Chronicle of an amaryllis

 

My amaryllis this morning
Note the metal ring holding the second stalk
Ignore the junky desk--at least it's near a window

Because of Christmas in Austin and then, on return, covid and quarantine and who knows what else, I was late in starting the Christmas amaryllis I was given. But once I started it, it took off bigtime. Last night, Subie and Phil were here, and I was bemoaning my need for another dowel road since the plant is growing so fast. Today Subie brought me one that is a metal rod with a loop to gently hold the blooming stalk. I swear the plant has burst out more this evening than this morning, but I couldn’t capture the growth on camera.

Coincidentally, Jordan and I had given Subie an amaryllis for Christmas. True confession: it was one we happened on early in the shopping season. To my embarrassment, she said last night that when she opened it, it had already bloomed without growing a stalk. I wish she had taken a picture, but she said there was a cluster of blooms at the base. And now it has sprouted on entirely new plant, which she is nursing along.

I found the almost-blooming amaryllis a cheerful portent on this partly cloudy day with the threat of all of winter’s worst weapons hanging over us. But my day was compromised again by computer stuff. This morning, after one or two false starts, the Wi-Fi connection held all morning, so I put off calling AT&T so I could work while I had the connection. But this afternoon, it went on, off, on, off—as fast as I could blink. So I called. Had to call the automated man who three times told me he could fix it, and all I had to do was subscribe to something for seven more dollars a month. He would say just go to this website, and I ended up screaming, “I can’t, because I don’t have a connection.” I also screamed, “Talk to a person.”

Finally in a brief moment of connectivity I found a different 800 number and called. Best call I’ve ever had with AT&T, a company that generally raises my blood pressure fifteen notches. A young lady in whatever country—I had to ask her to speak up and slowly—said if I would be patient, she could clear the connection, whatever that means. And that’s where I was, being patient, when Mary came for happy hour.

The first fix the young lady tried didn’t work but the second seemed to, and so far I have Wi-Fi. So happy. It’s really impossible to do almost anything without it.

Mary and I had a good visit with lots of talk about cooking and plentiful advice from her about using my new air fryer. I’m about ready to try the marinated chicken drumettes I have in the freezer. She also watered the poinsettia that’s in a corner by the couch where I can’t get to it and found two books on my shelves that she wants to read.

And another piece of good news today—my car came home! I looked out this afternoon, and there it was in the driveway. Made me sad and nostalgic for a moment. It has been at a repair shop Christian uses for months—I got really suspicious. Was the guy driving it? Selling it for parts? What could possibly be taking that long? And how much would it cost me? Christian tried to reassure me, but I was a nag about it. So today, it’s home, the bill is reasonable, and Jordan wants to drive it from time to time. I thought we were going to sell it, but if she needs it—her car too is old and not always reliable—that’s okay. At least I have it where I can see it.

In a day of good omens, I reached the 20K mark on my novel-in-progress. Well, okay, it’s really 19, 967 so I am thirty-three words short, but, hey! I‘ll make those up tomorrow. The big deal to me is that I now have one-third of a novel. Still plugging along, wondering where it is going to take me next, what Irene has up her sleeve.

So, it’s been a good day. I’m afraid my feelings of optimist may get beaten down by rain, ice, sleet, and snow, but I hope to stay cozy in the cottage and keep on keeping on. I have lots of food—and Jordan will do a curbside pickup tomorrow. We have menus planned for the next few days, and we’ll be fine. I have a novel to write and lots of good books to read.

Y’all stay safe and warm. Take care of animals, and plants, and yourselves. Watch out for the elderly in your neighborhood. Arctic storms are one of those times when we all need to look out for each other.

 

 

Books, history, and controversy on a cool Saturday

 

I have the patio doors open and just turned off the a/c because I was cool. Were my family home tonight, they would object, but they are more sensitive—susceptible?—to heat than I am. I remember a Fourth quite a few years ago when my Houston daughter-in-law was here, bemoaning that she hadn’t brought a sweater. It’s not quite that cool tonight, but we are being blessed with a cool spell. I keep waiting for the temperature to shoot up.

If you’re in Texas, you already know about the latest flap about a banned book. If you’re not in Texas and you believe the cultural climate here can’t get any worse, Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick says, “Hold my beer!” Except he probably doesn’t drink beer. There’s a new book about the Alamo, titled, Forget the Alamo. The authors—Chris Tomlinson, Bryan Burrough, and Jason Stanford—were to present a virtual discussion one night this week co-sponsored by the Bullock Texas State History Museum and the Writer’s League of Texas.

Two hours before the presentation was to start, the Bullock Museum withdrew its support. Guess who pressured the board of directors? None other than Dan Patrick, the politician ever on the alert for corruption and unpatriotic beliefs. In an appalling affront to everything about freedom, like the right to free speech, the directors succumbed to this pressure. They should be ashamed of themselves for a long time to come. Patrick, however, feels smugly justified. Were he still with us, Bullock would never have countenanced such stupidity.

In an article in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram this morning, columnist Bud Kennedy coined a wonderful phrase, “Banned at the Bullock!” and went on to explain, “Texas is absolutely fascinated with itself.” He interviewed Chris Tomlinson, one of the authors, who said the book essentially claims that the battle at the Alamo was not about freedom from Mexico but about slavery. Texans wanted to be free to own slaves, and Mexico had forbidden that in its territories.

I happen to have studied a bit about the Alamo, though I am not the scholar that many are. Still, my book, The Second Battle of the Alamo, led me down some paths about the first battle, and I would readily agree that slavery was a factor. Just not the only factor. By the time hostility with Mexico erupted, a whole lot of motivations propelled the vigorous Texas patriotism.

But one thing Tomlinson’s comments made clear to me was that the whole flapdoodle about cancel culture and critical race theory comes down to a disagreement about whether our country was founded on Christianity or slavery. There again, I don’t think there’s one clear-cut answer, but that simple dichotomy cleared up some confusion for me. I still have a hard time wrapping my head around the critical race theory, but I think it’s a good thing, as opposed to cancel culture, which is dumb.

And Dan Patrick once again stumbled over his own feet in his zeal to be a conservative Christian. After he created this cancellation mess, the book’s sales ratings shot up. Today, on Amazon it ranks #1 in history of Mexico, #1 in history of the southwestern U.S., and #1 in history of nineteenth-century U.S. Good job, Patrick. Think you’d like to attack any of my books? I’d be ever so grateful.

Fourth of July is not my favorite ever holiday. Ever since my kids were old enough to be semi-independent, they have gone off to spend the day with friends, usually at a lake or someone’s pool, and I am home alone. So it was today, though it was good because I had several deadlines and could spend a lot of time reading a manuscript I am to blurb.

Last night, we had a small group of neighbors for a pot-luck dinner. This group used to have frequent get-togethers, including brinners (breakfast for dinner), but last night was the first since quarantine. It was fun and good to be together, but all the loud voices (yes, they do get loud) kind of got me wired, and I didn’t sleep well. So tonight’s quiet is a blessing. So is a good helping of leftover Doris’ casserole, the family favorite Jordan served last night. She is a most gracious host, sets a lovely table, and sees that everyone is served and happy. It was a good evening.

Happy Fourth! Please remember to lock your pets up, watch out for veterans for whom fireworks bring bad memories, and for old folks who just plain don’t like the noise. Me? I like it from a distance.

 

Mostly a good day

 

If you’ve lived in Texas long at all, you know the weather cannot make up its mind. Today was one of those days, supposed to be sunny and dry, a nice contrast to all the soggy days we’ve had. But then, about nine, Dan the PT man was here, and we were both riveted by the TV which showed a great green glob to the west of us—headed straight for Fort Worth and predicted to be here about 9:45.

Sure enough, the sky, which had been bright blue, darkened, and I waited. But other than a few drops, nothing happened. I think the storms were all to the south of us. I did warn happy hour guests that the patio might not be inviting, but by five o’clock, it was sunny and pleasant. There is no figuring out Texas weather. Right now, the sky to the northwest, which I can barely see over the housetop, is a wonderful warm peach.

But with gratitude for the sunny weather, I got to thinking what a good day it was. I had some encouraging medical reports—at least to my laymen’s eye they were encouraging. I’ll talk to the doctor tomorrow, but the indicators of my kidney health seemed in line. And clinically, my legs and feet are less swollen—still puffy, but not so much so that I am aware of them all the time. The PT nurse said she thought they were markedly improved since she first saw me a couple of weeks ago. And I felt good all day, something that hasn’t always been true of late.

But the big news is that today was launch day for the reprints of two of my 1990s historical novels—Libbie (Elizabeth Bacon Custer) and Jessie (Jessie Benton Frémont). They have been available in digital forms, but now they appear, from a new publisher, with new covers, in trade paper, mass market paper, and digital formats. To me, it’s a great compliment that the publisher (TwoDot, a division of Globe Pequot, which is a division or Rowman and Littlefield, or the other way around) thought them worthy of reprint after twenty-five years or so. It’s like welcoming back two old friends, whose life stories I know well. And to my further joy, the publisher is putting some marketing behind them, as am I.

The other nice news is that cowboy poet/singer/entertainer Red Steagall gave me a wonderful blurb for my book due in September, The Most Land, The Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas. The publisher, TwoDot again, wanted a second blurb, so today I asked Deborah Liles, history professor at Tarleton State University with a special interest in Texas ranches, and she readily agreed to blurb the book. I’ve become aware lately that she’s someone I’d like to know—we have a lot of interests and friends in common.

Good friends Phil and Subie came for happy hour tonight, and for some reason I turned cranky. So mad at myself now. I could feel it happening, but I seemed unable to stop it. We talked local politics, and while we are mostly on the same page, we disagreed about whether or not something was dirty campaigning.

Then on to a discussion of my need to renew my handicap tag and get an official I.D. since I no longer have a driver’s license—and I think I’m the one who brought it up. But it didn’t go well. After they left, I double checked to be sure what I had learned was true—I can take care of both pieces of business at the Southwest subcouthouse. But those errands have become a sensitive subject, as had my forthcoming dental appointment, and I would so love to have it all behind me. I don’t think Jordan would want me to do any of those things alone, because of the difficulty of getting in and out of the car and her conviction that someone will mug me while I’m dealing with my walker. But scheduling them cuts into her work time, now that the world is open again, so it’s a frustrating matter for both of us.

But I am truly sorry I let all that get to me with guests, no matter that they are friends of some fifty years and no doubt love us in spite of our warts and ill-tempered moments.

As I wrote this, the sky went from peach to gray, and night is upon us. I’m sure tomorrow will bring a brighter outlook on the world. After all, even in my funk, I realize I have so much to be thankful for.

A formal farewell on a dreary day

 

It’s our third consecutive dreary, chilly day in Fort Worth and, frankly, I’m ready for some sunshine. I watched the ceremony for Prince Phillip this morning, and I think, in a great reversal, it was sunnier in England than in Texas.

I viewed the funeral with mixed emotions—the music was gorgeous, and I loved the bagpiper, but then I’m a sucker for the pipes. My Scottish heritage comes out ever time I hear them. But the church (was it a chapel? Cathedral?) was very formal and very dark. It was a blessing that no cameras focused on the few individual mourners—I suppose they were forbidden—but at first, I couldn’t even tell if there were people seated in the pews. And even at a funeral, I expect the clergy to bring some life, some lilt to their presentations. These men—three that I counted—mostly read and mumbled, but then I am not familiar with the Anglican church. My impression is that much of any service follows a prescribed ritual, and there is little room for personal embellishment. The prince had apparently request that there be no eulogy.

Outside, though, the atmosphere was totally different. As the family walked behind the casket to the church, you could see both Prince Charles and Wills struggling to contain their emotions, and as many media sources pointed out, they were no doubt reliving in their minds that grief-laden walk behind Diana’s casket. But when they left the church, they walked with more purpose, and this time Wills and Harry walked together. Of course, there is much speculation about a reconciliation but there has been no word.

My two take-aways from the day: I have now seen that picture of the Queen sitting alone (social distancing), along with many comments about how sad it is, and a couple of ghoulish comments that she would be joining Phillip soon. Don’t count on that, and no, I didn’t find it sad. She is an incredibly strong woman, shaped for years for her position and now having been queen for just shy of sixty-eight years (if my math is any good). She ascended in 1952. She has lived her life for her country, from WWII forward, and while, yes, Phillip was her “stay” as she said, she will carry on with true British grit. And she has family to support her.

A friend of mine just lost her husband, also at the age of ninety-nine, and she wrote a moving essay titled, “He is still here.” By here, she meant the rural farmhouse they have shared for years. I think Phillip is still in the castle.

The other take-away made me smile. One of the clergy (forgive me I can’t sort out which one, but it was a gentleman who apparently knew Phillip well) was later quoted, discussing Phillip’s own plans for his funeral, to the effect that Phillip “liked the broad church, the high church or the low, but best of all, he liked the short church.” And that’s what today’s service was.

Slowly, we are seeing some pictures of the royal couple in casual moments, and they reinforce the idea of a great love and a live well lived together. Today I saw one of the newly crowned queen walking past her husband, she in ceremonial robes and carrying some ceremonial object and he in uniform, and in that solemn and formal moment and setting, they were both grinning, with a twinkle in their eyes. Phillip may have had to walk a pace behind her, but they seem to have been happy equals in the marriage.

At their ages (and mine, although they do have a few years on me) I think what we ask of life is not wonderful new experiences or new loves, but rich and warm memories. I know have them, and I trust so does the queen.

Beyond watching the funeral, it hasn’t been much of a day, though I did write another r profile and almost finished it. Now, it’s nearly seven-thirty, Christian is grilling steak and burgers, and I have done my best to reawaken some very tired asparagus. After supper, I think I’ll read. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Maybe sunshine.

Ah, Texas spring weather

March is not going out like a lamb. Today started out drizzly and gray but ended on a note of bright, late-evening sunshine. In between, we had massive storm warnings and some pretty severe weather, mostly I think to the south of me. I just got a good steady rain, the kind spring gardens need. Jordan arrived to work on the garage sale items but one look at the TV weather coverage convinced her she wanted to get home and put her car in the garage.
Jacob came to me and asked with real concern, “Is your car in the garage?” I assured him it was, and he said, “Okay. But stay in.” Then he let me kiss him (yeah, you read that right) and they were gone.

I did a bit of book sorting today—four piles turned into seven—books I want, antique children’s books, cookbooks I want, books I don’t want, books that are water damaged beyond hope (only three), and books for the garage sale—I have it in my head browsers will want cookbooks and non-historical children’s books. I may be all wet—like many of my books. I did photocopy one recipe for ranchero sauce that I wanted from a pretty worn cookbook, but I’m keeping my battered copy (my mom’s really) of the Good Housekeeping cookbook. So good for basics. Also my first edition Joy of Cooking.

Good news: we’re making progress on storm recovery. An AT&T man was here for a good two hours this morning and—yay!—the huge new TV in the sunroom works. I think that drying equipment Blackmon Mooring used was really powerful. I washed the last of the mop-up rugs. The floor people will start either Friday or Monday. The adjustor was worried about remaining dampness in the insulation but Lewis is sure the drying equipment got it all—and the restoration company’s sophisticated equipment showed that it did. Tomorrow the exterminator comes because the adjustor saw that huge rat in the attic.

And I think the contractor is ready to go to the city for a permit for the cottage. All these big money transactions make me very nervous.

I did a good bit of proof-reading today on the pre-print The Gilded Cage and have so far found nothing of concern. Need to keep getting review copies out.

Cancelled my usual Wednesday night dinner because both Betty and I were tired and we feared being caught in a storm. I’m getting a bit tired of tuna and cottage cheese! Maybe egg salad is next.

Oh frabjulous day!

In honor of National Puppy Day, here's my almost five-year-old
She's still a puppy at heart

This morning I thought I would be home alone all day. I’d miss the sociability, but I had a load of work on my desk and it would be okay. My home-alone day turned into one of sociability. Lewis, my contractor, came by, and then Greg, who does my yard. Both like to chat, and I enjoy their company immensely. Lewis brought the painter to survey the hail damage, and Greg mowed, promises to trim, weed, cut out dead stuff next week. He’s going to remove a large youpon in front of the house, and I’m ready for him to do it. He says I have a pretty house, and the youpon hides it. On the other hand, he doesn’t like artificially trimmed trees and bushes, so this one is growing wild and bushy. I asked him to take out the houseplants for their summer vacation, but he said not until next week. It was 29 degrees last Monday. When he does take them out I’ll have to get in the habit of watering again.

Jacob has taken on chores around the house—he empties garbage and takes the carts down to the street, walks Sophie who now goes ballistic every time she sees him because she thinks she’s going for a walk. When spring finally is here I imagine he’ll inherit the chore of watering too.

This afternoon, a dear friend came for happy hour. Jordan and Jacob were gone to a play date. Jeannie’s husband is in frail health and naps every day from 4:30 to 6:30, so we were free to visit. And it was way overdue. We caught up on grandchildren and restaurants and all kinds of stuff, and we sat on the deck so Sophie could run in the yard. The temperature was in the low 80s or high 70s, with a pretty stiff breeze occasionally—the kind of spring day that makes you ask, “Isn’t this wonderful!”

Nothing lasts. Jordan just called to tell me to get a flashlight. Apparently there’s a lot of lightning at their house which is two-to-three miles away. I only saw one flash here, but I am dutifully carrying the flashlight around. I don’t navigate at all well in the dark.

She was at the neighbor’s directly behind me this afternoon, sitting on their deck, and photographed all kinds of damage to the back side of the cottage roof. Maybe we need to rethink re-roofing until remodeling is complete. Hail possible tonight. So far, the cottage has been intact, and ‘d love for it to stay that way. I don’t need any more damage.

Oops. I hear thunder. Went to let Sophie in and discovered it’s raining fairly hard. Spring in North Texas.

A Kick in the Pants

Bathroom as it looks today
Not tided up for a picture
Note the wonderful beveled mirror--it stays

Sometimes we need a kick in the pants to jolt us out of our self-absorption. Just got the call I’ve been waiting for—they will start tearing out my bathroom next week. Means I’ll spend the weekend hauling stuff out, sorting and purging, putting what I need in the small half/bath. I’ll have to learn to go to that bath in the middle of the night, adjust my whole pattern. Then, when they tear the kitchen apart, I won’t be able to cook, etc. The contractors, Bundock Construction, have kept this house running for over twenty years, and the assure me we're not doing this for resale value--we're doing it to give me a safe bathroom. Tub goes away, and I'll have a walk-in shower.

We are keeping the built-ins
so typical of a house the age of mine

Suddenly I feel all this will energize me, push me out of my lingering depression over my foot and leg. I spend too much time wondering if I hurt because I don’t walk or I don’t walk because I hurt. I know many have much more severe pain and worse problems than I can even imagine, and I’m looking forward to a doctor’s appointment Monday, hoping for diagnostic as well as therapeutic effects. But meantime, this has given me a great sense of optimism.

Big problem: keeping the dog safely corralled with all the workmen coming in and out of the house—and keeping the house reasonably clean as they cart out tile and spread dust everywhere. It’s going to be an experience and a challenge, just what I need.

Also keeping the wonderful old
medicine chest and
the relatively new sink

I’ve heard that rats don’t like commotion. In fact, I read a post that said to just bang on the ceiling if you hear rats in your attic. I think I have them—again!—because Sophie stands in the hallway and barks at the ceiling. So I’m counting on the construction commotion top chase them away. A side benefit you might say.

I probably won’t get much writing done, but who knows? With all the commotion, I may just retreat to my office, and with the renewed energy, write an entire novel while they redo my bathroom. But how will I get my afternoon nap?

For distraction this afternoon, I had four screaming nine-year-old boys—chaos! They didn’t want snacks, just wanted water, and I left them in the family room (or whatever we’re calling it these days) with frequent trips to check. At one point, Jacob told me, “Juju, we’re having a boy talk.” I asked if that meant I should leave and he said yes. Of course, when Jordan got here, they were starving—ended up eating cheese toast and hot dogs.

Ended the day with a nice supper with Betty at Fixture—we split nachos with brie and cranberry salsa and truffle mac and cheese—an odd combination but good. Because there seemed to be a breeze, we ate outside (much easier on my ears) which was pleasant. Then the rain came, at first gentle and then fairly steady, and everything turned steamy and hot.

They promise a cold front tonight—I thought it was last night.

Anticipatory anxiety

This winter may be the worst I remember--oh, not here in Texas though for what we're used to it's been worse than usual. I read somewhere today that Texas has two seasons--winter and summer. And they take turns appearing in the same week. But across the country, particularly the Northeast, the pictures of snowdrifts are appalling. I grew up in Chicago, and I remember bad winters, but nothing like what we're seeing. My prayers go out to those stuck in this snowy winter land. A little snow is pretty--but this is beyond belief.
But tonight, in Texas, we're hearing bad forecasts, and I admit to a little anticipatory anxiety. Tomorrow it is to rain; Sunday night in the wee hours it will turn to sleet, and Monday the high will be 32--won't do much to get rid of that sleet. I am preparing to hunker down for two or three days. Invited friends for a quick and light sandwich supper tomorrow--so we could discuss the couch and finish one part--but send them home in time for the Oscars/Downton Abbey, whichever they choose. One wrote me, "We'll see you tomorrow night, before winter hits us again." And I'll be grateful for their company in what I anticipate will be a time of seclusion.
I have already made up my mind that Jacob won't have school Monday--I don't know why it takes the school board so long to decide this when it's already clear to me. If that happens, and if his dad's office is closed, he'll stay home; if school is closed and his dad's office isn't, he'll spend a long day with me. If he has school, I already have a neighbor in mind to ask to bring him home. I don't want to venture even across the street on sleet-covered streets. Oh, my, how I dislike that kind of weather.
But the funny thing is that sometimes the forecasters get us all in a snit, like my anticipatory anxiety, and then it turns out not to be nearly as bad as predicted. It may not sleet, or it may warm up enough to melt--or who really knows what can happen?
I liked the old days of weather forecasting, when it wasn't such a precise science, when they didn't tell us a week ahead what weather to dread, when they didn't tell us the cold index or the heat. Tell me it's 32--I don't need to know the chill factor.
You all stay warm and safe and pray for the rain we need so much but not for sleet. Please.
 

Why I live in Texas

I have a friend who just moved from California to Texas. His bike was damaged in transit, and he took it to be repaired, expecting it to take two weeks and cost him about $300. It took half an hour and cost him $15.15. He loves living in Texas because of all the friendly people and, yes, good restaurants--though he was a connoisseur in San Francisco. Teddy got me to thinking.
I'd heard the one of the things readers would like to know about authors was where we lived and why? So I planned to do this blog beginning with sort of an apology. Texas is not an easy place to live--it's unbearably hot in the summer, unpredictably cold and icy in winter; it's one of the most red states (read ultra right wing) which is not easy for me; we now have folks carrying their guns into Target, restaurants and, I suppose, churches if they had a mind to; our governor thinks Juarez (Mexico) is the most dangerous city in Texas and apparently sincerely believes that the influx of children from Central America is part of a plot by President Obama; others of our resident think it's all a plot by the "bronze master race" to take over. No question about it, folks, we have a border crisis, but I discount those causes.
So why do I live in this state? As a kid in Chicago, I thought it was a foreign country, and I couldn't have been more surprised to end up here when my then-husband got a surgical residency. I went to TCU and earned a graduate degree in English. And I've ended up writing most of my professional life about Texas and it's tumultuous, glorious, amazing history. Even if I'm not a native (I hear that all the time), I've lived here nearly fifty years and Texas is in my blood. Even today, I write about contemporary Texas--because it's the land and the people I know.
My family and friends--my support system, if you will--are all here. I thought seriously once about moving to Santa Fe but I didn't want to leave what I have here. I love my city (friendly, lots of cultural and culinary opportunities), my house, my dog, my routine.
Texas in the spring and fall is usually a glorious place to be. Yes, we have droughts and storms and occasional tornadoes, but we have balmy temperatures, beautiful wildflowers and gorgeous days and nights.
And Teddy is right--Texas is a friendly state. Most people are kind and pleasant and will go out of their way to help you. I don't want to live anywhere else--not even Santa Fe.

Chilly in Texas

I know northerners think we Texans are wimps about the weather. My brother used to call from Colorado when our schools were closed for snow and ask, "What you got, guys? An inch?" But we get more ice than snow. And the thing about fall weather, at least to my mind, is that it changes so fast. We've been used to this high heat and suddenly it's below normal--a couple of nights ago we were dining on the deck, but this morning the temperature was 40. Darn chilly. I had the greenhouse windows in the kitchen open (I have to climb on a stool to open and close them so I tend to just leave them). Tonight I closed them and kicked the heat up to 70--am considering clicking it up another notch. Sophie is curled in her bed, and I'm tempted to throw a blanket over her. Granted, it was a lovely sunny day but never out of the sixties. If I'd been outside running or walking hard, I'd have been comfortable, but I wasn't. I was at my desk--except for a long nap.
Tonight was the kind of night I wanted scrambled eggs and bacon for supper--my comfort food. I had leftover enchilada casserole for lunch and concluded it doesn't "leave over" well. And last night I had lasagna soup--delicious but it's now almost a week old, and I think it's time to get rid of it.
I'm reading Emerson Hough's Heart's Desire, a 1905 novel about the coming of civilization to a small valley in New Mexico. My noncredit class will discuss it Thursday night, so  need to get cracking on finishing it. I think if you read it as satire, it's pretty funny and good; if you read it seriously, it is almost silly. Wish I had Hough in front of me to tell his intention. Better yet, I wish he could visit the class on Thursday. I'm over half way through, so that cheers me. I'm at my desk, with a shawl over my knees for warmth, and hope to come close to finishing the book tonight.

Texas and convertibles

Texas is hard country in which to drive a convertible. In summer, the sun is too intense (and I've gotten a bit fearful of skin cancer after three go-rounds with it), and in winter it's too cold, though I had a friend who once owned a convertible and swore he would drive it in summer or winter, top down, with either the a/c or heat blasting. I'm not that brave, but it's lovely to drive top down in those brief periods we call spring and fall.
I drive a VW bug convertible, and I'm the proverbial little old lady from Pasadena who drove her car to church on Sunday and that was all. Since 2004, I've managed to put 27,600 miles on it. But one reason I got it was because I didn't want to be a stuffy old grandmother. Fat lot of good that did me--Jacob doesn't like the top down because it messes his hair. The other day we were on our way to a swim lesson, and I asked what possible difference it could make. "I want to look good when I get there!"
But one of the joys of summer to me is coming home from my daughter's house about eight o'clock at night with the top down. It may still be in the nineties, but the sun is down and the breeze is lovely.  Jordan and Christian often host a Friday night potluck, and I usually leave early to get home before dark. I put the top down, leave off my visor so the wind can blow my hair, and come home the scenic route, through residential areas with tree-lined streets and, then finally, through the park by the zoo. It's a heavenly feeling, and I am sometimes tempted to drive around just a bit more.
Other than that, this was a day of confusion--two medical appts. left me thoroughly confused about my insurance, I can't understand why the tax assessor's office billed me for my car license when the sticker on my car says 2/14--the office says their records show I last paid in 7/13--go figure! Next the grocery declined my debit card--two separate trips--and I forgot to take the chips for the dip I brought to Jordan's potluck. Everyone else there had that kind of day too, so I didn't feel bad.