It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas

 

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

Santa Mac

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

I am all set for the season.

Jim Shores Santa

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is really good.

A lazy day as the holidays rush in

 

My Jim Shore Santa
or is it Kris Kringle?

Sometimes I think it takes a day to recover from travel, even the shortest of trips. Perhaps it’s because I have never been a good traveler, or maybe it’s a part of aging. At any rate, I woke up stiff and sore this morning, which I attributed to four and a half hours in the car yesterday. I sort of proceeded through the day at a leisurely pace—reading emails and Facebook, studying some recipes, going to church via the internet, fixing tuna for lunch, taking a nap.

In the sermon this morning, the minister got to talking about holiday traditions and suggested engaged couples should always check out each other’s family traditions to make sure they were compatible. Made me think of Brandon who for—what? Twenty-three years now?—has been complaining because at Alter Christmas we each breakfast and then open presents. And despite his pleas every time, we do not open gifts on Christmas Eve. For heaven’s sake, what would you do on Christmas Day then? I’ve had a nice email exchange with B. today about that. I so love the four that have married into the family and accept us for all our set ways and peculiarities. Well, mostly they do.

Caesar salad with steak
and the world's biggest croutons

This afternoon, I got ambitious and fixed us a proper dinner—Steak and Caesar salad. I had found a new recipe and followed it closely—marinated steak cubes (I’d sent in a Central Market order, and sirloin was on sale—so a bit of a splurge). Homemade croutons (so much better) and scratch Caesar dressing. Do not ever tell the ghost of Caesar Cardini, who invented the salad long ago in Mexico—but the recipe had a bit of mayonnaise in it. We thought it was terrific, definitely a keeper recipe. But definitely not the classic dressing. It made a great dinner.

Another splurge: somewhere I read that Central Market had chocolate/apricot/lavender toast crisps, and I bought a box. Oh my, are they good!

The Burtons went to their storage locker for Christmas decorations yesterday, and today they brought home a tree from the Optimist lot. So Jordan was in a festive mood and came out this evening to decorate my cottage, while Christian was inside putting lights on their tree. Most of what she wanted—some beloved favorites—was tucked away in corners in the cottage.

Santa Mac

So now, my Jim Shore Santa is on the coffee table, my Santa Mac is on the bookcase, and my Christmas corner sports a tree with the oddest arrangement of lights you’ve ever seen. But it has some treasured ornaments, and it says Christmas to me. In the chair next to it is a pillow given me years ago—it used to play a tune but has long since given that up. And the little bunny is something I think I bought for a gift and then decided it was too dear to give up. Over the years it’s gotten a bit droopy and lost a bow, but it’s still dear. (We keep it where Sophie doesn’t go—at least I hope she doesn’t; the throw pillows on the sofa are there for her to throw on the floor, or at least that’s what she thinks).

So tomorrow, back to work with determination, at least that’s my plan. Sweet dreams, and I’ll check in tomorrow.

My Christmas corner

Cheer for a weary nation

 

When Jordan put up my Christmas decorations—and those inside the main house—last weekend, I thought it a bit premature. But I soon heard of others who were decorating early. To me, before Thanksgiving is early. Then I thought all that’s happened in 2020—pandemic, quarantine, impeachment, election—and the way 2020 has become a bad joke, even when people die. When the death of Sir Sean Connery was announced, someone on Facebook posted, “Thanks, 2020!” We all seem to be living in suspense—what will 2020 bring next?

The holidays begin with Thanksgiving and move on to Christmas, Hannukah, Duwali (Duwali actually comes before Thanksgiving), Kwanza,--what have I missed? They bring us bright lights and candles, seasonal music and too much good food, warmth, comfort and light. For a brief period of time, we feel that all is right with the world—a far different feeling than what we’ve had all year when all seemed wrong with the world.

As I looked at my decorations last night before unplugging the lights, I thought of the line from an old Christmas carol, “A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices.”

For many of us, rejoicing won’t be what we want it to be. My Austin daughter posted about her anger because she should be hosting all seventeen of us at her new house (yes, she wants to show it off!) for Thanksgiving; instead, she’ll be hosting her own family—husband Brandon and sons Sawyer and Ford. The rest of us will all be with our immediate families, rather than all of us together. A major change for the Alter clan who are used to getting together at any and all excuses—all seventeen of us, loud, noisy, and happy. This year will be very different. But it is what it is, and we have no other choice. I suspect Christmas will be the same way. We will have to celebrate how we can.

We started a bit of celebration last night when neighbors came for our regular weekly happy hour. One brought dinner for all of us, to our order, from a wonderful local seafood restaurant—a fried lobster sandwich was a true treat. Another neighbor brought wine, and Jordan set out plates—real plates! And she made chocolate pie—her first ever—for dessert. I convinced her to put real whipped cream on the top. So good. We felt very festive.

Tonight, Jordan spent a lot of time on the patio, assembling a large storage “thing” she had ordered to hold things like the heater, etc. when we didn’t want to leave the out for the weather. While she was working, she got the most amazing picture of an owl sitting in a tree watching her. She said at first he was on the ground, but she disturbed him, and he flew up in the tree and then took off. She called Jacob to come sit with her and watch for the owl to return, but of course he didn’t. After all of ten minutes, Jacob said, “Bird watching is boring,” and went inside We’re not recommending him to the Audubon Society. I’ll post Jordan’s picture here, but it’s so dark I’m not sure it will reproduce.

Cheers, folks, resolve now to make your holidays as cheerful as you can. Let’s not let 2020 beat us!

Christmas is upon us

 

Jim Shores Santa

At least in my cottage, it is all of a sudden Christmas. And we haven’t even had Thanksgiving yet. I always thought you put Christmas decorations up that long weekend after Thanksgiving, when men were all watching football. Jordan has apparently not gotten that memo, and she has been busily transforming my cottage into a kind oif fairyland. She has managed that outdoor light that goes through a filter which transforms the beam into a sprinkle of a thousand tiny green pinpoints of light—and a few red dots. It used to go on at random times, like ten in the morning, but now it goes on in the evening. I love looking at it, though I’m not so sure how neighbor Jay feels about all those dots in his casita. Fortunately, he’s not there much.

Decorations have gone up inside too. I have no mantel, so the top of a lawyer’s bookcase substitutes as home for my beloved Jim Shores Santa Claus (purchased back when it was a real splurge for me). Next to him are three poinsettia candles, the most unusual I’ve ever seen, a gift though I don’t remember from whom. Pushed together, they form a beautiful pattern; apart, each is a riot of red. Woe to anyone who lights them. And next to that is a glass block with tiny multi-color lights inside. It was a carefully-made gift from a friend of Christian’s, some twenty years ago, a friend who has long since dropped out of our lives.

Santa Mac

Jordan worried about the coffee table and kept trying to put the Shores Santa there, but I insisted he has been on the bookcase the four Christmases I’ve been in the cottage. So she stole Santa Mac and put him there—Santa Mac is as you would expect a Scottish Santa but he’s bigger than you’d think. He’s wearing a kilt and a sporran and he clutches a bagpipe, though not in a position any good Scot would recognize. He’s a gift from another good friend that I do not see these days because of quarantine. Santa Mac is named after my family name of MacBain. The couch sports a bright Christmas pillow, given to me years ago by a friend after I gave a program for her book club.

On the end table by the couch is the over-size brandy snifter full of Christmas ornaments that I’ve put out for years. Now Jordan just sets it up high in my hall closet from year to year, untouched except for an occasional much-needed dusting. And next to it is my Christmas tree, a small, artificial one though this year I meant to order a real one from a company that sells authentic miniature trees. Mine now is supposed to look like a Norway pine with separate distinct branches. It doesn’t have lights because it’s too hard for me to get over there to turn them off at night.

If you were doing a circle around the living area in my cottage, you would have come to these things in order. And then you would come to my tabletop fireplace. It was chilly this morning, and I turned it on for its cheer and its heat. It makes a great addition to the room.

Remembering the origin of many of my Christmas treasures makes me a bit sad, because several have come from people who’ve moved on out of my life. I suppose that’s inevitable—people come and go from your life and only the very best stay. I used to have huge tree-trimming parties at Christmas, and as I put out my large collection of ornaments, I could tell you exactly who gave me which. And the same was true—many had moved on, a few had died, but many ornaments came from people I still treasure. I cannot tell you how much I miss those big parties! I’m ready to make lists and freeze some fruit breads and get out dishes and decide on appetizers. Always the blue cheese ball and the caviar dip and maybe this year the curry with cranberry chutney—what do you think? I am making myself nostalgic! But I can hardly fit eighty people into a 600 square foot cottage in a year of social distancing.

2020 is what it is, and we must all make the best possible of it that we can. Stay Safe, well, and full of holiday cheer!

 

Brinner heralds the Christmas season

Two or three years ago a small group of friends got to talking about how good it occasionally was to have breakfast foods for dinner—pancakes, fried potatoes, bacon and sausage, and so on. The upshot was we had a pot-luck meal we christened “brinner.” Everyone brought a breakfast food to an evening gathering.

But then we all got busy, got together less, and no one mentioned brinner—until recently when someone suggested we should revive the tradition. So tonight, there was brinner with Jordan and Christian hosting.

One of the problems with such a meal is that everyone tends to bring sweet or starchy dishes. We had cinnamon rolls, that wonderful hash brown potato casserole, pancakes and syrup, carrot cake, and a cranberry cake. But one person balanced the meal by bringing bacon and sausages, and someone else contributed an egg-and-green chili casserole.

Wine flowed and so did conversation as we caught up with each other, discussed neighborhood doings, speculated about new neighbors who will be moving into our tight little area. We even spent time on changes in local traffic and parking regulations. No wonder one person, who will remain anonymous, broke into bars of “God  Bless America.”

A fitting way to mark the beginning of the holiday season. Jordan and Christian have their Christmas decorations throughout the house and a fresh green tree still in its wrappings, where it will stand in full splendor when decorated. Christian takes great care with decorating the tree, a project that sometimes takes him a week.

In the cottage of necessity I have a small artificial tree and am grateful for it, even though I have spent a long life railing against artificial trees. This year, when my tree came ou of the attic, I realized it has over the years grown scrawny, with a big gap in the middle. Plus half the lights no longer work. A new tree is on order and should be here soon.

Meantime I have touches of Christmas. When I was making the cranberry cake today, I reached for the salt on the shelf where I keep it over my work space and saw that Jordan had put a up Christmas plate, on a stand, that has special memories for me—probably at least forty years old, it pictures a family of mom, dad, three kids, and an infant in a carrier decorating a tree. It is of course me, the children’s father, and my four children. Jordan is the infant.

A glass brick with Christmas lights inside—how did they do that?—sits on an occasional table, a Christmas tree pillow and a soft, stuffed bunny in a Christmas outfit are in a chair (Sophie has a problem with that because it is her chair), and Santa Mac, a Scottish Santa, shares a bookcase top with a folk art Saint Nicolas. I feel very festive, and it’s wonderful to be surrounded with decorations that all carry fond memories.

For those of us who celebrate Christmas, it is Advent, a time of anticipation, of hope, of gratitude. A special times of the year.

“God bless us, every one.” With a tip of the hat to Tiny Tim.

Home again, home again

I came home to a cottage fully decorated for Christmas. A small table tree with lots of lights, Christmas towels in the kitchen and bathroom, a small glittering tree on my desk, a glowing glass brick wrapped with a big gold bow, and, crème de la crème, a display of scattered green lights outside my French doors—somehow a projection of LED lights, like a screen hanging from the trees. Absolutely gorgeous. And the front door has the wreath granddaughter Eden made last year. The deck railings are draped with multicolor lights, and a fancy wreath a neighbor made is on the back door. The fence between the driveway and the yard is draped with white lights. Even the gate has greens and a wreath. We’re in full Christmas mode around here, and the view from my desk is really quite spectacular. Makes me cheerful.

Colin, with Morgan and Kegan, drove me to Waco where we met Jordan, Christian, and Jacob at Buzzard Billy’s for lunch. The minute I walked in, I knew I’d been to thatome restaurant before, but it’s been painted and spruced up, the name and menu changed. Matter of fact, I think it’s been stabilized—I remember the floor used to shake. We ate on the deck, overlooking the Brazos—lovely, but hot in the sun. And I ate too much fried food—pickles for an appetizer, oyster po’ boy for my lunch.

We didn’t get home until four-thirty, and I was whipped, grateful that my dinner date vanished into thin air. Stayed home and had a baked potato.

But I brought memories both silly and happy with me. Like Colin stashing the water glass I asked him to carry in my purse—it promptly spilled, dousing the purse, some of the contents, and the floor of Lisa’s car. Today, Jordan unloaded her purse looking for her phone and set her sunglasses down in ketchup on someone’s plate. And tonight, I stepped into the wastebasket to tamp down the contents, got my foot stuck, and had to be rescued by Jordan. Okay, you had to be there!

Moments that I treasure—the Tomball Alters decorating their tree as a family, Morgan practicing her clarinet for me, Kegan showing off his card tricks, long talks with Colin, all of us gathered around the bountiful table while Kegan offered thanks. Sophie behaved wonderfully during our whole Tomball stay, slept in her crate at the foot of my bed all night and sometimes during the day. Morgan was great about taking her for walks.

All in all, a Thanksgiving to be grateful for and a homecoming to warm the heart. Life is good.

Mashed Potatoes for Breakfast? Of course

Jordan takes great pride in her mashed potatoes. She loads them with butter, sour cream, goat cheese, until you hardly know there’s any potato there. But this year, in preparation for Thanksgiving, she’s experimenting with lactose-free mashed potatoes so I can eat them. Smart Balance for butter, Greek Gods original plain yogurt for the sour cream. Result was so good I enjoyed some for breakfast this morning—heated them on my induction burner and felt like a pioneer of some sort.

(Note: my doctor tells me Greek Gods yogurt is probiotic, lactose-free, and safe for me to eat. I’ve eaten the strawberry flavored for breakfast without a problem.)      

Eating high on the hog today—Jordan made her tuna salad for me last night, and I’ll have a sandwich for lunch—with a glass of wine. Anticipating it already, at ten in the morning. As you may have gathered, I’m a tuna aficionado. So far I know two different salads that I like. Jordan’s tends to be chunky with lots of lemon; Betty’s is smooth in texture with pickle and no lemon. It’s been a good week for tuna—Betty made me lunch Wednesday, and I ended up having the leftover for dinner. To make me healthy while she ate potato chips, she brought me red grapes—which is how I discovered that fructose needs to join lactose on my do-not-eat list. It’s like all my favorite foods are being pulled away—I can give up strawberries but I grieve for blueberries and raspberries.

An unrelated kitchen note: I lost my skillet the other day. I knew when I got up it was in the sink for me to wash, but in the morning, it was gone. How do you lose a skillet in a 4x6 kitchen? I looked in the fridge and freezer, under the sink, and with the dog food. Finally, I asked Jordan, who collapsed in laughter at the idea of me looking in the freezer: she had taken it in the house to wash.

These fall mornings my cozy cottage is not cozy-in fact it’s darn chilly. I sit here in a sweater, while Jordan comes out in a tank top. I have those things that heat and cool cheaply. They were great at cooling but not so good at heating, and I’ll have to pull out the space heaters soon.

Jordan is preparing for Christmas a bit ahead, but she wants everything done in advance of the family’s arrival next week. So my cottage is now Christmas-y—Santa Mac sits atop my tall skinny bookcase, with three poinsettia candles; a tree glows with lights on a side table (though there is an unlit strip in the middle), and pictures of my gramdkids with Santa—including the classic screaming ones—are atop the legal bookcase. Right now, a Christmas basket with yarn and other seasonal items decorates the coffee table, though I don’t know if it will stay or not. Merry Christmas, y’all!

Tired, so tired—and bizarre news items

Ever since the holidays I’ve found my days eaten up with errands and doctors’ appointments, grocery store trips and household chores like laundry and kitchen things. I look around my house and see all the things that need to be done. Physical therapy twice a week also takes a chunk out of my week. And sorting papers for the tax return looms as a big chunk of time. The result of all this is that by Friday night I’m exhausted and ready to sleep all weekend, which of course I won’t do. At seven in the morning, I’ll be wide awake.

Every night I swear I’ll go to bed by ten—I have yet to make it before about 11:15. I seem to get a second wind in the evening, get lost in whatever I’m doing, and keep thinking that any minute I’ll go to bed. It won’t happen, especially tonight when I have Jacob who likes to stay up late on weekend.

His mom comes home from a travel agent “fam” trip to Costa Rica tomorrow night. His dad is going to a party, although reluctantly because he has to go alone. So I’ve promised to fix Jordan salmon—which Christian won’t eat. I’m loving getting back in the kitchen more, even if it does make my back scream at me.

I’ll be glad to have Jordan home for lots of reasons, among them the fact that she wants to pack up my Christmas decorations herself—she’s tired of my grocery sacks and has brought plastic bins—one is already full of all the greens I took down. I doubt the rest will fit in the second bin, but I’m ready to have Christmas off my dining table. I think it’s all the first baby steps toward our consolidation or merging households—as we sort, things inevitably get messy. And I, who used to swoop through the house, picking up empty coffee cups and other detritus that bothered me, don’t have the energy for that. I note things that need to be done and think, “Tomorrow.” Really welcome the three-day weekend coming up.

Lest this sound like whining, I’ll admit that bizarre news items have convinced me we live in an age of loons. There’s a legislator in Tennessee who want to inspect the privates of every child before they use a restroom to make sure they go into the correct one for their gender. Apparently he’s concerned about transgender transgressions. How many transgender school children do you know? And I’m quite sure that’s against the law. We spend hours teaching children and grandchildren about inappropriate touching, and then this nut job comes along. I’ve noticed that Republicans seem particularly concerned with our privates and what we do with them.

And now, in Texas, it’s legal to open-carry a weapon into a mental institution. How safe does that sound to you? We can’t do background checks but we can give mental patients a chance to snatch someone’s gun and open fire. Our Fort Worth Southwestern Exposition and Stock Show now also allows open carry with “certain restrictions,” though I never did see what those restrictions are. Sounds like a recipe for disaster, and one of the friends I had lunch with said sometimes she likes to go to the stock show but not this year. She has made a promise to herself not to enter any business that says “We welcome open carry” and to leave immediately if she finds herself in a business that allows it, signage or not. I so agree with her. It’s not that guns scare me—the people who parade them that scare me.

The same friend wondered aloud today if people were as crazy 500 years ago and concluded they probably were. We’re just seeing the 21^st-century spin on it. I’m not so sure.

Okay, I’m going to bed and wake up in a happier frame of mind. Everyone needs to kvetch once in a while.

 

A day of starts

 Do you ever start things and not finish them? I was raised to think that was a sign of laziness at best or of moral weakness at worst. Once you started a task, you finished it. But today I decided maybe it’s a bit of wisdom. I started several things: first I started the dreaded task of d-Christmasing the house. According to Jordan’s directions, I put miscellaneous little things (felt Santas, small gift-wrapped packages, etc.) into a large baggie; in another I collected all the little red apples that we spread throughout greenery; pine cones (I have an enormous supply, some gilded one year when I was feeling crafty) went into a paper sack; I put two folk creches in a baggie but am baffled how to fit the arch that stands for the barn into the baggie—I’d show a picture, but it’s already wrapped up. It came from a village in South American where women have tremendously improved the economy by making and selling these; one year I gave lots of them as gifts. The other crèche is also, I believe, from South America, a large hinged shell (not quite a coconut but like that) which reveals carved figures of the Nativity when you open it. Tomorrow I will collect all the artificial greens and put them in a bin that Jordan has provided. She wants everything in order for next year when she’s mistress of the castle, and I agree her method is better than my haphazard one which has relied on grocery sacks for years—often recycling the same sacks.

Then I started assembling information for my 2015 taxes. I was driven to this by the need to make room for 2016 receipts, etc. I didn’t do much but I gathered all the paid bills and the two folders I’d labeled “business” and “general” taxes and dumped them—yes—into a grocery sack. I purposely didn’t take my reusable bags to the store Friday because I knew I’d need brown paper sacks.

Something I did finish today: the book I was reading—Guilty as Cinnamon, by Leslie Budewitz. And I’ll start another one tonight—had the distinct pleasure of finding a Julie Hyzy White House chef book on my iPad that I hadn’t read. But that’s another start. I won’t finish it tonight.

Starting is good. The question is whether or not you finish whatever it is.

Confessions of a box wine drinker

Okay, it’s out in public. I confess: I drink box wine. It alternately embarrasses and amuses my children. One couple, oenophiles, tasted it once and pronounced it “thin.” My oldest son, who came late to wine appreciation, once adorned my bottle tree with a box. But a lot of people come to happy hour in this house, and a lot of wine is drunk (though some bring their own). Happy hour is a whole different story. But box wine is cheap and just fine for my unsophisticated palate. Yes, on some occasions I drink a chardonnay that I think is good and oenophiles might just as barely palatable. In fact, I know it’s kind of an old lady thing to drink chardonnay—but I like it.

Today I bought a new box and opened it for a wee bit with my lunch. Except it wouldn’t open. I have my technique down pat, and it just wasn’t working. So in a thoughtless moment of brilliance, I got a sharp knife and cut along the perforated lines in the cardboard. You guessed it—I slit the plastic liner holding the wine, and wine began to drip everywhere. Well, I wasn’t about to waste a whole box, so I got out the largest contained I have and drained the box into it.

When done the container was heavy and with my shaky balance I didn’t feel good about trying to put it in the fridge. I left it on the kitchen counter for Jordan. Jacob and a friend came in first, and announced it looked like urine. Then Jordan came in and demanded an explanation. She put her foot down and said her mother was not ladling wine out of a huge icebox dish. I put my foot down and said I was not throwing away all that wine. A standoff in what might be the first of several such as we blend our households. Guess who won?

The wine went down the drain, with a promise to buy me a new box. I think it’s the first step in the child becoming the parent.

But she busied herself with decorating my house for Christmas—since this is the year we’re downsizing, she went for simplicity, sort of. While I sat in a chair and sipped wine from a bottle. The house looks good, Christmasy, though we’re missing some familiar decorations. Lights are out in the attic, and I suspect Christian just missed them.

‘Scuse me. I’m going to have a good-night glass of wine.

Anticipation

I made these in the early sixties when I was dirt poor.
Jordan isn't sure she wants to give them up.

Probably the worst part about anxiety is worrying about what’s coming next. We hear lots of advice about live in the moment, and I try, believe me I do. But I never seem to get there. I once had a fling with a man who often said to me, “Go on. Bring that bridge right on up here and jump it.” That’s me—jumping bridges before I get to them. Tonight I’m worrying about going back to physical therapy for the first time in months, though I know they’ll come out and help me walk in.

More worrisome is the downsizing of my house. I woke in a panic about six this morning thinking about all the things I have squirreled away in various drawers and cupboards in this house. I truly think I’ve downsized each time I moved (which was often there for a while), but I have drawers full of socks I never wear, an attic crammed with I don’t know what—I think my notes (two file drawers full) for my Ph.D. exams are still up there, plus boxes of old linens nobody would use today and the children’s save boxes. Somewhere Jamie has a T-shirt I got when he was about three that says, “Kiss me. I’m Greek.” That’s the trouble—so many things—furniture and on down to little things—have sentimental attachments.

Today Jordan, Christian and Jacob got my Christmas things out of the attic. I proved more hard-hearted than she did. When I said, “We can get rid of those,” she complained, “I remember them from my childhood.”

What comforted me in the early hours this morning is that this can be a gradual transition. It’s not like selling a house when you close and have to be out in 48 hours. I was so comforted, I went back to sleep for two and a half hours.

Meantime, my two nine-year-old gentleman guests slept the clock around, from 10:30 to 10:30. I finally asked Jordan via text if I should wake them (the parents were good and went to church-I didn’t want to venture out in the cold rain and the sleeping boys were a good excuse). As soon as I went to do that, they were awake, so I served waffles.

Tonight my only concern is that I left a turkey wing on my plate on my desk when I went to get Sophie the dinner she was demanding. She ate the whole major portion, though I had eaten most of the meat. So far, no distress, but I am watching carefully.

Powder your nose!

I realized the other day that since the holidays I've slipped into being a real slouch. I went around the house in jammies--well, a T-shirt and cotton knit pants--without makeup (but always with freshly shampooed hair--I have a fetish about that!). When it was time to get Jacob, I'd throw on sweats until he finally asked one day why I was wearing the same clothes three days in a row.
So the other day I resolved to mend my ways. I showered and shampooed first thing and then put on makeup. My good friend Melinda was coming for lunch, and it would have been easy to say, "Melinda won't care." But I put on makeup and clean slacks and a shirt. Set the table with place mats and cloth napkins and acted like a grown-up. Amazing how all that improved my outlook on life.
Then came dismantling Christmas--it's not such a bad chore once you get to it. It's the idea that you have to do it. At this point, I have all the decorations down, about half packed away, and the rest staring at me waiting to be boxed up. To add to my woes, I can't remember what went where before I put it all down for Christmas. I'm sure that will come with time and meanwhile I am certainly avoiding the cluttered look. Hope to get it all boxed and put away this weekend.
But then there's the matter that my house is falling down around my ears--Jordan claims that some of the food in the back of my deep pantry is probably ten years old, and she may be right. The bookcases in my office desperately need cleaning, rearranging, and thinning of books--there are a lot I could give to the Friends of the Library. The linen closet in the kitchen needs straightening, and if I'd relieve the toy chest of all the things the grandchildren have outgrown, I could use it for a blanket chest. Truth is, for one person, living alone in 1800 square feet, I have too much stuff. Don't talk to me about tiny houses, though I think the idea is charming.
Now my grown kids are talking about redoing my house, putting pull-out couches where sofas are (sofas do need re-doing), adding a big-screen TV, etc. They're all coming home the end of the month, and I guess will have a conference about what to do with Mom's house. I'm willing to go along for a bit--I know it needs updating--but when they start talking about removing bookshelves, I will have to remind them it is my house. Besides, do you realize how ugly most sleeper sofas on the market are?
I think one of the big problems in life is that there's always something else to be done. Excuse me now, I'm going to read a book.

Well, it's Christmas night--is it all over?

I was tempted to write about the letdown of Christmas night and the anticipation of the new year to come. For a couple of months I've been focused on the holidays--I don't know if you start that early--so nothing else much got done. But I was always aware of that new leaf I was going to turn over after Christmas. I probably wouldn't even wait until New Year's--in fact, I did my yoga routine today and that's part of my new leaf. The rest of it really has to do with  establishing a writing schedule, getting serious about all the projects on my computer and in my head, doing some of the cooking and entertaining I want to do.
By Christmas night, with dinner behind us and the dishes done, it's too easy to think it's time to move on. A bit of a let-down, yes, but also, at least for me, a time for looking forward with optimism.
But then I read the weekly Advent message from my church, this written by senior minister Larry Thomas. Larry lamented that he would have chosen to write about the first week of Advent, when we're all gearing up for what he called the "Christmas marathon" and our energy is fresh. By Christmas night, our energy is sapped and it's sometimes hard to maintain the spirit of peace and goodwill toward all men.
But he suggested not rushing past Christmas, not hurrying to put it behind us. Leave the decorations up, even until Twelfth Night. Sit, quietly and peacefully, in front of the tree or the fire, enjoy the company of family or the peace o quiet meditation. Christmas of all times brings us together in a spirit of awe and thankfulness and love--treasure that feeling and let it linger.
No, it's not an excuse for procrastination--I still have to do my yoga and once I get thank-you notes written and finish the novel I'm reading, I have to get serious about that novel in progress. (Maybe that in itself is a bit of procrastination.) But I can carry the spirit of Christmas with me--probably all year long is a bit too much to hope for but I can try. I can be kinder and gentler, with loved ones and strangers. I can pray for peace and for solutions to world problems such as climate change. I can still write that great American novel.
Sit back, smell the scents of Christmas, and linger in the holiday.
 

The geese are getting fat...

I know, I know--it's not even Thanksgiving yet, and here I am with my house all decorated for Christmas and most of my Christmas presents wrapped. It is, as I may have explained before, that most of my family will be here the weekend of December 6th. I have this feeling of rushing to get everything relevant done by then, and afterward lying back in leisure. Probably a false dream.
The wreath above was done by a neighbor--sorry, no, she doesn't sell them, and I won't give out her name. She offered to show me how to do it, if I bought the materials. I pled, not untruthfully, that I had no idea what materials to buy and I am all thumbs with craft projects. She said she'd do it, if I paid for materials. She and I both think this wreath is the prettiest one she's done. And I know she was underpaid for her time in shopping and constructing. But I love having it on my front door. She has my undying gratitude.
Previously, for over forty years, I had a red plastic bow, which every year I washed and then tried to fluff and straighten out. Over that I hung a green wreath. I am overjoyed now with the beauty of this wreath--keep glancing at the door to make sure it's still there.
Inside my house is decorated too--mantel, buffet, dining room table. When the kids arrive, it will be very Christmas-like, and I will feel very festive. I already do.
I went to church this morning because I love the Thanksgiving hymns. I got mixed up in what we were singing when, and the one I love--"Come ye thankful children, come" turned out to be a bell choir arrangement which left me all ready to sing it when I realized the congregation was bursting into "For the beauty of the earth." I'm not big on bell choir arrangements--can't follow the tune. And I had a hard time hearing parts of the service, but I was still glad I went. I do indeed have a heart full of gratitude for the beauty of the earth and for God's blessings on me.
Not a very festive dinner today--but hero sandwiches out of pita bread layers and lots of fillings--salami, ham, cheese spread (I used sharp cheese with port wine), mayo, lettuce, tomato, onion, salad dressing, cream cheese. Really good, though a bit awkward to eat. I made these years ago when I was feeding the multitudes on Sunday nights, and now I wonder how many of the things I made. Four servings (six pitas) took a while, though I don't remember that the pitas before were as large or as fragile. The recipe actually says, "Buy deli potato salad," so I bought Aunt Pearl's from
Central Market. Wonder who Aunt Pearl was? I like her potato salad.
Jordan comes home tomorrow--in fact, she's probably on her way to the Milan airport as we speak. She'll have a long day--six-hour layover at JFK-and won't be home until late Monday night, no doubt exhausted. Tuesday I know first on her agenda will be to get Jacob from his grandparents. I'll be lucky if I get a glimpse of her even Tuesday but I'll be glad to have her back home.

A busy but happy camper

An awesome weekend--nothing big, nothing outstanding, just pleasantly awesome. Saturday morning I rushed to the grocery fairly early, and Jordan met me there to pick up Jacob. She who has shopped with me since she was a child and knows that I have always shopped at Westcliff since the '80s(besides Central Market) went to Kroger and wondered where I was. Got that straightened out, and Jacob was off to a football game. Saturday night they went to the TCU game which was a biggie--Kansas State (#7) against TCU (#6). TCU's victory had a large margin, and they are now #5. I'm not a big football fan but when you live in the area and have such close ties to the university it's hard not to get excited.
While they were cheering, I was having an early, quiet dinner with a good friend at a local tapas restaurant--ham croquettes (well, however you say it in Spanish--jambon? jamon?) and a roasted cauliflower/leek salad with a red sauce. I fear it had red peppers in it but the taste was mild and I liked it. Good wine, a great and long overdue visit, and a lovely evening.
I was really a busy beaver this weekend--got sausage balls and a cheese ball in the freezer for the holidays, did my yoga, wrote 3,000 words,, and got in two long naps (why am I so sleepy tonight?). And tonight Christian got all my Christmas stuff--bags and bags--down out of the attic, so I have major chores: wrapping and decorating. Have to squeeze it all in between all the other things I do before December 6 when all but one of my kids will be here for the weekend. Since this year is not an Alter Christmas--they all go to their in-laws--that's a perfect time to deliver gifts.
Back to the present: tonight Jordan, Christian and Jacob came for supper, and Subie and Phil came for happy hour. I felt bad not to invite them for dinner but I served leftovers and wasn't sure there was enough. This was a clean out the fridge/freezer meal--leftover chili/cheese appetizer and last week's pot roast became this week's stew.
I defrosted the pot roast with its potatoes and carrots (love those mushy carrots in gravy). Made a roux and then stirred in canned beef broth to make gravy for the pot roast. That, plus the gravy it had cooked in, make a great stew. But I was right. There wasn't enough for company.
Sophie was so excited to have everybody here tonight that she raced back and forth in the house, and I feared she'd trip Phil. She loves his seeing-eye dog, Santiago, but Santiago is old and not interested in playing with her. Still, she thought it was lovely to have all those she loves around her.
Tomorrow is a school holiday. Jacob and I will co-exist except that he has to be able to identify the upper Midwestern states, give their abbreviations and capitals. So far, he's got a long way to go. I think we'll unpack the Christmas stuff and sort it. Goodbye to my dining table for a while.
In cleaning out my freezer, I found a new kind of ambrosia--amaretto-dusted pecans. Heavenly. I think they came from Central Market. Left them out for Jordan to try, and she promptly put them with the things she was to take home. I stopped that!
Going to sleep, full, happy and content tonight. Life is good.

January--the cleaning out, cleaning up month

I used to know an older doctor who told me he hated January because he'd just paid for Christmas and here came January and quarterly taxes. Well, my dislike isn't quite that severe, though I do pay quarterly taxes. But to me, it's a month of cleaning out and cleaning up.
First of all, I leave my Christmas decorations up through Epiphany, so January 7th is the big take-down-Christmas day. It involves having my local kids and/or neighbors get the storage things out of the attic (I'm not allowed up there except in extreme cases with four younger adults in the house). Then I have to dismantle, wrap and pack all those decorations--and there's always something you find after you think you have everything packed. This year it was a music box Santa in a sleigh. Then kids/neighbors, whoever, has to put the boxes back up in the attic. Christian has become kind of keeper of the attic, and vows to get me large storage bins but think how hard they'd been to get up and down--he doesn't like my 15 or so grocery bags. This year I was appalled when he said his goal is to see a tree in my house at Christmas--haven't had one in years because I'm usually gone. Jacob, Christian and I got it all back in the attic the other night. I wanted to clear out the guest room because other branches of the family will be coming the end of January for rodeo weekend.
The other January chore I dread is accumulating tax information--once I get that questionnaire from the accountant I feel honor-bound to get it done quickly. This year I've developed a new system and have dealt with quite a few categories--but I have miles to go, and twelve months of bank statements to check. I resolved to do one tax chore a day, but I've fallen down on that. So that huge task still looms.
This year, the leaves were slow to fall from the trees, and I have a lot of oaks on my property. When they did fall, it was first too icy and then too cold to rake, so when we came home at the end of December we waded through piles of leaves. They're mostly gone now and it's a joy to walk down a leaf-free driveway after dark, but the yard and porches are discouraging--devoid of plants that I've brought in to winter. Those that are still outside are mostly ones that will flourish again in spring (well, not the dusty miller Jacob had to have and has since ignored) but even the oregano looks pretty pitiful. The wandering jew has died, as has a plant I don't know the name of--it was lovely with dainty white flowers in the spring, but they disappeared with summer heat and now it looks like straw. Greg has cleaned out the cyclamen and some other non-survivors, but the whole aspect is discouraging.
We think of January as a time for a new start--resolutions and all that--but I think it's a month designed to get us ready for spring. Of course we still have stock-show weather and February to go through. And it's to be bitterly cold day after tomorrow.

Cabin Fever

This is day three of a self-imposed stay in the house for the storm that a whimper and not the expected bang. I just set my mind to staying home Saturday through Monday but by tonight my own company is wearing thin. Even Sophie is bored with me. Not that I haven't accomplished things.
I've unpacked the Christmas decorations and got the house in fairly good shape--ready for Jordan's inspection and oh-so-tactful suggestions. Most of it is the same as it is every year, but this year I wanted to do something different on the dining table. This is what I've tentatively come up with:

His name is Santa Mac, because my father, a good Scotsman, was called Mac, although I doubt Dad ever wore a kilt. Friend Jeannie Chaffee happened on him on a shopping trip somewhere and knew I had to have him. Jordan may well object to the absence of candles--we'll see. The table stymied me for two days--waiting for inspiration to strike. I had put Santa Mac in his usual place on the bookcase and just happened to glance at him tonight. Voila! I don't think all my decorations made it out of the attic but since I need Santa's helpers to get them, I won't complain--my helpers did a good job. I can't go search for missing items because I'm not allowed to go into the attic--one of the few rules of living alone that I'm happy about.
I know you're not supposed to decorate before Thanksgiving--whose unwritten rule is that?--but this year Thanksgiving is so late that when it's over, Christmas will be upon us.
I've written a guest blog, assembled the neighborhood newspaper, and am almost done with a last trip
through the fifth Kelly O'Connell novel before I send it off to the editor. I think its title is Deception in Strange Places. I've made a pot of soup, which I froze, and served dinner to guests. It hasn't been an unproductive time at home, but I've had enough, thank you very much.
I could have gone out today because of the storm that wasn't, but I had no plans, nowhere to go unless I spent money, and the damp cold didn't inspire me. By the time Jordan invited me to come for wine, I was set in my at-home mode.
Getting out tomorrow for lunch and dinner--it's about time! And by this weekend it will be sixty!