Living in two worlds

 

This is what happens when you party at the zoo.

The weirdest dreams last night, intense and very real. I am in the midst of writIng a new mystery, and I had read a colleague’s comment that she loved to dream the next scene in her work-in-progress, because all she had to do was wake up and transcribe it. I guess I took that to heart, though I often think, as I drift off, that I’m going to plan what’s next in my current work. Last night it was like I was living in the world of my book, and when I woke this morning, I was back to the cottage and my real world.

I would dream a scene in its entirety and then realize that it wouldn’t work because of plot mechanics. So I’d go back and re-create it—and then something else would occur to me, like that character couldn’t have done such and such because she still didn’t know this and that. I would swear the dream lasted for hours, but it was probably only an hour at the most. And I would also swear that I wrote the entire book in my mind, but that wasn’t true either.

You might expect I would be exhausted when I woke up, but on the contrary I was energized and anxious to get back to the manuscript. When reality hit me, I followed only the very first part of my dream, and I wrote only 1300 words, a productive day for me. But those words didn’t take me anywhere as far into the story as I hoped, which is a good thing.

I am a pantser, which means I don’t outline—I write by the seat of my pants, hoping that inspiration will carry me to the next scene, the next red herring, the next plot development. My first drafts are woefully short, even for a cozy where the length requirements are much less than for suspense or thrillers. So it was good that I was able to draw out this one scene.

Tomorrow I know I will introduce a new character. What I must figure out is how she fits into the story—she, an mouthy eight-year-old girl—has been telling me she has to be in there, so we’ll see. Perhaps my dreams will be productive again tonight.

Aside from the 1300 words, it was a good day. I sorted through my recipe file which had grown out of bounds and probably threw out half of what I’d printed, clipped, and saved. I mean really—am I going to cook a prime rib in my toaster oven? I don’t think so. So now my wastebasket is stuffed with discarded recipes, and I’m not even going to take a second look.

Then my accountant called. He was missing 1099s from three sources. (Since I’m in Texas, my taxes aren’t due until June 15 because of the terrible ice storm we had in February.) I thought I would have to wait until Monday to find out about the missing forms. Then my brain clicked in, and I searched for them online. Found the one from my bank easily; the one from the brokerage was not so easy, so I called my oldest son and he found it, sent it to me, and I forwarded it to the account. Two out of three down! The third was my pension fund, which has multiple accounts (I have never understood why it’s not consolidated, but….) I found the tax forms but couldn’t see a way to forward them, so I printed. Then I called the accountant and said, “This is Judy Alter, who is feeling smug.” He roared with laughter and said I was doing well so far. I explained the dilemma, and he volunteered that he was just leaving to go get lunch, would drop by and pick up what I had printed out. And that’s what happened. I haven’t heard from him again, so I guess all must be in order.

Color it a good day.

After their big night out at the zoo last night, Jordan and Christian reported they are exhausted—I couldn’t resist a comment about growing old. But nobody had the heart to say what they wanted for dinner or to cook it, so we ordered take-out from the Lebanese/Italian place down the street. I got eggplant lasagna in a vodka sauce—so good, so rich, so spicy. Too much left over. Tomorrow they go, with Jacob, to the golf tournament for the entire day—I expect more exhaustion. Will go to dinner with friends but have willingly taken over dinner for Monday. Going to splurge and make crab cakes. Sometimes I fear my life revolves around what I eat or am planning to cook and eat.

This Memorial Day take a moment to think about all those who have given their lives for us. Then think about where our country is today. Where do you stand? Me? I’m indignant at attempts to destroy our democracy but also grateful for those who have fought for us, like my dad who fought in WWI, and grateful for those like Joe Biden who fight for us today.

Thoughts on a rainy Memorial Day

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

    That mark our place; and in the sky

    The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

                from "In Flanders Fields," by John McCrae

                McCrae, a Canadian teacher, served in WWI and died January 1918

The all-day rain probably ruined a lot of Memorial Day picnic plans—but then maybe it saved some people from crowd exposure they didn’t need. Whichever, I found it a delightful day. Too wet to even stick my nose out of the cottage, so I wrote an amazing (for me) 1800 words.

Sophie was not so taken with the rain, though she did sleep until I woke her. But even with the patio door open, she refused to go out in the rain. Finally about eleven, she began to bark at me, and I had the distinct impression that she was telling me to make it stop raining, so she could go pee. My explanations fell on deaf ears. She finally did go out, took care of business, and came right back in.

Later, I watched Christian and Jacob try to get June Bug to go out. Jacob came and closed my door so there would be no repeat of last night’s horrendous peeing accident on my floor. June Bug took one step out the door and stopped dead still. Christian patter her on the behind, urging her to go on. As if to say, “Nope,” she turned to go back in the house, only to find her way blocked. Finally Jacob had to pick her up and carry her down to the grass. Gave me a good laugh for the day.

Like most of America, I take Memorial Day seriously as a day to pay tribute, something more significant than just a day for a picnic. Many who post on this day come from a military background, which I always think makes the impact of the day on them heavier. I do not come from such a tradition, although now it sounds unreal to say that my father fought in World War I. By the time I came along, the war to end all wars was twenty years into his memory, and he rarely talked about it. Althought Dad fought for the Canadian Army, not American, I suppose he could still be called a doughboy--the nickame given to soldiers at that time. Books I’ve read about that time—and the wonderful work of the war poets--have made me realize that as a foot soldier he probably endured some pretty tough times. He was subject to chest colds, which was attributed to having been mustard gassed. And when jet planes began crossing our skies, every time one whined by—the really did whine in those days—Dad would duck for the garage if he was outdoors. It sounded like incoming artillery to him.

If any of my uncles were in the military, I don’t know about it, though I do know my brother’s father was in WWI and had shrapnel in his face. The decision at the time was to leave it, but Russell Peckham died in 1934 of meningitis, an infection from the shrapnel. My brother was a Navy pilot in the days just after the Korean War. For much of his service, he was in Corpus Christi, and when I finally visited there, I felt like I already knew the city from his descriptions.

We had our Memorial Day picnic on Saturday—hot dogs and macaroni salad—and I had another picnic yesterday when the Zavalas sent me a bounteous feast. So tonight, I will try to rescue a pasta/tomato dish that didn’t work, add a chicken breast left from yesterday, and a bit of the corn dip that Jordan took with her tonight. A nice satisfying meal. I have some editing to do on what I wrote today and then a culinary mystery to settle down with. I’m not hooked yet, but then I’m not far into it. It is set in Santa Fe, in an upscale Austrian restaurant (really? In Santa Fe? Is this an exercise in the absurd?) so it has some compensations.

Sweet dreams amid the rain.

A Veterans’ Day primer

Veterans’ Day originally began as Armistice Day, intended to honor veterans, living and dead, of World War I. On November 11, 1918, at five in the morning, a treaty was signed between the Allies in Europe and Germany. The treaty was to take effect at “the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month”—11 a.m. November 11, although it was breeched all that day and shooting stopped only when darkness fell. Over the next year, the treaty was violated several times, and peace did not reign until the Treaty of Versailles, negotiated in 1919.

My father fought in WWI (makes me seem awfully old) for the Canadian army. He survived mostly unscathed, though he was gassed and ever after was subject to bronchial difficulties. When jet planes first whined over our Chicago home (right in the path of Midway Airport), if he was outside, Dad would instinctively duck and head for the garage. To him, it was the sound of incoming. But he never talked about his war experiences.

During WWII, the name of the day was changed to Veterans’ Day to honor all who had served, living and dead, in all wars fought by this nation. When I was young, the world almost came to standstill at eleven in the morning, as people stopped in their tracks to stand and face east for one minute, in honor of the veterans. It is almost an unknown custom these days, but this morning at eleven I stood in the cottage and faced east for one minute.

Another custom once associated with the day is the wearing of red poppies, inspired by the poem written by John McCrae when he saw the blood-red poppies, in reality a weed, blooming on a ravaged battlefield. A French woman, Anne Guérin, is generally hailed as the originator of the poppy custom, although an American woman, Moina Michael, a volunteer for the New York YWCA, was simultaneously inspired by the poem and worked to promote fabric poppies. Europeans still wear the red poppy on Armistice Day but in America, the custom has become associated with Memorial Day, which more specifically honors those who lost their lives. Fabric poppies are sold to raise money for servicemen.

World War I inspired literature—especially poetry—that, little known today, is both intensely terrible and beautiful. It is not the literature of patriotism, but rather works that portray and capture the horror of battle. McCrae’s poem is probably one of the best known.

In Flanders Fields

by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

“. .. . the torch; be yours to hold it high”—words to remember and treasure in these trouble times in our country. On Veterans Day, let us honor and make proud the men and women who died to protect our freedom and our democracy.

Happy Memorial Day

Someone on Facebook posed a question about why we wish people happiness on a day when we honor and remember members of the armed service who have given their lives in defense of our country. I think it’s because those men and women died to preserve our way of life, and nothing speaks more to our way of life than the picnics, cook-outs, and celebrations that mark this day. Yes, we stop to honor, we visit gravesites, but we also celebrate—and I can imagine that pleases those who served.

I saw a touching story on Facebook today about an eighty-nine-year-old Dutch woman who has been tending the graves of two American soldiers in a cemetery near her small town for seventy years. She visits the graves twice a year—on Memorial Day and on the anniversary of her town’s liberation from the Nazis. In recent years, she has been in touch with the families of those fallen soldiers from WWII, and one family has even visited the town and the cemetery. Such stories reinforce my faith in the good of humanity, a reaffirmation sorely needed in these days when so much seems bent on destroying all that is good about the American way of life.

My Memorial Day outing today was lunch/brunch with my local family. They’ve been at the golf tournament all weekend, so I was delighted to have a meal with them. In retrospect, I wish I’d ordered brunch, but I didn’t. I asked for tortilla soup which was too hot and too spicy—good, but oh my!

Jordan mentioned that they were going to Denton, where Christian’s sister lives, and I heard the word “fishing.” I assumed Jacob was going fishing. Not so. They were going to a fish memorial service. Jacob’s two girl cousins, younger than he, each had a fish that died, and they were going to have a service. I yelped in astonishment that the family from all over the county had been asked to drive to Denton for this momentous occasion, but Christian hastened to add it was really a Memorial Day celebration, a cook-out. Later, Jacob got to speculating on whether or not the girls had saved the fish corpses. “Are you wondering if it’s a funeral or a memorial service?” I asked, and he grinned. The fish, by the by, were Flash and Cobra. I am happily at home, planning to make a super sandwich out of part of a salmon burger and lettuce, tomato, bacon and mayonnaise.

Once again, a day filled with excitement. Just spent half an hour on the phone with the bank—those poor people have to work on this holiday—trying to straighten out a payment that has not gone through twice. Maybe three times is the charm.

I’m surprised at the people who have to work today, though I remember it was only toward the end of my tenure at TCU that the university declared Memorial Day a holiday. Today, the lawn crew came and mowed, because Monday is their day. Of course they came just as I tried to sneak a nap and not only did their mowers and blowers wake me, but Sophie had to let them know loudly that she was protecting me.

I can hardly stand this frantic pace of life. Happy Memorial Day, everyone!

Cooking up a storm

My idea of a good, long, holiday weekend? Cook a lot. Better if you have someone to cook for. I thought I was cooking for two guests tonight, but only one showed up, so I have lots of good leftovers.

The menu: chicken rolls—a mix of chicken, mushrooms, scallions and cream cheese in crescent roll dough, drizzled with butter and sprinkled with crushed croutons. I thought the croutons were an especially nice touch. The rolls puffed up and turned out larger than I expected, plus were so rich I could only eat half of one. I served them with a mix of sautéed asparagus and mushrooms and a fruit salad. With oatmeal raisin cookies for dessert.

Last night, I prepped some of tonight’s meal--baked the cookies, skinned and boned the rotisserie chicken breast—I love to get the breast only instead of the whole chicken. When I washed the mushrooms, I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. I diced the stems to put in the chicken rolls and saved the caps to slice and sauté with the asparagus.

In addition, last night I fixed myself steamed spinach and salmon cakes for supper. Salmon cakes are one of my favorite dishes on earth. My mom called them croquettes and shaped them into little logs, which I have always found hard to brown evenly. I shape them as patties. And Mom rolled the final product in crushed crackers—I decided that was trouble and the crackers didn’t stick to the filling, so I just use crushed crackers in the patties and don’t coat them. Seems to work well. I love those salmon cakes cold the next day, with lots of lemon and a bit of mayonnaise. Ate two today, which may be why I wasn’t really hungry at dinner.

So today, for supper I cut up the fruit salad—started with cantaloupe and an orange and realized I had a sort of pale, orange-colored salad. A banana, done at the last minute, would add some variety, and Jean brought blueberries at my request, because I said the salad needed color. Whereas the chicken was too rich, the fruit was bright and just right—I ate two serving. Asparagus and mushrooms proved to be a great combination. All in all, it was a menu I’m proud of.

I’m probably through cooking—at least until next weekend—but I have a lot of rotisseries chicken left. I’m thinking a pasta salad with chicken would be really good. Do I miss the barbecue and traditional foods of Memorial Day? A bit but not too much.

What’s on your weekend menu?

Festivities and rainy clouds

With Maddie, her mom Mel, and sister Eden

Cloudy rainy day, the kind that’s good for a book and a long nap. It’s not cold—in the 70s—but I have felt chilled all day, and curling up in a comforter was a treat.

Last night the Burtons and I went to Frisco for granddaughter Maddie’s graduation party.  Love having even most of my family together—we were missing the Tomball Alters, but Megan, Brandon, Sawyer and Ford arrived there shortly after we did. Burgers by the pool, good company, and lots of happiness for Maddie who heads to Colorado University (Boulder) in the fall. This summer, she’ll work and do an internship.

I had been straightening and sorting files the other day and found one in which I had saved Maddie’s very early artwork—those scribbled pictures, first attempts at writing, “I love you, Juju,” and especially an essay she did for TAAS on why her grandmother was a role model for her. That folder was her graduation present, and she seemed pleased as she grinned and leafed through it, promised to study the contents more carefully when she had time. I’m afraid it’s the sort of thing you do for first grandchildren, and I don’t have similar folders for the six still to come along through high school.

Always so proud of my grandchildren—they really are wonderful. But boys will be boys—Ford and Jacob were throwing a baseball on the front lawn when Ford missed the ball, it hit a curbside brick mailbox, ricocheted and gave him a black left eye with considerable swelling. This morning it didn’t look as bad as we all anticipated, but it hurt him to open it. He wore sunglasses to brunch and, with his long, lank build and blonde hair, looked very much the incognito child movie star.

We had a late brunch at one of my favorite restaurants, but it was freezing cold. I had brought a jacket, but Meg went out to the car for a blanket to wrap around herself, and we think we saw a party leave without ordering because they were so cold. Wish restaurants would get that message. I know wait staff hurries and scurries and gets hot, but I think they’re about pleasing customers, aren’t they? The long season of cold restaurants is just about to begin.

Megan and family left for the drive back to Austin, Jordan and family went to the golf tournament, and I settled down for that book and nap. For dinner, I’ll sauté a lamb cop and some zucchini. A good day.

Tonight, a flag flies at the foot of my driveway, courtesy the Fort Worth South Side Rotary. Let us all stop our busy lives long enough to honor those who have given their lives for our country.

Pain and a discovery

 This morning I wrote to my doctor that I was in incredible pain with my ankle. Of course I don’t expect to hear until tomorrow. But I could barely hobble around here with my walker and called Jordan for help. Then I discovered something—I can ride my walker around the house, taking all stress off my ankle. I have to ride it backwards, because that’s how it knows to steer but I know this house well enough that’s no problem—except for an occasional bump here and there. I think it feels better already simply because I haven’t stressed it all day. But I’m still leery about getting up and sitting down. Am at my desk in the walker now—why change chairs when I don’t have to?  A little uncomfortable but not bad.

Jordan came and fixed me lunch—cottage cheese and wine—and came back tonight with friends in tow to scramble me a couple of eggs. She and Jacob will come back to spend the night—I have all kinds of guilt about this, but she brushes it off, says Christian is glad to sleep late in the morning undisturbed.

And that, folks, was my day—trying not to have to stand up, being cautious when I did, checking emails and Facebook and finally scratching the surface of the blog book I want to do. Actually a good day. I have two books left to read for the Sarton competition, and the deadline is fast upon us, so that’s my project for tonight. I’m reading a novel with a background deep in the Roman Catholic tradition and yet one that is full of humor. Not far into it, but I’m enjoying it.

As always. Facebook astounds me, with people leaping to unsupported conclusions. I don’t know how many people have criticized President Obama for apologizing to Japan for Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The only problem is it was very clear he offered sympathy for their suffering but no apology.  But these are the same people who will damn him no matter what he does.

And then there’s that awful tragedy of the lowland gorilla and the child who slipped into his enclosure. I won’t even begin to take sides, because so many others have. But they don’t seem to realize every story has multiple components. Many have condemned the parents’ for not watching their child; others have damned the zoo for weak protection. And everyone is so convinced that their interpretation of the event is correct—yet I think I’ve only read two reports from people who were on-site witnesses. The whole thing was a catastrophe, and blame lies in many directions. I really resent the posts that personify the gorilla, having him say, “I don’t know why they killed me. I was taking better care of that child than his own mother.”

Memorial Day has come and gone for another year. I learned something this year—Memorial Day honors those who died in service of their country; Veterans Day honors all who have served. Let us never forget to honor both days. We have a great country, and no, Donald Trump we don’t need you to bring us back to greatness—we’re there, albeit with many issues and problems that one hopes a new Congress with address without the discord of the past eight years.