It’s Christmastime in the city

 

Lovely evening tonight. Jean picked me up and we went to Trinity Terrace, the high-rise retirement community where she lives. In the formal dining room, we met longtime special friend, Jeannie Chaffee, and the three of us gabbed and gossiped hrough dinner, covering everything from TCU’s football record to Harry and Meghan’s documentary. Nice that we are all pretty much on the same page on these subjects—TCU priorities are out of whack for a university and higher echelons salaries are an embarrassment compared to faculty and staff salaries at all levels. Meghan and Harry should be ashamed of themselves for dishing on the monarchy—they seem to want the privileges without the obligations, and they need to be told firmly they can’t have it both ways. Telling dirty secrets is really low life.

I had Caesar salad with salmon for supper—we haven’t had salads lately at home, for whatever reason. Perhaps we are all busy, perhaps there’s always a catastrophe, like the leaning Christmas tree, but I was all set for a huge salad tonight—and that’s what I had. Enough in the fridge for my lunch tomorrow.

After supper, Jean drove me on a tour of Christmas lights. We went through my neighborhood where displays were spotty—there were some over-the-top displays, some totally dark houses, and some sort of halfway efforts. I pointed out to Jean that we have some elderly residents who have lived here for decades and are now probably without the energy to string lights. I remember past years when the lights were more uniform and much more imaginative—or am I just getting old and letting nostalgia distort my memory? Proud to say that Christian’s efforts on our house are the best and stand out on a mostly dark street. (Plus tonight when I came home, I saw that he had covered some of the plants, including my herb garden).

But the prize for spectacular light displays goes to Cook Children’s Hospital with the most lavish lighting I’ve seen—trees are bathed in rotating red, green, and gold, teddy bears and rabbits and hobby horses sparkle with lights, and Santa himself is there with a pair of the oddest spectacles. The display covers the roundabout in front of the hospital and one block to the west of the main building. There is seating (if you’re brave enough in these chilly temperatures) and stations that offer photo ops. It’s extravagant, gorgeous, beyond imagining, and it really brings out the Christmas spirit, almost making me, still coughing and never able to carry a tune, want to break out in a Christmas carol

Thanks to Jean for a lovely evening, and a chance to get out of the cottage before the arctic blast hits.

Even Christmas displays bring out the worst. There’s a camera shot of the scum who stole the Baby Jesus from a nativity scene in Sundance Square downtown. The camera even caught him handing the baby off to a cohort, and then they disappeared in a vehicle, also caught on camera. They apparently haven’t been caught, but what in heaven’s name do they intend to do with the (probably plastic) Baby Jesus? I doubt ransom is a possibility. And then there was an ad for over-size all-white nativity scene figures made of interlocking pieces, so you just snap them together. Somehow that strikes me as crassly commercial.

Meanwhile, our resident big coyote must be feeling the Berkeley spirit. He was back today, boldly napping in the same yard where he was caught on camera a couple of days ago. I applaud the homeowner who said she doesn’t want to cause his demise but does wish Fort Worth Animal Control would trap him and take him for a good long ride. I lamented in a small online group that I didn’t know what I’d do if a coyote attacked Sophie in the night, and a friend suggested an airhorn but said she guessed I couldn’t do that in the city. Of course I can if necessary to save my dog’s life—I just need the air horn. Her second suggestion was a wooden spoon and a pot—when I tried that tonight, Sophie came running as though offered a treat.

The weather forecast is grim, starting at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Temperatures may get as low as 10^o F. Even though it was in the fifties tonight, the forecasts had us all thinking cold and bundling up. When we came out of Trinity Terrace tonight, we did note that the wind had picked up—it’s supposed to be strong for the next three days, driving the chill factor even lower. Texans remember shivering through the power outages of 2021 amid the horrifically cold temps, and we are on alert to see if the grid will hold.

I for one plan to stay in the cottage, as safe and warm as I can be. And it’s not just Texas—the cold is to hit all over the country except, as one friend pointed out, southern California where she expects temperatures in the seventies. The rest of you stay warm and safe.

More chutney, some awesome Christmas lights, and a sense of caution

My Christmas orchid towering over Serenity with her poinsettia headdress.
I feel as though I live in a greenhouse.
So wonderful!

My project of the day was a second batch of chutney—this the cranberry/apricot. I think I perfected my technique, because it didn’t take me nearly as long, and I think the chutney is better. Yesterday, I let it thicken too much—good flavor but not so great on the consistency.

Tonight, I went to Pacific Table with three longtime friends. We try to have dinner together fairly frequently, but tonight was in celebration of Subie’s early December birthday. Okay, we were a bit late. We also had a small Christmas gift exchange, and I was thrilled with the book Carol gave me on dairy restaurants. She purchased it at New York’s Tenement Museum, Author Ben Katchor traces the history of these establishments, originally begun to cater to kosher laws which required the separation of meat and milk products. Eventually, some critics claim, the dairy restaurants morphed into Dairy Queen and similar chains. The book has wonderful, humorous illustrations, and I look forward to digging into it.

Subie brought me a beautiful orchid, of a color I’ve not seen—sort of off-white, but with pale striations that almost make it look like the blossoms are of thin wood. And Kathie contributed a jigsaw puzzle which should be great fun at our family get-together.

Lovely evening. I ordered my usual—Caesar salad with fried oysters. Pacific Table has hands down the best Caesar salad in town, and the fried oysters are so well seasoned you shouldn’t even think of cocktail sauce. The restaurant was, however, a bit noisy.

On the way home, I mentioned that I’d been told that the light display at Cook Children’s Hospital was spectacular, so we detoured—and were delighted that we did. It is an absolute fairyland, wonderful to see. Cars slowly drove by—and a parked limo blocked traffic, making a minor jam, but I guess if you can afford a stretch limo you don’t care.

I came home to the realization that I need to get my neighborhood newsletter out the door first thing in the morning, so I spent much of the evening proofreading and following up on odds and ends.

These are the days of anticipation. For many, they are frantic days, worrying how you’ll ever get everything done. For some of us, like me, everything seems done, so you worry about what maybe you haven’t done. And you don’t want to start anything new because…well, Christmas is just around the corner.

A sense of—how to say it? Caution? Dread? —hung over us at the dinner table tonight, because we all feel we are headed into another severe Covid season. Of course, there’s a good reason we feel that way—it’s predicted all over the media. So, we talked about maybe having to go back to patio parties and small—what was the word? Hives? Coveys? That small group you felt comfortable socializing with. We all seemed to feel we were headed to mandates (which doesn’t bother any of us), masks (doesn’t bother us either, though I don’t hear as well when people speak through a mask), and perhaps school closures. I am the only one closely affected by that, because I am the only one lucky enough to live with a grandchild. For his sake, I hope schools don’t close—he hated his year at home but bore it with good grace; on the other hand, I want to keep him safe. And my six other grandchildren, scattered as they are. Always a dilemma.

At any rate, when people toast, as we did tonight, to making 2022 a better year than 2020 or 2021, I have some hesitation. For my own part, I survived quarantine nicely, pretty much with spirits intact, and I would expect and hope to do so again. And you should see all the toilet paper Jordan has secreted away on a high shelf in my closet. What was that phrase a while back? “Buckle up, Buttercup. It may be a rough ride.”

What a downer way to end a Christmas blog! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all, and for just this brief time, put Covid and abortion and politics and warfare out of your mind, and enjoy the season.

Visits to the past

 

Picture just because I liked it.
Hope it's apt.

I went back to the past twice yesterday and today, and I guess what I learned is that it is never the same—good, but not the same. Yesterday, Melinda, who worked with me for over ten years at TCU Press and became a special friend, picked me up for an outing to the TCU Press Christmas book sale and then lunch. I worried a lot about the physical aspects of this—tiny though she is, Melinda drives a huge SUV. Would I be able to get up into it? (It was touch and go at first, but then I mastered it, except poor Melinda had to fetch a stepstool and my walker every time I got out—I was afraid she’d swear she was never going anywhere with me again; she has denied that). Then I worried about the long hallway and rather steep ramp at the alumni center. I made it down the ramp just fine, by holding on to the railing with one hand, while Melinda parked the car. Then it turned out we were in the wrong part of the building, and I had to turn around and go right back up that blasted ramp. But it too was okay.

The book sale was a nostalgia trip for me. I barely knew the staff that were there, but I met the new marketing manager, with whom I had some correspondence, and we had a good visit. I’m hoping to get with him after the holidays, because I want to tell him about some programs we did in the past. But the big thing to me was browsing the books for sale, recalling this title and that, the work that went into them, the authors I’d worked with. Reminded me of a really good time in my life, with work that made me happy. Sad that several authors have now left us—and proof that I am getting older, as if I didn’t already know that. I spent two dollars and came away with four books, three of which I meant as gifts. Gave Jordan hers, only to find out they already have it.

Lunch was great. Melinda and I always have lots to talk about and laugh heartily, from family doings to politics—okay, the latter is not so funny. But we have a great time getting caught up. And we splurged—had wine with our lunch, and I had a lobster Cobb salad. Good, but the lobster was watery, like it had just been defrosted.

Tonight, Jean and I went to the Tavern for supper—sat on the patio, because it is quieter and the weather was balmy, though we are expecting storms later tonight. I had the hamburger I’ve been craving for days. We ordered a fire-roasted artichoke for an appetizer but almost couldn’t eat it—way too much pepper. After dinner, we went on an extended tour of several neighborhoods to look at the Christmas lights. Sometimes they all blur together, sort of look-alikes, so it was fun to find a house here or there with imaginative and different decorations. We agree we are both fans of lights but not blow-up Santas and related figures.

On one street in Berkeley, my neighborhood, all the houses have pitched roofs, some with more than one pitch and all outlined in white lights. Made a real cool picture when you looked down the street. Jean’s favorite, ever year she says, is a tree on Colonial Parkway that is decorated with rather delicate purple lights and then strings let hanging loose from the tips of branches, sort of like a weeping plant basket.

It was particularly fun for me to ride through Berkeley because I could tell Jean who lives there and what the history of that house is, the house designed by the first woman architect recognized in Texas and the only true art deco house in the neighborhood. I realize I’ve lived in Fort Worth over fifty-five years and spent almost thirty of them in Berkeley.

I guess nostalgia is one of the joys aging brings. At this time of year—and many other times—I look back on a lot of good memories. My life has been full of memory-making incidents, large and small, and I am grateful. Tonight, looking at lights, I remembered countless trips to join the bumper-to-bumper traffic around Luther Lake where there were the most creative lights and their reflection in the water made them extra special. For the kids, each year it was a new and wonderful experience all over again. Tonight, because I hadn’t gone light-looking in several years, it was once again new and wonderful.

I remember other magic moments at Christmas—the look on a grandchild’s face during the Christmas Eve candlelight service when the sanctuary was darkened and everyone raised a candle as they sang, “Silent Night, Holy Night.” The look on children’s faces when first allowed to the tree on Christmas morning—by then they’d been awake and impatient a long time, having to wait for the adults to get going. Christmas always was and always will be magic. Despite the fact that all the little ones in my family are teens, I look forward to new memories this year.

And then, there is always reality. I just read a post where Facebook wanted to share my memories. From ten years ago, it said Jacob arrived in a grumpy mood and told me how mean I was. Win some lose some, but even that is a treasured memory.

The nothing-to-say blog

No inspiration for a blog tonight. Sometimes when that happens, I just start writing and see what happens. We were to have more storms today, but far as I know we were lucky to get a bit of rain. But it was not an inspiring day—cloudy and dull. I understand though that sunny days are ahead for us. Can you believe it’s the last day of February? I’m stunned.

I went to the eye doctor today, and while I wouldn’t say he jumped hoops over my progress, he didn’t seem alarmed. Said it’s getting better, but there’s still a lot of blood in the back of the eye—those of you who are squeamish just skip that part, please. I don’t see him again for a month, which I took as encouraging. If he were worried, I’d be back there more often. Of course, there’s an insurance problem with renewing the drops he prescribed but given the rate at which the government is un-insuring people I guess it would be churlish of me to complain.

I am so close to the end of the novel I’m working on! But today when I sat to write, it went off in an entirely different direction than I expected—sort of like I hope this blog will do. I wrote an entire scene, and then took a nap during which I rewrote that scene. Haven’t gotten back to it yet, but I will.

Tonight, friends of Jordan’s came for a glass of wine. Jordan is doing wine tastings for a company that markets organic wine—no sugar, no sulfites, no preservatives, etc. Translate that into no hangover. I read somewhere that all California wines have a trace of some chemical that is also found in Roundup weed killer. Not a comforting thought, so Jordan’s organic wines are pretty interesting. The chardonnay I tasted tonight was on the clean and crisp side, whereas I prefer something oakier. But it was good.

In honor of visitors, I turned on the projector that throw green twinkling lights on the casita across from my French doors. Tonight, I’m noticing that it also covers some branches in the yard with a profusion of lights. Maybe I see it because it’s balmy enough to leave the doors open. In February?

And that’s how the day went—nothing spectacular, neither good nor bad. But I guess we must treasure each day. I got a notice from Twitter that someone calling him- or her-self Crazy_Sex_Life is now following me. Does that count as excitement?

Over and out. I really don’t have anything brilliant to say. Not even anything dumb. Blessings on all of you. Sleep tight.

Noisy restaurants and Christmas lights

One of the joys of my work with TCU Press was the friendships I developed with the authors I worked with. Today I had lunch with one of those authors, Chloe Webb, whose Legacy of the Sacred Harp, was published several years ago. It’s about shape note singing, dinner on the grounds, and a lot of Chloe’s own life. Chloe is, I suspect, older than I am (good heavens!) but she’s game, gets around with a cane, still drives, and wasn’t intimidated by my narrow driveway with its jog. (She did have some difficulty with it when she actually tried to back out the gate.) So there we were—her with a cane, me on my walker—the lame leading the halt.

Chloe’s husband has health problems that keep him from going out much, so she said she wanted to try one of the newer restaurants she’d never been to. We went to one of my favorites, a restaurant where in pleasant weather the outdoor dining opportunities far outweigh the choice of indoors, but today it was chilly. We both ordered what they call their deconstructed tuna salad—a wonderful plate of traditional tuna salad, fresh fruit slice, tomato slices and a slice of cheese. We loved it.

But I have a new crusade—against noisy restaurants. I tried with and without the hearing aids and neither way worked. I was a bust as a conversationalist because I couldn’t hear her. Even with the aids on the restaurant setting, the background noise was deafening. It disappeared without them, but so did Chloe’s rather soft voice. Every surface in that place is reflective—floor, ceiling, bartop, tabletops. I don’t think people were talking extra loud, and there wasn’t that big a crowd. But it was unbearable.

So here’s a word to restaurants: I know it’s possible to soften sound without compromising atmosphere. Whether it matters to you or not, you’ll lose my business if you can’t lower the noise level, and I will urge my friends to follow me. We—ahem—elderly folks have money and time to dine out; if you want our business, cut down on the noise. If you want to focus only on the younger crowd, blast away. I won’t be there.

My Christmas lights are gone, although the tree, its lights unplugged, sits in the middle of my coffee table. But the lights still shine on the fence and deck railings, and I’ve kept the screen of tiny green sparkles. I think it will brighten the evenings as we move into the dark days of late January and February. Remember, my friends, spring is not far away!

From the doghouse to the Nativity

Sophie and I are both in the doghouse this evening, though I am more acutely aware of it than she is. In fact, she seems not to care. This morning a friend and I sat sipping coffee and remarking that Sophie was having the time of her life chasing squirrels, running at border collie-speed across the yard but, mercifully, not barking except for an occasional yip. We talked about what a high time she was having without bothering anyone..

Wrong! Jordan came in at noon, and I could immediately tell that someone was in trouble. She announced that it didn’t maker her happy to buy lights and string them on the fence only to have them torn down as Sophie jumped against them in her unending quest for a squirrel or two. She had ripped them and, yes, tonight two tiny sections light but not the glorious string of previous nights.

Tomorrow, I’ll buy replacement lights, and Jordan will hang them on the outside of the fence. But a bit of the joy was dimmed today.

And Sophie wasn’t through. I let her out tonight, and she began jumping at the fence again, so I noisily put out her food. She came skidding in, stepped in the bowl of food, and scattered it to the four winds. I swept it into a pile, but before I could get it in the dustpan, she began to eat it. It was a slow process, so I swept the remainder into her dish, and she ate half, just finished it tonight when I came home after an evening out.

I went with friends to the opening of the nativity scene exhibit at the Museum of the Americas in Weatherford. We had a delicious dinner before at the Fire Oak Grill—wedge salad, scallops, and mashed potatoes. Good food, good wine, good conversation.

The museum features native work from North and South America, so there was a range of nativity scenes, an entire room full of them. I marveled at individual creches, from semi-life size to tiny and intricate, each with full explanatory signage. What an undertaking it was to do all that signage. Some were bright and colorful, others more somber. The scene that attracted the most attention was a nativity of bunnies—no other animals except a couple of sheep. By Santa Fe artist Jose Ortega. Fascinating, though I had to ponder a bit about replacing the holy figures with bunnies, essentially comic figures--not sure I got the joke.

But as a practicing Christian, I sat in the only chair in the room and soaked up the idea that the birth of Christ inspired so much art, so varied in approach and theme. It was overwhelming, and I just let the idea roll over me, bringing a certain peace. In these troubled times, we foresee the end of things…and yet the story of Christ’s birth has been with us for centuries, and nativity scenes since the Middle Ages, according to a plaque in the room. It’s a comforting thought and a nice one to carry with me into this holiday season when we’re beset by sex scandals and nuclear threats and selfish politicians who would tax us to death.

Thanks to Harold and Elizabeth Lawrence for once again welcoming us to their museum and a super exhibit. If you’re in the Metroplex and haven’t visited this small, private museum, make it a point to do so.

Tired tonight, and glad to be home, but feeling peaceful and refreshed. May the Lord shine the light of his face upon you. And so we head into December--can you believe it?

A new view from the cottage

The view from the cottage just keeps getting better. Tonight, Cyclops was running around the yard in the dark—at least that’s what it looked like. Actually Jordan, dressed in black as she usually is, was wearing a miner’s lamp type thing—a headband with a flashlight in it—and stringing Christmas lights, multi-colored on the deck railings, red around my front door. I may live in the brightest house in the neighborhood but few will find all the lights hidden away back  in my corner. Love it!

Otherwise today was one of those days when it was hard to get going. I found myself sitting on the edge of the bed, contemplating standing up, or sitting on the walker thinking about moving to the office chair. Part of that is because my hip is extremely sore today, so I know it will hurt to stand. But part of it is general inertia. Maybe everyone’s entitled to a little inertia now and then.

Also it rained fairly heavily about seven this morning—not an encouraging start to the day and maybe not encouraging for my hip either. Someday when I’m feeling really loved I may go into the latest theories on why I don’t walk and why my hip hurts so much. My kids convinced me this weekend I had it all backward.

And maybe the truth of it is that I am still recovering from a wonderful holiday.

Whine, whine-I’ve also had phone troubles today—the phones in the cottage wouldn’t call in or out, though they had power. I could dial and hear it dialing the number but then it didn’t ring; if someone called in, it would ring but nobody was there. I think Jordan, Christian, and Colin (via phone) have it fixed. It has to do with the medical alarm service, but I’d  rather be out here without that than without phone service. Tells you I’m an old fogey—I still don’t trust cell phones completely.

Okay, this old fogey is calling it a day, looking forward to a better day tomorrow--and count my blessings. How many live adjacent to a daughter who strings Christmas lights for them? Yes, I am blessed..