A day of celebration tinged, for me, with a bit of nostalgia

 

Jacob Burton, Lexi Nader, Caroline Russell,  and Colin Russell

Friends and family gathered at Joe T. Garcia’s late this afternoon to celebrate four high school graduates. Tonight, as I am writing, they are walking across the stage at TCU Schollmaier Arena, collecting their diplomas. That’s right, I’m the grandmother, and I’m not there. Apparently, each graduate got few tickets. Plus Jordan reasoned it would be a madhouse and a long evening, so we celebrated beforehand. If I’m not mistaken, Jacob has gone to school with these kids since kindergarten. Jacob and Lexi will go to Arkansas; I don’t believe at this writing I know where the Russell twins are going—except they will not go to the same school.

To see Jacob graduate from high school—even if I’m not there—is a real moment of nostalgia for me. For his first five years at Sweet Lily B. Clayton Elementary across from my house, I was the daytime caretaker. We did homework, though he would sometimes say, “Juju, I think we should wait for my dad on this one”—that almost always referred to math. We cooked meals and dodged thunderstorms and had lots of sleepovers. There was the night he put a chair, a glass of wine, a book and a flashlight in the closet for me, blankets and a game for him, and insisted we stay there until the storm passed. Lots of good memories of his school years. It wasn’t until sixth grade, when he was ten, that we moved me to the cottage, and he 
and his family moved into the main house.

Renee Hoke, Jordan, Marge Martinez (whose daughter graduated from Keller High
earlier this week), and me

The weather was perfect for Joe T.’s tonight—sunny and in the low eighties. We’ve had so much rain, we were all afraid the heavens would let loose again this afternoon, but they didn’t. It rained this morning, and I think will rain again tonight, but the gods favored us. I saw a meme of a man yelling, “For God’s sake, stop raining!” and my first thought was never say that in Texas. The day will come when we all pray for more rain.

Joe T.’s is tricky for someone on a soft diet: I had an order of guacamole, but one can only eat so much guac, good as it is. While the Burtons hurried off to TCU, Renee brought me home, and I had a small bowl of applesauce.

The other big bit of nostalgia: my twenty-year-old, VW Bug convertible went away today; Three years ago when I gave up my license—driving a Bug while using a walker doesn’t really work well—I gave control of the car to Christian, hoping he could sell it for something special for Jacob to use for college. That didn’t happen, but Jordan drove it occasionally (not with as much joy as I had). Then it wouldn’t pass inspection, and then it wouldn’t start. So it sat in the driveway, a kind of grim reminder of a life I’d given up. Still, it was a comfort to me to see it there. For sixteen or seventeen years, my identity was closely tied to that car. People all over the city knew where I’d been and what I’d been doing because they saw not me, but the car. One of my great joys when the Burtons lived in Hulen Bend was to put an Alex Beaton tape on (that’s how old the car was—a cassette), put the top down, and drive home from their house through the park, belting out Scottish songs as loudly as I could. (I’m loud, but I don’t carry a tune well at all). So there went another chunk of my active life. I tried hard not to see it as symbolic, and Colin encouraged me to see it as a relief. I know Jordan was ecstatic to get it out of the driveway. What’s next for my Bug? I have no idea. The body is worn, but the engine has under 40K miles on it.

Me and the best car I ever owned.

So a mixed day, and one that confused me all day—I was sure today was Saturday.

Sweet dreams, my friends.

 

Fierce winds, a jealous dog, and a couple of good books

 

Meet Chloe, the therapy dog

Benji didn’t even know it was time to get up this morning, because it was so dark outside. Texas continues to have fierce storms—more are due tonight. But this morning, the darkness and the heavy rain gave me a nice reminder of my mom. I could practically hear her voice saying, “Rain before seven, clear by eleven.” And sure enough, by eleven or a little after it was a lovely sunny day with blessed temperatures in the eighties. And it’s to stay that cool all week.

Benji had a spell of jealousy this evening, though he was, as he always is, good natured about it. The medical office where I had an appointment today had a therapy dog. That’s Chloe above—a lovely (and calm) two-year-old Aussiedoodle. At one point we heard a scratching at the exam room door, and the woman with us asked, “Do you like dogs?” Jordan and I assured her we do, so she opened the door, and in came Chloe with a ball in her mouth ready for us to throw. With the door closed and no place to throw the ball Chloe allowed us to love on her a bit and then lay down for a nice nap. Quite a contrast to Benji who jumped about wildly when we came home and then, a few minutes later, when Mary arrived.

Benji obviously smelled Chloe on me  and gave me such a thorough washing with his tongue that I nearly had to shower before I could fix my supper. Now he’s trying to get me to take an old artificial bone he loves. But I notice how rough it is, and I wonder if that means he’s chewing off particles, and we should take it away from him. At eight-thirty, it’s the hour when he settles down and lies next to my desk—unless something outside intrigues him. It’s probably my favorite time of the day—the soft lamp is on, along with the colored lights Jordan long ago put on a collection of pussy willow. They may look like Christmas, but I find them warm and comforting in the evening.

I read an interesting column today about reading habits and mental decline, the latter being a subject of much discussion today with our two aging presidential candidates. I have my own opinions on who is in mental decline and who isn’t—I bet you can guess!—but I won’t go into that. The suggestion in the column was that a switch from fiction to nonfiction might indicate a slowing of brain function. Fiction, the theory goes, requires active participation by the reader, using the imagination to engage with the plot and events of a story. Nonfiction on the other hand lays out facts that the mind can more easily grasp.

I would have thought the opposite. Recently I started the new Erik Larson book, The Demon of Unrest, about the period between the election of President Abraham Lincoln and the Confederate firing on Fort Sumter, South Carolina, which signaled the beginning of the Civil War. It was then a period when our democracy was as fraught and threatened as it is now. Larson’s research is superb, his writing clear and compelling. I found the tension of the foreword—waiting for the Confederate guns to bark out—almost unbearable. Nonfiction at its very best.

But it was not what I need right now. My mind has enough tension and suspense of its own—I don’t need to grapple with history.. Raher, I need escape, so I turned to an unread book on my Kindle; A Big, Fat Greek Murder, by Kate Collins. It’s a cozy, no deep dark problems (except murder) and it distracted me from my own situation. What I’m trying to say is that I found—and often find—fiction easier to read than nonfiction, less demanding on my brain. How about you? What kind of reading is easier, more relaxing for you?

Thanks to Kait Carson, who writes thrillers, often about deep sea diving, for bringing up this subject.

A workday and a happy happy hour

 

Have I mentioned I have a new Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery coming out at the end of the month? Just joking, because I know I have. It’s easy to think by now it’s all done, and I am idle, but that is not the case. Today I fired off two guest blogs to tell the cozy world about Irene in a Ghost Kitchen and tonight I’ll try to post on some cozy mystery groups web sites. I still have to proof the final version, when the formatter sends it, and get it up and available on Amazon, decide who gets comp copies, etc. A lot of details to wrap up, and so that’s where much of my day went today.

Jean and Jeannie Chaffee came for happy hour tonight, bringing with them a bountiful feast of dips and quesadillas and all sorts of good things. Despite our best efforts, they wouldn’t take any of it home with them, so I have a loaded refrigerator. Jeannie also brought Benji a bag of new toys, and he took an instant shine to her, plopping his slobbery tennis balls in her lap, crawling over others to get to her. I haven’t seen as much of Jeannie in recent times, so it was fun to reminisce about the days we shared office space—well, the administration didn’t know it, but that was what it amounted to. We had glorious funny lunches and all kinds of adventures. It was a good life, and we will always treasure those memories.

Those two ladies are getting ready to set off on an adventure—they leave this week for London for a couple of days and then a ferry across the Channel to France. June 6, D Day, will find them on the beaches at Normandy, with a crowd of at least thousands, marking the 80^th anniversary of that event. It gives me goosebumps to think of them crossing in a ferry, replicating that journey taken by all those men, many of whom never returned. I know the trip will be fun, and I suppose they’ll have lots of rich experiences—they will, for instance, spend a half day with the Bayonne Tapestry. They will probably also eat some really good, country French food, the food of the villages and not Paris—I offered Irene’s menu advice, but so far they have not taken me up on it. But it will also be a somber trip, commemorating a day when many lives were lost. It seems significant that we mark today the men and women who died for democracy when democracy itself is so challenged. A part of me will be with my friends as they make this journey.

Tomorrow, the world gets back to business, and I have a list of phone calls to make, questions to ask. We are supposed to have a cold front (lower eighties, which is just fine, thank you) coming in, with possible storms tonight. I will be glad if the world is a bit cooler, although the heat hadn’t struck me until late this afternoon when I opened the patio door for Benji and a blast of hot, wet air hit me.

I haven’t seen much of “In Flanders Field” by John McCrae this year, so here’s the final verse. It amounts to a challenge to Americans to fly the flag high and remembers those who gave all on June 6, 1944.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

 

 

 

The food continues to improve, a dilemma, and a prescription for conversation

 

Tonight's supper

I think I’m getting a handle on this soft food business—Jordan said tonight it’s good to see me hungry again, but I think I was always hungry. It was just that the things I thought I could eat had no appeal—I was getting tired of yogurt and applesauce. So for lunch today I had a leftover piece of Dover sole. No one in my family understands that I like cold food as well as hot. Christian would have insisted on heating it, but I ate it out of the fridge. I squeezed more lemon over it, added a layer of mayonnaise, and topped that with grated Pecorino. Served with

fresh watercress because I’m aware I’m not getting good leafy greens but am a bit cautious of salad. Then again, who can resist watercress. It was a delicious lunch, and I have another piece left for tomorrow. Yes, I did offer it to Jordan, but she declined—her loss.

Tonight, though, I fixed the dish I’d been thinking about—eggs scrambled with a diced green onion, diced tiny tomatoes (maybe not a good idea because of skins), smoked salmon, and a huge spoonful of cottage cheese. With more watercress. Tasted so good, and it was nutritious and pretty to look at, though I warn if you try it, the eggs will seep as you eat—it’s the cottage cheese separating and nothing to worry about. And I finished both meals with chocolate bonbons. I am in danger, however, of running out of bonbons. I’m not normally an ice cream devotee, and I think now I’m interested in them mostly for the chocolate covering. I am afraid to try my beloved chocolate-covered salted caramels. All in all, I feel well fed. Now for some ideas for the rest of the week. One day I have to eliminate all good things—meat, dairy, mayo, etc. and eat lots of leafy greens. I can sauté in olive oil, so I’m working on that. Sauteed cabbage sounds good, but no one would eat the rest of the head. This is all for a Pet Scan.

Me with a bob
on a good hair day

Me with short hair
(and Megan)

I am struggling with the dilemma common to older ladies and always ongoing—short hair or long. When I thought I was gaining weight, especially in my face, I let it grow into a bob, which it did fairly rapidly. My thought was that longer hair lengthened my face, and Rosa, my stylist, agreed. But now, my face probably thinner and facing medical matters, I’m thinking short hair might be the better choice. Neither my daughters nor Rosa have been helpful about this, all saying it’s up to me. I think I want someone to step in and make a decisive call. I have until Friday to decide. Rosa, who has been coming to the house to cut my hair ever since I lost the ability to walk unassisted, has set Friday morning for her next visit. Opinions welcome.

Yesterday I took my courage to my computer and sent a memo to friends saying how much I welcome their visits, but that I requested upbeat, cheerful talk—right now I don’t want to hear about illness, medical procedures, other people’s experiences, surgery, funerals, or related topics. I think it was the late Norman Lear who was once very ill and requested that people laugh a lot when with him. It worked wonders toward his healing—and if I’m right about Lear it means he lived a good long life. So I want happy talk—politics is fine because that fascinates me, jokes are good, food is good as long as it’s not steak and the like. The memo had immediate results—I now have guests scheduled for Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. (Friday is Jacob’s high school graduation, and I will be going to the pre- dinner at Joe T.’s but not the graduation—Jacob gets few tickets, and all of us have been to so many graduations; I guess that’s what happens when you’re number five grandchild).

Today’s sermon at church fit nicely with my conversational prescription. Russ Peterman began with the assertion that there is not a soul on earth who doesn’t want to be happy. I’m not sure, because I see a lot of people who make themselves miserable. But following his premise, he went on to say none of us can define happiness. We don’t know what that elusive quality is. Certainly it is not wealth nor success nor fame. Finally the conclusion came that happiness is a byproduct of a life lived for others. It reminds me of one of my writing friends who talks about living life beyond ourselves, concept I truly believe in. But for the time being, until I get through this rough patch, I am going to be living life for myself, with as much attention and care to others as I can muster.

Maybe, just maybe, happiness is having a dog lie next to your desk while you write. If I had moved to get a better picture, he’d have moved. So this is what I see in the evenings, and I know he is there.

Benji on guard

The food around here is getting better

 

Dover sole unintentional hash

Tonight, Christian is in Coppell, with his dad who is not doing well after surgery, Jacob is off being a high school graduate, and Jordan and I looked at each other and said, “Wha’s for dinner.” Then she added, “I’m probably not going to eat what you eat,” and truth is she wouldn’t have; I planned to use that smoked salmon in scrambled eggs. But then, just in time to order from Central Market, she called and asked, “Fish?” I ordered filets of Dover sole, one large baking potato, and a few other things we needed. We feasted on a shared potato and generpid helpings of sole. (Note to self: a quarter pound filet is enough for one, unless maybe it’s Christian.) I must explain the picture above—that fish is hash not because I need small bites but I have rarely been capable of cooking sole filets that hold together. Now I know why it’s so expensive in restaurants. But, to justify myself a bit, Jordan got her helping out in one fairly good piece, and here’s a picture of the two left-over small filets that I cooked after we

Almost pefect filets

ate. I think maybe size is one clue. And also maybe it’s like that first piece of pie that never comes out of the pie pan whole—but the rest do fine. At any rate, it was a good dinner and satisfied my craving for solid food. In a bit, when I’m not quite so full, I’ll go get the tiny bit of tiramisu left from last night.

Otherwise it’s been a day at the computer—organizing our schedules, which seem to change with every email from a doctor’s office. But I also caught up on my own work. For the first time I am putting an AI disclaimer on the copyright page of a book—makes me wonder about the future. And I carefully, I hope, compiled a list of French foods with the accents where they should be. Involved cutting, pasting, and guessing.

Today I heard from an old friend who has always maintained an apartment in Chicago but lived there part time and in Florida the rest of the time. Politics and climate have driven him out of Florida, so he’ll be in Chicago more. I jokingly said I’d write him into the next Irene book, and he revealed that one of the first projects he worked on years ago at the University of Chicago Press was a book titled, The Hows and Whys of French Cooking, by Alma Lach (1977). A plot idea immediately sprung into my mind—can’t you see Irene working with a real editor and harassing him near to death. In fact, I warned my friend, the editor might meet an untimely end. Am I committing myself to another Irene book. Heaven help me!

Hot still weather has come to Texas early, not a good sign. At eight-thirty, it’s 85^o and the air is eerily still. Possible thunderstorms tonight and several days during the week. And 100^o tomorrow. Too soon, too soon. I am glad Benji and I have the cool cottage. Now he’s lying by my desk but earlier something was disturbing him, and I think it was more than the flies he was chasing. He paced our tiny space, and when he paces his nails click on the wood floors. At night, he moves silently as a cat, but the earlier clicking brought me close to screaming. Another good thing about him—he has never eaten people food not even scraps. And he doesn’t associate my cooking with food. Oh, sure, he’ll come sniff at the butcher block (which is just above his nose, fortunately) but then he turns away. Even tonight when it was raw fish. That dog gets better daily.

You know what I think I’ll do tonight? Read a book and go to sleep early. Sounds like a winner. How about you?

Soft foods and a silly dog

This may be a repeat, but some time ago when I asked my primary care doctor if we needed to talk about my weight—in my happy wine-drinking, chocolate gorging days I weighed more than I ever had. He replied, a bit righteously, “We do not encourage the elderly to lose weight.” Now I know why: when major illness hits, we overweight people have a cushion to rely on. I don’t think this is exactly a license for gluttony, but I did continue on my merry way, loving the strip of fat on a good steak, a lot of butter on my toast—you get the picture. Now I know what he was talking about.

Limited pretty much to soft foods, I have lost a few pounds—not the way I wanted to. And I’m hungry, and a bit tired of soft foods. So I welcome any suggestions. (Maybe I’ve said that before too—I lose track of things these days). But then again, things aren’t all bad. In the picture above, I am enjoying tiramisu for dessert, having just had smoked salmon and good deli-rich cream cheese on toast as my entrée. Tomorrow I think I’ll dice some of that salmon into scrambled eggs with a bit of onion and tomato. But then, the prospect for breakfast is a dark chocolate protein drink. At least it’s easy.

Today was another day of doctors’ appointments and tests, this an out-patient biopsy that confirmed what doctors suspected I was dealing with and emphasized the message that it is curable. So rough ride ahead, but I’ll come out all right, albeit no doubt dramatically changed by the experience.

Meantime my kids, especially Jordan, continue to be amazing support. She was with me at the out-patient surgical facility all morning—would you believe we got home earlier than we expected? Medical matters never work that way! We were both touchy at first, but after all, it was five-thirty in the morning. But we sweetened up as the morning wore along, and she promptly appeared in the recovery room, full of good reports and good cheer. Her siblings are studying how they can best rotate being of help, but the scheduling, which is a mess, all falls on Jordan, with meager help from me.

Benji ready for tea

Benji continues to cement his way into our hearts. The other day, Renee came by, and Benji jumped into the chair next to her, looking for all the world like he too would like to have afternoon tea. “And two lumps of sugar, please.” Moments later I caught what I thought was an aristocratic look—turns out his attention was fixed on a fly on the ceiling. He is in and out of the flexible screen all day long, which means he inevitably brings some insects in with him. But he is also sensitive—he knows something is wrong and sticks close to me when inside, following me to the bathroom, sleeping by my desk while I work, settling by my bed when I sleep—though he doesn’t stay there long and prefers his crate. It’s amazing to me to have a dog who only has to be told once, “Go to your crate for a treat,” and he does. No attempt to bolt outside for one last bark at the moon. He was just now growling at something in the oh-so-dark back yard, and I pay attention, 

Focusing on a fly

Me? Wouldn’t you know I have a desk full of work—guest blogs to write about Irene and her ghost kitchen, a revision of my brother’s obituary to reflect his importance in osteopathic medicine (if you knew him, you’ll understand that and his “magic hands,”) and yes, Irene is tapping me on the shoulder telling me she doesn’t think her story is over. And then there’s that book about dogs. I welcome all this these days even if it does make me feel harried and hurried.

And politics to keep up with: my current indignation is about the amount of corruption all around us. As a friend said recently, it is incomprehensible that a justice on the Supreme Court flew a flag of rebellion and wasn’t run out of town on a rail. Made me think of the days when they tarred and feathered people for far less serious transgressions. And then there’s Judge Cannon in Florida, so obviously unqualified and biased that it leaves one breathless. And those are just the big names, supported by an unbelievable web of evil. Some days I just want to weep for my country.

That aside, I am working hard to make my days cheerful.

 

A wonderful weekend

 

Megan, who loves dogs but does not like to be licked;
Benji, who loves to lick.

Four grown children, one terrific son-in-law, one grandson, a new dog, and fifty or sixty people that one way or another make my world go around. What more could I ask for? Sunday, Jordan and Christian did their usual great job of hosting and invited family and friends to celebrate Jacob’s high school graduation. These days at such events I get parked in the living room, but there was a visitor’s chair next to me, and I had a constant stream of guests to talk with. I like to take a bit of credit for Jordan’s hostess skills—after all I did throw those huge Christmas parties for years, and she was at my elbow helping every minute. She knows how to set a pretty table, decorate the house, and, most of all, make everyone feel they are the special guest of the day. There was lots of picture-taking, a TV basketball game for folks to watch, visiting on the front porch. The party started at three—I think the last guest departed about ten-thirty, though I had long since retreated to the cottage. Next morning, Jordan said to me, “Was that not the best part we’ve ever done?” and I agreed.

Special entertainment at the party was a trip to the back yard to watch Benji, who knew he had an audience and tossed his rope toy with class and a lot of little leaps. General consensus was that he is a great dog. The family certainly approves, and Colin kept offering to take him home and keep him for a while, an offer I declined.

Of course a bonus for me was having my other three kids home. Colin slept on the couch in the cottage for two nights, which I loved even though it meant he made my cottage cold as a meat locker. Megan was on the front couch in the house and Jamie in Jacob’s room since Jacob sleeps in the TV room these days. Talk about musical beds! Once my kids were grown and began to scatter, it was always special to me to have them all four once again under my roof. For a while, when the grands were younger, I could even accommodate most of the young families. But in recent years as our numbers have grown and we’ve absorbed a couple of boyfriends, there’s no way. The kids generally find nearby hotel accommodations. So it was a real treat to have my four all under my roof again—I am not sure why that pleases me so much, because if anybody is protecting or looking out for someone, it’s a reversal from childhood. When they are here, they wait on my hand and foot. But still I guess it’s the feeling that I know where they are and they are all safe for the night. We missed some spouses and the other grands, but it was still a highlight weekend.

Saturday we had take-out Railhead barbecue—Megan questioned why we weren’t going to Angelo’s, the shrine she remembers from childhood, and I answered proximity—Railhead is blocks away while Angelo’s is across town. And we’ve come to think Railhead is just as good. Since I’m supposed to eat soft food that goes down easily, there was some question, but I convinced them that I could eat a chopped sandwich. I did, no problem, and enjoyed it thoroughly. Still catering to my cravings, Colin went to Carshon’s Deli Monday before he left and got me the chopped liver I had been wanting—full of protein and soft so it goes down easily (he also got himself a Rebecca, his favorite sandwich, for his long drive back to Tomball).

The happy weekend ended with a crash. Sunday morning, early, Christian’s father texted that he was in the hospital with gall bladder troubles. We presume he drove himself to the hospital, which scares everybody. Surgery was scheduled for last night, but they postponed it until this morning—I am always in favor of morning surgery when both doctor and patient are well rested (we hope).

Monday afternoon Megan rushed me off to an unexpected appointment with an oral surgeon, only to find I will have four molars pulled before the radiation treatment. To me, that procedure may be the worst part of the whole ordeal. I am, to be honest, a dental phobic, a carryover from my long-ago childhood when dental work on a pre-teen with bad teeth was pretty brutal.

By early afternoon Monday, the children were gone—Jamie had flown back to Denver on a standby basis late Sunday night and, fortunately, got on the flight. Colin left after his Carshon’s run, and Megan headed to Austin after the dental appointment. So we are back to reality. The next two weeks will be filled with appointments, not a peasant prospect. But I also have lots of work on my desk, which is a good thing. Today I hope to wrap up the neighborhood newsletter for June, and then I have proofing corrections to key in for Irene in a Ghost Kitchen. I still have my eye on that late June publication date. I am counting my blessings and saying my prayers.

My news of the day

 

Friends, I have something to share. If you look inside my fridge tonight, you will not find the usual leftovers from a family dinner nor the half-full bottle of chardonnay. Instead you will find yogurt, applesauce, chocolate protein drinks, and some non-alcoholic wine. A lifetime of drinking wine has come home to roost, and I am facing a fight against a small throat cancer. Not to worry: we caught it early, and the cure rate is high. The next couple of months will be difficult—a soft diet, lots of specialists to see, six weeks of radiation, but after that I am confident of taking up my life again. At this point, beyond a definitive biopsy, I will not need chemo or surgery. I will always be at my computer, and I plan soon to be back in the kitchen.

In fact, I’ve been making a list of foods that go down easily. My list can get pretty imaginative—smoked salmon with cream cheese, chopped liver from Carshon’s Deli, polenta, tuna salad, egg salad, a loaded baked potato without the bacon. Tonight Jean brought pasta with a marinara sauce—she very considerately asked what I thought about meat and mushrooms, and I opted for the marinara—it was rich and tomato-y and absolutely delicious. She had simmered it for over two hours until it was thick and wonderful. Another friend has offered to host me the next time her retirement community has a creamy soup entrée. I have lost a few pounds because I was not swallowing solids, but now I see my way forward to some quite good meals. And I’m hungry.

I can not ever again have an alcoholic drink. Oh, wait! The doctor said maybe on my birthday. But my days of enjoying a couple of glasses of chardonnay in the evening are over. This has been controversial, with several friends saying they never heard of alcohol causing such tumors. But the new doctor, an ENT specialist that I like and respect, was quite firm, and I will follow his orders. Statistics on survival really support his position, and I want to be around yet for years to come. Yes, I know hundreds of people who drink more heavily than I ever did and never develop tumors. Good for them—but it happened to me.

Benji is a great comfort. I think he senses something is wrong, because last night he was all over me—in my lap (for which he is too long and leggy), head resting on my leg, lying on the floor watching me. When I went to bed, he ostentatiously lay on the floor next to the bed. Tonight he has not been quite so attentive—he got into his fascination with the motion-activated garbage can and then he paced the cottage. He is confined to quarters because he barked so much, but he is quietly lying in his crate on the other side of my desk. I find his presence a comfort.

Jordan and Christian have been tremendous support, and doctors’ visits have become family affairs. Jordan makes lists of doctors I have to see and things that must be done, and she supervises what I eat—why won’t that child let me have chopped barbecue? Christian has run so many many errands—returning this that I ordered, picking up prescriptions, scouting out a new pharmacy since ours is closing. This weekend my other three children will be here for an event marking Jacob’s high school graduation—but also to rally around their mom. I couldn’t be more blessed and more grateful.

So, my friends, if I’m here again and gone again, more irregular than usual in posting blogs, I ask you to bear with me. Minor and temporary lifestyle adjustments coming up, but all will be well. Prayers are of course appreciated.

PS Please note that I still have a new Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery, Irene in a Ghost Kitchen, coming out in late June. It's not on Amazon yet but will be soon. Watch for it--it's got family secrets, French food (and lots of recipes), one bad dude, and enough mayhem to make you turn the pages (I hope). Given the direction my writing has taken of late, it's fitting that I frame my current situation in the context of foods I can eat, don't you think?

Image by Freepik

Somehow Monday morning I found myself, accompanied by Jordan, in the ER at Harris Methodist Hospital Downtown. A long stretch in the ER told us that my inability to swallow all my meds had messed up my Afib so I was on a drip to fix that and had a CT scan which confirmed a growth on my epiglottis. All of this was handled professionally and courteously by really pleasant people, and I felt I was in good hands. Naturally, I was a bit letdown when they said I had to stay overnight to stabilize my heart rate. Turned out to be a good thing. Jordan, bless her, stayed with me and was treated to sleep broken by interruptions—vital signs, an IV that pulled loose and had to be reinserted—a long and painful process.

I think in the past, in my novels, someone has been in the hospital. Irene, for instance, was hospitalized after she was kidnapped (Irene in Danger) and you never know when she or another character will end there, so it was good for me to have a refresher learning experience. Hospitals have changed since the last time I was in one.

When you go cold into the ER (I went with a referral from my family doctor who immediately left the picture), you suddenly have a whole new bunch of doctors—two hospitalists, a cardiologist, a radiologist, the ER admitting doctor, the consulting head and neck surgeon. It’s sort of a case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing and who’s on first. Thank goodness for the nurses, particularly one named Becky, (fourth floor, Heart Center) who coordinated everything.

When you go to the ER, you try to look your best—at least I do: hair shampooed, attractive yet comfortable outfit, clean underwear, etc. I saw some in robes, pajamas, and slippers, but that’s not my style. I wanted to look presentable. At the end of the long day, I had given up that vanity and did not care how I looked. I ended up in a hospital gown, rumpled pj bottoms from home, and hospital footlets. I did manage to brush my teeth that evening but gave it up the next morning, thinking I’d go home any moment. Jordan had to comb my hair because I sailed into the day without a thought about it. By the time I went home, about three o’clock in the afternoon, I didn’t give a fig how I looked. At least I had street clothes back on, with the pj bottoms.

Being in the hospital ages you ten years but thank goodness it’s reversible. Probably because I felt so bad, I became helpless. I asked Jordan for every little thing—“hand me this,” “where’s the remote?” “Can you get me that?” I kept missing meals (not that I could eat much) so she was my emissary to the cafeteria where she got yogurt and to ask the nurse for cups of steaming hot broth. I found I would get scrunched down in bed, and need help pulling myself up. And go to the bathroom alone? Don’t even think about it. It’s against the rules. So I worried about going home, but once in the cottage I fell right back into the routine of taking care of myself. An amazing reversible, though I did worry as I snuggled down for the night about what would happen if I couldn’t get out of bed. I could—a gentle, cold, and wet nose on my elbow this morning convinced me to get out of bed and let Benji out. He had been tremendously patient while I overslept.

So this morning I am back at work at my desk. I kept up, mostly with emails, in the hospital but still have much to deal with, some of it medical. How do you get to be my age and still be so involved in the world? I am not knocking it. I think it’s a good thing.

Tomorrow I have (I think) a biopsy to determine why I can’t swallow. Prayers are appreciated, and thanks for following my adventures in and out of the medical world.

Graduation parties and a rainy Mothers’ Day

 

Jacob has had a great weekend—at least I assume he did, since I haven’t seen him yet. But last night was senior prom for Paschall High School, and he and several of his buddies were all spiffy in tuxes, with lovely girls in gowns on their arms. Jacob does not have a steady girlfriend, so he took a girl who is a good friend—you know how that works. I was pleased to see the picture and note how modest her gown was, and Christian said all the girls at the photo shoot had long gowns—none of those skimpy mini-things. Of course, prom itself is sort of anticlimactic—they don’t stay long, and the after-parties are the big deal. My behind-the-fence neighbor wrote that her son would be hosting an after-party in their pool and cabana and she had reminded them of noise control. I never heard a sound, and when I went to the bathroom at three o’clock, all was dark and quiet.

Golf seniors

Today the moms of the seniors on the Paschal gold team hosted a party with a gambling theme. Jordan has a lovely entertainment area in her office, with freedom to use it, so that was the site. Christian reports it was a great success.

Other than a golf party, today was not a huge success. It was dark and thunder rolled, rain fell for much of the day. Usually I rather enjoy a day like that, but today I did not feel well, so that darkened my mood. Benji too was a bit of a worry—rain doesn’t bother him, and he appears to enjoy mud. But then he comes in and decides the upholstered furniture is there for his comfort. I have upended the cushions on his two favorite chairs, so when I called him in tonight, he took his wet muddy self to his crate. Score one for me.

My Jamie arrived late last night—later than he intended because his rental was an electric car, and he didn’t realize how long it took to charge. When he arrived, coming from Frisco, he had only charged it for seventy miles, so he charged it overnight and hoped it took. It struck me that it was like the early days of gasoline engines—at first people were bumfuzzled by maintenance, but they got used to it. We will all eventually get used to electric cars—maybe just before cars themselves are phased out.

It was of course a delight to have Jamie here. He is, and I don’t think he’ll mind me saying this,

Hamburgers in the cottage

the poorest of my children at keeping in touch frequently. But when he’s here, he is, as Jordan says, totally into the moment. He gives great massages, sometimes painful as he zeroes in on every spasm in your back, but he’s tireless and dedicated. And he discovered last night what may be the cause of my lethargy and lack of appetite—swollen glands in my neck. Though he didn’t have time this weekend, he has been known to lull me to sleep with his acoustic guitar. Christian grilled hamburgers late last night, and they ate in my cottage—though I, already not feeling well, stuck to yogurt.  After the Burtons went inside, Jame and I had a long talk for which I was most grateful. His life has been turned upside down in the last year, and I was glad to hear him talk about it.

This morning, Jamie went for a run and was gone longer than he meant to be because he so enjoyed running through old, familiar neighborhoods. Then it was a rush for him to shower and get out the door for his plane back to Denver, where he is now living. But I have something to look forward to: he, his older sister, and older brother will all be here, again briefly, for a party that Jordan and I are hosting for Jacob—well, in truth, she is hosting and my name is on the invitation.

Hope the mothers among us—and that takes many shapes and forms—were well celebrated today. I know for many it is a hard day, and I reach out to them. For what a good friend would term a less saccharine, Hallmark version of the history of Mothers’ Day, read here: (69) May 11, 2024 - by Heather Cox Richardson (substack.com)                               

Obituaries, a vet visit, and a good dinner

Haute cuisine in the cottage

Not too long ago, the obituary writer was a respected member of any newspaper’s staff. It takes talent, skill, and practice to condense a life into a few, meaningful paragraphs. These days, obituaries are syndicated, expensive, and in some cases a scam that can trap you into an endless cycle of intrusive emails. I learned these lessons the hard way. To begin with, the obit for my brother, John Peckham, in the Star-Telegram cost almost $3/word. We shortened and shortened, leaving out what we thought were some of his major accomplishments as well as some of the tidbits that made him a fascinating person. It seems you don’t really contract with your local paper but with a national company called Legacy, Inc. Since we were writing it ourselves, I never explored the options for help from either the newspaper or the national company.

The first problem came when we wanted an estimate. My niece, burdened with much on her mind, asked if I would get that. The only way to do it was to fill out the form, so pretty soon it looked like before they gave me an estimate I would have to guarantee payment. I couldn’t do it in her name because I didn’t know if she subscribes to the paper and that’s apparently a requirement. I did finally get a rough cost, and she took over. The obituary appeared as scheduled and looked fine—a bit bare bones and short, but okay. Jenn had added at the bottom the location of a small celebration of life.

Days later I wanted to verify the proper name of that location to share with a friend. Couldn’t find the obituary, so I clicked on one of those “find anyone” sites that came up when I asked to find an obit, filled in John’s information, and waited. I never did get the information, but I was somehow signed up for something called Truth Finder which offered, for a fee, to dig up all kinds of information about John, including previous arrests for assault and similar unsavory tidbits. He was by no means an angel all his life, but I thought that was stretching it a bit.

That site never did find what I needed, and I found it elsewhere. But now I get constant reminders, two at a time—Am I still looking for John? Would I like to bring John back into my life? And similar inanities. These “reminders” appear, large, in the corner of my screen so they cannot be ignored. You must click on them and then close out to get them to go away. There is no unsubscribe button, which I suspect is illegal. They’re not on Facebook, so I can’t block them, and I’m not tech savvy enough to know how to make them go away. Among other reasons why it’s so wrong, it’s an insult to grieving families.

While I’m at it, another internet complaint: this is aimed at various Democratic fund-raising branches. Republicans are probably just as bad, but I only occasionally hear from them, and I respond with an instant, “Stop!” or unsubscribe. But Democrats complain all the time that I have not confirmed I will vote for Biden—when clearly I have. There is apparently little or no coordination between sites—even though Act Blue is supposed to be a clearinghouse. They appoint me to focus groups and choose me as one of a select group to represent my city or county or they beg for m valuable input on a poll. Turns out the poll questions could be answered by a five-year-old with good sense, and inevitably they lead to a plea for me to pledge a good-sized monthly amount. I think one reason they don’t well in polling is because so many, like me, get turned off by these inane, repetitious emails and refuse to answer. Somewhere, someone smart about marketing, must think this works, but it beats me. I long for the days of Lincoln, when campaigning was considered beneath a candidate.

On a brighter note, Benji went to the vet yesterday. He, who is wild Indian and totally untrained on the leash, behaved like an angel and captivated the vet’s staff. He had been to his Humane Society vet (because he was a rescue) just a couple of weeks before we got him, but we wanted the family vet to know him—we have been taking dogs to University Animal Hospital since the mid- to late sixties. Dr. Minnerly pronounced him fit, said he is smart, and suggested some training ideas. Of the barking which worries me, he said, “At the end of the day, he’s a dog, and dogs bark.”

And last night, despite my curtailed eating habits, I fixed a smashing dinner for Mary V.: sour cream, smoked salmon, pickled cucumbers and onion, and capers on puff pastry. The pastry puffed so high I almost didn’t know what to do with it and ended poking the air out of it with a fork before adding the toppings. We enjoyed it, and I had my leftovers for lunch today. Smoked salmon goes on the list of foods I can eat with ease.

Happy Friday, everyone. Hope you have big plans for the weekend, if that suits you, or else look forward to a quiet day with a book and a chair in the sun. It’s supposed to be sunny, comfortable temperature, and pleasant in North Texas. Hope for you too, wherever you are.

 

Too much information!

TMI! That’s what my kids will say if they read this post. But I had a medical adventure today, and it taught me something about modern medicine—or maybe the exception to modern medicine. For a little over a month, I’ve had trouble swallowing the handful of pills I take morning and evening. When I mentioned it to my doctor, he immediately said, “You need a swallow test.” The way he described it, it was no big deal—you drink a little barium and they x-ray it going down. He seemed quite sure they’d find a stricture, easily fixed, so he said, with a minor surgical procedure.

There was about a three-week lapse between his order and the actual procedure, and during that lapse I managed to work myself into a snit, imagining all kinds of horrors. I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid of the test or the results, but I suspected it was the test. I nearly convinced myself that the whole things was due to allergies (it feels like I have a sore throat)—or may the stress of grieving my brother and my dog. By today I had also convinced myself that swallowing a couple of swigs of barium wasn’t that bad—Jean told me these days it’s vanilla flavored. I will discuss that with her later because when I said that to the tech, she said, “I wish!”

When the tech ushered us into a changing room (first alarm bell went off in my head—why was I changing?) and began firing questions at me, all that hard-won assurance flew out the window. “Could I stand for ten minutes?” Yes, if I had something to hold on to. Could I lie on my stomach? Yes, I suppose so. Could I drink on my stomach? If there was a straw. She kept saying during the questions things like, “The doctor is not going to like this, or “The doctor can stop it at any time.” Jordan encouraged me not to back out after we’ve anticipated this for so long.

We went into the room with the machine, and I visibly paled. It was a flat, upright panel to which the tech attached two handles for me to hold on to. I would have to hold on with one hand and take a drink with the other. Not sounding good. Then it turned out with me standing flat against it, the table would slowly move into a horizontal position—and then minutes later back up to standing. I’ve got enough phobias that gave me real qualms. The tech disappeared, saying she would talk to the doctor. By this time, I was envisioning an ogre of a man, quick to anger.

He emerged from wherever, a perfectly nice, reasonable man. He asked questions, we chatted, and when he asked if I wanted to cancel, I said “Yes.” But then he said, “Let’s try something. Let’s see if we can lower the camera enough to do the studies with you seated.” And that’s what he did—me in my transport chair, which he twisted and turned to get the views he wanted. And the stuff to drink? Not great, but not that bad. I got it all down, and it was only two or three sips of each kind of contrast medium. He was emphatic that he could not see nor study the esophagus, but we were both quite sure the problem is in my throat. And it is: he pinpointed it and recommended further studies.

But what I saw in this physician was adaptability—and I think that’s rare in most medical offices today. He was willing to adjust his methods to meet my needs, and in the end, we got what we wanted—an informative set of x-rays. I thanked both him and the tech profusely as we left. And I, who often long for the olden, golden days of medicine, was comforted.

I wish my brother were here. He’d love this story. That was the kind of medicine he practiced—people-oriented.

 

Big doings and lots of rain

 

Colman and Marge and their daughter, Eva.
Jacob, Jordan, and Christian

Big doings around our house this weekend. Yesterday, close friends of Jordan and Christian gave a mid-day celebration for Jacob and one other graduate, Eva, whom he’s known almost this entire life. In fact—shhh! Don’t say I told you!—they used to bathe together. As they went to separate schools they saw less of each other over the years, but they were always together for Easter Egg Hunts and brunch at my house, a tradition that continues to this day, except for the egg-hunting part. Now, by serendipity they are both off to the University of Arkansas where, for a brief time, it even looked like they might end up on the same floor in one dormitory—I’m not sure how that worked out.

The pictures and reports from the brunch were wonderful. It was apparently a gala, happy affair. I was feeling  a bit under the weather and decided to stay home, so I was sorry to miss all the gaiety, but as Jacob assured me today, there will be other opportunities to celebrate. Meanwhile I enjoyed a  quiet day alone at home, with Benji for company—slept a lot, ate very carefully, and felt better than I had toward the end of the week. Now I guess I’ve got my groove back. A medical appointment looms Tuesday which I’m dreading a bit, but which should provide some reassuring answers.

Jordan and Christian went straight from the graduation celebration to a huge Kentucky Derby Party, given as a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. Christian is once again co-chair of the annual Cowtown Ball, a major fundraiser (it’s his fourth or fifth year so I think, despite protestations, he likes doing it). Yesterday’s Derby party was a fundraiser for the Cowtown Ball, so both he and Jordan were heavily involved. They report it was a success, with about 150 people gathered to watch the run for the roses.

I am not a horse racing fun and am of fact in the school that thinks it’s cruel to push horses to their extreme limit – the 2023 Derby was run in the middle of a disastrous two-week period marked by multiple race-track horse deaths. This year, however, the 250th running of the race, went off smoothly. I do like to watch the parade of horses to the gate, though I never pick a favorite. I was surprised to learn that several friends “research” the horses before the race. Whether or not they placed bets, and whether or not they won anything, I don’t know. The actual race goes by so fast I can never tell who’s winning.

Because I’m kind of a nut for traditions and ceremonies, I always like the award presentation ceremony with the wreath of roses around the horse’s neck, but I am annoyed by all the folderol and filling of time between the race and the ceremony. This year, I had the TV on but only glanced at it from time to time—and must have missed the ceremony. After more than an hour of commercials and other stuff, I turned it off.

Nobody will be surprised that the food traditionally associated with the Derby interests me. I almost never drink hard liquor (wine is my choice) but I do love a good bourbon, so yesterday I had a bit of longing for a mint julep. I remember once going to a derby party years ago, drinking two mint juleps, and being home in bed by six o’clock, so it was perhaps best I didn’t have the makings. I’ve made Kentucky Hot Brown sandwiches for the family, and we liked them a lot—I may do it again soon. And pecan pie with bourbon is not to be missed. Pimiento cheese tea sandwiches and devilled eggs sound pretty good too. Then there’s something called a Benedictine spread—cream cheese, sour cream, green onions, and cucumber. I’m going to have to try that soon. Meantime, with all that glorious food, I was home eating a baked egg with toast and cheese!

Seems every morning lately Benji and I have awakened to a wet world. For different reasons, we both love it. He is not at all afraid of storms, and he loves to dig in the mud—to my dismay when he comes in and jumps on my upholstered furniture.  I enjoy a rainy day and am particularly grateful for the sake of our gardens. My cosmos and coreopsis get beaten down with all this heavy rain. Even the oak leaf hydrangea bends under the pounding. They work their way back up but never quite as tall and upright. It’s okay—come late July, we’ll be so grateful for whatever moisture remains in the ground.

I’m going to spend this evening reading a book I just started: The Paris Novel, by food critic Ruth Reichl. So far, it fulfills its promise of lush Paris scenes, odd characters, and lots of French food. I’ll feel Irene looking over my shoulder.

Hope the upcoming week is good to everyone.

An invitation I’d love and trying to sort things out

 

Image courtesy Freekpik.com

 I keep seeing Facebook posts urging me to apply to have ice cream at Rehoboth Beach with Uncle Joe and Jill—now there’s an invitation I’d love to get. IF I hadn’t vowed I’m not going to fly any more, and IF I were sure I would be absolutely tongue-tied if I ever really met them. I have a fondness for beaches, and they sound like such nice, genuine people—they love dogs, don’t they? The invitation to the Chicago convention doesn’t intrigue me—I remember too clearly, as a Chicago native, the Democratic convention of 1968, and it sounds like crowds and possible violence and noise—and everything I don’t want now. But a barefoot walk in the sand with Uncle Joe? So enticing. (Never mind that my walker would not do well on a beach!)

The continuing coverage of the student protests and law enforcement response overshadows what should be the center of the story—ongoing negotiations between Zionists and Hamas. Efforts in this country, especially the GOP bill that seems to outlaw anti-semitism and curb free speech and serve as a redundant repetition of laws already on the books, only serve to make matters more cloudy. If nothing else, I have been trying to figure it out in my own mind. Here’s what I’ve thought, sort of: Israel has every right to their territory (I’m not sure about the Palestinian land which they keep absorbing). The US recognizes Israel and that’s right because it is an established legitimate government. We do not recognize Palestine because Hamas, a terrorist organization, is in charge. We support Israel in its attempts to recover hostages (many of whom have died in captivity) and to eradicate Hamas—but we should not support the genocide of an entire people, and despite denials that seems to be Netanyahu’s final goal. It’s a fine line that President Biden and Secretary Blinken are trying hard to walk.

Look at the statistics: 1200 Israelis died or were taken hostage on October 7 (estimate down from 1400). Many died horrific, excruciating deaths, and there is no denying the brutality of Hamas, the absolute disregard for human life. But balance that against 35,000 Palestinians who have died since, including 13,000 children. We have no idea how many Hamas are included in that number, but the victims were inevitably mostly innocent civilians—especially the children. I know war and death have no balance sheets—you can’t claim, “You killed this many of my people, so I will kill twice that many of yours.” But still it seems out of proportion to me—overkill, if you’ll allow a bad pun about an awful situation.

One thing no one talks about is that if you look at a map of the Arab world, Israel is but a tiny dot in a vast sea of Arab countries. I would think that would make them more inclined toward negotiation than force, knowing that the entire Arab world could rise up against them. I think the US is an enormous stabilizing force in that regard, but Netanyahu does not seem inclined to listen to US advice that doesn’t go his way.

So the student protests? How do they fit in? The first thing that comes to my mind is that our country is quick to forget lessons learned. Someone pointed out to me that today’s leaders were mere children in the sixties, and the Vietnam protests didn’t register with them. Greg Abbott, for instance, was twelve years old when troops shot Kent State students. But he could read history, couldn’t he? Today’s situation is proof of that old saying, “Those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat its mistakes.” I am terrified that we are headed toward another Kent State type of tragedy. I know there is a lot of bitter anger on both sides, but I have also read that Palestinian and Israeli student groups have been meeting together on some campuses. And I know a few university administrations have reached out to students, invited them to talk. So much more reasonable than calling out troops in riot gear. The riot troops signify, to me, the conversative mindset: force, not reason.

A gentleman has posted elsewhere on my wall giving a reasoned history of Israel and why it must defend itself—cold hard facts, historical dates, reason. But what is missing is compassion. He keeps asking me in negotiation what I would suggest Israel give up to Hamas. I have no idea. I am not a schooled diplomat. But I know this—for Hamas/Israel negotiations, for the student protests, for most of the crises life faces us with: sitting down together at a table and talking is the solution. Not knee-jerk violence and punishment. We want to prevent more violence, not encourage it.

There are a lot of memes online about love and faith and one universal god—you and I dismiss most of them as trite and hackneyed and rightly so. But there is one thought I think worth repeating: we are all one people. We are all walking each other home—Jew, Arab, Christian, whoever. Humanity is or should be a lot bigger than religious or cultural lines.

When my children's half-sister was in high school, she signed up to work at a camp in Colorado that brought together Jewish and Palestinian women for conversation. One of her distant relatives said to her, "You can't do that! You're Jewish!" (She was half Jewish and not observant.) I thought that was such a negative incident that I've carried it in my heart for years.

Now about that ice cream … the thought takes me back to the Indiana Dunes of my childhood. Maybe Uncle Joe and Jill will join me there, in my I imagination. And we will have kind, caring conversations, with our dogs at our feet. Maybe I’ll blog about the Dunes soon.