Self-indulgent Saturday

 

Tonight, I had three of my favorite foods for supper. They may have been odd pairings, they made a great supper for me: salmon (it was fresh Scottish salmon, so how could I resist), the mild guacamole from Central Market, and fresh raspberries. When summer fruits are in season, raspberries are my favorite. I remember getting buckets of them for fifty cents at a rural market in Indiana as a kid. As for the salmon, I kind of went on instinct—just salt and pepper, poured a little white wine on the pan to keep it from drying, and watched it almost constantly for the seven minutes it roasted. Salmon came out cooked just right, which for me is barely cooked. Guacamole was delicious—I can’t take the spicy version. And the raspberries were sweet—sometimes, early on, they’re a bit tangy, but these weren’t. Topped it off with two salted caramels. Yes, a self-indulgent dinner. But I deserve.

Today was a piddling day. Everybody needs one of those. I was lazy about everything I did, dawdled over emails and news reports. I am so fascinated by the chaos in our country that it sometimes takes me a long time to catch up on all my sources, even on weekends. Still, I managed to write a thousand words and I have the next scene in my mind. Ate leftover for lunch and took a long nap.

The Burtons were gone most of the day, and when they were here, I was napping. We crossed paths briefly in the late afternoon before they went to an American Cancer Society event at the zoo. Somehow the attendance requirement was to wear white. Jordan came out in a white dress with puff sleeves and my only thought was, “I would so spill my dinner all over the front.” Christian said he fully expected red wine stains. Should have told him to drink white.

My interesting side note for the day. In my adult life, I've had periodic bouts of anxiety, a few times almost crippling. For that reason, I identify with the Simon and Garfunkel song, "Hello, Darkness, my old friend." I always thought Darkness was a reference to anxiety or depression which throws you into a dark state. Not so. In college, Art Garfunkel had a good friend who lost his sight and withdrew from the world. Garfunkel took it as his responsibility to help his friend and set him on the path to a productive life. He was by his side, literally, all through college, and he named himself Darkness. He would say, "It's Darkness, your old friend." Because of his devoted help, the man went on to get a law degree and graduate degree from prestigious universities. He married, had a family and a career as an entrepreneur, and became a wealthy man. Remember that, the next time you hear that song.

I’m off to read a novel I started last night. Not my typical choice—it’s about female spies in World Wars I and II. Hope it doesn’t give me nightmares. Sweet dreams, y’all

Ho, hum! Another stormy Saturday.

My German supper

You’ll know what kind of a day I had when I tell you the two highlights: one was watching the ferocious storm that hit just a bit before noon, with some light hail. I have been apprehensive about hail ever since the great hail storm in the spring of 2016. The roof on my house had been replaced, all except the back add-on which we used as a TV/family room. That flat roof was temporarily covered.

When I woke up that morning, I smelled wetness—you know, like the smell after a good rain, only it shouldn’t be in the house. I woke Jacob who was with me, and we ventured through the kitchen into the family room—which was ankle deep in water. Because we were downsizing my library, there were books spread out all over the long, wrap-around couch, and cookbooks lined one very long bookshelf. All ruined. The couch had to be sent out to be baked, though it is fine today.

Within minutes it seemed, the roofing contractor and my contractor were on their hands and knees, mopping up water. Neighbors formed a chain to transport books to the front porch, where Jordan separated salvageable from throw-away. I was by then using a walker and not very mobile, so not much help. And it was Jordan’s birthday, though definitely not the way she wanted to celebrate. I think I stood around and wrung my hands. It was surely one of the most dismal days of my life.

Having lived in old houses all my life, heavy rain always makes me a bit nervous. I am grateful that my cottage is tight and dry. And after that storm three years ago, it’s natural that I’m apprehensive when hail begins. Today’s though was small and brief, but the wind was high, and rain blew in sheets.

The other highlight and the only human I’ve seen today: my accountant brought my tax returns for me to sign. Although he was quite cheerful, it was not a cheering visit. I wrote two large checks—one for 2018 and one for the first estimated quarterly payment for 2019. I posted about this on Facebook, because I am glad to pay my fair share of taxes, grateful to live in this country, but not happy that my taxes enrich the wealthy and support a mega-military presence that could be more efficient, slimmed down, less wasteful, and less costly. I want my money used for the poor and sick, education, infrastructure, environmental causes, care of our veterans, etc.

Otherwise I spent the day re-reading a manuscript I wrote thirty years ago. Yes, it had a public life—serialized in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram—but I was worried that my writing would seem immature, clumsy, you name it after all this time. It’s not as bad as I feared, if a little over-written and sentimental. In fact, I’m sort of enjoying it. I’m doing this for research and not quite sure how to wrap my head around what I want to come out of it.

Tonight I made myself a German dinner—what my mom called cottage potatoes, fried kielbasa, and kraut with caramelized onions (okay, I burned them a bit), white wine, brown sugar, and a pinch of thyme. I fried things in batches—only one skillet—and kept them warm in the toaster oven (in retrospect I’m amazed I didn’t blow a circuit breaker). But the neat thing was that I ate out of the small pan I put in the oven, so I had very little clean-up to do.

Apparently, the storms are gone but we will have high winds for a couple of days. Spring in North Texas.

A demolition report and a day with lots of irons in the fire

It’s really nice to have a son-in-law who pays attention o my books. Brandon sent this demolition picture with the explanation that they found a dead space next to grandson Sawyer’s closet but, alas, there was no skeleton. Some may remember that my first mystery was Skeleton in a Dead Space; that dead space, like the one in my house, was in the kitchen. Haven’t read it? I think it’s one of my best mysteries. And I love that Brandon saw the connection.

Megan reported about five that grandson Ford and friends were having fun tearing out walls, and she was going home to join them. So demolition proceeds but apparently won’t be total for a couple of weeks. Meantime, what excitement for teen boys.

And the local teen is fishing with his grandfather. He called to ask if the tanks on his uncle’s ranch are stocked. The answer is yes, years ago, but the only way to find out if there are still fish is to go fishing. Jacob said we’d plan a day at the ranch, but then he said, “Juju, when you say tanks, do you mean the ponds?” I told him tank is Texas-speak for pond, and he would have to work on his vocabulary.

For me, a busy day, which I like. When I was in my late teens, I was my father’s secretary—he was administrator of a hospital. I always swore that experience made me a perfect executive secretary, though heaven forbid we should refer to a woman that way today. But I can clear a desk of lots of projects in one big sweep. And I like it that way.

Today I met with a co-conspirator about forming a local group of Better Angels, the national organization that brings together people of opposing political opinions for moderated discussions—no arguing, no proselytizing, just learning from one another. I pretty much secured our church as a meeting place and began to compile a list of interested participants—if you’re interested, please let me know. I set in motion a blog tour for my cookbook, Gourmet on a Hot Plate, and committed to write five blogs by early April. I emailed my accountant that I had finished my tax organizer and was ready to turn it over to him. I straightened out some prescription confusion--always a time-consuming chore as you get left on hold. But the biggie was that I got the edits back on the Alamo manuscript, which means I have a lot to do immediately—dealing with edits, adding some new material, and compiling a complete list of photos. I actually love waking up in the morning and knowing that projects like this are waiting for me.

The mystery I’ve been doodling along goes to one side, though I did make enough notes that I would know where to pick it up. A good day, and I’m a happy camper.

The tax man cometh and does not bring happiness

carnitas for dinner

I’m one of those compulsives that people love to scorn. I start organizing my income tax return on New Year’s Day or shortly thereafter, not because I am anxious to give Uncle Sam the money (particularly not this year with the new tax law) but because I hate the chore and want to get it behind me, so that I can take a deep breath and say, “Wow! That’s done for another year!” This year, more than ever, I’ve dreaded it because of all the reports that people who previously got huge returns were now owing great amounts—thank you, the Republican swamp.

Much as I hate it, I rely on a tax planner from my accountant to organize my returns. That usually comes in the mail about mid-January, by which time I have things sorted into categories. This year, it didn’t arrive, so by the first of February I dashed off a note asking about it. Seems that the revised tax law made new planners necessary, and the software wasn’t up to speed yet. Without really chastising me, the accountant was saying, “Chill, and be patient.” As I read in various news sources about other people filing and getting bad news, I was increasingly nervous. Saturday, I sent another of my gentle queries—not minutes after I hit Send, Jordan came out with my mail, which included the tax planner. So guess what’s the big thing on my calendar for Monday.

But not today. Today is Sunday, and once again I went to church online. The fragile dog in the house was not doing well this morning, and concern kept Jordan and Christian home. The sermon was “Deep Joy in a Shallow World.” Among the takeaway lines, “We have learned to make a living, but not life.” Russ Peterman stressed that happiness does not come when you are seeking it but only when you forget yourself in service to others and God

It made me think of the new word I had just learned this morning: hygge. It’s a Danish word used when acknowledging a feeling or moment, whether alone or with friends, at home or out, ordinary or extraordinary, as cozy, charming or special. It cannot be purchased or learned—it just happens. Sort of the polar opposite of Marie Kondo. But I’ve known those moments, often in a small gathering of people I care about, sometimes around an outdoor fire. To be treasured.

During the church service, much of the camera work involved shots that put the viewer behind the organist, looking over her shoulder as she played. Remarkable experience—four keyboards, all those stops, and the footwork that we couldn’t see. For someone who can’t rub her belly and pat her head at the same time, it was impressive—and the music, as always, glorious though it never sounds quite as full online. This morning, the church presented third graders with Bibles. It was sort of a nostalgia moment—was Jacob really that young just four years ago? Dr. Peterman stood by to shake hands with each child—someone should prime those kids about shaking hands with their right hand. About half offered him their left.

Weekends mean good food at the Burton/Alter compound. Last night, Christian fixed a pot roast with gravy and roasted potatoes, Jordan made a salad, and I contributed a killer

Roast pork done on the stovtop

vinaigrette—new recipe. Look for it on Thursday at the Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog. Tonight, we had carnitas—sort of tacos without the tortillas, though Jacob and Christian had theirs in corn tortillas. I’m not a fan of tortillas and always eat the filling without the shell, and Jordan is avoiding carbs, so we just had the meat and accompaniments. The recipe for the meat is in Gourmet on a Hot Plate. Gosh, I really am becoming an obnoxious self-promoter. Sorry about that.

And now we head into another week. Have a good one, everybody.

Death and taxes…or money on my mind

You know that old saying—nothing is certain except death and taxes. I hope death is not imminent, but taxes certainly are, with the new tax code. For years I have paid my property taxes and church donation twice in one year—the current year in January and the next in December. That got me a nice deduction beyond the standard deduction.

Today I talked to my accountant just to verify if this was a year I paid or not. He told me under the new tax law it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t reach the standard deduction. I’m not quite sure if that’s a good thing or not—does that mean I get a higher deduction?

We talked about medical costs—last year mine were so high I got a deduction, and I told him they wouldn’t be for 2018 and going forward to 2019 I expected to have much lower costs because I am done, done, done with medical problems. He laughed and complimented me on my positive attitude (I really mean it—I’ve had more than my fair share).

As we ended the conversation, he said, “At the end of the day nobody benefited from the new tax law except a very few,” and I replied, “I’m voting Blue.”

Couple that with the fact that McConnell, the man who is hell-bent on destroying democracy, will push for a cut in social security and Medicare next year, and folks like you and me are, well, I believe the phrase is screwed. Other administrations—George W. Bush comes to mind—have “borrowed” from social security with no intent to repay, but this is the first time that I know of that anyone in Congress has suggested cutting the amount paid monthly to seniors. The cost of living raises may not have been much, but we have gotten them all fifteen years that I’ve been eligible. Apparently McConnell’s scheme is one to avoid the repayment issue.

I absolutely cannot understand how McConnell can talk so blithely about this, when those funds are not entitlements. They represent money we as citizens—well those of us who are elderly—have paid into the system to ensure payments in our golden age. Even Reagan made it clear that is not government money.

If by chance (please, Lord, no) the Republicans keep control and pass a Draconian measure, it’s bound to end up in the courts. But that would drag on forever—would we get payments while it was considered and appealed all the way to SCOTUS? And if it got to SCOTUS, are we again screwed because Kavanaugh is on the court?

Then again suppose the Blue Wave sweeps Congress—it’s all a moot point. The cuts won’t happen, and Kavanaugh may well be impeached.  See what a complicated world we live in?

I’m voting Blue.

Enjoying a good snit

The physical therapist handed me my cane, and I began to walk, not more shakily than usual I thought but no better either. “Why are you so unsteady this morning?”

“I’m in a snit,” I replied. Between the balance on 2016 taxes, the first quarterly payment on 2017, and the accountant’s fee, I had just paid out what seemed to me the family fortune. And, yes, I was in a snit about it.

“You can’t do anything about it,” she said. “You have to pay the taxes, so just forget it.”

That’s when I connected my snit with poor physical performance. Right or wrong, I don’t think we can just turn off our snits at will. It takes time to work through them, to let the facts that caused them fade into the past. And we aren’t at our best—physically, emotionally, whatever.

I actually did pretty well through much of the therapy session—astounded her by the way I could lift my left leg onto the stool, and she complimented me on the time I started to fall forward and caught myself. But then I caught my foot on the edge of a stool and for the first time since surgery fell with no control—fortunately, Ellen, the therapist, had a belt around me (I forget the name of those belts) and my chair was right behind me. But it scared me.

I don’t like to say we’re victims of our own moods—that sounds like a cop-out to me. But I do think our emotions on any given day govern our reactions, attitudes, the way we do our work, even the way we interact with others. Ever have a pissy day? Of course. We all have. We try not to let such days get the best of us, but they are a force to be reckoned with.

Tonight I’m more reconciled to the outlay of cash, but I’m edgy, out of sorts, not concentrating. I think it’s just one of those days. Tomorrow will be better.

And the tax problem? I blame it on what I now call my “golden hip.” I felt so awful most of 2016, in true pain, that I didn’t pay as much attention as usual to my writing. The result was my income was down not drastically but some, but so were my professional expenditures. Unwittingly, I made a larger profit than usual. Not all good news.

I laughed at Colin, my oldest and a CPA, who reviewed my taxes. “I was sorry to see your income was down. Let’s work on that this year, okay?”

There, my sense of humor is back.

One of those days

Is there a spot on the moon today? Or does the calendar know it’s the 13^th but think it’s Friday? Either way, my luck has changed. Woke up from an afternoon nap feeling sort of blue, and the evening at my desk has done nothing to improve that mood.

I set out to find the files of some novels I had starts on, rough notes, maybe 1000 words of a first draft. There should be two of them, but I cannot find them. It may be that my computer in its wisdom has decided they should be abandoned and has swallowed them. It’s probably the best fate for them, but before I start something new, I wanted to check.

Today I digitized two books, and one was rejected. I had to go back and correct the way my name was displayed. And I burned myself out this morning trying to collect tax information for my accountant. I don’t think I’ll ever finish, and it’s frustrating because it keeps me from creative work.

My publicist wrote with a note that a blog post was due today. But I’d never heard of this blog and hadn’t even begun to think about a topic on the book requested. I don’t do spur-of-the-moment well, so I will lie in bed tonight and think on it. It’s a romance blog—yes, there’s a bit of romance in Murder at Peacock Mansion, but it isn’t front and center by any means.

And then friends came for happy hour. The wife reminded me that we were having lunch with a third friend Friday—oops, my mentor is scheduled to bring lunch Friday. I’ve double-booked myself. You’d think I had a galloping social life but it’s simply not true.

I learned from the physical therapist today that I am classified as homebound—she was taken aback that I have several outings planned this week. I’ve been homebound or mostly so since early fall. Now that I have little or no pain, I’m anxious to get out. In fact, a friend is taking me to a breakfast group in the morning, and my mouth is set for biscuits and gravy. I lost twenty lbs. on this journey, and I can allow myself such indulgences.

With visions of biscuits and gravy, I’m going to pack it up and spend the rest of the evening reading. I’m still enjoying Jenn McKinley’s Hat Shop Mysteries. It does, however, seem like a very long evening ahead, and I don’t want to go to bed early because I’ll not sleep at 4 a.m.if I do that.

Let’s see—I can’t think of anything else to whine about, so I’ll quit. A bit of belly-aching is good for the soul. Thanks for listening. Tomorrow will be a better day. Blessings and sleep tight.

Food, youngsters, and—taxes

Since finding an online recipe for beans on buttered toast (was it Sam Sifton’s column in the New York Times?), I have been obsessed with the idea. Somewhere in my past, I’ve eaten that and loved it, but nobody in my family or circle of friends recognized it until Jeannie today said, “Oh, I ate that as a child.”

Yesterday on his day with me, Jamie spent a good deal of time cooking a pot of beans. He had soaked the beans the night before and brought an onion, garlic, and bread to fix them for our lunch. The bread was Wonderbread which his daughters like, whereas the recipe calls for a hearty peasant bread—Jamie’s bread did not standup to the beans, but otherwise the lunch was delicious. Beans being beans, I was afraid to have more than one helping but I loved it and am lobbying for it for supper tonight. Try finding the recipe on Google.

Today in Sifton’s column I found a recipe for miso-grilled scallops. It had a good explanation of umami, that fifth taste that always puzzles me a bit but was described there as “delicious.” Hmmm. Maybe I should do another cookbook just because I’m having such fun with recipes..

Plentiful goings and doing at the cottage—in addition to Jamie, the physical therapist came yesterday and put me through my paces, left me with instructions for exercises that I can do without difficulty—4 times a day but they only take about 5 minutes. She’ll come twice a week.

And of course, Jamie all day and a caregiver until three and Jordan’s friends Mike and Marty who brought a yummy supper of chicken and zucchini. Sophie loves it when there’s a full house at the cottage, and so do I.

Today, an outing—went to lunch at Carshon’s, the deli that is a favorite of mine, with Carol who is so good as to load up me and my wheelchair and take me to lunch. Good time, good visit—and I came away with a wonderful idea. Carol prepares their taxes for the accountant on a spread sheet. I’m no genius about spread sheets, always thought them generally a nuisance—I once had an employee who was spread-sheet-nuts and wanted to turn everything into one. Bur I can master a simple one. Tonight, I whizzed through several categories of items and felt truly accomplished. Sigh, still a long way to go. But thanks, Carol, for the idea.

Tonight was ‘50s night at Cotillion, and these ten-year-old boys rolled their T-shirt sleeves and slicked back their hair for the event. So adorable.

Death and taxes, and a lot of other things

No, no death. I just always thought death and taxes went together--maybe because both are inevitable.

It’s amazing what you can get done when your knee hurts when you sit down, stand up, or walk. I spent most of the day at my desk—okay, there was that nap—but I got a lot done. Yesterday I tried five or six times to post Murder at the Tremont House, #2 of the Blue Plate Café Mysteries, to Kindle. Finally gave up last night, and posted it successfully this morning. This means all three Blue Plates are available again as e-books. Check it out at  http://www.amazon.com/Murder-Tremont-House-Mystery-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B01AQULPHU/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1453085593&sr=1-1&keywords=murder+at+the+tremont+house+KIndle. Please don’t be surprised at opportunities to buy it for over $1,000 in paperback. I’m never sure why Amazon puts those extravagant prices on out-of-print books. But Murder at the Tremont House is no longer available in print, except used copies. If you want to pay a thousand dollars for one, God bless you—but rest assured I get no royalties from those used sales.

People keep asking me what I’m writing. I’m tempted to say, “Nothing.” But my answer is that I’m “managing my career.” It’s true—I pushed myself for several years to write two or three books a year. Now I’m concentrating on marketing, making available titles that disappeared when my publisher went out of business. I’m blogging more and arranging blogs tours for Desperate for Death, which debuted this month as an e-book. I have two guest blogs to write by the 25^th—wrote one tonight and was totally dissatisfied with it. Will start over tomorrow.

And I’m planning ahead for the debut of a totally different novel, The Gilded Cage: A Novel of Chicago. It will launch in print and ebook in April, I’ll do a blog tour (yes, I’m working with a tour company that knows historical markets whereas I know mystery sites), and fretting every day about how to spread the word about this novel. I consider it my “big” novel. It’s Chicago history from 1847 through the Columbian Exposition, the Gilded Age which much like our own saw a great division between wealthy and poor. Central to the story are the Potter Palmers (he of Palmer House hotel fame). While Potter built a fortune and became a leader in Chicago politics and society, his wife worked to turn philanthropy into good deeds. Pardon me, but I think it’s a good story, and I’m excited about it. More to come later.

I also started on taxes tonight, answering the basic questions on the organizer and putting my bank statements into order so I can go through them easily. A yearly chore that I dread, but once I get started, I know I’ll move ahead on it.

I’ve been watching the Democratic debate with one eye and listening with one ear. They haven’t sunk to the level or anger at the Republican debates but I am sad that they are attacking and accusing each other-Clinton and Sanders, while O’Malley remains the voice of calm. I liked it better when there was a sense of collegiality.

Okay, enough work for the day. I just got Julie Hyzy’s Foreign Eclairs, and I’m going to read. Sweet dreams, everyone.

Tired, so tired—and bizarre news items

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

A day of starts

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

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

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

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

January--the cleaning out, cleaning up month

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