then, in the Dark Ages, it was not as smooth, fast, and painless as it is today. The drill was clumsy and slow, the noise in my ears horrible. Our dentist was a non-relative uncle, a man I greatly appreciated when I was grown but who terrified me as a kid. To say he was taciturn is an understatement. So I had a bad introduction to dentistry.

My desktop fireplace
not on my desktop here but you get the idea

I have been with the same dentist now for fifteen years, and what I have learned about caring for my teeth is amazing. I wish I’d known all this years ago. Even in fifteen years, it’s been interesting to watch the developments in dentistry—tiny cameras that get way back in your mouth, video screens that display an x-ray as soon as it’s taken, a computer program so complicated I couldn’t begin to master it. I do have a standing deal with my hygienist that if I continue to take such good care of my teeth, she will not use the hydroelectric thing to clean off stains. It wakens every old memory I have.

So cheers to Dr. Peter Ku and to my hygienist, Stephanie.  Got a clean bill of health along with some cautions about being proactive. And that’s over but only for another three months!

Going to the dentist pretty much shoots the day for me—it’s not so much the time it takes (maybe two hours out of the cottage) as the disruption in routine. But tonight Mary came for happy hour and brought some cranberry relish she’d made—we put it over cream cheese, and it was delicious. Then I fixed Mongolian hamburger and snow peas for dinner—Jordan got busy on a work call, so Christian and I had dinner and a lovely discussion that covered everything from Hunter Biden and Donald trump to Dante’s The Inferno and Milton’s Paradise Lost. I am really delighted to have someone to have such discussions with. Besides, he washed the dishes.

Life is really good.

Marshall Field and Company

 

The iconic clock on the Marshall Field & Co. flagship store
Corner of State Street and Washington Street, Chicago

Sandwiches for supper turned into a trip down memory lane for me. It wasn’t just any sandwich—it was a classic Marshall Field Turkey Sandwich that actually resembles “classic” sandwiches served in many places. I remember having something similar at Colonial Country Club in Fort Worth. An open-faced sandwich with rye topped by turkey, Swiss cheese, and Thousand Island dressing and decorated with tomato, sliced egg, bacon and olive—shh! don’t tell Christian because I didn’t offer him an olive, which he loves.

Anyway, the sandwich started me thinking about my many ties and trips to the flagship Marshall Field store in downtown Chicago. Those excursions started when I was very young. My father, an osteopathic physician, had an office on the seventeenth floor of the Marshall Field Annex, and Mom would end shopping trips by taking me to the bargain basement where, hidden away in a corner, was a snack bar that far as I can remember only served hot dogs and frozen malts. I loved it. Then, nearby, was a secret door (I just thought it was a secret—it really wasn’t) that opened to a staircase. Go up one floor and through the door and, like magic, we were in the lobby of the annex without having to go out of the building and cross the downtown street. We’d take the elevator to the seventeenth floor. That was in the day when there was a white-gloved, uniformed operator in every elevator.

By the time I was old enough to be turned loose in the store, I knew every inch of every floor.  I could take you to household goods or teen clothes. I knew we came in by the glove counter, and on that pillared first floor were the hosiery and jewelry counters. On the sixth floor you could choose from several restaurants. The Walnut Room, a bit staid and dignified, was the main dining area, but Mom and I always liked The Verandah, decorated as though it were part of a southern mansion. In fact, I bet I had the classic sandwich there. And I know at least once, when Mom was nowhere around, my friend Eleanor Lee and I rode up the down escalator and down the up, to the consternation of store employees no doubt. Today I’m uncertain of my footing on escalators and avoid them when I can, so I look back on that adventure with awe.

Eventually I could go downtown by myself, riding the IC or Illinois Central commuter train. And mostly I went to Marshall Field’s though I did give a bit of business to rival Carson, Pirie & Scott just a block down State Street. I remember once paying twenty dollars for a blouse and thinking I was terribly extravagant. By then, Dad had closed his downtown office and was full time president of the Chicago College of Osteopathy and administrator of the adjacent hospital, so I had no downtown refuge.

The last time I was at Field’s was in the nineties, when I visited with a Texas friend who had grown up in a northwest Chicago suburb. We had lunch in the Walnut Room, and it was a bit shabby. We both felt the magic we remembered from our childhood was gone. But my connection to Field’s doesn’t end there.

I can’t remember which came first—the book I read or the one I wrote. The one I read was What the Lady Wants: A Novel of Marshall Field and the Gilded Age, by Renée Rosen, which perhaps inspired both the title and subject of my The Gilded Cage: A Novel of Chicago. My novel focused on Bertha (Cissy) Palmer, wife of hotelier Potter Palmer who built the Palmer House. Marshall Field played a large part in that story, for he and Potter Palmer were prominent among Chicago’s Robber Barons, along with Gustavus Swift, Philip Armour, George Pullman and others. Cissy Palmer interested me because she was the first (or one of them) woman philanthropist and most probably the first marred to a Robber Baron. The fictionalized version of her life covers Chicago history from the 1840s through the 1893 Columbian Exposition, including the Great Fire, labor troubles, the Civil War, and the Haymarket Riot. You can read a bit more about Cissy and her world here: The Gilded Cage: A Novel of Chicago - Kindle edition by Alter, Judy. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com. (That’s called blatant self promoton or BSP.)

Last night, Christian liked the Marshall Field sandwich so much he voted to keep it on the rotation of dishes we frequently have. I agreed, because not only did I like it, it brought back happy memories. There has never been another store like Field’s—not even Neiman Marcus—and I miss it. At least you can still get their much-praised Frango Mints online.

 

That fleeting moment of tranquility

 

Sunset at the lake in Tomball

When I was young, I had a favorite spot in the Indiana dunes where I would go in the early evening to watch the sun go down. It was a pathway, halfway up the high dune where our cottage was on the ridge at the top. I could sit, accompanied by my wild collie mix named Timmy, and stare at the lake, smell the dune grass (and perhaps chew on a blade) and listen to the water either lap gently on the shore or crash, depending on the mood of Lake Michigan. I love the lake in all its moods, but I used to be fascinated by the whitecaps when it was roiled up. I was in awe of the power in that mighty body of water.

If I looked at an angle to the left, I could see the buildings of Chicago, looking like tiny sticks. Sometimes the sun was a crimson ball outlining those little black sticks. It was a moment of tranquility. Of course, at eight or ten I was too young to know I needed moments of tranquility, but late in life I often went back to that spot in my mind when life seemed to press on me.

Around the heater at the lake

In recent years, I’ve found another spot—on the edge of the tiny lake at my son’s house in Tomball. Four properties ring this lake—I wish I could guess at the size, but it’s bigger than a stock tank, smaller than a lake. Colin and Lisa have several seating areas between the house and the lake, and late yesterday afternoon we took drinks and snacks and went to watch the day disappear in shadows.
They have recently gotten a mushroom outdoor heater that is most effective, and the day had warmed enough that we were quite comfortable. As I sat staring at the lake for just a moment, I thought, “It doesn’t get much better than this.” I didn’t really grasp my moment of tranquility because there was conversation around me—Colin and Lisa, my two teen grands, and two dogs. But it was enough for me to get a much-needed feeling of peace.

Morgan and Ginger

My moment of peace

Lisa's mother's house on the lake

Today, Colin drove me to Waco where we met Jordan and Christian who brought me the rest of the way home. We had ordered fast food from a chain I thought was nationally ranked but now can cross off my bucket list. Fortunately, because we had Sophie with us, we ordered take-out—the restaurant was a loud, noisy zoo, and we would have been unhappy eating there. Instead, we took our food to a charming little park on the Brazos River—Christian went to Baylor in Waco and so knows all the little places like that. I thought our picnic was a lovely cap on a trip that I enjoyed.

The Brazos in Waco
A neat little park by the river

I have confessed here to not being a confident traveler and to feeling like a bother, but this trip put both those qualms to rest. I enjoyed all of it—from the long drive on Tuesday where I talked Colin’s ears off and made myself hoarse to the picnic today and all that came in between. I have so much to be thankful for, most of all my family who watch out for me and help me with the things I can’t do alone.  Nope, it doesn’t get much better.

The joy of tradition

 

Colin carving

Don’t be fooled by the picture of Colin carving in his starched white shirt and Santa Claus tie. The bottom half was navy blue shorts, bare legs, and sandals. Reminded me of Covid days when men I know worked remotely from home, dressed just that way.

The happy table

This year Thanksgiving in Tomball was a lovely, low-key family day, filled to the brim with tradition. For me, it was turkey, a good book, and a nap. For some of the others, it was football, with special appreciation for Dolly Parton and the half-time show. And for still others, it was a day for a complicated, thousand-word puzzle. And our meal was traditional as it comes—ham, smoked turkey, dressing, gravy, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, truffle mac ‘n cheese (that was never a traditional dish for me until my kids began to demand it—I still have a hard time associating it with holiday meals), rolls with cinnamon butter, pumpkin pie, and apple pie. Couldn’t get more traditional, and I loved it. Of course, everyone was too full after a two-o’clock meal for the pies, so we had them for second supper in the evening.

I had a lovely nap between first and second supper and spent most of the evening reading a mystery I had just started. Lisa and her mom spent a good four hours on the jigsaw puzzle—they still have a long way to go.

Lisa and Torhild working on the puzzle.

To top the day off, I slept hard for ten hours and woke feeling sleep-logged. Sophie slept all night, though she wandered about the bedroom a bit in the wee hours. At six, when Colin appeared in the kitchen, she was more than ready to go out.

Yesterday was chilly, damp with a bit of drizzle—not a day to encourage sitting by the lake. This morning is sunny and pretty, but Lisa tells me there is a chilly breeze. Maybe later, with the fire pit and a heater, we can sit by the water, one of my favorite spots. Meantime, I’m at my computer, enjoying the view from inside, with a cozy heater at my feet, basking in the laziness of the day after.

 

Tale of the difficult houseguests

 

 

 

Thanksgiving a day early

That’s us. Sophie and me. We are the houseguests from hell.

Colin’s house is midcentury modern with several levels. A wonderful house—unless you rely on a walker to get around. Then ordinary things become difficult. Last night it seemed all I did was ask for help—and much of it had to do with Sophie. Could you feed her? And then I gave precise instructions for what she eats, in what order. Could you give her the insulin shot?  Something I don’t do at home. Could I have another glass of wine? Could you hook up my computer for me? Could I have a night light in the bedroom, but would you turn out the overhead light because there’s a heavy chair between me and the light switch. I’m cold—do you know where you put my jacket? Turns out it is apparently still in the car, and I am wearing a cozy sweater of Lisa’s. Colin and Lisa have stars in their crown, but I am feeling so dependent. I’m sure in addition to my needs, they are tired of my apologies. At home, because I have things arranged to suit me, I am much more independent.

The worst of it came in the middle of the night. Sophie went out at eleven, just before we went to bed. At one, I had to tell Colin she was really begging to go out. At two she began to bark again and paw at the bed. I tried loving and talking—I’d get a few minutes quiet and then she was back at it, bouncing her empty dish around in frustration. I gave her water from my tumbler, and she drank it gratefully, was quiet for a while, and then began to bark again. Colin appeared, said he was taking her outside and then sleeping in the front room with her.

(Lisa told me just now that she dreamed a duck was quacking and woke enough to ask Colin if he thought the duck would be okay!)

Colin took Sophie, closed the doors to the front room and told her she was not leaving. But he said by the time he got up at six, she was anxious to get back into my bedroom. And when I woke up at eight, there she was quiet as an angel. I’ve never seen her so agitated, even though she’s been here many times before. So wish us luck tonight. She has appeared content and happy all day, so maybe she knows I’m not going away and leaving her with these strange people.

Tonight there were thirteen of us for dinner—Morgan’s longtime boyfriend and some of his family, with relationships to tangled to mention. Plus three dogs who got along admirably. Lisa’s mom, who grew up in Norway, cooked what we have come to know as Norwegian hamburgers, along with her special chicken recipe, and peas and carrots. I’ve been the lucky recipient of Torhild’s meals before, looked forward to this, and enjoyed it thoroughly. Noisy, happy, long dinner table. As the evening wore down, Colin summed it up perfectly: It almost felt like tonight was Thanksgiving

So blessed to be here. Tomorrow it will just be the five of us, and I’m looking forward to that too. Lisa and Morgan are talking about first and second dinner—first is scheduled for one; second, at six, will be leftovers.
Best of both worlds.

Sweet dreams tonight of turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie!

The reluctant traveler

 

My children on the steps of my childhood home.
1340 Madison Park, Hyde Park/Kenwood, Chicago.

For me, traveling is a big damn deal. I do not do it easily. I begin packing a week before departure, and I think of every possible thing I could need—along with every possible catastrophe that could happen. It’s amazing, but the older you get, the more stuff you have to take with you. By departure, I am a walking example of high anxiety. And of course I’m one of those who clutch the arm rests in a plane. And when I return home and sleep in my own bed, I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

That is not to say that I have not had some wonderful trips in my long life. A highlight was the ten days that Colin, Megan, and I spent in Scotland. We visited the MacBain Memorial Park in Dores (outside Inverness), we walked the Culloden battlefield (not very far—it was wet and cold much of the time we were there), we went to the Isle of Skye and took a rinky-dink ferry back to the mainland, we visited a castle a day (at Colin’s insistence). I ate haggis, though the kids refused to join me. The trip now is a wonderful memory that I sometimes pull out and relive in my mind. Another highlight: taking all four of my children to Chicago to see where I grew up—we stayed in a suite on the twelfth floor of the Drake Hotel (a symbol of high luxury when I was a child) with a marvelous view of Lake Michigan and the North Shore. The kids cheered when we drove under a bridge bearing a sign saying, “Welcome to Hyde Park/Kenwood” and when we stopped in front of my childhood home, there were astounded exclamations of “Mom!” They expected a shack and found an 1890’s Chicago version of a brownstone. We toured Hyde Park with its beautiful old houses and the University of Chicago, where I went to school. And we ate—and ate—and ate, everything from Berghoff’s to the Palmer House, where we had a tour of the hotel and heard about its history. Another memory I treasure.

I have been to most of the United States, Canada, two Hawaiian islands, and two island countries in the Caribbean. So it’s not that I haven’t traveled. There are still a few places on my bucket list—the New England states (I have never been north of the Thousand Islands in New York), Alaska for the salmon. I’d like to go back to the foothills in North Carolina, where my parents retired, and I’d like to go to Chicago again. I’d like to go to New York City to see the New York Alters and have one of their fabulous tours of the city. I don’t care much about California, except I haven’t been to San Francisco, and now that I have a child in Denver, I’d like to go there. I was once, briefly, in Mexico with a writers’ group, but I have no desire to go back, unless I could go to San Miguel.

But now that I rely on a walker for mobility, travel is harder. Jamie wants to take me on a cross-country train trip, but I don’t think I could handle the physical aspects of a train (I went to Canada by train a lot as a child and loved it). I get so nervous about flying, that I have pretty much decided I’m not going to fly again. Besides flying is not the wonderful way to travel it once was, and first class is too expensive.

All that said, I am getting ready to travel: about a four-hour car trip to Tomball, Texas, to spend Thanksgiving with my oldest son and his family. He, good boy that he is, will come get me and Sophie tomorrow and bring us home Saturday. The Burtons will have to hold down the fort alone. I talk to Colin at least once a week, but it will be good to spend time in his company and I want to catch up with his wife and two of my grands—Morgan is a freshman at Texas Tech and Kegan is a junior in high school. And I want to sit by their tiny lake in the evening with a glass of wine and watch the sun set. I even have the spot in the “great room” where I set up my computer.

Easy and wonderful as all that Is, I still have found for a week or so that travel is on my mind. I make lists, I pack a bit each day, I plan excessively. I tell myself I can’t write anything significant because—hey!—I’m going on a trip. Once in Tomball, I’ll forget all my anxiety, relax, and enjoy being there. And Saturday, when I’m home again, I’ll be full of good memories and tell myself next time I won’t be so silly. But I will. It’s who I am.

It’s that time of year again

 

Although it seems a bit early to me, articles are now appearing, at least in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, about the Kennedy assassination, now some sixty years ago if you can believe that. It boggles my mind that so much of our population was not alive then, doesn’t remember the date or the event. They vaguely know about it from history classes if it’s not something that’s been censored. For me, that terrible weekend is still too raw a memory. I don’t want to read the recollections of journalists who were there, the stories about people who knew Lee Harvey Oswald, on the spot reports from the hospital about Kennedy’s medical condition. I remember too well driving down the main street of Kirksville, MO, on my way back to my office after lunch. The local radio station seemed to have lost it—the guys on the mic fumbled and mumbled, there was much shuffling of papers, and I, who did an occasional interview at the station, was thoroughly impatient with their incompetence—until I heard what was upsetting them. I went back to my office and told my boss, who immediately thought only of the president of the osteopathic college where we both worked.

That was the beginning of a long, dark weekend. Another of my vivid memories is my brother calling on Sunday morning to say tersely, “You better turn on your TV.” Lee Harvey Oswald had just been shot by Jack Ruby. I don’t remember doing anything else those few days besides watching TV.

When my then-husband and I moved to Texas, I brought with me memories of that weekend. The first time we went to Dallas and would drive by the site of the assassination, I almost had an anxiety attack. I didn’t think I could bear to see it. No, the memories are still strong, and I don’t want to read more about it, but I wonder if the nation would react today as it did then. Gun violence was a rare thing in the 1960s. Have we now become so indifferent to it, to patriotism, to true loyalty to our country (and not the faux patriotism of Christian nationalists) that we would shrug it off? I hope not. This year, the anniversary of the assassination falls on Thanksgiving Day. Will we give thanks for the example that JFK set for us, for his vision of Camelot? I hope so.

I have a new goal: I want to be a super-ager. With ageism so strong across our nation, it’s comforting to know that researchers have identified people over eighty whose cognitive powers remain at least thirty years younger. They are people who live an active life, continually challenging themselves mentally as well as physically; they are surrounded by people, and they indulge in some of life’s pleasures. So, no, isolating yourself and swearing off drink and rich foods isn’t necessarily the key to staying young. Apparently the big key is mental activity—learn to play a musical instrument or speak a new language. I’m wondering if improving my computer skills might quality.

Are super-agers born that way, influenced by genetics, or are there things you can do to achieve that status? Apparently both. We’ve all heard that working crossword puzzles can keep your brain active. So can other word games and puzzles, taking online or in-person classes, learning a new craft-want to take up crocheting? Go for it.

I have a friend who is on the plus side of eighty, a prolific writer with many novels to her credit. She has decided she’s through with long projects and had created a whole new outlet for herself on Substack, the online platform for writers. It’s not just a matter of saying, “Okay, now I want to write on Substack.” It involves learning how to increase your audience, how to use Substack’s tools to further your reach, how to plan and schedule your entries, how to interact with other writers on the platform.

My son-in-law, Brandon, is writing country western music (he’s far too young to be a super-ager) and has had one song included on an artist’s album. So when I talked to him about lyrics (I understand words if not the music), he said we must write a song together when the family gathers for Christmas. A whole new challenge for me, and I’m excited about it.

One bit of advice sometimes given to the aging is, “Get ready to be uncomfortable.” Uncomfortable as you stretch and reach to learn new things and keep your brain active. As I look around me, I realize that’s what the most interesting people I know are doing. Maybe even cooking a new recipe counts. Ya’ think?

The boys—Christian, Jacob, and several of Jacob’s friends, are off at the U. of Arkansas for a football weekend. So Jordan and I had a delightful happy hour with neighbors Jaimie and Gregg tonight with bountiful snacks, except I didn’t think my crab dip was a success. I need to taste it tomorrow, but my impression was too much lemon, and I maybe should give up substituting faux crab (Krab) for the real thing. It just wasn’t right. I guess even aspiring super-agers are entitled to a cooking fail or two.

Happy weekend!

Potatoes, onions, and books—an odd combination

 

 

Feeling mellow and content tonight, after a nice (and easy) supper, a good visit with Jean and Jordan. It’s been a lazy day. In fact, it’s been a lazy week. I read an article this morning entitled, “Ten Things You Can Do Around the House to Avoid Writing,” and I thought I didn’t even need that article. I’d been procrastinating nicely on my own. The article made me think of Erma Bombeck (remember her?) who famously said when she rolled a blank sheet of paper into her typewriter, she’d rather go mop floors than write. This article suggested making an elaborate recipe—I did that tonight with--wait for it--marinated kale. More about that another time. Or folding laundry—I don’t do that so much. Walk your dog is pretty much out for me since I need the walker—I doubt Sophie would like that. Erma’s classic mop the floors is there, along with taking a nap. Now there’s a distraction I can agree with.

I do have a complaint though. Has anyone else noticed with dismay how big onions and potatoes are these days? Onions, even my beloved sweet onions, as big as a baseball. And the last couple I’ve tried to slice or dice are hard a rock. And potatoes five or six inches long. I tried to bake one for my supper last night. Used the British method and baked it at 200 for two hours—did not faze that potato. I tried to split it, fluff to let the steam out, as the British do, and I could not begin to split it. I upped the temperature and put it back twice, until it was nearly eight o’clock, and I was hungry. I could cut it, but it sure wasn’t fluffy and tender like you want your baked potato. What I had for dinner was essentially toppings—sour cream, bacon, green onion, grated cheddar with an occasional bit of potato thrown in. Delicious, but not substantial and probably not very good for you. I was so desperate to eat that my final trick was to try to bake just half the potato—didn’t help at all. I told myself I’d bake the other half for lunch today, but I was so disgusted I threw it out.

One problem is that of necessity I order most of my groceries delivered. I try to add a note that say, “Smallest onion you can, please—none of those humongous ones,” but it rarely does any good. It’s just not the same as picking out your groceries yourself. I try if the timing is right to ask Jordan to get them on her occasional grocery runs. But I think someone—farmers, grocers, whoever—has gotten carried away with the idea that bigger is better.

While I’m whining, here’s another complaint. I love seeing on the computer pictures of classic libraries. Some are old, with intricate railings around tiers and tiers of shelves, and you can almost smell the books when you look at the picture. Other pictures show elaborate home libraries, still tall with many tiers and a moveable ladder to get to the top ones. I hereby declare that much as I love books and reading, I do not want any book badly enough to climb one of those shaky ladders to get to it. I also love old things and ways as opposed to modern days with everything machine and computer driven, but I’ll make an exception for libraries, even ancient ones. Surely someone could devise an automated system that would deliver those books to you. It’s one instance where I’d exchange a bit of the picturesque for practicality.

I admit to a lifelong fear of height—acrophobia. I read somewhere that people with a fear of height always want something to hold on to. That wouldn’t do it for me. I wouldn’t climb a ladder to the fifth tier of books, even though I could hold on to the ladder. Jean lives on the seventeenth floor of Trinity Terrace, and when I’m at her apartment I stay clear the other end of the room from the balcony, just in case some magnetic force would pull me out to that open space. Friends Subie and Phil live on the third floor, and I’m much more comfortable there. I’ve often thought I wouldn’t sleep comfortably on the seventeenth floor, but then I remember I have slept on floors that high or more in hotels. That’s another story, but I won’t go into it—a funny story about staying in a Hyatt with babies who could climb. Suffice to say I like my feet—and my bed—firmly planted on the ground.

On that note I’m going to retire to my comfortable bed in my comfortable cottage where I can open the door and let my dog out on good, green earth. A tree man was here the other day, seeing what our trees need (don’t even ask!) but when he came into the cottage to report on what he’d seen, he looked around and said, “I really like your set-up here.” So do I. I thank the Lord every day for my cottage and my comfortable life—and then I feel a bit guilty about all those throughout the world who are living in horrendous conditions. Let us all pray for peace—in Ukraine, in Gaza, at our southern border, in many African nations where there is turmoil. Throughout the world.

What’s that green, fuzzy stuff?

 

 

Today is National Clean Out Your Refrigerator Day, and I’m taking it seriously. You see, I have an inherited tendency to stick things in the back of the fridge and forget them. My mom, God bless her, lived through the Depression as a bride and young mother. It was an experience she never forgot, and the rest of her life she saved everything—bits of aluminum foil were washed and re-used; bits of string were tied into one big ball; paper towels, used once to clean a counter, were stored in a special place to be re-used for floor spills. And every tiny leftover went into a small jar—often baby food jars she’d saved forever—in the back of the fridge.

When the sad day came that Mom could no longer live in her own home, my brother and I cleaned out her refrigerator. And found all those jars with unidentifiable things—mostly never more than a quarter of a cup. But too many had mold, fuzzy, green, ugly. It took a huge garbage sack.

Mom thought I was wasteful: with four teenagers to feed, I chose leftovers carefully—a dab of this and a spoon of that just wouldn’t do anyone any good. Mom would say sarcastically, “I know, just pitch it!” Of course, the one dish that could make me save leftovers was soup. I grew up on what we called Soup of the Week—just clean out the fridge, throw all those leftovers together, add a can of diced tomatoes or some broth, maybe a can of corn or something, and voila! There’s a cheap, frugal dinner. My kids now remember liking it, though one did say, “Why did it always turn out brown?” Jordan’s boys, husband and son, won’t eat it, so it’s been a long time since I made Soup of the Week. Christian once said “I’d have to know what’s in it,” and I told him that was an impossibility.

So today, I decided to inventory my refrigerator—all those little jars at the back of the top shelf where I can’t really reach. Here’s what I found: enough pickle products to start my own store—cornichons, dill chips, two partially used jars of dill relish, pickled jalapenos (and I don’t eat jalapenos), and the remains of the red onion I pickled myself. An unopened, out-of-date small bottle of buttermilk I undoubtedly intended to use in cooking or a terrific salad dressing. An empty used container of Sophie’s insulin, in its box (the vet told Jordan to keep it, and she’s religious about it, so I don’t question). An out-of-date tube of crescent rolls, for which I once had some intended use but I have no idea what. One half lime, dried out until it is rock hard. Three remnants of sticks of butter, scattered throughout. A jar of duck fat—I thought I would use it for lots of things, but it didn’t turn out that way. Three jars of Better than Bouillon, various flavors. Two half empty jars of sauerkraut.  And that’s not counting the things I really do use, like cottage cheese, eggs, lettuce. Oops! I forgot to tackle the cheese drawer and the vegetable crisper, though the latter gets cleaned pretty often.

I didn't tackle my freezer either, but I keep pretty good control of it. Except, like my mom, I save every end of bread, that stray piece left out of a loaf, some baguettes that have gotten old. Here's a hint: dice all that bread, toss the cubes with olive oil and garlic powder, spread out on a sheet pan, and bake for 20 minutes at 350. Commercial croutons can't hold a candle to homemade!

If you look up National Clean Your Refrigerator Day, the web will caution that you should do this to make room for the turkey and all the holiday food coming up. Some unknown authority somewhere advises that you need soap and a bucket of hot water, a sponge, and a garbage bag. You are advised to start by taking everything out of the refrigerator. I just didn’t go that far, but the next time the wonderful Zenaida comes to clean my cottage, I’ll ask her to look at the  fridge. However, unless monitored, she’s liable to throw out things I want.

My refrigerator is sadly low on leftovers, which leaves me wondering what I’ll have for lunch—I’m thinking that Braunschweiger that’s only meh, with sauerkraut. But today I expect to add something good to the fridge: I have ordered freshly made corned beef hash from a smoked meat company in Wisconsin. Yes, I fell for Facebook marketing—the picture of that has in a skillet just looked irresistible. Christian said he’d eat it with me; Jordan said she has a dinner meeting😊I’m thinking creamed corn would be good with hash.

So what’s in the way back of your fridge?

A twenty-four hour vacation

 

Megan and Jacob at Walloon's

Well, maybe it was a staycation, but what made the last twenty-four hours so special was that Megan, my Austin daughter, came to visit. Confession: coming to see me was not her primary motive in coming to Fort Worth. She came to go to the TCU/UT football game Saturday night with her special TCU girls—those she was close friends and Tri Delt sisters with—gulp!—some thirty years ago. She did it all and had a blast—staying up late drinking wine and catching up, margaritas at Joe T.’s, a walk around Mule Alley, and, of course, tailgating and the game. Even though TCU lost, all agreed it was a great game.

Megan, who never plans far ahead, planned ahead for this one. She drove up with two girls, Veronica and Rachel, who live in Austin. But Sunday she sent them on without her so she could spend the day with me. Bonus: I got long overdue hugs from Rachel and Veronica. And then I had Megan all to myself—sort of. While I took my Sunday afternoon nap, she went of and drank champagne with Amy, who she went to school with since kindergarten—by the time they both got to UT law school, they were roommates.

For twenty-four hours, I didn’t get much if any of my own desk work done. I was glad to forego it for Megan’s company. Sunday night, we had dinner with Christian and Jacob at Walloon’s, the nifty new seafood place on Magnolia. Lots of fun and good food, though poor Jacob ordered barbecued shrimp, and it turned out to be an appetizer. Skimpy fare for a seventeen-year-old boy. I had the oysters Rockefeller which were good except the spinach was really heavy with garlic. Christian had a steak salad and said the dressing was oh so tart! I had done that the other night—made a dressing so tart I couldn’t eat it, so I sympathized.

Back home, Megan and I had more visiting, talked about family and holiday plans and all manner of things. This morning we had just a brief visit before she left to take the eleven o’clock executive bus back to Austin. But she snapped this selfie before she left. When I think back on the girls’ teen years, I am so grateful that we are such good friends today. I am truly blessed by my children.

Megan's selfie

I’ve said it before and will say it again—with four children, it is pure bliss to have them all together at once, with their families. When the grandkids were young and it didn’t seem like there were so many of us, I used to think one of my happiest moments was when they were all asleep under my roof. But there’s a reverse to that—it’s such a delight to have one-on-one time with any one of them. And that’s what I had with Megan today. So my cup runneth over.

Tonight I had a five o’clock Zoom meeting with a small group of writers, mostly one-book beginners. I was to talk to them about newsletters, blogs, and Substack. Not that I’m an expert on any of those subjects, but from their responses I apparently held my own. It’s a real jolt to feel, even briefly, that you have knowledge to share that will help others. And that’s what I came away with tonight after that meeting.

That Zoom event ended about 6:20, and I hastily reheated the cube steaks in gravy from the other night, cut up a salad, and ate dinner, trying to finish before the 7:00 HOA meeting. I didn’t quite make it and ended eating my salad on camera—not the best look in the world. Christian came out, got the rest of the cube steak dinner and salad but couldn’t be convinced to stay for the meeting.  Now I feel like whoosh—all the air has gone out of me, and I will sleep happily and well tonight.

Sweet dreams, y’all!

Veterans’ Day

All day I’ve enjoyed the pictures on Facebook—“my father,” “my grandfather,” “my uncle.” All of them look far too young to leave home, let alone to go to fight a war in far lands. And yet they did. I wish I had pictures. I can see them in my mind’s eye, and I think they are probably in the attic somewhere, but I have none in digitalized form. So all I can do is tell you about two servicemen, both of whom fought in World War I.

My father, Richard Norman MacBain, then a Canadian citizen, fought with the British Army; my brother’ father, Richard Russell Peckham, fought for this country. Later, they would be roommates at the Chicago College of Osteopathy. My dad came home with few scars but some embedded fears—the whistle of jet airplanes when they were new would cause him to flinch and head for the nearest building if he was outdoors; he had been gassed (mustard gas) and was ever after subject to bronchial problems. He never ever that I remember talked about the war, and yet from what I read it was horrific. Men in foxholes who were never warm nor dry for months at a time. War then was no less brutal—it was just different than today.

Russell Peckham came home with shrapnel lodged in his jaw. I’m not sure I have the story straight, but I think it was considered too risky to remove it. So he lived with it, and in 1932 fathered a son, my brother, John Russell Peckham. But in 1934 the shrapnel caused an infection and Russell Peckham died. If I got the story straight from Mom, it was only a few years later that penicillin came into use and could have saved his life. (To tell the rest of the story, Mom married my father in 1936, and I was born in 1938.)

Russell’s son, my brother, John served in the U.S. Navy in the 1950s, as a pilot. It was just after the Korean War, and though he flew patrol planes, he never saw active combat as did both his father and stepfather. Russell’s grandson, Russell MacBain Peckham, served in the U.S. Army during the Iran conflict and, like both his forebears, is an osteopathic physician.

In honor of those men, and because I think it’s appropriate and we can never hear it too often, here is the text of the iconic WWI poem, “Flanders Field” by John McRae:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.