A radio interview, self-control, and forgetfulness

For me, the highlight of this dull and cold day was a live radio interview. Thanks to Priscilla Leder of San Marcos for hosting me on her show on the San Marcos radio station. The show was an hour, with station breaks every fifteen minutes. Having been on the interviewing end of things a time or two, I was worried about having enough to say. But Priscilla sent me three pages of notes of things she wanted to talk about, and the hour flew by. We chatted a lot about Saving Irene, but also about mysteries in general, Chicago, food, and a few of my other books. It was a thoroughly enjoyable hour, and I’m grateful to her for hosting me. Bonus: I didn’t have to put on make-up, make sure my hair was okay, put on something besides my T-shirt and tights. Radio is sometimes a nice relief from Zoom. I will be getting a link to the program if anyone wants to listen.

I worried about Sophie getting needy or demanding during the hour, but she was good as gold. Almost the minute I hung up, she was at my elbow with that soft growl-like noise that means, “Feed me. And I want my chew!” She got both. We have both been house-rats today—weather is too nasty for going outside. I have both heaters going (the kind that hang from the ceiling) and still a sweater around my shoulders. So glad Christian is fixing a post of chili tonight.

I’m patting myself on the back. The current sermon series at our church stresses that we are all in this together, listen to the other person instead of reacting with argument, etc. It’s a struggle for me because I feel so strongly about the sins and corruption of the current administration. Sometimes I can’t keep my mouth shut when people praise trump or Cornyn. Today, a friend posted a note of congratulations to Amy Coney Barrett on her appointment, and I penned a quick retort: Congratulations for what? Hypocrisy? Breaking tradition about distance between the courts and the president? Succumbing to a wannabe authoritarian who sometimes can’t think his way out of a paper bag? Being a political tool? And then I deleted it! The same friend posted a video celebrating our lovely first lady. It took will power but I scrolled right on past without comment.

I saw a post today, in reference to attacks on Joe Biden’s mental acuity, that when a young person is occasionally forgetful, no one pays attention, but when an older person forgets something, it’s seen as the first sign of senility. We all forget things from time to time. I found great comfort in that. Sunday night I placed a grocery order, and Monday I sent Jordan to get it. She came back empty-handed and reported they had no record of my order. When I investigated, I found all the items still in my cart—I had forgotten to finalize the order.

Last night I was making that tourtiere I mentioned and Christian’s green beans, which require bacon and vinegar—like wilted lettuce, if your mom ever did that. It was after five before I remembered that I had defrosted the ground meat but not the bacon or the pie shell—yes, I confess, I used a pre-made shell, and it wasn’t as good as made from scratch. But I just can’t imagine rolling out dough in my tiny kitchen. Besides, at that point, it was my memory I was more worried about than the quality of the food, although the tourtiere was quite good and Christian’s beans are always welcome.

My closing thought on this chilly night: I think Biden will win a fair election, but I am terrified that the Republicans will steal it through voter suppression or the courts they’ve stacked. It is a fight, as Biden and others have said, for the soul of our country. What kind of country are we? What kind do we want to be going forward? Please vote if you haven’t already.

 

Flies, mosquitoes, and fun on the patio

So glad to have these two on the patio

Last night, Jamie, my third child and second son, came from Frisco bring Maddie, my oldest grandchild. At twenty-one, she is a rising senior at Colorado University in Boulder. To say that I was delighted to see them is an understatement. Maddie, on crutches after a recent hip surgery, came over to me and asked, “Am I allowed to hug you? I’ve been quarantining.” Who could say no to a question like that? Hugs all around were most welcome.

Even though it was blistering hot, the patio was comfortable—fan and bug zapper going, shaded all day long so it never really heats up. We sat out there quite a while, catching up and laughing a lot. Remember that thing on Facebook where a dress was shown and some saw it as gold, while others saw it as blue. Jamie had never heard of it, so Maddie pulled it up and a lively discussion followed with some yelling “Blue” and others contending “Gold.” Jamie decided it was a conspiracy on our part to make him look silly.

The flies and mosquitoes finally drove us inside. Mosquitoes don’t much bother me, but apparently Jamie is a target. But we have a horrible fly problem this summer, and as Jordan says there’s not that much dog poop in the yard. Christian ordered some fly traps that are very effective—bottles that attract the flies. But they stink to high heaven, so you have to move them if you want to sit outside. I did order some wine tops to cover our glasses—I was tired of throwing out wine because a fly drowned in it.

We ordered chicken enchiladas from Enchiladas Olé and ended up with a banquet—beans, rice, the best queso I’ve had maybe ever, and Jordan’s freshly made brownies for dessert. Jamie and Maddie stayed until almost ten, and it was a thoroughly fun evening.

Yesterday was a big day for two of my grandsons. Sawyer, sixteen and in Austin, got his braces off. Sorry I couldn’t grab the picture from Facebook, but last night we had a big controversy over whether he looks like his mom or his dad. As a toddler, he was the image of his mom, but as he’s grown and lost that pre-puberty weight, he looks more and more like his dad—to me. Jamie held out for his sister, saying Sawyer looks like Megan.

Cousins! She used to change his diaper
When did he grow taller than her?

Jacob got his first debit card and went through the procedure of calling into validate it, with his mom monitoring every moment. He is off today for a week in Colorado with neighbors who have two daughters his age. They’ll be in a house with a swimming pool and then one with a fishing river in the back yard. Jacob was at loose ends—what high school kid isn’t these days?—so it’s good for him to get away.

Me? I’m still working on my lectures about creating a chef. Wrote a brief—really brief—history of American cuisine in the twentieth century yesterday and today worked on a supplemental reading list. Enjoying this project a lot.

Tonight I’m dining alone. Jordan and Christian are eating leftovers, but I decided to do myself a lamb chop that was in the freezer and use that zucchini languishing in the vegetable drawer for a casserole. It’s cooking right now, and the cottage smells of butter and melted parmesan—so good.

Looking forward to an evening with the book I’m reading—Deadlines, the first novella in Susan Wittig Albert’s Enterprise trilogy. Mystery fans may know Susan as the author of the longstanding China Bayles series. The trilogies—this is the second—put some of the secondary characters from China’s books front and center. Entertaining reading.

Sundance, Butch, and Me

          

  Anyone have any need for a “never before used” set of notes for a talk on Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, as seen from Etta Place’s point of view? I jut happen to have such. My calendar said I was to speak on my book by that title next Wednesday, but I had heard nothing and couldn’t reach the contact name I had. This had all been arranged a year or so ago, when I was less confident of my health than I am now. Turns out the group sensed this lack of confidence and scheduled someone else.

I am never one to be unprepared, so while I was in limbo about this, I roughed out some notes. And remembered how much fun I had writing that book and telling that story. Yes, the Hole in the Wall gang story has been told many times, but I was then writing several fictional biographies (I may just have invented a genre) of women prominent in the nineteenth-century American West, and I saw a chance to tell the outlaw story from the female point of view. I confess that as I wrote I constantly saw Robert Redford and Paul Newman in my mind. Who doesn’t know and love that movie?

Etta Place was and remains a mystery character. No one know where she came from—she just appeared at Fannie Porter’s house of pleasure in San Antonio. Even there history is murky—I choose to believe the story that she was never one of the “working girls” but was Fannie’s protégé. And even historians of the West are not quite sure what happened to her. Did she die of appendicitis in Denver, after the South American shootout that supposedly killed Butch and Sundance? Or did she, as local legend has it, come to Fort Worth as Eunice Parker and run a respectable boardinghouse? The wonder of writing fiction is that I got to choose from those possibilities.

But history tells us about Etta’s life between San Antonio and Fort Worth. She rode with the gang, she held the horses in train hold-ups, she robbed banks and endured grueling getaway rides. After endless research, I could, twenty years ago, have told you where Etta, Butch and Sundance were at any time, the hideouts they used—Hole in the Wall in Montana and Robber’s Roost in Utah—and when they visited Fort Worth, which they did several times.

Some of the stories are hilarious—this is the only one of my books that moved one son-in-law to outright laughter. There’s the time Etta wanted to go back to get a ring she saw on a bank customer—Sundance told her firmly “no.” And there was the bank robbery where patrons in the bar across the street were alerted by seeing bank customers with their hands raised in the air. Or the outlaw who was captured hiding in an outhouse—the gang eventually had to break him out of jail.

Butch Cassidy was somewhat of a Robin Hood figure. There’s the time he robbed a banker who had just taken a widow’s savings to pay the mortgage. Butch turned right around and rode back to give the money to the widow. But I hold no candle for the gang—they were outlaws for the thrill of it, Etta included. Somehow, in American, we often make heroes of our outlaws.

Note the title: Butch’s name is between Sundance and Etta. That’s in recognition of what I saw as a clear bond between Butch and Etta. Sundance was self-centered, his affair with Etta purely one of passion; there was genuine love between her and Butch. At least, that’s my interpretation.

The book is a companion to three other titles about women in the American West: Libby (Elizabeth Bacon Custer), Jessie (Jessie Benton Frémont), and Cherokee Rose (based on the life of Wild West cowgirl Lucille Mulhall). Join me for a trip back to the days of the Wild West—fascinating time and place.

An Aha! moment and no more boredom

This story begins with my shoulders. I know for sure I have one torn rotator cuff, torn so long ago the muscles have atrophied beyond repair. I suspect the other shoulder is in the same shape. Yes, my reach exceeds my grasp, and I can’t put dishes on the second shelf, etc. But mostly it doesn’t bother me. And then, sometimes it does. Last night was one of those nights. I woke about 2:30 with both shoulders painfully stiff—maybe I slept wrong. But I couldn’t go back to sleep. You know about those three o’clock in the morning thoughts—they can be devastating.  And for a while, they were.

But then I had an aha! moment and came up with an idea for a new book. No, I’m not going to share—I don’t trust a one of you not to usurp my idea and run with it. But I lay there creating notes for an introduction, a table of contents, a list of things to check on the web in the morning. In fact, I was so revved up about this I nearly got out of bed and headed for the computer—but that violates one of my principle rules for dealing with middle of the night wakefulness. So I stayed cozy and comfortable and plotted and planned—no, its not another mystery. I will give you a hint: it involves subjects dear to my heart, including Texas.

I did finally fall asleep again, and worried that I’d forget everything. I used to work for a man who would wake in the night, think of something, and call to leave it on his administrative assistant’s voicemail. I don’t have that option This morning I felt rushed when truly it was a day I had not much to do, except pick up my groceries at Central Market. To my joy, I remembered all the planning I’d done in the night. Internet exploration convinced me this this is good topic, because there’s nothing on it.

So today has been busy. I delivered an orchid to a friend for her birthday, picked up my groceries, explored on the internet a lot. Tonight, soup of the week—an accumulation from my freezer, which seems perfect for a chilly night. Then I’m going to investigate vacation housing for my clan, all sixteen of us, next Christmas. And then, the luxury of a good book.

So glad to be over my spell of boredom. It’s absolutely no fun to be bored or to feel sorry for yourself. Besides, today was rain free and a bit brighter though still not filled with sunshine.

Taking Stock

New Yer's Eve gaiety with Jordan

and her BFF from high school, David

Oh, how hard it is to remember to write 2019! Soon it will become automatic, but today I must think carefully. Seems to me as we look optimistically toward the new year, it’s a good time to look back and take stock of what happened in 2018. Most folks seem to agree that for a variety of reasons it was a bummer of a year.

Nationally, it was a year beyond belief and not in a good way--one increasingly outrageous act after another, one false tweet followed upon another. But there were hopeful signs—Donald trump’s presidency seems like one of those endangered species that he so wantonly removes hunting restrictions on—it’s endangered and crumbling; the NRA’s hold on America is also crumbling, thanks to some courageous teenage survivors of a horrendous mass shooting; the Republican stranglehold on Congress has been broken—I realize whether or not that is good depends on your personal point of view, but to me that is cause for rejoicing. I have a great deal of confidence in Nancy Pelosi, for whom I will use an unladylike phrase—she’s a tough old broad.

For me personally, health matters were once again prominent in my concerns, and again, there was good news and bad. Recovery from my bizarre and complicated 2017 hip surgery found me stronger every day. I have accepted the doctor’s suggestion that the walker is now my lifetime companion and focused on getting as good on the walker as I can. These days I’m fairly good at collapsing the walker, stashing it in the car, and driving away—I can do errands alone, which is a relief to both me and Jordan. And the atrial fibrillation which flared in 2017 seems under control, but in 2018 eye surgery for an implanted lens that went wandering proved to be an ordeal. I had just gotten over that when I began to feel negative about food. Turns out intolerance to a heart med led to “acute renal failure”—not the way I wanted to lose 15 lbs. I didn’t eat, slept a lot, and didn’t care one whit about my writing—the latter tells you I really felt bad. But thankfully that is all behind me. One more hurdle to jump in my ongoing effort to prove to doctors that I am healthy. I swear they keep finding one more thing that “we really have to investigate.” Meantime, I am feeling strong, healthy, and happy.

And 2018 was a landmark year for me—I turned 80. Don’t feel it, hope I don’t look it, though it’s hard not to act it on a walker. Jordan engineered three wonderful days of partying, and all the kids came, along with many many friends. But a planned Great Lakes cruise later in the summer had to be cancelled for health reasons.

A side note: I am heartened by the kindness of people when they see me on the walker, from those who hold doors to the grocery people who worry that a sack may be too heavy and all those who simply smile and say hello as they pass by. Americans are generally good, kind, caring people despite the turmoil in our country and what sometimes seems a prevailing climate of hate and racism.

My writing career took a tumble and a turn this year. In the spring I published a Kelly O’Connell Mystery, Contract for Chaos, but it landed with a thud and needs love to this day—it’s about racism, so I thought it timely. The few who’ve read it often say it’s one of the best Kelly novels, but it hasn’t caught fire. I am proud of the cookbook I published in November, Gourmet on a Hot Plate, an outgrowth of my learning a different way of cooking in the cottage with a tiny kitchen and no stove. I’m trying to build an audience for a related blog. I want tiny kitchen cooks to share their recipes, concern, ideas, etc. Turns out many single people say the cookbook is great for meals for one. Possibly because I have little room for dinner guests and most of my entertaining these days is at happy hour. Consequently, the book has lots of appetizers.

But my career took a major turn when I inherited the “second battle of the Alamo” project. It’s a big deal for me to write under contract to a major publisher and on a subject that fascinates me, but I am tremendously saddened that it came about because of the death of an incredibly vital and energetic woman who I called a friend. When Debra Winegarten realized the seriousness of her cancer diagnosis, she called and asked me to write the book she had under contract. The publisher was agreeable, and Debra’s wife sent me all her massive research materials. So, since September I’ve spent my days deep in Alamo history. The book will be a tribute to Debra, who passed away in September.

For the time being, the Alamo book marks at least a temporary end to my mystery writing and return to my first love—the history of women in the American West. The book will take the first half of 2019 and maybe longer, and where I’ll wander after that is up in the air. I toy sometimes with the idea of mysteries based on the real-life people of the second battle (think Daughters of the Republic of Texas) but no aha! moment has hit yet.

So that’s my year, a mixed bag of good and not-so-good. How about you? Have you taken stock of 2018? Are you feeling the general optimism about 2019?

Busy days, beautiful weather, and peanut butter

Peanut butter, mayonnaise, and lettuce

Have you ever tried it?

I have been overwhelmed, in a nice way, with projects that landed on my desk—the ongoing, bit project is the Alamo book, but I’ve also been trying to promote Gourmet on a Hot Plate, write a book review, make Christmas plans and wrap some presents, and get ready to pack for a few days at one of my sons’ houses. All this is a left-handed way of apologizing because I haven’t blogged regularly. I hope it will get better, but the days ahead look hectic—and lots of fun.

And so much for Jacob who asked if I just sit out here at my desk and scroll through Facebook all day. Or Christian, who suggested that the reason I worry about weeds, etc., is because I have more time on my hands to think about such things. I told him no. I’ve always been that way.

Today was a beautiful day, and I set out to do a grocery curbside pickup. Such a pretty day I went my usual route on the zoo road—just when the zoo was disgorging all the people who had spent the lovely day there. Gridlock. Then I went to a drive-in to pick up a barbecue sandwich for supper—and got behind an SUV of people who didn’t know what they wanted and spent way too long studying the billboard menu, holding up the whole line. And I swear I hit every long red light—me, who goes back roads to avoid red lights! It was an exercise in patience, but I’m glad to report patience won.

My exciting discovery of the day came when I found an article certifying the peanut butter, mayonnaise, and lettuce sandwich as a southern food. It was like the sandwich which I’ve eaten all my life had suddenly been given legitimacy. So the story goes, the sandwich was developed during the Depression when meat was dear and scarce. Peanut butter provided needed protein. I remember an internist telling me he’d rather I ate peanut butter than steak because I’d eat so much less.

A local food historian told me today that she believes there are some foods that southerners tend to eat more of—pimiento cheese, for instance—but she doesn’t think there are any distinctly southern foods. Still, the internet disagrees with her and has labeled the sandwich southern. I grew up in Chicago eating such sandwiches—one of my sons loves them, but the other kids turn up their noses, and I haven’t tried it on grandkids.

Making the sandwich should be a no-brainer, but if you need directions, you can find them here: https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/136568/peanut-butter-mayonnaise-and-lettuce-sandwich/

Ever have those middle of the night thoughts? The other night I thought of two things I wanted to check on the computer. I’m not the kind to pop up at three a.m. and check the internet. Besides I told myself I’d remember. Next morning, I did remember one of the things—a book for one of my sons. But the other eluded me—and still does. It was a word, a noun I’m sure, and it began with an H, I think. But all I can come up with is Hanratty—he was a famous murderer, so I don’t think that was it. I’ll keep thinking.

Cold tomorrow. Bundle up if you go to church.

There ain’t no free lunch—but groceries? Maybe.

Yesterday a friend and I went grocery shopping. Whereas many people dislike grocery shopping, I'm one that loves it. It's one of those things I could manage by myself but it’s easier with someone helping. I can’t handle bags of groceries from a walker. As we checked out, we were each given a long-stemmed rose (really long). Betty said it was because they like and appreciate us as good customers. I rarely shop there, but I didn’t turn down the rose. Gave it to a friend I had lunch with.

Betty and I went to the store in her car, transferred the groceries to my car at her house, and I came home. I had specifically asked for refrigerator things to be put in plastic (I usually eschew using plastic) so I could loop my fingers into the handles and get it into the house. Jacob brought the other groceries in when he came home last night.

I had wondered about the blue fabric bag—looked like more groceries than I bought, but I didn’t really pay attention. Gosh know, Idon’t need another fabric bag.. When I unpacked it, I saw things I had not bought, including a 1.5 liter bottle of soft drink which I would never buy. This morning called the store ad explained I got someone else’s groceries and would be glad to bring them back. The manager with whom I spoke said she’d come out to the car to get them.

But then Betty called, and I thought she said she should have left that bag in her car. So, bingo! They were Betty’s groceries. Wrong. She said she already had her bag. I was getting mixed up between the bag and the contents, and I’m not usually that thick in the brain, but she had a hard time getting me to realize the bag and its contents were a gift from the store. So I cancelled the grocery run. Surprised the manager didn’t mention that, but when I called her back, she said “Oh yes. Did you get a rose too?” I considered going back to bed and starting the day over.

Actually turned out to be a good day—I got a lot of work done. It amazes me the small details and chores that crop up and keep me from my writing, but I knocked them out and spent a lot of time reading background material. I now have a fair handle on the life of Clara Driscoll, “Savior of the Alamo.”

And tonight, dinner with three close friends at a renowned enchilada place that was new to me. It was good to catch up on everyone’s doings. Lots of political talk. If we thought it would end after the election, we were wrong. Of course, some returns are still being counted and recounted, but I have a feeling the level of citizen involvement—and outrage—will continue. And that’s a good thing.

Cold weather coming to Texas. Bundle up, everyone.

A New Book—and Some Nostalgia

Today is the publication date for my eighth Kelly O’Connell Mystery, Contract for Chaos. I published the first in that series, Skeleton in a Dead Space, in 2011, so that makes fourteen mysteries in seven years—not quite two a year, a record that makes me look back.

I have always been a mystery fan. Like so many young girls, I grew up on Nancy Drew and Cherry Ames, R.N., and whoever else. I can’t trace the progression, but as the years went by my heroes were Carolyn Hart, Susan Wittig Albert, Cleo Coyle, and all their sisters in crime. I, meanwhile, was writing about women in the American West.

My writing career came about in a strange way. Academically trained, I was taught to support, defend, footnote ad infinitum, and do everything but give in to my imagination. Fiction was over there on another shelf, written by those with more freedom and imagination than I brought to the typewriter (yes, in the early days) and then the computer.

A friend gave me her mother’s memoir, and I was fascinated but I didn’t know what to do with it except annotate, criticize, dissect, and rob it of every bit of life it had. By serendipity I read some children’s books--Dust of the Earth and Where the Red Fern Grows come to mind—and it dawned on me I could turn that memoir into a children’s book. It wasn’t quite as easy as I’d thought, but one day (1978) I had a novel, After Pa Was Shot, published by a prominent New York publishing house. I envisioned movie contracts and great wealth.

What followed instead was a career low on the mid-list, writing about women of the19th Century American West—Elizabeth Custer, Jessie Benton Frémont, Lucille Mulhall (first Wild West roping queen), even Etta Place of the Hole in the Wall Gang, Cissie Palmer of Chicago’s Palmer House. I wrote non-fiction for school libraries and almost anything else I could get an assignment for. But, always, the mystery shelf called to me.

I didn’t know enough about the genre to realize there was a term for the mysteries I liked—cozies. No blood and guts, little if any nail-biting suspense, no sex or profanity. Usually a female amateur sleuth, a bit of romance, a bit of danger, and a happy ening—Nancy Drew all grown up. Joining Sisters in Crime was an education in a whole new writing world, and I ate it up, learning everything I could, reaching out to people, networking. Newly retired, I had a whole new career—and I loved it.

I’m realistic these days. Gone are dreams of even specials for the small screen. But I like the few dedicated readers I have, and it makes me happy they enjoy my stories. No, I don’t expect people to read my work a hundred years from now (a criterion I learned in graduate school), but I’m living—and writing--in the here and now. I hope you’ll keep reading. And I’m proud to offer you Contract for Chaos.

Downer of a day

The small, online writers group to which I belong has lost two in the last few days. I did not know Bob Spittler, except through comments of his wife, Connie, who wrote an artful and wonderful book, The Erotica Book Club for Nice Ladies. We all treasure Connie’s presence in our group and have been beside her as she and her daughters cared for Bob, her husband of sixty years. Although non-responsive, Bob hung on to life long enough to mark their anniversary September 6. A true mark of their mutual devotion.

Devorah (Debra) Winegarten died this morning of a fast-spreading malignancy. I didn’t know her a lot better, and yet I did. Debra was our powerhouse, the one who inspired the rest of us to try new marketing techniques, make outrageous requests, expect the moon and reach it. She was the original Energizer Bunny. Each week, we posted our modest list of goals for the week—Debra had goals upon goals. She never tired, and her joyful enthusiasm never wavered. Author, teacher, public speaker, publisher, she founded Sociosights Press, a nod to her training as a sociologist. Her goal was to publish books that would transform society, one book at a time.

Having fallen away from her faith and then rediscovered her Judaic heritage, she was passionate about Jewish beliefs and traditions, often saying with glee, “We Jews don’t believe in hell.” These last three months in hospice, she talked without flinching of her date with HaShem (a Jewish circumlocution to avoid saying the name of God). She was well aware that the date was in HaShem’s hands. Some of her books reflect both her Judaism and her humor, such as There’s Jews in Texas? or Where Jewish Grandmothers Come From. The daughter of Ruthe Winegarten, an outspoken pioneer in the fields of women in Texas and Jewish history in Texas, Debra also focused on Texas women with books to her credit on pilot Katherine Stinson and politician and women’s rights activist Oveta Culp hobby.

Perhaps the book she was most proud of was an award-winning title she published but did not write: Almost a Minyan, a wonderful children’s book with words by Lori S. Kline and charming drawings by Susan Simon. The book, designed for Jewish children from families devout to secular, tells children of the importance of sacred ritual along with the significance of remaining flexible.

As I read my words, they are stale and flat. There is almost no way to capture all that was Debra on paper. Larger than life, she filled any room she was in, any page that mentioned her, whether she was encouraging a shy writer or stirring up a pot of her classic chicken soup for someone who needed comfort.

Debra was devoted to her life’s heart partner, Cindy Huyser, and watching Cindy’s devotion and care these last three months make me think of the old saying. “We are all just walking each other home.” We’ve been proud to be by Cindy’s side as she walked. Debra’s home now. She’s with HaShem.

Thoughts on a rainy Saturday

I’m bored. Bored, I tell you! Bored, bored, bored. I had so looked forward to a rainy Saturday. The rain all morning was constant, though I saw scary pictures from around town. A nearby street known for restaurants, bars, and fun was ankle-deep in water that was running fairly fast. And a tragedy on the far east side of the city, where a woman and toddler were swept off the road into thirty feet of water. No way rescue could get to them. Imagine that. Thirty feet. I was glad to stay home, safe and dry, casting an occasional eye at the patio to be sure the water wasn’t threatening to come into the cottage.

Sophie periodically walked to the screen door and peered out, then turned away as if to say in disgust, “Still raining.” She, by the by, has developed the bad habit of wanting to go out between 1:30 and 4:30 a.m. and last night it dawned on me she may not so much want to go out as she wants the bit of cheese she knows I reward her with if she comes right in. Last night she was by the refrigerator awfully quickly. Another reaffirmation of my decision to live in a cottage and not a high-rise retirement community.

I was so much looking forward to the day that I was up and at my computer by 7:30 this morning, enthusiastic about all I could accomplish today. And my goodness, have I accomplished a lot—wrote 1800 words, finished proofing the cookbook (and came to grips with the reality that I have to do an index of recipes), read a bit, followed the day’s happenings on Facebook—and napped, twice. Not because I was sleepy but because on a rainy dull day bed seemed like a good place to be. (Honest, I work out plots in my head when I’m dozing.)

Typical of my day: called my oldest son about 10:15 in the morning to discuss a financial matter. He was riding his bike—stationary I presume—and said his training session would be over in ten minutes and he’d call then. Texted at 2:00 p.m.to inquire if he was still riding and wasn’t he tired yet. He called right away. Emailed my younger son with a computer question, and he answered promptly asking for more info that he needed to answer me. That’s the last I heard from him today. Suppose he fell asleep?

There comes a point when you’ve written all the words you have for the day, you really don’t want to start an index sort of late in the day, and the book you’re reading s good—but not that good. And that’s where I am—bored.

TV? I rarely watch, and tonight I’m afraid as a final insult added to injury football is going to take over the news slot. There is no justice in this world.

Do I feel silly complaining about boredom when I have my dog for company, my cozy cottage, a desk full of work to do? You bet I do. And it’s a rare confession from me. But tomorrow will be better.

A writerly day

Today I spent the day in the writerly world, answering emails, reading list servs, and most important to me: writing the first 500 words of a new novel. I’d been stuck in a quandary: try to market a completed manuscript which hasn’t so far received much interest, picking up the novel I abandoned in mid-stream, or play with a new idea. It’s an idea I’m not ready to make public, but I shared it with a small writers group, women whose opinions I respect highly, and got some enthusiastic responses. So two ideas went through my brain, and I wrote 500 words.

Let me say that’s not the ideal way to start a mystery. I know writers who do detailed plots, charting out not only chapters but scenes, making sticky notes about characters. When they put pen to paper they know where they’re going. When I put pen to paper I have no idea who’s murdered, who does it. Mostly at this point I have a setting, which takes Kate Chambers away from her Blue Plate Café to far West Texas. The rest will come as I write—I hope.

I realized immediately that my 500 words were like an outline of the first chapter—missed so many chances to add details and the like that might make the situation and the characters come alive off the page. So tomorrow I’ll go at it again. Nice to be writing again.

Meantime, Murder at Peacock Mansion should be live in a day or two on Kindle and other platforms. Print will follow shortly.

In line with country café cooking, I just had a fried pork cutlet with cream gravy—so good, so rich, so heavy. I’m ready for bed at an astoundingly early hour.

Time on My Hands

I read today somewhere that readers aren’t interested in blogs about writing—those only appeal to other writers, and few of them at that. But I thought you should know that much of the writing life consists of waiting. At least, that’s where I am now. I’ve sent off the proposal for the Chicago novel and this week, nudged the publisher by following up with a marvelous endorsement from a major Chicago author. Waiting to hear.

At the first of the week—or was it the last of the previous week?—I gave the mystery manuscript, “Murder at the Peacock Mansion,” to a reader. He promised to return before the end of the month, so I’m waiting. After all, that’s not so long.

The editor of the chili book wrote yesterday with three questions, which she swore were the last. So until it’s time to promote, there’s little for me to do. And Texas Tech seems to be such an efficient press, that I’m sure they’ll guide me through promotion. And so I wait.

This week, there was suddenly some renewed interested in a children’s history of Fort Worth, a project I’ve been trying to push one way or another for thirty years and in the last ten years Carol Roark and I have collaborated on—she will do image research to accompany my text, which is drafted. So I sent the manuscript off to the interested publisher…and we wait.

Most people who are as OCD as I am would promptly get busy on another project and, indeed, I have one awaiting my attention. I have 30,000 words drafted on the second Oak Grove Mystery (following Susan Hogan in The Perfect Coed). It’s timely in our era of gun violence because it deals with open carry. But I’m reluctant to get into the middle of that when other things might call me away.

I’m well aware that a month from today school starts, and I will give up long, lazy lunches with friends followed by long lazy naps. I should enjoy this time while I have it, and to a great extent I am. For one thing I’m reading mysteries that I have let backpile—Julie Hyzy’s Grace Calls Uncle, which I reviewed on this blog recently. Now I’m reading Terrie Moran’s Caught Read-Handed, the excellent sequel to her Well Read, Then Dead. But reading is always a luxury to me…and I suffer from the itchy feeling I should be doing something more productive.

I suspect this uncomfortable waiting periods come to most writers, though many probably handle them better than I do. Meantime, I know this too shall pass. And I have a bit of cooking to do.

 

Judy's Stew--Writing, Grandmothering, and a Dash of Texas

As I begin this year of dedicated blogging, I thought it appropriate to reprint the first post I ever wrote. A lot has changed: I've been retired since July 2010; I have seven grandchildren; I have published nine mysteries, with plans for many more.  My world keeps moving on. But this is where I was nine years ago...and how Judy's Stew came about.

July 1, 2006

When Melanie, long known as my fifth child though she’s married to my third child, suggested I needed a blog, I scoffed. I knew little about blogs and, as I told her, had nothing to contribute. “Jude,” she exploded, “you have lots to write about.” So I began to explore, the idea intriguing me more and more. There are things I want to talk about, things on which I’d like feedback, things I wish I could talk over with someone who shares the same outlook and frustrations as a writer. And then she came with that wonderful title that reflects all the things that fill my life--writing, my grandchildren, cooking, and Texas history. So this is for Melanie . . . and for me.
I am just shy of sixty-eight, the grandmother of five and a half children, the mother of four. Those are my most important roles, but I’m also the author of about sixty published books, though I always demur and add the qualifier that the majority were slim books written for third- or fourth-graders on assignment. Still they took research and work. And I've written fiction for adults and young adults, articles, essays, book reviews. Right now I do a monthly column on Texas Writers for the Dallas Morning New. In 2005, Western Writers of America honored me with their Owen Wister Award for Lifetime Achievement, so the writing life has been good for me.
But writing doesn't support nor did it provide for raising four children as a single parent. For almost twenty years I've been the director of TCU (Texas Christian University) Press, a small academic press in Fort Worth, Texas--it's work that I love and so far, I refuse to really retire, though I've cut back. I also like to entertain and cook for guests (usually an experiment), and I'm a homeowner with a garden, a cat, and a dog, a churchgoer and a volunteer, and fortunate enough to have many many good friends.
So what are my concerns? How to be a good grandparent, how to be a good in-law, what to do about my writing career (which I'm always sure has stalled), what to do about global warming, how to improve the United States’ image abroad—a wide variety of things. And I love trading cooking tips and recipes. Sometimes I may show you pictures of my grandchildren (when I figure that out) and sometimes I may try out a prospective writing project. Who knows? Sometimes I may rant, but this is not an in-your-face blog.

Can you tell a book by its cover?

I'm delighted to reveal the new cover of Jessie, my fictional biography of Jessie Benton Fremont. Jessie was a fascinating figure who played a huge role in American history--but always behind the scenes, while her father, Senator Thomas Hart Benton, and her husband, John Charles Fremont, captured the headlines. Missouri Senator Benton was a major power in the manifest destiny movement; Fremont was an adventurer and explorer who led the Bear Flag revolt in California; he was first a successful miner and then a failed one; an officer in the Union Army, he had the audacity to announce emancipation before President Lincoln did--a major gaffe in his career. The first Republican candidate for the presidency, he lost the election; the governor of the Arizona Territory, he was once again a failure. But Jessie remained loyal, having gone from a heady household of power and a beautiful ocean-front home on the Pacific to hard times during the Civil War, abject humiliation in trying to absolve her husband, and, finally, poverty. Jessie left us a legacy in writing late in her life. Hers is a story of passionate love, loyalty--and failure. She was one strong woman.
This is the fourth of the longish fictional biographies I wrote in the '90s, and it's being reprinted by ePub Works which has created the series, Real Women of the American West, for my biographies. They sent me proposed art work for the cover--some southern belles with ruffles and laces and fluttering eyelashes that I deemed totally inappropriate. Jessie was involved in serious national matters, and I assume her demeanor reflected that. We finally settled on the portrait above, with a background that I hope looks like the mining mountains of California. Watch for the digital book in mid-to-late August.
I learned a strong lesson of the importance of covers when the first of these biographies was published. It was Libbie, the story of Elizabeth Bacon Custer, culminating in her husband's death at Little Big Horn. I wasn't sure about the cover sent me by Bantam, the original publisher, but I was young and green and thrilled to have a book coming from a big New York publisher. I didn't protest. In retrospect, there are several things wrong with that cover: Libbie stands in knee-high grass (the lush prairies of Kansas) next to a barbed wire fence--barbed wire was first introduced in Texas about two years before Custer died, so there's no way Kansas was fenced. In the background is a wooden stockade on bare brown earth--Arizona, not Kansas. And there were no stockades in the West--not enough lumber. In fact, Libbie wrote about her alarm that most western forts were simply a collection of buildings with no perimeter, no fences, nothing between her and the "savages." One friend said, "She looks like Madonna in 19th century dress" and indeed photographs show a much more demure Libbie than this one. Ah, what we do for sales. Here is the current cover of Libbie, much more suited to the real Libbie.
I've learned to be critical about covers, and I'm pleased about this one for Jessie. I hope  you like it too and want to read the book.