One early Easter morning

 

 

Recreating an annual picture.

I had a lovely start to Easter this morning. You know how girls talk about the BFF? Mine really is—Barbara Ashcraft has been my BFF probably for over seventy years. This morning, I wakened to her email which was a quote from music we sang in choir when we were about ten or twelve: “One early Easter morning, I wakened with the birds.” I answered with the next line: “And all around lay silence/Too deep for earthly words.” No need to say anymore.

Easter is a glorious day of hope—but it can also be exhausting. By mid-afternoon, I was exhausted and felt the day was over. But such a wonderful day. We went to the nine o’clock service—more crowded than usual but not bad. The music was glorious. I said I’d go to church just for the processional, “Jesus Christ is Risen, Alleluia!” and the benediction, which was the “Hallelujah Chorus.” But it was good to be there in person and hear the inspiration of the service and sense the fellowship. At one point Christian and I thought we heard a dog panting, but no one else believes us.

I really noticed some differences between being present and attending through Zoom. It is impressive and comforting to be in that gorgeous sanctuary and nothing can compare with hearing the music live—they had brass as well as our terrific choir. I hold my breath at the high notes of the “Hallelujah Chorus” every time, but they made them. But you don’t get that up-close view—I couldn’t see the brass at all, not could I see the expressions on faces. I like in-person better, but I feel so fortunate to have the alternative on “ordinary” Sundays.

Girls version
I felt like the queen bee, because everyone
came to have their picture taken with me.

Back at the house, Jordan put together an incredible brunch for twelve and set a beautiful table with the gold-and-white Royal Doulton my mom got me when I was a teen, along with gold-washed flatware. It was potluck, and we had ham, “funeral potatoes” (that wonderful rich casserole) broccoli salad, fruit, and of course deviled eggs. My contribution was hot cross buns, but I note no one else likes them as much as I do. And wine. Of course we had wine. It was a noisy, happy laughter-filled event, everything Easter should be.

Jordan's table

Now I am marooned in the cottage, having left my phone in the house by mistake. I can’t ask for leftovers for my supper, can’t even adjust my hearing aids. Can’t check to see if my other kids are at their homes, let alone call them. I’ve emailed a bunch of friends asking them to call Jordan, but not many read their email on a holiday Sunday night. One friend reports she called and got voice mail, so I gave her Christian’s phone number. But I imagine they are both napping (which I did earlier), so I hope they check their messages when they wake up. And I’m watching like a hawk for Jacob to come home or for Jordan and Christian to bring the dog out to potty.

I started this post with a quote and will leave you with another that I really like. This is from John Roedel, who I’ve never heard of but now I intend to investigate—he has apparently published books about his conversations with God as he tries to figure out life, his faith, raising children, and so on. “A dozen angels have started living in the holes in my heart. They have put up hammocks and started growing roses—” There’s more, but now I can’t find it. I particularly like that opening image.

Does this look like mischief afoot?

Some small “writerly” triumphs

 

Flowerpot cake by Mary Dulle
Photo courtesy Mary Dulle

The Guppy (Going to be published) chapter of Sisters in Crime weekly opens the listserv to NPV (non-publishing victories) brags from members. I usually don’t respond because I don’t have a lot to brag about these days—published or not, I’ve been in a long dry spell, partly because I spent a lot of time on the Helen Corbitt book that never became a book. But today I do have some small victories.

One that I simply forgot to publicize because I put it aside to later make a “big” marketing effort, as if I knew how to do that, is that my one collection of short stories, Sue Ellen Learns to Dance and Other Stories, is now available on Amazon in audio version. It’s my second foray into audio publishing, but the first was not very successful, probably due to a lack of marketing. I vow to do better with this book. Short stories are hard for me—the idea has to hit me hard, and then I have to sit down and put it into words right away. I am in awe of people who write, “I am working on a short story.” I wonder how long it takes to write and polish 3,000 words. Yes, I go back and edit, but I almost never write a bit, put it aside, and go back and finish it.

Two of these stories, “Sue Ellen Learns to Dance” and “Fool Girl,” won Wrangler awards from the National Cowboy Museum and Hall of Fame, and one, “The Art of Dipping Candles,” brings me to tears every time I read it—a boastful things to say about one’s own writing, but it’s true. Try it.

Since my audio of Saving Irene was not the blockbuster I hoped, I had put aside the idea of audio, decided it wasn’t for me. But then Amazon made me an offer I couldn’t resist: a free audio version using AI. Now every author I know resists AI, fearful it will take over our creativity—and maybe our already published works. Plus it’s competition. AI can write a book much faster than the human brain can write, proof, edit, design, etc. Still, it was free. I tried it. Overall I thought the AI voice was acceptable—not great, but okay. In several instances, the inflection of a phrase or a word is not what I would have done, but I think the human ear may be less critical than the eye. The thing that most bothered me was the mispronunciation of Texas terms and place names. My AI “person” was clearly not a Texan. The town of Hereford became Her-e-ford, and the word cousie (for chuckwagon cook) was similarly butchered.

Since I’m blatantly marketing the book, here’s a link to the Amazon audio: Amazon.com: Sue Ellen Learns to Dance and Other Stories (Audible Audio Edition): Judy Alter, Alter Ego Publishing, Virtual Voice: Books It’s also available in Kindle and paperback editions, but the paperback has a different cover, a Dorothea Lange Depression photo that is a classic. I like it better than the updated cover, but I’m told it’s not as marketable. Really dislike that aspect of the writing business.

Oops. I’ve gone on so long I’ll have to be brief about my second small triumph: today was the second of Mary Dulle’s two-part class on the cooking of Helen Corbitt. Mary did a masterful job with such recipes as turkey mornay and flowerpot cakes (Ladybird’s favorite), and I got to talk about the seismic changes in American food culture during the fifties and a bit how that affects us today, the Greenhouse Spa (if you don’t remember it, google it—ultimate luxury in the sixties and seventies), and Corbitt’s books. She wrote five cookbooks, all of them still available today. The class was responsive, had people who really took part, and it was fun. I am still intrigued by the Corbitt story and hope to find other things to do with it in the future.

Meantime, tonight, back to editing Irene in a Ghost Kitchen.

From a flower-filled cottage, some thoughts on empathy

 

Sophie's white rose from our longtime vet

My cottage is in bloom! An Easter Lily, a small bouquet of roses tucked into an Easter bunny vase, a white rose in a bed of baby’s breath, a plant new to me called Orange Star, with stalks of just-about-to-open orange buds. This is just part of the outpouring of support I’ve gotten since I first posted about Sophie’s battle with diabetes—a short two weeks ago, though it seems an eternity. The internet has been full of supportive messages, a couple of friends have stopped by for hugs, others have called. And so many have said to me that they too had to make that hard decision about beloved family pets, and they understand what we have been going through. For me, empathy has been the key word of the week.

My computer defines empathy as the capacity to feel or understand what another person is experiencing. In other words, I feel what you feel. And in this case, my many friends feel and share my grief and sense of loss. Even before we saw that we were going to lose Sophie, I’d been thinking about empathy, because I read a blog on that subject.

The U. S. Army psychologist assigned to watch and study the defendants at the Nuremburg Trials wrote that he became very interested in the nature of evil, and after the trials he believed that the one thing that bound those heartless criminals together was a lack of empathy. They were unable to feel the experiences of their fellow men. He concluded that the lack of empathy defines evil in a person. The blog continued with two quotes from Reddit. One claimed that conservatives invent new derogatory words for empathy about ever fifteen years: “politically correct,” “bleeding heart,” and, the most recent, “woke.” The absence of empathy, the writer claimed, is a prerequisite for conservative ideology.

The second quote points out that the conservative point of view starts a lack of empathy, a viewpoint that is formed in one’s earliest years and is almost impossible to change in later years. “Many conservatives are beyond redemption.”

Now that our country is so horribly split, I think the lack of empathy in many conservative positions is clear. We know, from generally accepted accounts of trump’s childhood and the writings of his niece, Mary Trump, that the ex-president was raised in what might best be called unhealthy situations. He was taught to disregard others early on, repeating the family pattern of corruption set by his grandfather and father. They lived by takin advantage of others. There is no hope of changing him at this late stage of life. So he sets a horrible example, and he made it publicly all right in his administration to lack empathy. Joe Biden, a man who stoops to help a stuttering child or give a few dollars to a homeless man, a man who loves animals, is a man of empathy.

But it’s not just trump. We see that lack of empathy l around us—in the disregard for the lives of women with life-threatening pregnancies, the callous attitude toward immigrants at our southern border, even the willingness to stop free school lunch programs. It is an “every man for himself” attitude that boggles my mind. I don’t think we can dismiss it as politics. It is a moral issue, not political. For me, as a faithful Christian (not of the nationalism type(, it is a religious issue. If I follow in the steps of Jesus, I must recognize that his greatest command was to love each other. But that morality is not limited to Christianity—the care for others is found in all the world’s major religions, and—with a nod to critics of religion—I must say I find the world better for that teaching.

Sometimes empathy is hard. It makes you draw a moral line. I saw a news clip of the perpetrators of the Moscow mass killing bring brought into court. They had obviously been beaten so badly they could not walk upright and were dragged, and no matter how heinous their crime, I felt for their agony at that moment. No, I didn’t want to rescue them, and I knew I was powerless, but at that moment I felt their experience. To me, that is empathy.

I cling to the Pollyanna-like belief that most of the world is empathetic—there are good people out there who don’t want to let children go hungry, or immigrants drown in a river full of barbed wire. I believe, to alter Faulkner’s words a bit, that the good people will prevail. And this week, I’ve had a clear demonstration of that love. It has bolstered me, and as I keep saying, I’m grateful. And I’m okay. You know the thing that bothers me most? Looking at the empty spot where her crate was, where she loved to lie in her safe space.

Sweet dreams, everyone.

 

The end of the story—and so much gratitude

 

Sophie crossed the Rainbow Bridge late this morning, helped by our longtime family vet who made a house call, for which we are eternally grateful. It was more peaceful than I could have imagined, and we are now picking up the pieces of our lives, assured that she is chasing squirrels with all her friends in doggie heaven.

I am overwhelmed and so thankful for the outpouring of response from family, friends, and most of all, you—my online community. Sophie played to a wide audience and would be gratified at how many loved her. My gratitude runs deep, and I, for once, am almost at a loss for words. Bless you, one and all.

I can never replace Soph—she was one of a kind, with her joy in life, her stubborn belief the world was her oyster, her need for tummy rubs and lots of love, her loyalty not only to me but to the family and friends she knew well. I will get another dog, because having a dog fills out my life. I think the longest I have gone without one since grade school is six months. My theory about choosing a dog is like that about houses and cars—the right one will present itself at the right time.

Meantime, my heartfelt thanks. I’ll be back tomorrow and in succeeding days with reports on Irene’s doings, recipes from the Fifties and beyond, my own thoughts on our tumultuous politics, the sometimes horrifying international scene, and, I hope, lighthearted moments. And someday soon, I may really write that book that’s been floating around in my mind: Dogs I Have Known and Loved.

For the moment, thank you and goodnight.

Cooking on a sad weekend

 

Life has revolved around Sophie this weekend. She was her bright sunny self Friday night, soaking up love and affection from Jordan’s friends Chandry and Marj, who said they came to see me, but I think they really came to check on Soph. Saturday morning, Sophie enjoyed the activity around the cottage—Zenaida was cleaning, and Climmy Reynolds hung a new flexible screen door on my patio door. But Saturday evening, Sophie was again lethargic and disinterested in food. We gave her the “I didn’t eat my supper” dose of insulin which seemed to perk her up. We fed her, including bits of hamburger and some canned green beans, which she loves. Turned out that was not such a good idea.

During the night, she wanted out at three but went into a far corner of the yar and ignored my pleas to come in. So I woke poor Christian. When she wanted to go out again at five, I held firm and crated her. This morning when I went to let her out, she was almost catatonic and had thrown up in her crate. She has gone downhill a bit all day—wandering with no idea where she’s going or what she wants, collapsing into the grass in the yard (I can only think it’s soft and comfortable for her). We’ve had great debates about what to do—I called the emergency clinic but when they said they might hospitalize her overnight, I decided she’d be more comfortable at home. She hates the clinic. I will call the vet first thing, but I suspect we’ll help her over the Rainbow Bridge tomorrow. The best thing we have done today is to surround her with love. We talk to her frequently, love on her, but it’s hard to tell what she understands.

House made
corned beef hash

As usual, despite the trauma with Sophie, a weekend means cooking. I posted before about my cooking fail—the St. Patrick’s Day corned beef that was tough, good flavor but tough. Christian minced the meat and brough me about half a cup. I diced a medium Yukon Gold potato and boiled it until tender, sauteed onion, and made my own hash. Having grown up on canned hash, I recently found a version from Nueske’s Applewood Smoked Meat in Wisconsin and realized how superior it is to canned. But it’s pricey. So, however, is good corned beef—I had splurged on our St. Pat’s piece because it was uncured (I had to look that up but it means no artificial preservatives—just natural herbs and salts as opposed to chemical). My house made hash was, however, delicious, and I’ll do it again.

Aunt Amy's 
giant hamburger

Saturday night Renee came for supper. I was rather proud of the meal—Aunt Amy’s Giant hamburger, Louella’s rice, and house-made refried beans (okay, they were canned but it was a new technique, and we thought it worked well). Jordan, Christian, Renee, and I laughed and talked until after ten-thirty, but we always had one eye on Soph. That was when she seemed to rally, but I knew deep down she was off a bit. Still, we had a lovely evening, trading stories and talking about everything and nothing.

Tonight, I had prepped a roasting hen—Christian spatchcocked it for me, and I spread herb butter under the skin and set it in the fridge to dry a bit. I roasted it on a bed of potato, carrot, and onion. The vegetables were sweet and wonderful, the chicken tender and flavorful. At one point I questioned whether or not I should cook the chicken, but Christian said, “We have to eat.” And we three ate heartily—Jacob was off practicing his golf, with a tournament tomorrow. Christian is like me—very few things can deter us from thinking we have to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I like an orderly day.

Tomorrow will be a difficult day, but I think Sophie has given us a sign. I’m at peace, though awfully sad. I feel she has gone to a place where I can’t reach her, though she does respond to her name. And for a bit on the patio with us tonight, she looked around with interest, reminding me of all the evenings she has been so excited for happy hour on the patio, particularly if there were guests. She has been the funniest, silliest, smartest dog I ever had (and that’s a long list of dogs). She’s been stubborn, demanding, difficult, affectionate, and absolutely adorable. And she’s had a good dog’s life, almost her every wish fulfilled. An easy traveler and ready to adjust to almost any situation. I will miss her terribly and will be flooded with memories. But what I’ve said before holds true here—I am blessed with happy memories. There will be tears at first, but they will mellow into remembering all the fun and loyalty.

Pray for us, please. The whole family is devastated, and Jordan and Christian have once again been wonderful.

Life in the fast lane

 

Christian giving skinny Sophie her insulin.
She's so good about it.

Many days I go from morning to night with only Sophie for company (I’m not complaining!), but it sure was a busy place around here today. I began the day with—gulp!—an 8:00 a.m. appointment with my favorite dermatologist, a man I’ve known for more years than either of us want to count. He presented me with a choice of treatments for a small lesion on my scalp and therefore gave me another dilemma. I told him I do not need another dilemma in my life right now.

Got home just in time to meet the dog groomer who came to give Sophie a much-needed haircut. She’d had a bath at the clinic, so I didn’t realize how badly she needed the trim until I saw my new, lean dog. With her coat trimmed back partly for summer and partly to smooth out the bare patches where the vet had shaved her, she suddenly looked half the size she had. Christian has been joking that she was getting broad in the beam, but tonight she has skinny hips and hind quarters. Today she is much more interested in food, and I am almost free feeding, giving her a bit whenever she wants. She is one of the dilemmas in my life: I want to feed her enough to restore her health, but I don’t want her to get used to eating six or seven times a day. And of course, her ongoing health is another dilemma: if she has another crisis I will be forced to make some hard decisions. Meantime, we’re taking it day by day, and today was a good day.

Yesterday was not such a good day. She refused her breakfast and was clearly confused. You know how you go into the kitchen for something and then have to stop and ask yourself, “Why did I come in here?” That’s the look she had. She’d walk a few steps and then stop and stand still, looking puzzled. And she stumbled occasionally. I called the vet, who said she needed to be in the clinic. He called back in an hour or so to say her blood sugar was extraordinarily high; they were giving her IV fluids and insulin, but he was quite adamant he did want to keep her overnight. She was, he said, clearly unhappy at being there again. We brought her home mid-afternoon, and she ate her dinner. So now I’m again figuring out medication schedules and cajoling her into letting me spray the bedsore on her leg, etc. She’s worth it, and as I said, today is a good day.

Back to the rest of the day: the young man (really, he is) who owns the lawn service we use came by so we could discuss bushes that need trimming, the dying grass in the front yard (he says it doesn’t get enough sun), and the bare spaces in my native plant bed which has, miraculously, survived the winter and a plumbing crisis (piles of rock among the plants). I have cut back on plans for taking out the vines on the back fence (really old honeysuckle which is not flourishing) and replacing it. We had great dreams of crossvine, but the fence does not get enough sun.

Then the new handyman we’ve discovered (he really is handy) called and said he could come replace the flexible screen door in the cottage. By that time, I was ready for a nap, and we agreed on tomorrow morning. But we need a new screen—after Sophie got her foot caught in a hole near the bottom of the current screen, Jordan took scissors to it and cut off about four inches. As a result, I have had a convention of mayflies in the cottage—a fatal convention apparently because I find their delicate dead bodies all over. The wonderful Zenaida will also be here tomorrow to clean the cottage—another busy day. And then we are expecting company for supper. I am reminded of the May Sarton poem:

“I always forget how important the empty days are, how important it may be sometimes not to expect to produce anything, even a few lines in a journal. A day when one has not pushed oneself to the limit seems a damaged, damaging day, a sinful day. Not so! The most valuable thing one can do for the psyche, occasionally, is to let it rest, wander, live in the changing light of a room.”
~ May Sarton, Journal of Solitude. Thanks to Marilea Rabasa for posting that this morning on our small writer’s group listserv.

 

 

Cooking for show and caring for Sophie

The contemporary compilation of selected recipes by Helen Corbitt.

Those two things have occupied my thoughts and much of my time the last two days. Sophie first.

I know very well that people do not go home from the hospital and instantly pick up the thread of their active lives. There’s an adjustment or recovery period. So why should it be any different for dogs? I’ve had one experience with this just over a year ago when Sophie came home too soon and had to return to the clinic for a few days. Monday night I thought we were in for something similar. She wasn’t much interested in eating, sort of moped around the house, not interested in going out. I was tiptoeing around the cottage and watching her out of the side of my eye. I decided it was best to give her occasional bits of affection but pretty much leave her alone to gather herself. Tuesday morning wasn’t much better, although she did eat about half her breakfast. I was a failure at getting her medications into her—that dog can lick around a pill like nothing you’ve ever seen. Hide it in cheese? Forget it. I wouldn’t have called her lethargic but perhaps passive.

Tuesday afternoon I heard one sharp bark from her, which was the first sound, and by evening, when Mary D. came for supper, Soph was more interested in what was going on. She ate her supper and asked for her dessert—canned green beans, which the vet said to give her sparingly. And then demanded her little doggie treats. We were back on familiar ground.

Today I feel we’ve really made progress—she’s eating, and by feeding her in small bits, I managed to hide a half pill in each bit and got all three down her. Christian tried to hide one in cheese, which only made her suspicious of cheese when I tried to give her a piece mid-day. Same with pill pockets—I tried to hide her tiny noon pill in one and give it to her—she clamped her mouth shut, so I left it on the floor, and she ate it, pill and all. Am I winning this war by any chance? She still lies around the cottage a lot, but hey! She did that before all this. She’s an elderly dog.

I so appreciate the concern for her. Fun to be dining out tonight with a friend and have another friend stop by the table—her first question was, “How’s Sophie?” and then a conversation about my Sophie and another dog named Sophie, belonging to a mutual friend, ensued. I had dinner with Carol Roark at Lucile’s, a restaurant both she and I like (and some of our friends don’t)—we find it’s comfort food. So tonight we split a chicken-fried steak, and we caught up on things personal and political. Been too long since we visited. As on every one of my ventures into the outside world, now that I’m home so much, I saw new buildings, things I didn’t recognize. I’m always saying, “When did they build that?” But it was fun to get out.

My other adventure today was to be on a Zoom program with Mary D. She teaches cooking classes for the Silver Frogs, TCU’s flourishing senior noncredit program. She came up with the idea of a two-part class on Helen Corbitt—she would cook, and I would fill in with background on Corbitt, her career, and her years at Neiman Marcus. It was fun, though it would have been smoother if we’d done a dry run before, and Mary had trouble with her power point program. I thought I’d used almost all my Corbitt stories, which left me worried about what I’d talk about in the next session a week from today. But since then, I’ve had some good thoughts.

It occurs to me that my Food of the Fifties interest could be such a program—I’d begin by asking folks if they eat meatloaf? Salmon patties? Squash casserole? And then talk about what a dramatic decade of change the Fifties was in America’s food history. Which would segue into recipes from that cookbook I’m working on, which is turning out to be a tribute to my mom. Lots of her good recipes. I’m not sure where to go with that thought.

So it’s been a satisfying, good day, and I’m sleepy. Night y’all!

Sophie’s home—and I am grappling with deep thoughts

 

Sophie was comfortably asleep, so no picture of her at home tonight.
This is my so-so corned beef supper. Horseradish sauce was good. Is that a travesty?

Sophie’s home! Dr. Burney called early this morning to say he was pleased with her lab results and behavior this weekend (I think that means among other things that she ate, peed, and pooped) and she could come home today. Therein ensued confusion. Jordan and Christian had been out late last night—shoot! They were out all day! So I thought they would sleep late. About nine, Christian let Crickett out, so I knew he would follow to let her back in, and I captured him for a talk. It was confusing at best. Jacob was supposed to get a ride to school, so we could have his car—he didn’t do that, although he did put my transport chair out of his van (oh, oops! I’m not supposed to call it a van). Christian had a morning appointment but said there was no way he could put himself, Jordan, me, my chair, and Sophie in his car. So he and Jordan went without me in the early afternoon, which was fine.

Once again, I spent the morning in suspended animation, not knowing how the day would work out. I didn’t change into street clothes because I had a feeling I wouldn’t be going with them to get Soph. About noon I decided I’d proceed with my day—had lunch, did the dishes, prepped the dinner—more about that later—and took a nap. Sophie came home in the middle of my nap, so we had a good visit/loving session. But then I let her wander about and re-orient herself, which is what she’s done the rest of the day. She fell into old habits quickly—watching me cook from the doorway between kitchen and bedroom, sleeping under the coffee table by the couch, lounging on the patio, though she didn’t do much of that because it’s chilly tonight and predicted to be in the thirties.

When I was waiting to see how the day would work out, I read emails, answered a few, did some work on the monthly newsletter but didn’t really put my full weight down. I am reminded of the ninety-year-old woman who went on her first airplane ride. Asked about it afterward, she said, “It was okay, but I never dd put my full weight down.” An aside: I think putting our full weight down is a problem for many women today. But back to my morning, I didn’t do much productive. Then I read an article for women about the third stage of life and how we should put society’s norms, those “should” and “should nots” behind us and do what felt comfortable to us. The gist of it was you don’t have to feel productive every day. Do what you want, what makes you happy. (I can hear my father, with his strong work ethic, rolling in his grave). I think I’ve got that one, I realize that I work because I want to, not because society demands it and, fortunately, not because I have to.

But Sophie presents another dilemma. Her care this time and a year ago when she had her first diabetic crisis was horribly, astronomically expensive. I know many people would frown on the folly of spending that much to keep a dog alive (I joked the first episode was the trip to Europe that I never took, so this week was the second European trip, an extended stay). And that’s society’s norm, the standard from which my guilt springs. But the other side is that she has been my companion for thirteen years. She is a living, breathing soul who trusts me implicitly to take care of her. I could never look at her and say, “Sorry. You’re too expensive.” And condemn her to euthanasia. Oh, if I lived on the edge I would probably surrender her to a rescue society in hopes they would find a sugar daddy to underwrite her treatment. But the blessed truth is I have the money. It’s my choice to spend it on her. Yes, there are starving children through the world, and yes, there are a lot of progressive candidates I would like to support with more, but the other truth is that Soph looks at me with those liquid eyes and as long as she is pain-free and happy, I will keep her alive. It’s a bigger dilemma than the productivity one.

At my age, I would hope to be beyond worrying about what society thinks. And I almost am—but not quite.

As for the dinner I prepped—it was to be our belated St. Patrick’s day dinner. I got a fairly expensive corned beef because it was uncured (no artificial preservatives), and I roasted it because I’d read a lot online that said roasting was the only way to go. I served champ with it (mashed potatoes with lots of butter and green onion) and Christian fixed shredded Brussel sprouts, which may have been the best part of the dinner. The corned beef was tough though the flavor was great, and the champ was just okay, nothing remarkable. Not my finest dinner. Sorry, Paddy!

It’s never too late for a good Irish blessing:

May the road rise to meet you
May the wind be at your back
May the sun shine warm upon your face

May the rain fall softly on your fields
And until we meet again
May you keep safe
In the gentle loving arms of God

 

Peace and quiet

 

Sophie at the veterinaray clinic. Note the IV tube.
Ready to come home tomorrow.

I think it was Maya Angelou who said we all need to take an occasional day out. The world, she reminded us, won’t fall apart without you. That’s what I did today—a day out. The Burtons were out all day, celebrating Jordan’s birthday at the Roadhouse, which is supposed to have great burgers. They were up, bright and bushy-tailed early this morning, Jordan is a bright green top with shamrocks dangling from her ears. My bow to St. Patrick tonight is a pale green T-shirt (with a VW bus on the front) and bright green footlets. By rights I should wear orange because my ancestry is Protestant Irish. I’m fairly sure my forebearers, three generations back or more, left Scotland for Northern Ireland. They were Protestant Irish, but I like the myth and legend of the larger Irish culture, the green of St. Patrick if you will. Perhaps W. B. Yeats best summer up Irish culture: Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.

Since I would be cooking only for myself, there’s no Irish menu in the cottage tonight. But tomorrow my family will get corned beef, champ (a mashed potato dish with lots of butter and green onions), and Brussel sprouts. Coming up with a green vegetable that’s Irish and my family will eat is hard because everything is cabbage, and they won’t touch it. When Christian asked why the Irish eat so much cabbage, I suggested it is plentiful, cheap, and nutritious. I refrained from adding something to the effect that you can make some wonderful dishes with it. Colcannon is also out—no cooked spinach. I also didn’t tell him that Brussel sprouts, which he likes, could be considered tiny cabbages. Tonight I have made myself a huge batch of pea salad and will eat with it, I think, the sardines in preserved lemon that I would have served to Jean the other night.

I was sad that my happy hour guests cancelled tonight—particularly sad because friend Jaimie burned her hand badly. But that cancellation added to my day of peace and quiet. I had planned to make a couple of appetizers to entertain Greg and Jaimie, but I’ll save them for a reschedule when Jaimie is in a better place.

So this was my day out: I slept really late, with no Sophie to wake me and demand food. I barely had time to read emails before church, which I attended via Zoom in my pajamas. A bit of cottage cheese for brunch, and I applied myself to the last words of Irene in a Ghost Kitchen. I finished it—at least the first draft—and I breathed a huge sigh. Seems like I’ve been writing this mystery forever. It came out at close to 58K words, so if I can pick up another two thousand on editing, it will be a respectable length for a cozy. Tonight I’ll start some notes for a show about Helen Corbitt that Mary and I are to collaborate on. Mary regularly teaches cooking classes for the Silver Frogs, the senior noncredit program at TCU. So she roped me in to provide commentary and background on Corbitt’s life while she demonstrates the recipes. Should be fun, though I am a bit confused on which one of us will say what. I’m sure it will work out, and it’s one of those things I vow not to overthink. Oh yes, I did have a nap in the late afternoon but only dozed—think I satisfied my need for sleep this morning.

The Sophie report is good again. She’s eating, albeit with appetite-stimulating medicine. Today the clinic will take her off her IVs and see how she does on her own, with the goal of bringing her home tomorrow. I have a list of questions for our vet when we see him.

After a week fraught with tension and worry and distractions, I’ve enjoyed my peace and quiet. Talking with a friend recently, I said one reason I didn’t want to move into a retirement community was that I like my privacy. From friends who live in Trinity Terrace I get the sense that even though you can get privacy in your own apartment, it’s easy to be drawn into the constant round of activities. No such temptation in my cottage, and I was completely happy today. But I wouldn’t want to spend every day this way.

 

Back to real life

 

 

Jordan and Sophie
Twelve years ago, plus

Sophie seems to be on the mend, so it’s back to real life at our compound. Tomorrow is Jordan’s birthday—my St. Patrick’s baby. I won’t say what birthday it is, but here’s a hint: next year is a biggie. She has an all-day come-and-go party planned for tomorrow at a local hamburger joint/sports bar (I’m sort of guessing what it is, because it’s not on my circuit). None of my friends have been included—as she said tonight, “No adults.” I reminded her that she and her friends are adults now, many of them in their fifties. But I get that mindset and it’s okay, Anyway I will not be at this all-day celebration (and miss my nap? No way). As she pointed out, it will be everything I don’t like—loud, noisy, crowded. So tonight, we had her birthday dinner, the same dinner she’s requested since she was old enough to request: tacos.

There’s a bit of a story behind that menu choice. For the first forty-seven years of her life, Jordan thought she was half Hispanic. That’s what we’d been told by the Edna Gladney Home, and we dutifully set about keeping her informed of her heritage, just as we did for Jamie with his half-Chinese background. For years, Jordan resisted any kind of genetic testing, but a few years ago she broke down and did 23andMe. The results showed that she is almost a hundred per cent northern European. She admitted it came as quite a shock after thinking of herself as Hispanic all these years. So while she might have asked for bangers and mash or shepherd’s pie for her birthday, she stuck with tacos.

Christian was out of town all day and late to our taco party. He had stopped, per my request, at the store to get things needed for the tacos but by the time he arrived we had eaten, so now I have two heads of leaf lettuce, a bag of Fritos, and I don’t know what else that I won’t use. The sharp cheddar I will always use. I thought the meat was dry, but Christian pointed out that sour cream, cheese, and guac hide a multitude of faults.

No cake. Jordan didn’t want one, so I had chocolate bonbons after they went inside.

In the spirit of getting back to reality, I wrote a thousand words on my Irene novel last night—so close to the end and yet so far; it is tantalizing to have it in sight. Except that just when I thought I could wrap things up, the mystery solved, the bad person caught, a new plot twist plopped into my mind and won’t go away. I only have one sentence in my mind, and I have no idea where it will lead me. Also, last night, I blogged and finished the novel I was being slow about reading. So I feel all caught up and a bit righteous.

Last night’s dinner guest, my good friend Jean, cancelled because she had a cold. I didn’t open the can of sardines in preserved lemon that I intended to serve, but I did make myself a good-sized panzanella (Italian bread salad)—so good. Tomorrow night, when the kids are celebrating all day (a concept I struggle to understand) neighbors are to come for happy hour, but now that is uncertain because the wife injured her hand badly enough for an hours-long, middle-of-the-night ER visit. I’m just letting that be on hold.

And the day’s Sophie report: she was responsive this morning and obviously happy to have Jordan pet her, but I thought just a bit more lethargic. The tech explained there had been a problem with a catheter and fixing it had probably worn her out, plus she had just been for a walk an hour earlier. So maybe she was tired, which her panting would indicate. When we were ready to leave, she obviously wanted to go with us and stood before the door to the lobby. When the tech urged her out the door leading to the kennel, she braced her feet and resisted for a moment, but then went docilely along. She is a good girl, but I think she is ready to go home. My heart and my pocketbook are ready to have her home. Apparently, they don’t welcome visitors nor ever discharge patients on Sunday, so we are on hold. Our vet, who I like a whole lot, will be back on Monday, and I am hoping we can move this along.

Meantime, I leave you with a quote. There is a Tyler Farr folksong chorus that goes:

I wish love wasn't so hard.
I wish people could stay together.
I wish girls couldn't break hearts.
And dogs could live forever.

But I have seen another version, and I can’t quote the early lines, but the end is: “I wish dogs lived forever and chocolate cake wasn’t fattening.” I love that, and if I ever come across it again, I’ll share.

Meantime, sweet dreams, happy days, and thanks for being my friends.

 

 

 

Sophie Update

Sophie listening to a lecture.

Tonight I really am going to post yesterday’s food blog, so look for it in a bit. But first I wanted to post an update on Sophie: she is better. Her kidney numbers, while not perfect, are much improved over yesterday, and her blood sugar levels are better. Tonight, I’m told she ate part of a can of dog food. And when we visited this morning, I thought she was more alert—head up, looking around with interest to see what and who was around her. She definitely is on the mend.

I want to praise the techs at the VSNT clinic. I get a real sense of caring from everyone I talk to, and I’ve noticed, before this episode, that if I say I’m calling about Sophie, they are right away on top of it. The whole clinic knows Sophie and considers her sort of a miracle dog—that’s certainly what Dr. Burney says about her. Yesterday, Rachel was so helpful; today we had a lovely lady whose name I unfortunately did not get, but she told us she had cared for Sophie every time she’s been in the clinic, and she was “invested” (the word she used) in her well-being. She told us the common sense advice she was giving Sophie, what she thought she’d try about food, how she was cheering for her. And the most encouraging thing she said to me was, “I think she’s trying. She’s really trying.” As long as Sophie is trying, we will too. Not at all ready to give it up, though I really would like to have her at home. She did look a little hangdog when the tech led her back to the clinic, and that made me sad. I think she’d like to be home too.

Now if I can only convince myself that today is Friday, not Saturday … we will visit in the morning and see where things are.

As always, I’m grateful for your support. I told Sophie today that she had a whole world of people cheering and praying for her.

There’s good news in Mudville tonight

 

Sophie loves Jordan!
Sophies doctor, Derek Burney, is a miracle worker,
but so much credit for her care goes to Jordan and Christian.

Today, Thursday, is my regular day for my food blog, “Gourmet on a Hot Plate.” But I have been so overwhelmed by and grateful for your prayers and hugs and good thoughts for Sophie that I decided to bring you up to date. The recipe I had in mind will keep. Meantime, there’s good news tonight, but first here’s how the day went.

The vet called about 7:30 this morning. Miniscule was his favorite word. She might, he said, be a bit better but it was miniscule, and her chances for surviving this episode were miniscule. She refused to eat and had developed a bloody discharge from her nose. Her kidney numbers were only slightly better. It was time for us to come see her and talk. So I alerted Jordan and Christian. We were all convinced we were going to let her go. I packed up the insulin needles and some other things that we wouldn’t be needing but someone else could use. We were glum as we drove to the vet, though I did my usual when nervous and talked too much.

We were in the waiting room when Rachel, the tech, came leading Sophie on a leash. That was the first surprise: Sophie had not been walking when the Burtons took her to the vet. Rachel said that was new this morning—she’d been carrying her out to potty. And she said her demeanor was better this morning. We were shown into an exam room and left to visit with Soph. A year ago when she was so sick, Dr. Burney warned me that she would be mad at me, because she thought whatever was happening to her was all my fault. Sure enough, she was less than ecstatic to see me, but she sat still for Jordan to pet her—and when Jordan stopped for a minute, Sophie turned her head as if to say, “Keep doing that.” For Christian, she rolled over so he could give her tummy rubs. One factor: the two of them could get down on the floor with her; I can’t. They did pick her up a few times so I could whisper sweet nothings and promise to give her Velveeta if she’d eat enough to come hope. When the doctor came in, he said he was as surprised as we were.

I wouldn’t want you to think Soph is back “at herself.” She was on pain medication which made her even more lethargic, and she panted quite a bit, but she was enough better that I said I couldn’t think of letting her go, and Dr. Burney agreed. We are all comfortable with seeing what tomorrow brings. Christian is more worried about my bank account than I am—he says I can’t let this go on too long, and I understand that. But I just can’t say, “I’m glad you seem better, but I can’t afford to pay any more bills.” Life is too precious, and the burden of holding it in your hands is heavy.

I remember once running into a friend outside my neighborhood vet’s office. He said, matter-of-factly, “He needs a $2000 surgery, and I can’t afford that, so we’re going to put him to sleep this morning.” I was horrified, though I’m sure my friend, once a colleague, really couldn’t afford it. I’d have arranged monthly payments or something. As I struggle with the Sophie dilemma I think of the hundreds of people dying in Ukraine and Gaza, and I have concluded death at a distance and in mass, anonymous numbers is easier for many to tolerate. Up close and specific, it appalls.

Dr. Burney called this evening to report that Sophie ate a piece of lunch meat this afternoon and then, after a bit, ate another. That’s a really good sign. He says he can’t see her coming home tomorrow but he’s hoping for Saturday! I feel like shouting this news from the rooftop!

My good friend and neighbor, Jaimie Smith, sent me this quote from Joe Biden. It is so true, it made me teary, but I also think it speaks volumes to what kind of a good man our president is: “Dogs’ lives are short, too short, but you know that going in. You know the pain is coming, you’re going to lose a dog, and there’s going to be great anguish, so you live fully in the moment with him. You can’t support the illusion that a dog can be your lifelong companion. There’s such beauty in the hard honesty of that, in accepting and giving love while always being aware it comes with an unbearable price. Maybe loving dogs is a way we do penance for all the mistakes we make in life.”

 

A day in limbo

 

Sophie waiting for company on the patio.
We had our first patio gathering tonight.

This morning before I was even out of bed, the vet called with not-so-good news. Sophie’s kidneys were failing. He didn’t sound hopeful, but he said we would give her the morning and see how she did. He’d call back mid-day. So I piddled—read emails, read Facebook, answered a bit of correspondence, but all thoughts of creative work fled. I was watching the clock and wondering what his idea of mid-day was. I think I was a case study in suspended animation.

My kids rallied around, as they always do when I need them. Colin, skiing with his family in Wolf Creek, Colorado, has called three times and been very supportive. I guess the best thing he said to me was, “You’re always tough about the big things.” And this, I agreed, was a big thing. Megan, packing up her family in Tahoe to head home, called, and Jamie called from Denver and tried to cheer me with made-up Biblical quotes. I love them for trying, but talking to them made me teary. I was better off when I didn’t talk about Sophie.

Dr. Burney called around two o’clock. No change. She was still lethargic, not interested in food, not interested in peeing, kind of mentally sluggish as well as physically. But he didn’t sound ready to give up. When I said, “She was my miracle baby,” he said, “Oh, I know. Mine two.” So we decided to give her the afternoon. He called about five-thirty, and we agreed to give her until morning. Are we postponing the inevitable? Maybe. One thought I had was that whether or not Soph took advantage of the day, it had been a help to me, allowed me a chance to collect myself and face what lies ahead. I sent her a telepathic message this morning, told her it was up to her—she either had to turn it around or shut it down, but she had to save me from making the decision. Dr. Burney said he was sure she got the message, but he would repeat it to her. I love that man.

So we are still in limbo. I think tomorrow morning, no matter which way it goes, Jordan and I will go to the veterinary clinic and see her. When she was so sick a year ago, Dr. Burney warned me that she would be mad at me, because she thought whatever happened to her was my doing. And boy, was he right. She wouldn’t come near me. So that worries me a bit about going to see her. Jordan thinks seeing us will give her a boost. I am not sure.

And to pile complication on complication: Jacob has tested positive for Covid. He’s just home from a three-day fishing/swimming/hanging out trip to Oklahoma with three buddies. Called his mom at lunch and said he couldn’t taste his Chick Filet. (In my opinion that’s a good thing—I boycott Chick Filet, but he loves it and I can’t appeal to his teenage hunger on moral grounds). So when he got home, he tested positive. So now he’s bummed, because he can’t hang out with his buddies during his senior year spring break, and he can’t work to earn money.

But there is family good news. My brother, who is pretty much bedridden, has been in the hospital for two or three weeks, but it looks like he can go home tomorrow. I’m so grateful for small slivers of hope.

Tonight Subie and Phil came for a drink. She said she watched all day for a message telling them not to come, but I would have wanted them here no matter which way things went with Sophie. They are longtime friends, the kind who are a comfort, and they were tonight. It was the first time Subie drove over our new, nicely flat driveway, and she was full of raves about it.

I am deeply grateful to all of you who have sent hugs and prayers and good wishes. You help me as I wait in limbo, and I’m sure. If she knew, Sophie would be grateful too. She always did love to be the center of attention.

Sophie’s story part II

Sophie, 12 weeks old
The day we brought her home.

Tonight, the cottage is quiet and a bit lonely. Sophie is spending the night in the hospital. She had taken lately, with the warmer weather, to lying on the patio until late at night when I enticed her inside with a bit of cheese so I could go to bed. During the evening, she’d come in from time to time to get a drink of water and, I hope, to see that I was where she thought I ought to be, but it was not as though we spent the evening chatting. Still, I miss knowing she out there, and I may even miss her demand for breakfast at seven in the morning.

She is in a specialty clinic, not your neighborhood vet (think big dollars), but the doctor who saved her life is one of my favorite people. She needs his spot-on knowledge. He called tonight to say that she’s still pretty rough. This morning he reported that her diabetes was out of control, her blood sugar ridiculously high, and she had opened the old wound (once a bed sore) on her front elbow. (I’d caught her licking that now and again but she stopped when I told her to.) Tonight he says the sugar numbers are much better, so I will wait for a morning report.

I like to say this all happened so fast—the first clear sign was yesterday morning when she didn’t eat her breakfast. But in retrospect, I know there were small signs—another time I’ll be more alert to them. She, who is always ravenous, turned down her dry kibble though she kept eating the canned food. And if I poured broth over the kibble, she’d eat it. But that quit yesterday. We caught her chewing nonedible things. And both last night and this morning she disappeared into the far reaches of the back yard where I cannot see her and cannot follow with my walker. I’ve had experience before with a dog who went off to die, so that freaked me out. In fact yesterday in the wee morning hours I called Christian but just then she poked her head around into the door, and I hit disconnect quickly. But last night and this morning Jordan and Christian had to go get her and carry her back to the cottage.

So tonight I am feeling sorry for myself. Jordan and Christian have gone to a friend’s b’day dinner at Don Artemio’s, the relatively new, upscale restaurant featuring the food of northeastern Mexico—think Saltillo and San Miguel, also think nopales, cabrito, tacos de Lengua (tongue tacos and my favorite on the menu). Don Artemio’s was a finalist for the best new restaurant in the James Beard Awards for 2023. I suggested jokingly Jordan order the cabrito, because that’s what I want the next time I dine there. I knew she’d frown, and I bet she orders a steak because that’s what she likes and what she is comfortable with. Me? I want to try new things, as long as they are not too spicy.

But more than feeling sorry for myself, I am feeling sorry for Sophie. I know she thinks we’ve abandoned her. She hates the clinic, and we all know when you feel bad, you want to be home, not in some sterile place. Fingers crossed, prayers said that she can come home tomorrow.

Tonight Mary came for happy hour. She is to do a two-part cooking class on Helen Corbitt for the Silver Frogs (non-credit, community classes from TCU for an older audience, a truly vital program.) Mary cooks from her kitchen via a Zoom-like arrangement, and for the Corbitt program she plans to have me chime in with my research into Corbitt’s career. So she showed us the treasures she’d bought for the demonstration—a Hollandaise sauce mix, chutney, flower pots for the cakes Corbitt made for LadyBird, etc., and the Power Point presentation she’d put together. I declined to do that because I have no idea about Power Point. It was fun to talk about Corbitt, and I enjoyed the hour. Then Mary and Jordan rushed off and I ate leftover meat loaf and a small green salad.

But I’ve got great cooking plans coming up—only to be told Jordan wants a b’day dinner of tacos Saturday night. I have a recipe for chicken tacos I might try to talk her into, but I am not hopeful.

Pray for Soph, please. I hope tomorrow I can report she’s safely home.

Worrying about Sophie

 

Sophie is having what I guess you’d call a diabetic crisis—so I am having an emotional crisis. Over the weekend, we caught her eating some odd things—like my rattail comb, a baseball card picture of one grandson, and so on. Jordan said, “She’s hungry”; Christian said, “She’s bored.” Turns out Jordan was right.

Last night I had to get up twice to refill her water, which is unusual. When she went out at five in the morning, she was gone twenty minutes or more, and I couldn’t find her. Was about to call Christian when she stuck her head in the door. She has breakfast in two servings—a complicated story because of her insulin shot. But this morning, she did not lick the bowl clean as usual with her first breakfast and did not eat her second at all. Christian was taking Cricket to the vet, so he described the symptoms, and the vet said her blood sugar is high. She needs to eat and have insulin.

This evening we tried everything to get her to eat—pouring broth over her dog food, grating cheese and dropping it on the floor with an “Oh, oh” (which is what we do when we’re working with cheese—it usually delights her), and, finally, putting dog food and broth in a blender and using a syringe to force feed. Worked pretty well—until she went outside and threw it all up. Per vet instruction, we gave her a half dose of insulin. Both Sophie and I would be lost without Jordan and Christian to manage all this.

So tonight, lethargic is a mild description of her condition. Poor thing apparently feels awful, so first thing in the morning I’ll call the vet. I anticipate we’ll take her in, they’ll feed her through an IV (there goes the fur on one leg), and give her insulin. I pray they can do it without keeping her overnight.

Christian put our feelings into words tonight when he said, “I didn’t realize how fragile her health is.” Now that I look back, I should have seen more warning signs—whereas she usually ate anything you gave her, she scorned her dry kibble for several days. One day I put broth on it and she ate it heartily, but now she won’t even do that. And canned food? She was ravenous. It’s such a sudden change.

Being a pet parent has a lot in common with parenting a child—that feeling of helplessness when you want so desperately to make them feel better, can’t make them understand how to help, and don’t know what else to do.

Nothing else on my mind tonight. Tomorrow, I hope, a more cheery report.

 Were the Little House on the Prairie books anti-feminist? What a question!

 

  

 

President Biden warns us repeatedly that the November election is the most significant in American history. We will choose between democracy and fascism. Recently I’ve noticed another threat—to women. It’s not just abortion or our rights over our own bodies; it’s our place in society, in the world in which we live. The presumptive Republican candidate for the governorship of Norh Carolina, a man named Mark Robinson who is endorsed by trump, has said he’d like to go back to a time when women didn’t have the vote. A politician (I think it was Montana, and I apologize I didn’t get his name) said that America ought to be ruled by men of God—strong, white men. In Texas and in my home county of Tarrant, incumbent women lost a significant number of offices, everything from state representative to tax collector and the state school board. Nationally, there’s the quixotic campaign of Nikki Haley, now ended, or the well-publicized shootout in California between Katie Porter and Adam Schiff. Porter s now being criticized for being a sore leader, akin to trump, but I think she was doing what she does best: exposing politics and corruption. Could her being a woman have added to her current dilemma? After years of fighting the glass ceiling, women are once again gradually being edged out of power, influence, etc.  

Senator Katie Britt’s response to the State of the Union has been mocked, critiqued, disputed all over the internet, and I won’t repeat the comments here, though some are hysterically funny, especially the cold open of SNL. But beneath all the laughter, there’s serious concern. Right-wing extremists give every indication of wanting to send women back to the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. The dismissive attitude is summed up by a recent incident in Arizona: when Gov. Katie Hobbs called for reproductive freedom in her State of the State speech, a male legislator who must have thought he was clever said there’s already aspirin. He advised women to hold an aspirin between their knees, a suggestion so demeaning and insulting I hardly know what to say.

In her March 8 column, Letter from an American, historian Heather Cox Richardson traces the demonization of women back to the Sixties and cites protests over the 1968 Miss America contest. She doesn’t say it, but the early 1960s saw publication of Betty Freidan’s The Feminine Mystique, the book many credit with starting the late-twentieth-century feminist movement. Richardson traces the status of women through those years: Nixon’s turn against abortion in an effort to win the Catholic vote, Phyllis Schafly’s screeching attacks on the Equal Rights Amendment, the 1973 Roe v Wade, which did so much to free women from traditional, pre-WWII roles, the Laura Ingalls Wilder Little House on the Prairie books which Richardson suggests reinforced the idea of women needing men to take care of them. In 1984, Walter Mondale chose Geraldine Ferraro as his running mate, and they were soundly defeated. And then there was Rush Limbaugh with his “feminazis” and right on up to Hillary Clinton’s battle with donald trump. I urge you to read the entire column: March 8, 2024 - by Heather Cox Richardson (substack.com)

Of course, the battle began at least a century earlier than the Sixties. It was 1848 when women met in Seneca Falls, NY to plan their fight for rights. There followed years of protest, jailings, beatings, and unbelievable courage until in 1920 the 19^th Amendment gave women the right to vote. The fight is different today but nonetheless intense. Anger and indignation are not good motivation for action, but in this case, I think they are appropriate. I hope women across America will see the insidious nature of this campaign against us and rise up en masse to tell right-wing extremists we are no handmaidens. Will you join me? I am tempted to say “Vote Blue!” but much as I personally want to see Joe Biden in office for another four years, that’s not the point here. I think every woman should evaluate each candidate on his or her stance not only on abortion but on women’s rights and the rights of minorities, because the two go hand in hand.

In peace.