Aftermath of a birthday

Mini carnations from a granddaughter.
She bought the vase in New Mexico.

My grown children like to poke fun at me for my participation on Facebook. I think they believe that I take any word from any source as gospel. My protests that I check out reliable sites, ignore the crazies, and try to be responsible about what I read and what I share fall on deaf ears. But the other point they cannot grasp is the friendships I have made on Facebook. Many many people that I have never and will never meet in person but whom I consider good friends and with whom I enjoy frequent exchanges.

That was brought home to me with this birthday. Colin, my oldest and perhaps the biggest skeptic, asked me how many birthday wishes I got on Facebook, and I’d say as of today it’s about 250. Most of them came on the birthday site that Facebook posts but today others have come in on a post Jordan put up and a few other ways. A good number of those came from members of the Guppies subchapter of Sister in Crime, my fellow sisters and misters in writing mysteries. Guppies are a wonderfully supportive group, and I have many acquaintances and a few good friends in the chapter. Then there were wishes from people from various times in my long life, like the children of some of my childhood friends, and people I knew when they were children, regular readers and commentators on my blog, people who share my social and political sympathies, and a couple who don’t but remain friends. It’s really a remarkably varied group, and to say I am flattered beyond words is an understatement. It’s been a lesson in

A glorious orchid from a young friend.

gratitude.

I think I mentioned on a Facebook post recently if not on this page that Colin dug out my lifetime statistics for Amazon book sales. Amazon has sold slightly over 99K books by me, though I must confess almost 9/10 of them are one title—Mattie, the first adult novel I wrote and one which won a Spur Award from Western Writers of America. For years I sold it on Amazon for ninety-nine cents, which accounts for the tremendous sales numbers. (Today a reprint edition is available from TwoDot, a subsidiary of Rowman & Littlefield publishers, and it’s a bit more than ninety-nine cents.) But that total figure does not count copies sold by publishers. Regardless, the thought that I have perhaps brought reading pleasure to that many people is a significant accomplishment for me. I have said before that it’s my core belief that we must leave the world a bit better than we found it, and so perhaps my books have done that. I am surprised and delighted. Best-selling authors might laugh at my figures, paltry compared to theirs, but for me, a low midlist author, those numbers represent accomplishment.

The two things—birthday greetings and book sales—may seem unrelated, but in my mind they go together. I have made friends, and I have given people reading pleasure. To me, that indicates a life well lived. I don’t mean that in a smug way at all but in a happy way. We all want to know that our lives have meant something.

Having taken stock like that doesn’t mean that I’m checking out. It’s just that eighty-five does seem, as Jordan kept telling me, some sort of milestone birthday and an appropriate time to take stock. So what I find is a life that has been enriched by so many people, so many friends, and moderate success at writing. Who could ask for more?

Flowers for my desk from a neighbor

Sometimes life is glorious and wonderful. Sometimes, though, it is mundane, and so tonight, after all the glorious food and good times of the weekend, I found myself improvising a shepherd’s pie out of the roast beef left over from poor boy sandwiches for a crowd Saturday night. And oh boy, did we have leftovers! Turkey salad, anyone?

To share a bit of my birthday joy, I’m posting pictures of the flowers I received.

Keep a cheerful heart

 

Tuna and rice bowl with furikake
All hidden under wonderful crisp watercress.

With all that’s wrong with our world, from the suddenly very frightening increase in climate change to Russia’s continuing aggression in Ukraine to the divisive political situation in our country and the crazies who are trying to run things, you’d think we don’t need anything more to worry about. Especially those of us who are in the third stage of life and hoping for a lot of peace and quiet, good times with the worries of the world behind us. It is not to be so.

My mom lived into her late eighties (since I’m approaching her years, I take heart from that). But I remember her saying to me that the trouble with living so long was that all your friends were gone. I can count many people, once big parts of my life, who have passed on, and I miss them. But lately my thoughts are less on those who died than those with serious health problems that cause me to worry about them a great deal. Right now I can count two broken shoulders, three serious falls (when I said that Jordan added two more older relatives of a friend who had both just taken bad falls), two cases of dizziness, a hip replacement in recovery, a case of unexplained weakness. It’s tempting to say none of these are life-threatening, but the truth is when you get to your eighties, anything can be life threatening. In recent months, for instance, I have learned how serious—and sometime fatal—a UTI is. They call pneumonia “the old man’s friend” for obvious reasons, but it seems to me that any number of conditions can fit that moniker.

And when physical problems hit us elderly—there, I said the word! —they seem to hit in clusters. An email from my best friend in high school and beyond tells me she fell, broke her shoulder, came home, and began experiencing dizzy spells to the point she couldn’t navigate in her own house alone. I am glad to report that she is better. My own brother a while back was in rehab after surgery on a knee, caught Covid, followed by pneumonia, followed by am array of ills including dizziness when he stood. I am so happy to report that he too seems to be doing better but it is after a long spell of being bedridden.

It’s as though there’s a monster out there, lurking, waiting for that one sign of weakness, which will be a signal to attack with an array of problems. I guess our option is to vote for health, watch for tiny symptoms before they turn into big problems, and keep a cheerful heart. Proverbs 17:22 tells us, “A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.” It’s a philosophy I try to live by, but I think no matter how hard we try, each of us falls off that cheerful wagon from time to time.

I did have a healthy, cheerful dinner guest tonight. My friend, Mary V., who is a retired political science professor. We get into spirited political discussions, but of course we are both on almost the same page—I am a bit more enthusiastic about another term for Biden than she is, but she agrees that he has done remarkable things and that his expertise particularly on the international front is amazing. She is one of my friends who scorns Facebook—how I wish I could tell them to pick and choose and take advantage of the good stuff and the fun stuff! Anyway I was able to enlighten her on a couple of things I saw: one was a new name for Moms for Liberty (forgive my language): Assholes with casseroles! The other was James Comer’s whistleblower—the MAGA chair of the Oversight Committee has been crowing about a witness who would totally unmask the Biden crime family. Turns out the guy has been indicted on several counts, including acting as an unregistered foreign agent for China, and has skipped bail and is now a fugitive at large. I do love it when these out-of-control Republicans end with egg on their face.

Another experimental dinner tonight. Mary is one of the people for whom I can try out new things, and she inevitably likes them. Tonight was a rice bowl with tuna, flavored with soy and sesame oil and sparked up with watercress and furikake, a Japanese seasoning made with dried seaweed, dried fish, dried herbs, etc. I didn’t taste it much, but it did make the dish look pretty.

Now it’s late, I’ve been working on my neighborhood newsletter, and I’m ready to close out the day by reading a bit.

Sweet dreams to all, and stay cool, drink water, keep a cheerful heart—please! I already have enough people to worry about.

Computer woes

 

The computer gods are against me today. Nothing, but nothing, I touched went right. It started when I tried to upload a book to Amazon. The book, Skeleton in a Dead Space, is something like twelve years old, and Amazon shows it for sale in paperback. But when I went to my dashboard to order a discounted copy, it said it needed to be uploaded. So I dutifully entered all the information again but was stymied when the form called or a PDF of the cover and I only had a jpeg. So I sent the cover to a designer friend and asked her to send it to me as a PDF. She did, but it took me four times to figure out how to save it—I’m sure my friend began to rethink her initial wiling patience. I finally got it saved, had to do a lot of figuring and experimenting to figure out how to go from the saved download to the Amazon upload, but I got it done. So Amazon said in effect “Yay! All done. Now preview it.” But the preview wouldn’t launch because my browser window isn’t big enough. I cannot tell you how many books I’ve uploaded to Amazon without this becoming an issue. I have no idea what to do about it, but Colin will be working from home tomorrow and will help me with it. He can remotely take over my computer.

I made a doctor’s appointment and went to put it on my calendar, only to discover the calendar had somehow switched its format and would allow only one skinny line per hour. That would never do, so I set about changing it—and in the process totally messed up the way Outlook displays email. I maybe could live with the calendar wonky, but I must have my email in a format where I can manage it. I probably spent forty-five minutes trying to fix it. Finally, something I did worked, and it once again displayed the Favorites bar that had disappeared into cyberspace. Now I can’t tell you what I did.

Next I checked notifications on Facebook, something I can really do fairly quickly because a lot are just viewers liking something I’ve posted. Notifications, for the uninitiated or the multitudes who hate Facebook, have a blue dot next to them; when you’ve clicked on one, the blue dot goes away. Only today it didn’t go away, so I had a wealth of messages and couldn’t tell what I’d read and what I hadn’t. I should have rebooted at that point, but I was lazy. I did let the computer rest while I napped, and apparently it collected itself because when I came back to it, the blue dots were gone.

At happy hour I served the dipping spices I’d made, and Mary Dulle was so taken with them she asked for the recipe. No problem, I’d scan and send it to her. Except the printer would say it had scanned when it hadn’t and then ask me if I had something else to scan. Yes, I did—the original scan. I tried auto feed, and I tried putting the recipe on the glass plate. Nothing worked. I still haven’t solved that one and may end up typing the recipe—and it’s not a short one. Lots of spices.

My woes weren’t confined to the computer but apparently included all electronics. I mentioned that the wonderful display of colored, pinpoint lights that shows on my neighbors white wall had suddenly gone all red. Jordan said I had pushed a button I shouldn’t have (I haven’t touched the remote in months) and there is a multicolor button. I pushed it. Nothing, but it was daylight. So I pushed the on button. Nothing. Jordan said wait until dark. Once dark came, she tried, announced the on/off button doesn’t work, and when the lights come on, I should push the multicolor button. Now, nearing ten o’clock, the lights haven’t come on yet. I’m sure she thinks I broke it.

Jordan says my trouble is I got clickety-click all over the place too quickly. She took the mouse, dragged it down somehow, and sort of semi-fixed the calendar. Her advice was to leave it alone for now.

So maybe tomorrow, after a reboot, all my troubles will be over. Ha! Do I really believer that? Meantime the only really good thing I did today was to cook a pork tenderloin with tiny new potatoes around it. I served it with raspberry/peach/chipotle sauce—so good—and Christian did Brussel sprouts, shaved, with lemon and butter. Jordan announced that meal must be in our regular rotation.

I’d blame my woes on the computer—and maybe it will fix itself—but when so much goes wrong, you can’t avoid user error. I think many of us are so tense right now about the imminent midterms, that we are losing our grip. I’m not sure what I’ll do election night although Jordan said we’ll have dinner as usual and watch returns. I’m not sure, and already we’re hearing about decisions that will probably come down “after midterms.” It’s as though the whole world is holding its breath. One of the Halloween guests, a political consultant, said to me that Tarrant County Democrats weren’t voting in the numbers hoped for. I brushed by and said I didn’t even want to hear it.

Wonders of my small world

 

Sophie telling me she's hungry. 
That's a language I can understand,
the barking not so much.

I hardly know where to begin, so many odd little wonders have happened in my world today. Early this morning, I was half-heartedly scrolling through news sites online when I came to an article about an app that will let people decipher what their cat is saying. The program is called MeowCat and has both interesting achievements and questionable outcomes. Only halfway interested in cats, I read through to see if there was anything about dogs. Yep! A project called Zoolandia is trying to decipher dogspeak—and the language of other mammals.

The other evening, as Babette and I were talking, with Rosie curled at her feet, Soph began to bark frantically at me. It was obvious she wanted something specific, and I was frustrated because I didn’t know what it was. I had fed her, given her treats, filled her water bowl. Finally Babette said, “That kibble you put aside so she and Rosie wouldn’t quarrel.” That was it: Sophie wanted the second course of her dinner. Once she had that, she curled up next to Rosie and slept. How I wished for an app that would tell me what she was asking for. I’m going to keep tabs on this developing technology. Sophie is very verbal—you can tell from the intonations in her barking—but I can’t often tell what she wants. I’d love this new technology.

Some technology I’m not so happy about: Facebook decided I offended its community standards and would not let me post today. I think by now my isolation has passed, but it was frustrating today. I have no idea what I posted that was offensive—and I don’t think they know either. Last night I got a flurry of message about community standards, but I didn’t pay close attention. My mistake. I think now their algorithms had gone amuck, and I got caught in the middle. Me, Pollyanna? Post something offensive? I don’t think so.

I know the common perception is that writers are recluses who sit at their desks long hours and have no relationships in the real world. A lot of the time I’m inclined to think that about myself, but today I was glad to read about some outreach programs by the writing community. PEN America, the international association of writers, is sponsoring “Words on Fire: Writing, Freedom, and the Future,” an afternoon’s conversation about the issues of freedom of expression in these “dire times.” The program is sponsored by the New York Historical Society. Originally, Salman Rushdie was to speak; now that he is recovering from severe injuries, it has become a tribute to him.

And another story about the writing community: When the two senatorial seats in George were closely contested, a group of mystery writers formed a loose organization called Mystery Loves Georgia and solicited donations for an auction—autographed books, the naming of a character, a free review or critique, and so on. The effort was wildly successful, and now they formed Mystery Loves Democracy with the goal of raising $100,000 to fight voter suppression. I contributed a signed copy of Saving Grace to Mystery Loves Georgia and committed to name a character after a donor. To my surprise, Linda Rutledge, the character, proved to play a much larger role in Irene in Danger than I anticipated. So now I have promised to send another copy of Saving Grace (my thinking is it’s best to start a reader on the first book in a series and hope he or she gets hooked) and have promised to name a character in Irene Takes On Texas after whoever buys that. Since I’m at best a low mid-list author, I price my contributions low—starting at $15. The auction will be held in mid-September.

Tonight Jean took me to a local bistro for supper, a place that we have both liked for a long while. The atmosphere is pleasant, the food good. Ah, not so tonight. Both of us felt our dinners were not up to par, and the restaurant was so noisy, we kept having to repeat ourselves. Once some time ago when we debated eating at the cottage, Jean said something to the effect that the food here is better and the atmosphere much quieter. Tonight I decided she was right. But I was glad to get out, and Jean was good to undertake hauling me and my walker around.

After supper, we drove by the house where she and her husband lived—new owners have changed the exterior a lot (I will say no more) and then she took me for a tour of the TCU campus—the east campus, where there are buildings I never heard of. And dead-end streets and parking barriers so you hardly know where to go. I have only been retired for eleven years, and I only live maybe a mile from campus, but I didn’t realize how out of touch I am. But I was left with this lingering doubt: do building make a university or is it the people—faculty and students and staff. And which comes first: buildings or the academic program. I had been interested earlier today to read the qualifications of new liberal arts faculty—they specialize in gender studies, race, queer studies, indigenous literature. It’s a far cry from the days when I said my specialization was American literature with a special interest in women of the American West. Today, that sounds quaintly old-fashioned—or just plain lame.

I am glad to be retired. I think I’m too old for this new world of wonders.

 

Today is National Live Creative Day

 

A day, so the article I read this morning said, to set aside to dream, discover, or invent. But by the time I left my desk and computer for a nap, about two-thirty, I realized I hadn’t been very creative. And that set me to thinking about my daily routine.p

Each morning, with a cup of hot tea at hand, I check my emails. Sometimes that takes quite a while—I have two accounts, one I’ve had for almost forty years (through TCU) and a new one that I try to keep for writing organizations. I belong to two groups that I get daily communications from, both organizational and members’ voices, and both use the relatively new network, io groups. TCU does not like the security certificate that io has and therefore won’t talk to them. I missed a lot of emails before I figured that out, and my son Jamie opened a gmail account for me. I get between ten and twenty emails each morning on each, and some require answers right then, others involve me in reading—including a few political posts.

Maybe my favorite is Wake Up to Politics, which Gabe Fleisher started when he was nine. He’s now a sophomore in D.C., studying I believe at George Mason University. Over the years he has acquired good journalism credentials, so he’s on top of what’s happening, and he presents a fairly balanced view. If your politics tend in the direction of mine, look it up and consider subscribing.

Sometimes emails lead me to articles I’m interested in. This morning it was a longish piece in The New Yorker, cited by Andy Borowitz, about Derrick Bell, whose thinking on racism spawned the critical race theory that is so misunderstood by so many. As a young lawyer Bell was with the NAACP Legal Defense and Educational Fund. He went on to be the first tenured Black law professor at Harvard but eventually left that school, over a matter of principle that involved faculty hiring and people of color,  to be a visiting law professor at NYU. The lengthy article traced the development of Bell’s thinking to the point that he decided what most of us saw as advances in demolishing racism really set us back and hardened attitudes. It’s complicated stuff, hard for me with a non-legal mind and education, to understand. But my thought was that if all those idiots who yell about take CRT out of our schools would try to understand what it is, they’d be surprised at how it supports them. The difference, as I see it, being that they don’t want history taught, and he did. But the absurdity of thinking a theory I can’t understand is taught in kindergarten made me giggle and reminded me of the elementary school teacher who said, “If I can get them to read, write, and do basic math, I’m happy.” Who needs CRT is grade school or even high school?

After email, I read the msn news briefs, mostly because they are the ones that flash across my screen. I used to move on to Facebook, but that really is a time killer—the morning had dwindled down to a few minutes by the time I tried to get creative. But even without Facebook, and maybe because of the Derrick Bell article, it was almost noon today before I settled down to my own work.

Often evenings are kind of lazy for me—that’s the time for Facebook and reading whatever is currently on my reading list. Not so tonight, maybe because I had creativity on my mind. But I was almost relieved when our weekly neighborhood happy hour cancelled and the Burtons’ schedule dictated we would not have family dinner. I can stay in my nightshirt and read some more Dorothy Johnson letters.

What about you? Creative today? There are lots of ways to live a creative life, and I probably should branch out to more of them.

Facebook, politics, and—oh, my!

 

Last night, one of my closest friends, a woman who has lived in small-town Texas all her life, whose late husband is buried in her town, who has many ties and memories and friends here, told me she’s thinking of leaving Texas. She just can’t stand the politics. I sympathize but I can’t—or won’t—leave. I am too old to start again, my beloved family is all in Texas, my career has been built on writing about Texas. Where would I go? I like living here—except for the politics, which are horrifying. My big thought about all that is that it is terrible what Republicans have done to my beloved adopted state.

By now many of you have discovered I spend too much time on Facebook and too little time writing brilliant fiction. Many of my friends are disparaging about FB—it’s too vitriolic, it’s a time suck, you can’t convince those you oppose, only old people read it, etc. A long list of objections. I am not here to defend Mark Zuckerberg. In fact, I think he does a lot wrong, from pushing advertising to censoring. But still, I find it informative and useful.

I think you must be discriminating—click through the gossip, the accusations, the conspiracy theory folks, even the advertising. Underneath all that, you can find some cogent political discussions, and these days, that’s what I’m looking for. No, I do not expect to convert a trumper by my words or even a lifelong Republican who doesn’t realize this is not your father’s Republican Party. What I hope to accomplish with my posts is to bolster those who think like I do, encourage them that we can win against the Republican gargoyle that has Texas and the nation in a stranglehold, spur them to action.

I know how to pick and choose the posts I read. I ignore obvious right-wing extremists and conspiracy theorists, but I learn from posts by rational conservatives and progressives. And every little bit of knowledge helps me understand what's going on. I am sometimes moved to action, as I am now with the terrific walk-about by the Texas Democratic legislators which, at least for now, killed the draconian voter suppression bill. I intend to write my state senator and representative tonight to express my outrage over several of the measures passed by the Texas legislature in the session just ended—the harshest anti-abortion bill in the nation, the “constitutional carry” gun law, the law which allows carrying open liquor containers out of restaurants, the unbelievable law that restricts what teachers can say about American history. A history of racism? Us? Oh, no, you must mean another country. Talk about blindersl

But the voter suppression law is perhaps the most egregious, clearly racist to the point that no Republicans dare deny that. The bill is praised for ensuring safety of elections against fraud—but absolutely zero fraud was found in an analysis of the 2020 election in Texas (and precious little in the nation at large). Still, Republicans are terrified by the rising tide of blue votes. So they wrote a law that was clearly aimed at persons of color—who coincidentally mostly vote Democratic. The scariest part of that awful bill is that it allows a judge to overturn the popular vote. Whoa and wait a minute—wasn’t this country founded on the sanctity and privacy of the individual vote? It is, as President Biden said, an attack on democracy.

Gov. Abbott, the emperor who has no clothes, will call a special session to push this voter bill through. Those of you who join me in horror at it must actively fight against it—write your senator and representative, speak out on social media, do whatever you can. Democracy is too precious to lose it to a bunch of power-hungry old white men.

Sorry for the political rant, but it comes from the heart. Tomorrow I’ll get back to telling you about the goings on in my small world of the Alter/Burton compound. Not much happened today anyway—too rainy and dull.

Stay safe—and think about righteousness in this crazy world.

A radio interview, self-control, and forgetfulness

For me, the highlight of this dull and cold day was a live radio interview. Thanks to Priscilla Leder of San Marcos for hosting me on her show on the San Marcos radio station. The show was an hour, with station breaks every fifteen minutes. Having been on the interviewing end of things a time or two, I was worried about having enough to say. But Priscilla sent me three pages of notes of things she wanted to talk about, and the hour flew by. We chatted a lot about Saving Irene, but also about mysteries in general, Chicago, food, and a few of my other books. It was a thoroughly enjoyable hour, and I’m grateful to her for hosting me. Bonus: I didn’t have to put on make-up, make sure my hair was okay, put on something besides my T-shirt and tights. Radio is sometimes a nice relief from Zoom. I will be getting a link to the program if anyone wants to listen.

I worried about Sophie getting needy or demanding during the hour, but she was good as gold. Almost the minute I hung up, she was at my elbow with that soft growl-like noise that means, “Feed me. And I want my chew!” She got both. We have both been house-rats today—weather is too nasty for going outside. I have both heaters going (the kind that hang from the ceiling) and still a sweater around my shoulders. So glad Christian is fixing a post of chili tonight.

I’m patting myself on the back. The current sermon series at our church stresses that we are all in this together, listen to the other person instead of reacting with argument, etc. It’s a struggle for me because I feel so strongly about the sins and corruption of the current administration. Sometimes I can’t keep my mouth shut when people praise trump or Cornyn. Today, a friend posted a note of congratulations to Amy Coney Barrett on her appointment, and I penned a quick retort: Congratulations for what? Hypocrisy? Breaking tradition about distance between the courts and the president? Succumbing to a wannabe authoritarian who sometimes can’t think his way out of a paper bag? Being a political tool? And then I deleted it! The same friend posted a video celebrating our lovely first lady. It took will power but I scrolled right on past without comment.

I saw a post today, in reference to attacks on Joe Biden’s mental acuity, that when a young person is occasionally forgetful, no one pays attention, but when an older person forgets something, it’s seen as the first sign of senility. We all forget things from time to time. I found great comfort in that. Sunday night I placed a grocery order, and Monday I sent Jordan to get it. She came back empty-handed and reported they had no record of my order. When I investigated, I found all the items still in my cart—I had forgotten to finalize the order.

Last night I was making that tourtiere I mentioned and Christian’s green beans, which require bacon and vinegar—like wilted lettuce, if your mom ever did that. It was after five before I remembered that I had defrosted the ground meat but not the bacon or the pie shell—yes, I confess, I used a pre-made shell, and it wasn’t as good as made from scratch. But I just can’t imagine rolling out dough in my tiny kitchen. Besides, at that point, it was my memory I was more worried about than the quality of the food, although the tourtiere was quite good and Christian’s beans are always welcome.

My closing thought on this chilly night: I think Biden will win a fair election, but I am terrified that the Republicans will steal it through voter suppression or the courts they’ve stacked. It is a fight, as Biden and others have said, for the soul of our country. What kind of country are we? What kind do we want to be going forward? Please vote if you haven’t already.

 

A productive day, sort of

In spite of a dismal morning with predictions of a cold front, I managed a slightly productive day. After checking email and other online sources, I set myself to making tuna pasties. I really like them, but the making is a bit of a challenge, because you have to roll out the dough. I use tube biscuits, separate each biscuit into two, and roll out thin. I’ve been putting it off because the rolling out is tedious, but this morning I decided I was just going to do it. Of course, in spite of my determination, I almost burned four of them—they are what, with generosity, I would call well-done. The may not be pretty, with neatly crimped edges, but they are delicious.

I finished reading Erik Larson’s The Splendid and the Vile, about Churchill and the devastating German bombing of England. I’ve been dawdling too long over that book, because though it’s fascinating history, with lots of personal glimpses, it was hard for me to wrap my mind around the devastation. I forget the numbers, but I think almost fifty thousand Brits were killed and almost an equal number injured to various degrees. With the pandemic we’re currently living through I can understand that the death and destruction are impersonal (unless you want to fault government handling of the crisis), but it appalls me to think that the bombing of England was deliberately ordered by other human beings. They cared nothing for the lives of their victims. It makes today’s rise of Nazism all the more appalling.

But I learned an invaluable lesson from reading Larson, particularly his notes to the book. He made the distinction between biography and history, saying that for him the tiniest details are important to biography—the things that historians generally sweep by in their quest to capture the larger picture. I’ve realized that the project I’m working on—a biography—depends on the many anecdotes available. Now I will pay close attention to details, even lists of them.

With social distancing these days, I keep hearing a lot about Zoom. People use it for everything from business meetings and classroom lessons to family reunions. Had my first experience with it tonight, and I mark it was a clear fail. Jordan and I were trying to respond to Megan’s invitation on my computer, and it kept telling us to click to join (which I didn’t want to do), click here to download (which didn’t work). Jordan’s frustration level kept sinking, and I felt she was blaming me for me computer, though she denied it.

We finally ended up talking to Megan on Facebook and getting a tour of the house under construction. It’s going to be smashing, and I was enthralled and happy for my daughter. I still don’t like Facebook, because if I don’t want to look like an ancient hag from Macbeth, I have to hold the phone at a high angle over my head—and my arm gets tired. Of course, whichever of my kids I’m talking to looks charming and adorable. There is no justice in this world.

Tomorrow is another new day. Ho, hum! I think I’ll start a new project. I have a feeling that we’re in this isolation business for the long haul.

A birthday some dilemmas, and a puzzle

Today is my baby daughter’s birthday—Jordan, the youngest of my four. I won’t tell you how old she is because she’s a mite touchy about that, but I will say that it’s not a decade-changing birthday but still one that she considers significant. I cannot believe my kids are as old as they are.

Jordan loves to celebrate birthdays and is known for stretching hers out to two weeks or more. This year, it’s a rather subdued celebration. We reluctantly cancelled a birthday luncheon Subie was to host yesterday, and the Bass Hall performance, featuring our church choir and an original composition, scheduled for tonight, has been rescheduled for September. Jordan was excited that she and Christian were going to take Jacob. I suppose they’ll go in September, but that’s cold compensation for a birthday night on the town.

Today, as far as I know, she floated through the day, doing whatever struck her, but all at home. Tonight they are welcoming a very few close friends to the front porch. I was invited, but I won’t go it—I am convinced the fewer people I see, the better. I understand I will eventually get dinner from that gathering, but it’s almost seven and I have fortified myself with pimiento cheese on Ritz crackers—and wine, of course.

Current dilemmas: can I have the dog groomer come to the house? I can just hand the leash out the door and spray it when I get it back. Poor Sophie hasn’t had a haircut since late January—how did I do that?—and she’s shaggy and smells a bit doggy. One good note: she jumped up on a chair today and on the couch at Jacob’s urging. I have been worried because she hasn’t slept in her favorite chairs since she developed the urinary tract infection. Vet thinks it’s unrelated, and she probably has some arthritis—oh swell, another pill to give her.

My other dilemma: I will get shaggy myself and need a haircut soon. Can I have my much-loved Rosa come to the house? I have infinite faith in her cleanliness—she’s a protective mom of two boys—but who knows whose hair she’s been cutting. Jordan’s advice about everything is wait two weeks.

My pet peeve on this fifth day of social distancing—really social isolation—is people who say they don’t want to stay home. They want to eat in restaurants and go out as they please. What in heaven’s name do they think is going on? One woman posted that Queen Elizabeth is still going about her subjects, and she wanted to be just like the Queen. I replied that is all well and good for the Queen, but does this woman not realize that by disregarding all the strong recommendations that come from national, state, and local officials, she is endangering all of us. I told her as an at-risk citizen, I resented her attitude, and three people backed me up. It’s one thing to  have to explain this to Jacob, but we should have to spell it out for adults.

And a puzzle: A few days ago I shared a post from The Atlantic titled “The Trump Presidency is Over.” I said in the comment that we can’t blame trump for the pandemic, but this was a balanced review of the subject and his handling of it. It’s been since shared several times by others. Tonight I get an email that it violates Facebook’s community standards and I have the option to withdraw it or be unable to tag others or something—it was a bit confusing. I withdrew it, figuring it had already had quite a nice audience, but it’s left me mulling over the prevailing feeling that Facebook is politically motivated in its censorship judgments. I have seen blatant outright lies from the right. I guess someone on the right objected, and that’s why they took action. Now I have to learn to protest untrue postings. I have a Facebook friend (never met him) who says he reported several today.

I said it last night, and I’ll say it again: nerves are fraught and tense these days, and one thing we all most do it maintain our emotional equilibrium.

Sweet dreams, my friends.

Change—and new directions

No, don’t go! You’re not in the wrong place. This is still Judy’s Stew, only dramatically changed, even with a new name.. I’ve gradually been changing the look of my social media presence to reflect my change away from cozy mysteries and back to where I started—writing about women of Texas and the American West. So I thought a western look would be more appropriate.

The URL for the blog remains the same— http://www.judys-stew.blogspot.com but I’ve added a new title: “View from the Cottage.” When I was first in the cottage, I was recovering from surgery and got out very little, so what I saw of the world was viewed from the cottage. In my files, I’ve called the blog that ever since, and it’s true—my world view is as I see it from the cottage, which I guess distinguishes it from those who write from positions in the middle of politics or academia or the commercial world. It’s sort of an onlooker’s perspective. Anyway, changing the look seemed a good time to change the name.

              Change, though some resist it mightily, is usually a sign of growth, and that’s what I’m taking my writing change as. Mysteries were fine, I wanted to try my hand at them, and I think I did a credible job with fourteen either in print or available digitally. I certainly broke no sales records, but my books were consistently given four and five stars, and the comments I got encouraged me that I wasn’t embarrassing myself too badly.

But the inspiration was running out, and I knew I would never compete with younger, more dedicated authors, those who daily study their reviews and ratings, who compile statistics about what advertising works and what doesn’t, who take the business end of being a writer more seriously than I ever wanted to. It embarrasses me a bit that I wasn’t willing to do all that, to master the technology, but all I ever wanted to do was write and tell stories. Writing has, to me, always been my first calling (beyond being a mother), but it has always been second in a way—for years, I had a demanding—and satisfying—day job, so I wrote in the evenings. Now in retirement, I write at a more leisurely pace. Making room for reading and cooking and naps and lunches and dinner with friends. So the business side was low on my list.

In many ways, I see this change in focus as my career taking off in a second reincarnation at my somewhat advanced age. I have said I owe it to Debra Winegarten who, knowing she was dying, asked me to write her Alamo book for her. I did, and that book, The Second Battle of the Alamo, will launch March 7. Working on that book drew me back to history and westerns and women, as I realized how much I was enjoying working with the material. The publisher liked the manuscript well enough that they gave me a contract for another book—tentatively titled “The Most Land, the Best Cattle: the Waggoners of Texas.” And they issued contracts to reprint five of my historical novels about women of the American West. I said to a friend that I felt a bit that I was riding on a dead woman’s coattails—Debra died over a year ago—but the friend reassured me by saying, “Debra cracked the door for you, but you opened it with the manuscript you turned in.” Heady stuff.

Anyway, here I am—writing about women of the West and now thinking ahead to my next title, even while still working on the Waggoner book. And I’m happy as a clam. Will there ever be another mystery? What has happened to Kelly O’Connell, and what’s going on at the Blue Plate Café? I’m not ruling anything out.

I did have some hesitation about changing the look of my blog, afraid I’d lose readers simply because they didn’t recognize the familiar sketches of my, my kids and dog, my cottage. But Judy’s Stew was running out in another way—originally meant to be about writing, cooking, and grandchildren, it evolved into a personal essay/opinion blog. Cooking spun off into my Gourmet on a Hot Plate Blog, my grandkids are so busy with school and sports and life that I don’t see them as much and don’t have as much to write about them, and I find myself writing more about random topics than writing.

So I hope those who read the blog regularly will stick with me. And check out the new look of my Web page— http://www.judyater.com

 –and my Facebook Author page--   https://www.facebook.com/Judy-Alter-Author-366948676705857/

And please give me some feedback. Let me know what you think.

An accidental experiment and other trivia

Last night I accidentally performed a little social media experiment. I posted a blog—nothing spectacular, just cheeseburger soup (so good on the first cool night, even though cool hadn’t yet quite hit), some thoughts that struck me in church yesterday, and comments on a church Connection luncheon we went to. The point was to connect with other members, and I thought it a great idea. Anyway, today I did not get one like nor one comment, and I guess I’ve gotten spoiled and used to feedback.

So I checked. I had neglected to put the post on Facebook. If you want to read it you can find it at https://judys-stew.blogspot.com/2019/10/could-fall-really-be-here.html But it demonstrates to me that a big part of my audience is on Facebook. In Sisters in Crime and other groups, there’s always debate about the usefulness of Facebook, but one comforting bit of social media advice I like is to do what is comfortable for you. So I have given up trying to master Instagram and I don’t do much other than post on Twitter, but I am really vocal on Facebook—and that includes occasional advertising in the form of “boosting” posts. So my experiment kind of confirmed what I do.

Another bit of cyberspace wisdom I picked up yesterday; two friends said they had tried to order So Far from Paradise and were told it was unavailable. So I ordered a free sample as a test—no problem. Then I called Amazon. It seems you cannot always order all books from an iPhone of iPad app. So my advice to readers: if you try that and get word the book you want is unavailable, order it from your computer. As an author, I wonder how many sales lots of us have lost because that fact isn’t commonly known.

Not much spectacular today, except that I got a routine dental appointment out of the way. Dentistry brings out my anxiety, and I tried to explain it to the hygienist: when I was a young teen, I had lots of cavities (poor enamel inherited from my dear father, whom I otherwise loved a lot). Our dentist was an uncle (by adoption if not blood), a taciturn man who scared me. Plus dentistry sixty-five or so years ago was not as smooth as it is today, and I still have a real dental phobia. So grateful that Jordan drove me and picked me up, that Stephanie the hygienist is such a good soul, and that my teeth are good enough the cleaning was brief, and I got a clean bill of health.

My day ended with a most pleasant happy hour with friends—one of those small world situations. I honestly thought we met on Facebook but Mary Kay Hughes tells me years ago she and her mother came to a reading group I conducted through TCU’s Community Education programs. But we also have our church and our politics in common, plus she works with Christian, and her husband proved to share all our convictions and more knowledge than I had about some of them. An evening of lively and interesting discussion.

I am heartsick tonight about withdrawal of troops from Syria and the almost instant bombing by Turkey, though I don’t think we know the truth of the situation yet. What does seem clear is that the orange one, he of “great wisdom,” let himself be hornswoggled again. He has not the faintest idea of the cost in human lives—ours and Kurdish—of his impulsive acts and lack of negotiating ability. But I won’t belabor the point—it’s all over the internet, and we will have to let the true facts sort themselves out. Tonight, my prayers for the Kurdish people and for our troops in the region.

A do-nothing day

Sophie watching me at my desk

See those eyes?

Sometimes I have a do-nothing day. I think it’s therapeutic, because it usually signals the start of an intense work period the next day. So today I had one of those days, partly because my plans for yesterday and today fell through and left me at loose ends. I’m not sure why that’s an excuse, but it is.

So I got off to a slow start this morning and didn’t worry about it. Lingered over the morning’s email and political news, spent far too long on Facebook answering messages and inserting my two cents much more often than it was called for. Then I decided I had to study all the unread titles on my Kindle. A friend mentioned Gabrielle Hamilton’s memoir, Blood, Bones, and Butter, and I had read the free sample last night. But in the cold light of day I convinced myself to read something I had already bought before moving on to that one. So I decided on The Chilbury Ladies Choir, mostly because it reminds me a bit of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society—how English citizens coped with World War II.

But before reading, I moved on to a delightful hour going through recipes I’ve put aside to try. Doing this is productive because I make myself take a long look at each one and admit with about half that I’ll never fix them. So the folder grows thinner. And I planned some good suppers for myself—tonight, a potato and wurst skillet, tomorrow salmon—King salmon is on sale this week, and I think I’ll make cucumber soup to go with it. Had a great debate with myself—decided I wanted lamb, but did I want a loin chop or ground lamb for burgers? Decided on the burgers because then I’ll have them all week.

Finally, after a lunch of cottage cheese over cucumber, chopped tomato, and sliced scallion, I settled down to re-read an article online that is pertinent to the book I’m working on. I’ve read it before, but now, with much research and background behind me, I find new meaning in it, new facts that take on significance.

And then about two, the day suddenly and unexpectedly darkened, the sky turned gray, and the wind blew hard. Well, of course, nothing would do but that Sophie and I curl up in the bed for a nap. First time in a long while that she’s actually stayed on the bed, pretty much motionless—a blessing. Even now, with the day brighter and the rain seemingly stopped, she is reluctant to let me out of her sight. If I go to the bathroom, she accompanies me; if I do something in the kitchen, she lies in the bedroom doorway where she is close.

Guess it’s time for me to fix that supper of knockwurst, potato—I’ll add a bit of kraut for good measure.

A day with high points and some low ones

I’m really glad and grateful that several of you said wonderful things about my post last night and my evening back in the literary world of Texas. I needed that affirmation because today someone on Facebook told me that I am surely the most ignorant of the ignorant. It had to do with a thread about Beto O’Rourke. At this point I am not promising to support Beto but neither will I criticize him—I’m waiting to see how this overcrowded field shakes out. But I contributed what I thought was a reasonable statement on the fact that he waves his arms and jumps around a lot when addressing a crowd—d.trump also waves his arms a lot. It doesn’t say a lot about either man’s ability to run our country. But, oh boy, was I jumped on. A blazing example of the ugly divisiveness that has engulfed our country, and it makes me feel sad. Two Facebookers, one I know and one I don’t, came to my defense and I appreciate it. I know I have a lot of flaws—ignorance is not one of them.

The highlight of my day was the arrival of Colin and his family for lunch. I had been uncertain if they’d stop on their way home from skiing, but first I heard they would stop for a quick visit. Then came the question: did I want them to bring Railhead for lunch? Of course I did. We had a good visit, and I was reluctant to see them go. And the barbecue was great—I’d been wanting it.

The rest of my day was not so glorious. I went the zoo road to pick up groceries—it was the middle of the day, and I figured zoo people were all in there visiting the animals. I would not get stuck in either arriving or departing traffic—and I didn’t. It’s those one or two drivers who think they can game the system. Zoo or park officials have parking carefully controlled and well managed, but there’s always that person who thinks he or she can evade the rules….and so drives five miles an hour looking for opportunity. How do you tell these people they’d have more time at the zoo if they’d just park in the designated spots and walk there? My frustration level was not great, though I had a lovely conversation with the Central Market employee who brought my groceries—we had North Carolina memories and farm fresh eggs in common.

I went my way, picked up my eggs, and came home—it’s no easy task to get two bags of groceries in while using a walker, but I did it and thought I’d just check email before a well-deserved nap. Someone in the neighborhood had sent me pictures for the newsletter, but every time I tried to copy them my computer crashed and getting it rebooted was touch and go, a long, slow process—I was actually proud of myself that I worked through it. I finally erased the email pictures and suggested she send them straight to the designer.

Then I napped but couldn’t sleep. Just not my day.

Tonight, Jordan and her boys came home from two days at a neighbor’s lake house, only to find the carbon monoxide detector going off. The firemen came, said the detector was probably old, get a new one and call them if the new one went off. They also told them all kinds of symptoms to watch for. So Christian and Jacob set off to get a new detector, and I’ve heard no more. I presume they’re okay.

Just that kind of day. We all have them.

In defense of Facebook

A few of my friends aren’t on Facebook. In fact, they are downright scornful of it. I try to tell them it’s benefits, but they think it’s all fake news and Russian bots and foolishness, and they can’t be bothered. I, however, am a Facebook addict.

Originally, I signed up to keep track of my children.  I soon found, however, that one son told me what time before dawn he went to the gym, what time he left, what he had for lunch. Too much information, much as I love him. Today, my sons have melted away though my two daughters and two daughters-in-law are medium active. Some simply react to what I post; others post about their lives and doings.

As an author, I found it important to be on Facebook to let the world know about my books and about me. I try hard not to post too much “Have you bought my book yet?’ stuff. I know authors who post some self-promotion every day, and I find it wearying. But in judicious amounts, I think it’s helpful. I’ve read that young people don’t read Facebook much—they’re on Instagram and other new platforms. That’s okay, I think my readers, my target audience, is on Facebook.

These days I find myself n a conundrum. Some authors never ever post about politics, lest it offend a reader or two. I find I cannot keep quiet about what’s happening in this country, and I post and share and comment a lot. You do have to be careful that what you’re posting is authentic and true. I have a Facebook friend—an author I knew in my publishing days—who does his best to keep me honest. Lately he’s alerted me to “outrage” sites which exist to stir up controversy and diversity. Russian bots? Could be. Beyond the New York Times and the Washington Post (both of which limit my views because I don’t subscribe), I like the National Memo, Wake Up to Politics (done by an incredible high school student), and Daily Kos.

Some days Facebook makes me laugh aloud. Yes, it’s sometimes about things that our squatting president does, but it may just as well be a dog post. I liked one recently that had two pictures, one on top of the other. The top was trump saying he’d love a dog but he doesn’t have time (it would cut into all that Fox watching and golf I suppose) and below it a Dachsund, paws in a prayerful pose, saying, “Thank you, Jesus.” Or the one of a couple exchanging wedding vows at an outdoor arbor. Their large dog sprawls upside down in front of them—that absolutely unselfconscious, happy pose that dogs get when they’re perfectly happy with their surroundings.

It took me a while to learn what a meme is, but there are many on Facebook that I like and that would make me a little wiser, I think, if I pay attention to them. These are often accompanied with terrific photography. A current favorite: “Life’s tragedy is that we are too soon old and too late wise.” Another favorite: “May you touch dragonflies and stars, dance with fairies, and talk to the moon.” One that hit home said, in effect, “Buy that plane ticket, apply for that job, date that person—do what scares you the most.” I wish I’d heard and heeded those words when I was younger. I think a lack of courage has limited my life—too late now to discover that.

Lately I’ve found lots of posts about the great strides other countries, a lot of them so-called “undeveloped,” are making to slow climate change. India, for instance, builds roads of plastic waste. We in this country should be ashamed that we are so behind but then, trump is recruiting fourth-rate scientists to prove that climate change is a fiction. He may kill us all. Meantime I share the environmental posts I find.

And finally, there’s friendships. Like many others, I’ve rekindled old friendships and sustained longtime ones with Facebook exchanges. I’ve made new friends, and I’ve chatted with an extensive network of writers. Facebook has broadened my horizons.

Okay, yes, it’s a time suck. I prowl Facebook early in the morning, after reading email, and late at night, just before I go to bed. During the workday I ignore it. But I won’t give it up, and I invite you to reach out and explore the world it offers.

Words from an old fuddy-duddy

No, I don’t think I’m an old prude. But I keep remembering the old adage that if you can’t express yourself without cursing, you probably have nothing to say.

 It’s no secret that I’m a Facebook addict. Years ago, I was scornful of Facebook, then the new kid on the block. I didn’t need that foolishness. My kids convinced me otherwise. “You can keep up with what we’re all doing,” they said. So I signed up. I soon knew what time one son went to the gym, what time he left the gym, the details of his lunch, etc. I love my kids beyond measure, but that kind of detail I didn’t need. But then most of them melted away—the girls in the family still post a bit, one son rarely, and one son not at all.

But by then I was hooked. I saw the value of Facebook in promoting my mysteries and my blog. I made friends. I learned a lot about current events, once I realize how important it is to check the sources. Facebook is now part of my morning ritual, and I usually check it late at night. These days, with the Kavanaugh mess, I’ve checked it more often.

But I am dismayed, upset, disappointed—choose whatever word you want—at the level of many conversations. On some timelines, if I express an opinion, I am vilified as naïve, stupid, blind, etc. I rarely play this card in my own defense, but I would like those men (yeah, they’re all men) to know that I am not stupid. I hold a Ph.D. in English, and I’ve published over a hundred books. My opinions about the current political situation in our country are no knee-jerk reactions but are based on my sense of honor, morality, and integrity—and they have a lot to do with my faith.

The posts that offend me the most are scurrilous, often in horrendous taste. One recently alluded to Lindsey Graham’s sudden infatuation with trump in such gross anatomical terms—an act between two men that I do not want to contemplate further, but I can’t erase from my mind. The F-bomb has now become common, as have insults of the most virulent kind. So have sexual innuendos of the grossest nature.

What happened to civility? What happened to an honest exchange of ideas? Tonight Christian and I had a discussion about Kavanaugh/Ford—we disagree on some points. He says I want to make it political, and I say it has to be. We were both passionate—and grew loud. Jordan left the cottage. But you know what? We weren’t mad, we kept it civil, and we exchanged ideas.

That’s what I hoped for on social media—a civil exchange of ideas. Okay, here I go being political, but I blame much of it on trump. With his comments about grabbing women in the crotch, etc., he has lowered the bar for discussion. And I am offended—by him as a person if not by his politics.

I don’t necessarily want to go back to the days when if you mentioned something slightly sexual, my mother’s chin went up in the air and her eyes went out the window. That discussion was over. But I would like to be able to exchange ideas in a civil manner. I might stretch my mind a bit, and that would be good. And maybe I could stretch yours.

Some doggy memories

Do you remember the dogs of your childhood? I do—a wild and lovable female collie mix inappropriately named Timmy, an English cocker with a less-than-sweet disposition, a gentle and genteel collie called “Sister” for some reason.

A recent thread on Facebook is bringing back bittersweet memories of my years with Cairn terriers—and giving me new memories to savor. The oldest daughter of old friends posted a picture of the house her dad lived in as a child. The house later became the first osteopathic hospital in Fort Worth—the ground floor was the hospital, and a surgeon and his family lived on the second floor.

For the family who initially posted, the thread led to an online reunion with the descendants of the two Hispanic women who had cared for their father when he was a child and whom he loved very much. Talk about bittersweet memories.

But another part of the thread led to a discussion of the several buildings occupied by Fort Worth Osteopathic Hospital until its demise in 2004. By then I had worked at the hospital, been married to a surgeon, divorced, and moved on with my life. But the thread connected with a friend who also worked there and then morphed into a thread about Cairn terriers because Ellen, the woman, and I met when she bought a Cairn from me.

And then, as these things do, the thread twisted back to the original family of kids—because they too had one of my Cairns—named Jody, because it combined my name with that of my then-husband, Joel. And then the memories of Cairns came flooding back.

As I child I read the book Greyfriars Bobby, about the Edinburgh dog so attached to its master that he refused to leave his grave. Mistakenly all those years I thought Greyfriars Bobby was a Carin—he was a Skye terrier. But I determined to have a Cairn—and we ended up raising and showing them, not that we were ever great successes at either. But we had one champion, and I recall someone telling me outright that the judge was interested in the dog’s legs not mine. I remember Jemima and Bitsy and the cute male with the bent tail who died from chewing on a wicker basket (always a cautionary tale for me).

I guess I had forgotten though how I spread my Cairn joy, until the son of my friends posted, “You spread a lot of joy with your doggies.” Funny the way that networks form, and the way that memories come and go. For  Facebook doubters, this was an example of the good that network can do.

Surfing the net can be, ah, enlightening

As I wait to straighten out my stomach problems—pretty sure it’s a medication problem now, but fixing it involves going from one doctor to the other, always tricky—I’ve found myself spending way too much time on Facebook. I have friends who say to me loftily that they don’t “do” Facebook, their tone implying a sort of addiction for the weak-minded. But I have always maintained that it is good for my career and, besides, it generally interests me. You really must learn to separate the junk from the good stuff, but even the junk can give you a laugh.

Like the piece I read today where a Fox newscaster proposed that the reason America is so great today is that “we defeated communist Japan.” Oops. Someone needs some lessons in world history, particularly WWII.

And along the line of blindness, Steve Scalise wrote me upset that I have not yet sent my donation to the RNCC. Hope he’s holding his breath until he turns blue, because it will be a long, cold day before I donate to the Republican anything. Scalise, like Nunes, pleads that the Republicans might lose control of the House—not my worst nightmare by a long shot. Honest, I thought surviving that life-threatening gunshot would have “shot” some remorse or self-examination into him, but apparently not.

On an encouraging note, I read a buried post that the Pentagon has decided to postpone trump’s extravagant military parade, first scheduled for Veteran’s Day this year. They are now looking at dates in 2019. Pray God this is true, and trump is out of office before the parade can cost us much. [Update: this is apparently now, two days later, a done deal, and the parade is toast—a big of common sense lingers on the horizon, thank heaven!]

On a light note, a friend posted the “recipe” for coca-cola syrup, dating back to who-knows-when. But I was surprised it called for a quarter of lime juice—that’s a lot of limes to squeeze, back when I’m not sure margaritas or guac were that central to our diet. Add a lot of water, a quart of alcohol (type unspecified—suppose it was Everclear?), 30 lbs. of sugar (and run to the dentist), and several flavorings including neroli oil, which sounds deadly. No wonder I don’t drink it. Unfortunately, it didn’t say how much you end up with, but I get it’s enough for Coxie’s Army. Thanks, Chrissy Armstrong for a chuckle.

And thanks to another old friend from Park Hill days, Kathy Jackson, for a reminder of the days when I had a good-sized floor loom set up in my bedroom. I suspect I was never a peaceful enough soul to get into the rhythm of weaving. I consider that my loss.

Most of this blog post was written two days ago and, as happens these days, got set aside. Part of my new resolve is to blog daily, beginning today, but I just can’t waste already-written copy. So here it is, for whatever it’s worth. More to come.