Watching the world go by

 

Obviously a picture from a previous year with colder temperatures

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

The weekend events are but another reasons I’m glad to live in Berkeley.

Bored, bored, bored!

That was me yesterday, though I hate to admit it. I am between projects, which is a bad place for me to be. Makes me not only bored but probably unpleasant company. A blog host sent me a list of questions for a post I’ll do in May, and one of them was how I manage to be so productive. The answer is I’m compulsive, and being at loose ends makes me very unhappy. I have never learned to piddle. I used to have a friend who could happily watch paint dry, and I always thought my inability to do that was a character flaw.

Yesterday, my Fort Worth family was in Coppell, helping Christian’s parents, half my friends are sick one way or another, and here I was with a couple of books neither of which interested me. No dinner to cook since everyone had uncertain schedules, so we had loaded baked potatoes—dinner doesn’t get much easier than that. I was at those dreaded loose ends. Much as I like to think I’m creative and independent and of even distribution, I have days like that.

I am glad to report that today was much better-- emails kept me busy until church time. After church I made some sauces for a Dagwood sandwich for tonight, made myself a tuna fish lunch, took a nap, and assembled the sandwich—which wasn’t as good as the last time I made it. I think the problem was that I had asked Central Market to slice the round of sourdough and they didn’t do it—I hacked at it with my best bread knife, but hacked is the operative word. It was okay but not what I wanted. I think we’ll abandon Dagwood for an old friend—the poor boy.

I was relieved that National Day of Hate passed without apparent incident. In fact, I got a good laugh out of one aspect of it. I read that one of the sponsors was the Goyim Defense League. Goy is the term members of the Jewish community use for males not of the Jewish faith (goyim is the plural). It is not meant as a compliment. As a one-time shiksa (the term for non-Jewish females, especially those who marry a Jew, and yes, it’s derogatory), I know this well. I find it amusing that an antisemitic group turns this Jewish term upside-down and applies it to themselves. The irony is that they seem, unwittingly, to accept the implication that they are lesser beings. Probably true.

Today was the Cowtown Marathon, and our house is about at the halfway point. Occasionally I glanced down the driveway to watch the runners go by. Heaviest activity was around nine-thirty, just when my family was trying to get out of the driveway. Watching, though, I was taken back forty-five years to the first marathon—a simple affair compared to today’s event which drew thousands to multiple races and raised funds for a variety of charities. In my mind’s eye I was seeing sleet and snow and ice-covered streets. It was truly an event to remember, not always in the best way. For that year and several years afterward the marathon was a family event—my kids wandered all over the Stockyards (did I really let them do that?) while I did publicity and their father manned one of the medical stations. A different time, a different life.

Tonight I am happy to report I am back in the routine. I get the editor’s comments on Irene Deep in Texas Trouble, so that will keep me busy for a while. Life is good.

Sweet dreams, everyone!

 

More about book publishing and an odd couple of holidays

 

After I posted about indie publishing and the world of mystery the other day, I read a blog post by Maureen Milliken on Maine Crime Writers. She points out that about four million new book titles come out a year, with 500,000 to one million traditionally published, and the rest independently published. Think of that—three million indie published books. Even with Amazon’s good service, see how easy it is to get lost in the crowd?

The publishing world now is aroused by the idea of AI (artificial intelligence) books. There are programs that let you do that, and some publishers are including in their contracts a clause that the author’s work can be used for AI training (no author ever should sign away that right!). But if people start publishing AI books, that's just more into that mix. I read recently of a magazine (sci fi, I think) that had to close to submissions because they were flooded with AI manuscripts.

Milliken say some of those millions of books published every year are really good, some not so much. Some really good books never make it onto anyone's radar. Some mediocre ones become big sellers. You can't worry about it when you're writing. The only thing you should worry about is your own stuff and making it the book you want it to be. I think that’s wonderful advice—but problematic if you’re young and trying to support yourself by writing. Years ago, when I used to do school lectures, I knew the statistics, but now I’m sure they’ve changed. Still to give you a picture: fewer than a hundred authors in this country support themselves solely by their writing. Others depend on a working spouse, a day job, or an inheritance.

Makes you wonder why anyone writes, but there it is again, at least for me: the classic answer is that I write because I cannot not write. A friend said to me last night that he, now a consultant, had worked about thirty minutes that day, and he was happy (he was volunteering if we need him because we have an ongoing family crisis that makes scheduling difficult—specifically I don’t always know when someone will be around to give Sophie her insulin shot). But I heard him loud and clear—I work far more than half an hour—probably six hours a day and eight sometimes—but I am most happy with my life.

On another less happy note, did you know that tomorrow, Saturday, is National Day of Hate? No President Biden didn’t make the declaration. It comes from neo-Nazi and fascist groups throughout the country. Their goal is to intimidate Jewish communities and spread fear. Police departments, anti-terrorist groups, Jewish organizations, and watchdog groups are on alert.

I am appalled that there are people in our country so twisted by hate, so miserable that they want to cause misery to others. As someone said tonight, “this country has more than one wheel in the ditch.” (Does that remind you of Ann Richards who said, “The ox is in the ditch”?) I am unabashedly a person of prayer, and so I pray that these tortured souls may find peace and stop sharing their destruction. But on a more practical level, I pray for safety tomorrow for all.

Some hints for helpers: If you see someone being assaulted, stand between them and the terrorist; if you see someone being harassed, sit or walk with them and try to have a normal conversation. Do what you can to divert the anger and defuse the situation. We must not let ourselves be bullied. And if you’re the praying kind, pray for an America where this happens.

Did you know there have been more mass shootings in the last twelve years than in the previous forty? And last year, every mass shooting event was linked to right-wing extremism. So you can stop worrying about Muslims—Middle Eastern terrorists are not a threat in this country (sorry, Donald trump). Our terrorists are home grown. And Republicans are lining their pockets and not batting an eye over the proliferation of gun deaths. In Texas, for instance, you can carry a concealed weapon without any training and without a permit.

On a local note: in Fort Worth, this is the weekend of Cowtown Marathon, with several “lesser” runs on Saturday and the marathon on Sunday. The other runs are only “lesser” if you aren’t running in them. But traffic is liable to be snarled, especially in the southwest part of the city all weekend. Sunday morning will find me watching the runners go by and cheering especially for the last ones, those who are going on sheer determination. They all go right by our house, so cheering is easy. A lot easier than running.

Be safe, my friends, and be kind to others. Like writing, kindness is a way of life.

The Cowtown Marathon, the dreaded pandemic, and politics

Jordan and Marge cheering for runners

especially Marge's husband Colman

If I did the math right in my head, the forty-second Cowtown Marathon was run today, a beautiful, sunny clear day—with a high temperature of 77 predicted. Way too hot for runners, though most seasoned marathoners probably finished before the temperature hit seventy.

I well remember sitting in our office area at home late the night before the first marathon. My then-husband suddenly came out with, “*&%$! Sleet! I don’t want to hear sleet.” He was one among several men instrumental in planning and putting together the early marathons in this city. To his dismay, the next day revealed ice-covered, sleet-slick streets—hazardous for runners. With a courage I lack today, I packed four young children into a big old Cadillac sedan and headed cautiously for the race, although I don’t remember much about the rest of the day. Just that scary drive.

The late February date makes weather always unpredictable, and I don’t know which is worse—heat or precipitation. I am guessing that in 1978 there were already so many marathons scheduled across the country, that Cowtown planners took whatever open date they could—and crossed their fingers.

On another front, primary elections now share the spotlight with the corona virus 19 or COVID19. The government is cracking down on information and distorting statistics, but wise, sensible advice is out there if you can find it. I read an article today by a Dr. James Robb, with practical suggestions for protecting  yourself and your family, from frequent handwashing to latex gloves for the grocery store. According to Dr. Robb, the virus is lung specific—it only attacks the lungs and is carried in the air and on objects by droplets from sneezes and coughs. The virus can stay active on a surface for up to ten days—so that means protection when you pump gas, push an elevator button, grasp a railing. Read his suggestions here: https://www.lotterypost.com/blogentry/151944 Instead of blocking information and downplaying the threat, the government would do well to go on a massive education campaign.

A bit of irony: the governor of the state of Washington has declared an emergency because of the virus, while the national government in Washington, D.C. says the threat to most Americans is minimal. Dr. Robb would support the Washington governor.

Just my opinion: I’m pretty happy about the results of the South Carolina Democratic primary. Several people claim it is now a race between Biden and Sanders and the rest should drop out. Maybe it’s just my personal wish, but I want Elizabeth Warren to hang in there, though I’ll be really happy with Joe Biden as the next president of the United States.

I do get frustrated with campaigns that play the panic button as part of their fundraising efforts. The campaigns (though not necessarily the candidates) of Mark Kelly in Arizona and Jaimie Harrison in South Carolina are the worst about it. This morning, I saw advice to pack it up and go home because Harrison is losing; five minutes later another post crowed that he’s surging.

Reacting to election news is like reacting to the corona virus news—take it all with a grain of  salt and look for the sensible middle ground.

Colman giving his fans the high sign

Some Cowtown Memories

A lifetime ago, forty-one years to be exact, I sat in my house in Park Hill and heard my then-husband utter an expletive, followed by, “Sleet!  I don’t want to hear sleet!” But indeed, that was what he was hearing.

By early the next morning, Fort Worth was a world of white, streets covered with sleet, snow, and ice. Joel left home at something like 4:30 or 5:00. Not too much later, I bundled up four children, one barely three years old, and we slipped and slid in my ostentatious “doctor’s wife” Cadillac (can you believe I drove that thing?) to the North Side for the first ever Cowtown Marathon. Joel was a founder of the race, and I was part of the publicity team.

At the coliseum, I turned the children loose—to this day I can’t believe I did that or that I even made that drive, but I did. One of my children swears to this day he’s suing for negligence. Fort Worth’s North Side was then not as bad as it had been, an area of derelicts, bars, and who knows what else, but neither was it that relatively safe tourist attraction it is today. The rest of the children assure me that each year at the marathon there was a band of children who stuck together. They roamed the tunnels alongside the river under buildings on Exchange and who knows where else they went. I didn’t see them until late afternoon. I guess they got lunch. I know the older three, ranging from nine to six or seven, looked after Jordan, the baby.

Joel did not run. In fact, he did not get to run his own race until three or four years later. Somewhere I have kids’ T-shirts that celebrate that first marathon, with a caricature of Cowtown Charlie. Joel always thought he was Cowtown Charlie because the cartoon figure had a mustache similar to his. I think to this day it was Charles Ogilvie, Uncle Charles at our house, who was also TCOM faculty and ran marathons into his eighties, always winning his age group (not much competition).

Me? All these years later, I can’t exactly remember what I did all day, but I know I ran my tail off. Some years a radio station brought a big RV to the site, and I had fun going in to talk to the deejays, giving them up-to-date news about the race. Surely, I was at the finish line when the first runner came over, and I remember assisting the race chair at the awards portion that capped the day.

That was the pattern of our marathon days for four or five years, until Joel and I divorced. Determined to prove that I would not be shoved aside, I worked the race one year after the divorce, but it was no fun anymore, and I resigned from the committee. But I like knowing that I had a bit part in the race’s history, and that Joel and Charles had major parts. The organizers, all from what was then the Institute for Human Fitness, were TCOM folks, people I knew well.

So each year the marathon makes me nostalgic. Those were good days, and good memories. Tomorrow it will be better weather, though not perfect—chilly enough in the morning that runners shouldn’t overheat, but it is predicted to get to sixty degrees. Hot for running, but better than sleet. Jordan will host a small cheering party on our front porch—the halfway or thirteen-miles point is just a few doors from our house, and a good friend is running. I’ll join them, and I will cheer for our friend, but I also will cheer for a lot of people who have now passed out of my life and for a time of happy memories.

The Cowtown Marathon Started in My Living Room

Honest! It really did. In the late 1970s, my then-husband was involved with the Institute for Human Fitness, an institute that was part of the Texas College of Osteopathic Medicine (now UNT Health Sciences Center). A group of men—nope, no women—used to meet in our living room on Sunday afternoons. It so happened that a friend was living with us at the time, and while those men were in the living room piously discussing health and fitness, we were in the kitchen fixing the richest, most decadent desserts we could think of. Things like Italian Cream Cake.

I still remember one of the men—the one my friend eventually married—standing in the kitchen, plate laden with cake and ice cream, asking plaintively,” Isn’t there any diet Coke?”

Planning went on for months, as you can imagine. Because I worked for TCOM at the time, doing pubic relations, and I had some experience in that field, I was on the Cowtown committee. I well remember the night before the race. Sleet began to fall about ten. What my ex said at the time is not printable, but it amounted to sleet was the last thing he wanted.

Next morning, incredibly early, I bundled four children into my car and headed for the North Side on truly ice streets. (For several years, the races all began in front of the Northside Coliseum instead of downtown as they now do.) My children, all now safely grown, will tell you that I turned them loose in the Stockyards. They reassure me these days that they were safe because there was always a big gang of kids who wandered around together. If I recall correctly, I didn’t see them until late that afternoon. The thought gives me great pause now—what kind of negligent mother was I? Especially since I think the youngest, Jordan, was three. I like to think her siblings took care of her.

For me, I remember it was a heady day, flitting here and there, dropping in frequently to an RV sent by a radio station and chatting with the hosts. And in the afternoon, there was the almost climactic awards ceremony.

The kids and I loved those marathon days and treasure the memories to this day. After my ex and I divorced, I continued to work the marathon for a year or two, but it was different, and I was an outsider. I quit.

Both my boys became runners. Jamie, the younger, has done several marathons and triathlons. I think Colin has done half marathons, but not a triathlon. But I’ve never been able to interest either in the Cowtown, which I thought they might do for sentimental reasons. Colin tells me there’s an Iron Man in Fort Worth this spring, and he’ll do that. Meantime, I treasure our T-shirts from that first year. There was some debate whether their dad or their Uncle Charles was the model for Cowtown Charlie on that shirt

Tomorrow morning, the marathon runners will go right past our house. If I can, I’ll cheer from the front porch. It brings back a lot of memories.

A doggy, snow week

Sophie at her most adorable, saying, "Notice how cute I am." The week has been much absorbed with dogs. One of Jordan's two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels developed pancreatitis--during a snow day when the vet didn't open until noon. She was in the vet's overnight and the subject of much concern . Since it was a snow day, Jacob was here and Jordan brought Cricket, the other dog, because the two are not used to being separated. Sophie thought that was delightful--a playmate. Cricket, and her sister Juney, are quiet, reserved dogs who prefer to sit on your lap and not move. Sophie made overtures to Crickey, which Jacob interpreted as bullying, causing him to lock her in the office which drove her frantic. I explained we couldn't lock her up in her own house when we were all here and if he'd calm down, Sophie would too. And that's just what happened. Juney is now happily at home with her sister and feeling better.
But Sophie loves happy hour, when it seems there's almost always someone here for a glass of wine. First of all it's her signal to become desperately hungry. After she's fed, she wants attention and shows us how cute she is.
Sometimes I think about living alone, which mostly I like, and think I couldn't do it without a dog. Yes, I talk to her, and she responds. Yes, she gives me comfort in the cool of the night--if someone threatened the house, she'd sound the alert. Though pretty much when she's in her crate, she considers herself "off duty" and doesn't bark until she wants to go outside--usually about four in the morning, thank you very much. But then it's not a bark but a sort of soft "Ruff." She's crated because she seems to have forgotten that she can wake me up to go out and has left puddle marks on my kilim rugs. I don't think I've ever in my life had a perfectly house-trained dog, and I consider it a deficiency on my part.
Other than that it's been a snow week--two days of school closed and then yesterday was a gorgeous day, sunny, not too cold. Today the prediction was for a light dusting of snow in the morning, though Jordan looked at the radar--which looked like a huge something was going to hit us--and announced I should not go to the grocery. I protested it's liable to be much worse the next two mornings, and I should go when I can. The light dusting was barely even that--tiny flakes that disappeared before they hit the ground. At her urging I went to the store so early that I was home by 9:30 and can stay home the next two days, although I have evening plans both nights that I hope the weather doesn't cancel.
Saturday is the Cowtown Marathon, an event for which planning began in my living room many many years ago. I well remember the first marathon--it began to sleet about ten the night before, and my ex, Joel, one of the founders, sat in our bedroom and said, "Shit! I don't want to hear sleet." Next morning I drove four young children to the North Side (I was doing publicity for the marathon) and we stayed all day.  Now when I think of having turned them loose on East Exchange I am horrified but they assure me they were always with a bunch of kids.
This Saturday it's supposed to be freezing rain. Jordan and Jacob are scheduled to run, Christian to walk. We'll see what happens, but the weather forecast does bring back memories.
The trouble with snow days, for me, is that I get too comfortable staying home and then have to remind myself I am perfectly capable of moving about in the world. Felt a bit of that this morning.