One man tells his story

 

My hyacinth grape vine, having straggled through the summer,
is now blooming more than I've ever seen it. The friend from whom I got seeds
is afraid this year the seeds will be too late if they even show up.
Fingers crossed, please.

Maybe I move in a feminist world, but I am always hearing that women need to tell their stories. We need to hear from women—not Taylor Swift (bless her!) or Beyonce or even Hilary, but women like you and me. Ordinary stories. We’ve been silenced too long. Well, what I’m realizing with the book I’m reading is that undiscovered men have stories to tell too, stories that give us model for living life as it should be. Forget the politicians and football players whose stories make instant bestsellers. Let’s hear from our next-door neighbor who struggles with career or family issues or bill payments or all the little stuff of life that we all do. And sometimes some added burdens.

I’m reading The One-Armed Soldier, an autobiography by Wayne Bizer, an osteopathic ophthalmologist (try saying that three times fast). The book is far too long for an autobiography, and I agreed to read it only at the behest of a good friend. I admit I dragged my heels, but then I found myself engaged in the story and charmed by the author.

The child of Jewish European immigrants, Bizer grew up afflicted with ADHD (attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder), dyslexia, and a dysfunctional family background. Nobody paid attention to those afflictions when he was young, and he didn’t even recognize them until well into adulthood. He scraped through school, was a college drop-out, and showed every sign of being a failure for life. But he had ambition. Instead of failing, he earned a medical degree and certification in a specialty (ophthalmology), married an apparently wonderful woman, raised two sons, and made a great success of his career in medicine.

I’m not going to tell you this is a Horatio Alger success story about a man who pulled himself up by his bootstraps. Time after time, Bizer hit rock bottom. He was on the edge of seeing his dreams collapse, but he was always saved at the last minute—childhood accidents that nearly cost his life, a near miss from the Vietnam draft, rejection by two medical schools, only to find his niche at the third. Every time he was given another chance, Bizer vowed to make it work—and he did with a combination of determination and perseverance. And, until he married, without much encouragement from family. Finding forgiveness and reconciling with his once-alcoholic mother is yet another part of his story. So is the faith of his childhood—though dyslexia caused him to barely skate through his bar mitzvah. Grown, he brings whatever family together that he can for Shabbat every Friday night. Although ADHD and dyslexia are mentioned, they don’t play a huge part in this story. It’s as though Bizer used them as steppingstones on which to climb to his future.

Bizer tells his story in a conversational, friendly manner, without preaching but with lots of humor and nice touches of honesty about himself and the many times he goofed. As he says at one point, his life story was always about “when I grow up.” If most lives are lived in straight lines, he says his is a bowl of scrambled spaghetti. There’s not a lot of introspection here, just casual comments offhand, no wallowing. What there is, though, is the magic of storytelling, be it childhood adventures, scary episodes in school, or patient stories from his practice. Bizer is a man who seems to love life and what he has made of his own. His is an inspirational story of a life well lived. And having never met him, I like this man a lot.

Ever thought about telling your story?

The Sophie saga continues

 

I’m sure if she knew Sophie would be thrilled to have so many of you wishing her well. I am gratified by your thoughts, but I am also a bit teary tonight. Soph is spending the night at the vet’s, hooked to IVs. Jordan took her in this morning and left her for them to do blood work, etc. I suspect our vet, whom I adore and have complete confidence in, didn’t realize how sick she was until he saw her. When I called mid-afternoon, he gave me the news that he would keep her overnight, said he was waiting for blood work, mentioned some possible life-threatening conditions, and wouldn’t guarantee an outcome. I was floored—and teary. I called Jordan, Jordan called her siblings, and everyone rallied around by email and phone.

The blood work results came back tonight while Jordan, Christian, Mary and I were having happy hour—as Mary said, it was a melancholy happy hour without Sophie demanding attention, going in and out, asking for love. We all felt the absence. The blood work was apparently better than it could have been—her pancreatic enzymes are elevated, which means pancreatitis; her bladder is palpably painful; she has bad nasal congestion but her lungs, a sensitive area with Soph, are clear. The doctor thinks fluids will help her blood levels, and he’ll run tests again in the morning.

Jordan will be at the vet’s the minute they open in the morning to love on Sophie, and I will probably go later in the day. It’s a pain to get me in and out, but if I can reassure Sophie, I’ll be there. Part of my angst now is that I don’t want her to feel abandoned. There’s a lot more to the story, some of it guilt, some of it bad memories from another dog, but I won’t dwell on that. As Christian said tonight, having a sick dog is like having a sick child. We hope to bring her home tomorrow, and I will carry her on a silk pillow from now on.

At the moment, I’m hopeful. It sounds like she’s quite sick but not in a life-threatening situation. And I have to realize that she is eleven, medium old for a thirty-pound dog. She slept in the house with Jordan last night, and when Jordan brought her out this morning, she summoned enough energy to let a squirrel know exactly what she thought of him being in her yard. So the Soph we know and love is still in there.

Our happy hour was also melancholy because Mary is exhausted. They are packing to move out of the house she has lived in for twenty-five years and her husband, Sweet Joe, has lived in for fifty-one years. Talk about a wrench! The packers were there today, the movers come Thursday and Friday, and Friday Joe and Mary spend their first night in their new apartment. I cannot imagine the sorting and choosing, the cleaning out, the decisions involved in packing up a large, two-story, three-bedroom house after all those years. Mary is doing it in good humor, though she clearly wanted a place to sit and rest and relax, and we offered her that tonight, albeit shadowed by Sophie’s story.

Mary and Joe’s move makes me think how hard change is for all of us. It’s scary, the unknown, leaving behind the familiar and comfortable. Some people handle it better than others. Mary and Joe are doing well with it. I never did. I think that’s the reason I don’t like to travel. I’m too attached to the security of the world I live in day by day.

And I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I think I’m fortunate to be so content with my world. I have friends who travel all the time, can’t quiet their itchy foot, and I often wonder if they are seeking something I don’t see. Of course, part of my world that makes me happy is Sophie. So, please, cross your finger, say a prayer, whatever works. Help me will Sophie back to good health, so I can have her spoiled, stubborn, adorable self back in the cottage.

Priorities

 

The view of the Highlands from Stirling Castle

As I write, I have friends just back from a few days in LA and before that a longer stay in far north Scotland; other friends are in New Mexico, Pecos and Taos specifically, and one of them is only recently back from a tour of Scandinavian countries. One of my daughters is in Chicago, one son just back from LA, one son-in-law in Nashville at a music camp. My friend Jean has recently been to Mackinac Island, before that New York, and is making plans for a winter trip to Santa Fe, while Jeannie, who also went to Mackinac, is going to the Galapagos and then will be in on the Santa Fe trip. Mary is going to Galapagos, and Babette will stop in Fort Worth on her way from Winedale to Santa Fe. The whole world is traveling.

Meanwhile, the lawn service guy and I spent time looking out the window at some decorative grasses that are not one bit decorative. Mostly brown, they are lying limp on the ground—and were before the awful heat so that wasn’t the cause. This is the third thing we’ve tried in two smallish beds outside my desk window. And he said our pentas are the saddest he’s ever seen. (He has a horticulture degree from A&M, so he knows what he’s talking about). We have decided to put wildflowers in the two beds where the grasses are, and I will live with puny pentas until October when it’s time for mums. The wildflower beds will not be cheap—replanting beds usually involves a three-man crew, and time is money. My son says I pay too much for lawn care.

Tonight, Jean is coming for supper. We’ll have store-bought guac for starters, a smoked salmon Salad Niçoise, and a splurgy piece of chocolate cake for dessert. I usually keep smoked salmon on hand and often guac. I buy good wine, good quality meat and fresh fish, and my grocery bill is high for one person, though please remember that I feed four of us many nights. I haven’t yet bought the leg of lamb I crave, but I know I will someday. Or a rack of lamb.

You can see where this is going. I said to Jordan the other night that I know some friends and family think I spend too much on the yard and at the grocery, and she said, “It makes you happy.”

“It’s my travel,” I replied.

If I listed all the travel of my lifetime, I’d realize I’ve been far more places than most people. I’ve been to Scotland and Hawaii, California and Florida, New York and New Mexico, Seattle, Spokane, and Spartanburg, and more. Generally, I have great memories of trips, but the truth is I am not an easy traveler. I feel like the little old lady who, just off her first plane ride, was asked how she liked it. “It was all right,” she said, “but I never did put my full weight down.” I’m not really comfortable on flights, though when we went to Scotland on a red-eye, I was the one who slept while two of my grown children could not. But when I’m away, no matter how much I’m enjoying the new experience, I’m always counting how many “sleeps” (Jordan’s term) until I can sleep in my own bed again.

I do still have a bucket list of sorts. I never got to Alaska, and I’d like to do the inland waterway cruise and maybe visit Victoria on the way, see the abundant flowers, and have tea at the Empress Hotel. And I’d love to go back to the Scottish Highlands. But those are pipe-dream trips, given my mobility challenges. So I will content myself with wonderful memories of my one trip to Scotland. On a more practical level, I’d like to go back once again to Chicago, my hometown, drive by my childhood house, stay at The Palmer House that I’ve now written so much about. I could do that one. Just have to gear myself up to fly.

And I’d like to have a family get-together in Santa Fe. We used to go every Christmas, but now it’s been several years. I have some hesitation about the long drive. I love watching the flat Panhandle turn into the mesas of New Mexico as we head west, but ten hours in a car seat? Colin said, “We’ll rent a motor home.” Now that’s an idea to my liking.

Meantime, I’m content and happy in my cottage. I travel to the kitchen and the garden, though right now the latter is pretty pitiful.

Tiny houses and big barns

 

Yesterday was another day mostly taken up by travel. Colin, grandson Kegan, and I left Tomball about eleven-thirty, hoping to make it past Waco before the football game ended and the highways were crowded—make that, more crowded. We sailed along through the rolling countryside between Hempstead and College Station, marveling at how lovely it was. A quick stop in College Station for Chick Fil-A (goes against all my principles, but who can resist a fourteen-year-old?) and we were on our way. It seems to me from that point on, the trip is less scenic, the trees scrubby, the towns older and less vibrant.

What impressed me most though between College Station and Waco was how much land is still independently farmed. We passed small, modest houses—some with obvious deferred maintenance—tucked into clusters of trees, with huge well-kept barns and sheds, gleaming equipment. It was obvious where what money there was went, and when I remarked on it, Colin said, “OF course. It’s their livelihood.” Today an online article was about agribusiness vs. agriculture, lauding the independent farmer who cares about the quality of his product. Tracing the takeover of agribusiness back to the Nixon administration and Secretary of Agriculture Earl Butz, the writer stressed that farming is more than just a business. It’s a way of life. The moral, of course, is buy local, buy from independent farmers. Better food, cheaper, less reliance on the supply chain, even though, thanks to President Biden, problems with that have dramatically decreased.

Once again, Waco was the nemesis. (Christian, whose Baylor roots are strong, is offended by my attitude toward Waco). We were just barely ahead of the end of the game, but we planned to skirt around the city on the loop and be safely on I-35 before disappointed patrons left what was really a close game. Colin’s phone, though, warned him of a huge traffic jam on the loop and directed us on a tiny back road (I was sure we were lost) to a neighborhood street that was bumper to bumper with other folks following the advice we were. Once again, I saw parts of Waco that I could have easily missed. (Colin says I’m judgmental, and Christian said he looked at our route and we were in Bellmead, not Waco—this made him feel better. I said the name Bellmead conjures up visions of a southern plantation and gracious living, and we agreed Bellmead, Texas, is not that.)

My stay in Tomball, though short, was most enjoyable. I loved spending some time with two grandchildren (at sixteen and fourteen, they have busy schedules and weren’t around all the time). One thing that really impressed me is that the Tomball Alters play a lot of family games. I saw gin rummy and cribbage, and they finished a 1000-word jigsaw puzzle and started a 2000-word one. Everybody pitched in, even placing a piece or two as they walked by. Colin fixed my morning tea, saw to it I had something for breakfast, and even fixed tuna salad and cottage cheese for lunch one day. We feasted last night on leftovers, and I understand we will eat those again here tonight.

Sophie and I were glad to get home, much as we both loved being in Tomball. We got here about three-thirty, and she went right to her crate and fell asleep, despite having slept all the way in the car. She roused for dinner in the main house but wanted quickly to be in the cottage again, where we later found her asleep. A brief trip outside around eleven and she was in the crate again. When Colin and Kegan came in at six this morning to say goodbye, Sophie roused briefly and went right back to sleep. We both wakened again at nine o’clock—by then, Colin and Kegan were in Navasota already! Now, at noon, they’ve been home for two hours.

And here I am at my computer. My mums show the first sign of fading, but the oak leaf hydrangea out the French doors is a riot of fall color. Last night, strands of tiny lights festooned the railing of the deck, and my green pinpoint lights were scattered all over the neighbor’s wall. Inside, my tree was lit, my tiny virtual fireplace blazing, and colorful sparkly lights decorated my pussy willows. All festive and a warm welcome home.

Traveling mercies

 

Since I'll spend Thanksgiving with one of my sons, 
I thought it appropriate to share this of me and my girls,
taken on a Thanksgiving about ten years ago.
We were in Frisco at Jamie's house.

A friend sent me that message, “traveling mercies,” today in response to my announcement that I would be going all the way to Tomball (honest, it’s not that far, not like I was flying cross country as many families must do). The truth is I am not an easy traveler, never have been. I have friends who itch to travel all the time, and whose lives are scheduled from one trip to the next—river cruises in Europe, theater trips to NYC, vacations on Mexican beaches. None of that tempts me, although I loved traveling vicariously with a friend who just toured the Tenement Museum in New York and then explored Staten Island. That’s my kind of travel—you can keep your art museums.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had some wonderful travels in my long life. Probably the outstanding trip was to Scotland with Colin and Megan. We spent eight days in the Highlands, visiting a new castle every day. That in itself was an amazing experience—some were occupied, some were ruins, one I remember had the most amazing collection of swords and other lethal weapons. It practically bristled. But the highlight was visiting the MacBain Memorial Park in Dores, outside Inverness. (I am a registered member of Clan MacBean—MacBain, MacBean, spell it any of a thousand ways.)

Another memorable trip was to Chicago to show my four grown children where I grew up. We stayed at the Drake Hotel (in my day, the epitome of luxury) and ate at wonderful restaurants on the North Side. Spent one day exploring my Hyde Park neighborhood and the University of Chicago. If we ever go back, I’d spend more time in Hyde Park. My affection for it has grown since I’ve researched today’s neighborhood versus my memories as I wrote the Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries.

Jordan and I took a great trip to Hawaii, staying with friends on Kauai and then spending a couple of days on Maui. Mostly to attend writers’ meetings, I’ve been to Portland and Spokane, Los Angeles, Billings, and Albuquerque. I went once to New York, many years ago, and have never felt the need to go back. But I’ve made countless trips to Santa Fe and within Texas have been several times to Corpus Christi, San Antonio, the Hill Country, even Amarillo and Lubbock.

And sure I have a bucket list, though I’ll probably never take any of these trips. But I long to go back to Scotland, Santa Fe, and Chicago—see, that’s me. I don’t hunger so much after new vistas as I do returning to places I’ve loved. And you can put the Indiana Dunes high on that list. But I would also like to go to the California wine country and to Alaska for salmon. Probably I’ll never do those, and that’s okay.

I will go to Tomball to be with my oldest son, Colin, and his family. I haven’t been there in at least two years, so the glimpses I’ve had of those grandchildren have been brief, and they’ve grown so much, so fast in the last couple of years. Lisa, my DIL, and I will talk about schools and books (she teachers seventh grade math) and about cooking, because she’s a great cook. Colin ad I will talk about computer problems and my finances and my writing world. We may talk a bit about politics. And weather permitting, we’ll take wine and sit on benches on the edge of the small lake (large pond?) on his property. I’ll get to hug his mother-in-law, who is one of my favorite people and who now lives on adjacent property. They are in the country outside Tomball, and not in the city which, like many once-sleepy Texas towns, has grown into sprawl. It will be fun, a return to a place where I have many happy memories.

Sophie will go with me, while the Burtons stay home to entertain Christian’s family at Thanksgiving and then spend the weekend decorating for Christmas. We’ll see how Sophie does—she’s usually okay in Tomball, though Lisa doesn’t like her on the couch and there’s a new dog who may not welcome her. And she won’t have the freedom to run as she does here, because there is no fenced yard, and she must be walked on a leash.

But it will be good, and I’m looking forward to it. I just have to take that first step out the door.

Where is your camel, or lessons from the pandemic

 

My physical therapist and I were discussing how much we are each willing to break quarantine, now that we, like many others, are fully vaccinated. He, more willing to get out and about than I, had been to in-person church at Easter, while I stuck with virtual. His parting words were, “You got to get out more. God’s got you.” A few days later a friend wrote that she agreed with me and ended her message with what I presume is an old Arabic proverb: “Trust God, but tie your camel to a tree.” To me, that says it all. I’ve spent a lot of time tying my camel to trees.

In truth, I tie that camel (okay, I’ll quit with that image) because I’m confused. We are inundated with news of how wonderfully well President Biden’s vaccine roll-out is going—way ahead of the schedule he predicted for his first hundred days. And I am among the first to clap loudest and longest. But that statistic that now one out of five is fully vaccinated? Try putting the word “Only” in front of it: it means that four out of five people are walking around without full protection. Apparently one-third of our population has had one shot—I wonder how many never get that second one.

And I’m assuming we still can’t hug, unless the huggee is also vaccinated. Which calls into question all those newly vaccinated grandparents who are finally hugging grandchildren after a year (call me guilty—I hugged one because she had covid a month earlier and, as she said to me, was “full of antibodies”). Aside from the rare case where a vaccinated person gets sick, if we hug unvaccinated grands, are we putting them in danger? They are almost all, at least in my family, too young to have been vaccinated. I haven’t heard a definitive answer about the vaccinated as carriers of the virus. And how long is the vaccine good? Six months? A year? So much still to be determined.

We get advice from several sources, and I’m never sure what the CDC is saying. Apparently, it’s all right to gather indoors with a small group of vaccinated people but we should avoid large groups in enclosed spaces. Yet domestic travel is safe—but they just ruled out planes, trains, and cars. And we should avoid bars and restaurants that are open to full capacity (hello, Texas!).

The most sensible restaurant advice I’ve heard came from local journalist Bud Kennedy who recommends eating on a patio or in a well-ventilated indoor restaurant where they only seat every other table, staff is masked, and customers are masked except when eating. Of course, that means you either check it out as you walk in the door or call ahead and ask their mask and social distancing policy. And in Fort Worth, and I imagine other cities, patios are a problem because many of them are enclosed with ugly plastic to ward off the winter chill. The result is no moving air and a space without ambiance. I suppose in summer they’ll be enclosed for coolness. I’m on a search for open-air patios with distanced seating. Suggestions welcome.

This morning our minister talked about how emotional many people felt when they worshipped in the sanctuary once again, the first time in 54 Sundays. And I have read posts from many people who cried in relief when they got their second vaccination. It’s like the vaccination wipes away all the tension and frustration of the past year. But as Dr. Fauci cautions, we must not get complacent too soon. There is hope on the horizon, but we have to hold on.

Here comes that camel again. Now where’s the nearest tree?

Armchair travel

I have finally been to San Francisco! Of course, I didn’t really go, but I discovered one of the great benefits of reading on the computer. It’s long been understood that reading can take you places that you’ve never been—but visiting them on the computer adds new depth to the vicarious travel experience. During pandemic, when so many of us are fearful of travel, this is truly a new opportunity.

I’m reading, as I said a few days ago, a mystery series set in Virginia’s wine country. But the current volume takes the heroine, Lucie Montgomery, to San Francisco. First off, let me admit that I am not the most adventuresome traveler. I remind myself of the little old lady who went on her first airplane ride. When asked how it was, she said, “It was all right, but I never did put my full weight down.” That’s me—I never put my full weight down when traveling, an uneasiness that baffles many of my more adventuresome friends. I simply point out that my horoscope sign is Cancer and one of the characteristics is that I am a homebody.

I also want to add that I have been to Los Angeles and southern California and have no great desire to go back, although taking the local train from LA to San Diego, right along the shore, was pretty interesting. But San Francisco intrigues me more than LA. For many years before his death, my children’s father lived in the mountains above Santa Rosa, and they visited him fairly often. Because Napa Valley and the California wine country was one of the few places on my bucket list, I used to joke I’d go with them. They could stash me in a motel and visit when convenient. Somehow, they never warmed to that idea.

The book I’m reading now, The Sauvignon Secret, takes the heroine from Loudoun and Fauquier counties in Virginia to San Francisco. Last night I found myself reading about places like Oakland and the Embarcadero and the Golden Gate Bridge. I started with the Embarcadero because I’d heard the term but had no concept of what it was. A quick computer search took me not only to the Embarcadero but allowed me to expand and shrink a map so that I could get a sense of where places where in relation to each other—Oakland, San Jose, Santa Rosa. Places that had just been vague names in my mind suddenly became real, and I saw why my children sometimes flew into San Jose, where Oakland lies in relation to San Francisco, the route of the famed 101. An instant geography lesson, and it all made sense to me. Not only that, but it increased my comprehension of and pleasure in reading the novel.

So now when I think about books I want to read, I’ll factor in places I want to visit. Napa is still on my bucket list, as is Alaska. But I hit the jackpot with a 2011 trip to the Scottish Highlands. Number one on my bucket list would be a return trip to Scotland. I chronicled that wonderful journey in blogs, beginning with May View from the Cottage: Scotland--a retrospective (judys-stew.blogspot.com). As I searched for that link, I got caught up in the nostalgia of revisiting that trip. Guess my next geographical exploration will be the Highlands.

Instead of fretting about travel restrictions and cautions right now, open a good book, boot up your computer, and travel wherever you want to go.

Spiffing up the cottage and plans gone awry

My stained glass panels

Birthday presents came home to roost this weekend. Jordan and Christian’s gift was a stained-glass hanging. Most of the windows (there are four plus a set of French doors) in my living area look out on the garden, but one has a wonderful view of a hurricane fence with straggly honeysuckle (the honeysuckle is lush everywhere else) and the back of a neighbor’s garage. Jordan thought a stained-glass hanging would soften the view, but before we could begin to investigate, friend Subie said, “We have four in the garage that we have no place to put.” She brought two vertical panels, and they now sit in the window—and they do soften the view.

Morgan's sign

Then granddaughter Morgan arrived with a sign she’d made for my cottage. The sign, boldly proclaiming “Juju’s Cottage,” now hangs outside my door to welcome visitors—for the day when I can have visitors again. We now make them detour to the patio. So proud and grateful that she made that for me.

The best laid plans of men—and daughters—gang aft agley, according to Robert Burns. They sure did this week for Jordan and her family. They planned to take their annual trip to Hyatt Lost Pines resort in Central Texas near Bastrop, where they could sit by the pool, Jacob could fish and kayak. Jordan, as a luxury travel planner, had checked out the situation thoroughly and decided their pandemic precautions were satisfactory. The trip would celebrate Christian’s birthday—no, we won’t say which one.

But factors other than the pandemic intervened. When Jacob came out to the cottage this morning to ask me to print a label, he said casually, “Oh, we cancelled our trip.” When Jordan came out later, I said, “You really messed up all my plans,” and she replied that she had spent the morning cancelling plans—the dog sitter, the neighbor boys who were going to water, etc.

I had planned carefully for four days and nights without them. I have a list of meals I was going to cook—things they don’t want to eat but I love, like the okroshka soup I make with buttermilk and salmon croquettes and maybe a tuna casserole and for sure a Spam spread—shhh! Don’t judge.

I ate Spam as a kid—baked or fried—and I liked it, at least to my memory. I came across a recipe on the internet for a spread made with onion, celery, relish, mayonnaise, etc. Sounds like a ham spread to me, and ham salad is high on my list of likes. And I now have a can of low-fat Spam. I know once of the objections to Spam is high sodium, but I believe the low-fat is also low sodium, and besides every time I have blood taken, my sodium is on the low side and the doctor tells me to eat salt. My friend Jean once practically tried to grab the salt out of my hand as I doctored some split pea soup. But I digress. I’m going to make it, even if I have to eat the whole batch myself.

So that I would not be without human contact, I had lined up friends to come for happy hour each night that I would be alone. Jordan’s reaction this morning was, “Bring it on. I’ll visit with them too.” So now we have a week ahead filled with friends. I’m grateful.

Isn’t it nice that life brings change? I hope it also brings growth.

Be safe and well, friends. New cases of Corona-19 are down in Fort Worth and Dallas today. Hope it’s a good sign.

A one-day vacation

Today I took a one-day vacation. I hadn’t intended to, but when the notion struck me, it seemed just right. Jordan announced last night that she and Jacob would go to Frisco this morning to pick up golf clubs from Jamie. Did I want to go? My first reaction—so typical—was no, thank you, I have work to do. But then I thought how I moan and groan because I don’t see much of Jamie, and he complains that it takes a chunk of time to come to Fort Worth. He was here the last two Saturdays in a row, and it seemed that if I had a chance for even a brief visit, I should go. And besides, what really would I have done that I could not do tomorrow.

So a little after ten we set out for Frisco. I enjoyed the drive. Because I’m so conscious these days of the need to plant trees to add oxygen to our environment, I realized how many thick patches of uncleared land there are even between here and Dallas, especially after you get on the George Bush and pass a road called Lower Tarrant County. Always makes me smile because it sounds like “Inferior Tarrant County,” some sort of slum.

We had a good if brief visit with Jamie, Mel, and Eden. Jacob got to ride some sort of power bike that his uncle had and came away convinced he must have one. We talked, drank tea, and were on the road home too quickly—Jacob had a golf date with his father. We stopped at Starbucks for lunch from the drive-through—remind me not to do that anymore. I do not want sandwiches with those puffy, pre-fab eggs ever again. And the only decaf tea (my doctor says I must) was passion fruit. I am not a fan of fruity teas and rode home in a semi-snit, which, fortunately, I managed to talk myself out of.

Tonight was Sunday supper. I had gotten salmon, but only a pound—for three of us. Guess I wasn’t thinking. Christian went back to Central Market, got more salmon and some shrimp for Jacob who doesn’t like salmon—or hasn’t tried it, I’m not sure which. Christian marinated it in the fresh pesto I made yesterday and then grilled it—absolutely sublime. He and I both had leftovers, which sort of proves that one pound would do, but I am grateful for lunch or dinner tomorrow.

The real treat of the day came as we sat around the table after dinner. I’m not sure how it started, but Christian, Jacob, and I got into a lengthy discussion of politics. I mean, we covered the whole gamut—from trump to abortion to racism to how our democracy works or currently doesn’t work, how trump was elected, what options are open now. Jacob asked a lot of questions but showed a good understanding of the subject. At times, we were all battling to be the one to speak.

The entire exchange was satisfying on several levels. I was delighted to have Jacob take an intelligent interest, when a lot of kids his age would have shrugged off the whole thing with a lack of interest. He was passionately engaged. In the past, Christian and I have not always agreed—he tended to think my activism was extreme—and yet tonight we were 95% in agreement. And finally, such discussions help me keep my mind sharp. I had complained tonight to Jordan about being thought of as “the old lady” until she said, “Don’t say that again. It’s not true, and I’m tired of hearing it.” Our discussion and my ability to articulate what I believe and support it with facts reassured me.

I will sleep happy tonight, though tomorrow will be difficult. The movers come at nine to take away my bedroom furniture, and the floor people come after lunch to begin stripping up the ruined carpet (a/c leak) and installing hardwoods. The cottage is already a mess, crowed with things we’ve taken out of the bedroom. Sophie’s crate is down from the attic, and she has slept in it last night and twice today. Tomorrow she’ll have to spend a lot of the day in it to be out of the workmen’s way. And tomorrow night, I will have to sleep on the couch. I will be so glad when this is over.

Even in my eighties, life is never dull, and I am so grateful.

Is your suitcase packed?

Mine is not. I am not an easy or an enthusiastic traveler. But this leads to a lot of inner conflict. I am surrounded by addicted travelers: one friend just returned from Machu Picchu; another leaves tomorrow for three weeks in India; yet another goes to Australia in April for three weeks. I have neighbors, longtime friends, who go to Europe twice a year. When I confessed to them one night at supper that I don’t much like to travel, he looked at me in amazement. “Judy, I’ve never met anyone like that.”

Too often, I feel that not wanting to travel indicates some sort of deficiency in me. Perhaps I’m not adventuresome; maybe I’m not intellectually curious, which would lead to the inescapable conclusion that I’m boring. Whatever, none of this is helped by the fact that my youngest daughter, Jordan, is a travel agent. And she keeps putting temptation in my path.

But it’s true. I’m happy as a clam in my cottage. I like my own bed. I hate to leave my dog. Travel doesn’t have the siren call for me that it does for many. Yes, I have traveled a good deal in my life—mostly within the continental U.S. but as a child I went to Canada a lot, and I have been to Hawaii—a wonderful trip that I loved—and to Scotland, the land of my ancestors—a trip that will always be a highlight of my life. I’ve been to most of the western and midwestern states in our country, with a few ventures into New York and Florida (hated the latter) and lots of trips to North Carolina. The things about travel is that once I do it, I enjoy it.

And yes, there are places on my bucket list. If I could snap my fingers and be there, I’d go back to Scotland in a flash. I’d like to ride the Royal Scot, the luxury train that winds through the Highlands. As a substitute, I might like to take the train across western Canada. My one trip to New York City was pretty much a disaster, but maybe I’d like to go back, mostly because we have beloved relatives there. New England in the fall beckons to me, as do the Outer Banks of the Carolinas. Jordan and I had reservations for a Great Lakes cruise last summer, but I got too sick to go, and I’ve not worked my enthusiasm back up about that. I’m pretty content to travel by car (with someone else driving) in Texas to see my kids.

I have one friend, also a writer, who doesn’t much like to travel and finds it hard as we age (that’s a factor in my travel reluctance also). She posits that seniors often retire and travel because they have nothing else to fill their days. I sometimes think some people travel so they don’t have to stop and think about their lives and the empty days. These theories of course don’t apply to everyone—some of the most interesting and vital people I know are those who travel. Which leads me back to my inadequacy.

I’m going to Tomball TX in April—four hours by car—to celebrate my oldest son’s50th birthday. And next Christmas I’ll go with my whole family to a vacation house in Blanco TX. Now that’s my kind of travel. Scotland in my dreams. Texas is my reality.

Home again, home again, jiggedy jig

Same picture, three days later

Do we look a little more tired

There’s so much anticipation, even excitement about going away, just for a long weekend. You’ll see people you miss, do things you don’t get to do at home, eat at different restaurants—it’s a real high.

Coming home is always nice, in a different way. Although you’d think, by contrast, it might be low key, it’s not. For me, there’s again a sense of anticipation as familiar sights appear, a comforting sense of relief when we drive in our own driveway. As if I’ve been holding my breath, minding my manners, and been on my best behavior. Now I can let my hair down—well, it’s too short for that—and be myself.

 We came home on the Vonlane bus today in the early afternoon. Had lunch, wine. I read. A good trip. And once home, we were greeted by an enthusiastic Sophie, who sniffed all over everything. Clearly, she smelled the Austin dog—sweet Eddie, a poodle much tinier than Soph. And, of course, we were greeted by Christian, who picked us up and seemed glad to see us. He’s now fixing meatloaf for Sunday supper, which I think is about the nicest welcome home offering he could do.

But coming home also entails work. Unpacking, hanging all those clothes up, sorting out the mail you’ve missed. I came home to a couple of welcome checks in the mail and some bills to take care of, plus I had saved several things on my computer that I needed to print out—tracking receipts, etc. Of course, tonight was the time the printer chose to have a paper jam and then tell me it’s out of ink. But I have waded through the mess and straightened my desk into a sort of orderly mess that I at least understand.

And now it’s barely time to take a breath before Thanksgiving is upon us, and Christmas fast on its heels. I ordered Christmas bags today because I will see some of my children at Thanksgiving and not at Christmas, so I must have their presents wrapped in a couple of weeks.

Lots to do in the days ahead. I feel the holidays coming on. And that’s a great, exciting thing!

Caught on the medical merry-go-round

Over the weekend, Jordan and I came to the difficult decision to postpone our Great Lakes Cruise – we were to depart Thursday. I simply didn’t feel well enough to enjoy a cruise—who wants to go on a cruise when they can’t look at food? —and it seems more important to find out the cause of my malaise, malingering, whatever it is. Accordingly, I emailed my doctor and Jordan began cancellation plans.

My general practitioner had said all along he wanted me to be seen by a gastroenterologist, and first thing this morning he said he was working on that. Last week when I asked about the cardiac medicine, he said I’d have to talk to my cardiologist. I left calls for his nurse Thursday noon, Friday morning, and again this morning. About two-thirty this afternoon, she called and in a chipper voice said to discontinue the med in question and let them know if my heart rate goes over a hundred. Simple as that.

There are a lot of “what if?” questions embedded there. What if they had returned the call Thursday? The trip would probably be still scheduled. What if the general practitioner has called the cardiologist? He’d have surely gotten a more rapid response. As it is, I can’t change mental gears fast enough, and, to me, it is what it is and what it was meant to be. I will be grateful to feel better and to know there is not some terrible underlying physical cause. I am grateful to know it wasn’t “all in my head” (we discussed that) nor because I’m not an easy traveler). One of my many faults is that I’m so willing to blame myself that I sometimes mask real illness as a weakness, a “just not feeling right,” and to determine, as I did in part this time that I just need to gut up and give myself a lecture.

A little corner of me is proud that I kept insisting my symptoms matched those for digoxin toxicity. Twi in one week I was right—about the fungus on the lawn and about my own body. It may go to my head!

Still not sure we’re giving up on Labor Day weekend in Chicago for the four Alters and their mom. Meantime, I have this lovely gap of time to fill—what really, do I want to do with my career? How do I really feel about turning eighty? All psychological hobbledygobble is off the table, and I have a novel to promote, a cookbook to proof, a life to live.

And a wonderful trip to anticipate for next spring.

Now may I please get off the merry-go-round? If you have questions or comments, please direct them to me, not Jordan. She has enough to deal with given her job and the start of school. Thanks, friends, I feel the love.

Down in the dumps and scolding myself

Sitting at my desk and gazing out the window at the garden, I see the stark contrast between last year and this year. Last year we had a lush and lovely yard, at least the half near the main house. This year, we have abundant and leggy ground cover in the back half, by my patio, but the grass has not done well and there are great bare patches. Is it because last year it was new grass, not strong enough now to endure three dogs peeing on it—I admit I’m not happy with that theory. The other thing, of course, is the extreme heat. And last year, the deck was full of abundantly blooming flowering plants—a bougainvillea, hydrangea and hibiscus. This year, most of the blooming plants are on the front porch where they are somewhat sheltered from the heat by a partial roof. The ones left are struggling and look—well, the word for it is crisp. It’s this blasted hot summer we’re having. The lettuce, long turned to brown stalks, and the basil, drooping beyond recovery, need to be torn up and discarded. When even basil doesn’t flourish, you know it’s bad.

I guess maybe I’m not in a good mood tonight, and perhaps the heat magnifies my discontent. I have so much to be thankful for that I am ashamed to say all those blessings sometimes cause me stress. My birthday was wonderful—but stressful. Being the center of attention and yet confined to my seated walker was a new experience. The trip to Tomball was wonderful—but stressful. I’m at a crossroads with my career, not sure what I want to do next, exploring. Being an impatient soul, I want something to leap out of the woodwork at me and say, “Write this!” Some days I think I did best as a student when there was a clear assignment.

Jordan, Christian, and Jacob are going on vacation soon. I lived alone in the house for probably twenty years and did fine, but now I’m used to Jordan coming out morning and night, just to pop in, and to Jacob occasionally wandering out to visit. I will feel abandoned, isolated—or maybe I am just telling myself that. But I am busily filling my social calendar for the time they will be gone. I know I’ll be fine once they’re gone—it’s the anticipation.

I am not an easy traveler. I think anxiety pretty much covers it, so excited as I am about our upcoming Great Lakes cruise, I am also apprehensive. I will be traveling with the family travelmaster, Jordan, superstar travel agent, and I know she takes care of every detail, planning ahead, and will take excellent care of me. But doubts beset me—how steep is the ramp up to the ship, boat or whatever we’re going on?  What about seasickness, apparently possible even on the Great Lakes. I have more than once been accused of bringing my bridges up close, so I can jump them, and I guess that’s what I’m doing now.

The logical part of my mind scoffs at all this and lectures me sternly on how petty my problems are. I have friends who are facing medical uncertainties, one woman I care about who rather suddenly finds herself in hospice care and with at best a short lifespan left. How dare I grouse about my problems, most of which grow out of the blending of many happy advantages with my natural disposition toward anxiety. No panic attacks this time—just a slightly queasy stomach.

The best I can do is be stern with myself, whack those anxieties right out of my life, and carry on with a smile. It may take me a day or two. Meanwhile. I am reading in search of a new topic, reading focusing on some interesting (and spunky) women of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

Friends, thanks for listening. I’ll be back “at myself” in a day or two. Hang on with me, please. Have a good evening.

The company of women

I like men—a lot. Not to be trite, but some of my best friends are men. And, yes, in the day I’ve loved some of them. But there’s something about the company of women. Something indefinably comforting. I’m not talking about gossip sessions or those heart-to-heart talks where you confide your deepest secrets and all of your problems to your best friend. No, just ordinary talk.

The Book Ladies met for breakfast this morning. I found myself with women talking about travel, books, and writing. To my right was a preservationist and librarian, and beyond her a bookseller who still works in semi-retirement at Barnes & Noble. A retired teacher and an author sat across the table.

One woman had recently been to Iceland, and someone else piped up that she’d been there years ago and longed to go back. The one who was just in Iceland is going to Australia soon—it will be spring there. The teacher just returned from Dublin. I’ve taken some memorable trips in my life—Scotland comes first to mind—but I’m pretty much an armchair traveler, and I enjoy the detailed accounts these ladies send home.

There was talk about writing and digitizing books and then a writer who has suddenly “broken out,” the phrase for one who has just found success and recognition for her books—broken out of the pack, as it were. One of this writer’s books apparently has to do with the torture of women. We all frowned—we won’t be reading that.

All this while enjoying the kind of breakfast I don’t often allow myself—egg, toast, hash browns. It’s a great way to start the day. One woman wrote me that she was unable to be there this morning but looked forward to talking to me next time about her recent re-visit to downtown Chicago. I have a hankering to return to Chicago and visit the new writers’ museum.

Came home, wrote my thousand words for the day, and spent the rest of the day culling recipes. I have always had what I called an appalling collection because whenever a recipe came near catching my fancy I clipped it and put it in a drawer which eventually overflowed. I went through it once before the move to the cottage, but I demonstrated to myself today that I kept a lot of recipes I’d never cook.

I discarded a recipe for spaghetti for twenty-five. My days of feeding such a crowd are over. I discarded recipes that called for full ovens, though I discovered last night that my toaster oven will easily accommodate two individual casserole dishes. But that’s a far cry from a standing rib roast. Others went in the recycle bin because they just didn’t suit my taste today or because I now cook better versions, but I kept some for sentimental reasons. A few in childish handwriting—Jamie carefully wrote out a recipe for a small chicken loaf, and Megan copied directions for Play-doh. There was the recipe a friend gave me for chicken enchiladas when I barely knew what an enchilada was—mushroom and cream of celery soups. Not quite authentic.

I pulled some to use soon, particularly that I thought Jacob and/or Christian would enjoy—red beans and ground beef, a sausage and cheese casserole, and others. I’ve said it before, but there are just too many good things out there to cook. Life is a feast.

Cooking and friends, the things that keep us grounded in the present and enable us to go about our lives while President Trump and Kim whoever-he-is rattle their sabers. A crazy world.

What are you looking forward to?

A good friend asked me the other night over dinner what I was looking forward to this fall. “Any trips?” This is a woman who travels all over the world, sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend. She knows I’m not much on travel, but that was to her the automatic question. Tonight, another friend said, “I get antsy if I don’t travel. I haven’t been anywhere since August.” August? Barely a month ago.

They got me to thinking about what I look forward to, because I suppose everyone has to have something in the wings that pulls them forward. My idea of travel is pretty much limited to visits to my kids, all of whom live in Texas. So I am looking forward to an October visit with my oldest daughter, Megan, and her family in Austin. My former colleague and now good friend, Melinda, and I go for Texas Book Festival. I used to spend Saturday and Sunday working at the festival, but now that I’m retired I leave that to Melinda and I hang out with my family. Megan said this year they’re expecting some humongous number of people at the festival and her advice was to avoid it—I think I’ll do just that. But Melinda and I stop for lunch at carefully picked places on the way down, then have happy hour with a good friend of hers a Z Tejas, and Monday morning breakfast with Barbara Whitehead, who has designed books for TCU Press since I can remember.

But beyond that trip, I look forward to small things. I told Sue (my Canadian daughter) tonight, that I was looking forward to her visit. I’m looking forward to a visit the last weekend of the month from old friends who moved away many years ago. They wrote they’d be in Dallas, and so I invited them for Sunday supper—when their daughter, my godchild, was young they always came for Sunday supper (that girl is now 26 or 27). I asked if there was any special dish they remembered, and got the answer “King Ranch Chicken.” So my menu is already set. It will be good to catch up.

I’m always looking forward to a call from The Millionaire (remember that old TV show?), and more realistically I’m hoping to hear from the agent to whom I sent three chapters, at her request, of my historical novel.

And then there’s a cocktail hour reception to preview the reunion of the cast of Lonseome Dove. Not sure how I got on the invitation list but I did, and Subie and I will go.

Before we know it, Thanksgiving and Christmas will be upon us. I’m thinking this year I might spend Thanksgiving at my brother’s ranch, and then Christmas will be an Alter holiday with all of us together.

Yep, I may not travel much, but there’s a lot ahead to look forward to. And I think that helps keep a person young—something that’s been on my mind lately. After my “Meltdown” post last night I have to report that I am back “at myself” though I wore my back out with trips to two groceries and the hardware store. And that lamb chop that wasn’t last night? I had such a good one tonight, cooked just right on my Jenn-Air grill that I chewed on the bone.

Life is good. Blessings on all of you. What are you looking forward to?

Playing like an executive

I don't like to fly--I do it when I really really want to be someplace, but it makes me anxious days in advance. I don't like to drive on the highway. I don't do it. Period. So travel by myself is limited. Yet I have kids in Houston, Austin and Frisco that I'd like to see. Okay, Frisco is close enough that Jamie comes to get me or, as he did the other day, comes to visit. But Houston and Austin are problems.
So, I was delighted that a company named Vonlane has instituted "executive" bus service between Dallas and Houston and Dallas and Austin. Sixteen very comfortable seats that adjust however you want them, complimentary drinks (including wine) and snacks and, if you're traveling at mealtime, a sandwich. Wifi connections and all kinds of other complimentary service, all provided by a solicitous attendant.
There was much discussion in my living room over proper attired for an executive bus. No, I could not wear jeans. No, I could not wear leggings (I did--an outfit with leggings). I saw no men in suits, two that looked like businessmen in slacks and dress shirts. Other than that, all kinds of garb. I needn't have worried.
I took the bus to Houston last Friday. Had a couple glasses of wine, read, napped and the three-and-a-half hours went by quickly. Only problem was my own fault--I went to the restroom in Houston Friday evening stop-and-go traffic, came out and was chatting with the attendant, probably talking with my hands instead of holding on, and when the bus stopped suddenly I fell backward, landing like a turtle on my back. The attendant hovered over me, while a  young man tried to put his arms under my shoulders and pull me up. I said I needed to get on my knees, which I did in spite of the crowded space. Then I could pull myself up, putting one hand in the sink in the service station. My head was a little tender, and for a couple of days my ribs were sore. But I wasn't hurt. A bit embarrassed however.
Jordan, my travel agent daughter, told me an executive with the company called and told her I'd fallen, wanted to know if I was all right. Obviously, he was warding off a lawsuit, but I still thought it was nice attention to detail.
Coming back the bus wasn't full, and I had a double seat to myself. Took a nap, with my shawl wrapped around me--and the attendant came and put a blanket over my lap. Lunch was delicious chicken salad on a croissant. And the bus was really early getting into Dallas.
Did I feel like an executive? No, but I felt luxurious and pampered. I'm a Vonlane fan from now on.

Tax Season Is Terrific for Murder

Please welcome my Wednesday guest, D. R. Ransdell, author of Mariachi Murder and the upcoming Island Casualty. A native of Illinois who opted for warmer winters in Arizona, she bases many of her novels on her own experiences and travels. For example, she actually played violin in a mariachi band. Read about her adventures at http://www.dr-ransdell.com/  I guess we’ll have to wait a while for the novel inspired by tax season, but her thoughts on it will give you a chuckle…and maybe some ideas.

****

To write murder mysteries, you need victims. On an everyday basis, sometimes I find these in the form of ex-boyfriends. Sometimes I borrow bad bosses from my friends. But in the tax season, I don’t need any help. I can find plenty of murder victims all by myself.

This year was a case in point. My taxes got me so flummoxed that I was ready to kill Turbo Tax and anybody else in sight. I was especially ready to kill the creator of the K-1 Corporation. The paperwork required to successfully create a K-1 is denser than a dissertation. There couldn’t be any easier way?

While I was working on my taxes, I started procrastinating. I started thinking of all the different ways I could use my tax woes inside my novels. I could easily kill off an evil supervisor who didn’t send a tax form in time, an accountant who purposefully made mistakes, a banker who “mislaid” papers, and a postal worker who accidentally on purpose lost returns on the way back to the mail truck. And that’s just for starters!

Some mystery writers use reprehensible serial killers and other miscreants, but in my own mysteries, I find more horror in the ordinary, everyday detail. Almost everybody has to pay taxes, so murdering off a tax consultant is something that many readers can relate to. Those of us who are normally mild mannered entertain wild fantasies of robbing banks to pay unexpected tax fees. We imagine spying on procrastinators as they race to the post office on the evening of April 15^th. We can imagine auditors who come to our houses never to be seen again.

In short, the tax season is useful. While I find it painful to figure out and pay taxes, it’s always best to look on the bright side of things. As a writer, I can turn routine problems into material for writing. Thus instead of complaining bitterly about doing my taxes, I’ll plot my next story about someone too cheap to pay to have taxes done or somehow who goes crazy when the electronic tax program says “error, please check line 24” for the nine-hundredth time.

Some of my fans ask how I come up with so many ideas for my murder mysteries. The truth is that I have plenty of ideas. The only problem is that during tax season, I don’t have any time for writing!

Please read about MARIACHI MURDER and the upcoming ISLAND CASUALTY at http://www.dr-ransdell.com/

 

 

 

Still Plays with Trains

The tee shirt that my breakfast companion wore said, “Still Plays with Trains.” It reminded me of my father, gone now a year and a half, who was a lifelong lover of trains. Shortly before his death he turned in to his editor his last book, this one about the Rochester Division of the Erie Railroad. It was from him that I learned to enjoy rail transport.

Growing up, I shared my basement bedroom with Dad’s HO-gauge model railroad setup. Dad shot hours of 16mm film of trains, especially those pulled by steam locomotives. Turns out his early diesel movies were sufficiently popular they were made into videos. I may be the only Boy Scout to have earned most of his hiking merit badge by walking abandoned track in and around Rochester. Dad knew the mileages from any point to another and would drop me off at various points along the lines and I’d walk home.

My first memory of traveling by rail was from the mid-1950s. Actually, my memory is of being told the story as I don’t directly recall it. My parents, my (then) baby sister and I were traveling on a train and ate in the dining car. Back then people dressed up to take the train, and the dining car service was starched white tablecloth, cloth napkins and good silver. For whatever reason my father was at a different table than the rest of us. We finished dinner first and my mother informed me how to use the fingerbowls. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Finger_bowl) In a LOUD VOICE I called across the aisle, “Daddy, they’re for washing your fingers. You’re not supposed to drink the water.”

In 1967 on a return trip with my father from Boston to Rochester on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, we had to sit on our suitcases in the aisle from Albany to Syracuse where seats finally became available.

When it came to railroads, my father could make friends with anyone. He managed to become acquainted with a Canadian National freight crew because they were still running one of the early diesels on a “milk train” route. He arranged for them to take me along for a day. He dropped me off in Madoc, ON (if I recall correctly) and picked me up in Bancroft, ON that night. I rode in the caboose (they still had them) where I helped check manifests and ate lunch with the crew. They didn’t let me anywhere near the couplings, but I did throw some switches and I rode much of the trip away from towns up in the engine. Everything the crew and I did that day broke the rules, but the crew and my father thought it would be a great experience and to heck with management’s rules.

Whenever I can conjure a reasonable excuse I take train rather than fly. The most recent opportunity came when I decided to participate in Left Coast Crime in Monterey, CA as part of the promotion for the April 2014 release of the second Seamus McCree mystery,
Cabin Fever.

We took sleepers from Savannah to Washington, DC to Chicago to Emeryville, CA (outside San Francisco). After attending the conference we trained from LA to New Orleans and detrained at Birmingham where we rented a car and drove home rather than spend two more days going up to Washington, DC and back down to Savannah.

On this trip the most interesting railroad-related conversation was with a guy from the Cincinnati area. He’s the engineer (civil, not train) responsible for a G-gauge (~1/24^th actual size), 25,000 sq. foot train set with over two miles of tracks. It has three sections relating respectively to the late 19^th century, mid-20^th century and modern railroads. There are streetcars as well, realistic buildings constructed by volunteers and an elevation change of eleven feet. I’d never heard of this place and I lived in Cincinnati until four years ago. http://www.entertrainmentjunction.com/cincinnati_entertainment_and_attractions/model_trains_journey It’s on my list of things to do the next time I’m in the area.

The finger bowls are gone, as are the silver and fresh flowers on the tables. The scenery is just as spectacular, the people we eat meals with are just as interesting; and there is something that reaches deep into my core as I hear the whistle blow, we approach a crossing and a father holds his child on his shoulders to watch the train pass. The kid waves and I wave back.

I’m thinking of asking for that tee shirt for my birthday, because really, I am just a kid who still plays with trains.

 

~ Jim