Do you have a safe place?

 

Several days ago, I read a blog post by a writer show said that when she was stressed, she went for a drive on small country roads and found solace in familiar places. Easy enough for her to do—she lives in a small town in Maine. But for those of us who are city dwellers, such oases maybe hard to find. So, I close my eyes and go in my mind.

My longtime safe place is an outcrop about halfway up a tall dune in the Indiana States Dunes Park. When I was a child my family had a cabin at the top of that dune, up two very long flights of stairs from the beach. The cabin was primitive—no electricity, no running water. To the front of the living area, great windows looked out over Lake Michigan. The cabin was at the very foot of the lake, and I loved to watch storms roll down the lake and stir up the waters on our beach. My mom taught us to enjoy a storm, never to fear it, a habit I carry to this day (if there are no tornadoes). To the back of the house, windows looked out on a lovely, dense woods. The hitch was that the outhouse was down a small hill in those woods—a perilous journey in the night.

For refrigeration, we had a cold box on a pulley. Once a week, the iceman cometh—bringing a great block of ice which went down the hole first and then the box was lowered on top of it. Mom knew to put milk on the bottom shelf, closest to the ice. I can’t even remember what Mom cooked on before we got bottled gas. I do remember that she washed dishes in cistern water and then rinsed them in scalding water she’d boiled on some sort of stove. There was a pot-bellied stove in the living area for warmth. At night, we read by kerosene lamps, with Dad always warning us to turn the light down lest we burn the mantel. The dim light was hard to read by, and we went to bed early. I should also mention that the closest we could drive to the cabin was about a mile. We had to pack food and groceries in on our backs, often in old army duffle bags. You could go down the beach—and for the first trip when we arrived each summer, we sometimes had so much to carry we hired the park Jeep to drive that mile. But we preferred the woods—we parked at a shelter house, under a tree, and hiked in over a long bridge across the swamp and then up and down sandy paths. The woods were always cool.  That hike was also perilous at night, and at least once Dad stopped us while a skunk made its leisurely way across the path.

I usually took a friend with me when we went there. We thought it was heaven—days spent on the beach, hiking through the woods, playing Monopoly. Food tasted better there than anywhere else. We came back to Chicago tanned and healthy and happy.

My safe place, where I go now, was a crop-out on the path to friends’ cabin, below the second set of stairs. I can remember sitting there, staring out over the lake, my dog—a wild collie mix named Timmy—by my side. I could pull up a blade of dune grass and pull it through my teeth. There was usually at least a small breeze, though I always enjoyed the strong wind of a storm. I could angle my vision to the right and look across the lake at sunset to see Chicago with the setting sun behind it. The sun would be a bright orange globe, and the tall buildings of Chicago, not even toothpick size. Behind me, sometimes, my dad would be taking sunset pictures. When he died, he had a closet full of those old-fashioned slides, mostly sunsets or flowers from his gardens.

I have a new safe place, and it’s a fine one, though it doesn’t come with the same memories. My son Colin and his family live on either the smallest lake or biggest tank in Tomball, Texas. There is a patio, with benches and chairs looking out over the water and an arboretum overhead (that could easily drop bugs in your wine). We go there sometimes in the evening, with an after-dinner wine and sit in quiet peace.

So maybe it’s water that makes a safe place for me. I am not a swimmer, though I swam when young. Still I was never completely comfortable in the water. I’ve always said I do not want to be in it or on it, but I love to look at it.

How about your safe place?

A day of waiting and watching

Whatever else I’ve been doing today—and I’ve been busy—I have kept one eye on the TV and on my cell phone for text messages. My Tomball daughter-in-law is good about texting and posting notices, so I’ve seen videos of the creeping lake level at their house, notices of school closing for the coming week (Jacob will be so jealous), reports of assorted family in Houston.

Everyone seems safe, if not particularly comfortable. Lisa reports the rain just doesn’t quit. Her parents, in Sugar Land, have been fortunate so far. Her brother lives in a block where there have been helicopter evacuations, though his house, as of this morning, remained dry. A sort-of in-law called rescue with six inches of water in the house and was told to stay put. Rescue teams were focused on life-threatening emergencies.

The pictures of the whole area are devastating. Saddest one I saw showed nursing home residents in the badly hit town of Dickinson, sitting in waist-deep water as they waited for rescue, which apparently came shortly after the picture. FEMA authorities say they will be in the area for years. And it’s not over yet—rain at least through Wednesday. Think how dirty that flood water is. When I see pictures of people wading in it, I shudder, thinking of snakes and who knows what else. You could trip on a loose brick and plunge face-first into that nastiness.

Austin is also getting pounded. My son-in-law reported last night that after a day of normal rain the storm really hit last night, and Megan said this morning that the worst was yet to come. I haven’t heard from them all day and am waiting for a report. My nephew and his family were in El Paso to visit his grandfather, and their flight back was cancelled. They are apparently driving from El Paso to Austin. Not sure what kind of weather they’ll hit as they near Austin, but who would want to make that drive with four kids? I’m waiting to hear about them too.

Meanwhile in Fort Worth, we have drizzle, sprinkles, and sometimes a slow steady rain. The ground in our back yard is so saturated that water accumulates and moves on to the patio quickly. A good thing: it’s been a good weekend for reading and napping—I slept so hard this afternoon that it was hard for me to come back to reality.

We had a super special dinner tonight. Christian grilled really good steaks, and he knows how to grill it just the way I like it. Very pink in the middle. I saved half mine for lunch tomorrow—cold steak is one of life’s great treats to me. Tonight, we had potatoes and salad with the meat. A true luxury, and I’m full and sleepy again.

I have taken a two-day vacation from my novel in progress, so tomorrow I get back to it, plus I have guest blogs to send off. They’re written but need that final proofing and tweaking. So it’s back to work as usual. I’ve enjoyed the lazy weekend, but I’ll be glad to get back to my routine.

Hope everyone is dry and safe. Prayers for those who were caught by this monster storm.

Dining Out in Tomball

 

Tomball isn’t exactly a metropolis yet, though it may be headed that way. It’s a small, sleepy town that suddenly folks discovered, and it had a growth spurt. The main highway through town is lined with all the chains you’d expect. I saw the old part of town and it’s charming—I remember having ice cream at a sweet shop there. But not a lot beckons you to dine in a restaurant.

Last week, we generally ate at home. I’m of the pick-up, leftover variety for lunch, and Lisa cooked us such good suppers that we stayed home—chicken piccata, chicken parmesan, hamburgers on the grill, cheese enchiladas. But we did venture out twice for lunch.

The first time was to Goodson’s, a chicken-fried-steak place I’d heard was renowned. They do toot their own horn, calling it the best CFS in Texas. It was a funky place with a plastic cow in the lobby, lots of stuff on the wall, etc. The steak was good—batter terrific and generous, serving large (and we ordered small) but the meat was tough. Colin and I agreed that the CFS at the Star Café in Fort Worth is better. The Star, where Colin briefly waited tables, is owned by good friends but don’t think we’re prejudiced—our choice was a carefully considered decision. The sides at Goodson’s were great and leftovers made a good meal the next night.

The second place was the Classic Café in Hempstead. Colin kept saying it was my kind of place—and he was right. Talk about funk! In the front there’s an antique/junk store, and the lunchroom is behind it. You approach through a garden that is a jumble of blooming, vibrant native flowers—the kind of garden I always wish I had enough sun for but, alas, I don’t. The menu was equally pleasing—sandwiches, wraps, a few entrees, a couple of soups. Lisa had a caprese sandwich (I never heard of making that salad into a sandwich), Colin had a chicken pesto wrap on what looked to be a spinach enchilada, and I had an open-faced turkey, melted brie and cranberry relish. It was delicious, though I itch to try it with real turkey and not lunch meat. But it was the kind of restaurant where the waitress chats with you. You can take home a pan of lasagna, King Ranch Chicken, and a couple of other casseroles. Down home at its best.

            Tomball has other restaurants, one I’ve been to several times—Mexican food at Julio’s, which is funny because Colin once worked at Uncle Julio’s in Fort Worth. And the kids mentioned a hamburger joint I’d like and one other. I don’t need to go back to Goodson’s, though I’ll go to Classic Café again. And I’ll let the kids lead me to other explorations. Good times.

Hi, ho, hi, ho. Home again@

I’m back, with apologies for the hiatus. I’ve been in Tomball visiting Colin, my oldest son, and his wonderful family. Jacob went with me to play and hang out with his cousins Morgan, almost twelve, and Kegan, nine. They swam and fished, swam and fished, swam and fished. Jacob caught the most—five fish, including a catfish, first caught in the lake by anyone in our circle. The kids also made s’mores over an open fire, had a water balloon fight, ate snow cones, jumped on the trampoline, went to a movie, went to Top Golf, made their own pizzas and sundaes, and did a thousand other things I can’t think of right now. Aunt Lisa was Camp Tomball Director, and she kept them busy and happy. Last night I asked Jacob if he wanted to go home or stay there, and he said he wanted to stay there the rest of his life.
I should explain. Colin and Lisa live in the country, down a skinny gravel road, outside Tomball. They have a ‘50s moderne house on about three acres with wonderful landscaping that’s been in place long enough to mature, a  small lake (or large pond), and new this year, a wonderful swimming pool.
I also took Sophie, and all three grandkids were good about walking her, and she herself was good as gold—got along with their shepherd mix (even though they ate each other’s food). She slept all night—sometimes on the couch, which was verboten—didn’t mess in the house, was just generally well behaved. And she loved the company, pitched a fit the couple of times we went out and left her.
My days fell into a wonderful pattern. I set up an office at the end of the dining table where I could look to the left at the swimming pool and straight ahead at the lake. I worked at my computer until lunch, read a bit after lunch, napped, and before I knew it, it was dinner time. My favorite time of the day came after supper when we took wine down to the lake and sat enjoying the company, the place, our world in general.

Colin worked hard, building makeshift ramps, etc. to make the house safe for me. And both of them waited on me hand and foot until I am if possible more spoiled than Jordan has made me. Lisa would constantly say, “Drink water. If you don’t Jordan’s going to kill me.” Both Colin and Lisa were around most of the time. Colin even worked from home all but a day and a half, and Lisa, a teacher on summer break, had some appointments but was home or entertaining kids most of the time.
All in all, it was a wonderful week. But this morning, Megan, my oldest daughter, and her nine-year-old son Ford, drove from Austin to Tomball to get us and we came home to Fort Worth. Ford and Jacob will be in the TCU Baseball Camp all week, and Megan will stay with me. She has work to do so I may get a little done, but I’m not counting on it.

Stormy weather

 

Where is Lena Horne when we need her? Supposedly we had stormy weather last night, though I didn’t hear it. I do know we had rain, and now we are due a few days of respite before the next round of storms hits. It was one year ago today that the Central Texas town of Wimberley flooded so badly, sweeping homes and people away. Today, southern Texas is getting it again with record amounts of rain in the Houston area and flooding in Austin. My oldest son in Tomball reported that some of the school children had to spend the night at the school---they couldn’t get home, and their parents couldn’t get to them.

Colin reported it was so bad he came home mid-day yesterday and had to find this road and that to avoid water—you know the world is ending when Colin comes home early from work. Their lake is as high as he’s ever seen it, but I want pictures—he assures me the house is well away from it, but they’ve only lived there two years. How does he know how high it can get? It is probably flooding the stables next door, which means the water is badly polluted. He  will tell you I’m doing what I do best—worrying about my children.

I wonder when Texans will learn the lesson about not driving into standing water. We hear it preached every spring—and every spring people are lost because they thought they could drive through that puddle. There have been several lives lost in the flooded part of the state, and several high-water rescues. Colin and his family were going out around noon to have lunch and do errands, and I heard myself repeat it: Don’t drive into standing water. It didn’t earn me the exasperated sigh it should have—he is one well-rooted person with a lot of common sense, and I know he would never put his wife and kids in danger.

Meantime in soggy Fort Worth I spent the day inside at my computer, where I am perhaps happiest. I sit here working and think I can do anything. But when I got up to fix some lunch and put wet rags in the dryer, I had only energy enough for the lunch. Jordan came and made me a wonderful pasta salad for my supper—spinach noodles, mushrooms, hearts of palm, lots of butter and lemon. She knew I am getting tired of tuna (is there a title there? A song title: “Tired of Tuna” Maybe we could apply it to Tuna, Texas).

Although they didn’t go today, the Burtons have been busy with the Dean & DeLuca Golf Tournament (which we all call the Colonial); tomorrow they will  take Jacob, whose pretty much a fan of almost any sport. The other night I called him to my office, and he stood across the room, that bored stance and expression that says, “What do you want now?” I told him Baylor had fired Art Briles and Ken Starr, and he perked to attention, all nonchalance gone. Then he called his dad, and I didn’t hear much of the conversation except this line, “Yes, Dad, I know what rape is.” Oh my, what a world we live in.