tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-309755572024-03-17T18:26:46.232-07:00View from the CottageView From the Cottage: Judy Alter's view on writing, cooking, grandmothering, and more!Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.comBlogger4590125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-27087862769093432512024-03-17T18:25:00.000-07:002024-03-17T18:25:46.749-07:00Peace and quiet<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIFZ0LSCOswxVlnQEhlXH1EdA_iVm3lk3ALm0hpQbxYIvEFGBJIbD9CP7ThkF7wq_Rlkxi4LaIuyKE1yLWUvKBIo6FyPnXop43OI-aA7deQqYaKqrt1XHbaGwoYI-77NJPn94CKj0xKdYP499xZ0z0b584sBzsfA2mldQ06hD_RXIvVWed1SlO/s2560/At%20the%20veterinary%20clinic.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1920" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIFZ0LSCOswxVlnQEhlXH1EdA_iVm3lk3ALm0hpQbxYIvEFGBJIbD9CP7ThkF7wq_Rlkxi4LaIuyKE1yLWUvKBIo6FyPnXop43OI-aA7deQqYaKqrt1XHbaGwoYI-77NJPn94CKj0xKdYP499xZ0z0b584sBzsfA2mldQ06hD_RXIvVWed1SlO/s320/At%20the%20veterinary%20clinic.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sophie at the veterinaray clinic. Note the IV tube.<br />Ready to come home tomorrow.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I think it was Maya Angelou
who said we all need to take an occasional day out. The world, she reminded us,
won’t fall apart without you. That’s what I did today—a day out. The Burtons
were out all day, celebrating Jordan’s birthday at the Roadhouse, which is supposed
to have great burgers. They were up, bright and bushy-tailed early this
morning, Jordan is a bright green top with shamrocks dangling from her ears. My
bow to St. Patrick tonight is a pale green T-shirt (with a VW bus on the front)
and bright green footlets. By rights I should wear orange because my ancestry
is Protestant Irish. I’m fairly sure my forebearers, three generations back or
more, left Scotland for Northern Ireland. They were Protestant Irish, but I
like the myth and legend of the larger Irish culture, the green of St. Patrick
if you will. Perhaps W. B. Yeats best summer up Irish culture: </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #4d5156; font-size: 12pt;">Being </span><em style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background: white; color: #5f6368;">Irish</span></em><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #4d5156; font-size: 12pt;">, he had an abiding </span><em style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background: white; color: #5f6368;">sense of
tragedy</span></em><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #4d5156; font-size: 12pt;">, which
sustained him through temporary periods of joy.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #4d5156; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Since
I would be cooking only for myself, there’s no Irish menu in the cottage
tonight. But tomorrow my family will get corned beef, champ (a mashed potato
dish with lots of butter and green onions), and Brussel sprouts. Coming up with
a green vegetable that’s Irish and my family will eat is hard because
everything is cabbage, and they won’t touch it. When Christian asked why the
Irish eat so much cabbage, I suggested it is plentiful, cheap, and nutritious.
I refrained from adding something to the effect that you can make some
wonderful dishes with it. Colcannon is also out—no cooked spinach. I also
didn’t tell him that Brussel sprouts, which he likes, could be considered tiny
cabbages. Tonight I have made myself a huge batch of pea salad and will eat
with it, I think, the sardines in preserved lemon that I would have served to
Jean the other night.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #4d5156; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I
was sad that my happy hour guests cancelled tonight—particularly sad because
friend Jaimie burned her hand badly. But that cancellation added to my day of
peace and quiet. I had planned to make a couple of appetizers to entertain Greg
and Jaimie, but I’ll save them for a reschedule when Jaimie is in a better
place.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #4d5156; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">So
this was my day out: I slept really late, with no Sophie to wake me and demand
food. I barely had time to read emails before church, which I attended via Zoom
in my pajamas. A bit of cottage cheese for brunch, and I applied myself to the
last words of <i>Irene in a Ghost Kitchen. </i>I finished it—at least the first
draft—and I breathed a huge sigh. Seems like I’ve been writing this mystery
forever. It came out at close to 58K words, so if I can pick up another two
thousand on editing, it will be a respectable length for a cozy. Tonight I’ll
start some notes for a show about Helen Corbitt that Mary and I are to
collaborate on. Mary regularly teaches cooking classes for the Silver Frogs,
the senior noncredit program at TCU. So she roped me in to provide commentary
and background on Corbitt’s life while she demonstrates the recipes. Should be
fun, though I am a bit confused on which one of us will say what. I’m sure it
will work out, and it’s one of those things I vow not to overthink. Oh yes, I
did have a nap in the late afternoon but only dozed—think I satisfied my need
for sleep this morning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #4d5156; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The
Sophie report is good again. She’s eating, albeit with appetite-stimulating
medicine. Today the clinic will take her off her IVs and see how she does on
her own, with the goal of bringing her home tomorrow. I have a list of
questions for our vet when we see him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #4d5156; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">After
a week fraught with tension and worry and distractions, I’ve enjoyed my peace
and quiet. Talking with a friend recently, I said one reason I didn’t want to
move into a retirement community was that I like my privacy. From friends who
live in Trinity Terrace I get the sense that even though you can get privacy in
your own apartment, it’s easy to be drawn into the constant round of
activities. No such temptation in my cottage, and I was completely happy today.
But I wouldn’t want to spend every day this way.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #4d5156; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-6958381082906640322024-03-16T19:15:00.000-07:002024-03-16T19:15:08.052-07:00 Back to real life<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_XsUL_X2oDtlyv7B_yGt-H0sBl2dSI0YDV6tL_fiDgBl1uQFN6tLCZwCuAcdchf6bxltbSscSNRtbdBsU3PtyBjyqHC6XjGXD61Fd1UVNstsAqEAfpi_NGt1eQjA9NfZn7jqjW3wun67Wa9RCZJaXtpYtIDdH445xuZ9b1jAglvkTLyscRCNf/s1632/DSC00594%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1632" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_XsUL_X2oDtlyv7B_yGt-H0sBl2dSI0YDV6tL_fiDgBl1uQFN6tLCZwCuAcdchf6bxltbSscSNRtbdBsU3PtyBjyqHC6XjGXD61Fd1UVNstsAqEAfpi_NGt1eQjA9NfZn7jqjW3wun67Wa9RCZJaXtpYtIDdH445xuZ9b1jAglvkTLyscRCNf/s320/DSC00594%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jordan and Sophie<br />Twelve years ago, plus</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Sophie seems to be on the
mend, so it’s back to real life at our compound. Tomorrow is Jordan’s birthday—my
St. Patrick’s baby. I won’t say what birthday it is, but here’s a hint: next
year is a biggie. She has an all-day come-and-go party planned for tomorrow at
a local hamburger joint/sports bar (I’m sort of guessing what it is, because it’s
not on my circuit). None of my friends have been included—as she said tonight, “No
adults.” I reminded her that she and her friends are adults now, many of them
in their fifties. But I get that mindset and it’s okay, Anyway I will not be at
this all-day celebration (and miss my nap? No way). As she pointed out, it will
be everything I don’t like—loud, noisy, crowded. So tonight, we had her birthday
dinner, the same dinner she’s requested since she was old enough to request:
tacos.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">There’s a bit of a story
behind that menu choice. For the first forty-seven years of her life, Jordan
thought she was half Hispanic. That’s what we’d been told by the Edna Gladney
Home, and we dutifully set about keeping her informed of her heritage, just as
we did for Jamie with his half-Chinese background. For years, Jordan resisted
any kind of genetic testing, but a few years ago she broke down and did 23andMe.
The results showed that she is almost a hundred per cent northern European. She
admitted it came as quite a shock after thinking of herself as Hispanic all
these years. So while she might have asked for bangers and mash or shepherd’s
pie for her birthday, she stuck with tacos.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Christian was out of town all
day and late to our taco party. He had stopped, per my request, at the store to
get things needed for the tacos but by the time he arrived we had eaten, so now
I have two heads of leaf lettuce, a bag of Fritos, and I don’t know what else
that I won’t use. The sharp cheddar I will always use. I thought the meat was
dry, but Christian pointed out that sour cream, cheese, and guac hide a
multitude of faults.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">No cake. Jordan didn’t want
one, so I had chocolate bonbons after they went inside.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In the spirit of getting back
to reality, I wrote a thousand words on my Irene novel last night—so close to
the end and yet so far; it is tantalizing to have it in sight. Except that just
when I thought I could wrap things up, the mystery solved, the bad person
caught, a new plot twist plopped into my mind and won’t go away. I only have
one sentence in my mind, and I have no idea where it will lead me. Also, last
night, I blogged and finished the novel I was being slow about reading. So I
feel all caught up and a bit righteous.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Last night’s dinner guest, my
good friend Jean, cancelled because she had a cold. I didn’t open the can of
sardines in preserved lemon that I intended to serve, but I did make myself a
good-sized panzanella (Italian bread salad)—so good. Tomorrow night, when the
kids are celebrating all day (a concept I struggle to understand) neighbors are
to come for happy hour, but now that is uncertain because the wife injured her
hand badly enough for an hours-long, middle-of-the-night ER visit. I’m just
letting that be on hold.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And the day’s Sophie report:
she was responsive this morning and obviously happy to have Jordan pet her, but
I thought just a bit more lethargic. The tech explained there had been a problem
with a catheter and fixing it had probably worn her out, plus she had just been
for a walk an hour earlier. So maybe she was tired, which her panting would
indicate. When we were ready to leave, she obviously wanted to go with us and
stood before the door to the lobby. When the tech urged her out the door
leading to the kennel, she braced her feet and resisted for a moment, but then
went docilely along. She is a good girl, but I think she is ready to go home. My
heart and my pocketbook are ready to have her home. Apparently, they don’t
welcome visitors nor ever discharge patients on Sunday, so we are on hold. Our
vet, who I like a whole lot, will be back on Monday, and I am hoping we can
move this along.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Meantime, I leave you with a
quote. There is a Tyler Farr folksong chorus that goes: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">I wish love wasn't so hard.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">I wish people could stay together.</span></span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">I wish girls couldn't break hearts.</span></span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">And dogs could live forever</span>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">But I have seen another
version, and I can’t quote the early lines, but the end is: “I wish dogs lived
forever and chocolate cake wasn’t fattening.” I love that, and if I ever come
across it again, I’ll share.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Meantime, sweet dreams, happy
days, and thanks for being my friends.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-66304732667363748812024-03-15T18:37:00.000-07:002024-03-15T18:39:21.397-07:00 Sophie Update<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvvDuE2IsOtzuRrqN2FVVWee4clu-rFNPYjtOwgZFfS_AX80JiGKaMw4JRJPtUP9yYT876zgnTMCsTXXB0_Nz8jgm0acwXZSWhqqAvRgy3Xb2vIexpctFkjQewCLFkR2WI56Y7FCPCYdi2fPWUp5YUv7TAAqkQepNSuArtn5mo8-eq9pWcG99/s3264/Yes,%20Mommy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvvDuE2IsOtzuRrqN2FVVWee4clu-rFNPYjtOwgZFfS_AX80JiGKaMw4JRJPtUP9yYT876zgnTMCsTXXB0_Nz8jgm0acwXZSWhqqAvRgy3Xb2vIexpctFkjQewCLFkR2WI56Y7FCPCYdi2fPWUp5YUv7TAAqkQepNSuArtn5mo8-eq9pWcG99/s320/Yes,%20Mommy.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sophie listening to a lecture.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></p><br />Tonight I really am going to
post yesterday’s food blog, so look for it in a bit. But first I wanted to post
an update on Sophie: she is better. Her kidney numbers, while not perfect, are
much improved over yesterday, and her blood sugar levels are better. Tonight, I’m
told she ate part of a can of dog food. And when we visited this morning, I
thought she was more alert—head up, looking around with interest to see what and
who was around her. She definitely is on the mend.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I want to praise the techs at
the VSNT clinic. I get a real sense of caring from everyone I talk to, and I’ve
noticed, before this episode, that if I say I’m calling about Sophie, they are
right away on top of it. The whole clinic knows Sophie and considers her sort
of a miracle dog—that’s certainly what Dr. Burney says about her. Yesterday,
Rachel was so helpful; today we had a lovely lady whose name I unfortunately
did not get, but she told us she had cared for Sophie every time she’s been in
the clinic, and she was “invested” (the word she used) in her well-being. She
told us the common sense advice she was giving Sophie, what she thought she’d
try about food, how she was cheering for her. And the most encouraging thing
she said to me was, “I think she’s trying. She’s really trying.” As long as
Sophie is trying, we will too. Not at all ready to give it up, though I really
would like to have her at home. She did look a little hangdog when the tech led
her back to the clinic, and that made me sad. I think she’d like to be home too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Now if I can only convince
myself that today is Friday, not Saturday … we will visit in the morning and
see where things are.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">As always, I’m grateful for
your support. I told Sophie today that she had a whole world of people cheering
and praying for her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-23192695541644131692024-03-14T15:54:00.000-07:002024-03-14T15:54:49.184-07:00There’s good news in Mudville tonight<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUS96prwhcRFV6lBqAC4DHWOO6rFfPW17kjA4C4at3QGMkvia-vsJTvmU_jxfftvF0dg0JUUnZxK0pGNBUdh6OdahInB2c7yg6-3nCCFM0RDWQLZEnLrYZr9nEYugvucG9Qerz_oI_ff0MHIxIleMq4Yg9m4-wCC3cko13KGAeBpK-WE69hNq/s320/jordansophie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUS96prwhcRFV6lBqAC4DHWOO6rFfPW17kjA4C4at3QGMkvia-vsJTvmU_jxfftvF0dg0JUUnZxK0pGNBUdh6OdahInB2c7yg6-3nCCFM0RDWQLZEnLrYZr9nEYugvucG9Qerz_oI_ff0MHIxIleMq4Yg9m4-wCC3cko13KGAeBpK-WE69hNq/s1600/jordansophie.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sophie loves Jordan!<br />Sophies doctor, Derek Burney, is a miracle worker,<br />but so much credit for her care goes to Jordan and Christian.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Today, Thursday, is my regular
day for my food blog, “Gourmet on a Hot Plate.” But I have been so overwhelmed
by and grateful for your prayers and hugs and good thoughts for Sophie that I
decided to bring you up to date. The recipe I had in mind will keep. Meantime,
there’s good news tonight, but first here’s how the day went.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The vet called about 7:30 this
morning. Miniscule was his favorite word. She might, he said, be a bit better but it was miniscule, and her
chances for surviving this episode were miniscule. She refused to eat and had developed
a bloody discharge from her nose. Her kidney numbers were only slightly better.
It was time for us to come see her and talk. So I alerted Jordan and Christian.
We were all convinced we were going to let her go. I packed up the insulin
needles and some other things that we wouldn’t be needing but someone else
could use. We were glum as we drove to the vet, though I did my usual when
nervous and talked too much.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We were in the waiting room
when Rachel, the tech, came leading Sophie on a leash. That was the first
surprise: Sophie had not been walking when the Burtons took her to the vet.
Rachel said that was new this morning—she’d been carrying her out to potty. And
she said her demeanor was better this morning. We were shown into an exam room
and left to visit with Soph. A year ago when she was so sick, Dr. Burney warned
me that she would be mad at me, because she thought whatever was happening to
her was all my fault. Sure enough, she was less than ecstatic to see me, but
she sat still for Jordan to pet her—and when Jordan stopped for a minute,
Sophie turned her head as if to say, “Keep doing that.” For Christian, she
rolled over so he could give her tummy rubs. One factor: the two of them could
get down on the floor with her; I can’t. They did pick her up a few times so I could
whisper sweet nothings and promise to give her Velveeta if she’d eat enough to
come hope. When the doctor came in, he said he was as surprised as we were.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I wouldn’t want you to think
Soph is back “at herself.” She was on pain medication which made her even more
lethargic, and she panted quite a bit, but she was enough better that I said I
couldn’t think of letting her go, and Dr. Burney agreed. We are all comfortable
with seeing what tomorrow brings. Christian is more worried about my bank
account than I am—he says I can’t let this go on too long, and I understand
that. But I just can’t say, “I’m glad you seem better, but I can’t afford to
pay any more bills.” Life is too precious, and the burden of holding it in your hands is heavy.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I remember once running into a
friend outside my neighborhood vet’s office. He said, matter-of-factly, “He
needs a $2000 surgery, and I can’t afford that, so we’re going to put him to
sleep this morning.” I was horrified, though I’m sure my friend, once a
colleague, really couldn’t afford it. I’d have arranged monthly payments or
something. As I struggle with the Sophie dilemma I think of the hundreds of people dying in Ukraine and Gaza, and I have concluded death at a distance and in mass, anonymous numbers is easier for many to tolerate. Up close and specific, it appalls.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Dr. Burney called this evening
to report that Sophie ate a piece of lunch meat this afternoon and then, after
a bit, ate another. That’s a really good sign. He says he can’t see her coming
home tomorrow but he’s hoping for Saturday! I feel like shouting this news from the rooftop!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">My good
friend and neighbor, Jaimie Smith, sent me this quote from Joe Biden. It is so
true, it made me teary, but I also think it speaks volumes to what kind of a
good man our president is: “Dogs’ lives are short, too short, but you know that
going in. You know the pain is coming, you’re going to lose a dog, and there’s
going to be great anguish, so you live fully in the moment with him. You can’t
support the illusion that a dog can be your lifelong companion. There’s such
beauty in the hard honesty of that, in accepting and giving love while always
being aware it comes with an unbearable price. Maybe loving dogs is a way we do
penance for all the mistakes we make in life.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-54803583411274651712024-03-13T18:38:00.000-07:002024-03-13T18:38:01.623-07:00 A day in limbo<p> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN31YaJ5osA0COMbpQlavkofsJUUMc5s8nOmhwM0rAnSxEAgq2bFBZD-Y8R9q9e2XCO5Lfzm7uR2HuULxKQbdx2Nywoxryk7DNP29G90QwhnB9eEs2QamNSX36iHhfLe7sSylhL5uLt7Umy0pxPmVZEBVUdsx9-llULdNsRU1JmyYwHlH2WehF/s640/Waiting%20for%20company.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN31YaJ5osA0COMbpQlavkofsJUUMc5s8nOmhwM0rAnSxEAgq2bFBZD-Y8R9q9e2XCO5Lfzm7uR2HuULxKQbdx2Nywoxryk7DNP29G90QwhnB9eEs2QamNSX36iHhfLe7sSylhL5uLt7Umy0pxPmVZEBVUdsx9-llULdNsRU1JmyYwHlH2WehF/s320/Waiting%20for%20company.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sophie waiting for company on the patio.<br />We had our first patio gathering tonight.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />This morning before I was even
out of bed, the vet called with not-so-good news. Sophie’s kidneys were
failing. He didn’t sound hopeful, but he said we would give her the morning and
see how she did. He’d call back mid-day. So I piddled—read emails, read
Facebook, answered a bit of correspondence, but all thoughts of creative work
fled. I was watching the clock and wondering what his idea of mid-day was. I
think I was a case study in suspended animation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My kids rallied around, as
they always do when I need them. Colin, skiing with his family in Wolf Creek,
Colorado, has called three times and been very supportive. I guess the best
thing he said to me was, “You’re always tough about the big things.” And this,
I agreed, was a big thing. Megan, packing up her family in Tahoe to head home,
called, and Jamie called from Denver and tried to cheer me with made-up
Biblical quotes. I love them for trying, but talking to them made me teary. I
was better off when I didn’t talk about Sophie.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Dr. Burney called around two o’clock.
No change. She was still lethargic, not interested in food, not interested in
peeing, kind of mentally sluggish as well as physically. But he didn’t sound
ready to give up. When I said, “She was my miracle baby,” he said, “Oh, I know.
Mine two.” So we decided to give her the afternoon. He called about
five-thirty, and we agreed to give her until morning. Are we postponing the
inevitable? Maybe. One thought I had was that whether or not Soph took
advantage of the day, it had been a help to me, allowed me a chance to collect
myself and face what lies ahead. I sent her a telepathic message this morning,
told her it was up to her—she either had to turn it around or shut it down, but
she had to save me from making the decision. Dr. Burney said he was sure she
got the message, but he would repeat it to her. I love that man.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">So we are still in limbo. I think
tomorrow morning, no matter which way it goes, Jordan and I will go to the
veterinary clinic and see her. When she was so sick a year ago, Dr. Burney
warned me that she would be mad at me, because she thought whatever happened to
her was my doing. And boy, was he right. She wouldn’t come near me. So that
worries me a bit about going to see her. Jordan thinks seeing us will give her
a boost. I am not sure. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And to pile complication on
complication: Jacob has tested positive for Covid. He’s just home from a
three-day fishing/swimming/hanging out trip to Oklahoma with three buddies.
Called his mom at lunch and said he couldn’t taste his Chick Filet. (In my
opinion that’s a good thing—I boycott Chick Filet, but he loves it and I can’t appeal
to his teenage hunger on moral grounds). So when he got home, he tested
positive. So now he’s bummed, because he can’t hang out with his buddies during
his senior year spring break, and he can’t work to earn money. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But there is family good news.
My brother, who is pretty much bedridden, has been in the hospital for two or
three weeks, but it looks like he can go home tomorrow. I’m so grateful for small
slivers of hope.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Tonight Subie and Phil came
for a drink. She said she watched all day for a message telling them not to
come, but I would have wanted them here no matter which way things went with
Sophie. They are longtime friends, the kind who are a comfort, and they were
tonight. It was the first time Subie drove over our new, nicely flat driveway,
and she was full of raves about it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I am deeply grateful to all of
you who have sent hugs and prayers and good wishes. You help me as I wait in
limbo, and I’m sure. If she knew, Sophie would be grateful too. She always did
love to be the center of attention.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-77956475080397151442024-03-12T19:43:00.000-07:002024-03-12T19:43:31.903-07:00 Sophie’s story part II<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhULPWffsrroz4CdIPAZMLdUEpwUtcH_UOQWzHQMf-4atSpmhNguNLRiQbSDZKX3ySNOnBAf2pfwKCWWUcVZzUtEY9I-xpXH2deWZ-OG8DeM4c6WvO85YhAVqK2L7d6ia52iwYJGJPlRSU-kcCHGV5yA27VRLuTMd7VuGuZHSI0Ccq6-vaEehqM/s534/coming%20home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="401" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhULPWffsrroz4CdIPAZMLdUEpwUtcH_UOQWzHQMf-4atSpmhNguNLRiQbSDZKX3ySNOnBAf2pfwKCWWUcVZzUtEY9I-xpXH2deWZ-OG8DeM4c6WvO85YhAVqK2L7d6ia52iwYJGJPlRSU-kcCHGV5yA27VRLuTMd7VuGuZHSI0Ccq6-vaEehqM/s320/coming%20home.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sophie, 12 weeks old<br />The day we brought her home.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Tonight, the cottage is quiet
and a bit lonely. Sophie is spending the night in the hospital. She had taken
lately, with the warmer weather, to lying on the patio until late at night when
I enticed her inside with a bit of cheese so I could go to bed. During the
evening, she’d come in from time to time to get a drink of water and, I hope,
to see that I was where she thought I ought to be, but it was not as though we
spent the evening chatting. Still, I miss knowing she out there, and I may even
miss her demand for breakfast at seven in the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">She is in a specialty clinic,
not your neighborhood vet (think big dollars), but the doctor who saved her
life is one of my favorite people. She needs his spot-on knowledge. He called
tonight to say that she’s still pretty rough. This morning he reported that her
diabetes was out of control, her blood sugar ridiculously high, and she had
opened the old wound (once a bed sore) on her front elbow. (I’d caught her
licking that now and again but she stopped when I told her to.) Tonight he says
the sugar numbers are much better, so I will wait for a morning report.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I like to say this all
happened so fast—the first clear sign was yesterday morning when she didn’t eat
her breakfast. But in retrospect, I know there were small signs—another time I’ll
be more alert to them. She, who is always ravenous, turned down her dry kibble
though she kept eating the canned food. And if I poured broth over the kibble,
she’d eat it. But that quit yesterday. We caught her chewing nonedible things.
And both last night and this morning she disappeared into the far reaches of
the back yard where I cannot see her and cannot follow with my walker. I’ve had
experience before with a dog who went off to die, so that freaked me out. In
fact yesterday in the wee morning hours I called Christian but just then she
poked her head around into the door, and I hit disconnect quickly. But last
night and this morning Jordan and Christian had to go get her and carry her back
to the cottage.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">So tonight I am feeling sorry
for myself. Jordan and Christian have gone to a friend’s b’day dinner at Don Artemio’s,
the relatively new, upscale restaurant featuring the food of northeastern
Mexico—think Saltillo and San Miguel, also think nopales, cabrito, tacos de
Lengua (tongue tacos and my favorite on the menu). Don Artemio’s was a finalist
for the best new restaurant in the James Beard Awards for 2023. I suggested
jokingly Jordan order the cabrito, because that’s what I want the next time I
dine there. I knew she’d frown, and I bet she orders a steak because that’s
what she likes and what she is comfortable with. Me? I want to try new things,
as long as they are not too spicy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But more than feeling sorry
for myself, I am feeling sorry for Sophie. I know she thinks we’ve abandoned
her. She hates the clinic, and we all know when you feel bad, you want to be
home, not in some sterile place. Fingers crossed, prayers said that she can
come home tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Tonight Mary came for happy
hour. She is to do a two-part cooking class on Helen Corbitt for the Silver Frogs
(non-credit, community classes from TCU for an older audience, a truly vital
program.) Mary cooks from her kitchen via a Zoom-like arrangement, and for the Corbitt
program she plans to have me chime in with my research into Corbitt’s career.
So she showed us the treasures she’d bought for the demonstration—a Hollandaise
sauce mix, chutney, flower pots for the cakes Corbitt made for LadyBird, etc.,
and the Power Point presentation she’d put together. I declined to do that
because I have no idea about Power Point. It was fun to talk about Corbitt, and
I enjoyed the hour. Then Mary and Jordan rushed off and I ate leftover meat
loaf and a small green salad.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But I’ve got great cooking
plans coming up—only to be told Jordan wants a b’day dinner of tacos Saturday
night. I have a recipe for chicken tacos I might try to talk her into, but I am
not hopeful.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Pray for Soph, please. I hope tomorrow
I can report she’s safely home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-63090442621970692742024-03-11T21:04:00.000-07:002024-03-11T21:04:39.079-07:00 Worrying about Sophie<p> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizduiXKvukexWMV9p0qTk2BHPjqBYXXya_0SlVgcfGOIM1W91K7HK69XFjaJtnNLVNfHslVNlZfSbg9cCtP3KTjhZar0CoP5fS0cmUfbc6n8H3Vk8qtpdHksQg9t_AEg0H8gQJbPpp9kjVJfl-UXwQElk_oRn_BcymkvdXuYGTJcieUlhxB1uQ/s1296/Sophie%207.10.2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1296" data-original-width="968" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizduiXKvukexWMV9p0qTk2BHPjqBYXXya_0SlVgcfGOIM1W91K7HK69XFjaJtnNLVNfHslVNlZfSbg9cCtP3KTjhZar0CoP5fS0cmUfbc6n8H3Vk8qtpdHksQg9t_AEg0H8gQJbPpp9kjVJfl-UXwQElk_oRn_BcymkvdXuYGTJcieUlhxB1uQ/s320/Sophie%207.10.2013.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><br />Sophie is having what I guess
you’d call a diabetic crisis—so I am having an emotional crisis. Over the
weekend, we caught her eating some odd things—like my rattail comb, a baseball
card picture of one grandson, and so on. Jordan said, “She’s hungry”; Christian
said, “She’s bored.” Turns out Jordan was right.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Last night I had to get up twice
to refill her water, which is unusual. When she went out at five in the
morning, she was gone twenty minutes or more, and I couldn’t find her. Was
about to call Christian when she stuck her head in the door. She has breakfast
in two servings—a complicated story because of her insulin shot. But this
morning, she did not lick the bowl clean as usual with her first breakfast and
did not eat her second at all. Christian was taking Cricket to the vet, so he
described the symptoms, and the vet said her blood sugar is high. She needs to
eat and have insulin. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This evening we tried
everything to get her to eat—pouring broth over her dog food, grating cheese
and dropping it on the floor with an “Oh, oh” (which is what we do when we’re
working with cheese—it usually delights her), and, finally, putting dog food
and broth in a blender and using a syringe to force feed. Worked pretty well—until
she went outside and threw it all up. Per vet instruction, we gave her a half
dose of insulin. Both Sophie and I would be lost without Jordan and Christian
to manage all this.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">So tonight, lethargic is a
mild description of her condition. Poor thing apparently feels awful, so first
thing in the morning I’ll call the vet. I anticipate we’ll take her in, they’ll
feed her through an IV (there goes the fur on one leg), and give her insulin. I
pray they can do it without keeping her overnight.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Christian put our feelings
into words tonight when he said, “I didn’t realize how fragile her health is.”
Now that I look back, I should have seen more warning signs—whereas she usually
ate anything you gave her, she scorned her dry kibble for several days. One day
I put broth on it and she ate it heartily, but now she won’t even do that. And
canned food? She was ravenous. It’s such a sudden change.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Being a pet parent has a lot
in common with parenting a child—that feeling of helplessness when you want so
desperately to make them feel better, can’t make them understand how to help,
and don’t know what else to do.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Nothing else on my mind
tonight. Tomorrow, I hope, a more cheery report.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-30706186367821277642024-03-10T16:44:00.000-07:002024-03-10T16:44:19.284-07:00<p> Were the <i>Little House on the Prairie </i>books anti-feminist? What a question!</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1SOu9nKbgLUV_uTvEJk4-nh3dThn93Hs3_C0yaG0SjYXdbfKpmETIIosqYUeR5IZESXa1eTAjYFnrZnELW_wnSHdMuB2ShRU4wK_KObo8fQtVKrE3BBu8umzA3RE3Hc2cDvwfOeWjr0f_tO_FG2PNdcHqS2G9VKjEnMaoSu1px2iOJHWfSoNU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="536" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1SOu9nKbgLUV_uTvEJk4-nh3dThn93Hs3_C0yaG0SjYXdbfKpmETIIosqYUeR5IZESXa1eTAjYFnrZnELW_wnSHdMuB2ShRU4wK_KObo8fQtVKrE3BBu8umzA3RE3Hc2cDvwfOeWjr0f_tO_FG2PNdcHqS2G9VKjEnMaoSu1px2iOJHWfSoNU" width="161" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">President Biden warns us repeatedly
that the November election is the most significant in American history. We will
choose between democracy and fascism. Recently I’ve noticed another threat—to women.
It’s not just abortion or our rights over our own bodies; it’s our place in
society, in the world in which we live. The presumptive Republican candidate
for the governorship of Norh Carolina, a man named Mark Robinson who is
endorsed by trump, has said he’d like to go back to a time when women didn’t
have the vote. A politician (I think it was Montana, and I apologize I didn’t
get his name) said that America ought to be ruled by men of God—strong, white
men. In Texas and in my home county of Tarrant, incumbent women lost a
significant number of offices, everything from state representative to tax
collector and the state school board. Nationally, there’s the quixotic campaign
of Nikki Haley, now ended, or the well-publicized shootout in California
between Katie Porter and Adam Schiff. Porter s now being criticized for being a
sore leader, akin to trump, but I think she was doing what she does best:
exposing politics and corruption. Could her being a woman have added to her
current dilemma? After years of fighting the glass ceiling, women are once
again gradually being edged out of power, influence, etc. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Senator Katie Britt’s response
to the State of the Union has been mocked, critiqued, disputed all over the
internet, and I won’t repeat the comments here, though some are hysterically
funny, especially the cold open of SNL. But beneath all the laughter, there’s
serious concern. Right-wing extremists give every indication of wanting to send
women back to the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. The dismissive attitude is
summed up by a recent incident in Arizona: when Gov. Katie Hobbs called for
reproductive freedom in her State of the State speech, a male legislator who
must have thought he was clever said there’s already aspirin. He advised women
to hold an aspirin between their knees, a suggestion so demeaning and insulting
I hardly know what to say.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In her March 8 column, Letter
from an American, historian Heather Cox Richardson traces the demonization of
women back to the Sixties and cites protests over the 1968 Miss America
contest. She doesn’t say it, but the early 1960s saw publication of Betty
Freidan’s <i>The Feminine Mystique, </i>the book many credit with starting the
late-twentieth-century feminist movement. Richardson traces the status of women
through those years: Nixon’s turn against abortion in an effort to win the
Catholic vote, Phyllis Schafly’s screeching attacks on the Equal Rights
Amendment, the 1973 Roe v Wade, which did so much to free women from traditional,
pre-WWII roles, the Laura Ingalls Wilder <i>Little House on the Prairie </i>books
which Richardson suggests reinforced the idea of women needing men to take care
of them. In 1984, Walter Mondale chose Geraldine Ferraro as his running mate,
and they were soundly defeated. And then there was Rush Limbaugh with his “feminazis”
and right on up to Hillary Clinton’s battle with donald trump. I urge you to
read the entire column: </span><a href="https://heathercoxrichardson.substack.com/p/march-8-2024">March 8, 2024 -
by Heather Cox Richardson (substack.com)</a><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Of course, the battle began at
least a century earlier than the Sixties. It was 1848 when women met in Seneca
Falls, NY to plan their fight for rights. There followed years of protest,
jailings, beatings, and unbelievable courage until in 1920 the 19<sup>th</sup>
Amendment gave women the right to vote. The fight is different today but nonetheless
intense. Anger and indignation are not good motivation for action, but in this case,
I think they are appropriate. I hope women across America will see the insidious
nature of this campaign against us and rise up en masse to tell right-wing
extremists we are no handmaidens. Will you join me? I am tempted to say “Vote
Blue!” but much as I personally want to see Joe Biden in office for another
four years, that’s not the point here. I think every woman should evaluate each
candidate on his or her stance not only on abortion but on women’s rights and
the rights of minorities, because the two go hand in hand.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-65940912165861967242024-03-09T21:22:00.000-08:002024-03-09T21:22:37.873-08:00 Cooking up a storm<p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVSoaO7k4yc9udVr4OzVTyEyjqBAraMPe0WQkD5qM8Vu6jk1_z9Bsz9ccLP6U-g4_M7EHGEZIjeQ-uc4eq4lDdDiUJuLRr2kNryy3AUKIXfDugOTQqnFPGOhNzy2XNEbj_DVOco_AMSYoMJbWTy9mXuxSGaWBChsxnTtDa-Lvt2DEya_XZWg7J/s4032/bourbon%20chicken%20and%20bok%20choy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVSoaO7k4yc9udVr4OzVTyEyjqBAraMPe0WQkD5qM8Vu6jk1_z9Bsz9ccLP6U-g4_M7EHGEZIjeQ-uc4eq4lDdDiUJuLRr2kNryy3AUKIXfDugOTQqnFPGOhNzy2XNEbj_DVOco_AMSYoMJbWTy9mXuxSGaWBChsxnTtDa-Lvt2DEya_XZWg7J/s320/bourbon%20chicken%20and%20bok%20choy.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It looks a bit sparse on that big plate, <br />and the bok choy looks a bit pitiful,<br />but the chicken was really good.<br />Perhaps I need to improve my food stylist skills.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />It’s the weekend, and as usual I’ve spent much of it cooking. Along the way I’ve
learned a couple of things. Besides, I’ve enjoyed it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Friday night, I fixed cottage
pie—the English version of shepherd’s pie. If you make it with lamb, it’s
shepherd’s pie; with beef, cottage pie. We had cottage, though as I made it I
regretted that I hadn’t thought to get lamb. It’s about time for some more lamb
in our diet, perhaps Julia Child’s recipe for spring lamb stew. But until I get
to that, cottage pie makes a good, one-dish meal. It’s one of Christian’s favorites,
and I always cook with at last one thought of him in mind. Jordan sweetly
mashed the potatoes for me, though I cooked and peeled them. Somehow having her
do that made the meal less of a chore.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Tonight I was more ambitious
and followed recipes for sauteed baby bok choy and bourbon chicken—it turns out
Christian had several bottles of bourbon stashed in my closet. I refrained from
using the good stuff, though it was only a quarter cup. That recipe had a
little bit of everything in it—ketchup, apple cider (I used white wine). Honey,
soy, bourbon, chicken broth—no wonder it was flavorful. There was part though
that was an ordeal: cubing the chicken thighs, even though they were boneless
and skinless. I put them out to defrost, hoping to catch them in a semi-frozen
state when they would be easier to cut up. First time I tried, they were still
frozen too hard; then I let them go too long, and they were defrosted. And the lesson
of the day: my knives really needed sharpening. I’ve known that for some time,
hated to add one more thing to the list I ask the kids to do for me. You ask
why I don’t do it myself—I have an electric knife sharpener but<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>simply cannot bear the sound. So tonight,
after dinner, Christian left with the sharpener and several of my knives.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Other than that, the bourbon
chicken was fairly easy to do if you remember mise en place—prepping all
ingredients and equipment before you begin. The list of ingredients in the
sauce for the chicken was fairly daunting—unless you took it item by item and had
it ready before you cooked the chicken. Similarly the bok choy recipe called
for two separate mixtures. So I did all that and carefully considered what pans
I would use. As it turned out I used a pan for the bok choy, transferred that
to a slightly smaller pan, washed the first one, and did the chicken in it. But
the real saving grace was having all those little dishes of oil and garlic and complex
sauce ready before I began.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">None of us were too
enthusiastic about bok choy even before I served it. Although it was billed as
baby bok choy, I suspect it was larger than that. Christian doesn’t like cooked
greens, though the stems were crisp and good, and he remarked he liked the
taste. Jordan and I were lukewarm. So the recipe went into the round file, and
the remains into the compost.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The chicken was another matter—it
was not only hard to cut up but hard to cook. You tossed it with cornstarch,
but that turned it into one gluey mess making it hard to follow directions that
said cook in a single layer. I persevered but none of it browned like the recipe
promised, and I ended up deglazing the pan with a bit of uncalled for white
wine to get up all those good, browned bits. Perhaps my pan is not as non-stick
as I like to think. But I removed the chicken, heated the sauce and cooked it
until thickened, added back the chicken, It was to be served over rice, but
neither Jordan nor I care for the rice, so Christian brought his own. We
garnished it with green onions and declared it a semi-Asian success.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">So what I learned was the importance
of mise en place. But the other thing was a certain pride in myself. It’s hard
to admit, but I live in a semi-assisted living arrangement. There are things I
can no longer do for myself and have to ask for help with. But when I do one of
those little things, I feel so triumphant. Tonight, it was figuring out how to
get lids off two resistant things—the chicken bouillon where I used my mom’s
hot water trick, and the bourbon where I used a rubber jar “thing” to twist the
top off the bourbon. Somewhere in my not-so-colorful life, I have torn both my
rotator cuffs and, of course, never had the surgery because I know it is
brutal. So both my reach and my grasp are compromised, But tonight I figured
hacks to get me by things that normally would have required help and that made
me inordinately proud. I will add that the mechanical jar opener I recently ordered
was worthless.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Tomorrow the Burtons will go
to have dinner with Christian’s father. Sunday nights are always a bit hard for
me, because for so many years that was family night, and I fed anywhere from
fifteen to twenty. I always think Sunday dinner should be something special, so
now when I’m alone I splurge. Tomorrow it will be baked scallops in lemon
butter and probably a few spears of asparagus with cheese sauce. And, oh yes, a
glass of wine!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">One of the wonderful things
about my retirement/reclusive/golden years life is that I eat very well. I hope
you do too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-35724806820268334202024-03-08T20:27:00.000-08:002024-03-08T20:27:19.065-08:00 Random thoughts on a chilly night<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhOh2iw6RKTTAorylLt1ukVG3EFcX3aYrEaWcZkMBu-locIx3kE4bVV6QdV3gZPW0MA88rlUWxSqBoRtsIzkexHuMDJZV23XkA3f2IrFFugVYdIg8nkyzCR27sFAgZThQTyQSMrjdosp01-VElb02wrY8vv9G2iHGo4BqQuxcNccEm9LpTT64S6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="740" data-original-width="740" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhOh2iw6RKTTAorylLt1ukVG3EFcX3aYrEaWcZkMBu-locIx3kE4bVV6QdV3gZPW0MA88rlUWxSqBoRtsIzkexHuMDJZV23XkA3f2IrFFugVYdIg8nkyzCR27sFAgZThQTyQSMrjdosp01-VElb02wrY8vv9G2iHGo4BqQuxcNccEm9LpTT64S6" width="240" /></a></div><br />I was about to start this post
with the unoriginal observation that Texas is at it again—unpredictable weather.
Yesterday and apparently overnight we enjoyed some much-needed rain of the
moderately gentle variety rather than the heavy downpours that run off before
they can soak into the ground. I was especially pleased because I thought the
newly exposed roots for my two huge trees must be grateful. But then the phrase
“Texas is at it again” struck me in a whole different way. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This week showed us Texas, Greg
Abbott, at the behest of his oil-rich billionaire sponsors, shoving Texas ever
farther to the right. What kind of a governor indulges in revenge politics,
deliberately challenging state politicians who opposed him, in this case on the
infernal question of school vouchers? Unfortunately, money talks and Abbott’s
challengers beat out several of the more moderate Republicans on the
down-ballot. It looks like we are doomed to have school vouchers, which will
further weaken our already pitiful public school system. Texas needs to put
that money into teacher raises, classroom equipment, etc. In short, it needs to
strengthen public education, not siphon off possible funding. The irony is that
the voucher amount is not enough for many low-income families to send their
kids to private school so who benefits? The rich who are already sending their
kids to private schools and now get some money for doing so. It’s a rotten system.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Ken Paxton was not quite as
successful in avenging himself against those who voted to impeach him, and
there’s now a glimmer of hope because he is finally going to go to trial later
this spring on fraud charges he’s delayed for years. But right now he’s busy
suing everyone in sight—an El Paso faith-based organization that helps
immigrant (of course Paxton hates them), several school districts for
electioneering (but has he looked at private schools who push petitions for
vouchers on their parents). Today it was announced he is suing several
entertainment and/or food venues for not allowing police officers on their
premises if they carry guns. Ah yes, Texas is the state where guns are more
important than human life. His targets include the State Fair of Texas of all
things. Also the popular Meow Wolf in Grapevine, a restaurant in Deep Ellum, a
theatre in Grand Prairie, and a bar/restaurant in San Antonio. Must keep the
poor guy busy finding his targets. But it costs money to mount these lawsuits,
taxpayer money, and we never hear about the outcome. Except today I did hear
that a judge quashed the suit against the El Paso immigration charity.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But if you look at it, Abbott
and Paxton are spending Texas taxpayer money without our consent for extravagant,
cruel and illegal means at the border (a judge gave Biden a big victory on that
today) and to sue business which are adding to the Texas economy and quality of
life. For this, Abbott and Paxton get big bucks from those oil men who think
they can run Texas, and what do we, the taxpayers get? An inferior education
system that consistently ranks in the middle to lower grouping nationally. Good
going guys.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">On the national scene, it is redundant
to say that President Joe Biden hit it out of the ballpark last night with an
energetic, challenging, comprehensive State of the Union message that exposed
all of the Republican lies and sent the orange former guy to tweeting out no
less than seventy-five angry posts. I had thought with the primaries behind us,
the volume of emails and texts would diminish but no such luck. My email was a
mess this morning with politicians from all states wanting to ride Biden’s coattails.
Many of them are candidates I would support were I a wealthy woman, but I’m
not. All this deluge of messages does is a) make me feel guilty, and b) make me
want to explain my support but straightened circumstances. I am tempted to say
I’ll vote for the candidate—oops, specify progressive candidate (I’m not ruling
out a Republican, though I don’t think I’ll find a progressive one) who sends
me the fewest emails. But then again, who’s counting. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Here we go again into a
frenetic cycle of fund-raising. I’d love to turn off my computer, but I won’t
because I think we each have a civic duty to be well informed and because,
politics aside, I enjoy my online life. November seems a long time away. Also
it really bothers me, and has for years, that money determines election
outcomes. I realize it’s true, but I resent it. I want us to elect politicians
because they will run the country with knowledge and wisdom, they will try to
protect America, keep it strong, protect democracy, and improve life for the
average American, not because they have the biggest war chest (Abbott wins that
one in Texas and looks what it gets us—a fiefdom).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Just call me Pollyanna, the
idealist.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-32805994212484910592024-03-06T17:45:00.000-08:002024-03-06T17:45:44.797-08:00 Surviving, Day #2<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBlg5e1BrVDUWseTpcVj5Hfh-m1on44Ls2gNDVzASvTWVNXf0003Hb5CPd4tVrB-oYtk0YI-zgRjP7KpPFp87A3pfOM-yCXSvOAtQaMYxrrST-eQWHO5THnRK-P0mL5Z7nUKk46RNr91um8Eoe4AwdBwlf27PTO_-461ChfFTsbNS6mssvbmzE/s640/Jacob%20is%2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBlg5e1BrVDUWseTpcVj5Hfh-m1on44Ls2gNDVzASvTWVNXf0003Hb5CPd4tVrB-oYtk0YI-zgRjP7KpPFp87A3pfOM-yCXSvOAtQaMYxrrST-eQWHO5THnRK-P0mL5Z7nUKk46RNr91um8Eoe4AwdBwlf27PTO_-461ChfFTsbNS6mssvbmzE/s320/Jacob%20is%2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No, it's not Jacob's birthday, and he hasn't been 14 for several years.<br />But in the upper left you can see the trees I've written about tonight.<br />They are too beautiful to lose, and we need lots of trees for the climate.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Yesterday it was the
ophthalmologist; today it was the dentist and the driveway, or teeth and trees.
The dentist first:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When I was a kid, back in the
Dark Ages, I had bad teeth, inherited I’m told from my dear father. Whatever, I
had lots of cavities and in my tween years spent a lot of time in the dentist’s
office. The dentist happened to be a family friend—he and his wife/nurse were
Uncle Walt and Aunt Kaffee. Uncle Walt was a taciturn man, but what did a kid
of twelve know about taciturn? I just thought he was disapproving of me, and I
was intimidated. In those days, the dentist’s drill was a clumsy, slow thing
and having all my cavities filled was a long and painful process. (To Uncle
Walt’s credit, most of those gold fillings are still in my head some seventy
years later and to his double credit as an adult I learned to appreciate him.)
Needless to say, I dreaded and hated going to the dentist. I remember making
those trips to the Hyde Park Bank building, though now I can’t tell you if it
was on 51<sup>st</sup> Street or 53<sup>rd</sup>. Seems to me, I went alone,
though some thirty years later I always went to the dentist with my children. Add
to all that the truth that anxiety is a feeling I’m all too familiar with, and
it’s easy to understand that I carry with me today some dental phobia. At my
ripe old age, I have finally learned to take excellent care of my teeth
(especially if I don’t eat blueberries) and the hygienist is pleased with me.
Visits are usually not long and always painless—especially since she’s agreed
not to use the hydroelectric thing on my teeth. But I still get anxious, so
having a dental cleaning behind me is a great relief. Of course I have to go back
in three months, but I’ll worry about that tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And I’ve had such problems
with dental insurance. I didn’t like Cigna’s coupon books because I pay through
my bank, so I ignored their coupons, sent them checks which they returned, and
then they cancelled me for nonpayment. Me, Pollyanna, the good girl who pays
all bills promptly! Then I took out an Ameritas policy which not only didn’t
save me money, it cost me because it hardly paid anything on my dental bills
and I was left with a huge balance plus monthly insurance payments. It seems
that my dentist was out of network, but then I found he isn’t in any networks
and yet he has a thriving practice. So I cancelled Ameritas (angrily, I admit)
and discovered my Humana Medicare covers dental work—why I didn’t know that all
along is another puzzle. But the final blow came today when I was told that
with any Medicare policy, I have to pay the full amount up front, and they will
reimburse me when the insurance pays. The system is beyond me, but I admit to a
few unladylike phrases today (not in the dentist’s office, however). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">On to the trees: For years I’ve
worried about two tall, beautiful oaks that grow at the edge of our driveway, close
to the house. They provide wonderful shade for the house in summer. Over the
years (maybe as much as a hundred) they have broken and pushed up the concrete
of the driveway so navigating it is a real challenge. I knew it would have to
be addressed one day. When an arborist surveyed our trees, he suggested replacing
the concrete with gravel so the tree roots could breathe. A good friend who has
a masonry company offered to pull up the concrete, but the owner of our lawn
service threw in a monkey wrench by asking, “What if the concrete is holding
the trees up and they fall over?” (One would for sure take out my cottage and
me if I were in it.) The arborist said that almost surely wouldn’t happen (no
guarantees), but he wanted to treat the trees first to strengthen them. For a
couple of weeks I’ve been trying to coordinate arborist, mason, and the lawn
service guy. And I’ve been worrying about trees falling over. Was it safe for
me to stay in the cottage while the concrete came up? Finally, it was all set
for four o’clock Thursday; then it changed to 1:45. And then, today, Wednesday,
the concrete crew showed up unexpectedly. Good that it cut down the time for me
to be anxious. All went smoothly, the trees are still standing, and the broken
concrete is gone. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Tomorrow, there is nothing on
my schedule except work at my desk. Nothing, I hope, that I must survive. Color
me thankful that these two days are behind me, my eyes are okay, my teeth are
clean, the broken concrete is gone, and the trees are fine. God is good..<o:p></o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-15515404417178580152024-03-05T20:46:00.000-08:002024-03-05T20:46:40.896-08:00Surviving<p> </p><br />
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8TUU67m7kzh-jUVagDLCgc_MrInR-6qnJtGP1XBKWYttlyoovqrha86b89W7i2Y62PaPfmVxrD4BB0YLuY0bG8NTW9IZpyQH_xmSpvlIStsCBrPdxTW92te4_1yarcweORvcR6bVei-xgnq_XYCIzfvUCMLnSm_LW0a8j6ymXOtKDnIgTmv2u/s300/Helen%20Corbitt%20cooking.%20Photo%20from%20University%20of%20Dallas..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="199" data-original-width="300" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8TUU67m7kzh-jUVagDLCgc_MrInR-6qnJtGP1XBKWYttlyoovqrha86b89W7i2Y62PaPfmVxrD4BB0YLuY0bG8NTW9IZpyQH_xmSpvlIStsCBrPdxTW92te4_1yarcweORvcR6bVei-xgnq_XYCIzfvUCMLnSm_LW0a8j6ymXOtKDnIgTmv2u/s1600/Helen%20Corbitt%20cooking.%20Photo%20from%20University%20of%20Dallas..jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Helen Corbitt cooking<br />Photo from the Texas History Portal</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Feeling a little foolish about it,
but I have to brag I survived the appointment at the ophthalmologist’s office.
Bottom line is that nothing about my eyes has changed since the last visit.
Surgery would probably make my vision a bit better, but there are risks, minimal,
but still. Having had one “rare” eye disorder that required surgery, I am not
willing to go there again. But the survival aspect is because I get really
really nervous going to the eye doctor. As I’ve said, I feel like I’m failing
an exam I should have studied for during the eye test. Today I had a kind,
encouraging tech who kept saying, “Very good.” I thought I was acing it and was
a bit deflated when the doctor said it showed no change from last year. The
appointment was not quite as long as I anticipated—just under an hour and a
half, which was good because Christian had to get me home, pick up Jordan, and
get her to a noon hair appointment. It all worked perfectly. My only moment of
losing it was leaving the office with my eyes dilated and the sunshine so
bright—I suddenly felt like my knees wouldn’t hold up, so Christian obligingly pushed
me the maybe six feet to the car. So glad that’s behind me. Now if I can just
get past tomorrow’s dental appointment.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">We had planned to celebrate Mary D.’s
b’day a bit late tonight with a hot dog dinner—she loves hot dogs, and her husband,
sweet Joe, doesn’t eat them. But Joe’s usual tennis night cancelled, and he
came with her for happy hour. So we postponed the hot dog dinner for a week and
served happy hour fare—Jordan brought roses and pink champagne and watermelon,
and I whipped up a ham spread, which I thought was pretty good. So did Mary and
Joe, but Jordan doesn’t do ham. Joe declared he enjoyed the evening, but poor
guy, I’m not sure how. Much of it was about cooking and food.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Mary hosts demonstration cooking
shows for the Silver Frogs, a senior community group from TCU, and she has
arranged to do two sections on Helen Corbitt. She will cook, and I will fill in
with facts and stories about Corbitt. (If you don’t know, Helen Corbitt was the
doyenne of food service at Neiman Marcus stores in the late fifties and the
sixties, but there was much more to her career, both before and after Neiman’s;
a New York native, she literally transformed the Texas palate). So tonight we
talked recipes—Texas caviar, which is one of her signature dishes; chicken
broth, popovers, and strawberry butter, which is still served today to every dining
guest at Neiman’s (I think only two Neiman Marcus restaurants survive—in Dallas
and Fort Worth). Corbett was known for her extravagant use of butter, cream,
and sugar—and then her spartan menus at the Greenhouse spa. Most of us don’t
want to go the Greenhouse route, but we probably want to adjust a lot of her
recipes to today’s standards.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Big political night, but I have turned
off the TV late at night. Really, the primary results, with a few exceptions, don’t
tell me much. I want to see what happens when progressive candidates go up against
MAGA extremists (okay, loaded language on my part). I am glad Colin Allread won
the nod to be the Democratic candidate for Texas Senator and hope to heaven he
can get Ted Cruz out of our hair. Tonight, I am already weary of “Breaking
News!” messages telling me Biden and Trump swept their primaries. That was a
given, not breaking news, but it shows how hungry the media is for punch with
their news. Tomorrow we’ll get a more sober reassessment of what both statewide
and national results mean.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The political cause that engages my
mind tonight is the Supreme Court and the obvious corruption, particularly from
Justice Clarence Thomas. That he doesn’t recuse himself from cases dealing with
Trump is inexcusable in light of his wife’s involvement in the January 6
insurrection. And I read an article today that pointed out that the relationship
between Georgia’s Fani Willis and the prosecutor she hired is getting all sorts
of attention while the Thomas’ relationship is getting none. Media bias is
still a real thing.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Ah well, we won’t solve all that
tonight. Sweet dreams.<o:p></o:p></p><br />Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-62580368045405042882024-03-04T18:43:00.000-08:002024-03-04T18:43:22.227-08:00Monday blues<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPnvZJbIrSHgxDiTUnhguBL24FmWGcdAx-0WYZ655I1kvC8VzJuxUfTHTTXYC8RF7BmZT11Bmx2nYGobMYtQ8bOe4WG3CobM5M4-El5DuP6EsGp8L8kTI1jwNKsexO8zz3PVpzutmuZGQpPb9QubXVVH64Syhv_TCWGzP8I3TquRRQ52pZq2IT/s4032/Slaughter%20snapper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPnvZJbIrSHgxDiTUnhguBL24FmWGcdAx-0WYZ655I1kvC8VzJuxUfTHTTXYC8RF7BmZT11Bmx2nYGobMYtQ8bOe4WG3CobM5M4-El5DuP6EsGp8L8kTI1jwNKsexO8zz3PVpzutmuZGQpPb9QubXVVH64Syhv_TCWGzP8I3TquRRQ52pZq2IT/s320/Slaughter%20snapper.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />Christian fixed supper tonight: snapper piccata, Louella's rice, and blue cheese salad.<br />With thanks to Marty and Mike Slaughter for the fresh-frozen snapper.<br />It was a good as it was pretty.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Mondays are always hard, even
for those of us who work from home. I talked to a friend yesterday at church
who told me she generally makes it to her computer by nine o’clock or
thereabouts, and I thought that sounded perfectly reasonable—as long as I could
still be in the clothes I slept in and I had a cup of hot tea in my hands. But
today I moved slower than many Mondays, mostly because I don’t like what the
week will bring.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It’s tax time, and I got my
tax organizer the other day. I thought I could whip it out Saturday morning,
but no such luck. It’s like following the end in a tangle of yarn--one knot
leads to another. I went through my Discover bills item by item and found
several that I didn’t recognize. So now I have to track those down, in a laborious
process, even if they don’t matter to my taxes. And the phone/internet/access
bill was absolutely out of sight and beyond explanation. Other things went
amuck: I tried to order dog supplies from Chewy.com but had to enter a new
credit card and they declared it was invalid. The bank sent a thick folder
about a dispute—over a $29 charge that hardly seems worth worrying about,
except that I don’t want it to repeat. In going through online orders, I found
an email from Written Word Media thanking me for ordering books from them and
paying for them—but I didn’t do that. I think it’s phishing, but I am keeping
it just in case some books show up uninvited. So tonight I am exhausted, and
Irene will have to handle her affairs without me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Yesterday, however, was a good
day. In the morning, I went to church—actually went to the building, and the
walls did not cave in. They were having an event called “Author! Author!” and
those of us who write were encouraged to display our work. I took five books
that I thought were representative of the things I’ve done. When someone asked,
“And these are all your books?” Christian laughed aloud. “A fraction of them,”
he said. I saw people I hadn’t seen in a while, and I met new people. One incident
stood out. A man walking by held out his hand, saying, “We haven’t met.” And he
gave me his name. I immediately said, “We’re Facebook friends.” He grinned and
said “I read everything you post.” That really made me smile, because I often
defend my heavy presence on Facebook to friends who are scornful. That demonstrated
my point. A number of my Facebook friends are from my church. I did not go to a
service, because there was enough traffic in the hall that I thought I should
stay and represent my books. But Christian went to the service right by us—the nontraditional
service called “Ten: 10,” and enjoyed it. One of my favorite ministers conducts
that service weekly and a wonderful young folk singer holds it all together.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I had great plans for Sunday
supper—meatballs and spaghetti. But I discovered that the 2 lb. package of
ground meat I thought I had was really the one lb. package I couldn’t find
earlier in the week. And it occurred to me that I don’t have a large enough, oven-safe
pot. So I filed the recipe away for another time and made hamburger sliders and
bean salad. Jean came by for a drink, and Renee joined us for supper. Lots of
laughter and good times—and it may not have been meatballs, but the dinner was
good.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Speaking of food snafus, it
occurred to me today that Jordan has invited anywhere from nine to thirteen
people for Easter brunch—at a compound where the only working oven is my
toaster oven. She immediately began to think of creative ways to use the air
fryer, the crockpot, the stove, and even their smaller toaster oven. This
should be fun. Fortunately she is the one in the family who inherited my plan-ahead
gene.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Not my favorite week. Tomorrow
an ophthalmology appointment, which I always dread because they take so long,
and the vision test makes me feel like an underperforming teen. Then Wednesday,
the dentist, which I always dread just on general principles.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And the final snafu: I just discovered
that I loaded my personalized mailing labels into the printer, thinking they
were part of my stash of printer paper. So I printed tax info on the blank side
of pricey labels. When I do things like that, I always fear that I’m losing it
and senility is creeping in. It reassured me, however, about my brain this
morning that I inadvertently caught myself quoting lines from Shakespeare’s <i>Julius
Caesar. </i>Perhaps all is not lost after all.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">How about you? Do everyday
dumb things that we all do make you worry? Or are you that rare person who
doesn’t do them?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-66842778584848381532024-03-02T17:32:00.000-08:002024-03-02T17:34:39.402-08:00Updates and thoughts on passion—no, not that kind!<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBoLO6yfPeKLZM7nZb2xZHuZh5b7qgjpRaNwJGxS-2-S4F2iKfLK6mL59FedPtQqlcF36Ut2JRf76zEmh4BHc7QlJeWROj45mEbDRX1d_uAhfINn0U-j8Hqra4d3fSwclZUFzb_ga4aDagZOmt9Y8MabP_xRCvVozV4LyA7uiYeiED11H4F4kr/s1756/Donut.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1756" data-original-width="1665" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBoLO6yfPeKLZM7nZb2xZHuZh5b7qgjpRaNwJGxS-2-S4F2iKfLK6mL59FedPtQqlcF36Ut2JRf76zEmh4BHc7QlJeWROj45mEbDRX1d_uAhfINn0U-j8Hqra4d3fSwclZUFzb_ga4aDagZOmt9Y8MabP_xRCvVozV4LyA7uiYeiED11H4F4kr/s320/Donut.jpg" width="303" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sophie in her donut collar. <br />She is now old and mostly blind, and it shows in<br />her expression which clearly says<br />"Why are you doing this to me?"<br />I have no idea how to tell her it is for her health.</td></tr></tbody></table><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />Update on Sophie: she is
docile about the donut collar, and the shot-givers have all learned to avoid
the tender areas, so no more snapping. Her cellulitis bump is going down, and
she sleeps through the night. Praise be!<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Update on the plumbing crisis:
my native plant bed is totally destroyed, filled with large rocks—who knows
where they came from? No hole in the floor yet, but the handyman is prepared
should that happen. And it goes on. Today, Saturday, there is one man here
working. I have no idea what he’s doing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Update on Judith: I am faced
with chores I dislike—my tax organizer arrived, so did a multi-page
questionnaire to complete before a ophthalmology appointment next week, my
miscellany holder on the desk badly needs sorting, and I need to check the Discover
bill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The great American novel will have
to wait, though I have yet to figure out the resolution, so maybe that’s a good
thing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I’ve been chewing on the
concept of gratitude lately. I try to make it a part of my life because I truly
feel blessed. I was born white (not racist to say that’s worked in my favor),
fairly intelligent with a comfortable life and a loving family. My refrigerator
and freezer are overflowing, and I sink into a comfortable bed with a secure
roof over my head each night. I am, I think, the epitome of privilege. It could
have been so different; I could be an immigrant at the southern border,
desperate for a new life in America, or a child hiding in a makeshift shelter
next to my dead sibling in Gaza, or a farmer in Ukraine, or a nonbinary teen in
Oklahoma. And somehow I think gratitude accounts for what Christian called my
passion for my beliefs. It is simply because I am not that teen in Oklahoma
that my blood boils when I hear a legislator refer to them as “filth” and
proclaim, “We are a Christian state.” (Ironic for someone in a state with a
high native American population and for someone who proclaims himself a
Christian.) Gratitude is why I despise Greg Abbott’s cruelty with his cursed
razor wire at the border—because I am not that pregnant woman who got entangle
and died. I know life doesn’t have to be like it is for those and millions of
others throughout the world.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">There’s not a lot I can do
from a walker in a cottage in Fort Worth, Texas, living on a fixed income. I
can’t walk the block or go to rallies; my financial contributions are so small
as to be insignificant, even though one of my favorite candidates insists $3
helps. Were I wealthy beyond measure, the list of politicians and charities I
would support would be long. Progressive politicians like Katie Porter in
California or John Tester in Montana or our own Colin Allred here in Texas. Add
to that environmental organizations, wildlife and animal welfare causes,
women’s rights, and others. Someone said to me that money rules the world (I
think greed was implied), and I reluctantly agreed. When I protested that some
people use wealth for good causes and cited Joe Biden, Christian immediately
said, “He’s a millionaire.” But that, I countered, is not the operative thing
about him. His life is shaped by his passion for democracy. I believe the same
is true of Obama or Beto O’Rourke and was true of Ghandi, Mother Theresa. We
have role models in this world. It’s just that too many of us ignore them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">One of the things I’m grateful
for is that I have a church home where I am comfortable—and challenged to do
what I can to make the world better. I like the Jewish concept of <i>Tikkun
olam, </i>literally “repairing the world.” And I think it’s precisely because I
am so blessed that I am bound to do what I can to repair our obviously broken
world. And so I speak out. I don’t hide what Christian calls my passionate
beliefs. Some have asked if I worry about alienating readers, and my answer is
not at all. (Besides my career is winding down).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I’ll end this rant by quoting
Martin Niemöller, “Then they came for me/And there was no one left/To speak out
for me.” (see the complete poem here:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><a href="https://www.hmd.org.uk/resource/first-they-came-by-pastor-martin-niemoller/">Holocaust
Memorial Day Trust | First They Came – by Pastor Martin Niemöller (hmd.org.uk)</a><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-58239628583558583562024-02-28T19:11:00.000-08:002024-02-28T19:11:08.712-08:00 A new study on why art matters<p> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVG6N7wmbF40Yb4As6QI81NKgG5rchofRxKdqtNjFRCwVdZtyDfWH_2hU5QFjY4WKClaArPlveft1lZbipl9JGlCn0vGdBhIhbs4TvdkLdLWXUdkHwTmy83pxYQJkBlMcucnohptlCiYmUKTh-tMq4ftKIOVJEAEgloolo2KgP-KLOVuFl1FgP/s218/cookbookcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="218" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVG6N7wmbF40Yb4As6QI81NKgG5rchofRxKdqtNjFRCwVdZtyDfWH_2hU5QFjY4WKClaArPlveft1lZbipl9JGlCn0vGdBhIhbs4TvdkLdLWXUdkHwTmy83pxYQJkBlMcucnohptlCiYmUKTh-tMq4ftKIOVJEAEgloolo2KgP-KLOVuFl1FgP/s1600/cookbookcover.jpg" width="218" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A cookbook combining writing and cooking.<br />Part of the ars?</td></tr></tbody></table><br />When iconic Texas novelist the
late Elmer Kelton told his father, a ranch foreman all his life, that he wanted
to be writer, the elder Kelton gave his son a look that “could have killed
Johnson grass” and said, “That’s the trouble with young people. They don’t want
to work.” Elmer by his own admission never made a ranch hand, but he made a
heck of an important Texas writer. Does it matter?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Almost every congressional fiscal
resolution includes motions to defund the National Council for the Arts and the
National Council for the Humanities, on the theory that the money could be
better spent in more practical ways. In the US the arts usually play second fiddle
to business and “practical” matters. Perhaps it’s our Puritan heritage, when art
was suspect of being at best unorthodox, dangerous, and at a worst a tool of Satan.
Perhaps it’s the more modern reality, as Elmer’s father thought, that it’s hard
for a young person to make a living in the arts. Nonetheless the notion remains
in too much of society that the arts are frivolous.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“The arts” is an umbrella term.
What, really, does it include? When people hear the word, they usually think
visual arts—painting and sculpture—with the performative arts next—theater,
dance, musical performances, etc. And finally poetry. Somehow creative written
works are often left out of the mix. And yet, they require as much creativity as
the other arts. So I often include books in the definition and even that is too
narrow, but it may be the best we have at the moment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Writing in the “Maine Crime
Writers” blog, author Dick Cass reviews the book <i>Your Brain on Art, </i>by
Susan Magsamen and Ivy Ross, an exploration of the ways that art and science,
instead of being antithetical, actually come together. Our brains need both,
and art, instead of being frivolous, is essential to good physical and mental
health. Here are some of the research-based findings that Cass reported from
the book:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 1.0in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #101517; font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Music with a rhythm of 60 beats a minute can synchronize with
human brains to produce alpha waves, the brain frequency associated with rest
and relaxation. Take it down to 40 beats or so and the rhythm synchronizes with
delta waves, associated with sleep. Music can also help rewire the brain after
a stroke.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-top: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #101517; font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Colors have a biological effect on human thinking and emotion.
The color red raises the galvanic reaction in humans, how much sweat glands
react, more than colors like green or blue. In one study, people in a
gray-painted room displayed higher heart rates than people in a more colorful
room.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-top: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #101517; font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Research into architecture shows that building with elements
like curves instead of straight walls can reduce the blood pressure and heart
rate of the people living within.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-top: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #101517; font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Imaging studies show that poetry has neurological benefits.
Reading poems lights up the part of the brain associated with restful states,
and rhythm is something our brains are hardwired to respond to.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-top: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #101517; font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Coloring, drawing, even doodling stimulate the prefrontal
cortex, the area of the brain that keeps us focused and interprets sensory
information.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-top: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #101517; font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Research even supports the notion that people who engage in art
have a lower risk of developing chronic pain as they age. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: .25in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto;"><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Note
that the last finding specifies people who engage in art, not passive recipients
who study paintings on a wall in a museum.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: .25in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto;"><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Are
you familiar with the concept of <i>Tikkun olam,</i> literally meaning “repairing
the world.” It’s a Jewish concept, although echoes are found in many Christian teachings
and writings, that each of us is obligated to leave the world a bit better than
we found it, to contribute something to the good of the universe. I worry a lot
about that, because I fear I write frivolous things—young-adult literature,
light mysteries. Yes, I hope my historical fiction brings a greater
understanding of history and women’s place in it, but there are all those other
works. What, really, am I contributing? Cass’ article and the book have made me
turn my doubt on its head. The question is not what am I contributing through
my art, but what is my art enabling me to do for others? Is it because I write,
a creative activity that stimulates both brain and body, that I am able to
write historical fiction and even some young adult novels that may shape some
pre-teen’s reading. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The creative arts are not something
self-indulgent nor something to be lightly dismissed. They are part of the total
development of an individual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kurt
Vonnegut put it so well: </span><em><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing,
painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how badly,
not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s
inside you, to make your soul grow.<o:p></o:p></span></em></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><em><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-style: normal;">I think my avocation of cooking even falls within that
category, along with writing. They are both activities that allow me to share
some of me with the world at large, whether it be a book you read, a recipe in
a blog, or a dinner you share at my table. And I think that is a good thing.<o:p></o:p></span></em></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><em><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-style: normal;">Go, free your spirit, do whatever brings you pleasure (well,
within reason)—it will help you grow.<o:p></o:p></span></em></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><em><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-style: normal;">A personal note on our family woes: my brother thinks he’s a
bit better, we are moving ahead with fixing the plumbing problem, and Sophie
didn’t snap tonight for her shot (after three tries—I got a donut collar).
Maybe writing about all that has helped.<o:p></o:p></span></em></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .25in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><em><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-style: normal;">Thank you for listening and sweet dreams.</span></em><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: .25in; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto;"><span style="color: #101517; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-18413611241178599182024-02-27T20:28:00.000-08:002024-02-27T20:28:10.570-08:00 The butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker<p> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: -.1in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Only in my case it would be the
veterinarian, the plumber, and the HVAC guy—doesn’t have quite the same ring,
does it? Trust me, it has more pain to the pocketbook. Yesterday, Sophie spent
several hours at the vet for treatment of an abscess—I won’t go into detail,
but it involved several procedures, none of which are cheap. Now, she’s home,
with medication, and snapping at those who give<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvFvY8qYMthhrzQA3tNRzYJeOVgDQZgEgMYRqCjQNlcuRuCMLU09qIH8gkDMHWJRAZhH9g4026GJhKDicoghqjts4PBKZ0Q0vTEuMQVqvpXu-3ZKzrnX5QZeC3FpkCR5IVhaV8GREFRF5hoSq8MxYwXuF8hX34il7WUcqKSX8ZN21Ujahync8y/s640/House.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvFvY8qYMthhrzQA3tNRzYJeOVgDQZgEgMYRqCjQNlcuRuCMLU09qIH8gkDMHWJRAZhH9g4026GJhKDicoghqjts4PBKZ0Q0vTEuMQVqvpXu-3ZKzrnX5QZeC3FpkCR5IVhaV8GREFRF5hoSq8MxYwXuF8hX34il7WUcqKSX8ZN21Ujahync8y/s320/House.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old house we all love but which is now<br />causing us maintenance problems</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> her an insulin shot (Jordan
and Christian). And also yesterday, for the Burtons, they took their new-ish
male kitten to be neutered. A traumatic pet day all around. And, my older
brother was hospitalized. It was a medically oriented day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: -.1in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But things are never dull around the
Burton/Alter compound. Today it was plumbing and air conditioning. The plumbing
problem seemed simple enough—the bobber on my toilet wouldn’t bob, and it was
running all the time. The plumber I have sworn by for almost twenty-five years has
retired, so I called a new company, recommended in our neighborhood list of
vendors. The main house had a leaking sewage problem, but we planned to call a
contract company about that. Then I suggested we ask the plumbers to look since
they were on site. They diagnosed a severe problem, with water gushing out of a
leaky sewage pipe. After an early afternoon call, they left, and said they’d be
back either late afternoon or tomorrow. They came back late afternoon with the
smallest, thinnest guy in their crew because part of the problem is that the
deck is built over the sewage pipe. At first they said they’d have to shut the
water off overnight, but then they recanted—after Jordan and Christian had
filled pitchers and ice buckets and everything they could think of. The
plumbers got the gushing slowed to a trickle, said they wanted to sleep on the
solution, and went away. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: -.1in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Before I bought this property thirty years
ago, an addition had been added on to the back and that’s apparently where the
problem is—what should be two separate pipes for water and sewage is not (no,
that does not mean we’ve been drinking sewage water—I don’t quite understand
the whole thing, but the reason they didn’t cut the water at the curb is that
they were afraid of backflow when it came back on). I had happily been thinking
if the main house didn’t have water, they could have access to mine. Another
no: it’s all one pipe which it shouldn’t be.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: -.1in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">All of this meant Jordan and Christian
were in and out of the cottage every five minutes around five o’clock, just
when Donald from Rhinefort A/C was working to fix my heating/cooling units. He
got them working and promptly got it so cool I needed a sweater. So there I
was, wearing my sweater, trying to write my thousand words for a day with
Jordan, Christian, and Donald coming and going and giving me updates. Proud to
say that I did it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: -.1in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But it’s not over. The plumbers had to cut
a larger hole in the deck for their small guy to get down into that gosh-awful
mess. Now they think they will have to come inside to the add-on back room,
move the washer and dryer, cut the floor under them and locate the pipe that
should have a Y and doesn’t. I told Jordan to ask for an estimate; she did, and
the guy apparently in charge said, “I have no idea.” Not words to lull me to
sleep tonight. And as plumbers, they won’t be repairing the floor where the
washer and dryer go. Christian pointed out we will be without laundry services
for a while, and I asked how he feels about the laundromat. If there was
anything that made me grateful to be a homeowner, all those years ago, it was
giving up the laundromat.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: -.1in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">At least, as the sun goes down tonight,
the dog and cat are healthy, my toilet isn’t running and my a/c works. The huge
shadow looming over us is the plumbing problem. Wonder what tomorrow will bring.
My brother is still in the hospital, and he has one thing in common with our
plumbing: they aren’t sure what’s wrong (except maybe age—he’s almost 92 and our
plumbing is a hundred in some parts of the house) and they don’t have a plan. He
remains in fairly good spirits and his mind is sharp for which we are grateful.
I do so much appreciate those of you who have sent good thoughts for his
treatment. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: -.1in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: -.1in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: -.1in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: -.1in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: -.1in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: -.1in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Maybe it’s true that trouble always goes
in threes. People caution that old houses are maintenance problems, but todays’
trouble spots are in mhy cottage which is a new construction except for the
shell. I’m waiting for the plumber—the bobber in my toilet doesn’t bob, which
means the toilet softly and gently runs all the time! Plumbers are never
inexpensive—and the main house has a major sewage problem we’ll ask them to
look at and give an estimate (that’s an old house problem, although that
kitchen was redone less than ten years ago). And I’m also waiting for Donald,
the faithful HVAC repairman. I discovered late last night that neither of my
ceiling-hung units will open to operate. When I use the remote a light goes on
and the thing beeps, but nothing else happens. It’s a lovely day today and will
be okay, but it was stuffy and hot at midnight last night.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-6783693722806204162024-02-26T21:38:00.000-08:002024-02-26T21:38:31.580-08:00 A useless day—or a day when I was useless<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSejJcfDIySS0IhrUBwyHAh-kgC3fuUIGDyp4f52rG9G-gwsF7qET87ZzsIagE5AnIEgzLmx5xlm7cqUJQ94wFGnCqPvVl5sGlKE0t7H2ktrxPkSSjzjN2k6bN3CBG0f4yWUojm5ncdT-BeEH_YkXAztVN7hFJ7juQ8eQg9Abf_sjltHCjetF_/s704/Judy%20and%20JOhn.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="528" data-original-width="704" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSejJcfDIySS0IhrUBwyHAh-kgC3fuUIGDyp4f52rG9G-gwsF7qET87ZzsIagE5AnIEgzLmx5xlm7cqUJQ94wFGnCqPvVl5sGlKE0t7H2ktrxPkSSjzjN2k6bN3CBG0f4yWUojm5ncdT-BeEH_YkXAztVN7hFJ7juQ8eQg9Abf_sjltHCjetF_/s320/Judy%20and%20JOhn.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My brother and me, in happier days</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Truth is, probably no day is
totally worthless; each has some redeeming quality. But I am hard put to find
much good about today. No, it was not a bad day. It was just a day, a plain
day, one when I didn’t know what I wanted to do and did almost nothing. I
checked emails in the morning and made chicken salad for our dinner, so it
could cool and blend its flavors in the fridge all afternoon. And then I
fiddled, manufacturing things to do, avoiding what I’d set as my goal for the
week.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">You see, I’m almost at the end
of the first draft of <i>Irene in a Ghost Kitchen. </i>I have the end—the climactic
scenes, if you will—in mind, and I think I know how they should go. But I am avoiding
putting the words on paper. I think in part I’m afraid to ever call the silly,
short book finished, and in another part I’m afraid the end won’t work out as I
intend it to. With Irene, one never knows. The entire cast of characters could
take off in their own direction and spoil what I think are my plans. So I
piddled. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And I didn’t know what to blog
about. It’s been a different day—my brother is in the hospital again, just down
the street from us. I knew last night they had requested transport from
Granbury to Fort Worth where his cardiologist is but there were no beds at the
hospital. And then all day today, I knew nothing and was afraid to call, maybe
because I didn’t want to intrude or interrupt and maybe because I feared bad
news. Finally at six o’clock, I called, he answered, and we had a short but
semi-reassuring conversation. When I asked if we should come visit him, he said
his dance card was already pretty full. And then he said it was complicated to
get there, and I thought he was thinking of me in my transport chair. I have
found in the past that hospital has a lot of twists and turns, and you can get
lost if you don’t know where you are going. So we will talk again tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Also today, Jordan’s new cat
went to be neutered, which didn’t affect me much but did throw a monkey wrench
in scheduling. They took him eight and were to pick him up at three. Then I
called Sophie’s vet because we discovered an abscess on the back of her neck. I
had a faint hope he would prescribe antibiotics over the phone, but no—he wanted
to see her. Diabetes complicates infection. Jordan took her at eleven and, to
my dismay, they kept her. Then they called and said she could go home at three.
Schedule conflict! No way the kids could have the dog and cat in the car at the
same time. It all worked out: they got the cat, Jordan and the cat came home,
and Christian got Sophie about four. She is home, has some antibiotics, and my
wallet is a lot lighter. But I am grateful she didn’t spend the night.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Last night we had a farewell
happy hour for my Canadian daughter and her husband—I fixed a spread instead of
just a light snack, because I knew they would have packed their kitchen and
couldn’t cook. Pigs in a blanket, devilled eggs, veggies with a dip, olives,
pickles, cherry tomatoes, etc. We had a pleasant evening, and I worked to avoid
topics on which we disagree, but somehow the subject of money ruling the world
came up. Reluctantly I realize it’s true, but I hate it; she accepts it with a
degree of cynicism that frustrates me. When Sue said she as always proven
right, I didn’t remind her that she had absolutely guaranteed that trump would
win in 2020 because money rules—and he didn’t. But I hated that a touchy
subject came up when who knows when we will see them again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">So maybe all that baggage was
on my mind tonight and kept me from writing or, until now when it is almost
midnight, from blogging. Who knows how creativity works? Tonight, because I as
so at loose ends, I took a nap about eight-thirty and that was when I really
came to grips with how out of sorts I felt. So I got up, came to the computer,
and deliberately wrote three sentences. And I felt the muse kick in, I knew where I was going. It was too late to keep at it, but now I’m fired about tomorrow. I had promised
myself I’d write a blog post first thing in the morning, so I turned to the
book I’m currently reading. And then it occurred to me that if I wrote the blog
tonight, I could go right to the novel in the morning. And sort of what I
wanted to say flitted around in my mind. So that’s why these cobbled together
thoughts on creativity and indolence.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Sweet dreams all. I hope I
dream of Irene wrapping up that story in her usual fine style.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-70982586187584378422024-02-25T19:24:00.000-08:002024-02-25T19:24:22.206-08:00Watching the world go by<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjyTgwhae3ojXI-H5HFm57jIpxFLQU-hv3C8oaZTvwBYDDGS9kpQ_xVRePzmECVpENzRecKs_NwUBhQnFVlakf6gBupUDpOBu7Abp_P3EQI7yNgX1_FOwl2Q7TQOFrnZ-lUCWEeaNwZx0pqxtY9HNZodQzspVKc1jzwQorp1FtHWYYYYxINKLM" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="1000" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjyTgwhae3ojXI-H5HFm57jIpxFLQU-hv3C8oaZTvwBYDDGS9kpQ_xVRePzmECVpENzRecKs_NwUBhQnFVlakf6gBupUDpOBu7Abp_P3EQI7yNgX1_FOwl2Q7TQOFrnZ-lUCWEeaNwZx0pqxtY9HNZodQzspVKc1jzwQorp1FtHWYYYYxINKLM" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Obviously a picture from a previous year with colder temperatures</td></tr></tbody></table><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />My neighbors and I in Fort
Worth’s Berkeley neighborhood were virtually housebound this weekend with a double
whammy of events which closed our streets. Saturday was sunny and beautiful,
with temperatures in the high seventies or low eighties. I think half the
families in Tarrant County decided it was a great day to visit the world-class
Fort Worth Zoo, which is on the edge of our neighborhood. Traffic on my street,
Park Place Avenue, was backed up for four blocks—we do have the world’s longest
red light at the corner before the road descends to the zoo. And by afternoon,
cars were parked for blocks along many of our streets. This routinely happens
over Spring Break, especially at half-price day at the zoo, and the Fort Worth
Police do a good job of planning their strategy and keeping traffic moving as
best they can. But who expects zoo weather in late February? Another sign of
climate change, and one we should all take seriously. The traffic is not just an
annoyance for those of us in the neighborhood: it’s a real problem if emergency
vehicles such as an ambulance or fire truck are needed. Christian wanted to go
to the store and could go out by going the opposite direction from the zoo, but
he was afraid he could never get back home.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I was proud of my neighbors though—several
posted on the neighborhood Buzz how good it was to see happy families enjoying
the zoo and the fine weather. Said one, “It’s a happy day in the neighborhood,”
with a hat tip to Mr. Rogers. There have been suggestions about a parking garage, which I don't think would fit the neighborhood ambiance at all, and a few other remedies, but the general mood is that we're happy to have the zoo and have people enjoy it. The only thing niggling in my mind is the off chance of the need of an emergency vehicle.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Today one of Fort Worth’s
major events hit our neighborhood: the Cowtown Marathon, which attracts almost
thirty thousand runners for the marathon and associated races—half marathon,
ultramarathon, 10K, children’s races. The regular marathon goes right through
Berkeley and then down one of our main access roads. The halfway point for the
full marathon is approximately in front of our house, so we get to watch the
runners go by. When I was in the main house, I used to sit on the porch and,
silently to myself, assess the style and form of each runner. Now, from the
cottage, I can only see them at a distance, if I peer down the driveway and
through the iron gate.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Back when the marathon began
in 1978 my then-husband was one of the founders, and I was on the publicity committee.
The group from what was then the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine met in
my living room for months, talking about health and fitness and planning the
marathon. I laughed each Sunday, because after the meeting, another girl and I
served them fantastically rich desserts—and that ate every bite. Come race day,
I woke my four children, ranging from nine to three, at five in the morning,
and we headed for the Stockyards District where the race then began and ended.
And I abandoned the children so I could help with whatever needed to be done (I
remember a TV station had a van on site, and I periodically updated them). I can’t
believe now that I </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">turned the children loose, but I did. They reported in
when they were hungry, but otherwise they joined other “race orphans” and
roamed the area. They uniformly recall it as one of the really fun times of
their childhood. This went on for two or three years until my husband and I
divorced. But like my children I have mostly fond memories of the marathon, so
race day is always a bit nostalgic for me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The night before that first
race, we were sitting in our home office when we heard it—and my husband said, “Sleet!
I didn’t want sleet!” Actually he didn’t say it that politely. Next morning the
streets were ice-covered. Unfortunately I don’t remember the temperature, but
today it is sunny and clear and 80 at one o’clock—far too hot for marathoners.
By now, as I write, all but the stragglers have made it to the finish line. It’s
five hours after the start. And the zoo traffic is less, but it will pick up
again when the zoo closes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The weekend events are but
another reasons I’m glad to live in Berkeley. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-50108950963980426612024-02-24T15:51:00.000-08:002024-02-24T15:51:14.873-08:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Good food and good times in
Cowtown<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5j22aINU-kbCyNeaxXrWo2lwC5eY9tVV6b6cIWYfAZzePql8dPHHk3tvCsVzRt00Fk4ij-Xg6iWNKDoYn4RJOoeKlaxkiZseGSzTY2RjYgNbF1ZWs3vuzig5Ijed4bWxpCqAP41YZIG9EffvT0UOzszW8YLpLdgKN2ta8AIn_TrSu34nNStTE/s4032/Bowie%20House.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5j22aINU-kbCyNeaxXrWo2lwC5eY9tVV6b6cIWYfAZzePql8dPHHk3tvCsVzRt00Fk4ij-Xg6iWNKDoYn4RJOoeKlaxkiZseGSzTY2RjYgNbF1ZWs3vuzig5Ijed4bWxpCqAP41YZIG9EffvT0UOzszW8YLpLdgKN2ta8AIn_TrSu34nNStTE/s320/Bowie%20House.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Megan and me at Bowie House<br />The fetish necklace was my nod to western wear </td></tr></tbody></table><br />My oldest daughter, an Austin
lawyer, had business in Fort Worth Thursday and stayed over a couple of nights
so we could have some together time. As it happens Jordan was out of town on a
business trip, so she missed the good times and we missed her. Thursday nigh I
had plans to go to 61 Osteria, an Italian restaurant downtown, with friends, so
we decided when Megan was through with her day, she’d just meet us there. I
told her it was in a bank building—but oops!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I told her the wrong bank, and she walked all over downtown in high
heels.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The restaurant had a happy
hour special with great price on wine and tiny snacks—I don’t eat olives so was
pretty much out of that. But we ordered—a cheese and meat platter, focaccia, a
polenta dish, and an artichoke hearts dish. The kind of food I would never fix—in
truth, I was a bit intimidated by the complexity of the menu and nature of the
offering—this was definitely not your spaghetti and meatballs in a red sauce
kind of Italian restaurant. The décor in the bar is Fifties moderne, sleek and
clean, with too tiny tables. The food was delicious, but what intrigued me all
evening was the view. A wall of windows looked west, so I watched the sun go
from gold to pink to flame and then, almost suddenly, gray. To one side was
Burnett Park, a two-acre urban park in the midst of downtown that features the
iconic statue of a man with a briefcase. The statue is fifty feet tall, weighs 24,000
lbs. and is made of brushed aluminum with the figure of the man cut out of the
piece of aluminum. After dark, trees in the park are lit with ever-changing
colors. Megan said she couldn’t believe I was going downtown, me who has always
avoided the center of the city as much as I could. I loved being there.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh9lYxXb18tkiUa-byPdE7x2YzFR5br3FWyb8q69M69PwLfNU7pa7x6eeA7Kb1rvnR5EJWHxsW8ZR1BgWj1g_kjA_4xJxxy7GybDnE7OHiA8uE0wN17MPWxFM8gsn80R31ihEghUlaKwC2JNxuwYXvF59UfqkR8ws-uA_C8vEU7ElDwfgQdf9If" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="113" data-original-width="141" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh9lYxXb18tkiUa-byPdE7x2YzFR5br3FWyb8q69M69PwLfNU7pa7x6eeA7Kb1rvnR5EJWHxsW8ZR1BgWj1g_kjA_4xJxxy7GybDnE7OHiA8uE0wN17MPWxFM8gsn80R31ihEghUlaKwC2JNxuwYXvF59UfqkR8ws-uA_C8vEU7ElDwfgQdf9If=w200-h161" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Man with a briefcase</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Megan and I both had work to
do Friday, but by evening we stopped for a glass of wine with Christian and
then headed off for dinner at Bowie House, a new boutique hotel and Auberge
property with a well-planned, consistent western image—not flashy western but
more low key. We had reservations at the restaurant, Bricks and Horses. Where
to begin with the hotel? From reading, I knew that it has an unusual art
collection. 400 pieces from the private collection of the wealthy horsewoman
behind the hotel project. Young men in western garb and the required Stetson
roaming the foyer and bar area may have been subtle security but their main
function seemed to be seeing to the guests comfort. The minute we were through
the door, one such man directed us to the ramp for my transport chair. The
furnishings are heavy and dark, with echoes of the culture of the American west
everywhere—cowboys, native Americans, cattle, and buffalo in paintings and sculpture.
Dress for men was boots and jeans, and for women mostly boots and short skirts.
I was the only mobility challenged person in the entire place and easily the
oldest.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We had one of those long slow
dinners, with nice breaks between courses. At Megan’s choice, we started with tuna
tartare and then moved to Caesar salad. For an entrée, I had lobster Thermidor
and she, a filet with a side of cauliflower casserole. Our dessert was a gussied-up
banana split in a croissant shell. Finally, just before ten, we headed home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Megan was having a difficult
time backing my transport chair over the metal band between sliding glass doors
at the exit (If she had gone forward she would have likely pitched me headfirst
onto the concrete) when I heard a man say, “Here, hold my hand.” And I did. He
was a middle-aged, cowboy type, and while he had a firm hold on my hand, his
pal helped Megan lift the chair over the offending metal. Then as they got into
their SUV they called out, “We’re going to Billy Bob’s. Want to go dancing?” That
quick bit of help made a great impression on me, after an evening of everyone
seeing to it that we were comfortable and being careful and respectful of my
wheelchair. In a world rife with hate and anger and cruelty, Fort Worth is still
a friendly city. With wonderful opportunities for good food and good times.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Tonight for supper I have
leftover lobster Thermidor. Life is good.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-72484608033217198902024-02-21T17:54:00.000-08:002024-02-21T17:54:40.988-08:00 A red trike, the pickle report, a lot of cooking, and not much else<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8C3cubkrXdHLc8nMB8KlVbyR1T35CubFeB4mwRfYwM00x87huWVUlSBYpS_EAnWstBCzwFi9Ks7sPt-zOJXtjNpwHbcsmKGPPMIhfgZLo4xJtB06hFnWUctqkFmGzVUWoRG8dy70gnLMGdDfiZ-6049tgizESyxmsmboYo4aojeKRs6rKIrat/s800/Little%20red%20trike.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8C3cubkrXdHLc8nMB8KlVbyR1T35CubFeB4mwRfYwM00x87huWVUlSBYpS_EAnWstBCzwFi9Ks7sPt-zOJXtjNpwHbcsmKGPPMIhfgZLo4xJtB06hFnWUctqkFmGzVUWoRG8dy70gnLMGdDfiZ-6049tgizESyxmsmboYo4aojeKRs6rKIrat/s320/Little%20red%20trike.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Allow me a moment of nostalgia
and excuse the blurry picture above—those kids were really moving. That’s Jacob
on the trike and Morgan behind him, trying hard to unseat him. That trike was
the cause of more battles when the grands were little! And it has a history of
its own—it was some eighty years old when it was given to me by family friends
whose children and grandchildren had enjoyed it. Repainted at some time by
loving hands, it had solid rubber tires, and the front one had a huge hole in
it. I can still hear Maddie, looking down one day, and exclaiming, “There’s a
hole in my tire. When the playroom at my house was transformed to a TV room
(what happens when grands outgrow hobby horses and trikes), the trike went home
with Colin. I hope he’s still keeping it safe for the next generation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Since someone asked about my
kitchen experiment, here’s the report on the pickles infused with Hidden Valley
Ranch Dip: pretty good. I let them sit for twenty-four hours in the fridge, as
recommended, and served them with a bowl of plain Cheezits. Verdict was
favorable, and we decided that the dip infusion softens the pickle flavor a
bit. I used a 24 oz. jar of Claussen kosher spears. You may remember that I
also tried the recipe where you coat Cheezits with a seasoned olive oil mixture
and bake them---and I burned them to a fare-thee-well (and wasted a whole box
of Cheezits). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Christian wants me to try it
again at a much lower temperature than recommended. His theory is that my
toaster oven, being smaller than a regular oven, burns much hotter—and I have
noticed that before. The other night he brought out a chicken-and-wild rice
casserole (their oven is broken) and said the recommended temperature was 350
but he wanted to do it at 300. I admit it was nicely heated through—and delicious.
Christian is one of those cooks who needs a recipe to start with but then often
branches out on his own, adding and subtracting ingredients.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It's been a cooking week. I
fixed Norwegian hamburgers Sunday night, having forgotten that they are a bit
of work although well worth it. Last night I did a hamburger Stroganoff—a lot
less work and still very good. Yesterday, Melinda, who worked with me at TCU
Press for years, came for lunch so we could catch up on families, publishing
news—and, of course, politics. Melinda is, if possible, even more fierce about
trump and the Republicans these days than I am. But cooking both lunch and
dinner for others takes a chunk of time. I made salmon patties and a salad for
Melinda and asked if she preferred Thousand Island or buttermilk dressing. At
first, she chose Thousand Island because she hadn’t had it in ages. I proudly
boasted that both were house-made, to which she promptly said, “Oh! Maybe I’ll
just have lemon.” Seems she’s leery of mayonnaise, but my cooking ego was
deflated.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Much as I like to cook, I am
happy that we have leftovers today and Christian will be at a meeting during
dinner. I’ll have Norwegian hamburgers and mashed potatoes for lunch,
Stroganoff for supper, and somewhere I’ll work in something green. My mom
believed you must have something green every day which led me once to sit
across the lunch table from the man then in my life and exclaim in horror: “You
don’t have anything green on your plate.” He had chicken-fried steak, mashed
potatoes, and cream gravy. He rolled his eyes and said, “Once a mother, always
a mother.” My current green favorite, besides salad, is the fresh frozen green
beans I get at Central Market. Give them three or four minutes in boiling
water, add butter and salt, and feast like they just came off the vine. Don’t
get the microwaveable kind. Not as good.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Sweet dreams, everyone!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-37491603765309872022024-02-19T20:49:00.000-08:002024-02-19T20:49:31.482-08:00Monday trivia, some of it political<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEN8QcDJxSz67T5-y8IEZDzk79GrTJP7AZgwlbo36yF6bkaLrIQjZLk7KuFmI1nBMm91ZhpfoIA1-t4fyFGsWFgHILPJOi4xzfyiB9toiB4FsK3zOmLwbMHUGHrGE5TkgJWMlWSROVL0kIajWKFdRKL6JsTAhcVtDar2QDhRs_AYJoTNfQ5uE0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEN8QcDJxSz67T5-y8IEZDzk79GrTJP7AZgwlbo36yF6bkaLrIQjZLk7KuFmI1nBMm91ZhpfoIA1-t4fyFGsWFgHILPJOi4xzfyiB9toiB4FsK3zOmLwbMHUGHrGE5TkgJWMlWSROVL0kIajWKFdRKL6JsTAhcVtDar2QDhRs_AYJoTNfQ5uE0" width="240" /></a></div><br />My favorite student of the
week, a child I wish I knew, is the one who asked his teacher if a certain word
needed a “flying comma.” He meant an apostrophe, of course, but I thought it a
great description. And it leads me to one of my pet peeves: you don’t need a
flying comma when you refer to a decade by numerals: its 1950s, not 1950’s.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My favorite meme of the week:
Don’t give the nuclear codes to a guy who isn’t allowed to own a hot dog stand
in New York City. Another similar one says Don’t give the reins of government
to that same guy. And that brings me to the tackiest thing any of us have seen
all week: a man who wants to head one of the most powerful countries in the
world hawking glitzy, cheap-looking gold hightops with his logo at a political
rally. Do you suppose he comes up with these ideas himself or has help?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I realized this week there is
a new wrinkle in the manners we customarily observe with friends and neighbors:
it used to be if you had the sniffles, you could still go to the party. Now
it’s <i>de rigueur</i> to cancel because you might have covid, My neighbors
missed a weekend party because of this and my happy hour guest tonight
cancelled because he woke with the sniffles. I thanked him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Something that seems odd to
me: the Catholic Church is on a full-blown campaign to defeat Biden because he,
a good Catholic, has not come out against abortion. (He does have a few other
pressing matters on his mind.) So I guess the powers that be think it’s better
to urge followers to vote for a proven rapist and fraudster who still faces
felony charges? And they think they are following in Jesus’ footsteps?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Kitchen fail: I saw two
recipes making creative adaptive use of Hidden Valley Ranch Dip. First called
for putting a packet in the juice of a 24 oz. jar of dill pickle spears. I
tried it, and it’s sitting in the fridge for the required 24 hours, so I can tell
you if it is a keeper or not. The second called for mixing olive oil, dill
weed, garlic powder and the dry dip mix, coating two boxes of Cheezits, and
baking them. Now, I loved Cheezits as a child ….in fact I used to hide them
under my bed until one night I heard a strange noise that scared me half to
death: a mouse had found my stash.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Back to today, I thought this
sounded great and I could make it first thing, easy and quick, and get to my
desk. In fact, I dreamed about it too much of the night. But the logistics were
off especially for my toaster oven. It called for a single layer, which I think
would require a professional oven and half sheet pan. I only used one box, but
they were two and three deep. I followed the recommended temperature—375 for 30
minutes, which is high heat and a long time. You can hear this one coming:
burned you-know-what out of them. (It’s fortuitous that my happy hour guest
cancelled, because that’s what I was going to serve). So tomorrow night, Mary
D’s regular night, she’s getting plain, unseasoned Cheezits right out of the
box.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And a dog crisis averted: at
five this morning, I realized I did not have a can of dog food for Sophie’s
breakfast. Sophie has her routine down pat, and if you deviate from it, she lets
you know with indignant barking. In the evening, she gets two tiny milk bones
for treats—and she counts. If you only give her one, she demands the second. So
she would definitely know she was getting kibble instead of the canned meat she
adores. It’s a holiday—President’s Day—no school, no work for Christian—so I
assumed they would all sleep late, and I didn’t want to wake them for a can of
dog food. (I didn’t know Jordan was up at four to see Jacob off to a golf
tournament). I lay there, stewing about this until I finally got up, broke my
cardinal rule about never waking a sleeping dog, and fed her dry food, more of
it than usual. She did give me a funny look, but she ate it and went outside.
Just after she came back in, I saw Christian letting their dog out, so he
brought me the case of wet food, and the day was saved.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Except between the Cheezit
project and the wrong kind of food, I couldn’t go back to sleep. As I write
this, the day is half over, and I’m wondering what else will happen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The day ended peacefully, with
a chicken and wild rice casserole Christian made and me getting to write my
daily thousand words. Life is good, and I am grateful.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-41563828391736605912024-02-18T21:03:00.000-08:002024-02-18T21:03:12.802-08:00 A short dissertation on a word<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2JtZP2Ts-PyK6W7AIIqGvDw0U6glL4mTKuQnHHPbl37Gi5gAlu3eyjnQD_AMjkGtBCaHL9fNQfaJgKyHVydDXtD18-YHLv3I1BM1aCtI2_jXx1ctHBZp6ucjtJ2NT7SFfpEHyYeIERka3uhBR2uZDuJZKponzgFwm3cOzCb5enT1xS7kuN8Zz/s4032/Birthday%2084-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2JtZP2Ts-PyK6W7AIIqGvDw0U6glL4mTKuQnHHPbl37Gi5gAlu3eyjnQD_AMjkGtBCaHL9fNQfaJgKyHVydDXtD18-YHLv3I1BM1aCtI2_jXx1ctHBZp6ucjtJ2NT7SFfpEHyYeIERka3uhBR2uZDuJZKponzgFwm3cOzCb5enT1xS7kuN8Zz/s320/Birthday%2084-3.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Celebrating another birthday on that path to old age<br />note the walker I'm sitting in</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The word that’s on my mind
today is resilience. The dictionary defines it as the capacity to recover
quickly from difficult circumstances. I think of it as the ability to bounce
back. Several years ago I was in the hospital with stage four acute kidney
failure, caused by an antibiotic that I should have known better than to take.
I had already within recent years been hospitalized for a hip reconstruction (a
fractured hip so bizarre that people in the hospital looked at me and said, “Oh,
your ‘the hip’” and a diagnosis of atrial fibrillation. By this time I was
feeling a bit down when a medical resident, a woman, came in to talk with me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I said, “I guess this means
that my health is going to change forever.” I was having a pity party, but I saw
visions of dialysis three times a week dancing in my head. She replied, “Oh, I
don’t know. You seem to be pretty resilient.” Right then, right there, that
woman, probably unknown to her, gave me a great gift. I began to think of
myself as resilient. I was in the hospital for six or seven days, but every day
my creatinine (high is bad, low is good) came down. Eventually I went home and
over the next months my creatinine came down almost to normal levels. The
nephrologist saw me every three months, but my triumph came when he said, “I’ll
see you in a year.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I think so much of resilience
is in our minds, and once I began to think of myself as resilient, I began to bounce
back. Christian says I’ve been resilient about other things, like moving into
the cottage. There are lots of things I cannot do these days, between the
confines of the cottage and the limitations of my mobility: I cannot give the
big parties I used to love or even the elaborate dinner parties for six that I
loved. There are some recipes that I’d love to tackle but can’t with a hot
plate and an toaster oven—those that boast of a skillet dinner you start on the
stove and finish in the oven are beyond me. I have a closet that is
nonfunctional for me—the hanging clothes are so high that I cannot reach them,
even standing, and have to plan ahead so that I can ask Jordan to get this
shirt or that down. But I love my cottage. Christian says I have made it work.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This is not to brag about my
health or resilience to my friends who are walking the eighties path with me
but to suggest that it helps to give yourself a message of resilience. When I
posted about life in a tiny house yesterday, one friend wrote that she didn’t
know if she could do that or not, but then concluded she probably could. My
message is that we can do almost anything If we set our mind to it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It seems to me a companion
word to resilience is flexibility. It’s too easy to cling to the old ways, the
ways we’ve always done things, from cooking to child raising. Living with one
of my grown children who is raising an adorable seventeen-year-old son, you
have no idea how hard it is to keep from saying, “When you were his age, you
had to be home for Sunday supper.” Or some such. A long-time friend was here
the other day and mentioned how angry she was to be quarantined at a daughter’s
house for Thanksgiving because she developed covid. “But I apologized,” she
said, “Their house, their rules.” That’s flexibility. And perhaps apologizing
is resilience.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">To my friends walking with me,
think about those two words: resilience and flexibility. How do they apply to
your life?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Okay, sermon over.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-48641974809606374082024-02-17T16:47:00.000-08:002024-02-17T16:47:27.834-08:00A leftover day<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1WbAcEJH_NMCTAJK1EcLRv4AnZWD0u_g2x3L5DimvR80PB6sSIterR5LwXkVdQpS5xCkrfYI0E2xZ94Z7u6YCFfj_Id6t1kaxnRAhYOZhgvcVyHGywJCCdetSs-r0kx74uPRsioJj0y9I8g7eJ874b_gwxlQKY4QwBzB1jihxLlLMY4D-CJ_M/s640/Sue%20and%20Jordan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1WbAcEJH_NMCTAJK1EcLRv4AnZWD0u_g2x3L5DimvR80PB6sSIterR5LwXkVdQpS5xCkrfYI0E2xZ94Z7u6YCFfj_Id6t1kaxnRAhYOZhgvcVyHGywJCCdetSs-r0kx74uPRsioJj0y9I8g7eJ874b_gwxlQKY4QwBzB1jihxLlLMY4D-CJ_M/s320/Sue%20and%20Jordan.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sue and Jordan</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I think that’s a perfect name
for Saturday. After a work week and before Sunday starts a new week, Saturday
is the day left over. I had a busy week and a more active day yesterday than I
am used to, so I promised myself a slow, easy day today. It turned out to be a
day of leftovers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I wrote like a fiend much of
the week, averaging over a thousand words a day plus, most days, my blog. That
wasn't drudgery—it was joy. I’m in one of the spells when the words seem to come
easily and the story flows—and writing is fun. But yesterday, no writing. I was
up early making tuna salad for a lunch guest and a dip for happy hour guests. At
noon, my long time (50 years?) friend Linda arrived. She had the good manners
to rave about my tuna, and we caught up with families, the few old friends we
still know about, life as elders, and touched on the world situation. Her
(relatively new) husband had an appointment elsewhere but popped in. and they
both left shortly after two, because Linda insisted I need my daily nap. And I
do. Sophie and I are always overjoyed to have Linda in the cottage.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In the evening, Subie, Phil, and
Renee came for happy hour. The discussion was wide-ranging but got particularly
spirited when we talked about wolves and their effect on the ecosystem and
about the city of Greenville (see below). It was all fun, and we were tempted
to stay where we were, but a little before seven we left for a farewell party
for Teddy and Sue. I’ve explained this relationship several times, but fifteen
or more years ago Sue moved into the house next door to me. I can still see her
dad walking down the driveway when I asked him, “Are you my new neighbor?” and
he replied, in a wonderful Canadian accent familiar to this daughter of a
Canadian, “I’m your new neighbor’s father.” Sue, newly divorced, moved in with
two young children, and her parents went home to Ottawa, Ontario. In time, Sue
declared she needed a Fort Worth mother, since hers was so far away. I was
honored and consider her my Canadian daughter. Along the way, she bought a
house ten minutes away and married Teddy (one of my favorite people in the
world). Now they are moving to Greenville, South Carolina—because they fell in
love with the area. My parents retired to a small North Carolina town nearby,
and I can easily understand the pull of the region. I’m excited for them but
will miss them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The party was fun, and I even
knew a few people. But there were two stairs to get in, and we had to recruit a
friend from the party to help me. That sort of got me off on the wrong foot,
and it was hard to get my party face on. Still I knew a few people and enjoyed
visiting. The setting was a gorgeous house, and I was particularly impressed by
the hostess’ daughter who acted as the party angel. Teddy, bless him, helped me
out and saw me safely into the car.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">So that’s why today is my
leftover day. I confess I am still wearing the flannel pants and T-shirt I slept
in, and I think I’ll just fall into bed tonight, still wearing them. My work
today was leftovers—my neighborhood newsletter, some bills and some insurance
matter, more worry about the trees. Kept me busy all morning. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Even my meals are leftover:
tuna salad from yesterday for lunch; a bowl of split pea soup brought to me
some time ago by a friend. It’s been waiting for me in the freezer for another
cold night, and tonight is perfect (at 6:30 it is 41 and headed down). The
Burtons are going to Plank, the new seafood restaurant I really want to try. I
threatened them if either one came home and told me they had a steak or
a hamburger in a seafood house.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Tomorrow won’t be as easy. I’ll
go to church in the morning, and I’ve promised to make Norwegian hamburgers for
Sunday dinner. Norwegian hamburgers are something we learned about from Colin’s
mother-in-law, who lived in Norway until she was seventeen and came to the US
to marry Lisa’s father. The hamburgers are meat patties in beef gravy, but don’t
dismiss them as like our hamburgers. Different texture, different flavor and
delicious. We love Torhild, and we love her cooking. I hope I can do them as
well as she does, and I hope there are leftovers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">How about you? How was your Saturday
Stay safe and warm on this chilly night.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-18646452983988069632024-02-16T21:04:00.000-08:002024-02-16T21:04:25.489-08:00Thoughts on tiny houses<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGe8-gU90xQtu47lAnXOGQPNJoCJ59CIFn5vvEZVBb5pKjAr62ObYtqkNqVBkzaJWL8Jb_URtCuYfVWfvPEHeVcxqxxxhLcjxo8R2qEzklT9lVnN5Z2daw4C_WZUe2-Znff-76ZFEivFBO2cpAofc836To0JiRipbT23aAEWSESgrzr-IFlU8s/s640/cozy%20living%20room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGe8-gU90xQtu47lAnXOGQPNJoCJ59CIFn5vvEZVBb5pKjAr62ObYtqkNqVBkzaJWL8Jb_URtCuYfVWfvPEHeVcxqxxxhLcjxo8R2qEzklT9lVnN5Z2daw4C_WZUe2-Znff-76ZFEivFBO2cpAofc836To0JiRipbT23aAEWSESgrzr-IFlU8s/s320/cozy%20living%20room.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The living room in my cozy cottage.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Because I live in what should
be described as a “spacious tiny house,” I’m curious about other tiny houses
and spend way too much time looking at them online. My tiny house—I call it “the
cottage”—is approximately 600 square feet, which really is spacious compared to
some. I have a postage-stamp kitchen, a bedroom that was once a parking bay for
a 1920s car (skinny—there’s only one way my standard double bed will fit, in a
corner, and a king or queen would never fit), a walk-in closet bigger than any
I’ve ever had (it was a tool shed in a previous existence), and a good-sized
living area/office (I can seat seven in a pinch). Truly, it’s all the space I
need. When I lived in the house where Jordan, Christian and Jacob are now, I
was aware I only used the kitchen, bedroom, and my office.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My tiny kitchen deserves
mention, because if I were wealthy and thought I’d be healthy and cooking for
another twenty years (unlikely) I would have a professional kitchen designer
come in and tailor it for maximum use of the space and ease in cooking from a
seated walker. Due to zoning restrictions, I can only have appliances that I
can plug in. Hence I have a large refrigerator, but no stove or dishwasher. I
cook on an induction hot plate and a toaster oven, which means things like that
leg of lamb I crave are impossible. You know all those skillet recipes that
start on the stovetop and finish in the oven? I have to pass right by those
too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In my online prowlings, I’m
not so interested in school bus conversions, though I admire the ingenuity, and
I’m not at all interested in the process. I don’t need to see one more picture
of the interior of the shell of a school bus. No, I’m more interested in those
free-standing tiny houses. But I have several reservations, and the main one speaks
to who I am and what I do for a living: most of those houses have no desk!
Where do people sit to work at their computer, pay their bills, correspond with
friends, keep a calendar. Never one to read in bed (hurts my neck) or take my
computer to the couch (I lose concentration easily), I have made my desk the
center of my world. I spend far more than the recommended hours seated here,
and I almost always eat lunch at my desk. At dinner, we in effect have assigned
seating—me at my desk, Jordan at the coffee table in the barrel chair to my
left, Christian in the wing chair on the right of the table, and when he joins
us, Jacob on the couch. My desk is also nicely situated so that I have a large window
on my right and French doors straight ahead—on nice days I can almost bring the
outdoors right inside.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I have other concerns about a
lot of tiny houses: privacy almost goes without saying. The open sleeping is
fine for one person or a couple but the loss of privacy for an intimate life
must be a problem if there are children or guests. And that aside, loss of
privacy, of some spot that is yours and yours alone, must be a psychological
problem for many. Of course, living alone, it’s no problem. I find that daily I
appreciate my privacy and, once out of the cottage, am almost always ready to
return.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Two-story or story-and-a-half
construction is a great idea for a tiny house, adding a lot of space. But that
small space rarely leaves room for anything like a conventional staircase. As
one whose whole life has been marked by a fear of heights and general bad
balance, I could never do nine out of ten of those staircases, ladders, etc. I
require low steps and banisters on both sides. And the open sleeping lofts? I’d
been afraid of rolling out of bed and tumbling down into the main living area. Night-time
trips to the loo would be complicated by a staircase!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When I first moved into the
cottage, Jacob was about ten. I lectured long and hard about the necessity for
neatness in a small space. Now, Jacob has moved on to a full social life with
his buddies, and I rarely see him in the cottage, so I can’t blame him for the
clutter. The fault is solely mine, but I am no Marie Kondo. My walls are
covered with art, my tables and one big marble buffet with mementos and family
pictures. Sometimes my cottage makes me think of the late nineteenth-century
craze for miniatures. One of my sons says my cottage looks well lived in—I
would change that to well loved. But that’s another thing that strikes me about
tiny houses—they are usually uncluttered, at least the ones se see online.
Perhaps they are dressed up for a photo shoot, but they often look impersonal with
sparse decorations—maybe a plant or a picture here or there, but that’s it.
(That is not true for bus conversions.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">So here I am, in my semi-tiny, cluttered cottage and ever so grateful to be here. How about you? Could you
live in 600 square feet?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyzJ_3LYg4n_KklzPH4mhgL8Q4LrFerAkb4jvzVsSIvSvwfA2wq5SvcOedyNzJ1yMCKuaZSZgqnYq_nu4Dpx0iypU1zIkpdj_4JUqU6I2omyVlQkuDmtVRVmFdIu2BhWmEgriVeUjEA391dq98rkQv09eoi7sE-nbieagKfMq95wSHRoE5HFso/s640/tiny%20kitchen%20work%20area.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyzJ_3LYg4n_KklzPH4mhgL8Q4LrFerAkb4jvzVsSIvSvwfA2wq5SvcOedyNzJ1yMCKuaZSZgqnYq_nu4Dpx0iypU1zIkpdj_4JUqU6I2omyVlQkuDmtVRVmFdIu2BhWmEgriVeUjEA391dq98rkQv09eoi7sE-nbieagKfMq95wSHRoE5HFso/s320/tiny%20kitchen%20work%20area.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of my tiny kitchen.<br />I frequently feed full meals to four of us<br />out of this kitchen.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30975557.post-35146034832183230832024-02-14T17:33:00.000-08:002024-02-14T17:33:16.258-08:00 Tree hugging on Valentine’s Day<p> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZBLiarLjWNhQiR9uc12AW87AYJC6lmVqGkbmf2yc5_gtxt7TzuNaGmXdh8FV9OXI7uuuKUmqNIP2vE5dh6twQgMA0BU2ItPGQhh0A3CDiDRDjDQ1WRVyW5FSxmx_GyxGn1iKE4ooV1AIfV-n_eikuZA_kV-tilLbLzp0y_-X60-jjrLzCjFl/s4032/Chinese%20Pistache.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZBLiarLjWNhQiR9uc12AW87AYJC6lmVqGkbmf2yc5_gtxt7TzuNaGmXdh8FV9OXI7uuuKUmqNIP2vE5dh6twQgMA0BU2ItPGQhh0A3CDiDRDjDQ1WRVyW5FSxmx_GyxGn1iKE4ooV1AIfV-n_eikuZA_kV-tilLbLzp0y_-X60-jjrLzCjFl/s320/Chinese%20Pistache.heic" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chinese pistache when new.<br />In the background to the left, you can see<br />the large trees that line the driveweay</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I
think that I shall never see<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">a poem
lovely as a tree.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">“Trees,”
by Joyce Kilmer<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I admit it—I’m a tree hugger.
But when you buy an older house, as I did thirty years ago, you don’t (or I
didn’t) take the trees into consideration. Our house had a huge, old elm at the
curbside by the driveway, a beautiful graceful tree that served as a signpost
for telling visitors where we lived. I always had the fanciful notion that the
tree anchored the house to the property; without it, the house might float away
into space. I could not imagine losing that tree. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">But the house was a hundred
years old two years ago, so the tree probably was the same age. It had begun
almost twenty years ago to drop an occasional limb. Once I came home late at
night from a trip only to find the entire front yard covered by a huge fallen
branch. Another time, it dropped a long skinny branch that had been dangling
right alongside the curb. Christian worried about parking his car beneath it,
though he loved the shade. We all worried about a branch falling on a
schoolchild—the house is across the street from Lily B. Clayton Elementary
School and watching children come and go is one of our extra delights. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">There came the day that the
city tree crew informed me the tree was rotten inside and hollow. Because it was
in the boulevard between street and sidewalk, it is legally the city’s tree,
and they said it had to come down. Jordan took pictures of the demolition, but
I hid in my cottage not wanting to watch. With Christian’s help, we replaced it
with a Chinese pistache—it’s a pretty tree, doing pretty well now and supposed
to have brilliant colors in the fall (taking into account this is Texas and we
don’t get a lot of fall color). The pistache will never be as tall and majestic
as the late elm, but it is a tree, and I am grateful.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">The house boasts two remaining
large trees on the edge of the driveway, equally as tall as the elm we lost.
They are sort of squeezed between the house and the driveway—perhaps, when planted,
no one expect them to grow so big or the house to last so long. But they are a
problem—they have pushed the driveway concrete up until only the hardiest of
souls will attempt my driveway, and that’s a problem because people drive all
the way back to the cottage to pick me up. For several years now, I have
worried about what to do with these trees. They shade the house from summer
heat, and I know that we need more trees to fight pollution—we surely don’t
need to be cutting them down thoughtlessly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">When we had all the trees
trimmed last month, I asked the arborist, and he recommended jackhammering up
the concrete and replacing it with decomposed granite. I happen to have a good
friend who is a mason, and he said he and his crew could get rid of the broken
concrete, but he wanted to meet with the lawn guy about the granite. We met
yesterday, and ideas went back and forth, with John, my trusted yard guy,
recommending tearing up the old concrete and laying new. That didn’t sound
right to me, but they assured me the trees would be fine. And so we left it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">This morning I called the
arborist, and he said no concrete. A porous material so the roots can breathe,
which makes a lot more sense to a tree hugger like me. So we still haven’t
worked it out completely, but what I thought would be a simple thing has turned
out to be complicated. And it’s once again on hold until I get everyone on the same
page. I think Mark, the mason, is more comfortable with my return to my original
plan; Jordan is not, because she’s looking at the convenience of using the
driveway and appearance. I’m looking at saving the trees. The appearance of the
driveway is second to me. The permanence of concrete is part of my hesitation.
I figure if the granite doesn’t work out, we can go to Plan B. John seemed to
say the granite might be all right for ten years. I reminded him I am eighty-five!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Stay tuned for updates, but my
final word is that older houses always bring new problems. That said, I wouldn’t
want to live anywhere else.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Happy Valentines Day! As I
write, I am waiting for the Burtons to come out. I understand we’re having
steak and salad for dinner, having abandoned the idea of smashed potatoes to
accompany. I’ve made a new Caesar dressing, which is a bastardization and I’m
not sure about it, but I have house-made croutons and mini-ice cream cones for
dessert. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Judy Alterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05147106159914535549noreply@blogger.com0