Life goes on

 

Benji resting by my desk

If you asked me how I feel today, I would probably say sluggish. Maybe tired. I have bouts of energy and then periods of fatigue. I tell myself I’ve had two major blows within a little over a month—the loss of my only brother and last blood relative and the loss of the dog I’d loved for almost thirteen years. It’s neither sacrilegious nor silly to say that I am not weighing one against the other—both have been real blows. Most of my life I have been known for a sort of “carry on no matter what” attitude—that’s gotten me into trouble when I ignored some physical symptoms until they became major problems. I think maybe this time I am listening to my body. I sleep well part of the night and then toss and turn, but boy do I sleep soundly at naptime. I’ve been taking two naps—my usual afternoon one (I slept two and a half hours today) and another about 8:30 or 9:00 at night, after which I get up and work. It’s a schedule that seems to suit me for now. A couple of small medical problems are not helping my frame of mind—the malignant place on my scalp is healing and itches like fury, but of course I can’t scratch, I am hoping next week I’ll hear that I can stop putting Vaseline on it—who wants Vaseline combed into their hair? But I have weeks to go with the medicine that is intended to stimulate the immune system and kill cancer cells—and it is the real cause of the itching storm. Also next week, I have a swallow test which I dread less because I’m worried about the outcome than because I am worried about swallowing the barium. I’m sure they have techniques for helping queasy people, and I tell myself it will be over quickly. But it looms. So that’s my sad story.

On the positive side, today marks one week that Benji has been with us, and he’s done a remarkable job of adjusting. So, I would modestly say, have I. This week he is apparently feeling enough at home to be a bit naughty—yesterday morning I found one of my shoes in the doorway to the patio. I showed it to him while repeating “No!” in the sternest tone I could muster. He looked appropriately chastised, whatever that means. A few minutes later, Jordan came in carrying the other shoe which she had found in the back yard. Since my hip surgery and broken ankle, my feet are so fat and swollen that I don’t have the usual wardrobe of shoes—this was my only pair of black. Stretchy, wide, easy to get on. I am keeping the closet door closed. I also caught Benji digging at the base of one of my new plants of muhly grass, and that’s got to be a no-no. He frolics among the grass, and I tap on the window each time and call his name. He’s so good he comes running to see if I really want him.

But he does not beg for food, even when we have appetizers on the coffee table—Sophie would have decimated that in nothing flat. And he puts himself to bed in his crate about ten o’clock, and stays there quietly until I get up, usually about eight in the morning. He’s responsive to his name and seems eager to please. When he’s outside, he frequently comes to the doorway to check on me. And, though he is right now barking, he’s toned that down a lot. With his wild energy, he is like having a teenager in the house—you know if you can just wait through this period, there’s a great person in there. Adjustment is a slow process for both of us, and Benji is distracted by all the people who love and fuss over him bigtime—and then go away. I’m here for the 24-hour long haul. He  seems to understand that—he follows me to the bathroom, lies by my desk at night when I’m working. He’s going to be a good dog.

I had a spectacular kitchen fail last night that was also a great learning lesson. It taught me how to make a good red wine sauce for hamburger steak, and it also taught me a lesson I should know: don’t multi-task when cooking. I was making sirloin patties with red wine sauce, but I was also trying to finish up some computer work. And I wanted to make sure Jordan’s pattie was not pink in the middle, because she does not like pink meat. So I let the patties brown too long, but gosh they had a nice crisp crust! Then the wine reduced about three times as fast as usual—it usually takes forever, especially if you watch it, but this time, I turned my back. Added the beef broth and it did the same thing, so by the time we served, there was little sauce. And the patties were surely not pink in the middle. Christian’s mom liked meat cooked to a fare-thee-well, so he once told me her salmon patties were like hockey pucks. He could have said the same thing about my patties last night, though he kept reassuring me they had a great flavor. I tried to steam one for lunch today and threw it out. I swear I’m going to try again next week—if I get it right, I’ll share what I did.

I have had my evening nap, and I’m feeling better, over my pity party. When I was young, my mom had migraines and would take to her bed for a day. But never longer. So I learned to say, “She’ll be all right tomorrow,” if someone asked about her. So that’s my motto tonight: I’ll be all right tomorrow. Thanks for letting me whine. Good night, you all. Good night, Benji!

Sunday evening supper and tears near the surface

 

One of my favorite pictures. 
John and I enjoying a happy time at his ranch.

Renee came for Sunday supper tonight, and we had a high old time talking about everything from Jacob’s upcoming prom to osteopathic medicine. Sunday supper is a longstanding tradition in my family, the sense that it should be just a little bit better, a little bit different from ordinary supper. When I was living at home and my brother gone to college or the Navy, Mom rolled her tea cart into the living room, in front of the fireplace, and we had a casual, light supper—a souffle or cheese strata. Today, Sunday supper is still special—we try to have everyone home and the menu is carefully chosen. Tonight Christian cooked an Asian beef and green bean stir fry, and, mixing cultures a bit, I fixed a Lebanese potato salad. Christian didn’t think the two would go together but admitted tonight they did complement each other

But tonight it was the Sunday suppers of my children’s high school years that were much on my mind. My big brother, the patriarch of our family, died yesterday morning at the age of ninety-two. He was my last surviving blood relative and the man I knew all my life would protect me. Everyone asks how I am, and the answer is “fine, but teary.” John and I have lived in close proximity probably more than not—as children, of course. He went to boarding school as a high school junior and was never home again, but in 1961, he declared I needed to get out on my own and took me off to Kirksville, Missouri where he was studying osteopathic medicine and his wife was working on a master’s in English. I too worked on that master’s. That move set the course for my life, including marriage to an osteopathic student and a doctorate in English. I moved to Texas in 1965, and he to Colorado in 1966. In 1980, he moved to Fort Worth to join the faculty of the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine.

In the early 1980s, John and I found ourselves both single with six teen-agers between us. Sunday suppers became an institution. We gathered at my house each week, inviting stray people we thought needed to join us—the parents of my goddaughter often, a good friend recently divorced several times, the kids’ friends. I fed anywhere from ten to fifteen those nights. Presence was required for the kids unless they had a job obligation, which some did. John presided over the table, led us in grace, and ceremoniously served the meal. Table manners were strictly monitored,  mostly by John, and I’m proud to say today all six of those kids have great table manners.

I loved cooking those dinners. Mostly they were a success, though sometimes not. I remember a turkey Wellington recipe which I have long since lost to my regret, and I distinctly remember one night I did a marinated butterflied leg of lamb (I must have thought I was a rich woman). Sometimes we had a turkey or a casserole or whatever I chose. One night, when my office was working on a regional cookbook, I fixed a cornbread/hamburger casserole I’d found the recipe for. John took one bite, looked at me, and asked, “Sis, is the budget the problem?”

Probably though the kids most remember the conversation. John went around the table, asking each person perhaps what they were grateful for or what they had done that week. No one was allowed to shrug it off—you had to have a cogent, intelligent answer. The classic that everyone laughs about to this day is the time we were asked what we were grateful for. Megan had brought a new beau to dinner (in retrospect quite brave of her) and the young man stood (his first mistake—none of the rest of us stood) and said, “I am grateful for Megan and her beauty.” The adults managed straight faces, but the teens couldn’t handle it. To this day, everyone laughs about this.

Today, Sunday dinner is served around the coffee table in my cottage, a far cry from that crowded, formal dining room on Winslow Avenue. But John will always be at my dinner table—and in my heart. We had our differences, particularly political—how he grew up in a staunch FDR/Mayon Richard Daley household and turned out a conservative is beyond me. But we learned, especially in our golden years, to put those aside in favor of our strong bond. We loved to talk, for instance, about the Indiana Dunes where our family had a cottage or Chicago, about which these days I am more nostalgic than he was.

John was sick, mostly bedridden for over a year, and our togetherness, such as it was, was always by phone—he lived south of Granbury on his ranch. We talked every few days, and I always ended the conversation with, “I love you.” It was hard for him, and he’d say, “Back at ya.” So here’s back at you John!

Benji has a fan club

My brother John and his puppy

Benji is so grateful for all the welcoming comments and praise for his good looks. He is especially grateful to one anonymous fan who sent him a gift—wonderful health bar treats in a variety of flavors and a chew toy he has not been parted with. I wish I had a name so I could thank the donor, but I hope he or she reads this and knows how tickled we were to receive this bounty and how grateful. Benji has found himself a special place in the yard, by a tree, where he hollowed out a hidey hole and stashed his favorites, such as the most ragged rope chew thing you ever saw. Now the new bacon-flavored bone is there too, after banging its way around the cottage while I napped. On the whole, Benji is really good about my naps—he puts himself to bed in his crate.

The barking is getting somewhat better. At least, I think so though I may be grasping at straws. He spent periods quietly outside today. I think that advice that he needs to get used to the neighborhood is spot on. In his previous home, as good as they were to him, he did not spend much time outdoors. Now he’s outside every minute he can be, although he frequently comes to the door to check and see that I’m still in here. If his barking gets to be too much, I simply bring him inside, and he takes this with good grace, going immediately to his crate. But he will emerge to lie on the floor by my desk, and this evening, I could hear him and his bone in the bedroom. Knock on wood, but so far he has not bothered one thing he shouldn’t, and his food manners are good. He’s not a beggar.

I had a chance to test my own food manners last night when Carol Roark picked me up for dinner at the Blue Spire, the upscale dining area at Trinity Terrace, the high-rise retirement community where so many of my friends live. It was one thing for Carol to invite me, but another much bigger one for her to have to leave TT to pick me up and deliver me after dinner. And on top of that to wheel me in the transport chair because it is a very long walk from the front door to the elevator in the newest tower which houses the Blue Spire. So I am most grateful. We had a delicious dinner—veal piccata for me (Christian fixes chicken piccata frequently but I never splurge and buy veal) and stroganoff for Carol. Beter yet, Carol and I had a good visit. We don’t have get a one-on-one visit—we are part of a group of four who dine together. But last night, it was just us, and I got a slide tour of her recent trip to New Zealand (all those exotic birds and plants whose names I can’t pronounce!) and she listened about Benji and the goings on of my family and even my cooking. A lovely evening.

Tonight, my heart is heavy. My 92-year-old big brother is in the hospital—again! —and not doing well. He has always, since I was small, been my protector, and as we raised our children, he filled the roll of patriarch with admirable grace—my kids and his know their table manners to this day! John and I have had our differences—politics! —but in the last year plus, we have again become close, talking on the phone every four or five days. And we have so many rich, good memories that they outweigh the differences in our views and sometimes our lifestyle. I am not rushing to his bedside, because I think that would be extremely difficult for both of us—we are the last of our family on the side of our mother, my father, and his father. His wife said she would she would ask what he wants, but I suspect he will tell me not to come. And so I wait on tenterhooks. Prayers for peace and acceptance are welcomed.

Update on Benji, history repeats itself, and a kitchen surprise

Benji was a dream overnight—Jacob enticed him into the crate with a couple of small treats, and I never heard another peep out of him until morning. I know he woke about six, but he was patient until seven when I let him out and fed him. Then back inside, I grabbed an extra snooze, and he was quiet and good. This afternoon, even before I headed for a nap, he put himself in his crate and settled down for a long sleep. He’s responsive, enthusiastic about being loved and talked to, and easy. And he’s loving having almost constant access to the backyard, although when he is in the cottage, he now mostly lies by my desk while I work—yesterday he paced. Just now, he put himself in his crate. I guess, like Soph, he considers it his safe spot.

But  yes, there’s a downside. He has the highest, shrillest bark ever—and he barks, as far as I can tell, for no reason. Christian asked why it bothers me, since Sophie was also inclined to bark—but she barked at squirrels and was quiet for long periods outside. Benji barks every few minutes, and I am hoarse from calling him to come inside—which he mostly does happily. I don’t want him barking incessantly and offending the neighbors. I’ve had long conversations with him about this, but they don’t appear to be taking. It’s still early in the game. Christian’s theory is that Benji has discovered lots of new friends in the neighbors’ dogs and is talking to them.

AS I posted elsewhere, I was appalled to read that state troopers in riot gear were called out to quell a student protest at UT/Austin. For those of you my age and even a bit younger, I’m sure that brings memories of the horror of the sixties and the Kent State Massacre (actually 1970). Apparently it’s not just UT/Austin but there are student protests across the country. All on behalf of Gaza. I read something today that said, in effect, if you find yourself opposing the student protests and siding with the establishment, you are on the wrong side of history—and this has been true throughout history. I don’t know about such a sweeping statement, but I think it applies to the protests of the sixties and seventies and to today.

I feel great sympathy and a lot of connection to the Jewish people. I was once married to a Jewish man who is now deceased, but my children and I remain close to his family. I am not ready to throw Israel to the wolves, but I wouldn’t mind tossing Netanyahu and some of his cohorts in that direction. I think there’s a huge difference between Israelites and Netanyahu’s official policies. I think what they’ve done to the people of Gaza is beyond horrifying. Yes, October 7 was a nightmare and Hamas must be conquered—but at the cost of all those civilian Palestinian lives? Especially the children? Today I read of victims at two Gaza hospitals whose bodies were found with their hands tied behind their backs. I suppose we aren’t sure if Hamas did that or the IDF. Supposedly Netanyahu said recently, “You will not teach us about morality.” But I think someone needs to. If those poor hostages, the few left alive, never come home, it will be because of Netanyahu’s scorched earth policies. And we frequently read that many Israelis are as upset as we are.

My measured take on this: it is possible to grieve for both groups of people at the same time, and America should reconsider the extent of its longtime support of Israel until Israel changes leadership. I thought this even before this war, when Israel was being a bully and grabbing Palestinian land on the West Bank. Over the years Palestinian-occupied territory has shrunk to almost nothing, evoking in my mind some sympathy for the Palestinian people. Now, what we see is awful. I don’t understand the politics of campus protests and the positions of various campus administrators, but my instinct is to listen to the students.

On a lighter note, I tried a Southern Living recipe for roast chicken Caesar salad tonight. First of all, I didn’t read carefully enough to realize I needed a bottle of commercial dressing as a base. Luckily, Jordan had one. Next I realized I didn’t have croutons, so everything came to a halt while I fished in the freezer for odds and ends of bread, let it defrost, and made croutons. Then I realized the recipe called for lining romaine leaves on a sheet pan, brushing with oil, and broiling. A quick survey indicated that Jordan and Christian both share my antipathy to charred lettuce. Now, finally, the chicken is coated with dressing and broiling—and Jordan says it’s turning black. Ah, the suspense of dinner in the cottage! A PS I was quite sure this was not a keeper recipe: they both loved it! Go figure.

A mixed day, good and bad, and I’m tired. But like Robert Frost, I have miles to go.

Meet Benji

 

With great enthusiasm and unbounded energy, Benji has taken up residence on Park Place in Berkeley. He thinks his person is Juju, but he’s not sure because then there are Jordan and Christian—and then those three high-school boys who came and rough-housed with him this afternoon. And that woman who came for happy hour and loved on him a lot. It’s a dog’s life, learning to go in and out of the flexible screen, running in the yard tossing his string toy for himself if no one else was around, even resting while Juju napped—though ever on the alert and occasionally letting out an ear-piercing howl. Who needs to eat? Life here is too exciting. He’s not sure about sleeping tonight, though Juju wants to put him in a crate, which is where he’s used too sleeping. Here are some pictures of his first day. And the facts: Benji is a two-year-old border collie mix, black with brown socks and white on his chest. He was rescued from a shelter as a pup, but now his first family must move to an apartment and couldn’t take him with them.

PS from Juju: I am so grateful for the love and support I have gotten from my blog community during this emotional dog journey I have been on. You all are the best, and I love you.

An emotional evening

 

My appetizer dip.
There are layers of hummus and yogurt under all the veggies.

If my friend Subie reads this, she will assume it was an emotional evening because we apparently got our wires crossed, and she and Phil did not appear for happy hour as anticipated. Too bad, because I made an extraordinary appetizer. And I was disappointed because I had new to share. So now I’ll share it with you.

Tomorrow morning a woman is bringing her dog, Benji, for a meet-and-greet. She and her family are moving into an apartment and cannot take the dog, though I sense that she is pretty much heartbroken about it. Benji is a border collie mix, on the small side (22 lbs.) which is good for us, He is two years old, crate-trained, house-trained, and apparently a low-key inside dog though he does need exercise. I called this morning to interview her about the dog, and she turned the tables and asked me lots of questions, beginning with had I ever had any animals? I surely could answer that in the affirmative. The one thing she asked that impressed me was about a regular veterinarian, and I was able to give her the name and phone number of the clinic where I have been taking animals since the 1970s—I have the second oldest record in their files, and the first is inactive.

I’m a bit anxious about tomorrow’s meeting. As I said to the kids tonight, it’s a bit like getting married: did I make the right choice? Of course nothing is carved in stone, and I am free to thank Mrs. Reed for bringing the dog and tell her no, thank you. And, truthfully, I wouldn’t be surprised if she gets cold feet and cancels. Meantime, the Burtons and I drew up a list of questions and brought Sophie’s crate into the cottage. If Benji and I mesh, the next few days will be interesting.

An odd side note: when Christian was a pre-teen, he was a child model and eventually starred in a TV series that featured a dog named Benji. That dog, however, did not look anything like this one.

But even that was not the crux of my emotional evening: Jordan and Christian took their kitten to the vet to have his claws trimmed. While there, they collected Sophie’s ashes. I have never before saved a dog’s ashes but always sent them to a pet cemetery. Jordan, however, is more sentimental—I guess that’s what you’d say. She has her father’s ashes in the kitchen and threatened to put Sophie next to him if I didn’t want her. On the other hand, my mother’s ashes are safely in a nearby cemetery. I just never thought of keeping ashes at home. So tonight they brought out a carefully thought-out package—papers with her paw print and nose print, a small framed paw print, a lovely wood box with the ashes, and little vials of her hair. It all absolutely undid me, and I began to cry. In fact, I’m tearing as I write this, and if the kids hadn’t been here, I would have cried uncontrollably.

Christian said he thought it right that Sophie be here tomorrow when a potential new dog arrives. Be still, my heart. More tears.

In other, more cheerful news, my grandson Kegan loved the U. of Arkansas in his visit today and, as his mom said, seems pretty much sold. It’s amazing how many kids with connections go there. Turns out Kristi Griesbach, Lisa’s lifelong friend, has a nephew there, and Jacob knows countless seniors who will enroll with him in the fall. And now it looks like I will have two grandsons there.

Because Arkansas is not a progressive state—how could it be with Sarah Huckabee at the helm?—I worry about such things as a DEI initiative (probably missing) and other issues, like abortion or support for Ukraine. I know college kids are pretty much oblivious to such matters, but then this is when their characters are shaped. My family would tell me to hush, and so I will.

We will all be on hand tomorrow (except Jacob who will be in school), and I’ll report. Meantime, sweet dreams!

Rain and company and dogs

 

Kegan (left) and Colin in Fayetteville, Arkansas.
Kegan is visiting the University of Arkansas.
I love the angle of this picture--and the view.

Rain gauges all over the city probably varied, but I heard we got anywhere from three to five inches of rain yesterday. It was, to my delight, an all-day, rolling thunder kind of rain—sometimes fairly heavy, sometimes slower so that it would soak in. The sun never peeked at us, and sometimes it was as dark as evening. I wouldn’t want a steady diet, don’t think I could live in the Pacific Northwest, but occasionally, such a day is a welcome break. The wonderful Zenaida cleaned my cottage, I did some cooking, and had a great nap—rainy days inspire naps! Yesterday, I outdid myself—my afternoon nap was followed by a long evening nap, from nine to eleven. I then spent over an hour looking at dog pictures and went to bed at twelve-thirty. Had the best, soundest sleep in forever.

About five-thirty yesterday my friend Katie made her way up the soggy driveway, reporting that traffic was a mess, she was wearing her old clothes and no make-up, and she was wet. It’s lovely to have friends who know they can come to your home without fussing over their appearance. I didn’t invite Katie to look at her and how she was dressed, but to talk to her and pick her mind. And pick I did the minute she walked in. She’s knowledgeable about plants so I thought she could tell me what my great yellow wildflowers are. She said she thought—wait a minute? Thought? She wasn’t certain? —they were cosmos. We looked at cosmos online, and it comes in many forms, so it’s easy to say that’s what I have. That’s my story from now on. I had already identified the coreopsis tucked in next to the taller cosmos.

Our talk was not limited to gardening, though we did touch on composting—which her grandson is doing. I said I don’t care if we ever use my compost as fertilizer—I’m just glad not to be throwing all those scraps into the trash and eventually the landfill. It’s remarkable to me how much composting is lessening my footprint on the earth. Speaking of fertilizer, though, I did read a neat hint today: when potting a new plant, put a raw egg on a small bed of dirt in the bottom of the pot. It will disintegrate and is wonderful fertilizer. Also save the water when you boil eggs—it’s rich in calcium and good for your plants.

As usual, Katie and I caught up on grandchildren and talked a lot about dogs and some about the Episcopalian church in Fort Worth—she is the assistant to the bishop. Katie is also an activist, so we did discuss politics, especially local—there’s one onerous Republican official whose ears should have been burning. Somehow, we missed the news of the day which seems historic to me now: the bipartisan passage in the House of the three separate foreign aid bills. It’s almost like Speaker Mike Johnson, who had been castigated by many for refusing to bring such a bill to the floor, pulled a rabbit out of a hat and became a magician. However he did it, my hat’s off to him, although I know we have vast political differences. Like most of us, I was anxious to get supplies and help to Ukraine, though I have my doubts about how much we should continue to support Israel, and I know little of the Taiwanese situation, less about TikTok. I do know however that the bipartisan effort was significant and a resounding defeat for trump and his MAGA supporters of Putin.

It being the weekend, I did cook: last night we had a combination of chopped chicken, mushrooms, green onion, and cream cheese baked in crescent roll dough and served with a tossed salad, with a store-bought blueberry pie for dessert—the latter was a sudden impulse buy and now I’m left wondering what to do with all that pie. Tonight I made a baked goat cheese dip—so rich and so good—when dear friend Betty and her daughter, Dana, came for an early happy hour. Another joyous visit, this with a lot of cooking talk, with Dana paying tribute to her mom for all she taught her. Later in the evening, Christian grilled his terrific hamburgers for us. Are we spoiled?

Much of my weekend has been devoted to the study of dogs. Colin and Lisa went to meet the dog I thought sounded just right and reported that he was calm, sweet, easy with new people—all good, but they sensed health problems. I texted the owners that if they met certain conditions—a health certificate, long overdue neutering—I would take the dog. I have not heard from them, so I guess that’s a no, and I am back to looking at endless pictures of available dogs. Picked out a couple to call about tomorrow. This dog business is a huge problem for me, and I want to settle with a new companion. Patience is not my strong suit, and I do not like being without a dog. For one thing, I’ve taken to setting my alarm system at night.

Another week, and I have much I want to get done. I bet you do too. Sweet dreams.

All the news that fits to print—or is it?

 

Watching the nightly news on TV or reading your morning paper can be disheartening. The world, clearly, is in a mess. The former president’s outrageous behavior at his current federal trial dominates the news, but Iran and Israel sniping at each other is a close second. I don’t understand why the media refer to Iran’s “unprecedented” attack on Israel. Didn’t Israel start it by taking out a consulate and killing several of Iran’s leading either diplomats or generals. That seems a bit of provocation to me. And whoever is at fault first, their conflict could escalate tensions in the Middle East. And then we read that famine is about to be declared in Gaza where half the citizens are in danger of starvation—where does starvation legally become famine? Is there some kind of line of statistic? Ukraine desperately needs tangible support—including arms and ammunition—from  the US but the MAGA caucus in the House seems to support Russia’s position in annexing Ukraine. They have voted against several bipartisan foreign aid bills, and hotheads like MTG are calling for us to withdraw from NATO—shortsighted if not outright stupid. Speaker Mike Johnson’s position is in jeopardy, but his removal could once again throw the House into confusion. So far they have accomplished less than any other House in any term.

Closer to home, some conservative states continue to pass draconian anti-abortion laws and voter suppression measures. Inflation continues, but few will believe that it is not government-inspired but due to greedy corporations that are making extraordinary profits. The disaster clock, driven by climate change, continues to click dangerously close to doom for the earth, and yet many don’t believe that either. We are told that if trump wins he November election, he will “Drill, baby, drill” and roll back all climate regulations. The southern border continues to be a mess, with MAGA folk blaming the increase in crossings on Biden, who is supposedly rubbing his hands with glee (please note not all immigrants are illegal—most have legal status pending asylum hearings—the only illegals are those that sneak across the border instead of crossing at checkpoints). Yet the House refused to support a bipartisan immigration reform bill.

Occasionally, the news is more puzzling than frightening. I read that Russian hackers have attacked the water tower in Muleshoe, Texas. Muleshoe is a town of about 5,000 out near Lubbock. Why in heaven’s name would Russian hackers be interested in its water tower? Did their girls basketball team just win a championship? Is Muleshoe the home of a hidden, secret spy group for the US.? Is there something special about the water tower. I’m sorry for the discomfort to Muleshoe’s citizens, but that almost made me laugh aloud. Most of the news does not do that.

So how can anyone, with all this and more, be an optimist? I can be and am. This morning I read a post by an author I know who said every morning she resolves to look for one occasion of joy in the world. As I look out my desk window, I look at those wonderful yellow wildflowers I posted about yesterday. Now they are about to be hidden by the oak leaf hydrangea growing tall and laden with blooms right by my window. Trite to begin with flowers, I know, but they truly do give me joy every time I look out the window at them.

But there are bigger victories: a panel of the 5^th court of appeals has refused to lift an earlier court order that bars Texas from enforcing a ridiculous book law that would have required every vendor to check every page of every book for explicitly sexual images and references before selling to a school district—this would have put many small vendors out of business, besides reinforcing our states already ridiculous book banning laws. A victory for reason.

A new federal order allows the Bureau of Land Management to protect 4200 acres of tribal-owned land from drilling and mining for the next 50 years—a huge victory for conservation. More college loans have been forgiven—not the principal but the outrageous interest rates which had people paying long after they repaid the principal. The economy is on track to best China’s economy for the first time in years, and unemployment has remained at a record-setting low for 50 years.

See? My wildflowers look pretty good. And there’s reason for joy in the world. Now I’ve got another reason—leftover meatloaf and I’m going to go ea my supper. Please remember to look for the joy in your life. It occurs to me that in focusing on national and international things, I have forgotten to mention the joy I get daily from family and friends. Never discount that.

 

Wildflowers, grandsons, and Ann Lamott

 

From my desk, I can look out at these beautiful, wonderful wildflowers in full bloom. It makes me smile just to see their yellow brightness. Across the walk is another bunch, lower and closer to the ground but every bit as bright. The yard guy didn’t remember what he planted, so I’m waiting for a friend, knowledgeable about flowers, to come tell me what they are. My view is about to be obstructed just a bit by the oak leaf hydrangeas right by my window—they are flourishing and have grown tall, covered with about-to-be blooms. After the last few years when we had frigid winters and blistering summers and nothing did well, seeing my garden in bloom is a real joy. Jordan has bought potted plants for the patio, and Christian has lined the deck with flowering plants—a bougainvillea that is trying hard to break out in blooms, a plant that had purple flowers until they opened full up and turned white, and a couple of smaller plants.

My dad was a gardener. When he bought the house I grew up in, he bought the lot next door, and that was his garden. Every weekend would find him, on his hands and knees in awful, grubby clothes, working away. It was always beautiful. In pleasant evenings, we’d sit in the garden before supper, and he’d tell us about each plant. I didn’t inherit that gene. I’ve often felt deficient that I don’t get the calm, soothing healing from working in the garden that many do. But I love to have someone else to do the work, so I can enjoy it. In my defense, maybe the cooking and writing genes were my creative inheritance.

 

My grandsons are on a roll. Jacob played in the last golf tournament of his senior year this week—and shot a 70, his career best! And as my brother said, “Pretty damn good. I know lots of seasoned golfers who’d love to shoot anywhere near that.” My youngest grandson, Kegan 

Kegan David

David, a junior in high school, made the National Honor Society. And the oldest of the boys, Sawyer, will be off to Denver this fall to study music business—he is so very excited about that, and I am excited for him. (Confession: he looked at both University of Denver and Colorado University/Denver, and I’m not sure now which he chose.) But he will be in Denver with us Uncle Jamie and his cousin Maddie. Good times coming. We have yet to hear from Ford, the next to youngest, but he is an outstanding student and will probably outshine them all.

Sawyer Hudgeons

The three girls are doing fine, thank you, but it’s the boys who shine right now.

I’ve been reading Ann Lamott’s newest book, Somehow, and I am enthralled. If you don’t have it, please rush right out and get it. She has an uncanny ability to juxtapose the sublime and the mundane and leave you laughing but also a bit wiser. She is, as my writer friend Susan Albert says, reverent and cheeky at the same time. One of the things writers worry about—or should—is finding their own unique voice. Lamott has done it in spades.

While I was in the midst of the book, I watched two interviews with her. She is not at all pretentious. In fact my impression is that she’s bit unsure, a bit self-conscious. She assured Yoda and Jenna that she was not nervous, an indication that she expected she might be. There are probably others, but she is the only Anglo woman I’ve ever seen with dreadlocks. I kind of want to ask her how she does that. Her dress is equally individual, as though she put on whatever appealed to her that morning and never looked back. She is honest about her life—her hard-won sobriety, the joy of her late-in-life marriage, the trials she went through with her son’s addiction, and most of all her rock-solid faith. This is not a woman who plays around with the concept of God, mulling the meaning. She fully believes in God, prayer, the afterlife—and she is anxious to share that with all of us. I for one am a ready recipient of her words of belief.

She also doesn’t mince words and there is profanity scattered throughout the book. I remember many years ago when a group in my church read, Bird by Bird, Lamott’s classic how-to-write book. One good church woman complained, “Could she just say it without all the profanity?” (I’m sure she meant the f-bomb.) It was hard for me to explain that no, she couldn’t. That vocabulary was part of her voice, part of who she is. IF the title, Bird by Bird, puzzles you, it came from her young brother’s assignment to write an essay on birds. He left it to the last minute and then was predictably overwhelmed. “How can I do this?” he wailed. (I’m paraphrasing—it’s been a while since I read the book.) His father said, “Just take it bird by bird, son.” You can see where Lamott gets her writing skills.

Some lines I particularly like: “Courage is fear that has said its prayers”; “I hate it when God does not agree with my particularly good ideas”; and, admitting that there are annoying people in this world, she writes, “Jesus frequently had to lie down with a cold compress on his head.” The image of Jesus taking to his bed with a compress is so hysterical—and yet so humanizing. I wish I had one-tenth of her skill, her quick mind. But meantime, I’ll keep letting her inspire me.

Odd inconveniences, a good dinner, and Omigosh! What are Republicans doing to poor Ukraine

 

This morning I woke to a gray, dull day that seemed to threaten rain at any moment. Stretching and lying in bed enjoying the moment, I thought a day of reading and napping sounded just perfect. Of course, that’s not what happened. Jordan and I were out the door at 9:15 for a doctor’s appointment for me. All is well, and I got a good report, including praise for doing all the things I should—vaccinations, mammograms, etc. But I will have to take a swallow test because I’ve been having difficulty swallowing large pills lately, pills that I’ve taken for years with no problem. My doctor explained I would drink barium and they would x-ray it going down—yuck! It’s been over thirty years since I had to drink barium and I still have not-so-pleasant memories. What struck this osteopathic child was that my doctor did not palpate my throat (he said if it were thyroid there’d be a big and visible mass) and he didn’t look down my throat. He knew, without touching me, what the problem was—almost certainly not serious—and how to deal with it. But I grew up in the old days when a doctor laid hands on. I guess, like many things, I have to learn to adapt. He did come in physical contact to listen to hear and lungs and examine the healing lesion on my scalp.

When we left the doctor’s office, the sun was peeking out, and the day ultimately turned out to be pretty. I meant to get someone to take pictures of my wildflowers but didn’t get it done. But we came home to no water—it’s not as though the whole block was cut off. It was just our house. Christian called the water department, and they said it was probably a problem with our meter. They would have someone out to fix it today. Fortunately, I had leftovers in the fridge for lunch, but it was a bit frustrating to leave the unrinsed decision in the sink. To say nothing of not flushing the toilet. My nap came in handy because when I woke up, the water was back on. I don’t say this often, so here’s a cheer for the Fort Worth Water Department.

Christian fixed chicken piccata tonight following a Southern Living recipe and I made cheese grits from the same source, plus we had the cucumber salad I made earlier in the week. A really good dinner, if a bit lemony. After all these years, Southern Living is still my go-to.

Tonight I shared Dan Rather’s daily column on my Facebook page. I hope you’ll take time to read it. Rather, whom I admire a great deal, points out that by stalling aid to Ukraine Republicans in the House are fulfilling Putin’s every wish. Ukraine, which has already suffered so badly in the name of democracy for all of us, is losing territory (and men) in the eastern part of the country. MAGA Republicans don’t seem to get it through their thick heads that the freedom of Europe is a stake, and if Europe falls America is at best isolated, at the worst without trade partners and vulnerable to miliary takeover. To me, it’s as simple as teaching math to a first grader—two plus two equals Russia steamrolls across Europe. Marjorie Taylor Greene, the dimmest bulb in Congress, says Putin claims he wants no more land, just Ukraine, and she believes him. I have a bridge in Arizona to sell her. As Rather says, men like Mike Johnson are playing politics with people’s lives. Is Johnson stalling because he’s afraid of losing his speakership? I cannot tell. It’s too late to hold his caucus together—that ship sailed long ago. I suspect his motivation lies in his recent trips to Mar-a-Largo, and the idea that trump is pulling political strings to get back in the presidency, as the cost of man’s lives on the battlefield, is so abhorrent I’m speechless. And I can’t even begin to contemplate what would happen to poor Ukraine if trump weaseled his way back into the Whie House.

Please do whatever you can—write your congressman, your senator, anyone who can put pressure on Johnson. I suspect Democrats will swallow hard and support him because they simply don’t want the upheaval of having to choose another speaker, poor choice though he is. Without saying that, maybe reassure him. We’ve got to raise our voices and get the off dead center. It’s unconscionable.

Seems rather silly after that to say, “Sweet Dreams,” but that’s my wish for you. And maybe positive thoughts about the world situation.

Monday all day long

 

This is one of those days when I’m tempted to shrug it off with the explanation, “All work and no play makes Judy a dull girl.” I have nothing outstanding to report from my day—or maybe I do—and the national news did not inspire me to comment. One report I read was full of minute by minute reports of jury selection in the trump trial—well, ho hum! I’m waiting for something blockbuster to break loose, or maybe at least for Stormy Daniels’ testimony. And, mostly I guess, I’m waiting to see what the decision will be. You hear so many things—some pundits say this is the most consequential of trump’s trials, and other say it will be impossibly hard to prove that he had felonious intent. I’m not holding my breath. It seems to me the American public is going to have to consider, when they vote, not these cases and their many delays which may well stretch out beyond our November elections. What they must consider is the no former American president has ever stood trial for a felony nor ever been indicted on 91 counts. Meantime, I am really tired of trump everywhere in the news.

Otherwise, the international news is discouraging. Netanyahu is promising revenge on Iran where, if I’m not mistaken, he started the pissing war that is taking real human lives. I once saw a map that showed Israel’s geographic place in the vast Middle East—it is but a tiny dot. You’d think Netanyahu would realize the precariousness of his position, but I suspect he’s gloating because Israel’s defense network was able to deflect most of the attack, which of course is a good thing in terms of lives saved. That doesn’t mean they will always be able to do so. To me, they are like David and Goliath—only this time I’m not so sure David has righteousness on his side. I weep for the people of Israel and for the people of Gaza. I don’t know much about it, but I like the name of a group that sends me emails: Win without War.

And Mike Johnson has still refused to bring before the House a bill that would aid Ukraine and Gaza. He is so in thrall to trump that he does whatever the former, twice-impeached president wants. And trump apparently wants revenge on Ukraine because Zelensky refused to support his attempt to smear Biden during the 2020 election campaign and also is in thrall to Putin because he admires blind power. What a chain of thralldom they present. And how directly they violate the principles of American democracy. As for Johnson, I am tired of pseudo-sanctimonious Christians. There is no question in my mind that the American people at large understand the importance of supporting Ukraine and, despite our long ties to Israel, the humanitarian need in Gaza.

One of the things I’ve increasingly come to believe is that compassion and empathy are always more effective than punishment. I believe with all my might it holds true for our whole correctional/penal system which needs a massive overhaul. It is true in our treatment of the homeless—countries and local communities which have responded with compassion and provided homes and stipends for the homeless have seen that some large percentage go on to build productive lives. What do we accomplish by criminalizing those who would feed them, kicking them out of their encampments but offering no alternative. It is true for immigrants—in communities where they are welcomed, they become contributing members of society. “We have to stop criminalizing poverty.” When we yank lunch programs from children who are food-starved, we create a rebellious segment of society; feed them, and they become contributing members of our society.

Okay, I’m wandering around tonight in philosophical fields, and I am much more at home with the concrete, with specific facts. So I will say today I went back to Irene in a Ghost Kitchen, wrote a blurb and copy for Amazon. Then, with perfect timing, I got the beta reader’s comments. Lots for me to think about as I dig into yet another trip through the manuscript but basically good comments. He thinks it’s a book that will work. So now I have a project, and that makes me happy. Watch for a cover reveal soon!

Tonight my friend Mary V. came for supper. I had grave doubts what I intended to feed her—the spinach dish I didn’t make for my chef friend last week because I had no spinach. Now I had spinach, saved from my kitchen fail with spinach and scrambled eggs. Not a good start. But I chopped the spinach, added more salt, sauteed in butter and melted cream cheese—which made creamed spinach. I heated heirloom tomato slices, piled the spinach on top of them, and topped with grated cheddar. Ran the whole thing under the broiler—it was delicious. Mary brought grits; I added marinated cheddar, just a few cubes each, and cucumber salad, and called it a hodgepodge dinner. Mary called it a success.

So I have a positive reader’s report, with suggestions I understand and can see will make the book better, and I have served a good dinner. I think I’ll go to sleep with happy dreams tonight. But no dog news. I leave you with this quote from Ann Lamott: Courage is fear that has said its prayers.

Sleep tight, my friends.

Dog of my dreams

 

Jacob with Scooby, the only Aussie I've ever hard (several years ago, obviously)
Scooby deserves his own story--a wild hard but as sweet as he could be

A frustrating weekend dominated by the ongoing search for the perfect dog. Last week, we met a dog named Merle Haggard—I love his name!—a medium black dog billed as a Border Collie but what in Missouri we called a farm collie. He had been abused somewhere along the way and the foster said is terrified of everything. Indeed he was shaking with fear when we entered the foster’s house, though he went quickly to her for protection. Eventually he warmed to me enough that he would tentatively come close enough to take a treat from my hand. I felt so sorry for this baby, and, yes, I thought he would probably come to trust me so that I could keep him safe. But there are enough people in and out of my cottage that he’d spend half his life terrified and a trip to the vet would be an ordeal for man and dog. Jordan felt so sorry for him and wanted to take him, but I told her I didn’t fall in love. Someone from the rescue agency called about our meeting, and I told her the same. I have concluded this will probably be the last dog I have, and it has to be just the right fit. My intuition has to say to me, “This is the dog,” and I have to sense that the dog feels that way too. What makes it hard is that I swear this baby’s eyes were pleading with me.

I asked to meet another dog—an Aussie mix, billed as trained, calm (if Aussies are ever calm), easy I thought. The rescue person told me he was scheduled to be shipped to a rescue farm in Washington in late April, so I thought “Good, we can meet him before then. And if it goes well, he won’t have to be shipped.” The case work or whatever nixed that, saying it had been in the works for a long time and the paperwork was done. All that, of course, is reversible to me, if their mission truly is to find him a home. I felt like I’d hit a brick wall. The woman said they had a couple of Aussies and she’d send me something—she hasn’t.

I heard that this rescue agency—a big one—advertised a dog adoption at a dog park. When the day came, they said they didn’t have any dogs. They have hundreds in foster care. How is this possible? The world of dog shows is a thing unto itself, and now I am finding so is the world odf dog adoption.

Christian found a site called Rescue Me (rescue me.org)—you punch in your state, the animal you’re interested in—dog, cat, bird, horse, and some odd ones. Voila! Forty-some Aussies in Texas. I spent hours scrolling through them, marked a few as special, and landed on one I really thought was a fit. The dog is in the Houston area, very close to Colin, so he could go meet him. The dog was to have his vaccines updated and a wellness check today, and then the owner said she would like to arrange a meeting. So we wait. Meantime, I do keep scrolling.

It dawned on me in the wee hours of the morning that the Houston dog reminds me of the farm collie I had in Missouri when I was oh-so-young! My brother and the man who would become my husband were at a horse auction when a farmer came in carrying a litter of pups in a bushel basket. They bought one for me and brought her home. Joel named her Bathsheba Finkelstein, which he swore was the name of a girl he dated in the Bronx. We called her Sheba.

Sheba was a wonderful dog, sweet, easily trained, I guess, because she was fine in the house, and I don’t remember doing much. She could sit in front of a six-foot fence and fly over it. She had a litter of puppies with a beautiful, purebred mahogany male collie we had. Once, when nursing puppies, she jumped up on a counter, in my absence, and ate an entire pan of fudge. Chocolate is supposed to be lethal for dogs, but it didn’t faze Sheba. For days, when you picked up the puppies, they smelled like chocolate. When we left Missouri, we reluctantly found her a farm home where she could roam far and wide.

I sent a picture of the possible dog today to an old friend from Kirksville days, and he immediately remarked on the resemblance. So a part of me would say that six-year-old boy was meant to be mine, but adoption people everywhere warn against such magical thinking. We wait.

The problem that is Russia—and ours

 

 

Like most of my generation and those ten, even twenty years younger, I have vivid memories of the Cold War, that period of deep tension between Russia and the United States that never, thank goodness, blossomed into a hot war—it remained a standoff for too many tension-filled years. If it began in 1947, as is generally accepted, I was nine years old. I remember (or is it just that I’ve heard it so often?) William Faulkner’s acceptance speech for the 1949 award in literature, with its classic line, “I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal … because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance.” I remember Joseph McCarthy and the lives he ruined searching for communists in every woodpile (one might think of today’s desperate effort to impeach Biden). I remember the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962 when we were sure that Russian nuclear weapons were about to descend on major American cities. I was in a small town in Missouri, and I urged my parents to leave Chicago and travel to Missouri. I was sure, by staying, they would die. I do not remember hiding under my school desk to avoid an atomic bomb—how futile that seems to us with our knowledge today—but I think that came along after I had completed my early schooling. What I do remember and will never forget was that Russia was the archenemy of the United States. It was a giant, evil bear lurking over our lives. Eventually into the sixties, the tensions lessened. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics broke up, Russia seemed less a threat, and life went on. But I never ever forgot our history with Russia, the stories we heard about the KBG and work camps in Siberia, and other horror tales. Russia was always the enemy. Today, Vladimir Putin, with a KGB background, has brought those days back with a vengeance—not only by invading Ukraine but by his handling of dissent—prominent people poisoned, falling out of skyscraper windows, dying in prison. And his plan to infiltrate American politics and social media and influence the direction of our country has been wildly successful.

It boggles my mind today to read that some Republican members of the House will admit that Russian propaganda has infiltrated some members of the Republican Party, and sometimes the Russian line appears on the floor of the U. S. House of Representatives. (Heather Cox Richardon has an explosive column about how the Russian propaganda machine has been effective in America since trump’s election: (61) April 8, 2024 - by Heather Cox Richardson (substack.com) MAGA representatives oppose aid to Ukraine, saying that we need to spend those dollars at home to help the poor—disregard that they are the party who is desperate to cut social security, Medicaid and Medicare and continually votes to close school lunch prograns and anything designed to help low income families get a grip. Disregard also that stopping Russia now ensure the security of America in the future, and also that economists point out that helping beleaguered countries boosts our trade partners in the future—when that war is over and Ukraine stabilized, that country’s grain supplies will again become crucial to the world—and to America.

The presumptive MAGA leader, one former president of our country, has a plan to end the war in Ukraine: he will simply give Ukraine to the Russians, and then fighting will cease. (He has apparently not consulted Zelensky about this). MAGA followers have no idea that stopping the Russian incursion into Ukraine is vital to our country’s security. If Russia is allowed to swallow Ukraine, it will have been rewarded for breaking international law in an unprovoked attack on another country. Russia will then be free to march across Europe, swallowing countries. America will be left without major allies—in addition to defense, that would weaken our trade with other countries, our sales, our whole economy. People who advocate isolationism simply don’t realize what a small world we live in today—America would not survive without its allies.

Have these MAGA folks not studied their history? Do they not know about the Cold War, the Cuban Missile Crisis? Do they not know a bit of earlier history about Germany doing just what Russia is now trying to do—march across Europe subjugating countries. In the late 1930s British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain agreed to let Germany annex Sudetenland, a German-speaking part of Czechoslovakia, because Hitler promised not to take any more land. We know how that worked out. Chamberlain’s disastrous policy of appeasement led to WWII.

Does Marjorie Taylor Greene not know any of this history? Matt Goetz? Mike Johnson? It is appalling to me that we have elected so-called leaders who are so blind to the basics of democracy and to our history. I don’t know whether to blame our education system for not teaching them history or to place the blame squarely on their shoulders for being seduced by power and notoriety. Either way, we need leaders with a grasp of history and diplomacy and international relationships. Trump and his minions are not that.

Rant over.

Minor misadventures and cooking redemption

 

 

After the eclipse, I would have told you that for most of the day there was a spot on the moon. Nothing serious, but nothing went quite right.

The major project for today was for Jordan and me to go to Christian’s office for covid booster shots, because this is the day once a month that a visiting nurse comes to give shots—a wonderful service his company provides its people, and he was going to let me take advantage. Going places in the morning is always a bit of, well, a reach for me. I much prefer to spend the morning at my computer. But I dutifully dressed in street clothes, even washed my hair so Christian would not be embarrassed by his mother-in-law.

We were early; the nurse was late. I sat in my transport chair in the hall and tried to keep up with emails. Finally, she arrived—a substitute because the usual nurse, her mother, couldn’t come today. It’s been six months since Jordan and I had our twin covid cases, and we were finally eligible for the booster. The nurse didn’t have Moderna, only Pfizer, but she assured us we could switch. I said our doctor said not to switch, and she immediately said to follow the doctor’s advice. So I asked for RSV, which I also need. She didn’t have it. Then she found two doses of Moderna. But she could not take me Humana Medicare. She talked to her mother, who said something to the effect that she loved Christian so much her daughter should go ahead and give me the shot. I do not understand any of this.

Upshot: I got my covid booster but haven’t gotten the RSV shot yet and will probably have to go to a pharmacy for that.

I was expecting a lunch guest tomorrow (she has since had to postpone until Thursday). Heather was a student intern in my office at TCU Press more moons ago than she would probably like to remember. She went on to editorial work at Harcourt, and then I lost track of her. Turned out she had been in San Antonio attending the Culinary Institute of America. We hooked up again, and when I was working on my cookbook, Gourmet on a Hot Plate, she was a huge help. But we had at that time great political differences. I suspect she is more forgiving about that than I am. At any rate, the relationship just sought of drifted into space, but recently she emailed that she had published a small children’s book and needed marketing advice. She admitted we probably still have our differences but maybe we could set them aside. So she’s to come for lunch.

I am seriously challenged by cooking for someone who trained with the CIA, but I found a sort of non-recipe I liked: marinate tomato slices in balsamic vinegar and then top with creamed spinach and grated cheese—run under the broiler until cheese melts and is bubbly. Perfect! So I ordered spinach from Central Market, but it didn’t come with my weekly order. I was sure I could get it before Wednesday, but today I thought, “Yikes!” Then Heather emailed to say she has to cover for someone at work tomorrow (she’s in charge of food service at an extended care facility) , so I presented her with my dilemma—did she want to bring the spinach or did she want my signature tuna salad? We have settled on the tuna, and she will be here Thursday.

Tonight was Mary’s regular happy hour night, and I was so pleased that I had gotten a jar of pickled herring for her—she loves it, and I pretty much do too. But when I was trying to cut off the cellophane collar on the jar, I noticed my fingers already smelled like the pickling liquid—red flag. And then the lid to the jar popped off sort of spontaneously. One unusable jar of pickled herring, and one big disappointment. I will call Central Market in the morning—may be too late for a refund, but at least they should know.

But after these mishaps and my kitchen fails of the weekend, I redeemed myself tonight. Central Market had sent me an unasked-for lb. of ground chicken. They hadn’t charged me for it, and I know they couldn’t take it back, so I had to do something with it. I’ve made chicken burgers in the past and not liked the texture. Lettuce wraps seemed the perfect solution. I got the copycat recipe online for PF Chang’s lettuce wraps, raided Christians supply of Asian seasonings, and made my first-ever lettuce wraps with real butter lettuce—a luxury. Served with sugar snap peas (I’m not sure it wasn’t a mixture of sugar snap peas and snow peas—hard to tell them apart and Central Market may have slipped a bit). It was, if I do say, delicious, and a recipe I’ll keep and reuse (may have to buy my own sesame oil and hoisin sauce, etc.—I did not use Siracha but substituted the ordinary Heinz chili sauce I had).

So how was your post-eclipse day? A spot on the moon or all in order?