Temptations of the reclusive life

 

Tonight, there is a “meet-and-greet” for Jared Sloane, the city council candidate from my district in Fort Worth who I have chosen to vote for and support. Some may remember reading about his visit to me last week. After great debate with myself, I am not going to the event. Christian asked last night if he’s taking me, and I said, “No, you’re representing me.”

My inner debate was about getting out and resuming my life vs. comfort. The reception is on a front porch in my neighborhood; one of the hosts assured me it was two steps up to the porch or up the slanted driveway. When I thought about it, I realized that maneuvering my walker up even two steps would be awkward and, briefly, attention getting. I could imagine conversation stopping while Christian and I labored to get me up those steps. Then on a porch, people would undoubtedly be standing, visiting, as they do at a cocktail party. I can’t stand that long, so I’d sit in my walker and, as a friend said, I could talk to everyone’s navel. It all sounded awkward.

But there is of course a larger issue. I am too comfortable, too content at home. I lecture myself—and then I wonder if I’m okay with it, why is It wrong to want to stay home? I am fortunate that my isolation is broken not only by family but by guests. I keep busy writing, reading, and cooking. Oh yes, I’d like to eat in restaurants, but I’m still cautious about that, preferring patio seating, not ready for a restaurant with a hundred per cent occupancy. And I guess I’ll get back to in-person church, but it’s so easy to go to church at home in comfortable clothes. But otherwise, the wider world doesn’t call to me, and I can’t figure out if it’s my need for mobility assistance or an increasing tendency to be a recluse.

The very word “recluse” has a negative connotation for me, with echoes of Miss Havisham from Great Expectations. When I think of recluses, I think of women (why not men?) who withdraw from the world and become embittered and lonely—and I don’t think that’s who I am. I have a lively (some would say too lively) interest in the world, especially politics. I enjoy all my online connections—well, most of them—and, with a nod to all who slam Facebook, checking it every morning is one of the ways I start my day.

I do think my mobility problems complicate the issue. I finished a round of physical therapy today, and the therapist complimented me on my progress. The problem is not mechanical—my new hip works well, my legs are strong enough for a woman my age. No, it’s atrial fibrillation—my heart doesn’t get enough oxygen to my muscles, and I get winded easily. Four weeks ago, walking sixty feet did me in. Today I can walk about a hundred—but that’s not even a city block. And I must go slow and take such deep breaths I sound like the puffing of the little engine that could. It’s no wonder sitting at my desk is easier. And going places is a lot of work.

Now that quarantine restrictions are breaking down, another aspect of my life is changing. Jordan, Christian, and Jacob are all resuming the busy social lives they had before Covid confined us to quarters. I have been spoiled having them here for dinner almost every night, but I sense that changing. Many nights when they are gone, I invite a friend to visit, sometimes for happy hour, sometimes for supper. In fact, this week my calendar is full every night (including a Zoom lecture I want to hear—Zoom has been a blessing during quarantine).

I am grateful that I am, as I advised a friend, walking on the sunny side of the street. Instead of complaining about being desperate to get out, as some of my friends did for months, I’m grateful for the comfort of my cottage and the good things about my life. But my mental picture of Miss Havisham still nags at the back of my mind.

 

The dog in my life

The good and the bad, and the in between

The good news today, for many of us, is that the election has been called in favor of Joe Biden and Kamala Harris. More of our countrymen—and the international community—are rejoicing tonight than not, but I know that there are many who are disappointed, angry, and convinced the world—or America—is going to socialist/communist/whatever hell in a handbasket. To them, I say I’m sorry. I know their disappointment. I felt it sharply four years ago, and I have lived with it ever since then.

But for the rest of us, there is a much-needed sense of joy. Joy has been absent in the current presidency. Many pictures of trump and Melania show a dour-looking couple, bored, unhappy, wishing they were someplace else. Pictures of Joe Biden and Dr. Jill Biden are filled with laughter, secret smiles shared, gestures of affection—and dogs. Donald Trump has apparently never had a dog and considers pets low-class, at least that’s what I hear he said to the Pences, who have pets. I remember a meme on Facebook that showed trump at the podium saying he would have a dog, but he didn’t have time. Below it was a picture of a small dog in a prayerful position, with the caption, “Thank you, Jesus.” The White House will now have dogs—two big German Shepherds.

This isn’t as insignificant as it seems. You can tell much about a man’s soul by the way he treats animals. Loving an animal, to me, shows an ability to reach out beyond yourself, to have empathy, to care even about the helpless among us. You can tell a lot about a man by his reaction to a dog, but you can tell even more by the dog’s reaction to the man. I have always trusted a dog’s instincts.

There is also something—a whole lot—to be said for a man (or woman) who lives life with joy. I think joy bespeaks a certain comfort in your own skin, again an ability to reach beyond yourself. In this administration, joy has been lacking in the White House—there have been no arts performances such as we’ve seen with previous administrations, few if any state dinners (maybe a few ostensibly welcoming foreign dignitaries), no welcoming people into what is supposed to be the people’s house, no seeming enjoyment of the role of leader of a major nation. A president should bring us more than health and wealth. He (and someday she) should bring us art, literature, music, crafts, the best of man’s creative and imaginative minds. I hope to see that restored.

Our country made history today with the confirmation of the first woman to be vice-president. We are, however, way behind the world. Several countries have women at the helm—Germany’s Chancellor Angela Merkel, New Zealand’s Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern (who successfully controlled the corona virus in her country), Iceland’s Prime Minister Katrín Jakobsdóttir. Finland, Denmark, Norway and Taiwan are all led by women. I have great faith that Kamala Harris will one day take her rightful place on that stage and show us that the twenty-first century is the era of women coming into their own.

In the midst of celebrating, I had an “Aha!” moment: that toothache I’ve been nursing is not a toothache at all—I have the shingles. I should have known—the characteristic skin lesion on my chin, the intermittent shooting pains, the fact that pain skittered from throat to mouth to ear. My mom had this in her eighties and was miserable for a month or better. I am grateful that my case seems to be milder. Still it is one of those diseases that caught early can be wiped out by medication. I did not catch it early and am now five or six days in.

Jordan is concerned (that’s a mild word for it) about contagion. Shingles results from having had chicken pox sometime in the past—I did as a child; she never did. The skin lesion is the key to contagion—once it is dry and crusty, you are no longer contagious. So I will stop putting hot cloths on my chin immediately. Still, I am sort of ostracized out here in my cottage. I am, however, optimistic and relieved to know what it is. Also relieved I’m not facing extensive dental work—at least, I hope. I have had the first shingles vaccine several years ago, and I wonder if that is not making mine a milder case.

And the in between: I was looking forward to a writers’ conference tonight, the highly  respected Crime Bake usually held in New England. I signed up for this year’s Zoom version and set aside the hours six to eight for it. But when I tried to “zoom” in, the program told me the host was already hosting another meeting. I think I just hit one of the glitches about Zoom. So I’m reading and waiting for President-Elect Biden to speak

Happy dreams, all. Tonight, may you dream of joy and good times and dogs and health and democracy triumphing.

 

Halloween, family, and all good things

Alter family witches
Jamie, Judy, Christian, Jordan

Years ago, a man I was dating said to me, “Once a mother, always a mother.” It’s a sentiment I embrace, and this mother’s heart was gladdened yesterday when third child, second son Jamie came for the day. Jame lives in Frisco—not that far—but he works (safely from home these days) probably at least twelve hours a day. A lot of his business is done by internet and phone to people in countries in far different time zones, so his hours are irregular.

He came yesterday to bring me a camera for my computer. It sits on top of my remote monitor, so now I don’t have to pull out the laptop, juggle things on my desk, and struggle to go to a Zoom meeting. When he first set it up, I took one look and protested, “But I look so old!” Jamie knew a magic adjustment, something in settings that essentially says, “Make me look better.” It sort of worked. When Jamie repeated this story to others later in the evening, Jordan said, “But, Mom, you’re only fifty-five.” In my dreams.

Jamie could have come, installed the camera, and made it a short visit, but he came to spend the day, bringing his computer and his own remote monitor. We talked and we laughed and I caught up on his family—one of my granddaughters is a senior in college and the other a senior in high school—and we both worked. We ordered sub sandwiches for lunch, which was great even if they did put olives on mine! And just about the time I wanted to nap, Jame announced he and Jacob were going to hit some golf balls. Perfect timing!

Last night, our neighborhood had a pre-Halloween celebration for neighborhood kids, in an effort to avoid spreading contagion. Jordan went to a lot of trouble to provide sealed bags of treats, tables out by the sidewalk, etc. We were all prepared—but as she said, it was like giving a party and no one came. We had very few trick or treaters. We live on the edge of the neighborhood and later heard that streets in the interior had lots of visitors. Meanwhile we sat on the porch with a few friends, enjoying a smoky pinion fire.

Halloween is Christian's holiday
He puts up the tombstones--and you should see inside the house
The trick-or-treat delivery method is Jordan's

Jamie put his work aside to join us on the porch—the almost Hunter’s Moon was smashing! But when I got too chilly, he and I came back to the cottage—more talk for a couple of hours. We talked about family and holidays—we are sad we won’t all seventeen be together for Thanksgiving—and his work, in international sales for a huge toy company, the pros and cons of working from home, and so on. When a child will spend that kind of time talking to you, a mother’s heart can't help but be gladdened.

Tonight of course is the real Halloween. Traditionally neighbors give out well over a thousand treats, our streets are crowded with neighborhood kids and many from other areas. Traffic comes to a standstill, with cars stopped in the middle of the street. The local ambulance company brings two severely handicapped children, with proper medical attendants, to have a taste of Halloween. Houses are lavishly decorated. This year, several households have elected to stay dark, and the handicapped kids are not coming—no one wants to expose them.

We have no idea if anyone will come. Avoiding those crowded sidewalks was part of the impetus for last night’s pre- celebration. But will they come tonight? Will pandemic keep families home? If they come, will they wear protective masks?

Jordan is prepared with plenty of snacks and a plan to serve us hot dogs for dinner. As I write, it’s six o’clock and barely dusk, so it will be another hour before we know how many trick or treaters we’ll have. The whole thing has somewhat split the neighborhood—some families insisting on the traditional date, others willingly embracing the alternative, many saying they would give out candy both nights. Jordan and Christian have elected to celebrate both nights. Having gotten thoroughly chilled last night, I will stay in the cottage tonight, although the temperature is more moderate tonight.

But I plan to stick my nose out to admire that moon. You should too.

And a bonus from my good day—Jamie left his remote monitor here, hidden behind my couch, for the next time he comes. So that means he’ll be back sooner or later.

Ladies night, some good food, and some anxiety

Cheese grits dinner

It was definitely ladies’ night for my girls and me last night. Megan, in Austin, and Jordan, sitting at my elbow and always reaching for the mouse, walked me through  a Zoom call. It took quite a bit of doing since I was sideways on the screen—we finally went to the account granddaughter Maddie had opened for me and figured out how to rotate the camera. Hurray! I am now right side up. This was important because I am to be on a panel for the Boerne Book Festival October 3, and I figured sideways did not lead to productive discussion.

Then later in October, I am looking forward to attending, remotely, the Bouchercon mystery con. I have only been to one Bouchercon but always wanted to go again. Even last year when it was in Dallas, travel was difficult enough for me that I didn’t try it. So this year, I can attend remotely. Looking forward to putting faces to a lot of familiar names.

After the Zoom call, Jordan and I had a ladies night dinner—yes, we left Christian and Jacob to fend for themselves with leftovers while we dined on scallops au gratin (scallops were on sale at Central Market) and an artichoke that we split. I had Reese’s hollandaise in the fridge—I know, I know I should make my own, but I’ve not been really successful at that in recent times. Anyway, it was delicious, though the gratin was a bit liquid. Got to work on that.

Seems to be a food-oriented period for us. Tonight we had a meatless dish (unless you count chicken bouillon)—cheese grits (with lots of butter and extra cheese) topped by spicy black beans, thinly sliced radishes, diced green onion, and avocado slices. Each person got a lime wedge to squeeze over the dinner. I announced I thought it was one of my favorite meals, and Christian replied that it wasn’t a favorite of his. Then he realized he’d caught himself, and repeated several times that it was just fine, we’d had it before, he liked it—but it’s not his favorite meal. I resisted asking if his favorite is steak and baked potatoes, but I’m betting that’s it.

This is sort of a ho-hum week—until tomorrow when Saving Irene launches. But yesterday I spent the day on small stuff—straightening out a bill, fixing an email problem, that kind of busy-ness. Today I wrote 450 words—not a great deal, but they were words hard come by. I was working on a lesson for the online chef class, this about why until recently there were so few female and black chefs in major kitchens. Hard to put succinctly without bias, but I think I managed. Later this week I will tackle the Black half of the post which is even trickier—it really will encompass all persons of color, but Black Americans make up the majority and that’s where I’ll focus. And try to be politically correct.

If any one wants to learn more about chefs, the class is “Writing the Professional or Amateur Chef,” and you can find out more at https://www.rwakissofdeath.org/coffin-classes. I learned so much about the culinary world researching for this, and I’m hoping some foodies like me will want to take the class. The irony for me is that I did the research after I finished Saving Irene with its wannabe French chef. I’m not sure if I’d have changed anything in the novel or not.

All during quarantining I’ve practiced a kind of blatant optimism that must have grated on my friends’ nerves. Now I find myself experiencing some of the anxiety that I have read so many others have dealt with all along. I think it’s anxiety about the election. I am so convinced that it must go one way and so terrified of the results if it goes the other. I asked Jordan tonight how she felt about moving to Scotland, which sort of startled her.

Sweet dreams everyone. Put your anxiety in the closet and forbit I to come out until morning.

 

A productive day, sort of

In spite of a dismal morning with predictions of a cold front, I managed a slightly productive day. After checking email and other online sources, I set myself to making tuna pasties. I really like them, but the making is a bit of a challenge, because you have to roll out the dough. I use tube biscuits, separate each biscuit into two, and roll out thin. I’ve been putting it off because the rolling out is tedious, but this morning I decided I was just going to do it. Of course, in spite of my determination, I almost burned four of them—they are what, with generosity, I would call well-done. The may not be pretty, with neatly crimped edges, but they are delicious.

I finished reading Erik Larson’s The Splendid and the Vile, about Churchill and the devastating German bombing of England. I’ve been dawdling too long over that book, because though it’s fascinating history, with lots of personal glimpses, it was hard for me to wrap my mind around the devastation. I forget the numbers, but I think almost fifty thousand Brits were killed and almost an equal number injured to various degrees. With the pandemic we’re currently living through I can understand that the death and destruction are impersonal (unless you want to fault government handling of the crisis), but it appalls me to think that the bombing of England was deliberately ordered by other human beings. They cared nothing for the lives of their victims. It makes today’s rise of Nazism all the more appalling.

But I learned an invaluable lesson from reading Larson, particularly his notes to the book. He made the distinction between biography and history, saying that for him the tiniest details are important to biography—the things that historians generally sweep by in their quest to capture the larger picture. I’ve realized that the project I’m working on—a biography—depends on the many anecdotes available. Now I will pay close attention to details, even lists of them.

With social distancing these days, I keep hearing a lot about Zoom. People use it for everything from business meetings and classroom lessons to family reunions. Had my first experience with it tonight, and I mark it was a clear fail. Jordan and I were trying to respond to Megan’s invitation on my computer, and it kept telling us to click to join (which I didn’t want to do), click here to download (which didn’t work). Jordan’s frustration level kept sinking, and I felt she was blaming me for me computer, though she denied it.

We finally ended up talking to Megan on Facebook and getting a tour of the house under construction. It’s going to be smashing, and I was enthralled and happy for my daughter. I still don’t like Facebook, because if I don’t want to look like an ancient hag from Macbeth, I have to hold the phone at a high angle over my head—and my arm gets tired. Of course, whichever of my kids I’m talking to looks charming and adorable. There is no justice in this world.

Tomorrow is another new day. Ho, hum! I think I’ll start a new project. I have a feeling that we’re in this isolation business for the long haul.