The second battle of the Alamo

I was a recluse today. Just me, Sophie, and that pesky squirrel on the patio. If I had to choose a day to be a recluse, this was a good one. Dark, rainy, stormy this morning. We had those proverbial sheets of blowing rain. Not much thunder, but enough to keep Sophie close to me. This afternoon, the rain stopped, and I even saw sunshine briefly. But there’s more rain tomorrow and then a severe drop in temperature.

I made good use of my day at home alone, worked hard most of the day except for a mid-day break. Spent the day at the Alamo, and I guess it’s time to explain that. In June, a friend was diagnosed with metastatic cancer—someone I knew basically through a close-knit online group of writers but had had one really good in-person visit with. She had a contract with a New York publisher and was working on a book on the second battle of the Alamo. But Debra, the Energizer Bunny, had several other projects going on all the time, and I became part of the squad cheering her on to work on the Alamo book. I knew the story of the second battle, and it’s the kind of history that fascinates me.

When she was hospitalized, she called me one day. “Deb, what can I do for you?” I asked, and she replied, “Write the Alamo book.” I would never ever have wanted that assignment under these circumstances, but it was a project I took on willingly, partly to honor her and partly because it intrigues me. It was the end of summer before the editor, Deb’s partner and literary executor, and I could all reach an agreement. We had danced around the subject as long as Debra was with us. But when she died, we tackled it.

And I have been working on it for about a month now. I’ve sent a draft of the first bit to the editor and gotten back an incredibly helpful critique. Since I’ve written fiction for so long, it’s almost a new experience for me to work with an editor this closely in a back and forth manner, and I’m loving it. I spent most of today putting together a chapter she wants that hadn’t even occurred to me. But it’s all the history I love, and I’m having fun. Problem is, unlike my own fiction, I have a deadline—it was February, but it’s been pushed to May. I think I can do it, but I feel the pressure. So today was a long day at the keyboard.

Tonight, I’m going to continue re-reading a novel about this second battle. TCU Press published it some twenty years ago, and I edited it. But that’s a long time. So far, just barely into it, I’m finding it enormously helpful for atmosphere and period details.

So you might like to know about the second battle of the Alamo. I assume everyone knows about the first. The second was in the early 1900s when a part of the mission compound was in danger of being torn down and replaced by a glitzy hotel. Two women, members of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas, saved the iconic mission. But what began as a collegial relationship soon deteriorated into a definite difference of opinion about which parts of the mission were essential.

The story of the massacre at the Alamo is a man’s story, full of blood lust and courage—and all those qualities we associate with bold men. But the story of the Alamo does not end with that 1836 battle and defeat. Nor is it always a men’s story. The second battle of the Alamo was a women’s battle, fought with the same determination as shown by the original defenders but with different weapons—with words and money and sometimes with outrageous behavior.

Noisy restaurants and Christmas lights

One of the joys of my work with TCU Press was the friendships I developed with the authors I worked with. Today I had lunch with one of those authors, Chloe Webb, whose Legacy of the Sacred Harp, was published several years ago. It’s about shape note singing, dinner on the grounds, and a lot of Chloe’s own life. Chloe is, I suspect, older than I am (good heavens!) but she’s game, gets around with a cane, still drives, and wasn’t intimidated by my narrow driveway with its jog. (She did have some difficulty with it when she actually tried to back out the gate.) So there we were—her with a cane, me on my walker—the lame leading the halt.

Chloe’s husband has health problems that keep him from going out much, so she said she wanted to try one of the newer restaurants she’d never been to. We went to one of my favorites, a restaurant where in pleasant weather the outdoor dining opportunities far outweigh the choice of indoors, but today it was chilly. We both ordered what they call their deconstructed tuna salad—a wonderful plate of traditional tuna salad, fresh fruit slice, tomato slices and a slice of cheese. We loved it.

But I have a new crusade—against noisy restaurants. I tried with and without the hearing aids and neither way worked. I was a bust as a conversationalist because I couldn’t hear her. Even with the aids on the restaurant setting, the background noise was deafening. It disappeared without them, but so did Chloe’s rather soft voice. Every surface in that place is reflective—floor, ceiling, bartop, tabletops. I don’t think people were talking extra loud, and there wasn’t that big a crowd. But it was unbearable.

So here’s a word to restaurants: I know it’s possible to soften sound without compromising atmosphere. Whether it matters to you or not, you’ll lose my business if you can’t lower the noise level, and I will urge my friends to follow me. We—ahem—elderly folks have money and time to dine out; if you want our business, cut down on the noise. If you want to focus only on the younger crowd, blast away. I won’t be there.

My Christmas lights are gone, although the tree, its lights unplugged, sits in the middle of my coffee table. But the lights still shine on the fence and deck railings, and I’ve kept the screen of tiny green sparkles. I think it will brighten the evenings as we move into the dark days of late January and February. Remember, my friends, spring is not far away!